It is Finished

Two weeks ago, I officially completed Second City's Writing Program. I would have told you all sooner, but I was busy sleeping off hangovers, caring for children to earn my livelihood, and just barely surviving the worst flu I have known since my ninth birthday. Also, I wrote a completely outdated review of Space Jam. So really, I've been swamped.

So it took a year, about $2,000, and roughly twenty-one homemade blood packets constructed by yours truly, but it is finally finished. We had a good four-week run of our sketch show, Post-Traumatic Sketch Disorder, with more or less full houses and only one really weak night due to a completely lame audience and not at all because of our killer show. Just to be clear. It was a very interesting experience and I learned a lot. Among that "lot," (I'm such a wonderful writer with my beautiful words) my top three personally most valued lessons have been as follows:


1) STRUCTURE: For those of you who know me the best, I know what you must be saying. "But Kalah, your effervescent style and pizzazz could never possibly be reigned in. Walls and guidelines could never hold you. You must fly or die! Most surely die!!" But I am writing today to assure you that one can be both a bit of a willy nilly free-spirit and write fully thought out and coherent story lines. Hear me now, dreamers: structure is not just for the task-oriented anymore!

2) REWRITING: I hate it. Man, oh boy do I hate it. Rewriting and editing and multiple drafts. I shudder at the very verbiage. As, I'm sure, is clearly apparent in my blogs. Truth time? More often than not, I don't even read through what I've written once I've finished. I'm just really, really terrible at it. It's probably why I have a tendency to collect editors the way most people collect shot glasses or useless hotel key cards (hey, I get it. Cheap souvenirs!). I figure that if one editor does part of my job, then several will get it all done. Eh? No, you're right. That's a stupid way to expect anything good to come into existence. And so, over the course of an expensive year, the instructors and classmates at Second City did their damnedest to drill into me the importance (and dare I say, magic?) of revisions. And just as any hopeful creative must eventually learn, all it really took to accept a normally loathed step in a process was to figure out which elements work best with my ten-second attention span work ethic. And that golden ticket turned out to be peer pressure. Sharing my work and opening it up to scrutiny acts as something of a creative smörgåsbord for me. It's a dozen creative decisions, directions and suggestions laid out for me to choose from and try out. Instead of straining to think of just one little change to improve a piece, I am graciously given an entire page of possibilities to test out. It's fantastic! At times terribly overwhelming and frustrating that I can't go in every great direction offered to me, but still fantastic. Which brings me to my third and final most valued lesson learned.

3) COLLABORATION: Before this program, the closest I had come to collaboration (aside from the dreaded classroom group projects - the stuff panic attacks and stress eating are made of) was my friend Brittany and I trying to write our totally brilliant screenplay together. We got as far as buying the beer and making the frozen pizza before plugging our computers in to sit and fully charge while we distracted ourselves with how funny we find one another. It was a great night, and I still fully stand by my claim of it being a truly brilliant screenplay. Though the world will likely never know. But collaboration was literally all we were in a room together for three hours a week to do. It just had to be done. There was no way around it and we were painfully aware of the lack of escape. Each person in this class brought their own incredible talent to the table. But even when everyone is supremely awesome, it is an extreme challenge to get nine different flavors to make a savory dish. It was a big group and a big struggle, but I spent the time trying my hardest not to take any of the experience for granite. It could not have been a better exercise in compromise, comparison, and working for the good of a group rather than just the individual. To train ourselves to be perceptive of arising themes, transition challenges and recognize how a scene about a family on vacation and one about a wacky game show are much more similar than the initial view would suggest, was valuable training which will no doubt show up again and again in the writing project we take on from here on out. So I guess what I'm saying here is, we should totally write something together, guys. I can do it now, I swear!

And that, as they say, is that. All done. I've got a slightly wrinkled certificate hanging precariously in a Dollar Store frame and an authentic pleather Second City notebook to prove it. I was going to post pictures of these things, but this entire process has made me terribly lazy. And it's just as well, since that frame appears to be constructed for a one-time hanging only. What's next, you may be asking? Well, the world is my writing-on-the-side-but-certainly-not-for-my-livelihood-anytime-soon-oyster. Maybe a few more writing classes a la carte, should I find enough change in the couch cushions. Or perhaps a women's writing residency program on some distant island? But most likely a lot of reading. Because as much as I love words, taking them in so much easier than putting them out. And suddenly, a resounding, collective fit can be heard from my collection of editors. Okay, okay. I'll write. Sheesh.   

Things I Thought I Would Like Before I Realized I Was Wrong

My significant other recently posted a blog entry (found here) to deter my claims that he is too negative. In doing so, he also made the suggestion that I myself am too positive. And I quote: "Kalah has an almost comically unrealistic amount of optimism and positivity towards her fellow human." And I end quote. Now, while I will never say no to "comically" being used in a description of myself, I also recognize that we are all human and in being so are complex creatures constructed of complicated emotional codings and incurable split-ends. And so, just as Rickey put figurative pen to paper to prove he is not made completely of grumpy thoughts and resentment, I am also here to provide evidence that I am more than joy and hope. What follows is my list of Things I Thought I Would Like Before I Realized I Was Wrong:

El Trains

But at least we can enjoy our views on the CTA

I'll admit, as a fresh face to the city last spring, I was more than giddy as I stepped onto my first train. I was riding the Blue Line from Logan Square to the Jackson stop downtown to see the library. I remember mentally telling myself to play it cool and try to look as jaded and bored as the rest of the riders. But the excitement was undeniable. And so, so short lived. Right away, I didn't like not being able to tell the conductor thank you, as I got in the habit of doing on city buses. A silly complaint, I realize, but true nonetheless. Also, as the heat quickly increased, I grew to detest the underground stops. And, it was quickly realized that reading on an underground train was nothing but cause for severe motion sickness. I ask you, what is a train ride if not an opportunity to read? And then there are the smells. My lord, the smells. Each train unique in the bodily produced oder it specializes in, they all stand strong year round. Which brings me to the last point of distaste on my CTA list: nowhere to barf. And I'm sorry to report that this has been a subject of panicked worry on more than one occasion. No trash cans, no windows that open, and no emergency stops. If you barf on the train, it just become another ingredient in the body fluid stew that is the CTA signature scent. Combine all these points with derailments, stalled trains, sitting still for up to an hour on a crowded train, and being kicked to curb when your train suddenly becomes an express to across town, and you can understand my continually growing detest for the CTA of Chicago.

Rainstorms

A good day.

I remember growing up and watching movies like Breakfast at Tiffany's and seeing the actors getting soaked to the bone within the first ten seconds of the rain starting and I never bought it. It was always just another Hollywood move to increase drama. And then I moved here. Coming from Pacific Northwest, I thought I was prepared for rain for the rest of my life. I mean, I lived in an actual rain forest for crying out loud. But nothing can prepare a person for this. These rainstorms are like monsoons, but they last much longer. Streets flood, pets float away, and cars are abandoned. It's just a part of life out here. I hate it. And with the wind, an umbrella is nothing but a joke and a nuisance. And where rain pours the most during the fall in the PNW, summer is the time for rain here - which only adds to the unbearable humidity. Which brings me to number three on my list:

Summer

Drunk youths. A Liz Lemon/Kalah Mazac nightmare.

Since I was seventeen, whenever I mentioned to anyone my desire to one day move to Chicago, they alway had the same thing to say: "Don't go in the winter." And so I didn't. But summer in Illinois as an introduction to one's new home is not the most ideal, either. It's muggy and sweaty, it's crowded and loud, and it is full of weird bugs. The streets are full of tourists of two types: either the overly enthusiastic, or the completely drained but refusing to slow down because they will get the most out of this vacation. While anyone who knows me can tell you that I actually adore tourists, while I'm living in this city, the less the better because it means fewer sticky pressing bodies on our stalled trains. And God help us all if we have to pass by the Addison stop during a Cubs game. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Back to summer: central heat is for a very small portion of housing, and the rest of us are left to sit fanning ourselves with Otter Pop wrappers in front of our window units. Ah, window units. The heaviest appliance known to the human race (not excluding stoves and deep freezer units). In Seattle, if I wanted to cool down on the cheap, I could always go read by the water. But here, that's bit of a hazard. This dislike of mine lines up pretty close to a like you will find on Rickey's blog, but despite the laws and rules against drinking on the public beaches, it is the number one location for underaged, sex-crazed and disrespectful teenagers to get loaded and yack in the water that children play in. Come on guys. I mean, seriously? So rude. So there you have it, summer in the city. And it's gross. Oh, there are also super crazy, creepy bugs that make terrifying electric-sounding noises and can make your small house pets lethally obese.

Theatre

Maybe one day...

Really, it could easily be argued that Chicago's theatre scene doesn't actually belong on my list, seeing as how I have had no chance to experience it. And that is the exact reason why it is on my list. Despite the incredible shows coming through and being previewed in this town, I have seen zero. Because Chicago is a big rich pile of greedy bitches. Student rush or discount previews are nowhere to be found. Free Theatre Week? Don't make them laugh - they may choke on their $20 martinis and have to wipe the mess off their chins with some extra hundies. Assholes.

But on the other hand, there's an incredible and sometimes free or nearly free comedy scene. So at least there's that.

Location

That's it.

The Midwest is . . . so bland. So very bland. And flat. Sometimes I think I see a mountain and my heart soars, and then I realize it's just a low cloud. I've read of beautiful camping in Wisconsin and seen photos of a lovely property in northern Michigan. But Illinois has . . . very easy biking terrain. Growing up in the West, I had developed a very romanticized understanding of anything to my east. But I realize now I should have done a bit more research on my geography. Fore while I did in fact move east, I didn't get quite far enough for the romanticism I was looking for. There are no little colonial towns to visit on weekends. No spectacular leaves to watch shift during the fall. No histories of witch burnings or tea in harbors. Though, to be fair, we don't have nothing. Why, just the other day, Rickey and I got to see the actual bed that Lincoln died in (very short, poor guy). And there are museums for Hemmingway and Frank Lloyd Wright, I am told. So there's that.

The People

Chicago's poster child.

My birthday is in three days. I had been here for just over a month last year when my birthday came around, and my Bestie came out so I wouldn't be alone (and because she is the loveliest of souls). And I remember wondering what my next birthday would look like. What relationships I would have developed and how I would be celebrating and who with. And now here we are and I have a second partyless birthday to look forward. Please don't feel sorry for me, because that is not the result I am after. You see, under any normal circumstances I would be blaming myself and wondering if I am just an unloveable individual. But these are not normal circumstances, because I live in a city populated primarily by grumps and Mr./Mrs. Rudes. My best friends in this city are all men and are of the ages 29, 4, and 16 months. They are the best people I have found. Don't get me wrong, I have met other nice people. But these are the three I have put myself into and who have given just as much back to me. Over the year the friends I have made have moved (I don't blame you guys), decided to shit on our relationship (to each their own), or just never moved past acquaintance. This last one is the most common, and I get it. We are adults now and we have our own lives to deal with. It's always harder to make friends after school, where student and friend-finder are your two full time jobs. Anyway, my point is, people here overall are just rude. And mean. And there are so many of them! People shouting from car windows. Young men not standing to let the old woman sit on the train. People who don't hold a door open, or don't thank the person ringing them up, or don't at least say 'excuse me' as they shove past you on the street. Not good quality people, overall. (And please keep in mind how much I love people)

Beer

Another unique scent found on the CTA.

Maybe I'm just not looking in the right places, but it seems like most of the craft beers I get ahold of end up always being owned by a big monster company. And that bums me out. I want the small owned breweries. There are a few (read: one) that I have found. And I like it. But...is that it? There is a big selection I can get bottled from the midwest, so that's something. But if I'm in the mood for some local craft beer on tap, the list is always short and mostly the same. And you know what else I can get on tap? Old Style, Schlitz, PBR, Coors Miller Lite, and Bud. But, hey, at least I get to pay like I'm drinking a craft beer. And I'm also being hydrated more than if I were to drink a preferred brew, since it's all watered down piss. Bleh.

Wrigleyville

All drunk, I assure you.

And last but not least, Wrigleyville. The neighborhood surrounding Wrigley Field is that of a massive Frat House that has busted a seam and spewed forth a flood of drunk bros and hammered woo girls all mixed together in a frothy, intoxicated human stew of promiscuity and terrible life choices. The stadium, while I am thankful to get a chance to experience this piece of history, is just that - a giant, crumbling piece of history. It would do better as a museum exhibit than a structure housing hundreds of drunk, stomping Cubs fans. I mean, it is ninety-nine years old, guys. And looks just like it. The scoreboard is still manual, the walls are covered in ivy, and the seats are a terrible, peeling metal. It is bursting with charm, I'll admit. But as a professional stadium, it sure isn't doing anyone any favors.

Surrounding the stadium is what feels like miles and miles of sports bars and souvenir shops. Each bar is the same: oozing past legal capacity with drunks who are all overpaying for watered down beers and just one more shot away from a brawl. Though I will admit, I found a kick-ass used bookstore in the area - a silent oasis, as no Cubs fan (but I) would follow up a winning game with a calming stroll among forgotten paperbacks and an entire circus section. Yeah, that totally happened. But what is the worst about these bars - and every bar in this city - is happy hour is an obsolete thing. It's a joke. You want me to elbow my way through your crowded, sweaty bar to pay five bucks for a warm PBR that will in an hour's time reign terror on my innards? You must be mistaken.

So there you have it, Rickey. I have dug deep and found rage within me that would have otherwise sat smothered by my optimism. Now I have to surround myself with joyful thoughts and craft beers to bring my cheer back up to a normal range.

Oh, one more!

Chicago Style Pizza

Gross.

It's disgusting.

Chicago: Take Two

The greatest lesson I have learned since my transplant to Chicago is this: We may become victims of our circumstances, but we never have to stay victims of our circumstances. If we persevere, we can overcome most anything. But first, an explanation of my four-month absence:

Shortly after my last blog post, my character was unjustly attacked by Bee. Do you remember Bee? The, up until that point, kind old lesbian who let me rent a room? Well, she turned out to be a crazy. She told me that I was "the original party girl," and that I was going to end up getting all of our stuff robbed because I had a boyfriend... Tough to follow? Yeah, I thought so, too. It all came down to her being upset because when I cleaned the bathroom, I didn't clean it well enough. Does the connection between those two things make any sense to you? No? That's exactly right.
Moving forward a couple more months. I have been doing my best to clean extra. I not only clean up after myself, but I find myself following behind my other roommate and making sure she hasn't left any messes around, because I have a building anxiety that Bee will blame me for anything. It is now the week before Christmas, and I am miserable. I miss my family and my friends. And, because of Bee's new crazy rules, I can't even see Rickey on a steady basis. WARNING: This is where my life becomes a terrible Lifetime movie subject. Bee sits us down for a roommate meeting, which I was told was going to be about her extended absence over the winter months, when she spends most of her time at her cottage in Michigan. Suddenly, she is taking out half a dozen liquor bottles and telling me I need to move out. Her liquor is watered down and clearly the only explanation is that Rickey and I are both thieving drunks. Never mind the fact that he and I don't drink liquor, and when we have wanted to have a drink, we have always brought wine or beer into the apartment ourselves. And never mind the fact that since that liquor was purchased in 2009 (she labels everything she buys with a date), she has rented to numerous other girls, many under age and unable to purchase liquor for themselves. She tells me that I have two days to get out. She also pulls out a list of my family members' names, phone numbers, and home addresses, threatening to call them all and tell them what a mess I was making of my life. She tells me that she's already talked to the landlord (later I learned that was a lie) and he will call the cops if he sees Rickey on the property at all. She tells me that she's also talked to our old roommate (I soon learned that was a lie as well) and told her what I had done, so I couldn't start bad mouthing Bee on Facebook. At this point, I am completely panicked. On the one hand, I know that neither Rickey nor I had taken anything (even if it was him, he was never alone in my apartment long enough to consume that much. And even if he did have the time. . . I'm not a moron. I would notice if my boyfriend was suddenly drunk), but on the other, I have absolutely nobody to go to, anywhere to go to, or any money to get there. I am absolutely panicked that I am going to be homeless in Chicago five days before Christmas. But wait! Oh, the Great and Gracious Bee is willing to make an agreement. If I write out a formal apology to both roommates for being such a massive fuck up, and if I agree to pay her back for every bottle of liquor (she had already looked up the prices = $125), and if I agreed to never have a visitor over (even mutual friends could never be my guests. They had to be the other roommate's guests.  And there goes Andrea visiting me next month...), and if I agree to stay at least until April, then I don't have to move out. But if I break any of these rules, I don't get two days to pack. I am out that day. But, the Great and Gracious Bee won't make me pay for her two missing earrings - which is so kind of her, considering I have never even seen the inside of her bedroom.
And so that's where I have been. Stuck as a prisoner in my own home. Not knowing who I could trust - who would believe me. And momentarily letting myself believe that maybe Chicago was right about me, and I was a horrible, wretched person who steals and lies and sleeps around. Oh wait, No I'm not! I'm me. I'm Kalah. I'm kind and my life is full of wonderful, beautiful people encouraging my dreams every day. They know who I am. They have seen me at my best and worst. Not this controlling, lying, bully. And so I began to make changes. I wouldn't be able to move out without a security deposit, and there was no telling whether she would even hand that over if I stayed through until April. I needed to make more money. So I got a nanny job. And then I needed to move so my life wouldn't be so miserable after I left work every day. I wanted to get out before I would have to give Bee rent for March. On February 28th, Rickey and I went early to look at a place. Got the keys, rented a ZipVan, packed my things in a record 1 hour, and left that pit of despair behind. If you ever wondered what freedom looked like, it is this right here:

And now we live in a neighborhood called Albany Park. I am pleased with it because it puts me closer to work and we are mere blocks from a pretty good Thai place. Our roommate is best described as Dan Armerding, if Dan were heavily medicated by every pill developed for overactive children. He's a lighting designer, which delights the theatre nerd inside me to an immense degree. The stress level in my life has decreased by about 1000% since moving, and I no longer cry every night. So all in all, things are looking up. Other factors in my life that are the opposite of soul-sucking include:


My Boy:

Two great guys

Rickey Eugene Kessinger. He has been the only thing keeping me from crawling back, drenched in tears and shame, to Seattle. He has talked me into giving Chicago a second chance, now that I no longer am suffering under the control of that C U Next Tuesday. He has encouraged my writing and turned me on to good books. He does my laundry while I'm at work and scrubs the tub so I can take a bath after a long day. And he has stopped drinking crappy beer since meeting me. So, really, I think we are a win-win for one another.







My Job:
I get to hang out with two cool guys all day. That is literally my job summery. They are both excellent, super smart, very respectful kids. And such positive attitudes! Finn just turned four and Owen is fifteen months. Man, they are cool kids. My day pretty much goes like this: I show up and we play for two hours. Then snack. Then play some more, go to a class or the library, lunch. Owen naps while Finn and I play quiet games. Then snack. Then Owen wakes up and we all play for another hour and I go home. BAM! And, here's the zinger: I get paid to do this!

Owen. So, so bundled.

Finn and the zoo, two of my favs.

So all that is to say: If your life is shit, just work to make it better. This has been Kalah Mazac, reporting from Chicago. Over and out.

Six Month Anniversary

Today marks my sixth full month as a Chicago resident. Can you believe it? The heat has fled, the leaves are on the ground and I've settled in to my first Illinois autumn. True, it's only been half a year, but I can already tell that Chicago will always have a piece of me. Literally. I'm having my gallbladder removed next week.

I'm going to take a moment here to recap on my Chicago extravaganzas thus far. Come along, will you?

THE FRIENDS:
Chicago's got 'em, and I took 'em. I have been extremely blessed with the most absurd group of friends, and continue to find some real gems. From coworkers to classmates to mere strangers, I have managed to gather quite a lovely collection. I have friends willing to drive me to the E.R. in the middle of the night, or drink some champagne in the middle of the day for no needed reason. Good people out here.

THE WRITING:
Classes are becoming more and more of a challenge, but isn't that the point? I'm finishing Writing 2 this week, with two satires and a parody (if my creative juices will allow it). And into Writing 3 the following week - which will put me almost half way through the program. Holla! But more importantly than the writing, I am meeting some absolutely outstanding people. People whose brains work in ways I cannot even fathom. I love these surroundings.

THE BOY:
Yes, Chicago has given me one of these, too. He is funny and he is a weirdo and his name is Rickey. He will probably start writing classes at Second City soon and be much better at it than me, with his English degree and his super brain. But I'll look past this, because my heart is so kind and his face is so handsome.

THE JOB:
It's the worst.

And that about sums it up, folks. Six months and living the midwestern dream. GO BEARS!

"It's all for you, Damien."

Okay, let us sum up my current situations. But first, Disclaimer: I am currently medicated, so mind the gap.

The spawn of the Devil is currently residing within my gallbladder. I think he's put up shelves and hung some pictures. That hurtful little bastard thinks he's sticking around for a while. But I've got news for you, Damien. Come October, and with it my health insurance, eviction is inevitable.

I blew my knee out Monday night. I don't want to get too detailed, but if you're dying for an explanation you can Youtube a dance move titled "the cat daddy," and combine that with me in my kitchen at midnight, listening to some very uncat daddy tunes. But this time was far worse than any other knee blow out, so despite being uninsured for twelve more days, I hobbled to the ER for the second time in a month. Good grief. My doctor, who will henceforth be referred to as The Medical Man of My Dreams, was very kind and very sympathetic about my financial binds and blah blah blah, I'm having trouble maintain a thought long enough to complete its sentence... Anyway, I've now got a pair of crutches, two bottles of ibuprofen, and some pain killers, which will henceforth be referred to as My New Best Friends. And with the help of My New Best Friends, instead of having a wobbly knee that feels like a constant throb and stab, I now have a knee that feels as though it's perpetually in that weird state of when a body part falls asleep, but right before the little needles go to work to wake it back up. Am I making any sense here?

So I've been thinking . . . You ever see that Stephen King movie, Misery? Remember when Cathy Bates breaks his ankle so all he can do is lay in bed or write? Well, since I can't even get onto my bed (it's a loft and involves climbing a painter's ladder), and my book has gone missing (I'm trying my best not to flip out about that), all I have now is my computer. Perhaps the cat daddy is my Cathy Bates, and now I have no choice but write. Get it?

And now our favorite segment: More Things Chicago Has Taught Me:

• Don't take your book to a sports bar. The bartender will confiscate it.
• The Emergency Rooms in this city are far, far less terrifying in the middle of the day on a Tuesday than they are at midnight on the weekends.
• Not every park has tables. Plan your picnics wisely.
• Words words words. I can't think anymore.

Well, shoot. I can't write with My New Best Friends! Looks like it's just going to me, them, and all of these Boy Meets World reruns.

Not Dead Yet!

Welp, this is Chicago.  I have some friends, found a few favorite restaurants and bars and am generally always aware of which direction I'm facing.  So all in all, I'm a Chicagoan now.  Holla. It's been a tad past four months, and I've, for the most part, set up shop. I have regular patterns in life here with work, friends, and classes. Ah yes, classes. Remember those? What I came here to do?

I finished Writing 1 a couple weeks ago. That's right, I am $300 poorer, but oh, what I have to show for it! Eight weeks and five scripts later, I have solidified the proper spelling of my name, learned correct script formatting, and now unwillingly possess the detailed knowledge of what would happen if a human being were to take a shit on the moon. So, Writing 1: check.

Writing 2 I just started two days ago. It's a Sunday afternoon class is a room much smaller but also with far more comfortable chairs. Already, with just the leap from Writing 1 to Writing 2, we've begun to separate the quitters from the desperately dedicated. Walking into the tiny, dim room, I got my first real taste of the minority roll I'll be playing in my ideal line of work. In a class of 14 people, I am one of three girls. It's like stepping through the SPU looking glass. Everyone seems to already know each other, coming from the same Writing 1 class. But that's cool, because I know the instructor from my Writing 1 class. That's right, Kalah's only friend is the teacher. Fifth grade all over again. Winning.

I look a bit of an outsider here...

Friends!

Friends: They're wonderful. I even live with one now! She moved in a couple months ago, and it's been most swell, indeed. They're fun people who I know care about me. I know this from the very bottom of my heart. But . . . I've seemed to have left said heart behind, leaning on one of the many sloping sidewalks of Seattle. It's been very hard for me, recognizing that life goes on without me, and realizing that I would rather be there for that. Of course I'm not going to throw in the towel so soon, but that hasn't stopped me from vividly daydreaming about moving back to Seattle. To what? Be a barista from the rest of my life while all my darling friends become more successful at being adults. That'd just be weird for everyone, wouldn't it? Anyway, to make a long story shot (I won't even try to delve into my egg white / egg yolk theory here. It'd just be an incoherent mess without the proper diagrams), I've been very sad lately. I just cried, right before writing this. I'm talking, uncontrollable sobs. And the real upsetting part of that is that I can pinpoint no real reason why. It just . . . happened. I have a leak somewhere, I suppose.




Anyway, here are some new things Chicago has taught me:

• Try to avoid riding the train when severely ill / severely intoxicated. There are no trash cans to deposit one's vomit, nor is there any emergency stop button. You're in a tube in a tunnel full of other humans. Please don't put anyone through that.
• Dim sum is not ever good. This is a personal preference, but a lesson I've learned nonetheless.
• It is legal, and even encouraged, to bring your own alcoholic beverages to about 40% of all Chicago restaurants. And it's pretty awesome.
• Wisconsin is very close, but still not as close as you'd think.
• Don't go to a standup show unless you're prepared to clap, like, 80% of the time. If you don't, you're just going to look like an asshole. And more importantly, they need that, man. They're like Tinkerbell. If we don't clap, their ambition and livelihood will shrivel up and die. Brave souls up there. Brave souls.
• Friday night in a Chicago emergency room is surely one of the innermost layers of hell. I found myself wedged between a drug addict screaming threats in Satan's voice, and a kid who CUT HIS FOOT OFF. There was no foot left. So please, lets all do our very best to stay out of those Chicagoland ERs.
• For the right price, you can have pretty much anything delivered to your doorstep.

So, Chicago. I'm sure it will start to get better as soon as it lets up being 180 degree with 190% humidity. Yeah, that'd probably lighten my mood quite a bit. And, you know, if I'd just stop complaining so much and write some more.

Second City for the First Timers

Once upon a time, in the greenroom tucked under the SPU theatre building, I heard two very important words for the first time in my life.  Trittany Bipton spoke that fateful duo, "Second City," and set my destiny-ball a'rollin'.

Saturday with be my first class, and today was my orientation.  I got to pass under those stone-faced arches and into that original stage that first premiered itself in 1959.  Holla!  There's really not much to say that would interest many - it was just your typical, run of the mill orientation.  The artistic director walked us briefly through a general outline of Second City as a theatre and then we broke up by program where the head of the writing department outlined the different stages and course information.  Also, this building is like a labyrinth, with dozens of ramps, escalators, and stunted staircases between you and wherever you're trying to go.  So, that was tons of fun for my hangover . . .

Really, I'm just writing this to express, again, how extremely thankful I am to finally be here.  Thankful for my friends and family for all of their phenomenal support, thankful for my two years worth of tax returns that eventually financed my move, and thankful to God, for giving me an ambition and talents that pair so well, as well as an undeserved degree of extreme confidence.

In conclusion, the best sentence from said orientation: "Take the work seriously, but don't take yourself too seriously."