Feel Me Don't You

Here’s a little improv update for those interested few who still drop by…

Last Friday was Tantrum’s show with our first ever monologist couple and as one audience member said, “they couldn’t have been cuter if they’d held a puppy in one hand and a baby in the other.” I don’t know if they realize it, but they were also paid one of the highest compliments when another audience member asked them how much of their performance they had scripted. As they are both editors for a local card manufacturer, I can see how one might assume that, but it wasn’t the case. Huge kudos to Emily and Sergio for their stories (I’d put it all in caps with exclamation points, but I don’t want to be that obnoxious). Coming off a two month break between shows thanks to a scheduling conflict and minus one person in the preceding rehearsal, I will admit I was nervous about the show. There was nothing to be nervous about as the entire ensemble had many moments of shining glory. That show felt good and I’m curious to see how it stands up on DVD.

Saturday was a trip down memory lane as I joined current and former members of ComedySportz Quad Cities for their 20th anniversary celebration. The show format was altered from the norm to accommodate an engaging Q&A with the performers after their scene. Add in a touching tribute to manager Jeff Adamson, given by his son Patrick, and you had a belly-busting and heart-warming evening for the entire family. During the after party, we all had a chance to relax, catch up with old friends, and have a beverage before jumping into the jam. JAM! The jam (JAM!) was an interesting mix of new and old players, some experienced in long form and some not at all, and beer. That’s all I will say on that. What I had forgotten was the level of celebrity status one can have as a CSz player. After the show, a long-time CSz female fan asked me to autograph her t-shirt to join about six that were already in place. I was so taken aback by the request that I think I might have giggled before signing her shirt.

Thanks to fo0, I learned that fellow improvisers Brian Huskey (from UCB, Conan O’Brien, Sonic, and more) and Rachael Drummond (from i.O. West and The Groundlings) are starring in a new Toyota commercial. I’m assuming it was written and not improvised, but I got a chuckle out of it regardless.

Since Saturday, I’ve spent time with my family and a few friends. I overheard a conversation with my crazy, conspiracy theory-inspired cousin (not the weed smoking one) that had me seriously worried. I also learned today that I am once again a great uncle to little Chloe Marie.

*sigh*

Damn earworms!

This Saturday, May 15, with the aid of my trusty Gran Prix, I will be travelling to the past – Rock Island, IL 1992. I know it’s no DeLorean DMC-12, but it’s all I have. ComedySportz Quad Cities is hosting their 20th anniversary celebration and has invited the alumni of their storied past to join in the festivities. I will be joining other improvisers from around the time we performed together for a game (or games) to be determined that night and will likely join in the jam later that evening before heading to The Blue Cat for the post-show party. After perusing the current performers and retired jerseys section, I must admit I’m surprised that I recognize as many names as I do – I suppose I’ve kept in touch better than I thought. Hm, is it possible with the attendance of Tom Hart, Janos Horvath, Don Abbott, and myself that we could even have a mini Live On Tape reunion?

Please join Tantrum this Friday, May 14 – 8PM, as we welcome our first monologist couple Emily Akins and Sergio Moreno. It’s also the first time that a pregnant woman will appear on stage with us – that we’re aware of anyway. She blogs some amazing recipes. He beats skins with sticks. Together they suffer the enslavement of a local card cooperative. Just what will they talk about? That’s up to you! Come witness what happens when the unstoppable Mexican force meets an immovable not Mexican object (most likely and explosion of laughter). Don’t you owe it to yourself to come out for an evening of inexpensive entertainment?

beep… beep… beep…

Dirk Delaney railed against the walls of his prison cell with clenched fists, spewing venom and expletives like an industrial drainage pipe. He had awakened to this bewildering predicament and, knowing his imprisonment was unjust, demanded an explanation. Scanning the surroundings, he attempted to take stock of his situation. The more he focused on an object, though, the more enshrouded it became. The faces around him obscured to featureless ovals save for the outline of lips mouthing something he couldn’t hear over his outbursts. What were they trying to tell him? Quelling his anger temporarily, he listened intently. The words engulfed him in a formless tide of gibberish and only served to place a matchstick to his anger’s slow gas leak. This behavior, completely antithetical to his past, shocked and dismayed him.

beep… beep… beep…

In the early morning hours of December 7, 1941, while midshipmen around him were losing their heads both figuratively and literally, Lieutenant Delaney remained steadfastly calm as he carried out his orders. When he learned he had lost his wife and newborn child during the air raids on that fateful day, he shed a single tear for each before righting his inner battleship and pressing onward. Returning home to the quaint Los Gatos community, he was greeted with a hero’s welcome – especially by one very special young lady, Sabra Steinbeck. She had vowed to be his since the day they met in grade school and she was, officially so, from May 18, 1946 until this day. The ensuing years saw them blessed with four children who would grow to make them prouder than any parent could hope to be. Piloting his personal ship to the port of retirement, he had become admiral of an auspicious professional life. Through every crest and trough he remained even keel, so why was now so different?

beep… beep… beep…

The Sun and the Dog Star, maps & radio, and family & career had always provided him with an unfailing compass to navigate the seas of life, both stormy and serene. He had none of that now as his surroundings faded to black and all his senses could detect was the gibberish surrounding him. In anger and frustration he bellowed, “Who is behind this? What have you done with my family? Where am I? How did I get here? Why, God, why?” Listening to his own rant, he realized every word had slurred to a lengthy, nonsensical moan. “Wonderful,” he thought, “even my voice has abandoned me.” Ever the resourceful type, he reverted to his maritime instincts to use his moans as a naturalistic sonar and found the juxtaposed forms surrounding him once again. Methodically, he repeated this process to hone in on a shape until it slowly separated into an individual with the distinguishable features of his beloved Sabra. The Rube Goldberg machine continued until the veil was removed to reveal his loved ones. With some semblance of sanity returned, his heart swelled with the love he felt for and from those around him and in that moment the gibberish sharpened to recognizable speech.

“It’s okay.”

beep… beep… beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…………………………………………

Greetings from sunny Mexico. It’s me, Calcetín Pedro. Unbeknownst to Josh Steinmetz, I stowed away in his suitcase so I could report back to my non-Mexican friend, Pete, during today’s celebration. Sure, most of you are thinking today’s celebration is all about Mexico’s defeat of the French and traitorous Mexican army – AKA Cinco De Mayo. Well, you’re only partly right.

Today, Pete’s brother-from-another-mother, Josh, falls prey to The Haze. When you find that person who is that one great love, makes you beyond happy, makes you beyond excited, places you squarely in the middle of Once In A Lifetime, you can’t help but want to spend the rest of your life with them and that’s just what he’s doing. So I hope you’ll join me in congratulating Josh and Kim as they tie the knot later tonight.

Barkeep! A bottle of your finest tequila and fresh horses for all the attendees!

… comes the cleaning. And the divorce.

It’s been bothering me for years and I finally did it – I divorced myself from the WASP wife beige (you can find it at your local Lowes or Home Depot) that adorned the walls of my bedroom. This was the paint selected by the original owners circa the Reagan administration. It had cracked and was peeling from the walls. Yes, you read that right, an interior paint was cracked and peeling. Even the helpful folks at Lowes were stumped by that little nugget o’ info. So, with mom in town for a little early Mother’s Day time, we began the task of scraping paint, placing putty in the resultant holes, taping, priming, and finally painting. A job that should have taken only three to four hours took well over three times longer.

So, out with the old WASP wife beige and in the with new Pirate Coast. During the bright day or with the light on, it’s a very pale green. When the sun isn’t beaming directly into the room, it’s a very serene coastal green. I’m not sure my phone really captured the color well, sorry. With that project done, we set upon cleaning all the curtains and windows. I also lined the terraced areas with solar powered lighting to highlight the plant life and give a little more light to the stairway. We will be knocking out the remaining rooms before mom has to take off Thursday. It feels so odd to have help after having to do spring cleaning on my own for years, but it’s certainly appreciated. Nick, Kelly, and I took both my mom and Kelly’s to Jack Stack BBQ as an early Mother’s Day treat. Needless to say, after Jack Stack on Sunday, homemade spaghetti last night, and steaks grilled tonight, I feel like I have a food baby growing inside me.

A kick in the brain?
A kick in the crotch?
Just a regular ol’ kick?

Sorry for the quickie…

In this past week there has been good news and bad; there’s been insomnia and exhaustion and the effects have taken their toll, but I’ll be okay. Between everything going on and what’s coming up, I’ve been completely out of sorts. I have every confidence, however, that things will be back on track soon. Thankfully through all this I’ve at least been able to knock out a script and with any luck we’ll be storyboarding it in the next week or so with filming close on its heels. It’s also pretty likely that there will be another piece of flash fiction soon.

Abby St. John wore her grin like a full-bodied Halloween costume. She was happy and why wouldn’t she be? Clad in an aqua bikini, she sprawled across the beach blanket on her belly and lazily swung her bent legs like a metronome. Beneath the bright, Hawaiian sun she laid with an open, dog-eared collection from her personal hero, Thoreau, in one hand and a margarita on the rocks within reaching distance of the other. The rhythmic, rolling Pacific provided the perfect soothing soundtrack to the day. With several friends surrounding her, this was the perfect getaway vacation to forget about life for awhile. Her smile was the prettiest facade.

While the friends surrounding her had known her for years, they only knew the aspects she carefully chose to share and no two people knew her the same way. While some attributed her attraction to Thoreau to his views on environmentalism or politics, the reality was that she simply shared an ardent belief: survival in the face of hostility. While some believed she was a party girl who revelled in the hedonistic, the reality was that she rarely, if ever, finished the one drink she ordered and she never succumbed to the illicit. While each friend believed they had the fast track to her confidence and trust, the reality was they were perpetually snarled in the rush hour traffic of carefully guarded secrets. It was all a beautiful lie.

As she reached to take a small sip from her margarita, each individual muscle in her back, shoulders, and arms screamed out in excruciating agony. She slowly, slyly turned away from her friends and winced. No one was allowed to see she was in such pain, they wouldn’t understand. Returning the drink was equally arduous and her thoughts turned to the source of that misery.

It was three days earlier she found herself at one o’clock in the morning on the outskirts of a ranch just south of Madison. With a small, powerful flashlight clenched between her teeth and a shovel in her hands, she began cleaving the dense Wisconsin earth. Beside her feet lay the limp, bloody body of a farmer in his early sixties she barely knew. Salt and sweat mixed with tiny blood-filled rivulets down her face as she rolled the body into the shallow makeshift grave. She couldn’t help herself as she fixated on his satin jacket. The name embroidered on the back was for a beer and shot tavern called The Pasteur – so named so the local dairy farm community could ply themselves with alcohol without having to lie to their spouses about where they were.

“Where are you headed this afternoon?” they’d say.

“Oh, I need to get out to The Pasteur.” would be the reply before a snicker escaped them. Simple jokes for simple folks.

Panic seizing Abby, she hurriedly heaved dirt over the body and roughly tamped it down. Occasionally the shovel shifted in her hands and the blade sliced into the soil with a resulting scrape of metal on bone. The sound caused her to gag and retch until what little contents remained in her stomach had been evicted.

Abby snapped back to her present and attempted to control her breathing and calm her nerves to keep the margarita where it belonged. As she glanced around at her friends, no one had noticed that her newly acquired tan had gone sallow. No one was the wiser, she was safe, and she began to relax once more.

Thousands of miles away, in the green and grey of a serene Wisconsin dusk, the ground shifted slowly and silently. Blooming from the topsoil came a trembling hand which grew into an arm and finally a torso which collapsed face down upon the ground. The embroidery upon the tattered satin jacket had been hacked and all that was now distinguishable was The Past.