East Coast (transportation) state of mind

Going to college in New York City did something to me. Well, it did several things to me. It taught me that as a pedestrian I have the right to walk across the street whenever I want, and then also have permission to yell at any cars that almost hit me. It taught me that odd smells are to be tolerated. It taught me that white kids with trust funds can live next door to poor minorities in something resembling harmony.

But most of all, it taught me that there’s no shame in relying on public transportation.

If the Empire State Building and the Statue of Liberty are the crown jewels of New York City, then the subways are the lower intestine and colon. A packed mismatch of everything New York has to offer, these tubes take everyone where they need to go and drop them off in the appropriate place. Sleek, convenient, and only especially uncomfortable in the summer, I had no problem getting on board with mass transit, so to say.

When I moved to Chicago, things were different, but similar. It still smelled but not nearly as bad, which I attributed to the lake, until I remembered the ocean that borders New York. Many more roads in Chicago – and room to park the cars that are on them. But I just trudged on the same way as I always had, unlimited pass in hand, happily reading while sitting in the comfortable, padded seats that Chicago offers us weary train patrons.

But a new problem has shown itself. Its the problem of arriving somewhere on time. To be specific, I can’t do it, not to save my life. I doubt this is a Chicago thing. It probably existed in New York too, but I was having too much fun sneaking into class late to care. But now it’s becoming a serious issue in my life, and one that I’d happily see resolved.

See, the trains have two schedules. They have ‘Get Philip to his destination promptly, thereby causing him to be 20 minutes early’ and they have ‘Let’s run at such a bone-grindingly slow pace that the sun will be in an entirely different place in the sky before we get anywhere at all.’ The second schedule happens just often enough that it’s not safe to pray for the early train. So I can only assume that the train will take longer than I plan.

But this just causes me even more problems. If I decide to get to the station early, the train will most likely come early, and therefore I’ll get to my stop super early. Or I may get on the train at what I assume will get me to my destination at a reasonable time. In this case it’s always late, causing me to be super late. There’s no beating the CTA in this regard.

So all I can do is be prepared for either aftermath. If I’m early, I have my book of the day, Sukodu, and phone (women have it made with purses). If I’m going to be interviewing, or meeting with someone, I need to be sure to stay in a social and mentally stimulated mindset. I also need to ensure that my hair is in place, my clothes look good, and I’m the symbol of professionalism, the Greek god equivalent of the modern man.

But it could just as likely go the other direction, and have me horribly late. Now granted, I’m far enough out of college that I don’t show up to important meetings late, at least not on regular occasion (and only when I can tell that enough other people on the train are running late that I won’t be accused of making up stories). But the threat is still there. Lateness will ruin any effect I was hoping to have on the person I’m meeting. And believe me, in the world of improv, promptness is extremely important.

Yeah, right. I think I’ll show up 10 minutes late to my next gig just to spite myself for that statement.

So I feel that the only solution is to keep leaving the house earlier and earlier, until I catch myself sleeping from 10pm to midnight, getting up, and jumping on the crowded train to go downtown, with the girlfriend on the phone complaining I never have time for her. Some things never change.

Our own clear and present danger

I’m constantly amused by my non-improv friends’ fear of performing. Not that this bothers me, necessarily. It’s quite nice to be able to jump on stage, improvise a few scenes badly, make a couple jokes (equally badly), and then be showered upon with praise like I had just single-handedly passed health care reform in the United States. Nor am I understating the difficulty of truly great improv. It’s hard (and all performers deserve to be showered upon with praise). But the real difficulty is not what non-performers imagine it to be.

The problem is, improvisers flake. They flake all the time. If improvisers were winter, they would go down in history as having the largest piles of snowflakes in history. If they were made of wood, you could dry a hell of a lot of fish on them (referring to the 14th century definition of flake, which was a frame for drying fish on). I’m not surprised they flake all the time, because they’re lazy and need a lot of sleep (referring to the 1940s slang, which defined flake as ‘to fall asleep’).

As you may have also determined, improvisers are not very funny either. At least not when they have access to dictionary.com.

But the truth is, regardless of skill set, improvisers are notoriously busy and difficult to pin down for rehearsals, shows, or much of anything really. My theory is that improvisers treat improv groups as relationships, but with both parties being awkward inexperienced teenagers. When we’re asked to be in one we get really excited and 99% of the time will agree to it right out of the gate, without considering the practicality of such a commitment, or even if we want to be in the commitment in the first place. This often leads to bitterness and grumbling down the line, for all parties involved.

We then dive in with unrelenting abandon. Those first few weeks of bliss are filled with rehearsals, maybe multiple rehearsals a week. We start wordpress blogs. We book shows. We look for coaches. We draw pencil sketches of logos in our notebooks while dozing off at work the following morning (we stayed out late getting drunk, in the name of ‘building group solidarity’). We just know that we’ve found the perfect group for us, that it’s going to being us fame and riches (in some hazy, undefined way), and that we’re going to go down in history as the group that Second City wishes they had been a part of.

But after that initial spastic euphoria, all bets are off. If we start showing up 10 minutes late, count yourself lucky. We could be showing up an hour late. Or more likely, not at all.

Even coaches and established performers are not exempt from this rule. My improv group, Hugs and Pullups, spent over a month unsuccessfully trying to arrange to work with a coach that we very much wanted. He was an established performer, has spent years training in Chicago, and was at the time performing on Second City’s e.t.c. stage. But getting anything out of him, even a hint at what his open nights were, turned into a nightmare of Saw-like proportions. Three weeks worth of emails got him to say that he might be available on Wednesdays, but the next time one of us ran into him he seemed to deny even telling us that much.

If the CIA is looking for the next generation of super spy, I believe they would be doing themselves a favor by hiring improvisers. We’re trained to believe ridiculous propositions, and to convince others that our made up drivel is God’s own truth. We’re used to living on a shoestring budget, which will bring costs down. And even if we’re captured, there’s no way anyone’s getting information out of us.

Then again, I doubt any of us would bother showing up on the first day. Though I still encourage everyone to shower praise upon us all.

Indian Summers

I skipped my acting class today. I couldn’t bear to go. You see, it’s mid-November, the leaves are off most of the trees, and yet the temperature is warm enough that I broke a sweat just looking out at the sun.

Some, like my acting group, my boss, and my friends, would call this laziness. Whenever they do this to my face, which is often, or even when they do it behind my back (no numbers on how often this happens), I can’t help but laugh to myself, or sometimes I’ll laugh to someone else if they’re closer.

You see, this isn’t laziness, or sloth, or any other kind of hairy jungle animal. It’s preparation for the future. I don’t just dive into doing nothing without the most meticulous preparation of many kinds. I didn’t come about this personality by accident. Like finances and relationships, laying groundwork leads to the highest satisfaction levels.

I begin training in the spring, when the weather is crisp and the abs are soft. After an entire winter of staying inside and doing less and less, my energy for beginning a laziness regiment is low. This is where the discipline comes in. Of course, if it’s locked, it can also go around to the entrance in the rear. But you’d have to be a real asshole to do that all the time.

I start easy, by sitting on the steps of my apartment in a light jacket. It’s always best to start light, and then work in a heavier jacket once you’re warmed up. Several repetitions will soon have you stretched out and ready to begin in earnest. If Ernest isn’t around, I’d simply suggest giving up for the day and starting again tomorrow. He may show up by then.

So as you do this for a few weeks you may notice it’s getting easier and easier to break a sweat. However, sweats are expensive to replace, so try to break as few as possible. But regardless, it’s not your imagination. The days are getting longer, the sun is getting swifter, and the women pleasanter. These are all reasons to start getting a little hot under the collar.

Now is the time for action. It’s at this point that the shorts come out, and tank tops see daylight, and I can consider going outside to doze off. This is where many people go wrong. They just go to sleep. But before I go I go through my entire house, making an organized list of the cleaning that needs to be done, the groceries that need to be bought, and any necessary repairs to make. Then I go outside and go to sleep, and rest assured that I’ll be too exhausted to get up anytime soon.

Once I’ve got this down to a science, it’s important that I not interrupt the status quo. After all, quo the raven, ‘Nevermore.’ This is a sleeping marathon, not a race, and so I break it up into chunks. I never sleep for more than 8 hours at a time. Though to be fair, I’m never awake for more than 8 hours at a time either, unless I’m at work. In that case, they define time in a different way than me. My boss argues that time in a linear progression of events that has no discernable start or ending. I argue that she needs to leave me alone, as I was just having a very nice dream about a big dance number starring myself and Natalie Portman, during our co-written musical that is both visually stunning and morally relevant to the world of our times. We shall call it, “Love in the Time of Nausea.”

Of course all things must come to an end, and eventually the days begin to cool and shorten once again. By this point I have baked nicely, and am now the color of a chicken pot pie, which is at least a step up from being yellow. Now is the time to baste in a warm bath for a couple months, turning myself even month or so, until I’m ready to serve at Thanksgiving with a side of stuffing and sweet potatoes. For that matter I’ll serve at anytime, just don’t expect any tennis miracles. The whole process than repeats itself for the upcoming year.

So you see, when you interrupt me, you’re not just interrupting me. You’re ruining a perfectly maintained concentration machine whose only wish is to continue unabated for all its years.

Though you can try to bait me anyway, and see if I bite. I’d suggest potato chips, hamburgers, and saltines.