That line, and the image of John Goodman running down a hallway screaming, endures in my mind as one of the most evocative moments of "Barton Fink", a Coen Brothers movie that could be, painfully, reduced to a "surreal excursion into the life of a man with writer's block". The crazy images, I assume, are metaphors and though I flatter myself by comparing my challenges to those of the film's anti-hero, I too feel the wallpaper crumbling around me right now.
All I can think about, when I'm not nauseated about business school and what I have to do to earn it, is this play I'm trying to write. I want to write it, I like the idea behind it and I almost feel like the act of writing it would be therapeutic. But the characters still feel pretty distant (I couldn't even remember all of their names when talking about the play to a friend of mine) and the plot is still a bit of a mystery.
But, I did have a coup tonight. Talking to my friend, I forced myself to confront the details of my play and was helped immensely by the barrage of questions my friend threw my way. It was like he knew exactly where the blanks were, and I tried to answer the questions as quickly as I could, as though my characters had backstories that were robust and real:
Q:How long had the main characters dated?
A: Six to nine months
Q: Did the guy know about his girlfriend's affair with the professor?
A: Yes, but he didn't hold it against her until after the relationships ended.
Q: Did the girl's best friend have a crush on her?
A: No, I don't want to muddy the waters too much there.
The somewhat Socratic journey through the plot was really helpful and I ended up developing a major plot point, actually the turning point, through our conversation. I loved talking about the play, and got to a point where I was writing furiously on a napkin to keep up with the relationships between the characters, tweaking them, adding links, and then going through the critical point of the play to explore what the implications would be on the characters. That whole process felt amazing--I finally feel reinvigorated enough to really get into this and think I realize that, at least for me, I can't go through this process insularly, but need to bounce ideas off people and force myself to answer questions.
Also, side note, I proposed another play idea (one of the four I'm working on right now, and easily the most macabre) to my friend who actually really liked the idea. He seemed to think it had the most depth and was the most conceptually interesting, but he's also pretty dark so I don't know that the audience for what I want to do is really going to be anyone except him and anyone off their meds. But we'll see what happens. Maybe I am my harshest critic, though I should be so lucky.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Monday, December 24, 2007
Holiday Trauma
I hope everyone has a wonderful holiday tomorrow, but I also want to express my hope that you all stay safe. Holidays tend to be a magnet for accidents and trauma and I don't want anything to befall my loved, or liked ones.
Here is a true story of one of my personal favorite stories of holiday trauma. I think this happened when I was about six.
You know those holiday lights you put on the tree? They sure look great all lit up, but has anyone ever noticed that they look pretty cool even while dark? With their glossy dark greens, blues, and reds, they almost look like hard candy, especially when you're a kid and, let's face it, prone to making bad decisions.
So, I was helping to unstring these lights, and apparently didn't realize that Christmas lights and candy are not synonymous. My parents were busy doing something else (probably getting clobbered by the tree or something) and I ended up sucking on the lights. I was so fervent in what I was doing that I actually sucked the color off of three lights before I realized that, you know what? These don't taste nearly as good as I expected. I think at that point, either my parents found out that I was trying to consume the lights, or I mentioned to them my disappointment that they weren't candy, and then I remember a lot of furious activity.
I think there were phone calls, there were angry words (how could you let her suck on the lights? Why would I think she would suck on the lights?) and I think there was some fear that this was going to cause me permanent brain damage or something, a result that the jury is still out on, and what seems to have been the end result in terms of a solution to this odd little predicament was--they had to try and make me throw up.
Unfortunately, and this is true to this day, I hate throwing up and can't really do it unless it's completely involuntary. So, I remember one of my parents placing me on a chair in front of a kitchen sink while I spit. I spit, and spit, and spit, like a featherweight wrestler trying to make weight. That's my favorite traumatic Christmas memory--me spitting into the sink after sucking on Christmas lights with my parents nearby, worried that their baby's going to be brain damaged.
Merry Christmas everyone and remember--Christmas lights are not candy.
Here is a true story of one of my personal favorite stories of holiday trauma. I think this happened when I was about six.
You know those holiday lights you put on the tree? They sure look great all lit up, but has anyone ever noticed that they look pretty cool even while dark? With their glossy dark greens, blues, and reds, they almost look like hard candy, especially when you're a kid and, let's face it, prone to making bad decisions.
So, I was helping to unstring these lights, and apparently didn't realize that Christmas lights and candy are not synonymous. My parents were busy doing something else (probably getting clobbered by the tree or something) and I ended up sucking on the lights. I was so fervent in what I was doing that I actually sucked the color off of three lights before I realized that, you know what? These don't taste nearly as good as I expected. I think at that point, either my parents found out that I was trying to consume the lights, or I mentioned to them my disappointment that they weren't candy, and then I remember a lot of furious activity.
I think there were phone calls, there were angry words (how could you let her suck on the lights? Why would I think she would suck on the lights?) and I think there was some fear that this was going to cause me permanent brain damage or something, a result that the jury is still out on, and what seems to have been the end result in terms of a solution to this odd little predicament was--they had to try and make me throw up.
Unfortunately, and this is true to this day, I hate throwing up and can't really do it unless it's completely involuntary. So, I remember one of my parents placing me on a chair in front of a kitchen sink while I spit. I spit, and spit, and spit, like a featherweight wrestler trying to make weight. That's my favorite traumatic Christmas memory--me spitting into the sink after sucking on Christmas lights with my parents nearby, worried that their baby's going to be brain damaged.
Merry Christmas everyone and remember--Christmas lights are not candy.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
My Nickname
Despite a bumpy start (hotel being a bit annoying, rental car does not have a remote so have to manually open door and trunk, mom and I readjusting to each other because we travel differently), my trip to Orlando has been pretty excellent so far. Spent the day at Epcot Center (which I will write about later when my feet have stopped throbbing and my attention span gets back up to par) and the sunlight has been wonderful but most of all, getting advice from my mom, when solicited at least, has been great.
We were talking about my going back to school and a number of other things I'm a bit anxious about and, contextually, my mom reminded me of her (and purportedly my family's) nickname for me: "chapanchuri" (pronounced "chuh-pun-choo-ri" if you ever want to call me it) which translates to "56 knives". It's not exactly a compliment, but even I have to admit it's probably apt. I'll let you decide for yourself.
We were talking about my going back to school and a number of other things I'm a bit anxious about and, contextually, my mom reminded me of her (and purportedly my family's) nickname for me: "chapanchuri" (pronounced "chuh-pun-choo-ri" if you ever want to call me it) which translates to "56 knives". It's not exactly a compliment, but even I have to admit it's probably apt. I'll let you decide for yourself.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Note: If we are friends on Facebook, then you are not "Facebook-stalking" me...and how Rock Band is the BEST. THING. EVER.
Item 1: The Cognitive Dissonance Behind "Facebook Stalking"
You cannot stalk me if we are friends. Seriously. Three people (friends of mine on Facebook) in the last 24 hours have shyly claimed to have "discovered" information about me via "Facebook-stalking". While I understand that's kind of a sweet and humble way of saying that they were reading stuff on my profile, I hate the word "stalking", even as a joke. The whole point of putting all that junk up on my profile is to inform my friends, i.e. YOU GUYS, of what's going on with my life without the arrogance of those "update e-mails" we all used to send out to people prior to these networking sites.
Plus, I am beyond flattered when people read my profile. I can't imagine why anyone gives two beans about what I'm up to, but if you are interested for some reason, then you're awesome and I appreciate it. And you are certainly not a Facebook-stalker. I read my friends' profiles shamelessly because, well, you guys are my friends. I don't find the "Minifeed" creepy. I find it a little sad that I found out a friend of mine was engaged via Facebook before I got the e-mail, but beyond that, I guess I feel like if you don't want to let people know what's up with you you can either 1) not put sensitive information about yourself up or 2) stop accepting every freaking friend request you've ever gotten. Just because your friend's cousin's dentist's pallbearer met you at a party one time seven years ago doesn't mean that he needs to know that "Babe: Pig in the City" is your favorite movie. Okay, sorry for that lame rant.
Anyway, here's a lame rave. Rock Band. Oh my God.
Item 2: Rock Band is simultaneously lame and glorious.
So, I got back to DC yesterday. We all know how I feel about DC. Luckily I was going straight from the airport to dinner with friends, so that gave me a bit of a buffer between me and the city undiluted. It was great to see my old friends, some of whom I don't think I've seen since I moved back to Chicago more than a year again. Luckily, these are types that are easy to pick back up with, probably because we tend to have a ridiculous amount in common, including goofy pasttimes.
After unsuccessfully trying to find a late night hangout after dinner (late night meaning 10pm, which is pathetic), we ended up going back to a friend's house. Our host, a quiet but effective gentleman, allowed us to blather on briefly while he unassumingly put together his console (I think it was an Xbox but I'm probably way off) to play Rock Band. I saw two weird plastic guitars and a headset being attached to the console and soon, on the massive tv in front of us was a list of songs--some I'd never heard of but many were wonderfully memorable and I was riveted immediately.
The five of us at the apartment descended on this game with an earnestness seen only among kindergarteners being handed the class bunny to play with: what is this? Can I touch it? I don't want to hurt it. We're a pretty dignified bunch when solo, but the combination of the five of us turned into, as it was described yesterday, a kind of Captain Planet amalgamation of dorkiness (by the way, I was deemed "Heart" which I found a little insulting since "Heart" is the most useless of all Captain Planet's sidekicks).
If you have not yet been acquainted with Rock Band, a brief introduction may be necessary. Rock Band is a four player game that requires each player pick one of four musical options: singer, lead guitar, bass, or drums. Our host did not have a drum set attachment, which was probably for the best because we did enough damage with three options as it was. Anyway, the game judges your performance on each instrument--for singing, it judges your pitch and phrasing/timing. For guitar and bass, it judges how well you "play" your instrument. Guitar and Bass is played on the same instrument option, a plastic guitar with 5 colored buttons each mimicking a chord placement, and a switch where the strings would be that you "strum". There's also a weird lever thing that I didn't use and can't explain except that it's easy to get it caught on people's clothing.
The game gives you the option of choosing from a number of very awesome songs, though some of them were pretty foreign to me (who is "Tribe"? Or, no one could figure this out, "Vagiant"? We kept thinking they meant to say "Vagrant", but we all saw "Vagiant" which is pretty inexplicable). But they did have Soundgarden's "Black Hole Sun", some song by Garbage, Hole's "Celebrity Skin" (which I don't like, but I can sing pretty accurately, especially after I've smoked a bit), and some stuff by the Killers, Jet, the Smashing Pumpkins, and some other fun stuff. It would have been nice if they had more songs sung by females (where was Patti Smith?) but it wasn't a huge deal. Even though, to this moment, I wish so badly that they had some Amy Winehouse on there, even if she doesn't really have guitars in her repertoire. What about another version like "Retro Band" or "Experimental Jazz Band"?
Anyway, we were soon up and playing and, unfortunately for my host, his neighbors, and my friends, I ended up singing. A lot. I say "ended up" as though I didn't actively campaign to sing. Of course I did, not so much because I sing well (Note: I don't) but because I just love to sing. I ended up bellowing out Radiohead's "Creep" and when we got to the "She's...runnin' out the dooooooooooor....she's running out...run...run...run...ruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuun" part, I had practically lost my mind with the pure joy of belting out a line I normally only get to sing in the shower. Why was I so intent on punishing my fellow man? Why bring my odious voice from the shower into a semi-public arena? 1) Because I could and 2) because even being in a fake Rock Band feels badass. Plus, singing in the shower gets tiresome because every time you want to make a sweeping gesture, you end up knocking out the curtain or hitting the showerhead. The logistical issues behind shower singing are astounding.
I did end up playing (heh, "playing") guitar a few times and managed to get up to the level of medium without sucking too badly. I think my favorite song to play was probably Nirvana's "In Bloom" just because I've heard it so many times that I've practically internalized the chord progressions, despite not knowing how to play guitar (I do play the piano and once the violin, but until this company comes out with "Rock Piano", or "Motha' Truckin' Violin" I have to admit my limitations) and playing, or fiddling with or whatever I was doing to that poor plastic guitar-thingie felt practically natural. Unfortunately, as I understand it, real guitars don't come with colorful buttons and a strumming switch.
My fellow band frauds were far better than me. Our host has an amazing singing voice, which isn't all that surprising considering his pleasant speaking voice, but I guess it was the facility and emotion with which he sang that was pretty cool. Plus he was always on key--that fact alone made him the best singer out of the rest of us, hands down. Also, and I'd like to think it's because it's his game, he kicks ass on every song even at the expert level. Chord progressions would hurtle down the screen like flying monkeys, and our host calmly dispatched them all like a pro. Others in our group showed a natural talent for fake guitar playing and I comforted myself that I am probably the loudest singer in our group, and that should count for something.
Despite the fact that the five of us were not, and should never ever become, a real band we actually took the experience somewhat seriously. For one thing, the game actually grades your performance and will fail you, FAIL YOU, if you suck too much. For a bunch of overachievers, this is tantamount to waterboarding. I did fail a few times, but was saved by fellow fake band members and then returned the favor later--a feat that I think bonded us as a group even further. And, some of us got very attached to some of the songs to the point where we got a little bit repetitive. We played "Maps" by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs approximately 700 times because, really, who doesn't want to be Karen O for 4 minutes? We bared our souls by admitting that we were afraid of taking on "Gimme Shelter" by the Rolling Stones, and yet went through it anyway.
We admitted our failings, shared in success, remembered our favorite songs, jammed and rocked out with little plastic guitars and headphones straight from a Hyderabad call center, and it was wonderful. I thought playing Wii with a bunch of older people was a riot, but Rock Band can save lives, heal wounds, repair international rifts, and even teach a person to love. Or maybe not. But it can teach you that the Bass player is just as valuable as anyone else in the band. Especially if you're playing something by Jet.
You cannot stalk me if we are friends. Seriously. Three people (friends of mine on Facebook) in the last 24 hours have shyly claimed to have "discovered" information about me via "Facebook-stalking". While I understand that's kind of a sweet and humble way of saying that they were reading stuff on my profile, I hate the word "stalking", even as a joke. The whole point of putting all that junk up on my profile is to inform my friends, i.e. YOU GUYS, of what's going on with my life without the arrogance of those "update e-mails" we all used to send out to people prior to these networking sites.
Plus, I am beyond flattered when people read my profile. I can't imagine why anyone gives two beans about what I'm up to, but if you are interested for some reason, then you're awesome and I appreciate it. And you are certainly not a Facebook-stalker. I read my friends' profiles shamelessly because, well, you guys are my friends. I don't find the "Minifeed" creepy. I find it a little sad that I found out a friend of mine was engaged via Facebook before I got the e-mail, but beyond that, I guess I feel like if you don't want to let people know what's up with you you can either 1) not put sensitive information about yourself up or 2) stop accepting every freaking friend request you've ever gotten. Just because your friend's cousin's dentist's pallbearer met you at a party one time seven years ago doesn't mean that he needs to know that "Babe: Pig in the City" is your favorite movie. Okay, sorry for that lame rant.
Anyway, here's a lame rave. Rock Band. Oh my God.
Item 2: Rock Band is simultaneously lame and glorious.
So, I got back to DC yesterday. We all know how I feel about DC. Luckily I was going straight from the airport to dinner with friends, so that gave me a bit of a buffer between me and the city undiluted. It was great to see my old friends, some of whom I don't think I've seen since I moved back to Chicago more than a year again. Luckily, these are types that are easy to pick back up with, probably because we tend to have a ridiculous amount in common, including goofy pasttimes.
After unsuccessfully trying to find a late night hangout after dinner (late night meaning 10pm, which is pathetic), we ended up going back to a friend's house. Our host, a quiet but effective gentleman, allowed us to blather on briefly while he unassumingly put together his console (I think it was an Xbox but I'm probably way off) to play Rock Band. I saw two weird plastic guitars and a headset being attached to the console and soon, on the massive tv in front of us was a list of songs--some I'd never heard of but many were wonderfully memorable and I was riveted immediately.
The five of us at the apartment descended on this game with an earnestness seen only among kindergarteners being handed the class bunny to play with: what is this? Can I touch it? I don't want to hurt it. We're a pretty dignified bunch when solo, but the combination of the five of us turned into, as it was described yesterday, a kind of Captain Planet amalgamation of dorkiness (by the way, I was deemed "Heart" which I found a little insulting since "Heart" is the most useless of all Captain Planet's sidekicks).
If you have not yet been acquainted with Rock Band, a brief introduction may be necessary. Rock Band is a four player game that requires each player pick one of four musical options: singer, lead guitar, bass, or drums. Our host did not have a drum set attachment, which was probably for the best because we did enough damage with three options as it was. Anyway, the game judges your performance on each instrument--for singing, it judges your pitch and phrasing/timing. For guitar and bass, it judges how well you "play" your instrument. Guitar and Bass is played on the same instrument option, a plastic guitar with 5 colored buttons each mimicking a chord placement, and a switch where the strings would be that you "strum". There's also a weird lever thing that I didn't use and can't explain except that it's easy to get it caught on people's clothing.
The game gives you the option of choosing from a number of very awesome songs, though some of them were pretty foreign to me (who is "Tribe"? Or, no one could figure this out, "Vagiant"? We kept thinking they meant to say "Vagrant", but we all saw "Vagiant" which is pretty inexplicable). But they did have Soundgarden's "Black Hole Sun", some song by Garbage, Hole's "Celebrity Skin" (which I don't like, but I can sing pretty accurately, especially after I've smoked a bit), and some stuff by the Killers, Jet, the Smashing Pumpkins, and some other fun stuff. It would have been nice if they had more songs sung by females (where was Patti Smith?) but it wasn't a huge deal. Even though, to this moment, I wish so badly that they had some Amy Winehouse on there, even if she doesn't really have guitars in her repertoire. What about another version like "Retro Band" or "Experimental Jazz Band"?
Anyway, we were soon up and playing and, unfortunately for my host, his neighbors, and my friends, I ended up singing. A lot. I say "ended up" as though I didn't actively campaign to sing. Of course I did, not so much because I sing well (Note: I don't) but because I just love to sing. I ended up bellowing out Radiohead's "Creep" and when we got to the "She's...runnin' out the dooooooooooor....she's running out...run...run...run...ruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuun" part, I had practically lost my mind with the pure joy of belting out a line I normally only get to sing in the shower. Why was I so intent on punishing my fellow man? Why bring my odious voice from the shower into a semi-public arena? 1) Because I could and 2) because even being in a fake Rock Band feels badass. Plus, singing in the shower gets tiresome because every time you want to make a sweeping gesture, you end up knocking out the curtain or hitting the showerhead. The logistical issues behind shower singing are astounding.
I did end up playing (heh, "playing") guitar a few times and managed to get up to the level of medium without sucking too badly. I think my favorite song to play was probably Nirvana's "In Bloom" just because I've heard it so many times that I've practically internalized the chord progressions, despite not knowing how to play guitar (I do play the piano and once the violin, but until this company comes out with "Rock Piano", or "Motha' Truckin' Violin" I have to admit my limitations) and playing, or fiddling with or whatever I was doing to that poor plastic guitar-thingie felt practically natural. Unfortunately, as I understand it, real guitars don't come with colorful buttons and a strumming switch.
My fellow band frauds were far better than me. Our host has an amazing singing voice, which isn't all that surprising considering his pleasant speaking voice, but I guess it was the facility and emotion with which he sang that was pretty cool. Plus he was always on key--that fact alone made him the best singer out of the rest of us, hands down. Also, and I'd like to think it's because it's his game, he kicks ass on every song even at the expert level. Chord progressions would hurtle down the screen like flying monkeys, and our host calmly dispatched them all like a pro. Others in our group showed a natural talent for fake guitar playing and I comforted myself that I am probably the loudest singer in our group, and that should count for something.
Despite the fact that the five of us were not, and should never ever become, a real band we actually took the experience somewhat seriously. For one thing, the game actually grades your performance and will fail you, FAIL YOU, if you suck too much. For a bunch of overachievers, this is tantamount to waterboarding. I did fail a few times, but was saved by fellow fake band members and then returned the favor later--a feat that I think bonded us as a group even further. And, some of us got very attached to some of the songs to the point where we got a little bit repetitive. We played "Maps" by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs approximately 700 times because, really, who doesn't want to be Karen O for 4 minutes? We bared our souls by admitting that we were afraid of taking on "Gimme Shelter" by the Rolling Stones, and yet went through it anyway.
We admitted our failings, shared in success, remembered our favorite songs, jammed and rocked out with little plastic guitars and headphones straight from a Hyderabad call center, and it was wonderful. I thought playing Wii with a bunch of older people was a riot, but Rock Band can save lives, heal wounds, repair international rifts, and even teach a person to love. Or maybe not. But it can teach you that the Bass player is just as valuable as anyone else in the band. Especially if you're playing something by Jet.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
Scenes from a Bus or Let's Explore Anxiety
On Friday night, a friend from college was going to be doing some standup at a club I had never been to before. I happen to believe that being supportive of other people's endeavors helps to build good karma (if we completely misuse the word karma) and also helps me with my networking because, well, that's one of the things I think about. I invited a few friends, one of whom was able to come and brought his own friend. And the moment that happened, I became obligated to show up on time. Bummer.
This of course meant that I was at the mercy of the CTA, an organization known as much for its efficiency as Bush is known for his facility with Euclidean geometry. It did not help that I had had three cups of coffee prior to this set just to keep myself awake. I ended up sitting next to a young man who, despite looking completely normal from afar, turned out not only to have topographically relevant acne but also was a mouthbreather with terrible teeth. And he shook his knee incessantly, the knee that was right next to me. Also, he had larger hips than me (and I am large hipped) and ended up taking way more than his share of the seat. Unfortunately, the 66 is always crowded, so my options are generally limited.
Anyway, we're picking up more passengers, and we ended up picking up an unremarkable looking young woman who made my seatmate react enthusiastically. He took out his headphones and his face turned towards her with a golden retriever-like desperation, waiting for her to notice him. She did and it was like he glowed from within. Turns out they are acquainted in some way--he attempted to show her his desirability by talking about how he was on his way to a party, and why doesn't she stop by? Also, he had just been promoted to a more managerial level at the bakery, yeah it's challenging, but he's up for it. The girl for her part seemed blase but that could have been a facade that hid the passionate magma of her soul.
In any case, the part that cracked me up the most was that the moment my seatmate spied his young female counterpart, he kept looking at me as though he wanted to demand that I get up so that the girl could occupy my seat and he could continue his earnest macking. I did want to indulge him, seriously, but I was exhausted. I was anxious with worry to get to my friend's standup and the bus was getting crazy packed with people. I was not going to get up, especially not for a guy whose m.o. revolved around such golden lines like "yeah, you should totally stop by later. We're gonna like, watch some movies and just chill." It was so awkward to listen to that I started smiling involuntarily. I am certainly not one to throw stones, but wow. It was delightful and creepy and weird and made me very happy.
Unfortunately for our Romeo, or perhaps more sadly, our Dante pining for his bespectacled Beatrice, she was spirited off towards the back of the bus as more and more passengers joined our little bus. He is now devastated and has resumed his crazy knee wiggling. At this point, my friend calls me to inform me that our friend's set is coming up soon. I, trying to keep my cool, announce to the bus "I'm sorry, but I don't know what you want me to do. I'm in hell right now, this bus is slow and packed with people and I'm about 10 seconds away from freaking out." Approximately 20 faces turn to look at me. Clearly, I am not actually going to freak out. No one announces that they are going to freak out and then actually freaks out (because in that case, it ends up being a premeditated act--to me, freaking out is involuntary and thus much scarier).
My friend, who I will say is not known for his sympathetic side, announces to me again, someone is taking the stage! It's starting! You better get here! I ask him at that point whether I need to call in a bomb threat or something. What do you want me to do? I hate moments like that, when you're already running late and you don't want to be late and someone reminds you of what you're about to miss and you're not in control and you can't do anything and the guy next to you smells like a Slim Jim and it's claustrophobic and you're wired on caffeine and aaaaaaack.
A note about public smells. When I was a young girl, on the cusp of adolescence, I remember a rather terrible girl at my school who told everyone in my gym class that Indian people smelled bad. Since that day, I have fought long and hard to be the best-smelling person anyone has ever met. I have taken up the torch for Indian people. I am determined, if I can help it, to never smell bad in public. It's also a way to show my respect for people. When you are in a public place, try to make the world a little better. To my knowledge, my attempts have not been in vain. Frequently, in elevators, large open spaces, bars, meetings, among strangers or friends, people tell me I smell good. I appreciate it, but also know that I have earned it.
However, many people, not having the same chip on their shoulder, don't feel a similar obligation. Here I ask you though--can you maybe just try? Can you just try to smell a little better? Make sure you're wearing clean clothes, deodorant. If you don't like to shower every day, it's okay but maybe just dust yourself with a little powder then? Toothbrush not handling your mouth hygiene adequately? Let me introduce you to Listerine and floss. I swear, there's an answer. Let's find it together.
So, yeah. Crowded bus, running late, bad smelling people in love, and caffeine. It was my personal hell. I don't know if I'm ready for New York. I need to go through some gauntlet/bootcamp type stuff to test my mettle.
Oh, just to let you know though--the standup sets were amazing. My friend was, of course, the funniest person there just like he usually is, though the comedians who were also part of the set were by and large pretty enjoyable. Another excellent side bonus was that I ran into a lot of people I hadn't seen since college, wonderful people who I was very happy to reconnect with. So, while the bus trip was pretty ridiculous and I am beginning to question the rationale behind my coffee intake, it's all worth it to get some great live comedy and socializing out of it. There go those lemons.
This of course meant that I was at the mercy of the CTA, an organization known as much for its efficiency as Bush is known for his facility with Euclidean geometry. It did not help that I had had three cups of coffee prior to this set just to keep myself awake. I ended up sitting next to a young man who, despite looking completely normal from afar, turned out not only to have topographically relevant acne but also was a mouthbreather with terrible teeth. And he shook his knee incessantly, the knee that was right next to me. Also, he had larger hips than me (and I am large hipped) and ended up taking way more than his share of the seat. Unfortunately, the 66 is always crowded, so my options are generally limited.
Anyway, we're picking up more passengers, and we ended up picking up an unremarkable looking young woman who made my seatmate react enthusiastically. He took out his headphones and his face turned towards her with a golden retriever-like desperation, waiting for her to notice him. She did and it was like he glowed from within. Turns out they are acquainted in some way--he attempted to show her his desirability by talking about how he was on his way to a party, and why doesn't she stop by? Also, he had just been promoted to a more managerial level at the bakery, yeah it's challenging, but he's up for it. The girl for her part seemed blase but that could have been a facade that hid the passionate magma of her soul.
In any case, the part that cracked me up the most was that the moment my seatmate spied his young female counterpart, he kept looking at me as though he wanted to demand that I get up so that the girl could occupy my seat and he could continue his earnest macking. I did want to indulge him, seriously, but I was exhausted. I was anxious with worry to get to my friend's standup and the bus was getting crazy packed with people. I was not going to get up, especially not for a guy whose m.o. revolved around such golden lines like "yeah, you should totally stop by later. We're gonna like, watch some movies and just chill." It was so awkward to listen to that I started smiling involuntarily. I am certainly not one to throw stones, but wow. It was delightful and creepy and weird and made me very happy.
Unfortunately for our Romeo, or perhaps more sadly, our Dante pining for his bespectacled Beatrice, she was spirited off towards the back of the bus as more and more passengers joined our little bus. He is now devastated and has resumed his crazy knee wiggling. At this point, my friend calls me to inform me that our friend's set is coming up soon. I, trying to keep my cool, announce to the bus "I'm sorry, but I don't know what you want me to do. I'm in hell right now, this bus is slow and packed with people and I'm about 10 seconds away from freaking out." Approximately 20 faces turn to look at me. Clearly, I am not actually going to freak out. No one announces that they are going to freak out and then actually freaks out (because in that case, it ends up being a premeditated act--to me, freaking out is involuntary and thus much scarier).
My friend, who I will say is not known for his sympathetic side, announces to me again, someone is taking the stage! It's starting! You better get here! I ask him at that point whether I need to call in a bomb threat or something. What do you want me to do? I hate moments like that, when you're already running late and you don't want to be late and someone reminds you of what you're about to miss and you're not in control and you can't do anything and the guy next to you smells like a Slim Jim and it's claustrophobic and you're wired on caffeine and aaaaaaack.
A note about public smells. When I was a young girl, on the cusp of adolescence, I remember a rather terrible girl at my school who told everyone in my gym class that Indian people smelled bad. Since that day, I have fought long and hard to be the best-smelling person anyone has ever met. I have taken up the torch for Indian people. I am determined, if I can help it, to never smell bad in public. It's also a way to show my respect for people. When you are in a public place, try to make the world a little better. To my knowledge, my attempts have not been in vain. Frequently, in elevators, large open spaces, bars, meetings, among strangers or friends, people tell me I smell good. I appreciate it, but also know that I have earned it.
However, many people, not having the same chip on their shoulder, don't feel a similar obligation. Here I ask you though--can you maybe just try? Can you just try to smell a little better? Make sure you're wearing clean clothes, deodorant. If you don't like to shower every day, it's okay but maybe just dust yourself with a little powder then? Toothbrush not handling your mouth hygiene adequately? Let me introduce you to Listerine and floss. I swear, there's an answer. Let's find it together.
So, yeah. Crowded bus, running late, bad smelling people in love, and caffeine. It was my personal hell. I don't know if I'm ready for New York. I need to go through some gauntlet/bootcamp type stuff to test my mettle.
Oh, just to let you know though--the standup sets were amazing. My friend was, of course, the funniest person there just like he usually is, though the comedians who were also part of the set were by and large pretty enjoyable. Another excellent side bonus was that I ran into a lot of people I hadn't seen since college, wonderful people who I was very happy to reconnect with. So, while the bus trip was pretty ridiculous and I am beginning to question the rationale behind my coffee intake, it's all worth it to get some great live comedy and socializing out of it. There go those lemons.
Friday, December 14, 2007
By next Saturday...
I will be responsible for a first draft of my next project, a one act which will be performed starting in mid-April. No worries, I'm not doing this by myself--A Force of Nature (link to the right) is going to be onboard with me which means that at least one of our one acts will be watchable.
I love the words "one act". It makes me feel like a playwright instead of someone drinking coffee in her jammies and wondering how she's going to finance business school (answer, a kidney, lots of loans, and good old-fashioned gumption). So, I'll be around the next few days to talk about how things are going. I'm so passionate about this endeavor that I have no doubt I'll do it. Let's just see how well.
I love the words "one act". It makes me feel like a playwright instead of someone drinking coffee in her jammies and wondering how she's going to finance business school (answer, a kidney, lots of loans, and good old-fashioned gumption). So, I'll be around the next few days to talk about how things are going. I'm so passionate about this endeavor that I have no doubt I'll do it. Let's just see how well.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Back to my Resting Heart Rate
The last few weeks alone have been pretty intense, and then I get to the last 48 hours which put me into a whirlwind. Maybe it wouldn't have affected other people as much as it does me, but I am very wedded to the status quo, once I've found one I'm comfortable with, and so the moment that is threatened, I go into an odd offense, trying to figure out how to cope--and this is only how I deal with good news.
Tuesday, I got the great news that I had gotten into the Said Business School at Oxford, which was phenomenal and, what's more, totally unexpected considering that they state their decisions go out mid-January. I was almost angry to get the news in a way because I'm kind of a jerk and because I wasn't prepared to hear good news--meaning that I was in a kind of pouty mood and sort of marinating in the December rut I was in, and suddenly I was being expected to respond to good news and think about all the life implications it brought. So, the news left me catatonic for a few hours, and after I told my mom and best friends about it, I finally started to thaw and think about what would happen next--okay, I have the next few months to enjoy Chicago, then I'd move to Oxford and figure out what I wanted to do. Or wait, maybe I needed to get an internship first to better understand where my strengths were. Or maybe I'd take a trip to Europe. Suddenly, all my options started opening up and revealing themselves to me and fear of change was replaced by an eagerness to start life at Oxford.
Then, that got totally upended. I woke up on Wednesday and checked my e-mail and found that my "application status had changed" for the Columbia Business School. Wow, finally! I had been waiting and waiting for what seemed like months to hear whether or not I would be granted an interview and now it looks like maybe I had gotten it--or got a pre-emptive rejection, which would have been a little sad. I literally spat my coffee all over my lap when I read the acceptance message on the screen, welcoming me to Columbia's incoming class of 2008. I had to reread it several times to make sure it wasn't a message thanking me for my application and then sending me on my way. No no. It was an acceptance, my second within a 24 hour period, and I was overwhelmed.
Overachievers and those who know them probably are already aware that acceptance and success are like drugs. Between our sold out show and this huge week in getting my life straightened out, I feel like I just did a few speedballs off a mirror in the middle of the Viper Room. I am a huge dork, and I know that metaphor just screams it, but it doesn't matter. The high is still there.
So, come September 2008, I will be moving to New York City and will voluntarily put myself in more than a hundred thousand dollars worth of debt. If people didn't do things like that every day, I'd probably be in the fetal position just thinking about it. But I wanted this so badly, I WANT it so badly, and I can't even begin to justify complaining about it. The first thing my mom and two best friends told me after their congratulations was "I'm so happy for you, I know this was your first choice". I don't often get my first choice, but that's what this is and I'm ecstatic. I'll stop bragging about it because a) I'm annoying even myself and b) when you start bragging about something you jinx it a little bit but I just have to absorb and love this moment because they come around so rarely.
I was talking to one of the wonderful people in my cast about this news tonight and she said something that affected me pretty deeply, more deeply than she knows, I'm sure. She said "I am really happy for you, but don't forget one thing--you're a writer." That hit me hard, and in a good way. Even after the show, and after having committed to another show, I have never considered myself a writer. But I want so badly to be one, and to be told you are by another person, especially a person you respect as an artist, is a good feeling. I promised her that I wouldn't stop writing, I couldn't even if I wanted to because it's become a compulsion, and then tonight I worked on two plays I've had up my sleeve for sometime--and managed to write for a good two hours.
There is a part of me that, despite its happiness over this news and feeling like I have something to look forward to, is devastated over the prospect of leaving Chicago. What hasn't this city given me? After four miserable years in DC, Chicago gave me every amenity I could ever ask for, great people to know, and finally got me to start accepting that I need to indulge my creative side, which is one of the first authentic moves I've made as an adult and has only given me rewards. Yeah, there have been some pretty terrible times, but I don't think I would have made it through them as quickly and successfully if I had been in any other city.
So in a way, I feel like I'm being unfaithful to this city which has been like a companion to me. But I know I want to commit to it some day, I guess I just need to date around a little bit first. New York will be an amazing change, and I'm sure I'll still get my jollies out on the written page (even if it's a far more competitive environment there). But I will miss this city, I'll miss this life so much. However, I am banking on the hope that the next phase of my life will somehow turn out even better.
And, if anyone is reading this right now and hating me for my optimism, I can only tell you that I wish I started this blog back in March of this year when all I could think about was setting things on fire and throwing things out the window because my life was in such a pit. We all get into trenches. And it's probably a good idea to acknowledge and be excited when you get out of one.
So, now I'm feeling pretty sanguine and I've wanted to post one of my favorite villanelles for some time now, but never really had any reason to. But this feels like a pretty good occasion for it and, honestly, the poem is so good that it justifies its existence anywhere and any time.
The Waking
by Theodore Roethke
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.
Tuesday, I got the great news that I had gotten into the Said Business School at Oxford, which was phenomenal and, what's more, totally unexpected considering that they state their decisions go out mid-January. I was almost angry to get the news in a way because I'm kind of a jerk and because I wasn't prepared to hear good news--meaning that I was in a kind of pouty mood and sort of marinating in the December rut I was in, and suddenly I was being expected to respond to good news and think about all the life implications it brought. So, the news left me catatonic for a few hours, and after I told my mom and best friends about it, I finally started to thaw and think about what would happen next--okay, I have the next few months to enjoy Chicago, then I'd move to Oxford and figure out what I wanted to do. Or wait, maybe I needed to get an internship first to better understand where my strengths were. Or maybe I'd take a trip to Europe. Suddenly, all my options started opening up and revealing themselves to me and fear of change was replaced by an eagerness to start life at Oxford.
Then, that got totally upended. I woke up on Wednesday and checked my e-mail and found that my "application status had changed" for the Columbia Business School. Wow, finally! I had been waiting and waiting for what seemed like months to hear whether or not I would be granted an interview and now it looks like maybe I had gotten it--or got a pre-emptive rejection, which would have been a little sad. I literally spat my coffee all over my lap when I read the acceptance message on the screen, welcoming me to Columbia's incoming class of 2008. I had to reread it several times to make sure it wasn't a message thanking me for my application and then sending me on my way. No no. It was an acceptance, my second within a 24 hour period, and I was overwhelmed.
Overachievers and those who know them probably are already aware that acceptance and success are like drugs. Between our sold out show and this huge week in getting my life straightened out, I feel like I just did a few speedballs off a mirror in the middle of the Viper Room. I am a huge dork, and I know that metaphor just screams it, but it doesn't matter. The high is still there.
So, come September 2008, I will be moving to New York City and will voluntarily put myself in more than a hundred thousand dollars worth of debt. If people didn't do things like that every day, I'd probably be in the fetal position just thinking about it. But I wanted this so badly, I WANT it so badly, and I can't even begin to justify complaining about it. The first thing my mom and two best friends told me after their congratulations was "I'm so happy for you, I know this was your first choice". I don't often get my first choice, but that's what this is and I'm ecstatic. I'll stop bragging about it because a) I'm annoying even myself and b) when you start bragging about something you jinx it a little bit but I just have to absorb and love this moment because they come around so rarely.
I was talking to one of the wonderful people in my cast about this news tonight and she said something that affected me pretty deeply, more deeply than she knows, I'm sure. She said "I am really happy for you, but don't forget one thing--you're a writer." That hit me hard, and in a good way. Even after the show, and after having committed to another show, I have never considered myself a writer. But I want so badly to be one, and to be told you are by another person, especially a person you respect as an artist, is a good feeling. I promised her that I wouldn't stop writing, I couldn't even if I wanted to because it's become a compulsion, and then tonight I worked on two plays I've had up my sleeve for sometime--and managed to write for a good two hours.
There is a part of me that, despite its happiness over this news and feeling like I have something to look forward to, is devastated over the prospect of leaving Chicago. What hasn't this city given me? After four miserable years in DC, Chicago gave me every amenity I could ever ask for, great people to know, and finally got me to start accepting that I need to indulge my creative side, which is one of the first authentic moves I've made as an adult and has only given me rewards. Yeah, there have been some pretty terrible times, but I don't think I would have made it through them as quickly and successfully if I had been in any other city.
So in a way, I feel like I'm being unfaithful to this city which has been like a companion to me. But I know I want to commit to it some day, I guess I just need to date around a little bit first. New York will be an amazing change, and I'm sure I'll still get my jollies out on the written page (even if it's a far more competitive environment there). But I will miss this city, I'll miss this life so much. However, I am banking on the hope that the next phase of my life will somehow turn out even better.
And, if anyone is reading this right now and hating me for my optimism, I can only tell you that I wish I started this blog back in March of this year when all I could think about was setting things on fire and throwing things out the window because my life was in such a pit. We all get into trenches. And it's probably a good idea to acknowledge and be excited when you get out of one.
So, now I'm feeling pretty sanguine and I've wanted to post one of my favorite villanelles for some time now, but never really had any reason to. But this feels like a pretty good occasion for it and, honestly, the poem is so good that it justifies its existence anywhere and any time.
The Waking
by Theodore Roethke
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.
Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
I. Can't. Breathe.
When it rains, it pours. I'll talk about it later. It's not a big deal to anyone but me, but oh my holy, sweet God. I can't move. The last day and a half I've been almost completely inert and it's not going to change any time soon. I thought my good news from yesterday was enough and then today I got something that was even less expected and, I think, even better.
I don't know who's behind all this, but thank you times a million. I feel like I owe someone out there something. If anyone actually reads this blog, I'm sorry for being an evasive dork, but I promise that when I'm ready to talk, we'll celebrate.
And can I just say that I am so freaking lucky to know some of the best people in the world? I am terrifically tickled by the fact that the same people I have on speed dial to talk about my lowest moments are the first people I want to celebrate with. By the way, I promise that once the adrenaline wears off, I'll be less annoying. At some point, reality will hit and I'll turn back into my usual "oh crap, now what do I do?" mode.
I don't know who's behind all this, but thank you times a million. I feel like I owe someone out there something. If anyone actually reads this blog, I'm sorry for being an evasive dork, but I promise that when I'm ready to talk, we'll celebrate.
And can I just say that I am so freaking lucky to know some of the best people in the world? I am terrifically tickled by the fact that the same people I have on speed dial to talk about my lowest moments are the first people I want to celebrate with. By the way, I promise that once the adrenaline wears off, I'll be less annoying. At some point, reality will hit and I'll turn back into my usual "oh crap, now what do I do?" mode.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Smacked Upside the Head
So, quick update--something just worked out this morning. I was not expecting it at all and in my typical fashion, I am handling it very very poorly. Instead of jumping for joy and running around the city embracing people, I am a ball of nerves and don't know what to do.
Why can't I ever just be appreciative of the massive luck that gets tossed my way all the time? I am a jackass.
Why can't I ever just be appreciative of the massive luck that gets tossed my way all the time? I am a jackass.
Maybe I'm Amazed
I love evenings like this one, where I spend 7 hours talking to someone the way I used to when I was younger and thought living room banter could change the world.
I was thinking about one of my favorite lines from "Lolita" where Humbert Humbert states "oh, let me be mawkish for the nonce! I am so tired of being cynical." Though my similarity to H.H. ends at our both having hard-to-pronounce names and a penchant for big words, I have to agree--cynicism has limited value. Cynicism seems to come from a desire to not look unprepared, to give ourselves a bit of armor in the form of lowered expectations, to appear wise and worldly. But human beings are naturally inclined to hope in even the most desperate circumstances, so why are we so wired these days to rail against optimism?
This is going to be a huge week for me. Today was already pretty huge, but I don't want to talk about it because it will bore you and make me superstitious. I'm trying not to start creating contingencies in my mind in anticipation of nothing working out, but I have this weird thing about planning everything down to the letter to make sure that nothing is unexpected and I can deal with any situation. But then I never get to really relish the pursuit of my dreams, which is kind of annoying.
But tonight, I got to hang out with a friend of mine that I haven't seen for a while and we went back in time to discuss college, what we used to think was important then and all the minor devastation we went through that in hindsight seems virtually irrelevant. We found out we had some wonderfully bizarre things in common and even gave each other the courtesy of rehashing some things we'd already discussed before because the stories were just that hilarious (and I even got one of the best hookup stories ever out of the evening that I am trying very, very hard not to put in a sketch lest I lose a friend).
Anyway, tonight reminded me that sometimes it's okay to slow down and stop planning and revel in the dumb stuff we've inflicted on ourselves, knowingly or not. I've lost out on so many opportunities but have no regrets about where I am now, which is pretty spectacular. I am used to being cynical and expecting the worst--I arrive at every situation with band-aids and bactine. But this week, I'm going to enjoy the anticipation of possibilities. I don't know if my life is going to change, but I'm pretty sure whatever happens, I'll be okay.
Unless, you know, I do something dumb like base jump off the Hancock building.
I was thinking about one of my favorite lines from "Lolita" where Humbert Humbert states "oh, let me be mawkish for the nonce! I am so tired of being cynical." Though my similarity to H.H. ends at our both having hard-to-pronounce names and a penchant for big words, I have to agree--cynicism has limited value. Cynicism seems to come from a desire to not look unprepared, to give ourselves a bit of armor in the form of lowered expectations, to appear wise and worldly. But human beings are naturally inclined to hope in even the most desperate circumstances, so why are we so wired these days to rail against optimism?
This is going to be a huge week for me. Today was already pretty huge, but I don't want to talk about it because it will bore you and make me superstitious. I'm trying not to start creating contingencies in my mind in anticipation of nothing working out, but I have this weird thing about planning everything down to the letter to make sure that nothing is unexpected and I can deal with any situation. But then I never get to really relish the pursuit of my dreams, which is kind of annoying.
But tonight, I got to hang out with a friend of mine that I haven't seen for a while and we went back in time to discuss college, what we used to think was important then and all the minor devastation we went through that in hindsight seems virtually irrelevant. We found out we had some wonderfully bizarre things in common and even gave each other the courtesy of rehashing some things we'd already discussed before because the stories were just that hilarious (and I even got one of the best hookup stories ever out of the evening that I am trying very, very hard not to put in a sketch lest I lose a friend).
Anyway, tonight reminded me that sometimes it's okay to slow down and stop planning and revel in the dumb stuff we've inflicted on ourselves, knowingly or not. I've lost out on so many opportunities but have no regrets about where I am now, which is pretty spectacular. I am used to being cynical and expecting the worst--I arrive at every situation with band-aids and bactine. But this week, I'm going to enjoy the anticipation of possibilities. I don't know if my life is going to change, but I'm pretty sure whatever happens, I'll be okay.
Unless, you know, I do something dumb like base jump off the Hancock building.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
The Ghost of Guffaws Past
On Saturday, before and after our wonderful show "Mass Recall" premiered (the experience of which I will write about later when our run ends and I have enough distance) some of us were talking about what we find funny which, interestingly enough, is not what we have always found funny. I myself remembered a time (about two years in my life approximately, beginning of high school) when I found the Kids in the Hall to be the funniest thing I had ever seen. Guy with a cabbage for a head? Hilarity! Guy dressed as a girl caught in flagrante with a guy dressed as a guy? On a kitchen table no less? How subversive! Man dressed as a chicken whose catch line is "gotta get laid"? Be still, my heart.
A few years back, I tried watching some of their stuff on late night Comedy Central and was horrified. I don't think I laughed once, or maybe did but out of politeness despite the fact that none of the Kids themselves were around to care. The show suddenly seemed desperately unfunny and it made me a little maudlin actually. It was like having a crush on someone for years and then running into them on the street and realizing they smelled bad and had lost all their teeth.
But there are a number of people, shows, and bits that endure. We all know this. What I'm not sure we all know is what that special quality is that makes a comedic entity successful in the long-term. I guess it has to do at least partly with connecting to a part of humanity that is also enduring--or it's something so new and groundbreaking that it becomes unforgettable.
For me, what I've found enduring is certainly a matter of my personal preference but I wouldn't be surprised if it showed up on other people's lists as well:
1. Frasier--which I've adored since 1993
2. Chris Rock's "Bring the Pain"--loved since 1996
3. Fawlty Towers--loved since I was a little kid, maybe the late 80's?
4. The Simpsons--yeah, I still think they're funny...since the late 80's as well
5. The movie "Sneakers"...can't explain that one except that I'm a huge geek
6. Arrested Development--which will probably be one of my favorite shows until my dentures turn green
7. Three's Company--zany and dumb and probably my first favorite t.v. show (side note, my first crush was on John Ritter...I was about 5)
8. Anything Mel Brooks (History of the World Part 1, Blazing Saddles, and Spaceballs are standouts)
9. Airplane! the movie is still a delight...standout moment for me is the bouncing heart...clip below, around 6:05...I wish I could tell you why I love that part.
10. My mom tells me I was a huge Eddie Murphy fan...I'm assuming she's not talking about "Raw". But I would agree, I still find Eddie Murphy ingenious.
There is of course much much more. But to me, I wonder what it is about these items that makes them classics (in my opinion anyway). One could argue that its the subject matter that endures, but I don't agree because execution is such a major part of it. Eddie Murphy's "Beverly Hills Cop" doesn't really deal with a subject that is particularly deep but Axel Foley is so charismatic and to some degree relatable that he makes the movie work.
Anyway, I'm not going to come up with anything even remotely new or intelligent about this topic, but it's something to consider as I ponder writing idiotic sketches about "crackberries" and trixies and other random stupid things. Maybe there's a comedic ideal to aspire to. Or maybe I need to buy some charisma.
A few years back, I tried watching some of their stuff on late night Comedy Central and was horrified. I don't think I laughed once, or maybe did but out of politeness despite the fact that none of the Kids themselves were around to care. The show suddenly seemed desperately unfunny and it made me a little maudlin actually. It was like having a crush on someone for years and then running into them on the street and realizing they smelled bad and had lost all their teeth.
But there are a number of people, shows, and bits that endure. We all know this. What I'm not sure we all know is what that special quality is that makes a comedic entity successful in the long-term. I guess it has to do at least partly with connecting to a part of humanity that is also enduring--or it's something so new and groundbreaking that it becomes unforgettable.
For me, what I've found enduring is certainly a matter of my personal preference but I wouldn't be surprised if it showed up on other people's lists as well:
1. Frasier--which I've adored since 1993
2. Chris Rock's "Bring the Pain"--loved since 1996
3. Fawlty Towers--loved since I was a little kid, maybe the late 80's?
4. The Simpsons--yeah, I still think they're funny...since the late 80's as well
5. The movie "Sneakers"...can't explain that one except that I'm a huge geek
6. Arrested Development--which will probably be one of my favorite shows until my dentures turn green
7. Three's Company--zany and dumb and probably my first favorite t.v. show (side note, my first crush was on John Ritter...I was about 5)
8. Anything Mel Brooks (History of the World Part 1, Blazing Saddles, and Spaceballs are standouts)
9. Airplane! the movie is still a delight...standout moment for me is the bouncing heart...clip below, around 6:05...I wish I could tell you why I love that part.
10. My mom tells me I was a huge Eddie Murphy fan...I'm assuming she's not talking about "Raw". But I would agree, I still find Eddie Murphy ingenious.
There is of course much much more. But to me, I wonder what it is about these items that makes them classics (in my opinion anyway). One could argue that its the subject matter that endures, but I don't agree because execution is such a major part of it. Eddie Murphy's "Beverly Hills Cop" doesn't really deal with a subject that is particularly deep but Axel Foley is so charismatic and to some degree relatable that he makes the movie work.
Anyway, I'm not going to come up with anything even remotely new or intelligent about this topic, but it's something to consider as I ponder writing idiotic sketches about "crackberries" and trixies and other random stupid things. Maybe there's a comedic ideal to aspire to. Or maybe I need to buy some charisma.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
