musicals on the spot

I was booked to play the improvised rap musical Friday. Hadn't played that one in six years. Almost exactly, actually. I remember my last show--well, even. The audience gave us HH Holmes, the Chicago murder house guy. It was International Women's Day, which Jia and I found very funny. Our opening number chorus was, "Welcome in, welcome in, welcome Holmes" and we formed a spooky house with our bodies. Dumpling, who played the lead, leaned out the middle, beckoning inside...

I remember leaving that set in such a good mood that I decided to trot the hour home. I didn't do that often because Ubers were still $6 back then. I took a photo with a string of green traffic lights behind me. "Something is coming," I remember thinking, knowing. And it was! Four days later I went into lockdown and there I stayed for a year and change.

I have a particular relationship with improv. One of my old teammates on the hot Saturday slot at i_ once explained to me, "I've ruined improv for myself. I don't regret. I had to ruin it." He meant, basically, he became obsessed with the art form as a teenager, and chased that obsession to Chicago, and chased that obsession throughout the city, and now it's his full-time job (podcaster). But, he'll be the first to say, I hate improv shows. Comedians are so weird. Some really do despise what we do. Not me.

I don't hate comedy. I love comedy. I also don't hate improv, though I know I am supposed to think it's cringe. I mean, it is cringe but it's also essential. Now me myself doing improv? Harder to say...

I actually don't think I've ever loved improv. I've loved journeying through improv. My college family-friendly group and my grad crew and my indie girls and that weird Missouri "theatre" and all the spots in the windy city and my one class at the boxed wig school and my shows in Scotland and my nights at U__ the first and U__ the second.

There is a ton of unfairness in the artist life, but I'll tell you one major win from the universe on my scorecard is getting to perform at U__. That's the prime comedy theatre in LA. Usually comedy folk move to new cities and have an incredibly frustrating time breaking in. It's a tale as old as time, really. You spend years building up your style and your skill and your reputation--! And then you have to buzz around getting hundreds of people on board all over again. Meanwhile the comedians who have been in the pool immediately kinda hate you for being a maybe threat. The gatekeepers are sometimes overjoyed, like, look, this fully cooked casserole has appeared at our potluck! I remember a moment like this when I moved to Arizona, after I'd been honing my chops for five years (a lot of years for 23). I showed up at auditions as a total unknown and crushed. I saw one of the directors' audit forms when it was all over. He had written, "Number XX is from god."

Other times gatekeepers hate new comedian guts too! I'd actually say, sadly, most of the time. Just as talent doesn't want to be overshadowed, tastemakers don't like their taste to be overshadowed either. They're like, Who is this new voice the people enjoy? I didn't tell them they could enjoy that! It's actually embarrassing. How overly sensitive gatekeepers are. And then they accuse artists of being sensitive?! Babe. Get real.

Anyway! What's so blessed about my crash-landing into LA is my main show I did in Chicago had a slot out here. It was that simple and lucky. Well, and I am very reliable and persistent. As soon as I arrived I was on the producers. "I'm available I'm available I'm available." And one week there was a drop, and wouldn't you know it I was at the theatre, hair and makeup ready, in record time. I know other people who were part of the ensemble for years and never transitioned into the west coast cast. I'm not more talented than them (though not worse). But I have something they don't: an ability to weather about nine million buckets of rejection just to maybe get what I think I want. Overall, though, I'd still only give myself half credit for achieving this particular dream. Honestly, I think that's all anyone ever deserves. There's no business like show business.

So I used to perform at the second U__, which was much nicer but allegedly not as cool. It closed during the plague, so now I get to perform at the original. It is better, which everyone always said. The space is smaller and more intimate and the sound is really well designed. Whispers carry and laughs boom but don't envelop. My first few shows I felt kind of off-balance because when they sell out, they put about 40 people on stage. It took me a minute to get used to belting inches from a person's face, jazz stepping around folding chairs. I am used to the smoosh, welcome it, these days.

Although regular improv no longer interests me, music improv still really really does. I guess because it's more like writing than acting to me. It's such a rush to be mentally writing a musical in your head, as four other people try to write the same musical in their heads, and none of you can talk about it. You just have to leap off the cliff with parachutes all together and hope you land in the same field and maybe that you do a few neat spins while you're falling. My friend SR randomly came to one of my mash-up shows in 2022. It was genuinely fine, but he was floored! Floored! You made all those songs up right on the spot! He came to some other crummy show a month later. He remarked, "Okay so I've seen some of these people before even though it was a totally different theatre..." Yes, I explained. There's like 50 of us in LA, in earnest. And then probably another 100-200 blooming in classes etc. SR asked how we rehearse, I told him we don't. He nodded, you're like flight attendants. What a quirky way to say it, and not wrong!

This post is getting a little long, so I'll do something atypical and write the rest later.

Lucky Friday the 13th

Woke up in a bit of a bad mood to be honest. Tech issues with one of my accounts, irritation with the Toy Conglomerate who is, as they say in the biz, really pushin' it. They sent another 40 pages of notes on the V4 of this three-minute commercial. I take at least a half hour to compose a message that means, "With all due respect, this is insane" decide on, "Can we hop on a call at 11?"

Puhg clears out so I bop around to Taylor and Joyce Manor, scuttle to the cafe just before 9. I slurp an iced tea and yap with Puhg about his gaming group and housing options for the summer festival. We're not sure where to place the director just yet because she will be bringing her one year-old. I'm glad to work with her and also glad I'm seasoned enough in indie producing to have firm boundaries around certain choices. Like how even though the little lump is an angel in meetings now, we have not met the teething version of the lump yet, so unfortunately she cannot stay in the same apartment as the cast. But! I do agree to pay her at a premium, so she can work out her own accommodations. Sometimes I feel out of my league in terms of professional experience because I've never made much money on my projects and bend most choices to accommodate the artists. Then I reconsider, what if these me-isms are what make actors text me in the middle of the night, "You know I'd love to be in one of your shows..."

I read a little of my blue book, jot a couple details in my journal, start eating frogs. Email city: schedule that DC dramaturgy meeting, that Santa Monica director zoom, make an appointment for laser treatment Wednesday, many drafts at communication with the young organizer. My new notes are littered with criticism the characters don't sound enough like Gen A. It's hard to explain to a corporation they don't want their cutesy characters screaming "SKIBIDI BRUH!" I text Diz for intel, straight from the goddaughter source. She sends me a few lists and even some video of a child offering some lingo. I love collaboration over art in this way.

I zip down to the salon so I'm first in the door when they open at 10. I'm meeting a new potential manager today and feeling a little like a dull piece of silver. Fresh claws could be my secret weapon. I'm delighted the usual manager hasn't arrived to turn on the TV. I'm also with the gal who hates speaking English the most. It's silent as she lotions my hands and the sun streams in.

I decide to take that work call from a perch near the grocery store. I am very friendly to my producer because I know she is not to blame for any of the recent malarky. She agrees I deserve 2K in overages to rewrite both scripts over the weekend. This is great news and infuriating news as whenever I start a contract everyone assures me there is NO money to move on the rate, and then someone who makes triple my salary will waffle on deadlines and opinions and cost the thing a bonus fortune. One thing that has helped me navigate this big bad world as a business of one is sometimes talking to my bosses as a representative of "Alice's Business." Like, hey, luckily you're talking to me, Regular Alice...but if you were talking to the Business of Alice, corporate would be using way fewer exclamation points! Not not Hulk energy. You wouldn't like Alice when she's angry.

On my trot home I pass a blonde girl in an adorable checkered two-piece and realize it's the star of the movie I worked on in 2019. I call out to her and we hug. She seems more out of sorts than usual and mumbles about moving to London because... I get it, I get it. It's a really nice little bump-in. She was playing 16 when we spent all those hours together. But she was actually 26. Now she's 32 so it's kind of like she doubled in age instantly, to me. She says she'd love to see my premiere this summer. We exchange numbers and I rush home to shove a bagel in my mouth and put on "nice" clothes and "nice" makeup and spritz myself with the "nice" rose spray.

Because I have a music improv show later I decide to listen to the entirety of the Little Shop soundtrack on my way to the meeting. I skip the skips (Mushnik and Son DIAF) and take a deep breath before heading into the big boxy building. My email pings, the Toy Conglomerate will only pay me $500 for the overages. I write back that means I will be doing a quarter of the work. I would have preferred to have the money, but this option means I don't have to work Saturday or Sunday, which might be worth more in mental health bucks, down the line.

What's such a shock is this manager is quite low key and nearly too cool, but for some reason that puts me at ease. We share our lore and randomly both loved the same small-budget movie last month. He says he wants to sign me, and I surprise myself when I explain I don't really want to do many more of these meetings if I can help it, I hate them, and I never want to dress this presentably again. It sort of spills out of me, "I'm a slob and socially awkward and I just need someone to handle my reputation so I can be left alone to write for god's sake." He says he thinks he can do that for me, and I think I believe him. But I have believed a lot of people in this city...

As we're parting ways he says he's going to read my play, even just as a fan. I blurt out I wish I could ask my old manager what to do. And so it was revealed to me, how much I've been missing her. And also how maybe I'm finally ready to move on. I drive home listening to my short story playlist. At home Puhg is making lunch and offers one of his little passing wisdoms. I kind of always refuse to work with men, but in this one instance, at this particular moment, maybe it would be good for me.

I slow down and have some buffalo vegan wings with carrots, watch a video about the creation of patriarchy, work more on that one cursed email, decide it's now or never and send it. A playwright who is always busy working on Severance gets back to me about her opinion on subsidiary rights. A playwright who is quite popular in the Theatre for Youth space calls me for advice on a film contest. He is desperate to get a lit manager, which he can't find despite his play having been done literally 2000 times. Meanwhile I have three manager offers I'm mulling over, but it's taken me four years to get a single shot at my play. The playwright on Broadway wrote me a few days ago, her show is a smash and her pitch was rejected by every studio. She's very sad her words will never be translated to the screen like mine have been. Grass, greener, etc.

Around 5:30 I get into "improv" clothes. I even find a running order from that Maine gig last fall. It feels like a kiss of good luck. I just got a promotional email from that theatre company, they'd used a stock photo of me and the other two gals on cast. I forwarded it to them, "We're famous!" They write back with xs and os.

The evening's cast assembles in the green room at the major comedy spot around 6:30. JB brings his son. I clock him around 11/12. He sits kind of sullen and alone, so I ask what grade he's in. I try 6th, and he quickly corrects 7th. Though I am privately proud I was so close, I wonder if he's humiliated, to have been deemed a smaller fry. I ask what he's learning about in school. "Europe," he says. Mhm, mhm. I try another way in, explain I'm writing a commercial and could use a correspondent. I riff on some of what I learned earlier that day. "So I understand 'tough' means 'cool' now." He agrees. I ask about "no cap" and he shakes his head. Eventually the whole cast is gathered around this muffin. He tells us only his generation will ever know the true meaning of 6/7. We nod, that's fair.

What unfolds is a show I will simply never forget. We get the suggestion Mean Boys and launch into a high school locker room full of hormonal teens. I play JH's English teacher, worried he's too sensitive to fit in. JB plays the angry school jock/bully. AW does crude bits and riffs and smokes the whole crowd with her pipes in the 11th hour. RB, who I consider the greatest improviser alive, plays an emotional girl and a closeted boy and brings down the house with one line, twice. There are references to fetch and October 3rd and the a huge dance finale in which the bully cries and becomes best friends with the sweetie and together they bust several moves. Afterward we're so happy. I am always proud when we really serve the crowd. And then JB's son meanders backstage. He takes our photo. I decide in my heart, it was all for him.

I walk home, zipping through the crowds outside. Strangers call out after me--great job, good job, wow you guys killed. I tromp up past the park with the new Harry Styles and when I'm a block from home a man darts out from the shadows at me. It's Puhg! He accuses me of being high on comedy, and I confess, he is right.

I revel in the night air, take a long hot shower, and settle in for Frasier with a plate of heart-shaped sugar cookies from my mother and a big earl grey cookie my sister found at the beach town bakery. Fall asleep on Puhg, during the one about Marty being bad at accepting gifts.

what kind of a boy am i

French cafes

Although I’ve been stalking around the city with rage in my shoes, I still love my life. I can be angry and happy to be making art that resists fascism. Just like I can be sad and happy while thinking about my late aunt or afraid and happy at the top of Goliath at Magic Mountain. I am writing at the yellow coffee shop, with my gingersnap latte and plain bagel. I sit in the window, so I can people watch. I often spy friends from this seat. They’ll be trotting by, and depending on which one of us isn’t looking at a screen, the other one of us knocks at the window.

I always thought it was so funny and/or cute, when I’d learn about art history, how so many individual “names” actually rolled around in packs. French painters in their salons and beat poets in their dives and improvisers on the busy street in the most adorable nook of Los Angeles.

Much of my career here has been incredibly controlled. My days packed with meetings and a rapid clip of draft turnarounds and never saying "no" rudely and never making enemies. I’m moving with more intuition lately. I “get” a meeting with this high-powered IP-grabber at “the” top agency. She deigns me the right person to develop a hot new video game, all the rage. I ask if she knows anyone who has sold a feature based on a video game in the past five years. Her mouth forms an O then gets smaller and smaller then she shuffles papers and says, “I think I’ve heard of it happening…” After we end the zoom she forwards me a short story that Timothee Chalamet likes. I consider writing back, “This is really helpful, to know what kind of short stories Timothee Chalamet might like. My MFA is nothing. But this? This PDF you were paid 200K to find? Everything.”

Last Saturday I was supposed to have a morning meeting with a director, but had to push a week so I texted SW from bed, we should meet to write. Jam covered my fingers while she explained, it's not that people don't like me, it's that my existence makes them feel ashamed in ways I cannot control or understand. And most people would rather avoid their shame than preserve our relationship. It's not that deep, though it cuts deep. I am writing through it, but at least I don't worry about losing. I've been through this before. My voice will follow you down. And against all odds, I will probably forget about you before you can ever forget about me.

I decided, seriously, I needed to see Song Sung Blue in theatres. Made it to the mall just in time, sat in the back row and let Hugh take me away. Money talks--but it don't sing and it don't walk. It was a perfect Los Angeles evening, so I walked over to that ramen spot, sat on the patio. Made notes about a short story and dined on my cheap heaven dinner—an Impossible bao with a Diet Coke ($10).

Then this most recent Saturday--three days ago--I did get to meet with the director. I could tell he didn't really like my play, but he still sat with me for a couple hours brainstorming. Artists are so generous that way. I'm not too concerned. In general, women loved loved loved the piece and men were lukewarm. Sometimes a story is like that. Not everything is for everyone.

The afternoon was for as many emails as I could possibly respond to. I am under a lot of pressure. So many exciting opportunities, so many roads diverging, and then another American citizen was executed by ICE in broad daylight.

And then! I went for a girls' night with AB! She greeted me in pjs, holding a glass of wine, pop music playing. I told her she got an A plus. She'd texted at 9 AM asking what my favorite movie candy was, a beautiful bowl of M & Ms greeted me. We watched a perfect double feature, cheering during Revenge then stopping to laugh uncontrollably on the balcony before Drop Dead Gorgeous, the movie that made me love comedy. I love comedy so much. I believe it is medicine. I believe it is a weapon.

who can turn the world on with her smile?

who can take a nothing day, and suddenly make it all feel worthwhile?

after all that, last weekend

Friday morning I worked on an essay then covered my new producers' butts. Last week I had to do double the work because of their mistakes. I fretted over whether to--this once--help them out, to build trust and show I'm part of the team, or to send a cold overage fee email. Turned in my revisions just before I had to rush out for my activist meeting.

I'm heading a new environmental initiative. It's proving unpleasant as the group is all flakey 20somethings. I feel conflicted about how to elder them. Do I use tough love and teach them how to Do Things or do I get out now, to preserve my sanity? Is it more important I pull them along or let them realize failure will be the result of bailing? What did 30somethings do for me when I was 25? Of course, when I was 25 I would have never had the audacity to cancel twenty minutes before a session and text, "Can you set up a Zoom hybrid option?" Oh, this just occurred to me: is Gen Z so weirdly demanding/entitled because they've learned to be ruthless with corporations? Fair enough if so. I wish I'd been much more demanding with corporations and bosses when I was younger. ...Only Gen Z has trouble distinguishing what's a corporation and what isn't. Like, sure, if you get paid minimum wage, be late and disorganized for work. But maybe don't treat a fellow volunteer that way? Riffing.

I decided to wear a black leotard and "artists for ceasefire" pin to the comedy theatre. I felt so disappointed by my performance. Mainly because the show was actually perfect for me--I should have blown it out of the water. And I did just okay. To be fair, it was so hot in there. My brain can't rhyme as quickly in the heat. The audience suggestion was about nepo babies! I played Jeff Bezos's daughter! Who snuck off to do her first play! And only wanted her dad to be proud of her! Plenty of hijinks about my character taking a helicopter to rehearsal, bringing the cast Rolexes, eating filet mignon on snack breaks. It all culminated in a huge finale! The faux opening night! Z (as Jeff Bezos) sat in the front row! The lights dimmed! Hart--playing the director--pushed me to center stage! The piano vamped...! And I fumbled. I struggled with the lyrics and I barely danced and I really wanted my character to find herself instead of approval from her dad.... Next thing I knew, I was bowing and giving the "get home safe speech." The show must go on. Or the show must end. One of the two.

In the green room we all slumped onto the couches. The guys tossed out their favorite parts. I was feeling like a loser when the door creaked open...and the special guest for the next show walked in. A rising movie star. Everyone whipped their heads over to spy her. She looked at me and said, "Alice! AB just sent me your script today!" Wow. Had to be a top circumstances-are-making-me-look-cool moment of life. We hugged and gabbed and R snuck in to say "good show."

I walked out of the side exit where Z was standing against the brick wall. We small talked a little. We've been performing together every few months for six years, but we'd never talked more than ten minutes. We chatted for quite a while, lingering in that space of wondering if the other person is bored or not. About forty minutes later I asked, "what are you doing right now?" I pointed to the Mexican restaurant. We went in and sat at the bar. I asked if he was ambitious and he said he'd never been asked so directly, but yes!

I tromped home around 10, listening to TS of course. Saw a coyote by the park, a teen holding a big bag a few blocks later. I sidestepped him, a bit on edge with no one around. I skipped the song that was playing, looked up from my phone...and saw a man running AT me! I yelped and froze and then realized...it was Puhg. He's been upping his scares. This was a good one. "I really thought I might die!" I laughed as we trotted home.

On Saturday I slept in, made vicious to-do lists for the week ahead at the cafe, zipped home to transfer all my files onto my new computer. I hate such tasks, have been putting it off for months. But I did it, then rewarded myself with the first pool day of 2025! Sunscreen on, new Beach Bunny album in, taking notes for a new short story. The dip was excellent. Puhg suggested a date night around 7:30. I walked down to the gas station and bought a bag of jalapeño chips, got fresh mango from the cart out front, made my way to the knoll and my tree.

There's a tree with red bumps I've been spending a lot of time with. I like to lay under the shade and wave at her leaves. The traffic was atrocious so Puhg suggested the taco shop 1.5 miles away. A hefty walk, but a walk nonetheless. I had two vegan corn ones and we saw L____, who was picking up a to-go order. I saw JB's boyfriend at the next table over but couldn't remember his name even though we went to a haunted house together once. At the crosswalk, a car blasted its horn, screeching to a stop an inch in front of me. Puhg indignantly pointed at the flashing lights, at us, standing there. The car squealed around, honking more, making a big scene. A few people on the sidewalk witnessed all of it. One of them shouted out, "You're even wearing bright colors!" Indeed, Puhg was in orange shorts, me a neon pink shirt.

Sunday morning I woke up early to dance then gather some donuts. Puhg stepped out for a walk and cartons of iced coffee. We bopped over the movies, for the 9:35 AM showing of Friendship. We laughed a lot. "Not even noon!" Puhg said pulling into our parking spot. Called my mom for her holiday. After lunch I read on the balcony. Saw a huge spider on the wall, talked for a little bit. I took a selfie of us, texted it to Puhg, he came out to join. The spider got shy and hid under a corner of astroturf. I sent a ton of emails.

At least once an hour I felt the slime of shame slither through my body. Still thinking about that show. How I biffed it. I started to become superstitious even. Like what if my entire life was leading up to that moment, to inspire the children I saw in the audience to despise oligarchs and follow their hearts? I try to do a meditation but fall asleep on the floor.

Monday afternoon I am so upset with myself I decide to buy the livestream of the show for $10. I know it will be a painful watch, but I need to know exactly what happened. Come to find...I wasn't that bad at all. I wasn't off-key. And in the finale?! The context made everything work! My little dance moves were small and reliable enough that two guys were mirroring them behind me. A battle happened stage right! Perfectly timed with my chorus! I hadn't remembered a verse I sang about believing in myself more than my dad Jeff Bezos?! Everything rhymed?! The performance was...good?! Could I have written it slightly better? Maybe? But maybe not! Objectively, a 10/10! After all that!

Karate Kid

"Comedy is a weapon" a director told our ensemble once. I agreed. But also, sometimes, come on. But lately the world is not as funny. All the time. I mean, every day I laugh, and I try to make people laugh, and it's cheesy but laughing is actually very important. I believe and I know. Sometimes, arbitrary or not, I'm just not laughing. A cameraman and I watch a bunch of my female coworkers file into a room. He jokes, "What? Is R Kelly in there?" And (no chill) I said, "No. That will never be funny." He was like "ehhh, yeah, sorry." He was a very nice dude, but I don't have the energy. Today I walked into my improv class. I was annoyed, as I am every Sunday at 10 AM doing my stupid beginner-level class for $500 that promised to be advanced and isn't but I don't want to quit because I already paid the money and several of my friends swear it will get better in the next level. Anyway, I walked in, and this guy, also probably very nice, who has never really hurt a fly and clearly really looks forward to each of these lessons and generally has a nice attitude was like "Hi!" and I was like "I thought I might be late" and I made a little gesture like a chop. He said, "Whoa that looked like karate." And then, I'm fairly certain without thinking, he said, "In general there should just be more karate in the world. Like I wish way more people knew karate." And it was just a throwaway funny opening like, but I was stone-cold like, "What?" He was like, "You know! How fun! People would get into karate fights on the sidewalk!" And I didn't even give him a dumb smile. I was like, "I'm not even ambivalent to that. I really wouldn't like that. I'm already worried enough about getting attacked when I go somewhere at night. I don't need bonus concerns. It's one of the few reliefs I have to know most attackers are kind of bumbling." And he was like, "Heh, yeah. Yeah, no, you're right." This is how they say in France, Being Extra. But my nose is clogged and I am just not into the garbage banter and the jokes for jokes sake. Comedy is a weapon. I'm sick of everyone carrying guns, firing shots into the air, stray bullets killing birds.

"Tribe"

Comedians and their tribes. It's an idea I think most people credit to Amy Poehler (her whole "find your tribe") quote, but it's been true forever and always. You roam around doing your thing in basements and mid-afternoon when everyone else has real jobs and you share this unique pain of being unbearably vulnerable and usually getting rejected or at best making $100 for a show that had eight hours of unpaid rehearsal. Eventually there's a group of "you." No one does it alone.

Tribes were simple where I came from. In high school I joined the speech team and became borderline obsessed with every person on it. I liked making weird little theatrical art my whole life, and so did my new pack. Tribe. My college had a ten-person improv team comprised of essentially every student on campus interested in entertainment. Tribe. I found the one way to do improv in St. Louis (and would drive an hour to do shady barprov). There were like five people I thought were funny, and then they were Tribe. And in Arizona I worked obsessively on making good comedy (for kind of no reason?). The three women I clung to became Tribe. I assumed when I went to Chicago Tribe would be there too.

Instead everyone already had Tribe. I did things out of order? I earned success, then took more classes, then always had to get up at 6 AM to catch the train before rush hour so I could sit down (and grade papers)? I already knew too many people I trusted? In Conservatory only one other person ever seemed to do the work, and we weren't compatible. I toured with bitter melons. When I graduated a comedy school, none of my peers asked me to be on their indie teams, but three peers asked me to direct them and they all assumed I would say "no," "above it." (I said "yes" to everything.)

What this means is when I have to do something really scary, and I need support, I talk to my odd cluster of Tribe. This past weekend, when I submitted for _____, I got all my feedback via email and text. Siev was, let's face it, a waste. Cowsk brought her legitimate eye. Jack helped me be line perfect and steer, Puhg gave me pats, Cobra was generally excited, Shell reassured from a viewpoint, Another a couple "okay"s, Kale a little of everything, Roff analyzed why it was working, and Henne questioned why it might not be and shot highlights. He emailed me, "You. Are. Ready." after a final pass. A ten person Tribe I can never find around one diner table, but one I am supremely grateful for.

It's hard to believe I might get anything. Ever. Because odds. Oof, odds. But in a sliver of attempt to not be pessimistic, I do know not everyone has ten trusted readers, and of the people who do, how many are as "you can do it" as mine? I know work doesn't define a person's worth, but it I can't not believe it helps. So I will try my best to hang on to this scrap that ten people believe in me based on what I did even if it doesn't amount to a single thing ever ever again.

My Show, Here We Go

January has been headachingly busy. I opened and closed my solo show remount. I want perfection, and that's just not fair to wish for. My final show had a bevy of technical issues, which crushed me. People loved it. They gushed, they hung out at the bar, they said, "I could barely tell," and "the important thing was--." I appreciated all of it, and based on the anonymous post-show surveys, I believe the responses were honest. But. I held Puhg close and told him I needed to cry. He said, "Okay," even though he was in the middle of sweeping the stage of debris, and took me backstage for a hug. Why was it so important? A time and money investment, uh huh, but really I believed in what I said and did, and I wanted that to be crystal. It's never going to be crystal. I'm too accomplished to ever confuse my work with magic. I'm too consistently good. It's an odd problem to have. I don't mean to brag. I don't know how else to say what I feel.

There's been such a heavy weight on me since I signed the space contracts in October, and maybe it's naive to think it would lift. It will dissolve slowly in the bleach of new projects. As people filed out of the theatre with their free vegan cake, they were joyful. I forget how infrequently adults can be joyful. And all they had to do was spend $8 and an hour in a small dark room. A white-hairs man and a woman on his arm sat in the second row. As they left he pointed proudly to his chest and said, "14 years strong vegetarian." I was sincerely happy.

I could have had more choreography. I wish I hadn't skipped that line. How did the timing work on that bit? And then I have to be understanding that good theatre gets workshops and previews, and who am I? The Queen? I googled how to deal with biffing and got an article about how to forgive one's self after a bad interview. (Ugh, you'd think I bumbled around in a potato sack the way I'm describing this experience. I watched two minutes of the recording, and it looks good. Better than it did in my brain. This is some weird massive female humility at play.) The article encouraged the downtrodden to consider what they learned. Yes, yes, I've learned.

I've learned the tiny things--always bring a flashdrive and print the full script, review the cue sheet. I've learned it's not about the number of people under a platform, it's about the sincerity with whoever is around. I've learned what holds people back. I've learned to calm down. More more more than anything I haven't learned but recognized the people who love me. My family who came and loved. My Puhg who left tulips on the counter for me after closing, who ran home for forgotten props, who set up chairs, who sat in the back corner, who tore down stage dressing and carried costume bags down the street. Everyone who came. Period. (And yes, it's hard not to feel bummed about who didn't.) But everyone who came! From the stranger who chastised me as I waved goodbye to the girl I sit-in with who saw the poster on her way home and said why not.

Kale visited Chicago for this show. I am stupid grateful for three days with an old friend. I will probably break even financially--a modern miracle as I paid everyone. I go to experience a dream of doing a scene with Cher Horowitz. I saw someone's jaw drop. I saw someone cry. I felt a calm. It's still breathing.

Dunno

I like thinking about that first improv teacher I had assuming, possibly knowing, so deeply I must be a kid who signed up for the wrong class, and this was going to be one of those once in a weird adolescent lifetime experiences that I try to forget, or do forget, as soon as humanly possible. If there had been anybody in the entire comedy summer school class she would have bet money on to burn rubber and never look back, she would bank it all on the girl who actually refused to play Freeze and could not speak in conducted story. That teacher will never know I was actually observing and thinking about what everyone did, and judging too critically to participate.

I like thinking about that teacher (I would kill to know who it was--we probably have mutual friends) because sometimes you just don't know where what you have said and what experiences you have created and who you are will go as attached to another person.

2017

Produced & performed my solo show.
Disney World with Alice Sr.
Two protests.
LA: peeking, dates with Puhg, goofing with A Jar, friends & beaches.
Got rejected big time from four auditions.
Got accepted from two.
Made a new real friend.
Started my first book (3/4 done as of today).
Visited my dad & survived a tornado.
Taught third graders to improvise all spring.
A teen improv workshop for underserved girls.
Published three times.
Saw Andrew McMahon & Arcade Fire in concert.
Graduated i_.
Cast on my first Harold team.
Coached two indie teams.
Directed three sketch shows.
Visited my alma matter for spring break.
The Goodman six times.
Steppenwolf twice.
Two women's coven retreats.
Climbed Machu Picchu, explored the Amazon, best ceviche ever.
Wrote & starred in a kids comedy show at SC.
Hosted five friends on the couch.
Dallas Improv Festival: godmommin', pie, Dizz's pool, a great set.
Taught musical theatre & song parody at two summer camps.
Cried on Fourth of July.
Screamed Moana around the apartment.
Submitted three writing packets.
Made it to the final round of one for Comedy Central.
Re-learned Hiragana & Katakana.
Almost a month of improv in Maine.
The total eclipse.
Taught two sections of Theatre History & four of English.
Revised my pilot into something I'm proud of.
Took a meeting.
My first comedy class at The A.
My first playwriting class since grad school.
Workshop reading at GH.
Threw a small but intellectually stimulating film viewing.
New tattoo.
First commissioned play.
Tutored 300 hours.
156 improv shows.
After three years, found my neighborhood coffee shop.
Told my co-worker casually I am living my dream. She laughed, and I said, "No actually I am. This is the dream I had and I am doing it. Like, everyday."

The Octopus Eats Its Own Leg

I Wanted to Stay (A Sexual Harassment Story)

I had just been cast on my first post-college improv ensemble. We had real shows in real city theatres and I was working with a cast I had never met before. We rehearsed for three weeks before beginning a six week run. I was 22 and thrilled to be in a professional production. It was janky and we never ended up getting paid like we were told we would, but I wouldn't have traded it for the world. Our director was a middle age guy who I thought was smart, funny, and nice. I owed him, let's call him Pete, big time. Everyone else on cast was a company vet. He plucked me from a sketchy bar jam and took a major chance on me. I took the opportunity very seriously and worked my butt off. After our final show we had a big cast party in the theatre. I was on cloud nine. I had new pals, my first non-school resume line, and, mostly, I had done it. I had become an adult who did art. I was so proud.

So the party has been going for a few hours and most people are tipsy (I am sober). The group has dwindled to six, and we're just sitting around telling stories. Abruptly, Pete asks for my number, which is odd because he has it. The mood kinda shifts and someone maybe even says, "Leave her alone" in potentially real/potentially joking way. I feel awkward. Did someone just accuse Pete of hitting on me? I don't want anyone to feel uncomfortable on my account. Especially Pete. I have a lightening flash of what could happen: I imagine someone misconstruing the comment, Pete feeling ashamed, and to avoid any future misconception, never casting me in anything again. I smile as genuinely as possible and say, "Oh, everything's okay!" Pete says something like, "See? She's not scared of me!" The conversation continues. Phew. But Pete's not participating. He's chatting quietly to himself about how he's gonna call me. Party's over. We all start picking up bottles when Pete says loudly, "I am going to call you. I'm serious. When are we going to have sex?" I freeze for one moment and then let out the most immensely unnatural laugh. I think the laugh makes Pete think I'm comfortable, when my brain is screaming, "Walk out of this theatre right now and never come back." Pete says some more stuff to me that I really don't remember because I am playing a rapid-fire game of mental chess to decide how to make this thing a non-thing. New friend Dusty takes Pete by the arm and says, "Help me out upstairs." Pete gets pulled away while literally screaming about my dimples. I wish could say I'm on the road in five minutes, but the drunk tech guy insists on walking me to my car even though I told him over and over I was right in front and I'd actually rather just go alone. At my car he leans against the driver's door (blocking me from entering) and tells me how sad he is, how much he wants a girlfriend. I tell him I want to go home repeatedly, but he begs to just sit in my car with me. I am cold, so I let him sit in the passenger side seat while I am as far away as I can be and still inside the vehicle. He talks until he's sober-ish. I finally drive away.

So, what did I do? Nothing. Why? Well, mainly, I wanted to stay. That company was the only professional comedy theatre in my city. There was only one director. There was an owner, but he lived in LA and Pete was one of his oldest pals. I walked down the line of possibilities and didn't see one where I would stay at the theatre and Pete wouldn't. Also, I felt ashamed. Maybe I wasn't actually that good at comedy. Maybe this is what he was after all along, and casting me was the long con. I decided if I didn't mention it, maybe everyone would forget. And that's essentially what ended up happening. I didn't see anyone for the week of Christmas. When we came back for a New Years gig Pete never apologized or mentioned what happened. I kept working with him for six more months. Sometimes he was harsh with me in notes and I wondered if he was trying to show people he was boss after I had shut him down. I'll never know. Maybe he honestly didn't remember the incident and no one told him. Anytime he was around I was mathing out if there were any possibilities of someone leaving and someone else going to the bathroom and me ending up alone with him. And then I'd write in my diary, "Don't be so full of yourself. You're blowing everything way out of proportion." I felt guilty to be afraid of something I never voiced to anyone else.

I did meet with Pete once privately, at his request, in a pizza place. He wanted to talk shop. I was sharp with him. Mean. He looked at me like, "What is wrong with you?" I felt bad but then thought, "Should I feel bad?" I still felt bad. I moved away soon after. He accidentally called me a couple years later. I picked up. We had a nice catch-up. Maybe it wasn't an accident. Even now, I don't want to say he is a bad person. Overall, I really liked him. This is still confusing for me.

My story is an extremely tame example of harassment. I am so lucky the worst I've weathered is an improv teacher talking about my boobs, another one mooning me, a professor asking me about my vagina in a grad school class, this dude being a creep. I honestly wrote this a few days ago and then decided not to post it because I was worried someone might see it and think I just want attention or I'm a wimp because this was barely harassment considering what other women have been through. But last night after a show some ladies and I got to talking about creeps of our past. Nothing life-ruining, but still icky. We'd all been there. WNT ended at midnight. We sat in the greenroom until 2. E and I were the last ones in, waiting for our cabs. She said, "I usually don't talk about this stuff because I don't want anyone to judge me, but I feel less crazy knowing I wasn't alone." And if this is how I felt, god help the women who were attacked, coerced, exiled. God help them do what they need to do because they too want to stay.

On Offense

We opened the show with "Option" last night. It's essentially a typical short form improv scene that morphs into genre switching at the audience's whim. I played a girl on a date and then at the suggestion of "horror" a cast member said he had slipped a serum into our blood. I did the first thing I could think of (pretend my face was melting off) and then the audience had us switch genres to rom-com. I kept my face distorted and said, "I look like this, but I know you love me for what's on the inside." (Laugh, laugh.)

As soon as I said it I had a little shiver up my spine. Some people really do have distorted voices. I wasn't aiming to make fun of them. I was just...acting like I was in a horror movie. As the game ended and I sat on the sidelines during the next piece, I really thought hard about how someone in the audience with a disfigured cousin might have taken that twenty seconds. Then I tried very hard to think of other options I had in the moment. I could have pretended to be a horror-trope ditz, which would have been satire (or problematic?). Or maybe I could have been the killer. I shook it off and sang a mini-musical about a purple alligator (lol comedy).

When we returned from intermission I started an intro for the next game and for the first time looked into the front row. Dead center. Staring up at me. A burn victim with missing fingers and a disfigured face. I flubbed a word. Ultimate universal irony. Then I made a point to finish my speech and give a winning smile to the dude. I creeped on him for the rest of the show. He was having an excellent time, clapping and hooting.

Earlier this summer I taught a "song parody" camp to middle schoolers. I played Weird Al's parody of "Complicated" "Constipated." The song ended and I asked the group why it was funny. A blonde 12 yo's practically screamed, "It's not! It's not FUNNY." CoMeDy Iz HaRd, u gUyz!

Los Angeles Winter

The vibe is so aggressive. In Chicago I get catcalled like one might actually speak to a pet cat. It's obnoxious but at least it is gentle. In LA it was gross. The highway was not only jammed but mad. Tob and I snagged the last tickets for an overpriced comedy show, but the theatre was too small to hold us so we sat in a stairwell. A lot of Yelping even for locals. What to do, what to do, where to go, where to go. How long will it take? (Long.) I don't think I'll ever like it. But that's not the real question. It's "Would I ever even be okay with it?"

I had a great trip. Don't get me wrong. The trip was the trip. But my life is my life. The pros are the pros: the sunshine, the palm trees, the beach. There are many more, but not really. The people, like Yosh, A Jar, a slew of other comedy friends--even Skars. But would I see them? It seems nights are more free there than here, but still. Something is amiss.

The food. Okay, yes, I ate an astounding curry pot pie, one of my top five donuts ever, cashew parfait, a churro waffle. But it's all so far away. I just want to putz around town and come upon things. I don't want to drive an hour for a scone. I would drive an hour for a scone. There are neighborhoods. So, that, I think, I could do. The mornings I ran through Highland Park, trotted about to read in a local coffeeshop--those were okay. I could make that work.

The opportunities. I can't deny those. But I can be denied those.

I believe I can do anything, but do I want to? I am feeling new. Reborn in the crack of November 8th. Recharged and reforming in the afterglow of my solo show. The world is open and the world is an open wound.

In 2016 I Got Seven Manicures And Four Massages

-Accomplished my New Year's Resolution. I can now do the splits.
-Wrote and starred in a sell-out original sketch revue.
-Toured the Caribbean and Bermuda doing five shows a week.
-Did a major revision of my musical.
-Once I didn't eat desserts for a week.
-Nominated for "Employee of the Month" by my students.
-Got a new job tutoring writing.
-Got a new job teaching kids improv.
-Was published online four times.
-Was published in print twice.
-Finished revisions 4-10 of my screenplay.
-Started a new screenplay and play. I didn't finish yet. Sigh.
-Was a semi-finalist in a playwriting contest.
-Won the first JRC scholarship at i_ theatre.
-Disney World.
-Recorded on a podcast I admire.
-Cast as a sit-in in two long-running improv shows I admire.
-Went to Spain.
-36 short-form shows in three weeks (Maine).
-Performed at two new teeny improv theatres.
-Performed at The Lyric Opera of Chicago.
-Performed on the mainstage of S______ C____.
-Performed in three comedy festivals.
-Wrote for and acted in an original S_____ C____ House Co revue.
-Wrote a solo show.
-Wrote a (crummy) television pilot.
-Wrote a (pretty decent) TV sketch packet.
-Ran a 15K.
-Mastered the "changeover" in Power Step.

Who Loves Ya

The cool thing about grad school workshop is that people are super accountable to reading your garbage and giving you feedback. Also your group doesn't meet in coffee houses and get distracted by gossip and sometimes half the people don't come. In school you are going to meet every Wednesday at 2 PM for three hours. But in school you do not pick your people. Not at all.

I wish I had realized this as a wide-eyed candidate: if you don't like someone's work, it's probable they won't like yours. That is definitely okay, but maybe don't care as much about their opinions? By year three I knew what feedback to love or leave. And yet, I still forget this base lesson pretty frequently. And it's not just about writing. Or art.

Happened to reach out to some of my old comedy squad recently. People I think are funnier than anyone I've met in Chicago. But I had flecks of gold in my eyes then, so I could be remembering everything wrong. Initially we weren't talking about comedy at all, but eventually. I expressed I've been slumped. Immediately, my friends pummeled me with support and memories and ideas and advice. I could breathe again. I knew who I was. I remembered what I do right and what I don't care about. Duh duh duh.

For some reason we are built to strive to meet the standards of people we don't even mesh with. (Or, at least, I am.) Just because they are there? No, no, who loves ya?

It All Fades

The other night on the train a teenager was telling his friends casually he was an only child but his mom miscarried twice before he came around. They hung on the loops hanging above and chewed gum.

When I was in 1st grade? 2nd? a girl in my town died unexpectedly of an aneurysm. It was sad but beyond my grasp. It was within my grasp in high school. The family with the late daughter moved from their home, and my wild friend Knoze's family moved in. She had the girl's old room. Complete with bathroom, where the child died. We would often take turns pretending to have brain aneurysms on the toilet and laugh and laugh.

I'm watching this garbage documentary about JonBenet Ramsey while I write lesson plans. I think of "Jon Beignet Ramsey." I imagine a pastry with a curly blonde wig.

For Posterity

Texted with Ru today to pay homage to a party we went to just about four years ago. It was at Bug's house. Skars showed up as if they weren't broken up. My gang gossiped in the garage. The night ended when this group of three girls who had all taken turns making out were rolling in the gravel outside the front door. One was crying and couldn't stand. One was wearing a skirt with no underwear--flashing to goods to everyone. One whimpered, "This always happens to us." Yikes.

At the time I felt pretty busy working full time and going to school full time, but in hindsight all I remember is pulling up to the party on my brand new scooter, reading in the condo hot tub, dusting my glass desk, and over-wearing my brown floral dress. I know one day I will look back on these early Chicago years and feel just as rosy. For myself on that day, for posterity, an outline of October 1st:

8 - wake up and finish/revise a piece for my sketch class

9:30 - advanced aerobic step class followed by steam room

11 - shower and race around packing my backpack with show clothes and scripts

11: 30 - take $4 Lyft to theatre for sketch class

11:55 - run through Whole Foods across from theatre buying fast lunch/breakfast ($9)

12 - unapologetically eat chili throughout first twenty minutes of class

1:30 - on a break from class buy and consume spinach smoothie and Cliff bar ($10)

2:55 - run out of class

3 - check-in to an audition for a new show at same theatre

4:40 - dash out of the audition and once again into WF for a sushi roll ($8)

4:45 - Uber to SC ($3), scarf wasabi

5 - rapid-fire rehearsal of archived sketch show

7:10 - run to the bathroom, lock the door, flat iron my hair and throw on a dress

7:30 - perform sketch show

8:10 - get notes from director

8:20 - take the train home while answering student emails

9:05 - eat pretzels and hummus, change into casual performance attire

9:15 - Uber to comedy theatre ($4)

9:35 - orchestrate a brief hangout with and old friend from the scene in STL

10:10 - call time for improv show downstairs

10:30 - perform my first sit-in show for WNT

12 - show's over, sit in the greenroom

12:10 - walk to the train

12:40 - arrive home, exhausted but heart still pounding

1 - try to read, pass out

In summation: I spent truly all day yesterday doing comedy. I got paid zero dollars. I spent $46. I should buy stock in Whole Foods. For my first two hours of consciousness today, I stayed in bed.

Ghost of Comedy Past

We uncovered a DVD case of old SC revues in our prop bag this week. Friday night while everyone else partied and “had friends” I holed up and watched. I watched the most acclaimed revue from the past ten years, the one Obama himself came to. I watched the revue starring Carell, Colbert, and Sedaris. I watched the revue that bumped an acquaintance of mine to SNL. And then I found the first revue I ever saw. I held the disc in my hands tenderly. I was almost nervous to see this thing that angled me throughout my life to be where I am right now. I pulled out Easter candy remains—five Peeps—for the occasion. Watching it, remembering so much, recognizing what flew over my head and what didn’t was truly an almost spiritual experience.

I’m about to sound painfully cheesy, but (to the tune of “It’s My Party…”) it’s my blog and I’ll cheese if I want to. (Cheese if I want to, CHEEEESE if I want to.) The experience of being in my cold single, clutching my stuffed ship, hair still curled from performing as a cast member of SC transcended time. I felt like I was in middle school again discovering this smart universe of satire. I felt ancient, like I did when I heard a geisha perform in Japan—she sang and strummed like her mentors’ mentors’ mentors’ did before her. And I felt like a piñata of gratitude. Holy cow, I work for this theatre. I have performed on that very stage.

I felt the pull of the comforter. My eyes drooped. Very strange—the actors bowed but the tape didn’t end. It was black. Wind whistled. The video recorder seemed to be outside. People walked by, on the street? Was this in the Piper’s Alley garage? Maybe just Wells Street. Very late. Must have been late. But whispers float in. Why is it recording? Is there something at the end? My room was pitch black now that the TV was dark. I felt a shiver up my spine. Was it Comedy itself calling? That scene with Bruce Willis in his office with the audiotapes in The Sixth Sense. Then, CUT. Blue screen. DVD over. Something from Chicago in 2002 trying to reach me. I wonder if it did.

Beat So Wild

There are so many wonderful fantastic things. There are all the adult things--the networking emails, when you can expense cookies for a meeting, getting your ears cleaned at the minute clinic. There are the potential things. What if this opportunity opens and blossoms right before my eyes? What if I was meant for something I have yet to realize? And what if we met? Control. I seem to have no control over so many of the wonderful things because they are all a puff of dust away from not even existing as things at all. But there are the also the simple things. My favorite college album, blankets, walking Clark street, pink neon signs. These things can not be taken away. The risks seem smaller, the jumps mere steps, remembering that.

Me dying. Sketch show last October.

Am I just confused
Or did our hearts that beat so wild and free
Forget who they beat for?

Twenty Nickel Dime

When I reflect back on my year, I don't feel very nostalgic. I don't feel much wiser. I feel more successful. I haven't reached the height of success (obviously), and I don't even necessarily feel I have accomplished more than I I usually do, but I have been recognized. The image that comes to mind is a bullfrog in a swamp with only her eyes peeking out. Slowly, by wiggling in the muck, more and more of the creature becomes exposed. That's 2015 to me.

I didn't make many friends this year (I think literally two), I didn't have any life-changing emotional realizations. I read a lot of books, mostly for pleasure. It's probably the year I have grown academically the least. I didn't become a good teacher, but I honed my good teaching. I flirted with a new career. It wasn't for me. Valuable information, for sure. I didn't fall in love, but I grew in love.

I achieved 2.80 of my 4.00 resolutions (visit my aunt, get a regular show at SC, get a piece produced, do the splits every day). I am not more limber. It is difficult to make resolutions for next year because what I "want" is an ameba. What's possible is a few amebas. The basics are covered. I work out 6 days a week, I stock the fridge with good food, I take in all the culture I can get my paws on, I journal, I keep up with old pals, I don't go in the red. Keep doing what you're doing--that's 2015 to me too. The amphibian and Keep Doin What You're Doin.

The best part of my year was June. I only taught one class and worked part time. Everything is amazingly easy after winter. You can shove on shoes and walk to the grocery store. You go running. The tourists are out, but the sidewalk isn't snowy, so you're happy they're there. I made time for People. Bisque and I splashed around that rooftop pool. I was in a good show. There are no deadlines in summer--just little trips here and there.

The worst part of my year was February. I was sick, sick, sick. Too tired to lift a three pound weight, too tired to buy groceries, I ate candy for lunch every day and Cheetos for dinner. I cried because I hate People, and I wondered if my eyes would ever make it out of the swamp.

Me in Maine! Summer! Cranberry Island in the distance.

Proud of that Joke

We all know the feeling. The shot of pride that comes right at the tail end of a joke telling. The tip off at the top of the coaster. Whoosh, they're off--chuckling, smiling, it doesn't matter. Everything is orange.

But did you create that joke? Did you? Or did you hear it from your dad or someone else's dad or The Internet? You there who swallowed a puffin are you actually feeling accomplished? You're an envelope--dry mouthed and all.

Now if you did create it--I'm not sure what do say. Sure, how many elements of the world meshed together to compare two disparate ideas into one humorous conclusion? And how many could you control? Sure. But conduits are important. Conduits aren't born. And still, what if you see someone in that tangerine glow basking in your own joke, what to do, what to do?