What's with all these epiphanies lately? I hope this increased rate of important-thing-realizing doesn't mean that untimely death is around the corner... and I'm just neurotic enough (and can't get rid of this cough) that I'm not entirely joking.
Anyway, I've been troubled by my apparent dichotomy of enjoying the practice of a performance-oriented art form, without really enjoying performing for an audience. That hasn't always been the case with me, though. I was happy to perform in dance, and I enjoy my Audio-Reader assignments (which range from obituaries to erotica). I still wouldn't call myself an attention whore - truthfully, I try not to call myself a whore of any kind, it's an ugly word - but playing for an audience isn't as unnatural to me as I was starting to think.
So, what's my hangup with improv? I love doing it, and it's supposed to eventually be done in front of an audience. Why wouldn't I want people to see me in a show? Is it the art snob in me? Is it my perfectionist nature, and the feeling that I'm still not good enough (after all, she said, tongue in cheek, if improv is to overcome its amateur, acting-exercise stigma, it should be done in public by the people most skilled at it)?
More the first than the second, I think, because I'm really not half bad onstage. I just haven't done much that makes me feel personally connected. These look-how-fun-and-energetic-we-are comedies... I'm a placeholder in those, a warm body onstage. I like finding important truths about the world. I like discovering beauty, revealing the poetry and music in the scene. I like making people think, maybe even cry, and if they laugh along the way, it's the spoonful of sugar that accompanies the medicine.
The logical extension of the feeling that I don't belong in the pieces I've played - nor would I fit in many other works around the community - can't help leading me to some uncomfortable implications, as well as certain actions that must be taken. Because the only time I think it would be appropriate to call myself a whore is when I'm doing something that deep inside I don't like.
~~~~~~
After all that, I hope you'll believe me when I tell you that I'm excited about playing in Coma Chameleon at the Imp! It's a bizarre, arty format that truly delights me. My first full show is next Friday, December 11 at 7:00 PM. I get a couple comps to the show, too, so let me know if I can hook you up.
I'm also thrilled to get back in the booth for Anomaly Orange, and I hope you'll make it out to see the show at the Imp on Saturday, December 12, also at 7:00 PM. The kids are playing a new format, "The Office," with special guest Jenna Fischer! Oh. Maybe not that part. But it's a solid, funny piece that I'm looking forward to watching.
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Friday, December 4, 2009
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Post-Festival-Season Personal Assessment
After a few more months of playing and navel-gazing, and the chance to participate in not one, but two local improv festivals, I'm getting a clearer sense of what I want for myself out of improv, and where I fit into the big picture.
I've heard a couple of people say "Every improviser is an attention whore." Bah, I say, to the idea that all improvisers are alike and have the same goals. This is about me and art and working together and discovery, and I still don't care if anyone watches. This, incidentally, is a very good reason to never put me in charge of publicity. And I'm not immune to disappointment in a low turnout, but it's more for the sake of the troupe as a whole, and realizing that I didn't do everything I could to get butts in the seats.
In both KCiF and ImpFest, I was exactly where I wanted to be. KCiF was a high-profile event that showcased people who have refined their craft and love performing for a crowd. Stage-managing, I didn't have to get out in front of a roomful of strangers, I just did what I do to help it go well for the people who do put themselves out there. I still got off on the show energy, still felt rewarded by the crowd response, because I knew I was part of the big picture. ImpFest was an intimate, performer-oriented event. Every night, a large portion of the audience was other performers. I got to play for the first time in front of some improvisers I really admire, and I don't think I made an ass of myself! But as much fun as I had playing onstage and watching other troupes, the high point for me was being in the booth for Brownies Don't Lie. There's a way I feel connected to a show I tech that isn't like being onstage, and isn't like being in the audience. It's like being part of the environment. I'm one with the theater and the show as a living entity. Thank you, Jill and Trish, for letting me be there with you!
So, I don't see myself striving to land in the top echelon of improv performers. I'm more comfortable in front of audiences now than a year ago, but it still doesn't feel like me. I still ask myself what the hell I'm doing, how I got here when I've never felt that my purpose in life is to personally entertain people. To create art, yes. To help others entertain and create art, yes. To speak directly to spectators, not really. Not in improv, anyway. Writing maybe, if I would ever get my shit together and approach it with dedication (did someone say New Year's Resolution, 2010?).
HOWEVER: performing goals and artistic-growth goals are not the same thing to me. I'm not personally satisfied by "eh, it was okay." I want to keep becoming a better improviser, and I don't believe that is inherently limited by a little dislike of crowds. (Neither does being a crowd-whore make one inherently talented: there are plenty of performers in the world who lip-sync to packed stadiums.) I'm the garage-band musician who rocks a house party now and then. I'm the painter who will never hang in a museum, but gives her friends exquisite figure studies and gorgeous street scenes. I know that shows are part of the package deal - if you'll allow me one more metaphor, a baseball player can't say "I'll play on your team, but only if nobody watches." So, I play the shows to stay with my teams, and to gauge my own growth by audience response, but they aren't my brass ring.
Bonus Rant: Daylight Savings Time is Bullshit!
Extra hour of sleep = nice, but only lasts one day. Farmers who need the extra light in the morning = mostly obsolete. Moving DST later in the year = a serious fucking-up of everyone's circadian rhythms. Two years ago, we went from dark-at-eight to dark-at-seven, and had more time to get used to it before the really short days. Now we're suddenly in the dark before six. This was a stupid, stupid move. We should be eliminating DST altogether, and sucking it up in the darker mornings with the rest of the world (and Arizona). Or adjust work schedules accordingly: don't want to drive to work in the dark? Work 9-6 instead of 8-5. Independent shopkeepers adjust their hours for summer and winter. Why should corporate schedules be so rigid that a whole nation has to pretend it has control over TIME? Who do we think we are?
I've heard a couple of people say "Every improviser is an attention whore." Bah, I say, to the idea that all improvisers are alike and have the same goals. This is about me and art and working together and discovery, and I still don't care if anyone watches. This, incidentally, is a very good reason to never put me in charge of publicity. And I'm not immune to disappointment in a low turnout, but it's more for the sake of the troupe as a whole, and realizing that I didn't do everything I could to get butts in the seats.
In both KCiF and ImpFest, I was exactly where I wanted to be. KCiF was a high-profile event that showcased people who have refined their craft and love performing for a crowd. Stage-managing, I didn't have to get out in front of a roomful of strangers, I just did what I do to help it go well for the people who do put themselves out there. I still got off on the show energy, still felt rewarded by the crowd response, because I knew I was part of the big picture. ImpFest was an intimate, performer-oriented event. Every night, a large portion of the audience was other performers. I got to play for the first time in front of some improvisers I really admire, and I don't think I made an ass of myself! But as much fun as I had playing onstage and watching other troupes, the high point for me was being in the booth for Brownies Don't Lie. There's a way I feel connected to a show I tech that isn't like being onstage, and isn't like being in the audience. It's like being part of the environment. I'm one with the theater and the show as a living entity. Thank you, Jill and Trish, for letting me be there with you!
So, I don't see myself striving to land in the top echelon of improv performers. I'm more comfortable in front of audiences now than a year ago, but it still doesn't feel like me. I still ask myself what the hell I'm doing, how I got here when I've never felt that my purpose in life is to personally entertain people. To create art, yes. To help others entertain and create art, yes. To speak directly to spectators, not really. Not in improv, anyway. Writing maybe, if I would ever get my shit together and approach it with dedication (did someone say New Year's Resolution, 2010?).
HOWEVER: performing goals and artistic-growth goals are not the same thing to me. I'm not personally satisfied by "eh, it was okay." I want to keep becoming a better improviser, and I don't believe that is inherently limited by a little dislike of crowds. (Neither does being a crowd-whore make one inherently talented: there are plenty of performers in the world who lip-sync to packed stadiums.) I'm the garage-band musician who rocks a house party now and then. I'm the painter who will never hang in a museum, but gives her friends exquisite figure studies and gorgeous street scenes. I know that shows are part of the package deal - if you'll allow me one more metaphor, a baseball player can't say "I'll play on your team, but only if nobody watches." So, I play the shows to stay with my teams, and to gauge my own growth by audience response, but they aren't my brass ring.
Bonus Rant: Daylight Savings Time is Bullshit!
Extra hour of sleep = nice, but only lasts one day. Farmers who need the extra light in the morning = mostly obsolete. Moving DST later in the year = a serious fucking-up of everyone's circadian rhythms. Two years ago, we went from dark-at-eight to dark-at-seven, and had more time to get used to it before the really short days. Now we're suddenly in the dark before six. This was a stupid, stupid move. We should be eliminating DST altogether, and sucking it up in the darker mornings with the rest of the world (and Arizona). Or adjust work schedules accordingly: don't want to drive to work in the dark? Work 9-6 instead of 8-5. Independent shopkeepers adjust their hours for summer and winter. Why should corporate schedules be so rigid that a whole nation has to pretend it has control over TIME? Who do we think we are?
Friday, October 2, 2009
Improv Boobs
Wait. No. This isn't about improv boobs. Improv boobs are funny, unnaturally large, unnaturally saggy, or unnaturally gravity-resistant. Improv boobs magically appear on players of either gender, and you can do anything to them without being creepy.
This is about real boobs, the ones attached to me, and the protocol of their onstage usage. It's about personal respect.
The boobs are my toys, and when I bring them onstage, I get to control them. I decide when they get to be played with, and by whom. My character might use them to offer comfort, or as a weapon. If your character discovers a reason to physically interact with them, you need to communicate that to me.
It's just like any dangerous physical move: slow it down and/or check in with eye contact first. Make sure I know where you're headed. I won't block you if it's what needs to happen (and if you aren't creepy and inappropriate offstage, which most people in KC improv thankfully are not)- and if I need to block, it'll be funny and the scene can keep going with minimal damage to the fourth wall. Don't sneak up on my boobs. Don't make a fast move from where I can't see you. And for fuck's sake, don't make mouth contact unless we're REALLY cool. There are, like, a dozen funny ways to get any point across without violating my personal boobs (and making me feel like vomiting for the next six weeks).
Being in a troupe or workshop together doesn't implicitly give you permission to maul my boobs. Even previous offstage joking concerning said boobs doesn't give you permission. The only long-term permission is a verbal discussion: "I trust you, and I'm cool with whatever physicality the scene calls for."
Finally, here's a tip for those in troupe leadership positions: if there's a boob violation between two of your players, and the one with the boobs is clearly not okay with it, don't brush her off with "You should have expected it," and then have a good laugh with the boob-mauler. That's like the judge who tells the rape victim, "You shouldn't have worn a short skirt."
This is about real boobs, the ones attached to me, and the protocol of their onstage usage. It's about personal respect.
The boobs are my toys, and when I bring them onstage, I get to control them. I decide when they get to be played with, and by whom. My character might use them to offer comfort, or as a weapon. If your character discovers a reason to physically interact with them, you need to communicate that to me.
It's just like any dangerous physical move: slow it down and/or check in with eye contact first. Make sure I know where you're headed. I won't block you if it's what needs to happen (and if you aren't creepy and inappropriate offstage, which most people in KC improv thankfully are not)- and if I need to block, it'll be funny and the scene can keep going with minimal damage to the fourth wall. Don't sneak up on my boobs. Don't make a fast move from where I can't see you. And for fuck's sake, don't make mouth contact unless we're REALLY cool. There are, like, a dozen funny ways to get any point across without violating my personal boobs (and making me feel like vomiting for the next six weeks).
Being in a troupe or workshop together doesn't implicitly give you permission to maul my boobs. Even previous offstage joking concerning said boobs doesn't give you permission. The only long-term permission is a verbal discussion: "I trust you, and I'm cool with whatever physicality the scene calls for."
Finally, here's a tip for those in troupe leadership positions: if there's a boob violation between two of your players, and the one with the boobs is clearly not okay with it, don't brush her off with "You should have expected it," and then have a good laugh with the boob-mauler. That's like the judge who tells the rape victim, "You shouldn't have worn a short skirt."
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
I'll Eat My Chikn Somewhere Else
WARNING: This blog contains a graphic and sacrilegious reference to feminine hygiene. Read at your own risk.
----------------------------------------
First of all, I want you to understand that I don't have personal issues with my Christian friends, at least the ones who don't try to push it on me. I've had interesting and rewarding discussions of faith with some people who are probably reading this. But these discussions are voluntary.
I hate discovering that companies, especially large national or regional chains whose business has nothing to do with religion, quietly push a religious agenda. Yes, especially a Christian agenda. Throughout history, my people have been "encouraged" to convert, and if we refused, we were forced into hiding, tortured, and/or killed. Why shouldn't I be uncomfortable when Jesus watches me shop?
Hobby Lobby isn't all that quiet about their corporate faith. I've been annoyed at them for years, feeling marginalized by the sign on their door that announces, "Closed on Sundays so our employees have time for family and worship." Do they not hire Jews, Muslims, or Pagans? I've always been glad to work on a Sunday so somebody else can go to church. Rumors even abound, and I am looking for documentation, that the company gives direct financial support to Fred Phelps' church in Topeka. I can't take a chance on my money going in that direction, and I avoid the store whenever possible - occasionally, theatrical needs trump my stance, especially if I've already tried Michael's.
Yesterday I was on my way from Leawood (Grandma) to Crown Center (lighting work at the American Heartland), and I really needed to stop and get some dinner. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and was getting lightheaded and irritable. I also needed the *ahem* facilities, since I do not like to use bathrooms at nursing homes. Chick-fil-A was on the way, and a breaded chicken sandwich sounded like exactly what I needed. I went inside and headed first for the ladies' room.
The store's overhead music was much louder in the restroom than in the dining area, and while I was attending to my needs, I realized that it wasn't simply irritating country music. The guy was singing about Jesus. I was horrified. Jesus wasn't just watching me shop, or eat. Jesus was watching me change my tampon.
Maybe it was inadvertent. Maybe the Muzak dial slipped, or it was on a country station that dropped in the occasional religious song. Maybe that particular store manager was feeling especially faithful yesterday, and would benefit professionally from being made aware that religious music in the bathroom could alienate customers.
So here's how it went at the counter:
Me: Are you aware that there's religious music playing in your bathroom?
Chicken Lady: Yes, Chick-fil-A always plays Christian music.
Me: (astounded, forgetting all about the bathroom) Is Chick-fil-A a Christian company?
Chicken Lady: Yes! Chick-fil-A is a Christian company!
Me: Okay. I just want you to know, that's why I'm not placing an order.
Chicken Lady: (sanctimonious smile, because obviously she's going to Heaven and I'm not)
As low as my blood sugar was by that point, I give myself props for staying calm and just leaving. I finally got a double Winstead's burger, fries, and a butterscotch Coke.
Religion and spirituality are personal matters. Just as the government should run on secular, logical principles that can apply to all people, no matter which spiritual path they choose, a publicly-operating business should not subject its customers or its employees to a particular dogma.
----------------------------------------
First of all, I want you to understand that I don't have personal issues with my Christian friends, at least the ones who don't try to push it on me. I've had interesting and rewarding discussions of faith with some people who are probably reading this. But these discussions are voluntary.
I hate discovering that companies, especially large national or regional chains whose business has nothing to do with religion, quietly push a religious agenda. Yes, especially a Christian agenda. Throughout history, my people have been "encouraged" to convert, and if we refused, we were forced into hiding, tortured, and/or killed. Why shouldn't I be uncomfortable when Jesus watches me shop?
Hobby Lobby isn't all that quiet about their corporate faith. I've been annoyed at them for years, feeling marginalized by the sign on their door that announces, "Closed on Sundays so our employees have time for family and worship." Do they not hire Jews, Muslims, or Pagans? I've always been glad to work on a Sunday so somebody else can go to church. Rumors even abound, and I am looking for documentation, that the company gives direct financial support to Fred Phelps' church in Topeka. I can't take a chance on my money going in that direction, and I avoid the store whenever possible - occasionally, theatrical needs trump my stance, especially if I've already tried Michael's.
Yesterday I was on my way from Leawood (Grandma) to Crown Center (lighting work at the American Heartland), and I really needed to stop and get some dinner. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and was getting lightheaded and irritable. I also needed the *ahem* facilities, since I do not like to use bathrooms at nursing homes. Chick-fil-A was on the way, and a breaded chicken sandwich sounded like exactly what I needed. I went inside and headed first for the ladies' room.
The store's overhead music was much louder in the restroom than in the dining area, and while I was attending to my needs, I realized that it wasn't simply irritating country music. The guy was singing about Jesus. I was horrified. Jesus wasn't just watching me shop, or eat. Jesus was watching me change my tampon.
Maybe it was inadvertent. Maybe the Muzak dial slipped, or it was on a country station that dropped in the occasional religious song. Maybe that particular store manager was feeling especially faithful yesterday, and would benefit professionally from being made aware that religious music in the bathroom could alienate customers.
So here's how it went at the counter:
Me: Are you aware that there's religious music playing in your bathroom?
Chicken Lady: Yes, Chick-fil-A always plays Christian music.
Me: (astounded, forgetting all about the bathroom) Is Chick-fil-A a Christian company?
Chicken Lady: Yes! Chick-fil-A is a Christian company!
Me: Okay. I just want you to know, that's why I'm not placing an order.
Chicken Lady: (sanctimonious smile, because obviously she's going to Heaven and I'm not)
As low as my blood sugar was by that point, I give myself props for staying calm and just leaving. I finally got a double Winstead's burger, fries, and a butterscotch Coke.
Religion and spirituality are personal matters. Just as the government should run on secular, logical principles that can apply to all people, no matter which spiritual path they choose, a publicly-operating business should not subject its customers or its employees to a particular dogma.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Bitter Fruitless
To all my fertile friends: you and your little bundles of joy can go to hell. Seriously, can I just go one goddamn month without someone expecting or having a baby? Do you people know what a fucking tailspin it sends me into? Can't I just recover from one, without seeing another "We're preggers!" Facebook status update, another picture of a wrinkled, bloody newborn and a sweaty new mommy?
DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE ASK. Don't ask how long we've been trying, if we've been to the doctors, if we're thinking of adoption, if we're thinking of freezing eggs or implanting a surrogate or any of that shit. It doesn't fucking matter. And don't tell me what a great mom you think I'd be, because that REALLY doesn't fucking matter.
How many rationalizations have I come up with to justify my existence? I make art, not babies. I help Grandma, because I have time. I babysit so my friends can have a little grownup time, or work, or whatever. I can afford stuff. I can eat, drink, smoke, and sleep, based on my own needs and nobody else's. The truth is, though, I'm just killing time for the next fifty years.
The only purpose of a species is to propagate itself. I live every day with my failure to contribute to the continuance of the human race, particularly what I believe could have been some remarkably valuable DNA from Hans and myself. End of the line, fuckers. End of the line.
I could have had a baby, twelve or so years ago. When I found out, my first husband offered to push me down the stairs. If it had been anyone else's, I'd have kept it - but believe me, it was a life-saving measure that I don't regret.
Sometimes I think a God that doesn't exist is punishing me for that. Sometimes I think that when Hans and I got engaged, and an ultra-religious family friend asked what religion we'd raise the children, she didn't like our answer (it was "open-minded") so she somehow cursed us. And every month I still think "maybe."
All right, I didn't mean that about going to hell and taking your spawn with you. I'm friends with some wonderful, kind, intelligent people, and I'm glad you're elevating the gene pool. You have (or will have) amazing kids, and they bring a smile to my face like little else in this world.
It's just... give it a rest, you goddamn rabbits.
DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE ASK. Don't ask how long we've been trying, if we've been to the doctors, if we're thinking of adoption, if we're thinking of freezing eggs or implanting a surrogate or any of that shit. It doesn't fucking matter. And don't tell me what a great mom you think I'd be, because that REALLY doesn't fucking matter.
How many rationalizations have I come up with to justify my existence? I make art, not babies. I help Grandma, because I have time. I babysit so my friends can have a little grownup time, or work, or whatever. I can afford stuff. I can eat, drink, smoke, and sleep, based on my own needs and nobody else's. The truth is, though, I'm just killing time for the next fifty years.
The only purpose of a species is to propagate itself. I live every day with my failure to contribute to the continuance of the human race, particularly what I believe could have been some remarkably valuable DNA from Hans and myself. End of the line, fuckers. End of the line.
I could have had a baby, twelve or so years ago. When I found out, my first husband offered to push me down the stairs. If it had been anyone else's, I'd have kept it - but believe me, it was a life-saving measure that I don't regret.
Sometimes I think a God that doesn't exist is punishing me for that. Sometimes I think that when Hans and I got engaged, and an ultra-religious family friend asked what religion we'd raise the children, she didn't like our answer (it was "open-minded") so she somehow cursed us. And every month I still think "maybe."
All right, I didn't mean that about going to hell and taking your spawn with you. I'm friends with some wonderful, kind, intelligent people, and I'm glad you're elevating the gene pool. You have (or will have) amazing kids, and they bring a smile to my face like little else in this world.
It's just... give it a rest, you goddamn rabbits.
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