Monday, April 28, 2008
My head hurts.
My stomach hurts.
My internal organs hurt.
And, now that I've typed those three lines, my stupid fingers hurt.
But you know that friend you have from your young and fun days? That friend who blows into town from Los Angeles, then suggests you put on a clean shirt and go "O.U.T."? That friend who likes to scream things like, "Oh, hailyeah, you'll have another Rolling Rock, you big suburban wanker!" That friend?
She just left.
Of course, I should have known better. Should have slowed down a little. Should have realized that maybe it wasn't a good idea for me to try to keep up with a woman who was recently given the nickname "Strawberry Shorty-cake" by Snoop Dogg. But, well, what can I say? Three and a half beers, a greasy pepperoni pizza and a giant pickle all seemed like a really good idea last night.
Surprisingly, not so much this morning. (But, come on, I'm sure I'm not the only mother who's ever found herself at the elementary school assembly, slumped against the gymnasium wall, painfully holding her head and crankily asking why the screeching kids had to recite the Pledge of Allegiance so damn loudly.) (Am I?)
So I'm off to find a quiet place right now. Somewhere dark and soft and static where the gymnast in my stomach and the construction worker in my head can put up their feet, loosen their pants and just make the world stop rocking a little. And I'm not sure how long I'll be there, but if you happen to come by, can you bring me a bottle of water? Because I'm pretty sure that's all I'm going to be drinking for a while.
At least until Shorty-cake comes back into town.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Chuck E. Noise
Chuck E. Lights
Chuck E. Assault On All Five Senses
Chuck E. What's That Smell?
Chuck E. No, Not That Smell. That Other Smell. The One Burning Off My Nose Hair.
Chuck E. I Think I Just Stepped In Vomit
Chuck E. My Bad. It Was Only Pizza.
Chuck E. Can We Just Sing "Happy Birthday" And Get It Over With?
Chuck E. Good God, Is That A Singing Animatronic Rat Or Am I Having A Vietnam Flashback?
Chuck E. Stabbing Pain In My Forehead
Chuck E. Does Anyone Have A Xanax?
Chuck E. Come On, People, Who's Holding?
Chuck E. Watch My Purse While I Go Kick Some Ass At Pop-A-Shot Basketball.
Chuck E. Oh, Stop Crying And Go Tell Your Moms You Owe Me Ten Bucks Each, You Losers.
Chuck E. Maybe This Place Isn't So Bad After All
Chuck E. Wait, What Do You Mean "Fecal Matter In the Ball Pit"?
Chuck E. Get In The Car, Boys.
Monday, April 14, 2008
I was born without the performing gene. By that, I mean my body’s never had even a single ounce of desire in it to get on stage and perform. Of course, my body’s never had even a single ounce of talent in it, either, so staying out of the spotlight hasn’t been too tough, thus far. Even when I play dress-up with my young sons, I usually volunteer to be the prop master, then go take a union break on the couch. Basically, in the great play of life, I’m happy to just sit in the audience while someone else puts on the show. Especially if there’s popcorn.
So what was I doing signing up for an Improv comedy class?
There are two answers to that question. First, this year I had the great opportunity to record a couple of my essays for our local NPR station here in Austin. And, even though this was technically “performing”, and even though I get stage fright leaving the outgoing greeting on my voice mail, I still thought it was something I could handle. After all, what’s so hard about going into a recording booth and reading an essay into a microphone?
Apparently a lot, if you’re me. After 30 minutes of takes and retakes and failing to follow the producer’s direction to sound more “like myself” and less “like a squirrel who’s been shotgunning Red Bull”, I realized I needed help. It was time for me to finaly come out of the wings. It was time for an acting class.
I didn’t want to take a traditional class, one where I’d have to emote and play characters and maybe even bust out an accent or two. (My husband claims my British accent makes him queasy.) I just needed something to help me loosen up a bit. That’s why, when I saw an ad for a Beginner’s Improv comedy class, I knew this was it.
I’ve been a big fan of improvisational comedy for years and have seen shows by famous troupes like Second City in Chicago and The Groundlings in L.A. (places where well-known comedians like John Belushi, Will Ferrell and Tina Fey got their start), and I regularly watched the TV show Who’s Line Is It Anyway? Every time I saw improv comedy, the same nagging little thought would pop into my head: “Man, I wish I was brave enough to do that”.
Which brings me to reason number two: I was turning 40. Any woman who’s approached that particular milestone knows it brings out the risk taker in you. Mountain climbing? Sure! Kickboxing? OK! Bungee jumping off of the Golden Gate bridge just to show I’m still as cool as I was in my 20’s? Bring. It. On. Yes, I was scared to death at the thought of actually acting in front of people, but I also knew that it was now or never. Besides, if I put it off any longer, I’d probably be in danger of breaking a hip.
The first night of class, I slunk nervously into the funky Hideout Theater in downtown Austin, desperately hoping I wouldn’t do something that’d wind up on Youtube the next morning. Remarkably, though, my nervousness all but disappeared within just a few minutes due to the fact that my teacher, Shana Merlin, has that rarest of gifts--contagious enthusiasm.
A trained actor with years of teaching and performing experience, Shana immediately put everyone at ease by leading us in a few fast, fun games to break the ice. And while the games seemed fairly innocuous, they were all actually intended to help us start building trust in one another. Trust is the cornerstone of improv. She then explained that, unlike traditional theater, improv doesn’t use a script. Rather, the performers make up everything as they go along, usually based on audience suggestions, so everyone multitasks as writers, editors, casting agents and directors. That doesn’t sound so hard, I remember thinking. After all, I’m a mother. I can change diapers, grill a burger, grout tile and yank a toddler off a ceiling fan with one hand, while vacuuming and playing Texas Hold ‘Em with the other. All I do is multitask.
For the next 12 weeks, our class played various improv games to learn the proper tools, then finally started to act out scenes. And while it wasn’t always easy and I didn’t always conquer my shyness, I definitely made progress. I didn’t cry, throw up or curl into the fetal position while screaming, “I am not an animal!” while on stage, anyway. In fact, after just a few weeks, I actually started to feel…confident. And I was doing things I’d never in a million years have thought I was capable of doing. One night, I played a scene as a school principal with cat mannerisms (“Tommy, your report card…gaak! Hairball!”), another night I was Didi, the tough, streetwise girl threatening the Chess Team. It was fun, it was creative, it was spontaneous, it was, well, freeing. For three hours each week, I wasn’t a stressed out, suburban mother. I was whoever I decided to be.
Perhaps even more surprising than my newfound confidence was the fact that I found myself starting to use improv skills in my real life. Because if there’s anything that’s a constant improvisation, it’s raising a family. Anyone who’s ever pulled a screaming 2 year-old out of a public fountain could tell you that.
The one particular improv skill I found myself most drawn to was the “power of yes”. In improv, it’s important to always say, “Yes, and…” to keep the action going. For example, if you walk on stage and your scene partner says, “My, isn’t it a lovely day on Mars!”, you shouldn’t respond with a “block” and say “Whaddya mean? This is Jersey, you moron.” Instead, you might say something like, “Yes, the Red Planet is lovely today! Let’s call the aliens over for a picnic!” then you’re on your way to a funny scene.
After learning about the power of yes, I begain to realize how often I was using “blocks” in my day-to-day life. Sometimes I said “no” just because it was the easiest thing to do. Or I ignored my husband’s suggestions to do something different. I began to see that the “power of no” was cheating me out of some really good things. So, one day when the boys came running up to me, loudly yelling that they were being chased by Darth Vadar, I didn’t immediately block them and say, “That’s nice, guys, but Mommy’s busy right now.” Instead, I used the power of yes and accepted their offer by bellowing: “Then let’s grab our light sabers, men!” For the next hour, the boys and I laughed, screamed and fought off the Imperial Empire. They couldn’t have been more thrilled. And, except for a somewhat unfortunate light saber injury to my ear, neither could I.
Another improv skill I brought to my real life was the embrace of failure. In class, if we did something wrong or screwed up, rather than feeling ashamed, we put on a big smile, gleefully yelled “I failed!”, then took a deep bow while everyone applauded. How awesome is that? Think about it: you accidentally send your client the wrong invoice, then have to face your irate boss, and instead of cowering down and apologizing, you insanely yell, “Woo-hoo, I FAILED, dude!” Yeah, OK, your boss probably wouldn’t applaud so much as send you straight to Human Resources, but the point is, even if you don’t say “I failed!” out loud, why not say it to yourself? Stop beating yourself up for all the little things that go wrong and instead, just admit the mistake and move on to the next. After all, there’s always going to be another chance to prove yourself. Another chance to not fail.
But perhaps the best lesson I took away from improv was simply to be more spontaneous. To see the humor. To realize that life itself is an improvisation, and I shouldn't waste time worrying about everything and trying in vain to control it all.
Like recently, when I was at the mall, ready for a day of shopping. Ten minutes in, my son Jack decided he “CAN’T HOLD IT ANY MORE, MOMMY!” and let it fly in the Banana Republic accessories department. Sure, I could have completely freaked out and lost it, but instead, I improvised. I simply picked him up, threw his dirty clothes in a plastic bag, then walked out of the store, my head held high and my naked son wrapped in a newly purchased $25 t-shirt. (So he was not only dry, but stylish as well.)
My next Improv class starts in a few weeks. This time, we’ll be performing in front of a live audience. Of course, I’m already scared at the thought of being on stage in front of people who aren’t related to me. And my head is already full of questions, like “Will I be ready? Will I be funny? Will I at least be a better actor than William Shatner?” But the thing is, there’s no way to know the answers until I get on stage and find out. Until I say yes. And you know what? I think I will.
This was just published in the Spring 2008 issue of a great new magazine called HybridMom.
And if you're in Austin & interested in some fun improv classes, check out Shana at MerlinWorks.
And what's up with me finally knowing how to do hyperlinks??
Monday, April 07, 2008
ALRIGHT, MASON, LET'S GO! KICK THE BALL, MASON! RUN, MASON! THERE YOU GO, MASON! FASTER, MASON! I SAID, FASTER MASON! GET IT IN THE GOAL, MASON! THE GOAL THE GOAL THE GOAL, MASON! AHHHH----COME AWN, MASON! MASON! MASON! LOOK LIVELY! USE YOUR FEET, MASON! GET THAT BALL, MASON! THERE IT IS, MASON! RIGHT THERE, MASON! THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKIN' 'BOUT, MASON! GET THE BALL GET THE BALL GET THE BALL!
Did you hear there's a wine sale at Whole Foods?
WHAT ARE YOU DOING, MASON? THE BALL GOES THE OTHER WAY, MASON! TURN IT AROUND, MASON! NOW KICK IT, MASON! DRIVE IT IN! POUND IT HARD! SPANK THAT BALL! SHOW THE OTHER 5 YEAR-OLDS THAT YOU'RE THEIR DADDY, MASON!
Who, Ellie's mom? No, I'm sure hers aren't real.
PASS HIM PASS HIM PASS HIM, MASON! USE YOUR FEET, MASON! DON'T LET HIM STEAL IT, MASON! WATCH IT, MASON! HE'S GOIN' FOR IT, MASON! STOP HIM, MASON! BLOCK HIM, MASON! OH, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, SHUT HIM DOWN, MASON!
So then I said to her...what? We scored? Yay, Jaguars!
MAKE THIS LAST GOAL OR I'LL GIVE ALL YOUR SAVINGS BONDS TO CHARITY, MASON! I'LL RENT OUT YOUR BEDROOM TO AN OIL-FIELD WORKER, MASON! COME ON, MASON! I DON'T WANT TO HAVE TO PUT YOU UP FOR ADOPTION ON CRAIG'S LIST, MASON! I'M SERIOUS, MASON! YOUR MAMA DIDN'T SCREAM HER WAY THROUGH LABOR FOR 15 DAMN HOURS JUST SO YOU COULD GET YOUR ASS HANDED TO YOU IN A PEE-WEE SOCCER GAME, MASON! AWW, MASON! COME ON, MASON!
Good game, guys--here are your cookies! And, hey, why don't you save one for that kid on the other team named Mason? Because I'm pretty sure he could use one.