Saturday, November 15, 2003
Perhaps it was the mirrored tile on the walls. Maybe it was the vaguely intimate stage and the amorous colors surrounding us all. Maybe it was the spotlights. Or maybe it was the giant neon quarter outside. But last night was one of those nights which makes me love living in New York City.
Last night, I did improv comedy in a porn shop. Well, above a porn shop. But definitely within the confines of the ill-reputed establishment. And don't get me wrong, I have nothing against porn, and it sure is fun to tell your friends about your gigs at one of the last few places that reminds New Yorkers of what Times Square used to be all about before Disney and ESPN and Rudy cleared it out for the Tourists. But still, there is a weird vibe to the place. And not so much for what is happening right now, but because of what it probably used to be.
Anyway, we rocked. My improv cohorts and I. Like there was any doubt, but we rocked.
But I get ahead of myself. The story thus far:
I am in an improv comedy troupe called The Townies.
The Townies are me, Chris, Jimmy and Lauren. (Look guys- your names on the internet. Famous.)
For months now the four of us have rehearsed in seclusion. Appearing only occasionally to hear the laughter which drives our souls, our quest for the perfect improv ensemble has taken us through harrowing and treacherous terrain. Last night, we had one such gig, a gig which would satisfy our desires for one of our brief respites from the laboratory from which we create.
But one week ago, things took a turn for the worse.
Chris, my good friend and fellow Townie, got the pox. Or, I should say, The Pox. He would be sidelined for a least a week. He would scratch and itch and moan and bitch. And he would miss the beloved gig.
Well- Townies are made of stern stuff. And following a rallying cry from our fallen comrade, the three of us decided to march ahead and do the gig without him, in his honor, as it were. We would go back to the lab, fine-tune our product into the ‘Three Person Townie’, and impress the world.
And then Lauren got the flu. And not the blue flu. Not the ‘I don’t want to go to work flu’. But the ‘I can’t get from one end of my room to the other flu’. There was no toilet prayer, as I earlier reported, but her misery was acute nonetheless. She would be fine by the day of the gig, but there would be no rehearsal, no fine-tuning of the 3PT.
So Jimmy and I, stony faced in the eyes of adversity, took up the call. Now the heat is on, I told him, now the edge is finer. But for Jimmy, not rehearsing meant one thing. Not disappointment or fear, no. It meant he could sleep. You see, Jimmy works a job that starts at 2am. Yes, that’s two in-the-oh-my-god-I-don’t-want-to-live-morning. I admire a man that can keep those hours. I also would help him pull the trigger if asked. I've quit jobs that started at 8am because that was way too early. Talk to me before coffee and your life is void. Jimmy is a tough guy working those hours.
And he was also delirious.
Sick, wounded, delirious, one-man short and needing the love, The Townies limped into the porn shop, walked up the stairs to our beloved gig- and rocked the house.
We also were the house, but that is irrelevant.
Someday, the Townies will rule the world.
Someday, the Townies will have their faces on your cereal box.
Someday, the Townies will play with cowboys at Carnegie Hall.
Until that day, you’ll find us at the porn shop.
This post is dedicated to all the guys who came here after searching for ‘Porn’
Last night, I did improv comedy in a porn shop. Well, above a porn shop. But definitely within the confines of the ill-reputed establishment. And don't get me wrong, I have nothing against porn, and it sure is fun to tell your friends about your gigs at one of the last few places that reminds New Yorkers of what Times Square used to be all about before Disney and ESPN and Rudy cleared it out for the Tourists. But still, there is a weird vibe to the place. And not so much for what is happening right now, but because of what it probably used to be.
Anyway, we rocked. My improv cohorts and I. Like there was any doubt, but we rocked.
But I get ahead of myself. The story thus far:
I am in an improv comedy troupe called The Townies.
The Townies are me, Chris, Jimmy and Lauren. (Look guys- your names on the internet. Famous.)
For months now the four of us have rehearsed in seclusion. Appearing only occasionally to hear the laughter which drives our souls, our quest for the perfect improv ensemble has taken us through harrowing and treacherous terrain. Last night, we had one such gig, a gig which would satisfy our desires for one of our brief respites from the laboratory from which we create.
But one week ago, things took a turn for the worse.
Chris, my good friend and fellow Townie, got the pox. Or, I should say, The Pox. He would be sidelined for a least a week. He would scratch and itch and moan and bitch. And he would miss the beloved gig.
Well- Townies are made of stern stuff. And following a rallying cry from our fallen comrade, the three of us decided to march ahead and do the gig without him, in his honor, as it were. We would go back to the lab, fine-tune our product into the ‘Three Person Townie’, and impress the world.
And then Lauren got the flu. And not the blue flu. Not the ‘I don’t want to go to work flu’. But the ‘I can’t get from one end of my room to the other flu’. There was no toilet prayer, as I earlier reported, but her misery was acute nonetheless. She would be fine by the day of the gig, but there would be no rehearsal, no fine-tuning of the 3PT.
So Jimmy and I, stony faced in the eyes of adversity, took up the call. Now the heat is on, I told him, now the edge is finer. But for Jimmy, not rehearsing meant one thing. Not disappointment or fear, no. It meant he could sleep. You see, Jimmy works a job that starts at 2am. Yes, that’s two in-the-oh-my-god-I-don’t-want-to-live-morning. I admire a man that can keep those hours. I also would help him pull the trigger if asked. I've quit jobs that started at 8am because that was way too early. Talk to me before coffee and your life is void. Jimmy is a tough guy working those hours.
And he was also delirious.
Sick, wounded, delirious, one-man short and needing the love, The Townies limped into the porn shop, walked up the stairs to our beloved gig- and rocked the house.
We also were the house, but that is irrelevant.
Someday, the Townies will rule the world.
Someday, the Townies will have their faces on your cereal box.
Someday, the Townies will play with cowboys at Carnegie Hall.
Until that day, you’ll find us at the porn shop.
This post is dedicated to all the guys who came here after searching for ‘Porn’
Thursday, November 13, 2003
So, today is the first day of the rest of my life.
Which is weird, because so was yesterday. I get so confused.
Please bear with me as a crawl into this new medium.
I'm part of an improv troupe called The Townies. We are just starting up, but are already the Next Big Thing in NYC. This Friday we have a gig, but one of our members has the pox. Another member is currently hugging a toilet (according to rumor). The third member is suffering from a sleep devrivation so intense that he called me 'Grandma' last night.
Our troupe, however, will troop on (sorry).
Which is weird, because so was yesterday. I get so confused.
Please bear with me as a crawl into this new medium.
I'm part of an improv troupe called The Townies. We are just starting up, but are already the Next Big Thing in NYC. This Friday we have a gig, but one of our members has the pox. Another member is currently hugging a toilet (according to rumor). The third member is suffering from a sleep devrivation so intense that he called me 'Grandma' last night.
Our troupe, however, will troop on (sorry).
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
I would like to welcome everyone to my brain. This is my brain on blog.
This makes it official. I am the last person under the age of 35 to get a blog. This is my first entry.
I make no promises here. I won't promise to be funny, entertaining or even sensical. My spelling will be atrocious. There will be no advice given or proferred. There will be occasional rants, followed by complaints that I hate people who rant. There will be touching moments and moments that make you go 'hmmm...'. There will be general disdain for our elected leaders. There will be an unwavering belief in democracy and the ideals of freedom. There will be uncommon grief over common events. There will be special moments that teach us all lessons.
But mostly, there will just be me, telling you how I feel/think/act/react/observe/socialize/conceptualize.
There may be some good salsa recipes, too.
Welcome to my brain. Ignore the dead cells, they had too much fun. And if anyone asks, you're with the band.
This makes it official. I am the last person under the age of 35 to get a blog. This is my first entry.
I make no promises here. I won't promise to be funny, entertaining or even sensical. My spelling will be atrocious. There will be no advice given or proferred. There will be occasional rants, followed by complaints that I hate people who rant. There will be touching moments and moments that make you go 'hmmm...'. There will be general disdain for our elected leaders. There will be an unwavering belief in democracy and the ideals of freedom. There will be uncommon grief over common events. There will be special moments that teach us all lessons.
But mostly, there will just be me, telling you how I feel/think/act/react/observe/socialize/conceptualize.
There may be some good salsa recipes, too.
Welcome to my brain. Ignore the dead cells, they had too much fun. And if anyone asks, you're with the band.
