Improv(e) Your Life

I started by Improv 401 class at the UCB on Saturday, a circumstance complicated by several things:

1. I had missed the first class stupidly, due to improperly setting up/checking my Google Calendar and, in a class all about showing a “professional commitment” to improv, that’s pretty bad.

2. I had been awkwardly following/messaging my teacher on Twitter who told me “Thank for the Follow Friday” when I came to the first class, which I couldn’t tell if it was sarcastic or not.

3. That same 401 teacher later saw me do some awful improv at a practice session he audited, followed by my that session’s teacher throwing his notepad in anger on the ground because of me, followed by my 401 teacher leaving the room.

and of course, we wouldn’t be done without:

4. One of the girls in the class and I used to online-date, to mostly aborted effect, which neither one of us seems to want to acknowledge.

Add to all this the general reputation of the UCB 401 class, the sense that out of everyone maybe 2 people will pass the class, the nervousness of trying to be funny, trying to be right, trying to be on game, hoping to dodge the big bad notes and just be good enough to seem good enough to get through.

And then subtract from that this is all insane.

Somehow, from a year ago, when I looked on skeptically at the improv purveyors of New York City as the logical extension of the theater kids from my high school, whom I was neither attractive nor gay enough to join, I have become sucked in to this somewhat pyramid-like structure of learning improv, striving to improve, seeing every show I can, rising through the levels and seeking out gurus to gain some sort of spiritualistic enlightenment, some transformative moment, some moment where I become “good” at improv and thus am validated in life.

When my friend Teddy and I sat around on Saturday, awkwardly waiting for shows to begin, we discussed trying to perform somewhere, to which Teddy replied:

“I’m only looking to perform with serious improvisers.”

Serious improvisers? Isn’t that an oxymoron?

Maybe that was the moment it cracked for me.

Sure there are the famous people, the handful who get put on Saturday Night Live, or end up on their own show or in movies, commercials, whatever. But that’s only a handful and it’s mostly for other things like sketch writing, that are repeatable, film-able and highly able to be disseminated. But these are people who for large part had other things going on, had ambition to craft their own projects, to strike out and make something unique to them, or at least try.

What are the end results for the people in these improv classes that sell-out and promise what? Do they think they’ll be “serious improvisers” performing at shows at these theaters, with no chance of getting paid, with a small audience of students and fans? Do they think that Lorne Michaels will walk in to their class show, or Jon Stewart, and pluck them from an ensemble, like a grape? What is there to hope for, climbing through these systems?

I think there probably is no end result to improv training, no serious wisdom gained except “have as much fun as you can”.

Rather, my experience in life leads me to believe that these classes I’m taking are just another form of the same subculture creation I experienced in my days at Neutral Ground, playing Magic cards.

Nerds, societal outcasts of physical or mental quirks, people who hate their jobs or their lives or their company, escape to this world of improv, where the rules of “being a winner” change from “having a good job”, “a good car”, “a family” to “getting into that 5th or 6th level class”, “getting a compliment from a teacher”, or “doing that indie show in that bar basement”.

Like Magic, there are “pros”, people who make their living at least partially doing this, but also like Magic, they’re few and far between, with mostly associated incomes (acting for improvisers, online poker for Magic players) providing the real backbone of their earnings.

And like Neutral Ground, these places seem like voids for the vulnerable, areas that drift near where there’s that uncertainty in their lives, that need for a community, for a place that accepts them.

There’s something powerful in that, but also something damaging in the way that the “fun” of improv loses its fun in competition and too-set values.

In my experience, I have grown much from taking improv classes and indeed my life has probably improved, as has my acting.

In a way that does resemble something creepy like The Landmark Forum, improv has empowered me to “make strong choices”, “trust your instincts”, “don’t second guess yourself” and “commit emotionally”, but it also leaves me wondering and fearing that sense that at any moment I could be rejected, deemed unworthy and either expelled or relegated to some corner of this new society where I was undesirable and trapped.

It could happen in Neutral Ground, with the “scrubs” and losers no one would even draft with, and it could happen here as well, which is the fear pervading me as I walk into my 401 class, and hope not to be “not funny”.

Because the thing about the society replicated in these places at Neutral Ground and the UCB and others, is that it’s just that; replicated, or modeled on our own.

And just like our own society, there have to be winners and losers, those who proceed and go forward, those who transcend and become famous and worshipped and admired.

It was the irony, back in the day at Neutral Ground, that in the freaks creating their own place where they could set the rules, one tof the first ones would that there would be freaks among freaks, whom even they would shun again.

One last story:

The other day I walked in to see a friend from one of my classes at an upscale clothing store, her place of business.

I had recently had some bad days, lady-wise and it was nice for this young lady to invite me to come visit her.

She poured me some champagne, which she was there to proffer to customers as we talked about silly things, including (inevitably for me) the guys she was into.

“Those guys on Death by Roo Roo are so cute!” She said. “I wish I could sack one of them.”

Ah, how often I’m emasculated, let me count the ways.

“Well,” I tried to reply matter-of-factly. “Those guys are pretty good improvisers, but I bet they’re probably just schlubby awkward dudes in real life.”

“And you’re an attractive blonde.” I added hopefully.

“Aww, thanks!” She said giving me a hug. “But they’re so talented. I just can’t get past it. I don’t care what they look like.”

And in that moment, I realized the improv society I’d lived in reached that peak that Neutral Ground never did: that girls would fuck you based on how good you were at a non-athletic game.

Which made the moment I saw one instructor toss his notepad on my account and the other one leave the room, all the more crushing.

***

Just to harp on that improv thing for another second, the very same dudes (and very good improvisers) of Death By Roo Roo that my friend was so into, seeming to the exclusion of me, seemed pretty fired up when they saw me after a show, asking me about what would happen on Bethenny and what my food tips were.

One of them shook my hand with a gleam of wonderment in his eyes.

How different and strange our worlds must be that the very thing I can’t understand in myself makes me cool to them, while they seemingly have no grasp on how cool and daunting I, as a student of improv, might find them too.

A strange world we live in.

I got recognized too when I went to eat this sandwich, but not from the show. A case of mistaken identity.

“You came by the Ember Room. I remember you. The food to your satisfaction?” A nervous looking manager asked.

“Sure.” I told him gamely playing along. “Great.”

Maybe they’d throw in some free fries.

But they didn’t, though getting mistaken for a food critic was reward enough in itself.

The place I found the sandwich was a joint called “Social Eatz”, a hip Midtown East location known for its weird pop-Amero-Asian food, like their Kung Pao Chicken Sandwich (featured above).

I sat at their bar the first day they had their liquor license and the manager had been explaining to his staff, in the uncomfortable early I’d arrived during, about the particualar drinks of the restaurant.

The sandwich was delicious and arrived near instantaneously to the dissipation of their meeting, a fact for which I was grateful.

The chicken seemed to be grilled as kebabs and came off fresh and brown with a crispy green-y celery slaw. The “peanut” aspect of most “Kung Pao Chicken” dishes was represented in a mild peanut paste smothering the top of the sandwich providing a subtle umami bounce.

The fries were cold though, even though they came quick, and seem McDonalds like in their wanness and uninspired in the watery sauce that came with.

When I asked for Ketchup and they gave me Sriracha, I did something rude and just looked at her till she gave me Heinz.

I’m not proud of that moment, but sometimes, you just need to save a fry.

***

SOCIAL EATZ

Kung Pao Chicken Sandwich- $9

53rd St bet 2nd and 3rd Aves.

EM6 to 53rd St-Lexington Avenue.

***

Uh yeah, one more thing guys. For those of you who wanted to see me on the show last week, sorry. I had a mix-up. It’s actually this upcoming week, I was just thrown by the “on-the-next-episode” segment they had me in just like everyone else, which ended up being two “on-the-next-episodes” put into one.

Anyway, bottom line is watch next Monday if you want. Could be fun.

Done

I quit my job today.

When I got out of work, dragging my quasi-roommate John Beamer’s semi-gifted-to-me umbrella, my dad was waiting on the corner to pick me up.

My rents had been supportive of the idea and in fact had been goading me towards it for a while. They didn’t seem to know for sure anymore than I did what it was that was to be done with my life but, at least, they knew it didn’t involve working at a movie theater.

In fact my parents had been overly generous to me, offering not only to cover my expenses in the time between I left my job and when I was tentatively scheduled to start my new one (if it ever happened) for PBS, but also to send me Europe or LA, or somewhere, or something; all to get my mind off the craziness at hand, all to try to get some perspective.

Such offers are undoubtedly kind, but they always make me think of one of my other one-time roommates, the comically-accented Roibeard, my co-worker at theater, who ate Ramen for every meal, since he was trying to get by on just the theater’s pay. There was no trip to Europe for him, just a possible trip home if things don’t work out.

Still with the “improv code of life” I seem to be improvising to, in life you big choices, you commit to them, you trust your instincts and you deal with the fallout later.

My job at the movie theater was, maybe ironically, something that was supposed to reduce stress in my life, to transition me from hectic past jobs to something more base and ordinary. It was there to give order to my life and a little bit of money so I had an excuse to go out, to be productive, to do something, other than sit at home, stare at my screen and think about blog posts or scripts I wouldn’t write.

It was something that in the increasing uncertainty of my life, especially given the recent televised craziness (and ensuing occasional bouts of recognition), was a certainty. I knew that when I went there, I was of it. A movie theater employee. An “Angelikan”, as my co-worker Schuyler would call it. When people asked me what I did, with all of everything in my life and theres, I could say: “I just work in a movie theater.”

Now, I don’t know who I am, or have what to define me. I felt as I walked up to the office, this was probably something else too then a change in employment circumstances.

When I told them “by the way, no offense, but I quit”, they seemed unsurprised. I still filled out the same end-of-shift paperwork, I still said good night and clocked out before I left.

When I got in the car with my father outside, he said “Where to?” and I told him “Home, I guess, to write a blog post.”

“Yeah,” He replied, driving. “I might give it some time, before that.”

***

I went to see a show on Saturday night at the UCB Theatre, the same place I take classes and the same place that recently at “the peak” of my “fame”, had unceremoniously rejected me from two of their electives.

Even though that stung a bit, there were only places to see non two-drink minimum comedy that night, with a guarantee of some sort of quality and Death By Roo Roo, which the loudspeaker announces as the “best damn improv group in the whole damn universe” (or something to that extent) is generally considered in New York as the most consistently funny improv around, for whatever that statement’s worth.

Their show is called “Your F**cked Up Family”, where they sit and interview a member of the audience for details about a particularly strange family, family member or crazy family story.

People sometimes come with ideas, ready to raise their hand, in the improv nerd community that is the UCB.

That night, I didn’t come prepared; I just call from my sister while waiting on line for the show.

I hadn’t spoken to my sister since she’d been through such travails as are unmentionable even on this usually frank forum, but needless to say, they were constant.

The call was even more shocking because in all the time, or rather, all the times, my sister had been going through her “problems”, I’d never once gotten a call.

In fact, I was pretty sure she didn’t have my number and when I heard her voice, I suspected my parents of foul play (They denied giving it to her, later).

I didn’t talk to her then, I was going to see the show, but when I sat down there in the audience and they called for volunteers, my hand shot up and stayed there even when they asked me if I was sure.

Some people, wonder why I choose to talk about my sister and her unfortunate choices in public forums. I would say that like my blog, turning the effect she has on my life into a story, making it anecdotal, making it something imparted and somewhat unreal, is a way of taking control of a situation you are powerless towards. Like they say in one of my favorite musicals, Passing Strange, art is an attempt to correct life, or at least to make sense of it.

The decently long-story of my sister went over fine with the improvisers (one of whom I knew from a story-slam had similar issues) seeming to show sympathy and engagement with what I said while the audience seemed more uncomfortable, trying to reconcile the tales of disregard and collateral damage I gave with the eventual reveal that, yes, I was on a TV show, kind of.

I wonder if people feel that way about the characters they see on TV. Maybe at least those people don’t think I’m “Seth Rogen with asperger’s now”.

Maybe they think I’m too fat to be Seth Rogen.

Or something.

My sister did call back though and the show did go on, to some applause. I got some nice words from old teachers and semi-friends, a couple of whom approached me a couple times to thank me for sharing. I even found some old “friends” of my sister, who recognized her, nameless, from the story I told and wondered too, what had become of her.

When my sister called back, I told her what I knew I needed to; that I couldn’t have my life with her in it right now, that she was too unstable, that she wasn’t my responsibility, that I loved her and hoped she’d get better and told her she could write me if she wanted and I’d see if I could read.

For her part, she cursed at me and called me selfish and asked me how I’d feel if she died. I told her I had to go and then I was gone.

I have no excuses to make, nor ways to explain or apologize for my interactions with her life.

I only knew the more I’d talk about her on stage, or in public, sitting with friends, or a therapist, or just sitting at home alone, writing this–

The more I knew what I needed.

But I guess that’s only a part.

***

My mom has good taste in things.

I often mention my father on these pages, but after all that’s to be somewhat expected for all of the inherent fraught-ness and import of the father-son relationship in Western culture (mostly in our case, manifested in a series of bad-puns and comebacks based around them).

But my mother is still the one who’s always right about everything, the planner, the meticulous one, the writer, the boss.

The truth really is, my personality is probably derived from hers.

We even share the same tics, biting our nails and feeling the bossy need to “save situations” we’re involved with by taking charge of them, since otherwise they are utterly doomed.

I’d call it a “messiah complex” but then again, we’re Jews.

Anyway, it was my mother who got us tickets to “The Book of Mormon” (the best new musical on Broadway for sure and a definite huge hit), my mother who managed to sit shiva with a grieving family friend, while organizing a national scholarship event and fundraiser, my mother who made the reservations for Utsav, where we all pigged the fuck out.

Utsav has long been my sleeper-hit for the Theater district, a mid-price Indian joint whose dishes might seem expensive by other neighborhood’s contexts but whose beautiful exterior and relatively high quality/cost ratio for the neighborhood made it seem like a minor miracle any time we went there.

This time around was my first time having their lunch/brunch buffet, with a fried bread/curried chickpeas Indian street-food breakfast, fresh uttapam veggie-pancakes tossed from the griddle to your plate and mini multi-veggie dosas brought to table-side for a snack.

And those were just the appetizers.

By the time we finished fenugreek masala, seared cauliflower curry and a dark-stewed chicken dish, we were 2-3 caffeinated drinks deep each, not so much regretting the amount of food we’d eaten as trying to figure out how we’d stay awake during the show.

“Don’t worry,” Mom told us. “It’ll be funny enough for that.”

And to wit, my father (a notorious napper/snorer) did make it through all three hours of the book. And it was my mom (and neither of us) who got the overlying theme by the beginning of the second act, that turned out to be the musical’s big reveal.

“Oooh, my little Nicky-ooh.” She murmured ensconcing me in her now tinier-hug, that felt bigger due to memory, in the middle of the 1 train home.

And I have to admit, there are times, despite protest, that I don’t mind that either.

I’ll give it up to my mom, being right.

***

UTSAV

Lunch Buffet- $17.95 (appetizer/entree/dessert, drinks not included)

46th St bet 6th Ave and Broadway.

BDFM to 47-50th- Rock Center. 1237NQRS to Times Square 42nd St.