I already love 2010.

I'm just feeling really good about things today. Hans and I saw in the new year at the Roving Imp last night, and I'm not the least bit hung over. I'm going back this evening for the TJ & Dave movie, and a couple more shots of delicious espresso. Hans will probably forgo the movie for some mad scientist time in the basement.

I have work coming up for the opera program at KU: stage managing "The Rake's Progress" in February, and building props for that show and "Werther," which goes up later this month. Yay! I'm using my education, and for remuneration! I'm still doing lighting changeovers at the Heartland every few weeks, and I hope to pick up a running crew gig or two at the Lawrence Arts Center. I don't see myself ever going back to full-time, with the sixteen-hour days and the nine-day weeks, but a little work keeps me from going crazy and feeling useless.

I grew up during the height of the Women's Lib movement, so it's pretty firmly entrenched in my brain that I should make some financial contribution to the household, even if we could get by, as we have for a few years, without it. After the opera wraps up, I may even look for something normal and steady-ish, like cooking in a restaurant. I've done that before, and it was fun.

I'm cutting back my improv involvement this year to more of a slow-growth approach. I don't have a deadline for whatever milestone is next. I don't even know what the milestone looks like. All I know is I was overdoing it, and the stress-to-fun ratio got way too high. If there are dues to be paid, as I'm still a less-experienced improviser, they aren't in the form of making myself unhappy, or taking bad advice to heart just because it comes from someone more experienced. I've paid 37 years of dues as a human being, and I owe it to myself to listen to my intuition.

Oh. It's almost 5:30, I need to be at the Imp by 7, and I'm still in pajamas. Gotta go. Happy New Year!

On Editing. And on Chanukah.

Editing is a frightening topic for me. I don't like unedited things. They're sloppy. They're misspelled. They're offensive to the sensibilities, whether grammatical, political or personal.

The one that drives me the craziest, though, is the grammar. When my grammar sensibilities are offended, it's practically sensory. A malfunctioning sentence tastes bad to me. I'm typing slowly right now, because I really want to commit to a straight-on, unedited blog. They take too damn long the other way, and sooner or later I just say "fuck it" and it never sees the light of the internet. Even now I'm thinking "Wait, I was doing something else! I don't have time for a blog!"

I was, in fact, about to light the menorah, ten hours late, and considering the concept of ritual. And wondering what it would be like to commit to the rituals of Judaism for a time, without altering my beliefs and non-beliefs, or even feeling that I'd need to alter them. Then wondering whether such a drastic change, such a clockwork lifestyle, could alter my neural patterns, and I'd become someone who'd want it all to be true, someone prone to belief. It's a bit of an odd feeling; I'll let you know when I sort it out.

So, we'll pause from typing...

Lit the menorah, all nine candles for the last night, as well as the miniature one from Grandma Sophie's house, with little white birthday candles. But I put up the mini Christmas tree first - Hans will be happy to see that in the morning. I'm saving the decorating for both of us. Anyway, I turned the tree lights on before lighting the menorah, so I'd have both of them going at the same time.

Then I looked on Youtube for a Chanukah song. Tonight at the Imp, after the shows, there was a brief discussion about the existence of Chanukah songs other than the one about a clay dreidel. I had forgotten this one:


I always thought it had a beautiful melody, though I never learned it in Hebrew. I love the PS22 Choir, too.


The other thing about unedited things is that trains of thought are left unfinished. I've completely lost my point from where I started. I had several points about the editing, in fact. The hell with it, I'm tired. I'm sure I'll get back to it soon enough.

Back to the Tech Booth

You know, after Anomaly Orange's show tonight (last night, if you want precision, as it's early Sunday morning), I feel even better about my decision to tech instead of play onstage. The four players - Jessica, Tom, Zak, and Joe - did a phenomenal job, utterly rocking a new longform. The dynamic was strong and clean. Nothing was lacking. No sense of anyone missing - and no sense within me that I should have been anywhere other than where I was. A good show like that deserves a good techie, and I enjoyed what I got to do.

I had a mic in the booth, which is new territory for me in anything without a script, and I had an interactive role in two of the shorter pieces in the first half. I called the directions in Pan Left Pan Right, and in Bad Doctor (guessing game) I was the voice of the receptionist when needed for extra clues. I might have tried sound effects in the longform (I gave the players a heads-up), but the scene never called for them. We're going to play with that in rehearsal soon.

Back when I ran tech for Hype 7, I wasn't interactive. I didn't even take the edits, because I hadn't improvised myself. I took the blackouts when Matthew Reiss called "scene." I may have gained a good reputation as a techie, but when I saw what improvisers like Clay, Dennis, Guy, and Jared could do from the booth - well, it didn't seem that special to turn lights off and on!

Now I've been part of Anomaly Orange, played with them, built a rapport. Even if I haven't felt that I fit the playing style, we still get each other. I feel like if I start taking some risks in the booth, it'll work out for everyone. I'll have a new set of tools to support the scene, and if I'm the one who falls, I know I'll be caught. Nobody grows without taking risks - and I really, really want to hit that next level as a technical improviser.

I'm still going after my next level as an onstage improviser, I'm not dropping that track. It's a different learning curve for me. Sometimes you have to move around to figure out who you are. I was a little - okay, way up in my head for Coma Chameleon on Friday, but it was a good show (nothing against anyone else, but Justin Eifert was on fire!) and I did some good things, and it's going to get better and better.

The Girlfriend Experience

Let's take a break from my personal life. I need to bitch about a movie. I really tried to enjoy The Girlfriend Experience. I think it had a sympathetic director (Stephen Soderbergh) behind the lens, who gave it a human quality that isn't always applied to stories about escorts. Almost nobody was presented from a judgmental position. The characters seemed to be real people, not caricatures.

It was flat, though. The characters were real flat people. It seems like that shouldn't be possible. Sure, there are boring people in real life, but they don't get movies made about them. 95% of the film was spoken in a monotone. I like a quiet scene, but for the love of Frank Capra, display a little passion now and then! Show the audience that you care - about your scene partner, your situation, yourself. Tension and distress were implied through dialogue, but they didn't come through in tone or action. Not even during a lovers' quarrel.

I became interested in the film when I read an interview in Backstage magazine with Sasha Grey, who plays Chelsea, an upscale call girl in New York. Grey is primarily an adult film actress, crossing over into some mainstream (Backstage is geared to professional performers in the non-adult media). She was articulate and analytical about her career, so I expected greater depth than what she gave The Girlfriend Experience.

On an inappropriate note, I wouldn't be opposed to checking out her earlier work. She's likeable. Maybe she's just not cut out for drama.

The dialogue, I learned in that same article, was mostly improvised. Dammit... live improv is a wonderful art form, but when a work is made for permanence, like a film or a play, there's a lot to be said for the scriptwriting process. Especially the editing phase. Soooo many throwaway words and inane phrases.

I think the non-linear storytelling also had a lot to do with the way the movie didn't engage me. It's overused. It's one thing to tell large arcs out of their chronological relationship to each other, à la Pulp Fiction. This was just choppy, mixing all Chelsea's concerns as well as those of her live-in boyfriend like diced vegetables. I didn't know when anything was happening (and I even had trouble distinguishing the boyfriend from one of the clients). The synopsis on imdb.com says it occurs on "five non-consecutive days" in Chelsea's life. It all could have been the same day, or weeks apart, or months. Of course, more of the plot was backward than forward... it was a chronological mess.

There's a dig at critics, through a self-styled "escort connoisseur" who gives Chelsea a bad review. I liked how the scenario was treated (and wished I could have seen something bad happen to the douchebag), but I also feel a little stupid for writing this piece, like I'm saying the same things about the film that he did about Chelsea. And a bit like I've already been told to fuck off for having an opinion. Soderbergh has made a lot more movies (20) than I have (0). He can tell me to fuck off. It doesn't make the movie any better.

The tag line is "See It With Someone You ****." (That's not my editing. You know I'd say fuck.) Um... no, don't do that. It's peripherally sexual in topic, but Chelsea's marketing strategy is more important to the plot than any real sensuality. It's alienating - not in an "I hate it!" way, it just induces apathy. The person I "****" went to work on some AI code halfway through.

Lightbulb

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.

By Any Other Name

So, you wouldn't mind getting used to calling me Jenifer instead of Jen, right? I won't, like, glare at you if you slip up. I'll still answer you. The truth is, though, I've always preferred Jenifer. I've just been too polite to say so. Since college. Nobody called me Jen until college. I guess at that point, not having been very social in high school, I didn't care what I was called. Call me anything, just call me! I was touched by the familiarity of it, but I never liked the percussive sound. There's so much more musicality, more play in the dynamics of three syllables. It's been especially troubling to me since this summer - I couldn't say what finally tripped the wire, but the abbreviation feels small and dismissive, and I'd just as soon leave it behind.

Thanks for understanding,
Jenifer

Thankful.

Thank you, Hans, for alwaysalwaysalways being there for me, even when I'm crazy. Especially when I'm crazy.

Thank you, Mom, for the delicious chocolate torte, and the coffee, and for listening.

Thank you, Grandma Judy, for still laughing when I joke with you, and for letting me help even though it's hard after a lifetime of taking care of others, to be taken care of. And for sometimes reading my mind in that uncanny dementia way, because you've always known the thing to say to make me feel better.

Thank you, Susanna, for dropping our cold war when I really needed you, and nobody but my sister would do. I'm glad we're friends again.

Thank you, Dad and Valerie, for solid advice, ironic perspective, and fun times. I'll visit soon.

Thank you, all of my family, for your love. Thank you, David, Deanna, and Emily, for the way we've been able to work as a team in caring for Grandma.

Thank you, everyone who works at an elder-care facility. You are angels on this earth.

Thank you, Anomaly Orange, for being such a fun and familial troupe, for sticking it out through our growing pains, and for looking ahead with a sense of adventure. Thank you also to former Hypothetical Seven-ers with whom I was lucky enough to play.

Thank you, Roving Imps, for helping me stretch my wings and making me feel welcome!

Thank you to all the improvisers who entertain and inspire me.

Thank you to the knowledgeable and supportive improv teachers in this town. Really, what does Chicago have that we don't? (That's rhetorical; you don't have to answer it.)

Thank you, Lisa, for dragging me kicking and screaming back into opera production! Okay, there wasn't much kicking and screaming. Thank you, Kathleen, for giving me a chance after such a long hiatus from stage-managing anything with a script. Thank you, Shane, for the changeover calls - it really feels good to focus lights again!

Thank you, Shelly, for reminding me about the Pittsburg Library Sale, and for being my running-away-from-it-all destination for so long. Thank you for the books! And thank you for being the type of friend who can go a month or so without a phone call, because I tend to lose track of time.

Thank you, Julia, for landing back in my life, and for being the quintessential Chicago host!

Thank you, Pandora, for coming back to snuggle and purr. I was lost without you.

Thank you, Allegra, for somehow repairing your own endocrine system and sending your diabetes into remission. Good kitty.

Thank you, Mocha and Dylan, for the unpredictable entertainment you provide on a daily basis, and for keeping me safe from the pizza delivery person.

Thank you, people who care about the planet and act accordingly. I could do better at the "act accordingly" part... thank you for setting a good example.

Thank you, researchers, for looking for the cure to any number of horrible diseases from which I'd rather not die.

Thank you, everyone who doesn't go on shooting rampages, for not going on shooting rampages.

Thank you, artists, for holding the mirror.

Thank you, holders of public office who try to do what's right for our country and our communities. Thank you even to the ones I disagree with, when you do it from a sincere desire to do good. Thank you for not playing political games that turn citizens into pawns.

Thank you, religious people who promote love and tolerance. Thank you, irreligious people who promote love and tolerance.

Thank you, everyone willing to speak out against injustice and bigotry.

Thank you, friends who understand that every human has a few contradictions, maybe even hypocrisies, because it's a damn complex world.

Thank you, Leonard Cohen, for smudging the air with your song.

Thank you, everyone who adds beauty to this world in big or little ways.

Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise & haste, & remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly & clearly; and listen to others, even the dull & ignorant; they too have their story. §§ Avoid loud & aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain & bitter; for always there will be greater & lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. §§ Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism. §§ Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is perennial as the grass. §§ Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue & loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. §§ You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees & the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. §§ Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors & aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. §§ With all its sham, drudgery & broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy.

Max Ehrmann, 1927

A favorite of mine for some twenty years, first seen on a poster at a high-school friend's house. This formatting, as well as the use of "careful" rather than "cheerful" in the final section, is taken from a small framed copy that hung in the back hallway at my grandmother's house. I never noticed it as a child; it was just part of the landscape. It was only when she moved from that house in 1991 that I realized it had been there all along.

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?

The Song In My Head

Hi. I'm tapped out on the heavy topics, at least for the time being. More to say, always, but the drafts are tangling up in Notepad, and I don't like to do that "I'll just spill it straight from my brain to the whole world" thing. It's not very good for precision.

So... here. Enjoy!


I'll be your mirror,
Reflect what you are, in case you don't know.
I'll be the wind, the rain and the sunset,
The light on your door to show that you're home.

When you think the night has seen your mind,
That inside you're twisted and unkind,
Let me stand to show that you are blind.
Please put down your hands,
'cause I see you.

I find it hard to believe you don't know
The beauty you are.
But if you don't, let me be your eyes,
A hand to your darkness, so you won't be afraid.

When you think the night has seen your mind,
That inside you're twisted and unkind,
Let me stand to show that you are blind.
Please put down your hands,
'cause I see you.

I'll be your mirror.

Happy National Coming Out Day!

Since 1988, October 11 has been recognized as "an internationally-observed civil awareness day for coming out and discussion about gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) issues." (source: Wikipedia, of course.)

You might already know this, but I'm bisexual. I'm a 2, maybe 2.5, on the Kinsey Scale, slightly more oriented toward the opposite sex than the same. It doesn't matter much: the person I fell in love with and am committed to for the rest of my life is a man. He has always accepted me for who I am (we wouldn't be married if he didn't), and doesn't expect me to find "us" a girlfriend or anything like that.

I'm not looking for myself either, really. I haven't ruled out a significant relationship with a woman at some point in my life (in the manner of historically notable married bi women like Frida Kahlo and Eleanor Roosevelt), but honestly I don't have the time and energy to put into it right now. It's hard enough to carve out time to spend with my husband, as busy as we've been lately!

I don't think of my female friends in romantic/sexual terms. I appreciate your cuteness, but I respect your straightness - it doesn't do anything for me to chase someone whose orientation isn't compatible with mine. There's an element of consent that would be clearly missing from that equation. Ick.

So if I'm not looking for a girlfriend, why am I bothering to come out? Simply put, I do this to honor the fallen. I am extremely lucky in that most people in my life probably won't blink twice at this new information. When I think of people who are outcast, disowned, beaten, murdered, for being who they are and loving who they love, I know that it is my duty to stop hiding.

If you are, in fact, still blinking, and suddenly concerned for my and my husband's emotional welfare or afterlife status, I'd be glad to talk with you, answer your questions, and even listen to why you might disapprove. (Unless you're one of those spammy blog trolls who doesn't know me personally.) Remember: I am the same person you've always known, and this has always been part of me. All that has changed is how much you know.

On the other hand, I'm also here to talk to if you need to sort out your own orientation. It hurts to have to keep yourself a secret, and we're all in this together.

Coming out is not a sudden decision, of course. I've known since I was about 20, and I've told a few people over the years, but I've never considered myself officially "out." I was working on a blog this past January, right after the one in which I said I wanted to be more honest this year. Then Grandma Sophie passed away, and it didn't seem like appropriate timing. I dropped it into a Facebook list meme, and a couple people noticed. I told my improv troupe in rehearsal, while providing the information for a "Day In The Life" musical game, and they sang a really fun song. It felt like a birthday party!

Upcoming: my feelings about gay jokes, queer characters in improv, and that sort of thing. The topic has gotten some press and discussion lately in the KC circles, and it would be remiss of me not to weigh in. For the moment, though, I think this blog is long enough.

Sorting

Two years after closing my little bookshop (which was really a glorified flea market booth - but dammit, I tried!) I'm finally undepressed enough to deal with the store inventory. I've started with the 54 boxes that I catalogued and listed online. They're now divided into three categories. I'm keeping a bunch for myself: important literary titles, information I think I might need in the next fifty years, antique editions with bindings too pretty to pass up. That's a couple hundred books, altogether.

About three hundred more are worth putting the effort into listings that might actually sell. I've sold about a dozen books in the two years I've had the half-assed "full description pending; please inquire" listings up. I can write a killer description, but they take time. Pricing research takes time too, and must be revisited because the market fluctuates. I just sold a 1910 motorcycle repair manual for a pittance, because I didn't keep up and eventually discover that I had the only copy available on the whole internet.

That leaves some 750 titles that aren't worth the space they take up, or the trip to the post office if one actually sells. I can get a little cash (or trade credit!) for some of them at a couple of better-established used bookshops. Half Price Books is out because they lowball insultingly low. Still, I'm left with scads of ex-library, no dustjacket, cocked spine, book club edition, unhelpful self-help, or just plain oversaturated titles, like the ones everyone's great-aunt has on the shelf.

They seemed like interesting stock at the time.

What to do, then, with several hundred unwanted books? Donating is not the easy option one might think: the obvious recipients such as libraries and prisons usually can't keep up with the influx, frequently rejecting donations or even throwing them away. (source: a booksellers' Yahoo group and a phone call to Lansing). Maybe a shelter would take ten books, and a school would take ten more... the law of diminishing return comes into play quickly.

If you (Gentle Reader!) want a chance to sift through the boxes (because you love M*A*S*H enough to need a large-format, slightly worn paperback on the making of the series), I'm open to making arrangements for that. These aren't the scary, dusty, spider-hiding-place boxes of books; they're in neat little Office Depot boxes. You can have a whole bunch. Like, for a cup of coffee or something. Just don't give them back to me.

Ultimately, I'm going for an environmentally friendly angle. Please bear in mind: these are books that have had plenty of opportunities to find homes. Pretty much all they do is take up space. Also remember (she said, pulling out her Snob Card) that I can recognize a book that should be preserved for its scarcity or significance, and I err on the safer side.

There's a recycling center in Pittsburg, KS that takes in books, and has a couple of "last chance" sales per year before turning household hints and religious platitudes into fresh paper products. That's actually where I got a notable percentage of these unmovable books... so back they'll have to go.

I've set aside a bunch of them, though, to eliminate the middleman between me and the brand-new recycled paperstuff. I think it would be really cool to have a little handmade notebook that used to be a coffee-stained, loose-hinged Anna Karenina, or write a grocery list on what was once a potboiler mystery. I've never tried papermaking, but I'll probably get the hang of it after a few gooey attempts. I'll update you on that, and maybe someday you'll get an original Inky Neverwhere bookmark!

I love being married to a mad scientist.

I'll bet you'd like Hans' blog. Here are a couple of highlights:
Kid Power
Guitar Hero Jam

I'll be catching up a few saved blogs and half-blogs in the next couple of weeks. I haven't had decent internet access when/where I've had time to write, and haven't had time to write at home. Like now. Bye!

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."

Love Letter

To everyone involved in the Kansas City Improv Festival:

Thank you! It's been a long time since I've felt the energy of opening night, it's finally here, the culmination of months of work for the art we love, the moment the headaches were worth it, the we-knew-it-would-be-good-but-WOW! It's been a long time since I loved stage managing, and last night reminded me that the best part is helping a show run smoothly* with people who amaze and delight me. That's you, improvisers. That's you, Roving Imps, Those People and CounterClockwise. That's you, Dennis DuPont. That's you, Improv-Abilities. That's you, Jessica Robins. That's you, Pete Calderone. That's you, Tom Kessler, Bob Dusin, and everyone else who came to usher or help backstage. That's you, Sara Bossler, tech goddess of the Off Center Theater. That's you, everyone with whom I'll get to do it again tonight, tomorrow, and Saturday. Thank you for helping me find that thing I love so much, and missed more than I realized.

I'll have to save the rest of the gushing for a post-festival entry, because it's almost one, call is at five, and I have a few errands to run.

But have ya got six more minutes to share the happiness with me?



*Not making a show run smoothly, like I've said in the past. This is a new discovery for me. It's like a plant growing. All I have to do is gently guide it, stand by for the unexpected, and know where the first aid kit** is.

**Scott: take a flashlight next time you go exploring backstage.

Something I Learned in August

I have a long, lo-o-ong way to go before I'm the sort of improviser who can just walk onstage and be amazing. I'm not fishing, I'm not being down on myself - hear me out. It still takes me a lot of emotional preparation to get in front of an audience. That usually involves treating myself like a diva all day. I take time picking out my clothes, with attention to every detail. I stretch a lot. I try not to talk to people who stress me out. I even think about what and when I eat, as opposed to most days. And in general, I try to be calm. All day.

I also have much better shows on Saturday nights when I've gone to class in the afternoon. It's like two-and-a-half hours of warmup and burning out the suck. I'm a hell of a lot more focused on everything that makes good improv - emotion, relationships, listening, to name a few.

Anomaly Orange had three shows in August, and I had a class showcase at the Imp. Two of these went well for me, and they were the two where I (a) was able to go to class in the afternoon, and (b) was not running tech for Sketchy Thoughts. It was a fluke of scheduling that the month was bookended by Westport Coffeehouse shows that involved AO and Sketchy (and Kill The DJ, but Clay runs their tech). The first show, I don't think I sucked it super-hard onstage (Sketchy had tech the week before, so I went to class), but I made up for that in the booth. Screw-ups all over the place. In a scripted show, there's really no excuse. The second show, I mostly rocked the booth, but my improv before that was the weakest it's been in public in a long time. We'd been in tech all afternoon, with frantic last-minute adjustments. I don't think I even ate dinner - even if I'd had the time, my stomach was too knotty from the stress. I went onstage feeling unsteady and disconnected, and it absolutely showed.

I think what this indicates is that I use different mindsets for performing and tech, and I'm not at a place yet where I can shift easily between the two. So, from now until such time as I can get onstage without all-day prep, I will actively avoid having to do both on the same night.

I'll Eat My Chikn Somewhere Else

WARNING: This blog contains a graphic and sacrilegious reference to feminine hygiene. Read at your own risk.

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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.

For that matter, where has the past month gone?

Holy crap. I don't even know what has been going on for the past twenty-eight days. Oh, wait, I do.

First of all, there was some babysitting of my favorite toddler, Ronin. Several exhausting six-to-eight hour gigs. Oh, my, can that little girl shriek. Two-year-olds are totally bipolar. Everything's fine, then suddenly everything sucks and it's time to cry, and nothing will make it better. And then it's time to snuggle. It was fun overall, but also a good counter to my baby-related meltdown of the previous month.

Lots of family time, as well, mostly centered around the Nursing Home Tango. It's like playing goddamn musical chairs. You try to stay a step ahead, but it's impossible. We moved Grandma to a different location, one that specializes in Alzheimer's and other memory loss. It's... it's just weird. It takes a lot of emotional energy to be there.

At times it's a lot like improv. More and more often, it's pointless to deny Grandma's reality as she perceives it. The important thing, what really reaches her, is an emotional response. That's how to keep interacting, rather than going in circles about way too many factual discrepancies to list. An improv tool I've really noticed myself applying with Grandma (not even on purpose) is to respond to the very last thing she said. I like that tool in scenes. In this case, whatever was said thirty seconds ago has already been forgotten. The important thing, onstage and *cliché alert* in life, is the thing that's happening right now.

When Grandma was at the Atriums, several of the staff and a couple family friends told me I'm good with old people, and should work in geriatric care. No way in hell. I haven't got that kind of lifeforce. I'd slit my own throat after a week.

And then there have been shows. Westport. Lawrence. Westport again at the end of this month. Anomaly Orange has been busy. Note: I did not say I have personally been busy as hell with Anomaly Orange stuff. A little busy, but everyone in the troupe has been picking up more offstage tasks. Especially Brandon, who did an outstanding job putting together the Lawrence show. I'm learning to let go of a significant portion the responsibility. Turns out, it is not easy, but I ultimately have more fun, which makes it a nice diversion from all of the above, instead of one more thing to drive me fucking batshit crazy.

Ooh. Yeah. Still a little edgy.

Where Have All the Flowers Gone?

May I take just a few minutes of your time to tell you about a character I played, who I never thought I'd choose, and I never thought I'd enjoy? Of course I may.

Last Saturday in improv class, John gave each of us a personalized challenge for the French Braid we were about to practice. If you aren't familiar with improv (yeah, like I have any non-improviser readers...?), a French Braid plays three separate scenes in rotation, and with some luck, they often have a blatant or subtle connection by the end of the whole piece. Each scene is visited three times: 1a, 2a, 3a. 1b, 2b, 3b. 1c, 2c, 3c.

My assignment was to play a character who was bold, strong, in-charge, and male. I'm not going to speculate right now on why that character needed to be a man - especially as I've been drafting an in-depth reflection on gender in improv. The point is: as soon as I knew who this character was, he completely ran away with me.

I found myself onstage in 3a, with two other players who were beginning a support-group type of meeting. One of them had been given the challenge of creating physical oddity, so his character had a spinal disorder. I decided to play for contrast: inability to move my spine at all would certainly keep me in an upright pose that lets boldness come through. I'd missed the chance to be that scene's in-charge person, so I was someone who had been in charge earlier in life, and wasn't especially happy about not being in charge now. That meant I was old. And injured. And male. And at a support group.

Then I knew: my character was a Vietnam veteran. He had seen all kinds of shit, was angry at the VA, had been getting screwed for years. Finally those bastards sent him to a support group, with a bunch of hippie feelgood crap and ungrateful punks who had never seen the face of Death. I didn't reveal much at first in 3a - all of that dawned on me while the "group leader" spouted the hippie feelgood crap, and I simmered and grumbled to a barely coherent outburst at the end of the scene. (At least, I think that's about what happened.)

Scene 3b was my flashback. I didn't know that's what it would be, but I threw myself to the floor as soon as the stage was mostly clear from the organic edit, and whisper-shouted "Charlie, two o'clock!" My buddy next to me was going to get us killed because he kept popping up and making noise, and I did the only thing I could: pulled him to the floor, hissing "Get DOWN, motherfucker!" Until that point, I thought I'd pulled off a time jump, and the scene was taking place in a combat zone.

Then Jonah, my bless-his-heart teenage scene partner, popped up again, and asked "Who's Charlie?" Then someone walked on... asking for my vote, I think... and I shot him. "You can't just shoot people!" or something close to that, from Jonah. And I said, "It's my flashback, and I'll shoot whoever I want to!" So I shot everyone else who came onstage (all for non-combat reasons). And it felt like it worked.

Except for one thing: I don't know a thing about guns. I didn't even think about the details of the gun. I realized at the edit that I'd used the only gun I've ever used, and it's made of fingers. Dammit. Now I have to learn something about gun handling, beyond the basic pistol. I should probably also pick up a little military jargon, maybe watch Apocalypse Now or Full Metal Jacket. I really like seeing military characters played with detailed jargon - Guy Maggio is amazing at that. I imagine Ed Doris would be, too... don't know of other improvisers who are vets. If I'm going to revisit this soldier/veteran - I don't want him to become stock or fallback, but I really lost myself playing him - I want to do him justice.

Gossip

If anyone can help me find a certain quote about gossip, and the author of the quote, I'd be very grateful. The gist of it is that when you share a piece of negative gossip with its subject, when you tell someone what has been said behind her back, you do as much harm as the people gossiping - if not more.

For the most part, I think that's true. Why should my perception of the world be poisoned with someone's misinterpretation of my actions or personality? I know I'm a good and kind person. You probably know that too, or you wouldn't bother reading my blog. If I alienate someone, I probably have a good reason, like being pushed to the point at which my sanity is on the line.

I'm not perfect. I have my limits. I like being shown appreciation and respect for the work I do, I don't like having important work interrupted (and extra loaded onto me) for the sake of someone's vanity, and I have little patience for incompetency or ignorance in so-called superiors. As you might expect, I don't survive long in corporate settings - but I usually recognize my own misery and get the hell out before I start acting out. At least, now I do. There was a learning curve.

Here's a paraphrased snippet of dialogue from my life, a number of years ago:

Friend: Patti doesn't like you.
Me: Of course she doesn't. I don't play her games.
Friend: She actually said, "Jenifer X.* is a mean person."
Me: Whatever. She doesn't know me. I think most people know I'm nice, and I'm sure they can figure out why Patti says I'm not.

Here's another... with the same friend, after I quit an organization for which we both worked - and after this friend had shown some true colors by publicly distancing herself from me:

Friend: I went to the board meeting. They're still going to pay you the rest of the stipend.
Me: I'll take it, but I don't really care. I wouldn't have quit if I wasn't willing to give that up.
Friend: Geoffrey said it was to keep from having any trouble with you.
Me: Not because I worked my ass off, and gave them more than they were paying me for in the first place? That's ridiculous. I'm done with them. I'd have thought they realized that.
Friend: Well, I just thought you should know that's how they felt.

Neither of these juicy tidbits came to me as a surprise. But a true friend would (a) disregard someone's negative opinion of me, maybe even speak on my behalf, and (b) have the decency to remain positive with me when I'm obviously trying to sort out some shit and keep myself reasonable and functional. I didn't ask this "friend" what was said - I knew damn well that I had alienated people, and she knew damn well that I knew. No assumption: we had talked about it. But that second snippet? That's the last time she and I talked, because I wasn't so sure anymore that she was such a good friend.

When someone brings a piece of gossip around to the person it's about, they might see it as a favor, and intend no malice. That's why I want to find this quote - it was so gracefully worded, I'd like to have it on hand if I ever run into that situation again. Or if malice is the intent, I'd like to have a graceful way to deflect the negativity.

And as I've mentioned, I'm not perfect. I've been known to indulge in a little gossip myself. I'd hope I've kept it mostly harmless, but if I haven't, I'm sure the karma has balanced out. At any rate, it's something that's been on my mind, and I'll be making a conscious effort to curb the harmful variety.



*I had a different last name at the time. Other names in this piece have been changed.