musicals on the spot pt II

Wanted to keep my word and finish the story I'd begun last month. I'm sure I've forgotten some details. My brain has been scrambled all April. Six planes, at least three work disasters, and a couple big surprises around my play productions--one good surprise, one bad surprise.

I'm supposed to be revising a draft right now, but my brain is too fried with all the Phone Things I had to do today. Promo posts on Instagram, a billion casting emails, personal texts that are important but may as well be sent from Pluto, disbelief it's almost May.

Sometimes reading a book and clacking on something completely different can get my mind back on track to actually write. When I woke up my goal was revising three scenes. But that was before the digital onslaught. Left for the cafe an hour late. Saw two girls from my building on my way. They were sipping coffee on the steps of the Scientology center. I told them my goal was revising two scenes. But there were a lot of DMs to answer and Zooms to set and texts about the show I dramaturged, up this Wednesday. So now my goal is one scene. But first, more about musicals on the spot.

Because I was slotted to do the improvised rap musical on Monday, I listened to Hamilton all week. Driving, in the shower, walking around town. To be honest it felt wrong. It's a genius show, and I still love it, but there's a significant cringeness to it now. The patriotism tastes rotten. The celebration of a money guy feels bizarre. And all the (brilliant) music time travels me to 2016. And 2016 makes me think of the orange clown.

But still! I needed the immersion. I walked to the theatre around 6, spitting out "Non-Stop." I arrived to find our beatboxer in the green room. We'd never worked together, so we shook hands. He introduced me to his cousin. Musicians are funny that way. It's kinda weird for a comedian to randomly bring a cousin or "a guy" backstage, but it's totally normal for the band.

The rest of the cast arrives. AW telling me she's been super busy with a play, JH ripping on AW, ZN is writing for a new tv show. I love the show runners and tell him so. RB admits quietly, he auditioned for them before. Close but didn't clinch it. I ask is he's a dweller or a forgetter. He says he thinks about the future more than the past. But he also laughs in a certain way.

Then I meet DD! He seems professional and nice. We've emailed about the opening choreography, the only preplanned bit in the show. We spend about two minutes small talking and exchanging Chicago names. And then! The last show (running very late) ends. On the heels of the applause we rush to the stage. We have five minutes before doors open for us. We forgo warm-ups for a single practice of the choreography, which I flub big time. I tell the group I'll get for showtime. I drink a lime La Croix, we cypher about the heat for ten or so, and then the stage manager knocks. I breathe backstage, trying to unclench my everything. This is the first time this group of people have ever been in the same room, and we're about to perform a fully improvised rap musical together. And one of us hasn't done that in six years.

The show is very good! The audience chooses our subject to be Pennywise from the book IT. Totally nuts. I play two side characters (Pennywise's mother and Finn Wolfhard) to ease back into free styling. But I hold my own. If I may brag, I crush a particular group song based on that weird part of the story where all the teens sleep together to impress a turtle god. (Not in the movie, wonder why.) I also do nail the opening choreo. I laugh a lot, sometimes you just can't help it.

We do a scant recap post-show because the next cast is creeping in. I change out of my khakis into shorts. I exit the side way to be met by a group of four 20somethings. They go quiet when I pass then one squeaks, "YOUWERESOGOOD." I turn around and say thank you, ask if they do improv. They do of course. I round the corner into the main crowd spilled onto the sidewalk. A few people reach out to nod, to say, "wow I loved you guys!"

Just as I think I'm out of the woods, I see the beatboxer and his cousin. They'd kept to themselves comparing new hip hop albums before the show. But now we've all made a thing together. The man, who I suddenly realize is quite large, wraps me in a giant hug. His cousin hops up and down, "You killed it!" I look up at the beatboxer, "No you!" I say.

I trot home thinking about how me ten years ago would never believe I would be booked on the sold out 7 PM show at the hottest comedy theatre in LA. Also pretty wild it was all based on a book I read in middle school in a cabin in Wisconsin. Life is strange.

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

Original or Cool Ranch

Ran into TT at the grocery store last night. In the chips and candy aisle. He threw his arms up, full of Oreos and crackers. “I’m snacking OUT!” he announced. TT is a Chicago comedy expat like me, though we didn’t actually meet until we moved here. We both do this bad monthly show sometimes, and I always find myself cackling uncontrollably when he’s up there tossing his body around. What TT lacks in commitment to the reality of the scene he makes up for in his clownish ability to do anything for a laugh. TT will smash his face to the floor if he thinks someone in the back row might chuckle. I told TT he is the perfect person to see in the chips and candy aisle at 10 PM on a Saturday. He held up a jar of beef jerky. “But this is too much, right?”

I nodded, then admitted: “I’m mostly saying that as a militant vegetarian.” TT put the jerky jar back on its shelf. “Wow, this is a great!” I said, “I feel like I really made a difference.” I explained I myself was on the hunt for Doritos.

Friday my high school friend aa was going to swing by my spot, my sacred grassy knoll. Inviting friends to the knoll is part of my plot to de-monetize more of my social interactions. But it’s a process. I don’t feel totally comfortable offering nothing when I host, even if I am hosting on a median. So I stopped by the store to pick up…something. I went with Doritos.

aa and I sat on the sunny ground, gabbing about the weight of living inside a genocidal empire. We were earnestly imagining all the starving babies when I popped the shiny bag open. Crunch crunch crunch, it had been years since I’d eaten Doritos. What a foolish mistake. Doritos are next to godliness, I remembered solemnly. We watched the hipsters walk uphill to the Father John Misty concert. We relocated to my balcony. We parted ways. I had another bowl of Doritos as Puhg and I watched You.

The next day (Saturday, yesterday) I wrote at the cafe until 3, dashed home for pool time before the chairs were swallowed by shadows, sent Marco Polos about indie art to Lav, let my hair dry in bed while finishing the bag of Doritos. Headed over to SW’s, so we could join their evening dog walk before our scheduled movie night. SW was wearing a juicy sweatsuit.

The four of us had pizza and watched Happy Gilmore 2, which was legitimately very funny and also slightly woke! Good job, Adam Sandler! My young actor friend CS was in it, a pretty good role too. Beyond happy for him.

Which brings me back to last night. Home from the movie, a bit hungry again. I thought to myself, “You know what I could really go for?” I went with Cool Ranch. TT and I chattered for a bit as I gripped the blue packaging. I asked what he was going to get up to. He said his girlfriend was out of town, so he was going to play video games all night. I asked how long they’d been together. Eleven years turns out. I told him twelve for me, feels like no time at all though. He agreed. I said my relationship is the longest thing I’ve ever done. “Not me!” TT said, “Improv!” We laughed until we cringed. I winced, well, sure, me too. I had thought TT was from the Midwest, but he corrected me, no, a small town up north. He said it was cool, that I'd like it. I asked why he was so cure I'd like it. "Well..." TT thought, "Because you're cool."

I made a big deal of this, sprinted away, shouting over my shoulder, "I have to go! Can't beat being cool! This conversation is all downhill from here!"

Puhg went to bed, so I ate a bowl of the new Doritos under the moon while watching TikToks about how AI is catapulting us into drought. After midnight I moved inside to eat a second bowl of Doritos in the cream chair while watching a YouTube lecture about Carl Jung.

This morning I worked out and read some of Crying in H Mart and pitched Puhg my newest artistic business idea (approved) and designed my Weekly Action Plan and tapped at a new essay. This afternoon I will go to the pool, fold the clean laundry, and assuredly finish my second bag of Doritos in 48-hours.

didn't do it on purpose, but gotta face the music

ten days of march

taught AB the HOT TO GO dance, which we then did in the living room before sunset, she expressed concern about the G like I don't know which way to go, either way I say, either way everyone gets the idea

laughed aloud reading M___'s play with an iced mocha at the grassy knoll Sunday morning, discussed it in the dive bar over mozzarella sticks in the afternoon -- extra ranch, what she struggles with is my biggest strength, she keeps saying ohmygod this is so helpful you have no idea, but I do have an idea because what she can do is be hilarious without trying or even knowing what it means, and what I do is obsess about what everything means, I show her all the themes she's already written and which patterns could be heightened to highlight what, it's all already there I keep repeating, what do you really think I keep asking, it has a shape she says as we scootch sideways from the semi-circle booth

dancing to "Maroon" in the movie theatre bathroom before seeing Mickey17, like the old days

great s'more bar with S on a Tuesday morning, I typically use social mornings to co-write with friends, always be writing, always be producing -- maybe I'd be less of a crone if I just had a fun coffee once in a while my god

free trip to Disneyland from J -- started with Indiana Jones ended with the cold ferris wheel, in the middle there was a jalapeño stuffed pretzel, Pirates, the Lamplighter patio, the orange mist of Soarin', and I took a Mickey rice krispie home with me (in one of the bright blue bags with the castle on it)

five current bites for my play: a young LA indie producer for this summer she met me wearing a little work outfit and a professional persona I was so preoccupied with the rain I forgot my whole purse at home and had to venmo her for brussel sprouts, workshop in DC at a regional theatre next fall, add a high-powered manager for an NYC world premiere question mark when, two college kids at a local university, small collective of 20somethings who do work in an ugly corporate room

climate theatre project approved by major activist group, will pursue without funding

Puhg buys my coffee on International Women's Day, a kids' quesadilla after a 7-hour non-stop writing session

mega corporation has offered me a new commercial contract

my horoscope said "bookstores" and then I had just about 45 minutes to kill, so I walked to the bookstore -- my books have sold out twice, I creep on the restock

Puhg's aunt is going to die this time, staying on chemo until the graduation party for her youngest grandchild -- thinking about it every few steps

Sweet Potato got some carrot slices last night, she was in a mood -- one night she was a little goofball, hiding in my hoodie hood for quite some time

can't wrap my head around how fast it's happening, how a student protester was detained illegally, how I post one Instagram story about it, get a notification the app is now using facial recognition in relation to my account

LA and I do music improv at the cutest little show in town, three friends come which is just so sweet and unheard of for 8 PM on a Wednesday, we open with this song about marshmallows happily enjoying the marshmallow world (where everything is made of marshmallows) until they realize they eat marshmallows and they are marshmallows (!), their cheery little tune becomes darker and deadlier until they vow to just not think about it! The hard part of two-prov is not getting a few little minutes on the sidelines to think of initiations for the next scene, I want to bring cannibals back into the finale but never have enough time to sort out the thoughts...Donner party, snow...marshmallows... LA starts a finale about a dog show, so that's what we do and it's fine -- the next day, on a walk, it all snaps into place -- the finale should have been us in a snowstorm after a plane crash, we realize we must eat our friends but we tell one another we're not cannibals, we're just marshmallows in the marshmallow world...

queer writers' group anniversary coffee. I made hasty purple construction paper membership cards. Group name est. 2019, a little quip on the back and a shiny heart sticker. Lan calls me right as I pull into my parking spot, says he's thinking of getting his laminated, he asks if I'm available to read something -- sure I say (I'm not) I ask what he's looking for, in terms of feedback, that's what I'm hoping you can tell me about he says the shape he says

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.

Last Saturday in Chicago

I always bring a book, but Saturday I didn’t bring a book. I would rush from one show to another, I knew. My last performances in Chicago. The two theatres I fell in love with decade+ ago. Dal asked me to arrive early to i_. So we could talk. Before I go. I arrived five minutes late after shoveling kale and sesame oil into a biodegradable box across the street. The bar was quiet. The show was pushed two hours earlier for a festival, light house, some staples of the ensemble missing.

I didn’t do a big thing. I texted four people actually. I am not afraid of leaving people as much as my study carrel in the library and my coffee shop with the sunny patio and sugar-free cookie dough syrup.

The first show was good. Not as good as two weeks ago with the booming sold-out laughs. It’s easy for me now. I don’t warm-up, and I don’t question everything I did while passing Philly’s Best at midnight on my walk home from the train. But also this time is a different kind of good, the kind you don’t need validation to hold. An audience member asked what his partner should do to quit having nightmares. I started singing to myself about my sleep mask, and every time I got into “bed” (sitting on a chair holding a fake comforter next to Dal) I’d remember I had to feed my bat or something. I finally turned out the light and confided in Dal I was scared. He reassured me, so I asked him to take off his clown makeup. Lights.

The show was only 1:15. I hadn’t known we weren’t doing two full acts. I had an hour to kill. Cast cleared out. I wandered outside and asked a stranger to take a photo of me. No book. For once no book. I decided to forego my usual Saturday Uber and walk to SC. The evening was perfectly pink and humid. I could feel my curls loosening. I listened to Wilco. That teeny pilgrimage both heavy with August and light with leaving. “Burn down the missions”: lyrics I’ve decided I now understand. I bought the last walk-up ticket for Puhg.

Show Two. It was a new girl’s first go—something right, something cycled. The ensemble sang a warm-up about me. Our title was “Grease-y” so I got to be an updated Sandy. Flood initiated a drag race drag race. We go together.

Back at i_, I saw just the fewest sweet friends, and I was very happy. Gor said, “You were right about everything,” and Kram told me I was the girl he would miss. Roma was babysitting, so when it was time to go home she met me at Philly’s Best, but they were understaffed and not making fries. We went to the dumb ol’ corner for crinkle cut ones instead.

Tink

My musical had it's third workshop performance this weekend. I sat in the far back corner, as I like to do. I can't even comprehend it anymore. I feel like a meteorologist in the theatre. Ticking down laughs and quiet spaces. I can answer a question for the director, recognize a complication in a line, and revise lyrics immediately. I love that feeling. But when I watch generally, it's mush. I've spent years with this story. I treat it like the painting of Buddha in the kitchen. Nine times out of ten if someone mentions "the Buddha painting" I ask, "What are you talking about?"

An interesting thing about my work is I am an educator at heart, but people don't love to be educated for some reason in theatre. I do. I love being educated in theatre. But, okay, I guess sometimes I recognize I prickle when I feel a piece is teaching me something I know. And then I have to be very patient, when, for example, a pretty good play at The Goodman right now has a huge section of text about why some people prefer "they" as their gender pronouns. I'm like oh come on did I just turn on Degrassi? (Also I love Degrassi, so my complaints are even more obnoxious) But then I remember The Goodman's average viewer doesn't know about "they" stuff. Heck the gay bi-racial, interfaith artist couple I worked for when I first landed here hated the concept of "they." "Bad grammar" they both cited over and over.

So like, how do you educate without letting anyone know you're doing it? And how to you not mansplain inside comedy? And also 80% of the time I feel like this little "art for social change" is stupid because children are in cages and I donated money and contacted Congress and I know I am kidding myself that's barely reason to feel like I worked for change. And I worry it will not be resolved and I worry I will become complacent because it's just so much easier. I'm sorry, I tell the golden egg inside myself. I'm sorry I am lazier than I want to be. But then I run an improv workshop for social workers and they feel so proud of themselves and laugh so hard and tell me how it's going to help so much, and then I'm like, okay okay I believe again. I clap my hands for Tinkerbell.

First Sunday February

I made a big fuss about no alarm clocks, but I rose at seven. I did the good morning writes and sits and reads on the couch. In HIIT I did the most burpees in the class. I did box jumps like a true beast fueled by the previous night's gig in Indiana and the oatmeal creme pie I ate on the way home. I was so spent I couldn't imagine eating yet. I texted Puhg and we walked through the snow to the grocery store. Everyone was buying chips and dips. We passed a pop-up brunch at our favorite veg cafe. Cruelty-free chicken & waffles. I don't remember what we talked about. I responded to a promising email. I organized my sweaters and laid down. Lesson plans over two eps of Big Love. A little watching the guy play Until Dawn. My bus didn't come, so I met my girl on the train platform. We were both late for our own meeting. I saw three other comedians standing at the Red Line. Sometimes Chicago is the smallest. The bar we walked to was closed, so we sat in the balcony of Whole Foods with serious faces and then outlining our new project. Oh, it's good. I can tell. I walked across the street to i_. My Harold team goes on every week, but there's a jubilance when we arrive to the same green room. I cherish the night and play an overbearing marketer. Our coach says, "I'm glad you worked through the Winnebago scene" and if that's not priceless improv garbage, what is? I couldn't interact any more, so I sat next to two people riding home, not speaking. The bus would take five minutes. I was cooked. I stood looking out for it. It arrived, empty save a man sleeping on it with a six pack next to his head. The driver got up and shook him. The man took his sweet time debarking. It was fine. There but for the grace of God. I forgot my keys and had to call up. I wasn't just ready for bed. Reddit posts until the blanket of tired tucked around me.

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.

I Just Want It To Be Great

I've never felt as sick walking into a theatre for rehearsal as I did today. I've been revising my solo show all week--posting up in the donut shop, running out to the grocery store for bear claws to consume at the kitchen table, tittering away in the morning before Puhg woke up on his birthday, pushing all my notes around the table in the gym foyer, sunk into the couch. It is not fun. I am not enjoying this. My director tells me if I just do what I did last time/last year, it will be good. But I want it to be great. I want to nit-pick and fill in gaps and waste no one's time or eight dollars. I suffocate inside the context of this script. I want every word to weave and stick like a perfect spider web. Instead, I have sloppy glue traps in the middle of monologues and concepts I don't know how to implement and a pressing fear that everything is boring.

As a "break" I went to VG alone last night. It's closing weekend of a play that had an intriguing email blast, and I had a show tonight, two tomorrow. I stopped at Walgreens for a bag of Riesens. I sat in the theatre alone chewing the caramels one seat away from an old lesbian couple and next to three college kids. The lights seemed to go down early. Was there pre-show music? Was it just very quiet? I suddenly heard so much. "I'm so happy I'm seeing this with you," someone whispered next to me. Another voice: "Did you get here okay?" Settling bags, phones turning off, leg pats, and settled butts. For the first time in a long time, a bitty proscenium felt like home.

It's hard for me to enjoy theatre anymore. Certainly not making it. And often not even seeing it. I'm too involved in the ingredients and gaging what I can learn. I remember seeing and doing my first improv shows. I wished they were endless. Shark said in the green room last month that he never goes to shows anymore. "I have ruined improv for myself," he said, "I'm glad I ruined it. I was destined to, but I ruined it." Too real.

I put myself through this torture. I'm the one who wrote the thing. I'm the one who applied for the space. I'm the one who cares so much. I could phone it in. I could eat the deposit. I could move. I've considered all of it. I'm sitting in my favorite diner with buffalo tofu in my tum. People have told me this show changed them, inspired them, was a joy. Today, I can't comprehend it. I do not feel like "YEAH, I CAN DO IT" even though I desperately wish I did.

Everyday

I write every day. Journaling, blogging, a hefty email--these things count--but besides all that, I also strive to work on a play, my book, or a script every day. Two pages is the rule of thumb. It's been hard lately. I'm now in five ongoing improv shows, coaching a team, teaching four classes, tutoring eight hours a week, and my list of my day staples keeps growing. Read inspiration every morning, workout, eat a protein-rich breakfast, put away my clothes, do ten minutes of Japanese study. It's been a No Time for Fun Fall. I am perhaps too honest to peripheral friends. "I would love to hang out, but honestly, I have no free nights until December 17."

Tonight I got home from rehearsal and needed to sit and be with Bisque. And then I needed to read up on all the new sexual harassment allegations of the day. And then I needed to write, but, oh, what a long day. I finally began at 11. It's 11:50. It took me 50 minutes to get two pages on my new short. But I did it.

I've been stressed the past two weeks after somehow skating over all my obligations through September and October. I guess students are desperately trying not to fail, I have six weeks until my solo show reopens, I'm trying to run myself as a business, I eat too much candy. But some things I have liked about the past week: starting Big Little Lies, the sweetness of my new theatre, honest rehash on the Argyle train platform, playing a singing rat in yesterday's set, confetti canon at The House of Blues, inspiring a stranger, a chocolate fountain at my new play opening, when I am listened to, the student in the back row crushing his monologue, goofball English students, giving new improvisers easy information, never feeling embarrassed in front of a good friend.

A Very Good Day

5:30 do a country line-dance workout in the living room
6:30 catch the Red Line, grade papers as I ride
7:15 grade final paper in Potbelly eating breakfast sammie
8:00 begin fifteen minute mid-term meetings with 101 students
1:00 meetings over, I sing "Ring of Keys" in the classroom alone
2:00 submit mid-term grades and post announcements to Blackboard
2:30 finish Difficult Women standing outside the library drop box
3:00 prepare bowl of lime kale
3:30 plan play revisions
4:00 Puhg serves me a sweet potato bowl and we watch Broad City
4:45 practice Japanese on the Brown Line
5:05 meet Sabarra and walk through a teensers haunted house
5:30 donate money to Puerto Rico
5:32 have a creative meeting about out newest screenplay
6:05 meet with Dusty for a chai at Eva's
6:50 relocate to a familiar Starbucks because we weren't done talking
7:30 Dusty drive me across town to i_
7:35 we talk in his car
7:55 I have to go inside for my calltime
7:58 run-in with my coach from three years ago
8:00 my Harold team warms up in a stairwell
8:30 we do an improv show as an opener for a magician
9:00 I make the audience clap for my sister who is there
9:20 Dbag, Egg, and I watch aforementioned magic from the back corner
10:00 LC hugs me in a big pink coat
10:05 Flood text asks if we can grab a Shirley Temple at the bar
10:20 Squid & Blanco and I laugh a lot on the way to North & Clyborn
10:45 Blanco gets groped on the train
11:00 it is very cold
11:08 I step into my apartment, Puhg looks drowsy with sleep
11:15 I choose two little chocolates I took from the break-room at the Writing Center to consume while watching S2, E12 of Scream

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.

Maturity

I. Waiting for the light at Clark & Belmont. Guy in front of me wearing shorts. Huge Heath Ledger Joker tatt across his calf. I don't think it's stupid. And I don't think he's got issues. I think, "I wonder why the Joker is so important to him."

II. In improv rehearsal we do solo scenes. I think about ways I could knock the exercise out of the park. I choose instead to do something out of my comfort zone that will challenge me. I flounder. I don't feel embarrassed or concerned. I consider what I have learned.

III. I just became a cast member at another theatre. A friend gave me a cute lil welcoming gift--three candy bars wrapped in tissue paper. I ate half a Twix last night. I thought about saving the other half for today. I didn't, but I thought about it.

The Past Three Weeks of Art

Sunday: Wrote at a coffee shop all morning & afternoon.
Monday: Taught Medieval Theatre all day, ran home to take a meeting with a television producer. Prepped a piece for a callback in the morning.
Tuesday: Early SC callback (three hours), immediately hit the train to tutor writing for two hours. Had my first "Business of Playwriting" class.
Wednesday: Taught Intro to Devising class, Harold rehearsal, Harold show.
Thursday: Writing Center shift. Vigorously doing playwriting homework. Playwriting class.
Friday: Taught English 101 all day, pass out in the afternoon, see a new play at The Goodman.
Saturday: Step class, pump-up coffee date, see Puhg's movie premiere, family dinner, three hours of improv shows.
Sunday: Took my mom to brunch. Spent the entire day preparing a comedy writer's workshop packet. Finished at 7 PM, just in time to scarf dinner and run to the theatre to host and perform in a Harold show.
Monday: Got to school early to check-in guest speakers for my Theatre History class--a local improv team. Researching local theatres. Eating junk and froyo with old castmate all night.
Tuesday: Spent morning applying for theatre production, Writing Center shift, 3 hour BWC rehearsal.
Wednesday: Beginning of Directing unit in Theatre History, dinner with teammate, Harold rehearsal.
Thursday: Shift tutoring at The Writing Center, Indian with my sister, playwriting class, grading until midnight.
Friday: Taught English 101 all day, met up with old SC cast member for cake, dinner with Puhg, a live Bat at i_, new play at The Goodman.
Saturday: Audition at CSz. Fight with a Trump supporter in a bagel shop. Writing Center shift. Work on my pilot. BWC & WNT shows (three hours). Hang with the bros and go to bed at 2.
Sunday: All day trip to Fright Fest at Six Flags! But you KNOW I woke up ay 6 AM to write first.
Monday: Theatre History. Writing madly in my office. Chili with writing parter of yore. Harold show.
Tuesday: Writing Center shift. Surprise visit from Syd. Callback for CSz. Dash to playwriting class. Get convinced to stay out late eating cake with Syd discussing out past and present.
Wednesday: Theatre History special guest = my old director. She teaches and I treat her to salads and coffees downtown. Last minute invite for a film audition. Run across time learning the sides as I travel. Ingest a caramel apple much too fast. Harold rehearsal. I stay at the theatre to run warm-ups and coach an improv show.
Thursday: Up at 5 to work on a new play, outline calendar to see if I can do a run I am offered, Writing Center shift, cry in my boss's office, Puhg makes me dinner, off to playwriting class.
Friday: 5 AM up to grade, teach 101 all day, write in the afternoon, pass out, wake up in time to see improv show I will audition for in two weeks. Grade papers until slumber.
Saturday: Ran two miles and then train to The Goodman for a reading of Jose Rivera's newest play. Lunch date with Puhg followed by afternoon of writing at the library. Zip to BWC show at SC. Eat a funfetti ice cream sandwich with the cast.
Sunday: I woke up and immediately started working on my pilot. I took a break for HIIT class at the gym, a bowl of cookie dough dip, and a Rick & Morty. I just finished my pilot. I reflected on how much dang art I do. I wrote this.

Favorite Arizona Fall Memories

Yesterday was no September 22nd. It was muggy. I wore scalloped green shorts to work and a t-shirt to The Goodman at night. The play we saw (Continuity by Bess Wohl) was about climate change, and I couldn't help but feel extra sticky on the walk home.

This is Arizona fall. I had improv rehearsal on Sundays at noon. I often took the holy day as an opportunity to buy myself a Starbucks treat--an iced pumpkin mocha latte. I would hold the cold drink in one hand and steady my handlebars with the other. The little circular tower atop the Fine Arts building. I would look out that window and worry about Act One, Scene Three. Puhg and I wore pajamas to get half price froyo at our favorite place on campus. Or he picked me up for my lunch break during full-day rehearsal for my thesis play. The girls on my comedy team went to that old ranch for a haunted house. Bug couldn't stop talking about her new boyfriend she didn't know if she liked or not. Shell and I had to keep doing the knowing glance game. When the streets were suddenly nutso and I remembered about football. I went to a weird speech tournament alone. I remember being full of Costco muffins and walking up a hill into the parking lot. I rarely asked, "What am I doing here?" I wasn't often sure what to prioritize. I went from the soft white carpet of a condo to orange concrete in a House of V. The sun seemed so powerful I never believed it would go down. The first Tuesday night dramaturgy class that ended in the dark confused me. I didn't have a bike light yet.

First Year Out of College

I've decided I'm going to be one of those people who has an empty inbox. You know. Delete stuff I no longer need. File things I want to save. Be reminded easy what I need to respond to.

I decided this somewhat randomly about two weeks ago. I was at The Writing Center and no students had come in for walk-in tutoring. I had around 17K emails in the the gmail I started in college. This isn't that much maybe. I also have a junk account, two school accounts, and a professional artist account. Maybe I'll deal with those sometime too.

So, first, I used the search bar to weed out advertising junk. I deleted all the "Groupon," "Twitter," "Jamba Juice" hits etc. After destroying as many spams as possible I started working through my cache starting with the oldest messages to the newest.

Right now I have 7,881 emails in my inbox. I have lurched from my freshman year to my first year out of college. It's been weird to my life snippets in a vertical list. That year seems so foreign to my life now, but it was actually incredibly foundational. A flurry of student notes from the Writing Center, navigating a weird boss for an after school program, running my first marathon, all my grad school statements of purpose, a community theatre musical rehearsal emails, indie improv team volleys. Some of it is embarrassing--advice I gave in a very knowing way, hatching my sense of humor, I had no fear, and I substitute taught an English 100 lab for free on Valentine's night.

But, oh, there are precious moments. Long chains with friends who were still friends, pictures from Dusty, and the most charming: a lesson plan for the first improv class I ever taught. The usual teacher for the Level One class at the comedy theatre I performed at couldn't make one week. He asked this other girl and I to cover. We were PUMPED. We went out for pizza beforehand and freaked out about everything we wanted to teach the class. The place was called Suds or something and we sat at a countertop and just gushed about all we loved and hated about improvising. We practically ran to the theatre screeching in excitement. We had both just broken up with our boyfriends.

When we arrived we found only ONE PERSON there for the class--a middle age woman who was pretty nervous. No idea why she took the class, but it was only her second attempt at improv ever. The other girl and I were not deterred. We went full-ham on our plan and took turns being in the scene with the woman. Toward the end of the three hours, I think we were both so eager to act, we just did a ton of three person scenes. We laughed and laughed in that shady, bunk basement room for rent.

First Saturday Back

First of all, I got to return to Step class at my gym. It was hard, as it always is after an extended absence. At a water break I asked the instructor to re-demonstrate the switchkick turn, and three women around me all (at the same time) told me how to do it. Isn't it infuriating to be told how to do something even when you have asked? And, by the way, why do people like telling others what to do? I don't. Which is funny because I'm the teacher.

I showered. Pug and I sat on the couch and talked over morning yogurt, a ritual I missed. We keep up when we're apart, but the conversations are more like maps and less like landscape. I convince him to walk with me to a new coffee shop, where I set up camp for lesson planning. After an hour I head to the train. While I wait a man starts addressing people on the platform asking the question "Why?" a lot. It's hard to hear him. At first he is ignored since he's ranting. He's holding a Dunkin bag and a large iced coffee with cream. He lays down on the platform over the line folks are not supposed to cross. Another older man walks up and tries to talk to him. He is batted away. I get closer. I want to kneel down and say, "Don't do this here," but I don't know his mental state and am worried he might throw me into the tracks. The board says the next Red Line to 95th is in one minute. Someone presses the help button. Someone else is making a call. "They'll put me back in jail," the man says. The train is now arriving. Someone at the end of the platform waves his arms wildly to the conductor. I bark, "Sir, please get up." In the nick of time, someone the fella by the ankles, and pulls him to safety. The dude, still on the ground, yells, "You almost spilled my coffee!" to which his savior rolls his eyes. I get on a different car and practice Japanese on an app.

I attend a producers workshop for marketing one's comedy show. I learn a couple things. Several men, not running the workshop, offer a lot of unsolicited advice to everyone n attendance. Again, I wonder what the appeal is. I go across the street for a Whole Foods salad and purchase a scone to eat between shows at night.

While home I have a little time to work on my book before curling my hair, changing into a new blouse, and heading to SC. On my commute I think about how we use Twitter, how I use Twitter, microaggressions, and how important but also stupid recognizing said microagressions are. It's my first show in Chicago since mid-July. The audience gives us "IHOP: The Musical" as our title. The singing feels good. The singing brings renewal. I call an Uber.

At the next theatre's greenroom I am met by some unusual faces. People from New York and LA visiting, jumping in on the fun. We do two acts of improv. It is okay. I am happy to be there though. Puhg comes and during something particularly funny I look out at him to see if he laughed. He's munching a french fry. He is standing at the bar when it is over. We take a car home.

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!