Taking the (Br)oath

For improv class, our teacher decided to give us homework: Face a fear or do something completely outside of your comfort zone. This stumped me for a while. I've ridden the El late at night, eaten some pretty weird things, and didn't have access to a pirate ship. Alas, I had realized my discomfort. It was just bound and gagged deep down in the pit of my stomach. My task: Go to Wrigleyville and be a "bro."

Throughout history, there have been many kinds of "bro." The Caveman Bro, who most likely thought it funny to use a sleeping woolly mammoth's tusk to open up a Pabst and draw about it later. The Medieval Bro who would take pictures of those punish'd in the stocks by handing them a Schlitz as their scrawny, chapped hands hung nearly lifeless in the elements. And the Victorian Bro, who would often trick others by making pickle sandwiches, rather than the customary cucumber, and wit about it with only the finest whiskey in hand.

I speak now of the Wrigley Bro: The Bro's Bro. The Dude Bro. The "Just...really?" Bro. There is nothing quite like the D-Baggery of Clark St., littered with the Stranglers of Bro-dom, that make me hate life. Just the blended scents of Old Style and cheap cologne by the gallon wafting through my nostrils has me looking for the closest hipster bar, trading up in the lesser of evils.

So what better way to get out of my comfort zone than to make a night of it? OK, well, more like an hour of it. Give or take. Baby steps. Here were my rules:

1. Spend a minimum of 1 hour on Clark St. and in bro bars.
2. Drink the bro drink of the night - Whatever the first bro I saw at the bar fed into his bro mouth.
3. Give myself a bro name (Kyle).
4. Dance it up like a bro, i.e. Fist Pumping; Air Punching and / or Kicking; Grinding on things.
5. Talk to anybody and everybody, making bro-nnections.
6. Go all out.

To go out in style, I had to bring my bro, Frank. I quickly gave him the name of "Mitch" as soon as we passed the first place with a line out the door. We had to build characters and become people we were not. People we avoided at all costs, and quickly mocked in scenes. We had to become "them." To go out in style, Frank decided to go with Tough Guy Bro, and donned a flannel and backwards hat. I decided on Social Butterfly Bro, wearing this season's Under Armour with a tee over it, and since the weather called for it, a UA beanie. We "wooooo'd," high-fived, and walked like we owned the place. First up, Houndstooth. The mood just felt right.

As we bought our Bud Lights (in the blue aluminum bottle, of course), we panned the crowd and squeezed through the pantry they call a hallway to the back. This is where we met Honorary Dude-Bro, Danny the Tour Guide. As soon as DTG saw me (and he was dressed exactly like Frank, er...Mitch), he must've thought I was a super cool bro, because he came right up to me, gave me a high-five, and said in his marbled bro speak, "Hey dude, you guys should follow me." We had to. These dudes abide. We followed DTG through this labyrinth of an establishment, through narrow hallways and sharp angles until he went right up to a girl and asked her if she liked double-dutch. We were all confused, all except DTG. After successfully creeping her out and having her beeline it back to the safe haven of friends, DTG turned to me and said,

"Dude. It's awesome. We ask girls if they like double-dutch. Then we go like this" (making the circular motions with his arms, as if rotating 2 jump ropes - while still holding onto his beer).
"And then what?"
"And then they jump, dude!"

Danny the Tour Guide then had to go to the bathroom, so Mitch and I quickly explored the rest of the crawlspace and decided to move on. After a few more "wooooo's" and high-fives of acceptance, we made it to the belly of the beast.

Once inside Big City, or colloquially, Big $#!tty, we armed ourselves with Heinekens and hit the foosball table. We played a game while a trio of older women flirted and shouted inaudible, and most likely, inappropriate, cat-calls as eloquently as they possibly could while they stuffed their faces with chicken tenders and wings. To make sure they really liked us, I went and did several dance moves in front and in between them during their fine dining experience. They raved.

I then noticed something of severe importance that was lacking attention. The dance floor was empty. I told Mitch this was our spot. This is where I did all of the previously mentioned dance moves. All of them. And I made sure I took up as much space as possible. Again, The Elders were into it. I felt like a shining star, dancing like the cast of The Breakfast Club at a Flogging Molly concert. Our hour finally came and went. Plus another 15 minutes. For good measure.

Since this was so out of my comfort zone, and because I put on a character, I have to say, I had a blast with this assignment. I'm still going to avoid this area at all costs, don't get me wrong. I know the lesson here is to just give it a shot and to not be afraid to live outside of your comfort zone. Just see what happens and what comes out of it. And I know this is a lesson deeper than improv.

High Five.

*Notable Bros Throughout History*

The Elizabethan Bro - He who shall call himself a man, yet drowns himself in barrel upon barrel of wine, not fit for a groundling, and barks up at women, as if they doth possess the characteristics of a humble tree squirrel.

The Socialist Bro - A brother who wears his unity pins in a manner of boistrosity.

Le French Bro - The dude who angers others but needs other bros to fight for him.

The Prohibition Bro - A man who maintains constant law and order in such oppressive times.

Russian Comrade Bro - Man who can not keep secrets, even under lightest punchings.

1940s Bro - This snake can't hold his liquor or keep his mouth shut. And he's always tryin' to hit on my dame! He's easy to spot because he's the one wearing cement shoes.

Lady Bro - A chick who will outdrink and outpunch any dude.

Early 90s Bro - This amazingly excellent bro barely scrapes by in life, thrashing all of his energy in his garage band, Wyld Stallyns, angering his cop dude dad.

My Five Minutes

Looking back, I really did love the 90s. It took a while, but that’s what makes it nostalgic, right? The ability to breathe a sigh of relief when it’s over, laugh about it, and then miss it? Maybe it was the progression that we as people sought after and strived for. The 80s were done. Bring on the last decade of the millennium! We phased out those ridiculous acid-washed jeans (at least some of us never got into them); the palate of neon that swathed our hair, faces, and bed sheets; and the synthesizer - all soon took a back seat to flannel, grunge, and anything Seattle. Nirvana. Saved by the Bell. Full House. This was livin’. These were America’s influences. For me, the biggest influence was being introduced to Saturday Night Live.

My mom showed me a recorded VHS tape (Gosh, those were great!) of the 15^th Anniversary of SNL, which aired in 1990. I just didn’t get it at first. There’s a woman who has Jaws for a neighbor. Sam Kinison yells. Buckwheat still has a speech impediment. For every Coneheads scene highlighting Dan Aykroyd shoving fried eggs down his mouth while drinking a 6-pack, there was an episode of “It’s Pat!” that wasted its double entendre on me. I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. Though to be fair, I was only 8.

Hit fast forward on the VCR Remote Control (Ha! Classic.) four years, and you’ll find my weekly ritual of sitting with my buddy Tom on the basement futon, turning on the news at 10:34 so as not to miss the opener, and laughing at Hartman, Farley, Meadows, and Myers. The Dream Team. This cast was silly, over-the-top, and the perfect brand of humor for the angsty, early-to-mid-90s pre-teens figuring themselves out while listening to musical guests The Cranberries, Live, and Pearl Jam blaring from the TV. This. This I got. I understood it now.  Now, as a smart and worldly 12-year-old, I would re-watch the anniversary tape over and over. I now understood and loved Mel’s Char-Palace. The Bass-o-matic. And why it’s funny Lorne Michaels offers a check to The Beatles for $3,000.

Now, as I’m going through my experiences at Second City and iO, I can’t help but appreciate and fawn over the memorabilia and photos of the alumni that filled both theatres with laughter. This is where they found themselves. In improv. In characters. In satire. In the ugliness of the world, they found humanity with laughter and tears. These jesters were no fools.

I’ve been fortunate enough to see some SNL alum, along with other amazing performers from TV and movies, go back to their improvisational roots and perform on stage. In front of me. Like, right there. It was surreal. To hear them speak. To see them create. To show us the love of their lives. To appreciate that no matter what level of fame they’ve attained, all they want to do is a $5 improv show.

Recently, SNL had auditions in NYC, LA, and Chicago. They were searching for the next few talented people to bring up to the big leagues. I stood in line for 2 ½ hours just to be able to get into the theatre at iO, and another hour and a half glued to my seat before the auditions even started. 15 people. 5 minutes each. Invite-only audition. Those they liked would be flown to New York to audition again at 30 Rockefeller.

Everyone who auditioned was amazing and completely inspiring. They were bold. They brought characters. They were smart. Some could rap.  And I’m excited for the day that I can say, “Oh, yeah…I saw them before…” Watching the audition showcase presented me with knowledge – where I am in my creative and performance abilities, where I need to be, and more importantly, what I need to do. I need to write and create the best 5 minutes I can, spotlighting my strengths.

In college, I can honestly say I was more than a little bummed when my theatre professors all labeled me as a “character actor.” That means you’re not the good looking one right? I mean, come on. It was the early ‘00s. Jeans without holes. Track suits. Eminem. I was living in my angsty late-teens-to-early-20s. Every time I heard “character actor,” I thought of Joe Pesci for some reason. But now I understand their labeling: A) This can actually be a very good thing. B) I love creating a wide range of characters, so why was I so mad? C) It seems that I can’t escape any family holiday without at least 4 family members slipping into some form of a British or Russian accent. And D) I love doing impressions. I can still remember in 3^rd grade, I was making a killing as Elvis and a white Steve Urkel, donning my Hammer pants. How many 8-9 year olds can say that?

5 minutes. That’s all you get. You need to bring it. This is the time where most people see this industry as cut-throat. I see it as a time to make like the Hunger Games and form alliances. Work with some talented friends that are on the same path. Write. Push one another. Grow. Write some more. Develop characters. Form groups. After all, how many movies have Vince Vaughn and Jon Favreau worked on together? That’s no accident.

And guess where they have their roots?

I also remember something else my theatre professors told me: It’s about the process, not about the destination. It's not about "making it." Though, that would be incredible, of course. But it's about living without regret. No matter the result, we will work for it.