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

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!

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

Flexibility, Perspective, Niceness

I was very frustrated during Music Improv class tonight. I would initiate a scene very sure and clear about where it should have gone...and time and time again I was knocked down. I started to judge my classmates for making choices I wouldn't have made. I love each and every one of my classmates, so these angry feelings really upset me. It's tough though to feel like you're setting a foundation for something doesn't get built.

But then you really have to remember what you're doing exactly. In my experience, for example, I was trying to start a scene about needing a new worker at my seal docks business. In short: something very dumb. And yet, there I was, feeling my ears turn red in annoyance because someone didn't have the same idea about the fake miming we were doing. Sigh.

I want Chicago to be a nice place. And yet...As I bopped into the crosswalk on my street a mini-van was not stopping. At the last second a woman with a car full of people screeched to a halt as I was raising my arms like, "You tryin' to kill me, lady?!" I bet she was a tourist, and I bet she felt bad. Mainly, I just didn't want to get hit on this particularly cool June evening.

Dat Art Life

Today has been a very art day.

7:30 rise and get ready for the day while listening to showtunes

9:00 read inspirational essay about originality on the train

9:30 attend a theatre educator's conference

1:30 teach a high school playwriting class

3:30 make the long commute back to the north side while listening to a improv podcast

5:00 workout at the gym while listening to the demos from my new musical

6:20: eat cheese and chocolate while reading an improv blog

7:00 perform music improv show

9:30 go to bar with music improv cast

10:15 purchase tickets to a show tomorrow

10:30 come home and write in this blog

Art all day. And today is not an exception. My life is mainly art all day. Truly, I am doing exactly what I set out to do when I accepted my seat as a new MFA candidate four years ago. And yet, so many days it doesn't seem like enough. Beyond the schedule I posted above, I got two emails about sketches to write, had to resend my film script to Shells for her most recent revisions, and get propositioned for a new comedy team. I repeat: I'm doing exactly what I set out to do. And, still yet, it can not seem like enough.

But it must. Because there is literally nothing else I can do. I have thrown myself full-force into these worlds: improv, musicals, theatre ed, screenwriting. Some days it feels there's so little to show for it. Why are my lyrics so basic? Why can't I get another joke in these pages? Will this kid ever learn? But I am doing all I can do, and if anything, I need to do less.

 I decided to spend fifteen minutes in the steam room after my work out tonight. No phone, no thinking about scripts, no one else. Just me and the steam. In the silky hot tile room, I felt truly at peace. I'm not trying to do it--I am doing it. As long as you're doing it, you're doing it.

February, You Can Eat A Rock

Good riddance to a despicable month. March is traditionally my least favorite part of the year, but I have faith it can be better than the trash pile that was February 1-28 in 2015. I hate you, February 2015. I hate all the stressful emails, I hate the whipping winds, I hate the uncomfortable notes, I have hated being sick for four weeks straight. I hate the greasy white board hands, the freshmen who never stop snapchatting, the sharp word, losing the will to keep my phone close, the interrupted dinner stories, and my hair wiley uggo hair.

Of course, there was a lot of good this month. Let's not forget that. Let's just commemorate those times.

Benny the Bull blimpin'.

Karaoke night with cohort. This was "It's All Coming Back to Me."

Galentines Party Apps.

My Valentine.

My music improv team in a finale pose.