The Giving-Up Tree
That's the new title of the 20th Generation's show. I hope it makes you smile.
I just submitted a cover letter and resume to the ACLU. Wild, eh?
It was 65 degrees today, and the thing about the 60's--fahrenheit, that is--is that it starts turning all the happy chemicals on in the brain and you fall in love with school all over again. My Thinking With Stories class is held in a long wood-paneled room that is way too small to hold the 50-some people clamoring to get in, so I got to sit on a side table by a cracked window, catching the breeze from the Midway, listening to this old professor with Frankenstein teeth talk about the structuralism of New England gravestones.
Some of us performed a benefit show last night for the Dance Marathon benefitting AIDS research, and it turned out to be one of the best long-form sets people ever saw us do. That included the game of Kaleidoscope in which I was designated by the audience to play Gary Sinise, who turned out to have a Sixth "Sinise" Sense for sniffing out great martinis and deadly terrorist plots. In the end, it was revealed that I wasn't Gary Sinise, but the evil Gary Sinister. Up to this point, I never have this much fun when I'm performing outside of school, and though I love improvisation fiercely, I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever get so much improv fulfillment out of anything else besides Off-Off.
In the meantime, my first clown class (perhaps predictably) changed my life. Our instructor (who is one-third of 500 Clown) gave us this talk which was all about clown as a way of life and not just performance, and how it's a medium of discovery/rediscovery of the material and emotional world, and I sat there thinking, "What the hell am I doing spending my time fretting about 'job security' and 'career performance'?"
Clowns don't write resumes. Clown is the Anti-Metcalf.
That's the new title of the 20th Generation's show. I hope it makes you smile.
I just submitted a cover letter and resume to the ACLU. Wild, eh?
It was 65 degrees today, and the thing about the 60's--fahrenheit, that is--is that it starts turning all the happy chemicals on in the brain and you fall in love with school all over again. My Thinking With Stories class is held in a long wood-paneled room that is way too small to hold the 50-some people clamoring to get in, so I got to sit on a side table by a cracked window, catching the breeze from the Midway, listening to this old professor with Frankenstein teeth talk about the structuralism of New England gravestones.
Some of us performed a benefit show last night for the Dance Marathon benefitting AIDS research, and it turned out to be one of the best long-form sets people ever saw us do. That included the game of Kaleidoscope in which I was designated by the audience to play Gary Sinise, who turned out to have a Sixth "Sinise" Sense for sniffing out great martinis and deadly terrorist plots. In the end, it was revealed that I wasn't Gary Sinise, but the evil Gary Sinister. Up to this point, I never have this much fun when I'm performing outside of school, and though I love improvisation fiercely, I'm beginning to wonder if I'll ever get so much improv fulfillment out of anything else besides Off-Off.
In the meantime, my first clown class (perhaps predictably) changed my life. Our instructor (who is one-third of 500 Clown) gave us this talk which was all about clown as a way of life and not just performance, and how it's a medium of discovery/rediscovery of the material and emotional world, and I sat there thinking, "What the hell am I doing spending my time fretting about 'job security' and 'career performance'?"
Clowns don't write resumes. Clown is the Anti-Metcalf.
1 Comments:
You've been blogging again for almost a month and you didn't tell me?! Well, just remember that I want a t-shirt.
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