Sea Cows

I had this "Manatee Crossing" road sign in my bedroom growing up... all the way until I went to college. I have no idea where I got it or what the laughs my parents must have laughed sounded like when I told them I needed that road sign for my own personal use.

Heads of the Past and Present

I recently found that there's this big listing of all U of C's Athletics Hall of Fame members with our head shots. I took this screenshot because I love seeing my face beside people from such obviously different time periods. Next to me is Bill Haarlow who played in the 1930's. It's like The Brady Bunch meets any time-travel movie starring Rachel McAdams. 

Comedy Innovation at the Upstairs Gallery

Last night, I was treated to one of the best nights of comedy I've had in Chicago. At the Upstairs Gallery's Mike's Hard Lemonade Festivus 2 there was nearly two hours of fantastic scripted-improvised one- and two-person acts. The room was packed and the audience was roaring with laughter for ever performer, as each topped or matched the last great performance. I was sitting there, laughing my ass off while drinking a Mike's Hard Mango, so impressed at the talent we have here. I felt lucky to know about the best place to see comedy in Chicago. And I totally got off on the fact that I was friends with everyone on stage.

I intend no offense to the big comedy institutions in Chicago. I understand that they have traditions that they need to uphold. A business needs to be consistent. And if it ain't broke, don't fix it, right? So you'll see them open the show with a big group number, or they have all new teams perform the signature long-form piece. Or they ask an artist to perform a scene written 20 years ago because it's historically gotten good laughs and is (perhaps) still relevant today. You work for one of these guys and you have fun, experience success, and learn something, but fundamentally, you as an artist are asked to play by someone else's rules. That might be good for you career and maybe one day you'll even make MONEY, but it's not a place for the artist to express himself/herself.

Iceland girls hope to meet Mike Hard. (Photo by Carol Bontekoe, stolen by me.) 

For that, you go to a place like the Upstairs Gallery. The theater was created by a group of improvisors who simply wanted freedom to have it their way. Their Facebook page says "You like art? You like performance? So do we." And it invites you to submit something. You can see so many different types of art here: scripted sketch and stories, music, performance art, and improvisation. It's a haven for the experimental.

And somehow it doesn't suck. The theater has attracted some of Chicago's top talent. I have been there countless times and I've only seen something shitty once or twice. There's something so wonderful about the "I think this is funny, I hope you do too" mentatllity of the place. Anyone who performs there has this incredible confidence that says they believe in themselves - this is their art and that immediately makes you want to cheer them on.

I've been reading David vs. Goliath by Malcom Gladwell this week (it's incredible - buy it immediately on Kindle for $7.50) and one chapter hit me hard. Chapter three is all about the Impressionist painters in Paris in the 1860's. Each night, some of the world's most world famous painters - Manet, Degas, Cezanne, Renoir, Monet, and Pissarro - would sit around the Cafe Guerbois and argue about all sorts of things artists argue about. But at that time, they were a whole bunch of nobodies. Hardly any of them could get their works accepted by the Salon.

Being an artist was a highly respected occupation and was regulated by the Ministry of the Imperial House of Fine Arts. Just like doctors and lawyers, painters were highly trained and followed a rigorous education path. Master this, then master that. The end goal was always the Salon, the pinnacle of all art exhibitions. If you could get into the Salon, you were labeled an exceptional artist and could then sell your paintings for more money, because you were Salon endorsed. It was prestigious and elite. If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.

But the Salon liked very traditional works. Proper perspective, true-to-life representations, and content that was "morally acceptable". Appropriate subjects might include horses, armies, women weeping, and great historic moments that would uplift and entertain the audience. Since that was their ideal, I'm sure you can see why they didn't respect the Impressionists. They painted everyday things, you could see their brushstrokes, and their figures were blurry. Impressionism couldn't meet the standard. One of Manet's paintings (Olympia) that made it in was so controversial, the Palais had to station a guard by it because it disrupted people's sensibilities so much.

This is the painting:

So all these amazing painters, who are broke and just trying to survive, are sitting around the cafe asking, "Do I really want to make the Salon happy? Do I want to be Salon approved? Or do I want to do what I want to do?"

And what happens is that they end up forming an Upstairs Gallery. They say, fuck it, this isn't fulfilling and I want to do something else. Each one of these painters pulls together some of their best work and they hold their own show on the top floor of some building that had just been vacated. No competitions, no juries, no medals. They each just hung a bunch of paintings that they were really proud of. 165 masterpieces in total.

3,500 people attended the event over the course of the months and it brought them critical attention. Sure, they got a few bad reviews, but overall people liked it. And more importantly, the artists liked it. And now we all know their names and work because they dared to follow what they thought was art.

The Upstairs Gallery is lucky to be this place. As performers, we are lucky to have this place.

Bud Light Lime dramatic theater takes over for the second act. (Photo by Steph Cook, stolen by me.)

That's not to say if you perform at one of the institutions you're a hack. You're not! I mean, all of the performers last night I've seen on stages at Second City or iO. Personally, I play on a team on iO and I love it. Performing with Deep Schwa on Sunday night is a highlight of my week. I have the opportunity to play with my friends and make people laugh. I think it's a noble thing and I am grateful to the iO directors for giving me that opportunity. But that's why I just do it on Sunday. I have an artistic life that is more fulfilled elsewhere. I'm an Upstairs Gallery type of gal. I want to do what I want to do.

It's also a place where the community flourishes. People gather here for parties on weekends. When people depart Chicago for L.A., New York, or whereever their path is pointed, they have goodbye party-shows there. It's a place where you talk to whoever and doesn't have a feeling of "this is where the performers stand" and "that's where the audience sits." 

We are blessed that we have Salons providing us with training centers, but we are more indebted to founders of places like the Upstairs Gallery for letting us apply those skills in new ways and we can become closer to the unique artist within us. Even if that's just John and Carmen arguing over an orange or Scott playing an over-fluffed actor telling stories from his glory days. Funny is funny.

A special thanks to last night's performers for being so amazing that I couldn't help but write this blog post: John Reynolds, Walt Delaney, John O'Toole, Sarah Ashley, Devin Bockwrath, Lee Barats, Brian McGovern, Steph Cook, Andrew Tisher, Mike Brunlieb, Mike Klasek, Annie Donley, Scott Nelson, Nate Varrone, Jeff Murdoch, Phil Meister, Carmen Christopher, Alex Trepka, and Drew Kearse. And Alex Honnet on lights.

(P.S. I know UG isn't the only place where people are getting experimental. But ain't nobody changing the game up with the sort of high quality that UG is. For that, they get all my the love.)

Frozen Walk

Walking in the falling snow is one of my favorite things to do so when I woke up on Saturday morning and saw the snow coming down, I immediately grabbed my warmest winter gear and headed out to Belmont Harbor.

The snow underfoot was thick and perfectly white and unlike other times I've been out for winter walks, the lake wasn't a blanket of snow. It was criss-crossed with jagged paths, shards of ice grinding into each other at the tide's will. It looked like it was breathing, a regular ebb and flow as if I'd come upon it while it was asleep. Sometimes it hissed, sometimes it tinkled, and sometimes it squeaked and groaned. It had so many different voices. 

It felt like another world, nothing like the urban sprawl I think of when I think of Chicago. Whatever it was, it was great to find myself transported. I felt like an adventurer. Like Ernest Shackleton or another one of the Antarctic explorers. 

It was so gorgeous, I spent nearly two hours out there. There was so much to see and understand. If you listen, there are lessons in all of it. From the churning lake, I learned how all the parts are connected, how the particles fit together to create a whole. Just like the ice, there are things between us (on a subatomic level) that grind up against each other. Sometimes we feel separated from other things, contained in our own bodies. But we're not. We are all influenced by each other's movements through the world and faraway things can be touched. I found a lot of comfort in that. I felt one with everything instead of alone. Despite the cold sapping my body's reserves, I walked away energized.  

I took a handful of photos out there. I hope you enjoy them and they inspire you to put on your boots to witness the mysterious and powerful side of our beautiful city. 

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

For a few weeks, I have considered dying my hair darker. On Friday night, in the company of a good friend, a beer, and a bowl of brunette hair dye, I finally did it.

I was overwhelmed saying goodbye to one of the few constants in my life. I was a toe-head from the day I arrived. From the beginning. And the hugeness of separating from that to be something new and different was terrifying. I shed a few tears, but assured Mary Beth I didn't want to stop. She didn't put the brush down. And here I am.

I feel new.  

One of the main reasons I put it off so long was because I was worried people would think I was having a Brittany moment and in my insane haze had colored my hair in the same way she'd shaved her head and attacked a car with an umbrella.

And if I can be frank, the truth isn't far from that. But instead of it being a symptom of a downwards spiral, it was actually the opposite: controlling and righting a tailspin. If you've been following my real life for the past few months, you might recall my September of Sorrow where I stripped a whole bunch of shit away and collapsed in on myself like a dying star. Since then, I've enjoyed the rebuilding process. It's been chaos and discovery and acceptance and joy. For the first time in my life, I feel integrated within myself.

And as I discovered more of myself, I found that my blonde hair just didn't fit anymore.

I think a lot of people see me as a sunny and upbeat person. I am on some days, sure. I love to play and have fun and laugh. But those feel like responses to actions, not my own natural state. Not how I experience myself. And if you don't see that, then I regret to inform you that you've been a victim of a lie I have lived well. The script calls for an unflappably positive person who doesn't need help and can't be knocked down. A person who has some key catchphrases including "Everything's good" and "I'm fine". The more agitated I am internally, the more likely I am to be smiling on the outside. It's really fucking annoying.

And that's what my blonde hair had become to me. It was part of this role I was playing. It was the "happy" disguise. There's just something about a blonde that doesn't say "I'm serious." To me it seems happy-go-lucky and lighthearted. Maybe it's a stereotype, but I bought into it. And that's not me. I feel so much more at home with dark hair. Like I LOVE it.

It may be a superficial thing to change, but that understates what's really going on. It IS important. It's the skin I have to live in all the time and I wholeheartedly believe that the outside should match the inside. I did this so you will understand me more and we can start talking.

And because it was much cheaper than getting this tattoo:

Where Have I Been?

I apologize for not posting in a few months. I've been in the middle of an existential crisis and didn't bring a pen when I gazed into the blackness of the universe.

After having torn down the old self, feasting on its remains for a few days, I barfed up a new me and have been feeling better each day. And this new self has revealed itself to be far more productive. You can expect more posts in the future. 

What metaphorical identity did you pig out on recently? Press "like" if you ate your own soul this month!!!!!

LOL all things die! Did I imagine that dead kitten I found in my backyard? Thank God I still love to watch old episodes of The Office while folding my laundry!

So Deep Your Ankles Might Get Wet

This is John Mayer's new album cover. I think it's a beautiful image.

But then I remember who John Mayer is. 

"Life is like a box of crayons. Most people are the 8-color boxes, but what you're really looking for are the 64-color boxes with the sharpeners on the back. I fancy myself to be a 64-color box, though I've got a few missing. It's ok though, because I've got some more vibrant colors like periwinkle at my disposal. I have a bit of a problem though in that I can only meet the 8-color boxes. Does anyone else have that problem? I mean there are so many different colors of life, of feeling, of articulation... so when I meet someone who's an 8-color type... I'm like, 'hey girl, magenta!' and she's like, 'oh, you mean purple!' and she goes off on her purple thing, and I'm like, 'no - I want magenta!'" - John Mayer

"Like, you need to have them be able to go toe-to-toe with you intellectually. But don't they also have to have a vagina you could pitch a tent on and just camp out on for, like, a weekend? Doesn't that have to be there, too? The Joshua Tree of vaginas? ...I'll be happy when I close out this life-partner thing. Think of how much mental capacity I'm using to meet the right person so I can stop giving a fuck about it." - John Mayer

"Sometimes I get so bold and I'm so confident about what I'm doing that I actually try to be more of a dork because it's a really liberating feeling to experience what it's like to not care." - John Mayer

There are Buddhist teachings that remind you that you are not the things of your past ("What you are now is what you have been, what you will be is what you do now."). Simply put: your past experiences inform the person you are today, but you still have a choice to be new and different - the person of tomorrow. Perhaps Johnny has moved past this retarded phase in his life. 

But this runs directly counter to what, cloud-Mufasa says when he told Simba "Remember who you are... remember who you are...remember...remember...remember..."

I don't want to pigeon hole our Johnny, but I have to agree with cloud-Mufasa on this one. Remember...Remember...Remember...