The Naked Comedy Blog

7 ODES TO MY NEW COMEDY PARTNER

2023-07-07T11:50:00.000-07:00

Dear SOLOSLUT Forum:

I never thought this would happen to me.

She walked in the door like the beginning of a music video: emerging from the California smog, in a pink bodysuit and giant faux fur coat. I remember thinking, Who is THAT?

Because she looked like she was walking into a hip hop song and not a clown class. And then she slaughtered the whole workshop, just crazy funny and fearless and smart, and barely five feet tall, and everyone was like, Who is THIS? I’ll tell you. It was Brooke Sciacca.

And it still is Brooke Sciacca. Brooke is my new comedy partner.

Brooke and I started working together student/ teacher style in March 2019—that’s when she took an Oakland workshop of mine, then School for Comedy Beasts, then we hosted the 2019 Sh’Bang Fest Water show together (she was the scientist, I was the sea creature), then she took my pandemic Zoom classes, then I started directing her future solo show, then she performed in my Sh’Bang Melodrama Gang 2022 and we hosted that Sh’bang Burlesque show, so you know—it all felt pretty organic and gradual. We had a great rapport from the get-go, but we also became friends and started to just amuse the fucking shit out of each other all the time. Getting ready for the Burlesque show at midnight, in the woods, by the light of the trunk of my car, losing makeup compacts, dripping frosting, laughing so hard our faces wet with tears. I just think Brooke is the funniest person. She makes me feel like I’m at a preteen sleepover, all the time.

So since the fall 2022 we’ve been working on a duo show, which is debuting at Edmonton Fringe 2023 at the Grindstone Comedy TheatRE. “RE” for “REAL CANADIAN FRINGE y’ALL.” I’m coming back, baby.

How do you do it.

How do you lump along down there

A tiny little lightning bolt

(said five-one-and-three-quarters to five-flat)

Sweet when I’m salty, up when I’m down—

Your “everything happens for a reason” to my “everything dies in agony”

And yet, under the San Juan Island stars at night, after killing a show together…

Lying on our backs on the patio,

Eating the remains of a sticky bun

Complete, at peace, perfect—

Oh, shit, it all sounds so romantic—when I put it like that…

But it is! In the least sexual way you can imagine—I mean, uh, the most sexual way. Get Ready Edmonton, because you’re going to see some HOT SEXUAL CHEMISTRY right up under your face! I didn’t say “least sexual” up there! I said most! Moist!

Anyway, Brooke and I can be very sexual and ridiculous and risk-free with each other because there’s no actual romance between us. Unless you count finding a comedy partner as a romantic thing. Which I do! So what are we talking about.

I think my point here is that I found it very satisfying to be a solo interactive performer for ten years, but it was also isolated. More on that here. And it feels really nice to feel totally unambiguous about who you’re with. I mean, that’s just true in all relationships. But I wondered if I’d be a solo diva for life, and I’m just thrilled to feel right in a duo.

I know a lot of solo artists. I think that’s because it’s the best financial model—really, the only financial model if you need to make a living and aren’t famous or from the moneyed classes. And personally, just between us, it was lonely for me. It was unsustainably lonely. I had to settle down and get a wife and kid. I love performing, but I love stability and routine more.

But being in the right duo is amazing. It’s definitely more relaxed. It’s definitely more fun. Do you know what it’s like to go on an international airplane flight with your comedy partner and you’re both in drag and shooting footage on the plane all jet lagged and slap happy? The pasta dinner? Surprisingly delicious! Those sideways escalators? Super fun! That weird half-asleep swollen ankle feeling? Badge of courage, baby! Everything’s a gas!

And I am freaking out way less than I would be, because I trust her. I know how funny she is, I know how the crowd eats her up, I’m safe. I can feel all my feelings, and so long as I stay with the audience with my feelings and breathe into them, it’s all going to go great! And that’s a chillness that is unusual for me. Usually I have recurring failure dreams in which everyone hates my shows and workshops. But my dreams about our new show are usually like, “hmm, we’re totally unprepared, but the show is sold out somehow.” I’ve never had more optimistic dreams. Don’t worry, in the dreams, it’s still not actually a good show. I could never be that optimistic.

Making a show with someone who likes the same flavors and styles and fantasies is de rigeur. Brooke and I are old-timey diva kings who vibe vintage and icon and classique. We like cardigans and slicked back hair on our off days, we like pennies in our loafers. That is to say, oof, hard to describe, but the same fantasies tickle us, the same details delight us. We both drool quite a bit, when it’s going well.

Clown is wet, Giovanni Fusetti says.

Working with Brooke helps me to clarify what my vibe is when I get to just live in my own fantasy. Broaches, velvet, ruffle sleeve, glam rock, Mid-Atlantic. Dapper as fuck. This is what it’s like to be in a band.

Yes, we’re making music videos.

It’s not the same now that I’ve got a family. Now I can’t just throw myself into my new show with Brooke and tour the Anglo-speaking world. I have to move slowly. But how delicious, divas, to be able to be moving forward with my performing practice! I love the fuck out of teaching and directing, it’s the absolute tits for me, but I know my teaching benefits from a continuous return to the stage to see how it is to practice what I preach.

Brooke is patient and has enough else going on to take it at my speed. Talk about gentlemanly.

I thought I was an old dog, Brookie. I thought I was going to be doing the same Butt Kapinski trick til I died. I didn’t think that was so bad; I still love doing Butt of course, but I didn’t know if I had anything else to offer enough to charge admission and make a big stink on the socials etc. You gave me a reason to make a big stink all over the socials, girl. I’ve never been so proud to make a stinky, and it’s all because of you.

Also, toddlers make you think and talk about poop a lot. So if you actually weren’t thinking about poop in the above paragraph, and you are now, you’re welcome.

No, no, back to you Brooke. Seriously.

Dear Dylan,

You make me feel young again.

Full of breath, possibility.

That moment when we almost kissed on stage

But didn't

And the audience screamed.

All my love for our friendship

Our bond

Our comedy

In that space between our faces

Plus You always let me finish

The sticky bun

Yours forever,

Vincent.

THE (IN)FERTILE ARTIST LIFE

2021-11-18T17:22:00.002-08:00

I have a pre-show ritual, and an exercise I give all my students and mentees, that involves falling. Basically, it’s about cultivating the experience of losing balance in the body, but catching yourself before you actually hit the ground. I do it, and teach it, to remind myself and others that the audience likes to see us off-balance, but also, we have all the skill we need to keep ourselves safe.

If everything goes the way it’s supposed to, I’m going to have a baby next week. I have spent a long time (WAY longer than most first time parents!) being childless, and now that I’m about to be child-having, and, indeed, while I still have a mind that can form complete sentences, I wanted to reflect a little bit about being an artist with a uterus that’s been both chronically empty and, now, pretty fucking full.

I can’t speak for other artists with uteruses, but I found the dilemma of having/not having a child butted up against my artistic life in challenging ways, for years. When my body was most capable of procreating, I watched friends of mine whom I considered artists have babies and, one by one, kinda give up their art. I swore that wouldn’t be me. I was searching, I needed time, I needed space, I was still learning what my art was, how best to give it to the world. If I had stopped the process and had a baby when I was “supposed” to, I couldn’t have found Butt Kapinski, or my teaching/directing practice, or done all the touring–I don’t think any of it would’ve happened for me. Nonetheless...

NOT HAVING A KID WAS REALLY HARD. Especially if you have a uterus—I mean, maybe this has changed, or is changing, but the pressure (from within and without) to procreate was no joke. I think a lot of people assume that either you have a kid, want to, or totally don’t, and it’s all super clear. And that just wasn’t the case for me at all. I spent so many years being conflicted about it—first, decrying the social pressure and choosing to focus on my artistic path, and then, when that was more established, suddenly losing a life partner I thought I’d maybe have a kid with, then, experiencing the grief about what felt like a lack that I couldn’t figure out how to solve… slowly unfollowing Facebook friends with babies, declining baby shower invites, finding myself with tears in my eyes just hanging out with someone else’s cute kid or watching people be parents on TV. The pain was intense and isolating, for years.

And then when I got a (much better) life partner and started trying again, the process of having it not work was horribly depressing, and overwhelming. The tests, the results, the biological realities of what it’s like trying to get pregnant in your 40’s—which you tell yourself maybe you’ll be the exception, maybe your biology is special, but, you know, turns out it’s not—the choices available to you in the fertility industry, the promises dangled—gauzy photos of babies in grateful arms—the lack of real guidance available, the price tags you couldn’t have predicted.

Ultimately, I found it pretty hard not to have a kid, and I know it’s hard for many others, too, whether they’re ambivalent, or whether it hasn’t worked yet, or didn’t work. I bet it’s hard to have a kid, too, but I can’t speak to that part yet.

PEOPLE LIKE YOU MORE WHEN YOU PROCREATE AND THAT’S WEIRD.

People smile at you more when you’re obviously pregnant, they’re way nicer to you, which, frankly, I find a little annoying. Why are you being nicer to me than you should just be anyway? Shouldn’t you be as nice to me whether I look pregnant or not? Who knows what someone’s going through who doesn’t look like a giant butterball? Why save your kindness for the turkey?

It feels like there’s a way that being pregnant makes sense to people, people of all ages and walks of life, in the way that just being a childless grownup wandering around in the world just doesn’t. I realize that a lot more people-on-the-street are going to find me relatable, which on one hand is nice—it isn’t always fun to be a freaky artist in a normal’s world—but on the other hand, just makes me mad. Why is this the thing that’s going to make me a relatable human?

ALSO, GENDER IS WEIRD.

In case you haven’t heard, gender is weird, and our culture is obsessed with it. So many people ask me What are you having? as if there’s a question what species my child belongs to. When I tell them my child is afab (but obviously I say, “girl” because anyone who asks what are you having may not effortlessly roll with afab), they squeal with glee as if that was absolutely the right answer. What were they going to do if I said “boy,” rend their garments and wail? Probably just squeal with glee also, right? So what fricking difference does it make? I imagine that gender identity just makes the baby more real to people, like, okay, now it’s a person I can envision. But, again, that just goes to show how weird we are. Pregnancy, too, is pretty annoyingly gendered. I had a good time being a little liminal in my child-free state, but now that I’m very obviously pregnant, suddenly I’m getting called Mom and Mama all over town. Early in my pregnancy I was especially pissed about these gummy candies I saw advertised that were supposed to help with nausea: they were pink and had some cutesy-ass name like Mommy Tummy or Cunty Tummy Drops and I was just like, oh shit, is this what I’m reduced to? Some pink-frock-wearing gummy-guzzling cutesy-ass fembot? Is this the life I’ve chosen?

ALSO, IS MY CAREER OVER?

I’m not sure how working artists stay working artists when they have kids unless they have family wealth or a partner that supports them financially, or they make way more money than I do with their art. In fact, I’m not sure I know any working artists who have stayed working artists without at least one of those things. Or I don’t know many. So I’m not sure how it’s going to go for me.

My artistic life has been my greatest joy, my catharsis, my journey, my thing. My students, the people I’ve directed, the audiences, their faces shine in front of me in the glowing tapestry I’ve been so lucky to be swaddled by, for years. What’s going to happen to me now? Will all my gigs dry up because everyone’ll be like oh she’s a breeder now leave her alone? Will having a kid make me irrelevant? Will I even have time, space or energy to create the way I did? My art has been my identity, for a really long time. It’s scary to contemplate what’s there when that isn’t.

I tend to soothe myself with affirmations like how creativity doesn’t die, it just changes forms. And that my own creative path will find a way. And that we really don’t know what the future holds, and we can stay open to the possibility that it will be OK. All that.

But, yeah, I don’t know.

I have worked a long time toward being a parent. The fact that it is (most likely) about to happen is amazing, and humbling, and overwhelming. But it doesn’t change who I’ve been for years, what I’ve done, and how much that still really matters to me. It’s hard to say goodbye to a life that I've loved, that I’ve been almost totally-fulfilled by, in favor of such an unknown.

And so I practice falling, in my heart. I play with the balance and lack of balance, the endings and beginnings, the deaths, and now, the births, all of it, that make up this dumb clown act we apparently call life.

Wishing myself, and you, reading this, resilience in the face of transformation.

See you on the other side.

THE COCKTAIL OF CHARACTER

2021-06-08T11:55:00.002-07:00

It’s been a little too long since I’ve paid 18$ for a cocktail truly worthy—as worthy as any beverage could be—of being 18$ (plus tax and tip). You know, one of those splash-of-this, dropper-of-that, rind-rubbed, delicate-garnished situations that comes in a frosted tumbler with a napkin and a deep bow, which you enjoy in a dimly-lit faux-speakeasy to the sound of saxophones. I miss those cocktails.

But I've been facilitating character workshops this pandemic, and it’s made me really consider where successful, lasting characters come from, and maybe, hopefully, how to make them. As you start to plan your re-entry into performing live, as you entertain the characters kicking around in your soul, I’d love to share with you what I’ve garnered so far.

At first I thought it would be cool to use a cocktail metaphor all the way through. I, who know very little about cocktails except how to drink them, did some research and looked up the components of a cocktail and thought, You are very clever, Deanna, because you will employ a handy analogy for people to think about character creation, AND help everyone review how to make a decent cocktail at the same time.

This self-satisfaction, as you will soon see, did not last.

THE SPIRIT. So the first component of all cocktails is the “base spirit,” which means, Mom, the main liquor. You can see why I was excited about this analogy at first. The SPIRIT of the character! Double meaning! This is already genius!

We all have impulses, lots of impulses for characters. They come from our brains and we think, “That could be funny.” And maybe it could be. But the truth is, the best characters come from who we already are, and from what we know in our own spirits. If your character isn’t originating from deep inside you, it’s just not going to be as good. Like, I sometimes dream about doing a character who’s breezy and moves lightly through the world not giving a shit, but no one would believe me. My characters are pretty much all control freaks, because guess what.

Everyone wants to feel unfettered by who they are sometimes, and sure, live your truth. But I think the characters that really stick with audiences do so because they’re deeply personal. They are valentines that performers have crafted to their own pockets of secret truth, the parts they are shyest to show you outright. So I say, when it’s time to craft your character, go to the top shelf of your personal soul-bar, and use that special-occasion spirit you’ve been saving. The one that tastes so much like you that you’re a little embarrassed by it. You know the one.

THE MODIFIER. According to my extensive 10 minutes of googling, the second element of cocktails is the “modifier,” which adds dimension to the base spirit. This is kinda working for my analogy. I mean, I do advocate modification to your base. Just-the-base-ma’am naturalism is not my particular interest. There are plenty of people who go for that kind of naturalism in their characters, and sure, live your truth. Myself, I like to focus on characters who take cabarets by storm and can hold a room in their thrall for a full-length show—characters who come on stage and everyone immediately goes, Whoa what is THAT. Characters you would either cross the street to avoid, or surrender all your worldly possessions to. Characters who can’t exist in our dumb normal world. Who can only live in our dreams and nightmares.

So if we want to use cocktail parlance, your character is a modified version of your spirit. But I would say that the word modified just isn’t strong enough, that really, it’s a heightened version. This is where the cocktail comparison I was initially so proud of just starts to seem lame.

Heightening starts with physicality. Your character should be Extra, taking up more energetic space than a normal person does. The way you particularly heighten your own physicality is unique to you. When I’m coaching, I like to get a sense of how someone naturally moves, and then see if they can go even further in that direction to the point of riveting watchability. Simultaneously, I like to push someone to move in a way that does not feel natural for them, as sometimes that can end up feeling even more rivetingly watchable, and at the very least be a way to enrich a character’s general movement pattern.

It’s not usually that hard, especially with a performer who has some movement training and sense of their own body, to create a fun movement vocabulary that communicates a lot about a character and is bewitchingly Extra. The challenge is almost always when it comes time to talk.

See, we all talk, talk all the damn time. Talking is normal. And so, it’s sometimes hard for our mouths and voices to figure out how to talk in a special way. But it’s essential that we do that, because just like we want audiences to go whoa as soon as they see us, we want them to go Whoa WHOA WHOA! when we start to verbally communicate. Again, the special way of talking is super unique to the individual performer. Sometimes it’s about enunciating your words more, or going in the other direction to mush-mouthed. It can be finding a different vocal range to inhabit: higher, lower, or a combination. It might be about holding the jaw or lips in a way that changes the way words come out. Someone I know—actually me—has been known to employ speech impediments or difficult-to-place accents. With these, it’s often best to stick to accents or impediments that are personal and based on what our bodies/mouths deeply know.

And speaking of speaking, even when we find a fun way to speak, actually generating text can be difficult too. We are too used to generating text to communicate, we’re too used to being direct, to speaking in sentences, prose. And prose just isn’t special. That is why I advocate poetry when it comes time for a character to communicate. Poetry takes itself seriously, it takes up space on the page, it is unafraid to pause dramatically mid-idea, to be playful with language. And because we’re not used to speaking in poetry, improvising in character, with poetry, tends to produce some deep, surprising things. Our characters reclaim some of that youthful pretentiousness, back when we all thought our ideas mattered. We want our characters to be like that, convinced of themselves. That is a key to their specialness. That might make an audience, full of cynical, self-conscious prose-speakers, sit up and take note.

THE ACCENT/COLOR/FLAVOR. The final element crucial to cocktails has been called, depending on what website you’re on, accent, color, flavor—or flavour if you’re British. This is where I start to kinda regret the cocktail thing. I mean, it’s gotten us this far, so I guess we’re sticking with it. But it’s reductive, it's trite, and I’m a little sorry.

No, you know what? I'm not giving up on this cocktail analogy! I can do something with this accent/color/flavor thing! This can be about style, about aesthetics and world. What world does the character live in? What genre, what decade, what milieu? I often ask people when they’re constructing a fresh character, what movies and music do they love? Sometimes the music or movies that really do it for us when we’re young, for example, can be exuberant, sweetly sincere places from which to build a character’s world.

Also, what skill set or knowledge base does the performer already have, that could make a more run-of-the-mill character stand out? For example, I worked with one performer who was doing a fedora-clad, Sinatra-loving, Rat Pack wannabe kind of dude, who sometimes tossed off a quip about chakras and alignment, because the performer herself happened to be an acupuncturist. That made for a fresh character with some really fun surprises.

So, okay, the accent/color/flavor thing actually worked out fine. Relief.

But according to my cocktail websites, that’s the end of the line when it comes to elements of a cocktail, and I don’t think I’m quite done. You see my conundrum. I’ll just add this one more:

THE SPECIFICITY. There are 10$ cocktails and there are 18$ cocktails, and the difference is in the details. For 10$, they’ll shove a shot of something with a fizzy juice and maybe a slice of citrus and there you go. For 18$, they will have considered the type of glass that will look most comely with your drink inside it. They will have smoked the inside of that glass, or salted or fruited one side of the rim. They will have assembled a bamboo swizzle-stick with several delicate slabs of contrasting garnishes. The ice cube will seem advanced, as if the water from which the ice originated was molecularly arranged for maximum wetness. The cocktail itself will blend several itsy-bitsy amounts of herbal extracts you have not heard of: seductively medicinal, French. When you sip this cocktail, you will feel incredibly expensive, and your mouth and soul will rejoice in one harmonic sounding of pure Art.

Obviously, you want your character to be the expensive cocktail, and so, you have to make choices. More choices, and more after that. One of the pitfalls I see performers fall into sometimes is just that they haven’t made enough choices. They’ve considered the drink but not the glass, and certainly not the rim. So make sure you focus on details when you’re building character. The placement of your feet. The angle of your hat. The way you turn. The more choices you make, the more your audience will feel pampered in artistic luxury. That leads to more applause and more people treating you to, well, at least 10$ cocktails.

But, hey, that’s a real start.

ON GRIEF AND G… GRA… GRATI…

2020-12-07T11:47:00.000-08:00

I lost Della Moustachella on October 18th in a car crash that was not her fault. She was one of my best friends and favorite collaborators. You know how it is when someone just gets you and you get them and you click away like chopsticks from the very first time you meet. We made a bunch of art together and sent each other a lot of personal fitness encouragement texts. She was into clown and drag and teaching and all my favorite things and she was one of the most special people I’ve ever known. Everyone who knew her will attest to this; everyone loved her fiercely, and the loss to my local performing community is fucking incalculable.

I’m not here to talk about Della right now. I’m barely able to accept that she’s dead. I haven’t deleted her from her #4 position on the “favorites” on my phone. I’ve only left one message on her voicemail since—it was last week and the bitch still hasn’t called me back.

What I’m here to talk about is—to be honest, I don’t know. When you have a blogging practice you just think you should probably blog once in a while. Maybe you’ll end up saying something trenchant which will help the children, or maybe it’s just for reps.

I smoked pot for the first time in my 20’s, and I felt all of a sudden like a foundational element of counterculture now made sense to me. Suddenly, I don’t know, I “got” something. Something about being cool and a little removed from reality, or a little more in touch with it, you know, whatever. The point is, it felt like a gateway toward understanding and connecting with more of my fellow early-21st century experiencers. Grief is kind of like that for me, even though it feels so personal and isolated. Losing someone so close to me, and so suddenly, has made me feel a kind of shiny silver connecting tube between myself and anyone else who’s ever lost anyone. It’s just so bad, and yet, so many people have gone through it and somehow come out on the other side. How the fuck do we do that?

Four days after her death, I taught a clown class. Then another and another. 5 days a week since she died I taught clown classes. There was nothing better I could’ve done. Also I’ve walked in nature a shit-ton, done a lot of cry-dancing, made/eaten ridiculously good food and watched obscene quantities of Rupaul’s Drag Race.

I’m very lucky that my classes are without exception full of incredible human beings, and I’m not blowing them up, they’re seriously all awesome. How did I get this lucky? How did I get this unlucky losing Della, you know? Luck is luck.

And it has been an incredible relief to stand in front of my laptop on its music stand, and watch people in their bedrooms and their living rooms just fucking giving it. In these home spaces, these crowded apartments, this square in front of coffee table, that red carpet, that sectional sofa, that window. To sentimental pop songs, to John Williams’s scores, zooming in, panning around, throwing themselves through the air. Free. In those tight spaces, those spaces not designed for wildness. There they are, wild.

So that’s been therapeutic. And it’s made me keenly aware of the power of giving it. Of giving it all. Of being willing to be your fierce and uncontrolled self for others to witness. You don’t know what their day has been like, their week, their year. Your wildness could change their life.

40 ZOOM SHOWS AND 40 ZOOM CLASSES LATER...

2020-07-25T20:21:00.000-07:00

It's not the same. It will never be the same. That said, there are possibilities.

I miss making people laugh, as I'm sure you do. I miss when something twinkling and different comes into someone's eye, or someone looks like they're farting silently, and you know you did that to them. I miss finding the funny and just nailing it to the wall, one more joke on the Great Wall of Human Idiocy, on which gloriously stupid jokes throughout time flutter deafeningly, like the wings of 20 million shitting seagulls.

I worry about people more talented than I, or less relatively-balanced than I, for whom making people laugh was medicine, and not getting it drags them down. I worry about my comedy artist sisters, brothers and in-betweeners losing their juice—their little dry comedy veins just twigs in a strong breeze, fluttering, feeling full of air and not much else.

I mean, that's how I feel too, sometimes. But I no longer feel like "if I can't do it just the way I want, then it's not worth doing at all." I feel like investing in my online teaching and performing will make me better at both. And this feels like growing up, artistically, if that makes sense. Like the art baby inside me—that has achieved a lot by crying and screaming until it got its way—is a preschooler now, and has some sense that a little compromise now and then could be all right.

Here's a thing I've learned: most of the opinions I held about comedic performance before the pandemic are simply facts now. And there's a ton of science to back me up. Coming forthwith.

Here are some of the data I've collected after a few months of playgroups, classes, and "shows." PREPARE FOR SCIENCE.

PLAY COMES THROOOOOOO, MAMA!

Let's define play as "something you do for fun."

Let's define fun as "an activity that causes amusement or pleasure."

Let's define amusement and pleasure as... oh fuck you get it.

We adults don't always know what fun is, even "cool" adults forget sometimes, or trick themselves into thinking they're having fun when they're actually not. Makes sense: a big part of growing up is learning that not everything that's worth doing is fun. Easy for us to get confused from time to time.

But in the virtual performance world, performers gotta be having some real, deep fun if they wanna reach the children. That fun has even farther to travel now to reach said children, and it has all these computers and personal spaces and thought-germs stuck in the middle. So that's even more obstacles than usual. If you are not a pig in shit, you're gonna lose 'em all.

So you better be a pig in shit when you're performing. You have to be. I mean, in my opinion you had to be a pig in shit before the pandemic, but now, it's not opinion anymore—it's just factually the absolute fact. You must be wallowing in your happiest place, in the warmest most-sun-kissed corner of your soul's pig-barn, at every performative moment. In order to reach any children, anywhere. There's a ton of science behind me on this. Doesn't this all sound like science?

HOW TO BE A PIG IN SHIT ON ZOOM!

Yes, I'm saying Zoom not digital online video platform. Know why? Because Zoom is the best. It is still annoying in certain ways, there are things it can't do, it wants my secrets for marketing purposes, whatever, it's still the best one out there right now. I've tried them all and you know what science says. Fact.

Okay, so in terms of being a pig on shit on Zoom, here's how I'm doing it: real carefully.

As in, I'm only doing the things I definitely 1000% wanna be doing on Zoom. I'm not taking any chances. I am taking super good care of my Inner Art Toddler and trying to give it alllll the cookies and none of the garbage-cookies.

That's taught me a lot about what kind of stuff I enjoy doing. Who would've guessed? A lot of sex-and- violence jokes and melodrama and dancing! Shocks!

Also, I'm doing a lot of 1-on-1. Solo and small group classes are great on Zoom, interactive experiences feel real on Zoom. My first run of Butt Kapinski 1-on-1 "shows" was super fun.

The word show is of course ridiculous and obsolete, unless we define show as "an entertaining experience that an audience member has purchased a ticket for." Even audience member is a problematic term now, when what I really mean is "paying collaborator." But whatever, Merriam-Webster. The point is, let's define My Zoom Shows as "heartfelt attempts to give one paying collaborator at a time a surprising, visually and auditorily-appetizing experience that makes them feel things (hopefully)."

For my "shows," I tried to think through my setup so that I was giving the "audience" some PRODUCTION VALUE GRRRRL. I had a "set" and I had "lights" and I had "sound." I've got a nice adjustable computer stand that I've had in my house for years and never needed until right now. I can angle it to put myself below the audience member, looking up at them, in keeping with my preferred angle when performing in real theaters. Ultimately, I've used a combination of technology available to me, and analog shit that feels DIY and down-home, which I frankly prefer. Mirrors, glasses, textures, wigs, puppets, liquids (towel on keys required). Good light.

Also fun for me is that I can now live out all my cinematic auteur fantasies without having to be in the movie industry. I love movies and sometimes wish, if I had another life.... but now presto! Mother Rona has given me the mandate to be the best clown auteur cinematographer I can possibly be, right away, no time for film school.

I did the shows in 4-chunk 25-minute sets, so 4 shows in two hours. It's more convenient in terms of costume, set up, etc. to do them chunked like that, but also I don't think I could have done more than 4 in a row because I got way too tired. It's a lot!

You wanna know what my "shows" were like without having bought a ticket? Have it your way, cheapskate. Often in my theater shows, I had an interaction that felt really special—I'd found an audience member who could really play with me, to the delight of the entire audience. It would only last a few minutes, of course, because I had a whole show to get through and an audience of people who also needed attention. So there was a bittersweetness when I really had such a moment with a total stranger. Our moment only lasted a few minutes, and then maybe I never saw them again.

So these Zoom shows were like I got to spend 25 minutes with an audience member like that. Someone who has signed up and prepared to play, and on whom I could lavish all my attention and really get deep with them.

It was dope!

It's not like doing a show. It's not like getting lots of laughs. There were a few people who laughed, and honestly, that felt amazing, and reminded me how good it feels and how I miss it and blah blah blah see above. But mostly, the participant was too focused on playing to laugh. They were making something with me, we were building it fast and furious, but still, it felt very intimate because we had to trust each other and work together. So it was thrilling, to have a relationship with an audience member like that— "the audience" fully participatory in MY fantasy. That's kinda the dream, bitches!

And then it's over, and that stranger and I will always have that tight 25.

Now that the first run of shows are done, I'd say what helped the most was having a character that I love, a good filter on my camera, and a desire to co-create with whoever was on the other side of the screen. Like I said, I'm pleased with it so far.

You don't get high, the way you do after a sold-out show, or hell, even half-sold-out. But high is temporary anyway, and low often follows. This is the most emotionally-sustainable performing I've done, perhaps.

Next, I'm working on a 5-day Butt Kapinski experience, still for one audience member at a time. I'm excited about it. In a mellow, but decidedly-jazzed way.

HOW TO BE A ZOOM PIG IN SHIT WITH OTHER PERFORMERS!

If you're a performer, perform. Yes even on Zoom. Do it. Figure it out. Get a buddy. You gotta stay in shape.

Don't watch other people doing it unless they beg you. It's 99.9% horrible. No, that's not fair. It's 99.9% mostly for the performers. But, hey, nothing wrong with that. See my point above. Performers gotta perform. Good on ya. Now let's just work at making it watchable.

To further illustrate my point, let's look at improv comedy (forgive me). If you have hung out with me in the last 20 years and asked me about my feelings about current improv comedy trends, (1) you wouldn't have done that; and (2) I would have told you that the big problem with improv comedians in the 21st century is often they're not working like theater artists, they're working like a tv writers' room. Everyone is standing around figuring out how to be clever as a team, and they absolutely succeed, in a way. King UCB's hammering of "find the game" to anyone who'd listen has taught modern improvisors that we shouldn't just be mucking around making a bunch of random choices. There are patterns to group cleverness. And good on us for learning that. But unfortunately, audience members still had to watch you when you were on stage—you know, back when stages. So you might've been "finding the game," but a lot of us were not working physically, spatially, rhythmically, or emotionally. And now that improv comedians are trying to work online, this is true times a million. Talking heads on Zoom is painful to watch, period. This is total science, at this point.

I'm going to make the argument that, so far, the only good improvised work I've seen on Zoom has felt more like funny experimental film, with creative use of the camera, angles, travelling, weird filters. Last week one of my students put his mouth on his computer's trackpad and gummed it for a moment, and that kinda blew my mind. Laptops and smaller devices are made for being moved around, for getting on top of, for spinning around. Yes I know it's precious electronicware. But also, nobody wants to watch you look like a normal person on Zoom. We need to see you act like an animal. See pig facts above.

And all the Viewpoints razz-a-ma-tazz? That works on Zoom. Working with music? That's nice. Narrate for someone else, or be the scenery they see when they walk. Close ups. Eat, put on lipstick. More closeups, way closer than you think. Embarrassing closeups. Fight scenes.

What to do about that pesky self-view? I mean, I guess you can turn it off, but working with it has definitely helped me develop my directorial eye. I've been dealing with myself on video for years now, so I'm less obsessed by it than I used to be. But you know, I like cultivating that cool, nonjudgemental, directorial view of my own work. I'm not asking myself, Do I look pretty enough? Do I look old/fat? I'm only asking, is this angle interesting? Or, oh, that's what I look like when I'm laughing! It's just nice information, and it's a process.

My big point here is, WERK THE MEDIUM. The medium is not your obstacle, it is your gift. USE THE MEDIUM.

Personally, I may be a pessimist who never thinks anything is going to go well, but I also believe in making the best of whatever shitty situation was inevitable anyway. This work can bolster our skill sets for when we do get back on stage, to play hard, to find joy, to work in 3 dimensions. This time off stage can be a time to develop new awarenesses and appreciations and everything. Or, at least it can be a pleasant diversion between jello layers.

HOW TO MAKE A LOT OF MONEY ON ZOOM!

hahahhahahahahhahahahahahahahahhahahahahahhahahahhahhahahahahahahahahhahahahahhahahahah

Sex work sounds lucrative right now.

I'm also considering an advanced degree. In sex work.

No, seriously, here's what's up: a lot of nice people still have jobs out there and they still need our goofy art. If what we offer them is heartfelt and thought-through, they might just pay for it. It's not going to be the kind of money we made before, but it's something. I for one am still figuring out income stream, the appropriate amount of doom-scrolling, and the future. But that's a whole other blog post.

HOW DO YOU CLOWN IN A VACUUM?

2020-04-27T13:31:00.003-07:00

The origins of the word "clown" tell us a lot. Giovanni Fusetti first told me about how "clown" comes from the old word "clod", or "Wet Earth." He was trying to explain to me his take on the difference between Clown and Improv Comedy. Improv is dry, he said. Clown is wet. This website does a nice job of talking about where the word comes from. A low-German word for klutz, a Scandinavian word for boor. There's even a possibility that the Latin word for farmer, colonus, is in the etymological mix. So, to sum up, the foundations of the word "clown" are deeply rooted in possessing the following qualities: FILTHY, WET and INAPPROPRIATE.

That could be why this pandemic feels like the end of everything to me.

Of course, I'm a pessimist. I believe in staying pessimistic so I don't have to get... you get my point. My pessimism is an ancient, inherited, shtetl pessimism that comes from the old country and goes very deep. She entwines her gnarled fingers around each individual DNA strand I've got and knits me into my very own walking Pessismism Sweatervest, all the time.

So you, dear reader, can take anything I say with a giant grain of kosher salt. But, personally, I'm calling it The End. The end of my Butt show (technically impossible to do without saliva), the end of my breathy, wet, intimate workshops... oh shit, wait, this all looks like I'm into porn. Am I into porn? Is clown soul-porn?

I don't expect to perform or teach in person again for up to a year or maybe more. Am I a big downer? Sure, absolutely. Take two of me and take a nap. I'll still be here when you wake up.

Anyway, so I'm watching too much TV and rending my garments and wailing, like everyone. My biggest delight so far has been the discovery of jello-making. The first week it was a pomegranate jello, followed by a prosecco jello, and then my most impressive feat yet, a 5-layer deconstructed Thai iced tea jello: 3 layers of thai tea jello, 2 layers of sweetened condensed milk jello. Life-altering.

Beyond the jello, I feel like my big takeaways so far have been aimless grief and TV.

Speaking of, What We Do In The Shadows. The movie was cute, but the show is sooooooo cute!

But anyway, my pessimism and grieving have a point, or could. Acceptance and trying to dig in for the long haul and hopefully—eventually—evolve feels like a reasonable choice. It at least gives me something to aspire to. I'm still a good capitalist stooge, after all: aspirationalism is my middle name, sandwiched between Good and Capitaliststooge.

Hopefully I'll get unemployment. Plus I am a saver. So I feel relatively hashtag-blessed for the mo', in terms of basic needs. I believe plenty of other people will get their jobs back sooner than I will; there are ways that we can social distance and still shop or whatever. Capitalism loves it some shop.

And it's not that I'm sad all the time. Most of the time, I appreciate my privilege and feel like I'm trapped on a packed schoolbus of chorus kids that's broken down in a snow drift. There's a lot of metaphorical snow around us, blanketing freshly, and lights are twinkling in the distance. The driver's name is Collingswood or something equally last-name-first-y, with a deep comforting voice and a sense of calm. Help is on the way, and until then, we're all together.

Incidentally, this has made me realize that, usually when the Depression Monster has me in its clutches, it's the isolation that I experience most bitterly. Somehow when everyone else is bereft too, I feel weirdly better. Which seems fucked up, but true. Not schaudenfraude, exactly, but there's got to be another long German word for it.

So I'm not super depressed right now, but I definitely feel obsolete. I see the essential workers, more essential than ever. I see the white-collar-work-from-homers, going on with their zoom-meeting selves and still getting those paychecks like no big thing. And then here I am, trying to put together another reasonably-cute at-home outfit that I can both exercise and curl fetally in.

I am humbled and amazed by my friends and colleagues who seem to have figured out... anything about how to work in this new reality. I am not there yet, but I admire you so much! You can stop reading this and go on back to being a pandemic art hero!

I dedicate this blog post to everyone more like me, performing artists currently in love with jello or whatever your non-Jewish equivalent is, who have the feeling that everyone else has figured out more than we have about how to artistically survive in this strange new world.

This is a very exclusive club we've got here, here in this blog post. I've put the red velvet ropes up and the only people I'm letting in are the aimless grievers and jello-makers and cake-straight-out-of-the-pan-eaters. Are you not just watching RuPaul's Drag Race, but the RECAP videos as well? Or whatever your heteronormative equivalent is? Whatever your preferences, you and your aimless grief are super welcome in this blog post.

I may be a long way from figuring out how to feel anything like useful or productive, but I feel like I have a few useful suspicions, so I figured I'd get them down before another recap video comes on.

1) PROBABLY EVERYONE ELSE FEELS SECRETLY SHITTY SOMETIMES TOO.

Even Taylor Swift has got to feel sad. Feeling sad is okay. Even before the pandemic, sometimes it's okay to feel sad. Here is Rosey Grier, former footballer, bodyguard and men's needlepoint activist, singing "It's Alright to Cry." I'm going to feel okay about being sad and try not to beat myself up for it. Thanks, Rosey Grier.

2) HA HA HA ON YOU, SIZE QUEENS.

If you're like me, you used to be a real size queen when it came to audience and workshop numbers. Ha ha ha, ego maniacs like me! While there's something moving about seeing a lot of strangers in a zoom room, I've personally had trouble feeling pulled in by big group experiences, and I suspect I'm not alone. I wonder if, when our attention isn't necessary, it's much easier to lose focus. That's one of the many joys of TV. It doesn't care if you're watching it, so you can have it on in the background or pause it, just toss it around attentionally-speaking and not give a shit.

As a performer and teacher, that's not what I'm personally aiming for.

The best experiences I've had so far have been super intimate. I attended/participated in a Zoom-based show called Couples Therapy for one audience member at a time, I got to play the couples therapist, highly recommended if it comes back.

Before the quarantine, I did a lot of coaching of artists on their solo shows via online platforms, and that actually worked pretty well. Hoping to do more of that. I'm also trying to work on online performance experiences for just one audience member. And by "trying", I mean, I'm thinking about it. Between jello layers.

Having to recalibrate and value quality of attention over quantity of attendees, that's a fascinating shift. And it could make me a better performer, in the long run, because of all the practice I can potentially get just playing for one person at a time.

I always used to say, if you can make one person laugh, that's harder than getting an audience to laugh. But I didn't really mean it, because I was still thinking about those big fat crowds I used to have. So maybe that's the new goal. Just to believe the stuff I used to say about the importance of individual audience members.

3) MAYBE GET REAL WEIRD.

You know how performing live, you get laughs from human beings who are a few feet away? That experience is gone for a while. The new experience of being a comedy artist might be about trying to get something else.

What if we don't try to be funny anymore. Crazy concept, but it might just be too painful for our sensitive comedy organs to try jokes in empty rooms. Comedy organs are very touchy things, and if you expose them to too much not-laughing, your brain can start sending you signals that the comedy organs aren't functioning properly, which may or may not actually be the case. U like all that science I just dropped? All accurate.

What if we tried to be beautiful. To be cinematic. To be weird. To be gorgeous. To be surprising. The good news is, we will probably end up being funny just because we're idiots. But I think focusing on something other than comedy feels healthy somehow. See above science.

I've done a few "clown" playgroups with friends on Zoom where we just get real weird with each other. They've been amazing. I get dressed up like a tragic telenovelas star (actually jewnovelas) with a velvet turban, mascara and lipstick (glossy, sticky-looking lipstick! that's the key! keep it wet!) I've rolled around and drooled on the floor every time. And my friends are of course brilliant and weird and they've surprised and delighted me, so that's been therapeutic. I'm learning about how to position the camera so that I've serving my friends the best angles, the most interesting tableaux. And I can tell they're doing that too. So that Zoom screen just looks beautiful, each of us our own tableau, creating little cinematic gifts for each other. That's been nice.

4) AND WHEN POSSIBLE, SPARK SOME JOY.

You know Marie Kondo, right? The very charming celebrity-author of The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. Runs an entire tidying empire with her flutey voice and deft-folding fingers. If you don't know Marie Kondo, you live under a messy rock, and that's totally fine. I'll summarize her. She's all about getting rid of stuff, and keeping the stuff you do have real clean. And the big question you have to ask yourself about every single thing you own is DOES IT SPARK JOY.

does it spark joy does it spark joy does it spark joy does it spark joy does it—

An incredible question, and congratulations to Marie Kondo for coming up with it.

Let's apply it to everything in our lives immediately.

does it spark joy does this spark joy does that spark joy do they spark joy do we spark joy do i spark joy do i do i do i do i—

But seriously, do you? Do you spark joy? Do you spark joy in every person who has an interaction with you. Could you? Could that be your little assignment?

Let's ask Marie Kondo what the fuck "spark joy" really means, because, define your terms bitch. Marie Kondo says that in order to determine if an object that you own in fact sparks joy, you have to hold it in your hands. Marie Kondo says that if the object sparks joy, then it will lift you up cell by cell, so that all parts of your body feel a little bit lifted. How do you know if the object doesn't spark joy? Every cell, every part of your body seems to be a little heavier. According to Marie Kondo, it's that fucking simple.

You know what? I think she's right. Her point is that the body knows more about joy than the brain does, and it's important to listen to it.

So let's apply the Kondo Principle, shall we? First of all, in order to have the potential to spark joy for another human, they have to be "holding" you, which obviously in today's day and age they can't do. But let's say, they have to be holding you in their attention. So the UPS guy who throws the box down on your stoop and runs away is probably not a good candidate. They have to be focused on you for a moment at least. Long enough to have an experience of you.

Okay, so now that you've got them, it could be time to spark joy.

How do you spark joy with everyone? You're a clown, you probably already know. You've been working at this your whole life. Try to break through, try to tickle. Try to have an effect on their body, lift it up, cell by cell. Even for a moment. You know when you've sparked joy, you see it. The energy around them gets fluffy for a moment. A tiny gust of hope.

That's your only job now, clown. If you're doing that, you're doing something. Get 'er done.

BODILY FLUIDS AND COMEDY: IN MEMORIAM

2020-04-02T18:49:00.000-07:00

The last time I performed was on March 14th. It was a musical improv comedy show, and I especially noted how much I spit all over the stage, without even meaning to. Oh, this is me all the time, I realized, suddenly horrified. In the green room after the show, my fellow improvisers praised my restraint. You didn't put your fingers in anybody's mouth tonight! they congratulated me.

Since then, I've been remembering, and reflecting on my not-so-distant performance past. It feels like forever ago.

I remember telling a guy to take off his wedding ring and put it in his mouth, and then I tongue-kissed him with his ring rolling around on our tongues.

I have put many people's fists all the way into my mouth. All the way.

I remember making a lady hock a glob of spit into her own hand and then I licked it off. I've probably done that more than once, but I just really remember this one lady's face when I did it to her. It was the most extreme combination of horror and delight I've ever seen.

I've been slapped a fair bit.

I remember several men well into their 70's that I deeply tongue kissed. At least several. Maybe 15.

I have touched so, so many people. Every show, touching people's faces, touching their hands, sitting on their laps, having them sit on mine.

I have licked many, many bald heads. I remember one particular bald head I licked in a crowded Spiegeltent, and it must've had cologne on it, because my mouth tasted of cologne for the rest of the night.

I have spat on hundreds, no, thousands of people. Thousands of people have received sprays of my saliva, all over themselves.

I have no idea how many strangers of all ages and genders that I have made out with, but it's a lot.

And all in front of paying audiences. Thank you so much.

Show business!

For years, my show involved personal body fluids—mine and, when I was lucky, other people's.

Those shows, and so many other things, are over.

And today, I allow myself to feel sad about that.

I used to love spitting on people. I didn't do it on purpose, but Butt Kapinski has so many speech impediments that it's impossible for the character to say anything without spit leaving my mouth. And actually, it always seems like I have plenty of spit around, whether I'm speaking like Butt Kapinski or no.

But I liked it because so many of us, myself included, have felt so much shame around accidentally spitting, and it just felt so good to not give a fuck. And it always seemed that audiences appreciated that freedom more than they felt annoyed getting spit on them. I never remember seeing anyone look sad about the spit, actually. Was I delusional?

I also loved licking and making out with strangers. I liked it because audiences were thrilled by it: watching two strangers have an intimate experience together, watching the dance we did as we each figured out what the other person wanted. And the delicious surrender of all those strangers' tongues in my mouth! Those moments when the stranger and I were both like, fuck it, let's fucking make out like crazy in front of all these people. Those kisses were some of the wildest kisses I've ever had. They just felt like rainstorms, or like all the flags of the United Nations, flapping mightily together in the midst of the biggest hurricane of the world. It was a unified, wet, liberated flapping, and I'll never forget it.

At some point, maybe I'll figure out how to perform online and enjoy it. But right now, I'm in mourning, as so many clowns are, because it wasn't just that I used to perform in front of people. I used to perform on top of people, in and amongst people, against people, and with people. Their bodies and my bodies were constantly in negotiation with each other as I careened around a crowded theater. After shows, my thighs always had bruises from all the people's chairs I banged into, but I never felt any pain. I have built an entire career around performing togetherness and demonstrating a kind of spontaneous, liberated intimacy, and all of a sudden, it's totally over.

Naturally, I've wondered in the past, did I ever get anyone sick? I've only performed sick a handful of times. And I never felt like I got sick from people at my shows. But I never thought about it too deeply. I always thought all my gross audience-interaction habits probably helped strengthen my immune system. I didn't think about anybody's else's immune system, which seems crazy now.

But it's not like I ever took it for granted. Every audience member who entered into that freaky, sudden bargain with me, I cherished. I felt so much gratitude for those who felt, as I did, that there was nothing to lose and a lot to gain from spontaneous displays of physical intimacy between strangers. We felt like we were, together, modeling a way to be. Unafraid. Free. Those strangers were my collaborators, and I was lucky I had them. And I was lucky that it was happening, well, basically anytime but right now.

There's a lot to be sad about, but today I'm feeling especially sad because I loved all those weird intimate fluid exchanges with strangers, and I felt like they were artistically and spiritually important, and now, they're done, and it doesn't feel fair. It feels like the kind of performance that was the most risky, the most vulnerable, is the one that will be punished the most and the longest by this virus, maybe for a lot longer than other kinds of performances. To be sure, sanitary-ass garbage- performance will be allowed again first, right? Oh yeah, fourth-wall bullshit is going to be let back into the fray first. And then maybe they'll let performers in who ask the audience rhetorical questions but don't expect answers. That sounds pretty safe too.

But what if my kind of performance recedes into history. What if what I do, and what I teach, is no longer allowed. Maybe they won't let me on stage anymore unless I can control my spitting and touching tendencies. They'll build that fourth wall up and say, get back JoJo. They'll wrap me in caution tape and station me way up in the upstage corner, alone, my own kind of post-quarantine quarantine. Just the freaky, out-of-date interactive performer, salivating on my own, just breathing and drooling and trying desperately to make eye contact and get someone to connect with me. Dangerous.

When the only fluid I ever felt full of was love.

VIA NEGATIVA IS ACTUAL BULLSHIT

2020-01-04T09:40:00.003-08:00

The other night, I was telling an improviser-friend of mine how funny he was, and he wasn't buying it. "Tell me I suck," he said. "Then maybe I'll trust you."

Put that in your pocket for a second.

Cut to a party, where I'm talking about vulnerability. Most parties I'm either talking about vulnerability or just feeling it. So I'm at this party, talking to some polite and curious person who asked what I do for a living, and they're a massage therapist or something easy to explain, and so when I say I perform and teach comedy, they ask lots of follow-up questions. And then, when I explain that my subset of comedy practice is rooted in individual authenticity and vulnerability, they tip their head, and say, "Do you know the work of Brené Brown?"

Oh, yes, trust that I get down with some Brené Brown! I'm eternally grateful to her. She made vulnerability cool. She made it hip, human and bankable. And she continues to be a resource to me for her canny ability to provide METRICS to what I have always believed as a clown: that the root of my power IS my vulnerability. My absolute strength IS my absolute weakness. And she's got science to prove that? My shero.

Here's what Queen Brené says about the relationship between vulnerability and creativity.

"No vulnerability, no creativity. No tolerance for failure, no innovation. It is that simple. If you’re not willing to fail, you can’t innovate. If you’re not willing to build a vulnerable culture, you can’t create."

What Brené is suggesting here is that in order for people to discover and create, to be artists, they have to feel safe. They have to feel that there is SPACE for them to fail.

Put that in your pocket too.

I was recently hanging out with a woman friend, brilliant clown/comedian. She had just taken a Via Negativa clown class. Just to fill in those lucky enough to not know what Via Negativa is—this is a style of clown teaching in which, supposedly, the clown finds themself through negative criticism; that is, after being told "you suck, get off stage" enough, presumably, the clown will find a way to stay on stage, not be told "you suck", and discover triumphant success despite all obstacles.

My friend was telling me about her experience in this class. "The teacher had us go on stage and introduce ourselves, so I went and said, Hi, I'm ______, and then he immediately goes, Get off stage, you're being insincere. And I'm like... wait... I paid a hundred bucks for this?"

Add that to your pocket.

Now, think back to my improviser-man friend, who needs to hear he sucks before he can believe that he's funny.

Is your pocket full-to-bulging?

Let's call that bulge the heady start to a conversation about Via Negativa, and its very real and complicated place in comedy pedagogy. Enjoy your bulge!

My personal experience with Via Negativa was my month with Gaulier in Sceaux, just outside of Paris: every day, 7 hours of training, maybe one minute of stage time, followed by two minutes of being told I suck as a human being without any specific notes I could actually use and apply, and then an evening crying over pastries.

The idea behind this style of training, I've been told, is that, in order to succeed, the clown must find their own cocktail of desperation and inner-strength. Once you are fired up enough to stop caring what the authority says, that is when you are able to really let loose and be free. Think Michael Douglas in Falling Down. Think Peter Finch in Network. I'M MAD AS HELL AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS ANYMORE. When the oppression gets too much, the white man stands up and—oh shit, I'm showing my hand too fast. But let us just consider. Who's been set up their whole lives to potentially excel at a certain kind of maverick rebellion against authority? And who, perhaps, maybe, hasn't?

Look, we all hate comedy classes in which "everything's fine and everyone's great." We hate dishonesty in our comedy classroom. We yearn for someone to call out the garbage. And we are right to want that. And, sure, there can be real power in triumphing against oppression. It's what happened to me for the two days I actually triumphed and got laughs in my otherwise-absolutely-money-wasting experience with Gaulier. If you can kill in that room, that workshop in which everyone is oppressed—if you can rise to the top of that huddled, miserable pack, you've reached the American Dream, you've made it, you're unstoppable. I know, now that I've made that room really laugh, I can make ANY ROOM LAUGH. Sure, that's a little bit true.

And yet, I still think I could've saved myself a few grand and a month of crying over pastries, and just found an actual good teacher to study with.

It is possible for a pedagogic method to keep a classroom honest and not involve abuse. When I was learning how to ride a bicycle (at age 30, incidentally), someone told me to focus on the path I'm following and not on all the potential obstacles and things I could crash into. Focus on where you want to go, not on where you don't want to go. I use this with my students: keep them focused on the desired path. That doesn't mean I'm not being honest, it just means the focus is on the goal, not the mistakes.

Via Negativa, on the other hand, asks the student to focus on all the obstacles they crashed into. To wallow in what they've just done wrong. For my masochistic white man improv-friend, this is fabulous, because it reminds him that his shit stinks, which is apparently what some people seem to need.

But I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that a lot of people, and definitely a lot of not-men, do NOT need to be reminded that their shit stinks. They've gotten plenty of that message already. And for those people, wallowing in their shit-stink (god I'm sorry this is the current metaphor) is going to keep them convinced that they're not funny and that they don't deserve stage-time. Highlighting failure is not the right teaching mode for people who already feel marginalized or not-privileged, and thus, I'd say it's a pretty problematic teaching mode, period.

So you'll have to excuse me when I come right out and say that Via Negativa, the practice of focusing on what's bad and wrong about what a clown is doing onstage—for the supposed higher purpose of encouraging the clown to "rebel" against authority and "do their own thing"—is patriarchal, misogynist, and, while we're at it, colonialist. It might've been very innovative in the 1960's. But today, let's just call it what it is: macho, abusive bootcamp-style sadism befitting frat houses and old-school military training. It's not teaching, it's bullying.

And sure, this Not-Teaching/Bullying technique might work for some, but I would argue that it mostly works for people who are already in a position of privilege in terms of their own entitlement to take up space. If your teacher is encouraging behavior that comes naturally to some because it's been culturally conditioned, and encouraging others to cower and hide because that's what's been culturally conditioned for them, they're not only Not-Teaching, buddy. They're perpetuating patriarchy.

As artists, we are commanded by the good sweet Satan to work another way.

Via Negativa is some actual bullshit, and I'm done making excuses for teachers who use it by saying nice diplomatic things like, "Well, it's not my style, but it works for some dot dot dot." No. I'm officially mad.

I'm officially tired of women coming into my classes having taken Via Negativa clown classes and thinking they're not funny when they're SO funny. The amount of traumatized (and very funny) women I've worked with is STAGGERING, friends. I am officially calling that out as un-cool. And not just women; I've seen a lot of funny performers of all genders fail miserably in an oppressive Via Negativa atmosphere and succeed big-time elsewhere.

And I've heard from so many people trying to make excuses for these Via Negativa teachers. Oh, he's really good at training men, just less-so with women. You know what else works great for men and not women? The fucking patriarchy. You are a comedy teacher and you're NOT doing everything you can to support the comedy of non-men? Well, enjoy yourself, I guess. But don't call yourself a feminist, don't call yourself a liberal or a radical or anything else. You're a status-quo-enforcer, pretending to dismantle the master's house and using the master's tools the whole time.

Set the gender issue aside for a moment and just focus on the concept of PEDAGOGY. Try this. Think of a skill you possess. Got one? Great. Now, how would you teach someone that skill? Would you break it down into manageable chunks? Would you encourage repetition and practice? Or... would you allow someone 0.5 seconds to try the skill before you yell at them to go away and stop trying?

Of course you wouldn't do that last one, right? Because that's not actual teaching.

I don't care how anarchic and bad-ass you think you are. If you think about teaching for two seconds, you realize that There's The Actual Way You Teach Someone A Skill, and there's Definitely-Not-That. Plus, remember what our friend and researcher-to-the-stars Brené Brown says: it's scientifically unlikely that true creativity is even possible in an environment where failure is not tolerated.

I for one am tired of all of it. I believe it was the great John McClane who, when trapped in a skyscraper full of terrorist robbers led by a German-accented Alan Rickman, said to some idiot cops, "Now, you listen to me, jerk-off, if you're not a part of the solution, you're a part of the problem. Quit being a part of the fucking problem!"

So let's call teaching what it is, and not-teaching what IT is. Let's call macho, patriarchy-enforcing classrooms what they are. If you want to be an asshole to people trying to learn an art form, if you want idol-worship from people who love to worship idols, call it "live directing" and charge a lot less.

I propose Via Negativa be cancelled, bitches. Let's cancel this bullshit right now.

What do you say?

THE DRAG KING CLOWN'S DILEMMA

2019-12-04T13:58:00.000-08:00

I've had a dream gig lately: directing a troupe of womxn clowns in Vancouver. We've been developing turns based on masculine impersonation, and it's fabulous to watch each of these clowns birth the strange, unique man inside of them. All of their inner-men are broken, tender, hopeful, ridiculous... and damn amusing.

I was working with one clown the other day on her solo turn. She is super funny and talented, but she told me she'd been in her head about the upcoming show.

I've just been like, what am I doing, what are we doing, as feminists... Then she quickly looked at me. She felt bad, because she knows that masculine impersonation is my big thing. She added, It's not like I don't think you're a feminist...

Naw, I get it, clown. It's complicated. I've built a tiny career on being the worst masculine impersonator out there. But what am I doing, as a feminist? And now I'm encouraging other women to do it too?

Why are we playing men?

What are we saying, by playing men?

Are we saying men are funnier?

Are we reinforcing the gender binary?

Are we saying we're not funny as womxn?

Do we suck? Should we shut up right now?

Is something burning on the stove that needs our attention?

Is there a scarf we ought to be knitting instead?

I don't personally know how to answer anyone else's questions. I can only speak to my own experience.

I've had gender trouble my whole life. When I was very young, people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, and I told them "Boy Dog Fisherman." Why was that what I wanted to be? Was that the beginning of everything? Apparently I didn't just have gender trouble back then, I had species trouble too. But that's a whole other blog post.

The point is, some part of me has always wanted to be a man. I think a lot of non-men have felt that way at some point in their lives. And when I leaned into that—when I started living my fantasy trying to be a man in my comedy—I got a lot of laughs and I got paid. Playing a man gave me permission to be fierce and take up space. Playing a man gave me the privilege to risk. It taught me how to take that sense of permission and privilege, and apply it to all of my future characters regardless of their gender. It made me a better overall performer.

And I believe that my particular brand of masculine impersonation says something to womxn; I want it to say something to them. I'm not trying to be a convincing man, I am parodying the patriarchy. And as a non-man, I'm in a great position to do that. I've had my nose pressed up against the patriarchy's window for a long time now.

So is playing a man feminist? I believe it's deeply feminist. Because it's a feminism that I don't have to construct in my mind. My body understands the patriarchy and how I'm not it, and it knows what to do to send it up. Take up space, be entitled, get your cookies. Bam.

And if it isn't feminist, or if it isn't someone else's definition of feminist, that's fine too. I don't personally believe that comedy and social justice are the same thing. I'm not saying they're not related— I'm not going to go all Jerry "It used to be easy to get laughs back when I could date teenagers and still be cool" Seinfeld on you. As comedy makers, it's important to be keeping track of what's funny, and what's funny changes. Thank Satan.

For example, Punching Down used to be funny. Punching Down is not so funny anymore. There might be some comedy rooms somewhere in which Punching Down is still funny, but I haven't been in those rooms. Unless we count Adelaide, South Australia on the day of the Clipsal 500 big car race.

Otherwise, it's pretty much no longer funny to punch down.

Beyond that, I don't much judge what is and isn't funny, and why. What we laugh at, and why we laugh, are not always easily explainable. We laugh because we need relief from some sort of tension that builds up in our souls, just from existing. A lot of things make us laugh that we don't "approve of" as any kind of prescription for how we should think or act. The relief of laughter is an exhale of car exhaust, stomach-lining and subconscious dust. It is at least part-catharsis—part-flushing-out-what's-inside. We laugh at the inappropriate, the taboo, the utter-garbage that clutters and infects our minds because... Society. And we have to.

So I am not here to judge why some things are funny.

But I will say, with some certainty, based on my experience alone, that—in times like these—it is funny to watch people who are not men attempt to portray men for comedic purposes.

It's funny because it's Punching Up. It's funny because, as womxn, we're uniquely situated to parody the patriarchy because there's no way we'll ever be the patriarchy. We have received the same lessons about manhood that the men have. We've watched as that letterman sweater got tailored to everyone but us. So when we steal that letterman sweater and wear it, that's whatcha call subversive. We will never fit into the Patriarchy Sweater, and so, we flop around in its sleeves, and we revel in the space between us and it, between our clownish ambition and our reality. And people laugh.

I could spend years in therapy (actually I have) trying to figure out why playing men is so satisfying for me and for audiences.

I could beat myself up about this thing I like to do, and see it as one more big excuse why I, as a woman, don't deserve to take stage time and don't deserve to encourage others to take it.

Or I could say fuck it.

This works for me, and I observe that it works for a lot of people.

It is one way to be funny. There are thousands.

But it is one.

And I, for one, recommend it.

DOES YOUR COMEDY TEACHER NEED TO BE A COMEDY SUCCESS?

2019-09-28T20:52:00.000-07:00

I was talking to a workshop participant who was debating whether she should take a teaching-comedy-course offered by a clown teacher, we'll call him Dr. X.

She said: Dr. X was trying to convince me to take this class of his, and I told him, "I haven't had a show of my own hit it big yet." And Dr. X said that that didn't matter, that teaching and performing are two totally different things.

Then she asked me, What do you think?

So I thought.

I think I have two different answers.

First of all, I must mention that two of THE MOST IMPORTANT theater/comedy teachers IN MY LIFE, the ones who really taught me about using my instrument and freeing myself— brilliant teachers! life-changing forces for good!—I saw them both perform and neither one made me laugh. AT ALL. Those were surprising, horrifying moments: seeing these idols of mine, these mentors, totally eat shit. I realized then that they were great teachers and not-great performers, and I made a weird kind of peace with that, like when two people break up but keep living together because of the kids or the rent or whatever. They just moved into separate bedrooms in my heart.

So, I believe you can totally be a great teacher and not-as-successful a performer. Yes.

And we probably all know great performers who are pretty lousy teachers, too. Real smart people who have thought a bit about how they achieved their own comedic heights, but maybe they haven't figured out how to translate it to the masses, or they don't care enough, or they're just not meant to teach.

They ARE two completely different art forms, teaching and performing. Yes.

Good teaching involves curriculum planning, lesson designing, trial and error, energetic generosity, generous curiosity, humility, learning environment cultivation, organized practice rituals, egolessness (or sincere attempts at such), and a firm grasp of classroom management skills.

Good performing involves mental illness and whiskey.

But seriously.

I'm sure we all recognize that less-awesome performers can of course be amazing teachers, and verse vice-a.

Here's a question then, why do we instinctively assume that teaching and performing go together?

Famous, super talented people could fill any workshop anywhere always, why is that? And when you see a show that blows your mind, and you hear that company is teaching a workshop, why are you like I GOTTA GET ON THAT?

Clearly, there is something deep inside us that suspects—if we really love the way someone performs,

if we fall in love with them a little bit—and feel instinctively that they would understand us—and we them—on the most HUMAN of frequencies—then we believe they have something to teach us.

And it defies logic. I can prove to you with many complicated logic proofs that Great teaching and great performance are totally separate! No connection! Still, everyone feels in their hearts like you Christians feel about your Santa. There's no factual basis, but we believe.

And I do think there is something to that, too. We have to love and respect our teachers in order for them to teach us something. If we admire what they do, if we enjoy watching them perform, that is another way to learn from them. Great comedy is magic. And learning a magic trick is really only half of learning magic, right? You have to learn the trick, sure, but you also need to experience the rockets in your own eyes that shoot out when you love a trick from the audience-side. The love of the trick is the fuel for making that trick sing. It's nice when your teacher can give you that too.

Maybe it doesn't matter at all.

But it might matter a little bit.

Ultimately, I respect that workshop participant of mine who feels like maybe it's a little too soon to teach comedy, before she really feels like she's nailed it for herself, and given it fully to the world.

Teaching and performing are not inextricably linked, but they're next to each other, right? Like the way I wanna put silver and gold bangles next to each other. I wanna wear ALL the bling, ALL the time... except sometimes I can't pull it off.

Sometimes it's better to just wear one, keep it simple.

We can dream of both. We can pull off both some times.

Other days, recognize silver for silver and gold for gold.

They're both precious, bitch, after all.

SHOULD I FRINGE INTERNATIONALLY?

2019-08-27T12:09:00.002-07:00

It feels like I haven't fringed in ages, but really it's only been a year and a half. Man, it's amazing though. I look at my friend's facebook posts about shows and after-show bar experiences and it all feels very far away and I feel very old. But it's only been a year and a half! How old could I get in that amount of time? Old enough to sit down in my rocking chair and reflect on the crazy scope of the international fringe scene? Apparently! So, now that northern hemisphere fringe season is starting to wind down, why not come sit by my fire (crackle crackle), listen to the creak of my chair (creak creak) and my voice blathering on about old Fringe memories that aren't actually that old?

This blog post is really for people who are interested in the difference between the English-speaking scenes, and will be very boring for (1) people who are not interested in those differences; (b) have already done all these festivals; or (gamma) people who have just finished a fringe... why would you want to read this if you've just finished a fringe? Shouldn't you be napping? Shouldn't I?

Quite possibly... and yet, I have facebook friends from all the English-speaking Fringe communities, and they're always wanting to know if they should take their shows to the OTHER English-speaking Fringe communities, and I think, as someone who has dabbled in all of those fringes, maybe I can speak on that shit a bit!

If you don't feel like reading any further, I'll get right to my thesis statement: If you're Australian or British, or used to doing those festivals and being successful and having fun, then get your ass to Canada. If you're used to doing Canadian fringes and being successful and having fun, and wondering if you should do Australia or the UK, I'd say, only maybe.

SHOULD I DO THE CANADIAN FRINGES?

Let me tell you about the cream puffs that are the Canadian fringes. They are the coziest, cutest, easiest fringes of all. Not like I knew that when they were the only fringes I'd ever done. I thought they were big and hard and scary! But ha ha ha! Then I went to Edinburgh and got my ego handed to me in thin raw slices of carpaccio-like misery!

Canadian Fringes are only two weeks long, and you get about 8 performances. So there are things like DAYS OFF, which is insane. Also, there aren't that many shows! The biggest fringe in North America, Edmonton Fringe, still maxes out at under 400 shows. Compare that to, say, Edinburgh's 4000 shows, or even Adelaide's 1300 shows. Actually don't compare them, cuz ya can't.

Canadian audiences vary from being adventurous and fun, to old and stodgy. They're a good mix, but in general, their tastes can be pretty white-bread. There are ready audiences for conventional stuff. If you are a straight white man who likes to sit on a stool on stage and tell amusing stories, you might do fantastically well in the Canadian fringes. That said, more off-beat artists can also do great in the Canadian fringes, because these fringes are super word-of-mouthy. Also, the audiences are Canadian, so they're real polite about taking fliers from you, and even acting interested/grateful to hear about your show.

Another feature of Canadian audiences is that they LOVE ACCENTS. So especially if you're British, because Canadians have an especial hard-on for Brits, but really, if you're from anywhere not-US/Canada, there's going to be built-in enthusiasm for your show.

As if that wasn't enough, Canadian fringes, for the most part, FIND YOU HOUSING. That's right, the fringe itself actually finds a place for you to live, for free, in some art-friendly house where you will in most cases feel nourished and looked after, and where your host will most likely become a friend for life. This is called billeting, and it is a gift from heaven.

So, yeah, if you're from the UK or Australia or anywhere else, you should probably get in on the Canadian Fringe scene.

The trick to this scene, however, is just that: getting in. Those Canadians know what they have, and they don't make this easy. Each Fringe is determined by lottery, which usually happens in this hemisphere's autumn. So you pay a 25$ application fee and then, if you're international, your show goes into an international pile. And there are only a certain number of international shows picked for each festival. The good (or bad) news is that the lottery isn't curated, so no matter how good/bad your show is, it doesn't matter, it's just luck of the draw.

Once you've done one Canadian Fringe festival, you are then eligible to participate in the Canadian Association of Fringe Festivals (CAFF) lottery, which also costs 25$, but if you get picked, then you are automatically accepted into however many fringe festivals you want for that year.

Otherwise, you have to apply to each individually, and the chances of getting in, frankly, are slim each time.

Another option, which many fringe veterans take, is BYOV, or Bring Your Own Venue, which means that you don't have to participate in the lottery, you just find a venue that works for you, pay the Fringe fees plus the venue rental fees (so the total does end up being quite a bit higher than if you're accepted via the lottery), and you're good to go. This is great if you already know a festival and know what the good BYOV venues are, (and where the bad/out-of-the-way venues are) or if you're a known quantity at that festival and will bring in audience regardless of where you are. If neither of these things apply to you, then BYOVing is much riskier. It could work, but it could also be a disaster.

Still, when you consider the disaster that Edinburgh is for so many performers, it's not that scale of disaster, at least.

SHOULD I DO THE EDINBURGH FRINGE?

So far, I've done Edinburgh twice: one time I did the Free Fringe, one time I was co-produced in a sweet central venue with a 60/40 split and a flyering team. Both times I hired PR. I broke even the first time and made a few grand profit the second time.

I've tried to answer this question in previous blog entries, but the short answer is this: Edinburgh is a well-oiled machine that is set up for already-successful artists it mostly already knows. Venues are all BYOV–the festival doesn't find you a venue—and the popular venues are all carefully curated. Are there breakout stars who find some fame and/or a big career jump at Edinburgh? Sure, but the "breakouts" I've witnessed were well-connected already, like they were someone famous's son or their director had won a big award previously. If you're holding onto the fantasy that you will be discovered at the Edinburgh fringe, you cray. And as I've mentioned, you've got to be careful even if you've found success on the Canadian circuit. British tastes are decidedly different than Canadian tastes. If you're a white man with a stool, get in line behind the 5000 other white men with stools who have been doing Edinburgh every year for the past twenty years. Audiences are going to see thosewhite men with stools well before they consider taking a chance on you. But in general, they like weird, they like visual, they like risk, they love comedy.

There are Facebook groups and books devoted to tips and tricks to survive and thrive at Edinburgh, so definitely consult those before you go for it. But for Satan's sake don't delude yourself that it's going to be anything but mongo stressful and exhausting, even if you do well. It's an incredibly intense atmosphere. It was really almost too much for me my first Edinburgh, and I was pretty successful and had good friends with me.

SHOULD I DO THE AUSTRALIAN FRINGES?

I've done Adelaide Fringe twice and Perth Fringeworld twice and Melbourne Comedy Festival once. I worked with an Australian producer who managed my marketing and negotiated with my venues for me. I made decent coin at all of them, except for Melbourne Comedy, which is my biggest disaster festival to date.

For North Americans, the Australian fringes might look attractive, especially if you want to escape winter. Summer in Australia, you say to yourself. What could go wrong?

Sure! Why not? Not as big and daunting as Edinburgh, right? And if you want to go to Australia, this is as good an excuse as any. But success at Australian fringes—and I'm talking about the big ones, Adelaide and Perth (don't ask me about Melbourne Comedy because clearly I don't know)— is dependent on a bunch of factors that are real good to know before you commit.

Australian fringes are also BYOV. And all venues are not created equal. Some venues are like theme parks with hundreds of people wandering around going to shows, and some venues are semi-abandoned buildings with broken air conditioning several blocks away from a street anyone's heard of. The best venues at Australian fringes are, like Edinburgh, carefully curated, and unless you're a bit famous, you probably won't get programmed there unless someone from the venue has seen your show. Or, it's possible you might, but probably only if your show fits into the genres that Australian fringes like best: comedy, magic, circus, sexy comedy, sexy magic, and sexy circus. If you have a sexy magic comedy circus show, Australia is going to really take to you.

The Adelaide fringe is long as fuck (almost 5 weeks). Some performers only do a portion of it, but if you're relatively new to the festival, it makes sense to do the whole thing in hopes that word of mouth spreads. And yes, you might need PR, and definitely a flyering team. Perth Fringe runs are shorter, but again, if you're unknown there you might need marketing support.

I have a lot of admiration for my Aussie artist friends who cut their teeth on those huge fringes, because that shit is CRAYYYYY. Adelaide venues are often stuffy circus tents, Perth venues can be weird office buildings. In general, these fringes feel almost as intense as Edinburgh.

HOW DO I KNOW IF I SHOULD FRINGE INTERNATIONALLY?

I feel incredibly lucky that I've had great times at these festivals, and very few disasters (I'm looking at you, Melbourne Comedy! Suck mine!). But I also feel lucky that I am not a devil-may-care risk-taker that would do any of these festivals before I was pretty sure they would go well for me.

So how do you know when a big leap like an overseas festival is the right choice? It's a great question. I'll share a story of how I decided to make that leap. When I did the Edmonton Fringe in 2014, which was my biggest Fringe to date at that time, my "marketing" consisted of about 300 photocopied, Microsoft-word-template 4-to-a-page "fliers" that were one-sided, black-and-white, and suuuuper shitty. I don't even think I handed them all out; I really didn't flier at that Fringe, and I sold out my whole run real fast and won some awards to boot. Word of mouth was just really, really on my side. The amount of return I got on that festival was definitively bigger than the effort I put in to get bums in seats. But also, I had just directed a show that was a big hit in Edinburgh, so I knew if I went the next year and dropped that name in my marketing, it would also open doors for me. That combo of factors felt like Momentum. It was like wind, that feeling of something pushing you forward that is motored by way more than just you and your elbow grease.

So, pay attention to momentum, to where the wind pushes you.

Also, of course, do your research. Track the careers of shows similar to yours. And remember that whatever path you go, you'll learn a shit load. Really, what else are we here to do?

And for all you fringers who for some reason are still reading this, I salute you! We all salute you! You've worked hard and brought beautiful art to the world! Take my chair by the fire! Isn't it cozy? Here's some cocoa; I put cinnamon in it. Creak creak creak. Time for that nap.

BOUFFON BRAIN, CLOWN HEART

2019-07-03T11:23:00.001-07:00

I got tons of hate mail for my last blog post Does The World Need Your Bouffon Show?

Ha ha ha, no I didn't at all.

But I did get a few people saying things to me like, "Whoa! That took some guts!"

That took guts? Really?

Imagining putting on an unnecessary bouffon show!

Now that would take some guts.

But seriously.

I certainly wasn't saying that nobody should make bouffon shows.

I was just saying, let's take a deep breath and really consider if our audiences need our bouffon shows. I mean, it's a reasonable question.

But let's move on. No, wait, actually let's not.

What bothers me about much so-called bouffon work is that it wants to make a point about how racist/sexist/unenvironmental/queerphobic/etc. the world is, and so it casts the audience as the complicit asshole against which to make that point. But as I've said umpteen times, today's audience both isn't that asshole and doesn't feel like being cast as that asshole just to help you make your deep art.

But one thing I definitely am not saying is that we need to stop combining comedy with societal critique. Au contraire. We need a lot of societal critique comedy. More now than ever. But I do want us to look at the way we are using societal critique in our comedy, and where our standpoint is vis à vis the audience. Aimez-vous mon francais? Bah, oui! Donnez-nous les croissants!

My favorite comedy has a bouffon brain and a clown heart.

Evidently, back in the day, Clown and Bouffon were very separate things—actually, according to the Old Guard, they still are. So, for example, a lot of Clown is taught and practiced as if it exists in a completely different time and place in which nobody gets raped or racist-ed. I think that's one thing that rankles me about a lot of clown work I see: the omnipresent striped socks, the weird childishness (let's not even talk about the makeup and the noses). What world are these clowns living in? It's a world of nostalgia, I guess, and it's cute, in its way, but it's hard for me to find it funny because it doesn't feel like it's really going on right now. It's not on any particular precipice right now.

That's not to say that it isn't potentially risky for the performer; clown work is always vulnerable and thus risky (if it's any good at all). If the performer is present with the audience and offering something of herself that she doesn't usually show the world, then, sure, she's on a personal precipice, and we have to give her props for that.

But the thing that separates cute-clown-work-that-doesn't-ruin-anyone's-day, from really-hot-feisty-work-that-the-world-needs-to-see, is the bouffon brain.

The bouffon brain is miserable and furious and howling. It sees the state of things and it shakes its fist. But it reads my blog so it knows that no one wants to meet it head-on. It calculates, it schemes, it makes a plan. It picks up a clown in a dive bar and proceeds to fuck that clown in a dirty bathroom stall. It inseminates the soft brain of the clown with its hot jet of bouffon pain. And thus, a clown is born unto the world that is lovable and relevant at the same time. And lo, the world laughs and soils itself with pleasure.

Sasha Baron Cohen is a nice example. I actually had a fight with Gaulier about this, if we're defining fight as He talked and I listened and disagreed with him silently in my heart, which pretty much defines my Gaulier experience. Gaulier said Sasha Baron Cohen, his most famous protégé, was pure bouffon, and I disagree. Cohen's characters are clowns: they're idiots, they fuck up all the time and do the wrong thing but it's always from a place of not-knowing and meaning-well. But Sasha Baron Cohen clearly has a bouffon brain, and he engineers his clown characters to get into scrapes that are provocative and challenging in very specific, targeted ways.

Now you might be saying, "Bitch, Sasha Baron Cohen is no clown because he doesn't love his audience/targets. He is tricking them." Sure, sure. But,clearly, he entraps his audience/targets somehow, right? They end up trusting him enough to give him what he wants. Sometimes he goes too far and loses their trust. But he wouldn't have any success at all if he just came at those audience/targets with his bouffon brain out in front for all to see. He must be lovable and vulnerable to them, first.

So love first, like a clown always does. Audiences are the clown's best friends, their heroes.

Be on their side.

Confirm their generally-enlightened world view; keep it firmly in your mind when you create work.

Love them first, and love them long time.

Way before you tell them how fucked they are.

The best advice I ever got, probably ever, was from my English teaching mentor back at the prep school I used teach at. He used to be a lawyer before he became a teacher, and he was a shrimpy little impeccably-dressed man with an air of total magnetic approachability and intimidating-ness all at once. I loved him deeply. He used to say to me, about my students, If they know you care, you can say anything to them.

It's a principle that I use both in my teaching and in my performing. My students and my audiences have to know, right away, that I see them and that I love them. You have to see them first, or else they won't believe your love. But if you see them, and then you love them, you can take them through all kinds of hell or harsh critique or whatever. You can tell them the truth, if you see them and love them first.

Remember, too, that in order to teach anyone anything, or challenge them in any way, they have to really love you too. Do you see a sea of delighted faces eating up your character's every gesture? Great, you're in a very good place from which to start fucking with them a lil' bit. Don't see that yet? Get there.

You need to be a great clown before you can be a great bouffon.

And if you're already a great clown, then for Satan's sake don't stay locked in the land of striped-socks and whimsical umbrellas!

Get out there and make a point!

The world needs your hot, angry, loving love!

Stat! Stat! Immédiatement!

DOES THE WORLD NEED YOUR BOUFFON SHOW?

2019-04-24T16:21:00.001-07:00

Oh freaky-deaky left-leaning theater artist with activism in your heart, I know just how it is.

You're a good person and you really want to make the world better, and you carry around the not-insignificant guilt that you weren't born a climate scientist or an abortion doctor. What can eyeeee do to make the world better? you think, every single fucking day. And it wears on you. You can't help that you love the arts. And so, you go through your life taking your performance classes, scouring Goodwill for your freaky-deaky costumes, and just praying that someday, the activist's path and your path will effortlessly converge. That, just by being you and living your truth, EVEN YOU will find a way into social change. And the world will be better for YOU being here. At last.

Then you discover Bouffon. You learn about its origins in wicked social critique, its ability to skewer societal norms and to mock the status quo. You're like, THIS IS FUCKING IT. You immediately start building a show about income inequity or global warming or #metoo. You're like, this is what I can do to help the world.

Oh, I get it, freaky-deaky left-leaning theater artist with activism in your heart (or, FDLLTAWAIYH). It's not easy dealing with the reality that you're a spotlight-hogging narcissist whose big want is for people to pay to watch you cavorting about on a stage. It's a tough mirror to face, and we've all been there. It's not unreasonable that you crave more than that. You see the world bleed; naturally you want to stanch that wound. You want your Satan-given talent to be for MORE than just your own jerkoff material.

Sure, of course. And good for you! You know the time is past for Hey I Should Make a Solo Show About That Time I Studied Abroad and Learned About Racism. You know it's gone way past Oo Or I Should Make A Solo Show About My Depression/Anxiety/Bipolar Diagnosis. Yes, and you're right about all that! You know, at least, that the world doesn't need a solo show about you. You want to make a show about something bigger than you, and for that, yes, you deserve praise.

But hold on there, FDLLTAWAIYH. Just hold on a cotton-picking minute (see what I did there? No, the world also doesn't need a show about the time that blogger offended you with her use of "cotton-picking."). Remember that when bouffon was developing as a codified form, or even before that, when it was just a twinkle in some hunchbacked village idiot's eye, lots of people went to the theater. Before television, it was the only excuse to wear that ascot you really liked. Even when Jacques Lecoq was doing it in the 50's and 60's, normals went to theater shows. Maybe even conservative-type people went to theater shows! So maybe there was a chance, back in the 50's or 60's (which, just to do some math for ya, is over fifty years ago) that "the king was in the room", or, to say it another way—if you were doing bouffon fifty years ago, there was a slim chance that someone who needed to be challenged on their shittyass worldview was actually in the audience watching your show. And maybe, just maybe, that old shittyass dude had the potential to be slightly affected—maybe even changed—by your bouffon show. Just maybe.

Fifty. Years. Ago.

Now, if I may, a summary of the last fifty-plus years of theater: those people don't go to the theater anymore.

At all.

Or more to the point, if you want to make a show that a Trumper might go to, try making Aladdin or Mary Godfucking Poppins. There will be no Trumpers at your weirdass-looking bouffon show. They have too many sports to watch on TV, they have too much Arby's to eat, they have too many tiny-fetus cookies to bake for their anti-choice rallies. You'll never see them at your freaky-deaky show. Period.

So who is coming to your bouffon show? Who sees your poster and thinks, This is for me! You already know the answer: freaky-deaky left-leaning theater artists with activism in their hearts! Or if they're not artists themselves, they are in queer knitting groups with such artists, or such artists walk their rescue chihuahuas two times a week, or whatever. The room is full of people who want to support you and feel just as you do about our fucked-up world. Actually, it's very possible that the abortion doctors and climate change activists are even in the room, on a short break from all their making-the-world-better.

In short, your audience is a room full of people who are suffering from all the news telling them how fucked the world is, and they are all doing everything they possibly can to fix our fucked world every day, or at least just to survive it, and they decided to take an hour off from all that activism and pain to drink a goddamn red wine in a plastic cup and see your show.

And you think this is your moment to be all activist on their asses and teach the audience how fucked up income inequity or sexual harassment is? Um, no bitch. Because every single person in the room already agrees with you, and they don't need your reminder. It's only going to further bum them out.

You know what they need? They need the fantasy. They need to live in a beautiful world for an hour, in which the underdog is empowered and bathrooms are all equally unisex and sparkling clean. They need a taste of freedom.

And you can give that to them! The most radical, activist thing you can do on that stage is be your freaky-deaky self in your freaky-deaky dream world, just be as weird as you are and act as if that is 1000% right and accepted and normal already, feel your fantasy and live it loud (and, of course, curate an experience because we're all tired of shows and now we all want experiences). We need success stories of radicalism, not horror stories about how things are now. We know how things are now. The only way any of us are going to have the strength to change the world is if we see How The World Could Be enacted right before our eyes. There's your activism, bitch. That's what you can do for the world.

That doesn't mean, of course, that you can't make fun and satirize and skewer... you just have to consider who's going to be in the room and what they need, which is different from what the world needs. That's where you must wield your bouffon power not like a blunt instrument but like a scalpel, as my bouffon teacher friend Nathaniel Justiniano likes to say. It's gotta be surgical and it's gotta be precise.

Otherwise—no matter how many people are in your audience—you're just screaming into an empty room.

Don't be that bouffon.

And while we're on the subject, take those foam pads out of your pants.

But that's a bouffon gripe for another day.

YOUR RIGHTS AS AN IMMERSIVE PERFORMER

2019-01-07T13:44:00.004-08:00

In the beginning, there was the fourth wall.

And it kept the performer safe, if a bit out of touch.

Now—lo!— the fourth wall has broken! and issuing forth from behind that fourth wall is—behold!—the new immersive performer!

Oh, the mighty power of the immersive performer!

Oh, the mighty FREEDOM of the immersive performer!

And yet, with great power and great freedom—lo! lo!—comes great responsibility!

Verily, it is so! I say unto ye! Lo!

What follows are a definitely-not-biblically-styled pair of blog entries: one about your rights as an immersive performer, and one about your responsibilities as an immersive performer.

Let's define an immersive performer right now: you don't work with a fourth wall, and so, the entire performance space and everyone in it is part of your performance. You interact with the space and with the audience. You are probably employing some degree of improvisation in your work. You are a rock star of incredible magnitude, and you should be very proud of yourself.

Those of us who perform immersively have needs that are different from fourth-wall performer needs. We have a right to have those needs fulfilled. Our needs need to be fought for if we are to be successfully immersive.

These posts are generally directed at performers who are dealing with traditionally non-immersive venues, producers and tech operators. If you are an immersive performer in an immersive show, with an immersive producer and immersive technicians and one big immersive orgy love fest, well, you're awesome and you're very very lucky—but I'm probably not talking to you.

I'm talking to those of us who are trying to bring immersive performance into venues not initially set up to be immersive. That shit is ROUGH sometimes, and we need to support each other.

As immersive performers, remember, we are on the front line of the Great War between the modern revolution of immersion and the stuck-in-the-mud non-immersion that is taking its sweet time to die. Be gone already, non-immersive performance! But alas, she is stubborn. More on her never.

And so, warriors of immersion on the front lines, on the fault line between immersion and non-immersion, let me list some of your rights— rights no one will hand to you, rights for which you must advocate. Here's the stuff that can get you on the bad side of control-freaky venues and tech operators. Here's where the drama is. But this is also where it happens. This is where we wage the war. You must be brave! You must fight for what is right!

1) YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO GET YOUR TECH/VENUE NEEDS MET SO LONG AS YOU ARE NOT A DICK. As an immersive performer, you are performing heroic feats for an audience that desperately needs you. Contrary to what you want to believe, heroes are high maintenance, by necessity. It's not called Superman's Modest Studio Apartment of Solitude. Being immersive means you have needs: you have sound needs, light needs, staging needs, audience configuration needs. Yes, you've become that performer. Yes, you are higher maintenance than performers who work within a fourth wall.

And here is the cruel paradox. What producers and venues of historically non-immersive performance want most of all is a wildly enthusiastic audience who will come back and back. What producers and venues of historically-non-immersive performance want is immersive performance, which can touch audience members in a way no fourth-wall performer can! The paradox is that historically non-immersive producers and venues want immersive performance without having to work at it. They know what they want, but they don't know what they have to do to get it, and they don't want you to tell them.

This is where Being Super Nice, Professional and Direct comes in. You are a superhero with a job to do. Venues and producers and operators can sometimes be super accommodating, and sometimes not at all. It's your job to stand up for what you need, be assertive, be positive, be friendly.

Now, I can be a real snob and a diva. I know what my performance requires from venue techs and event producers, and sometimes I find myself judging the bad ones harshly in my heart. But I'm hoping I don't let them see it. That's when the fourth-wall acting comes in handy! Just drop that imaginary fourth wall between you and that dick venue tech or producer, get what you want, say thank you and hit the dressing room!

2) YOU HAVE A RIGHT TO LIGHTS AND SOUNDS THAT ADD TO THE IMMERSIVE EXPERIENCE. Yup, if you are calling yourself an immersive performer, then lights and sounds are not just somebody's else's business; they're yours too. You cannot always do much about lighting in non-immersive spaces—short of bringing your own, which I've heard is a thing some geniuses do—but you owe it to your immersive performer self to do something. You can get the house lights on low, which can help you see audience members if you're on stage, or illuminate you if you're going into the crowd. You might be able to get some sort of special aimed just where you want it. You get to be in charge of the lighting for your performance, and any adjust you can make will make your performance that much more immersive!

And yes, you probably need your own microphone. Sometimes venues have good mics, some don't, but do you really want to leave the sound of your performance up to that much chance? No you don't. Personally, I have an expensive-ass wireless headset mic and I like it that way. I use a Countryman E6 mic and a Sennheiser wireless pack. The Countryman is great because it's super comfortable to wear and it's so small that it doesn't get in the way of my facial micro-expressions. My Sennheiser receiver/transmitter pack runs on rechargeable double A's, which is great because when I give my receiver to the sound tech, he doesn't have to worry about plugging it into power as well as plugging it into the sound system. Sound techs always seem pleased to have to worry about one less plugging responsibility.

Do I have friends who have super cheap mics and like them? Yes I do.

Is my expensive-ass mic actually better than theirs in terms of sound quality? I don't really know. I think so.

Am I better than my friends? No, I am not.

We are all one, and your mic choice is your business.

But yes, you have to soundcheck that shit, either way.

3) YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO DESIGN AUDIENCE LAYOUT (IF IT'S FEASIBLE). Producers and venues think about the bottom line when it comes to audience: how many people can they squeeze in to make that money. They are NOT thinking about maximizing the drama of your entrance. They are NOT thinking about the best way you can be seen when you're in the audience. They aren't really considering the audience's experience—because fourth-wall performance deals in the illusion that the audience is not even there—so of course they don't matter! Producers and venues might even resent you for thinking about the audience's experience, or for daring to interact with them. They may not want you interacting with the audience because that makes them think of lawsuits. So if you want an aisle up the middle, if you want a special reserved chair, if you want the chairs arranged in a loose semi-circle, whatever you want, you gotta ask nice in advance and hope for the best. Seriously, the more in-advance you can contact a venue and let them know what your immersive needs are, the more likely you are to get what you want. And you also gotta be prepared for no special favors, because of ye ol' bottom line. You might be faced with the lamest, most-fourth-wall-enforcing seating plan in the world, and nobody will accommodate you, and you gotta kill anyway.

Nobody tells you that you have to advocate for your performance to make it as immersive as possible, but you 100% do. The more you can curate the experience for the audience, and attend to every aspect, the more in control of the immersion experience you will feel—and that radiates into your performance. If you have asserted your immersive rights before the show, you will glow in all dimensions when it's your time to shine.

DEVISING DEMYSTIFIED MWAHAHAAA

2018-10-13T11:14:00.002-07:00

I am fortunate enough to be hired on a pretty regular basis to Direct/Co-Write/Dramaturg the devised work of comic performers who do not employ a 4th wall AND who recognize the necessity in having an outside Director/Co-Writer/Dramaturg—henceforth called DCD, by me in this blog post and then, probably, never again by anyone.

So I thought it would be neat to explain a bit about the process, my background and philosophy, and more useful stuff about the DCD lifestyle, in case it's mysterious. Mwahahaa! Whether you're looking to bring in a DCD for your performance work, or are yourself considering the not-particularly-lucrative DCD career path, here are some of my very own DCD concepts for your perusal!

1) YOU NEED ONE YOU NEED ONE YOU NEED ONE. Let's get this little lecture out of the way. If you create theater of any kind, you need some sort of DCD. When I was in the straight-theater world, nobody thought about putting on a show without a director. It was like, DUH. So I'm not sure why, in the world of devised performance, some folks got it into their heads that they can cut corners and leave out... um.... the most important thing? No way, pal. And you can't DCD your own show either. It's too damn many hats to wear, and everything suffers. Performers need to wear the performer hat, and unfortunately, they have to wear the producer hat at least at first because they have to get people to come see what they do. That's enough hats! You can do some of the DCD legwork on your own, for sure, but ultimately, bring in SOMEONE or a few different people to see what the eff you're doing before you go public with it. Outside eyes are the only eyes that can really truly see.

2) STORY. Ever heard this maxim? There is no story in a clown show. The clown is the story.

Terrifying, right?

Obviously, complete hooey.

Well, it's slightly true.

But it's sort of bullshit.

The truth is, yes, any compelling comic performer should already be a story—by which I mean, a compelling character has a narrative buzzing around them that an audience can sense, can get curious about. But that doesn't mean that the story doesn't also need to be PLAYED OUT. We might see the story buzzing around the clown, but in a full show, we need to go on the ride. The ride is a story arc, a question to be answered, a lesson learned, an adventure taken.

If I'm any good at DCDing, it's at least in part because I've spent my life being a story addict. My childhood books have layers of ancient peanut butter stains from being read over and over again (over sandwiches). Scary stories kept me up at night, romantic stories consumed me. I'm one of those people who often narrates my day-to-day life, just to myself, like a lunatic. I've taught high school English and facilitated classic book clubs and written 3 novels and watched way more movies and television than I feel like counting or admitting, from a wide range of eras and genres. Since I was young, I've obsessed about how stories are constructed, what their agenda is, what the conscious and unconscious choices of the author reveal about their times, their environs, themselves. Stories are everywhere, and if you're like me, then you see stories hanging off of every tree limb and sign post, like the forgotten entrails of your friends after the zombie apocalypse.

A massive foundation of stories comes in handy when you're trying to make a new one.

3) THE FOREST AND THE TREES. Let's break down a show this way: you got a forest, and you got trees. The forest is the overall story; the trees are the elements that make up that story. A show needs to have trees—parts, elements, bits, micro-stories—and it needs a forest: a journey, an arc, answers to questions like "what's it all about" or "why did you make people come see this in the first place." But just because you have, say, 55 minutes of trees does NOT mean you have a forest.

I have worked with artists at all different stages in their processes. Usually, they have already done some work on their own: they have bits, they have a character, they have a concept. What I often notice is that a performer comes to me with trees, sometimes a lot of trees, but when we start to chart out what the forest is, we come up short. We see that the trees all have a similar dynamic, or tell the same micro-story within a larger framework. Sometimes I notice that performers have spent a lot of time making the same tree over and over again in slightly different shades, and that's cool, but when it comes time to make a full show, the same tree over and over again does not a forest make. Or, perhaps more to the point, it makes one repetitive-ass show.

I use index cards a lot in my process. They're super useful both for noting what trees we may already have, and what we may still need to complete a full story arc. We put all the trees on separate index cards. We ask questions of each tree: what new purpose is it serving, what theme does it reinforce, what does it reveal, why do we love it. Those questions often lead us toward bigger forest-type discussions: what are the show's aesthetics, values, lessons, investigations? What do we have, and where are we headed? Forest and trees, man. That old chestnut has never let me down.

4) TABLE SESSIONS. I work with performers using a combination of "table sessions," (as in, work sessions with writing utensils over beverages at tables) and studio time. Table sessions are when the performer(s) and I can think about the forest, switch index cards around, write things down, talk about areas of the show we need to develop further, set goals for studio time, deal with feelings of panic and/or inadequacy, all of it. We talk talk talk and play with index cards and drink hot enticing beverages and talk more. Talk is important, as are hot enticing beverages, and table sessions are the times when the performer can wear the co-writer/co-dramaturg hat, and give feedback on the whole process. There must be space for talk in a development process, which brings me to—

5) STUDIO TIME! Here's a common DCD-less pitfall: performers go into the studio for studio time. They have material they have to develop, so they spend studio time talking big concepts and trying to figure stuff out. They end up spending way too much time talking and way less time on their feet working. They get a little stage time in and call it a night, exhausted. Sure, it counts as a rehearsal, the same way walking to the refrigerator counts as exercise. It's just not the most effective exercise, or in this case, rehearsal.

Remember when I said wearing too many hats is bad for a performer? It's more than bad. The quality of the material you develop will be nowhere near as good as it could be if your studio time is weighed down with discussion. You know what studio time is? It's a fucking workout for your show. It's when somebody warms you up and gets you going and gives you games to play and side-coaches you as you play them. You play play play and invent invent invent. That's it! And that shit is videotaped! Filming improv is the most important tool performers have. Not necessarily every rehearsal or every minute, but every time we're trying to work something out or develop material, we tape that shit. So many times, something awesome happens, something clicks into place, and if there's a camera on, all you have to do later is watch and transcribe. BAM! MATERIAL DEVELOPED! Smooth it out later.

Inspiration is, as I'm sure you know, one of the worst assholes out there. It's hard to pin down, it's hard to predict, and it's inconsistent as fuck. If you talk too much, it flees the scene. It needs more than anything to be protected, to have a safe and carefully curated space to do its strange ghost-pony dances. Table sessions are a way of separating "think/talk time" from "create/play time." They should be separate, if you want that ol' asshole inspiration to come haunt ya in the best way.

6) MONEY!!! One of the reasons, I know, that a lot of devising performers don't use a director is because usually, directors cost money. Not always; you can trade outside-eye work with friends, or find someone who is beefing up a resume and wants the work... but yeah, sometimes you have to pay. Myself, I charge hourly. Sometimes I consider going to a flat-rate model based on the size of the final project, because taking on an artistic project is not an hourly kind of job. You think about every show you work on even when you're not working on it.

But if you're balking over spending money on a director, perhaps costing you a few grand, at most, allow me tell you about the show I once spent over 15 grand on. It was the first Butt Kapinski show, 12 years ago, when Butt was performing with 3 other guys. The show had a set designer, a sound designer, a lighting designer, a video designer, a costume designer, two week-long artist residencies, 2 years of rehearsing in Brooklyn spaces, rented theater spaces, a producer, all the usual show production costs, not to mention the performers and director who didn't get paid. I footed the whole bill. Mostly, I was so glad that something I wanted to make was getting made. I had lucrative work those 2 years and was able to spend that kind of money.

Where is that show now? Totally dead (rest in peace). I have absolutely nothing to show for it. We did about 12 performances of it, and then never again.

On the other hand, I have a lot of show for it. I learned a ton about how shows get made and what's needed to make them. I learned a lot about what I didn't want to do for the future. And I get to say to people, you're worried about paying me? Let me tell you about the time I spent 15 grand. Don't pity me, just congratulate yourself that you're not spending anywhere near that, and you're getting a show that will hopefully last longer than mine did.

Making a show is NOT a science—it's totally different every time. There are moments during development where I doubt my abilities to pull it together, I lose faith in the vision the performer(s) and I once had, I wonder if it's all crap. We all do. But mostly, it's a magical, mystical process. Watching performers give birth to an art baby—a baby that you have doula'd and midwifed and kinda a little bit fathered too... it's so powerful. It goes up and there's response and you see the relief on the performer's face—the hardest work is done—and the determination to keep going and refining and working...

Making a show is a marathon, and it doesn't ever seem to quite stop. That's a cool thing about art. And life. Something is always growing—even if it's tiny, a dream, a notion. Something always has the potential to bloom.

FINDING THE GAME: DEMYSTIFIED BY A CLOWN!

2018-09-21T12:59:00.000-07:00

After a 15-year hiatus from performing improv comedy, I find myself back into it, and I love it and hate it all at once.

In the early aughts, I left the improv scene in NY and got into clown. Mainly because the improv troop that I loved, Burn Manhattan, had kinda disbanded and weren't really teaching anymore, and the UCB, swarmy-cult-like bastion of problematic improv, became the dominant comedy force in town. Plus, frankly, it was tiring to always get onstage and try to do earnest scenes with strong setups, and have all these dorky dudes turn every scene I initiated into some creepy sex role-play thing. I imagine some of that gender stuff is better now.

But setting the sexism aside for a moment, trends in improv felt too cerebral and mathematical for me. UCB actually had a diagram. When I see a comedy diagram, this may be just me, but I smell death.

The UCB and its manual-of-formulaic-formulation is probably responsible, too, for the sweeping debate in improv circles about what it means to Find The Game. Oh, you didn't know there are sweeping debates about what it means to "find the game"? Lucky you!!! Stop reading immediately!

But those of us who are improvisers, we know that there is some debate about what Find The Game means. Because UCB got all cute and defined it, and then Annoyance in Chicago was like, Uh, NO! And then everyone else was kinda like, wait, aren't you all actually agreeing with each other? And then we all were like, argh!

I fled all that Game debate when I found clown. But now I'm doing improv again, and I feel like I'm funnier than I used to be. And Clown helped me understand what finding the game actually means, in its simplest terms, and I am ready to share it with you... ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS PAY $99.99 FOR MY VIDEO TUTORIAL SERIES HAHAHAHHAHAH no seriously actually just read the next paragraph.

In clown, there is one game: make the audience laugh at the fun you are having. In standup comedy, there is one game: make the audience laugh at the fun you are having. In improv comedy—I know, it's collaborative and you want to make your partner feel good and blah blah blah—but when it comes right down to it, come on, there's really only one game. The audience needs to be laughing, and you need to be having actual fun.

Actual fun means play. It means what a dog does with a ball. It means what a Bat Mitzvah girl does with a limbo stick. It doesn't mean just thinking about something kind of amusing. It doesn't mean thinking at all.

You should know if you're having real fun or not. But maybe you don't. If that's the case, let the audience tell you. If we want to get mathematical about it, figure that probably, if you're having proper fun right away, you should get a laugh within the first 25 seconds of your scene.

Let's talk about what should be happening before that 25 second mark, from an audience perspective. In the first 5 seconds, the audience is sizing you up and deciding whether you are in fact going to do something to make them laugh. By 10 seconds in, they are either interested or bored already. If they're interested, which they should be, then let's give you a bonus 15 seconds to do something that will make the audience make some sort of noise to reflect their interest and increasing entertainment.

You know how in those airline safety videos they tell you to put your own mask on first and then assist the child next to you? Right, well, in that first blush of a scene opening, you gotta find your own game before you can find the game between you and somebody else.

Naturally, there are PUH-lenty of improv gurus who will tell me that I'm full of garbage, that you have to deeply stare into your partner's aura and find the game there. That what you are is Nothingness until your partner fills your nothingness for you. Yeah, maybe. But maybe not. The beginning of a scene is an emergency. The plane is crashing, and everyone is panicking trying to "find a game" before they find theater. Perhaps it's not wise to count on your partner to be your sole game. They just might be too in their head, and you're running out of time.

I'm not saying that your scene partners don't matter. They matter a lot. I'm just saying, when the air is getting sucked out of a plummeting plane, put your own goddamn mask on first. You gotta find a way to have fun in your own body right away, right as the scene is starting. You have to bring the party before it's too late.

So how do you find your own game? UP your energy. You wanna walk someplace with your normal, run-o'-the-mill pedestrian energy, consider an intersection or a supermarket. If you're on stage, you are in an UPPED ENERGY STATE. That's right. All the time.

Have an emotion. You don't need to invent one. There is probably an emotion already there, just bubbling like an underground lava spring ready to erupt as soon as you let it. Here's an example. The other night I walked on stage with another player. Before the scene started, he was standing in front of me, and I was like....

Ohhhhh, look, he's showing me his back.

Ohhhhhhhhh, he's trying not to look at me.

Just like that, I felt mad and sad, and a little predatory. That's all I knew when the scene started. But it was enough to put me in a heightened state.

You don't have to do much, you just have to do something fun right away. And the audience will immediately, instinctively respond. When it's working, you find their laughs surprising, because you didn't think what you actually said was that clever. And it probably wasn't. It was just a honest reflection of the fun you were having.

There are lots of ways to have a personal game, but I tend to start with emotion cuz it's right there. I let the emotion send me toward a physicality game that feels fun in my body, and I play that. Then, hopefully, the game becomes a two-hander, and you and the person or people you are on stage with can figure out how to play together. More on that in some other boring improv blog post for which I apologize in advance.

Just remember this: having fun on stage means physical and emotional exercise. It means making actual shapes with your body that you don't make in your day-to-day. It means expressing feelings that you don't share most of the time. It means bringing the most special, most rare, most weird reflection of yourself to a bunch of people who will be grateful for your willingness to share that with them.

The clown in you never has to think about the game.

The game is inside you, all the time.

Breathe. Be brave. Let 'er rip.

WHAT COUNTS AS GOOD FEEDBACK?

2018-07-01T18:28:00.003-07:00

Once upon a time, a brilliant workshop participant sidled up to me on a break and asked a question. "While I was watching someone on stage a few minutes ago," he said, "I had the impulse afterwards to tell him something that he could've done that would've been really funny. But then I was like, Is that good feedback?"

And I was like, "Great question, Brilliant Workshop Participant."

I think we've all spent a lot of time in comedy classes listening to our teachers or even fellow students give "feedback" in the form of This is the awesome thing that should've happened in that scene, but didn't. How useful are these awesome ideas after the scene is over? Can these ideas somehow dig up the corpse of that scene and resurrect it, Frankenchrist-like, into a fresher, more ferocious form of itself?

Unfortunately no, friends and lovers. That scene that just ended is totally dead, and we all know what happens when you try to resurrect the dead: you get angry psychopathic monsters or Christmas sweaters, and none of it's any good at all. Telling a performer what they could've done to make a scene better is not really going to help them. Because think about how people learn. People generally learn by being able to put new information into a file that's already created in their brain for that information. Into what brain file can we put This is how that scene would've been better, besides the brain file of Oh, this teacher or fellow performer is way smarter than dumb ol' meeee?

And that brain file is near to bursting, friends and lovers!

When it's time to give feedback, here are six concepts to consider, as both teachers and fellow artists-at-work:

1)First, the best feedback is not feedback. It's side-coaching.

For Satan's sake, comedy teachers, when performers could be better on stage right now, and it will only take a word or phrase from you for them to fix it, don't wait! Freakin' tell them now!!! Side coach side coach side coach! When a performer gets to experience a change from inside an improvisation, they learn very differently from just hearing something afterwards and nodding. They learn experientially, which is really the best way for anyone to learn anything. There are limits to this, of course; over-side-coaching stops the flow. Still, most classes I've been in, the teachers have mostly erred on the side of under-side-coaching. Which sounds sexier than it is.

2) Before you say anything at all, ask the person who was just on stage how they would evaluate what they just did. When we are asked to self-evaluate, we start to more carefully consider the different aspects at play in our work. Often, people do a really great job of self-evaluating, and when they don't, then it's easier to see what their particular blind spots are by getting them to talk first.

3) Define and reuse terms, and limit limit limit.If a concept has been introduced, and performers are trying that concept out on their feet, a great focus for outside-eye feedback is, how did the performer use that particular concept? Keeping terminology consistent can help us figure out how well we are understanding and applying what we're learning. And it may be that other issues beside the concept-on-the-table have come up for you as you watch, but consider letting those go. I know it feels so tough to not give particular gems of feedback, but let them go anyway. We don't need every last drop of your feedback brilliance every time, sad but true.

4) Look for patterns. Just like I am always accidentally buying myself a new striped sweater that looks like every other striped sweater I've ever bought, people make the same kinds of choices over and over again. Pointing out the pattern is a great way for a student to see what they're doing, and keep it in mind so that next time, they've have more awareness of their tendency toward stripes, and maybe make a decision to do plaid instead.

5) Look for the ROOT of your feedback.When we watch other people in a workshop environment, we're always "playing at home"—figuring out how we would do it if we were the ones on stage. So it's totally natural that we'd come up with ideas for what could've been different/better. But instead of telling a performer, "you could've done this," go one level deeper into your own idea, figure out the concept behind your idea, and pitch that concept to them, as just one more way to approach a moment. For example, let's say you're watching someone improvise and it seems like they should've gotten very excited at a specific moment, but didn't. Why did you come up with the idea that they should've gotten excited? Is it because you're watching with a lens of what makes characters tick?or maybe what is rhythmically interesting? Suggest one of those lenses to them, not the result of the lens. Give your students the pole, not the fish. Which, again, sounds sexier than was intended.

6) Keep feedback time short. Back when I used to teach high school English, I would watch my fellow English teachers in the faculty lounge covering their students' papers with comments. On one hand, I saw the value in that: it gave students the message that their words were being deeply considered; their words mattered. On the other hand, it was a lot of ink for students to absorb, and they usually got overwhelmed by it. My teaching mentor told me, early on, "Students don't read your comments; they just look at the grade." (He was adorably cynical, but often right.) He told me to give my students more writing homework, and comment less on it. I took his point. I'll say it again: we learn by reps. Fact: the more reps you give your students, the better. It doesn't matter how genius your feedback sessions are; they are still no substitute for reps reps reps reps reps.

More work, less talk, but more targeted talk—that's what makes us all happier, and also, ultimately—whooda thunk?—funnier too.

FRINGE DIET

2018-06-05T06:35:00.000-07:00

So last summer, I ate quite well during the Edinburgh Fringe month for about 10 US dollars a day. In honor of touring season coming up in the Northern Hemisphere, I thought I'd publicize my Fringe Diet. I think many of us have trouble eating well on the road, but if you're in one place for long enough to get to the grocery store, and you need some inspiration, maybe this post is for you. There is a lot of satisfaction in making your own food on the road; it isn't hard, and you feel like a healthy yet frugal rock star while still enjoying the luxury of fresh food.

What follows is simply my grocery list with suggestions for how it all came together. Obviously tailor as you see fit.

eggs

yogurt

These were breakfast items. Just good to have around the house. The yogurt stayed at home, as did most of the eggs, but sometimes it's also amazing to hard-boil an egg and bring it with you. Whatta power snack!

Extra-virgin olive oil

A packet of prewashed arugula or spinach

Mini-cucumbers

sugar snap peas

a bunch of scallions

broccoli and/or brussel sprouts and/or yams

fresh sprouts or sunflower seeds (dried)

cherry tomatoes

pickled beets and/or olives

a few lemons

feta cheese

I always carry a good tupperware container with me—one that closes securely with those plastic locks. Each day I put together a big salad with some combo of the above ingredients. I roasted broccoli, yams and brussel sprouts and had them around to put in the salad. I drizzled the olive oil, feta and squeezed lemon on that salad and then when it was time to take it out and eat it I just shook it vigorously and it was ready to eat!

a few hardy fruits: apples, oranges

grapes

berries

fresh mint leaves

I also had a secondary, smaller tupperware that I brought fruit around with. Because it was summer, it was berries and stone fruit slices and grapes. Mint sprigs were just nice to have with it, refreshing, and a little lemon squeezed on the fruit also makes things nice.

Good bread, like bread you'll be excited about

hummus

brie or another cheese that's not feta

smoked salmon

sliced deli meat like turkey and ham

pre-cooked chicken meat if it's good, or if it's not, get raw chicken thighs and asian marinade and make good chicken at home.

I also made sandwiches which are naturally great to take around. I toasted the bread first just to make it sturdier. Any of the salad things can go in a sandwich too, of course.

chocolate-coated protein bars that feel like both dessert AND protein

nuts

dried fruits

These I carried around in baggies with the tupperwares. So I felt like I had lots of variety with me at all times, and none of it was that heavy.

And that's how I did it at Edinburgh! Seriously, 10 US dollars a day! Except for the last few days, which descended into an exhausted vortex of beige fried things like chips and doughnuts-fried-in-front-of-your-face.

None of us, perfect.

LAST TOUR BEFORE SEMI-RETIREMENT

2018-05-05T09:09:00.000-07:00

Today I leave for yet another big long tour. It is similar to another one I started four-and-a-half months ago, and another one I started four months before that. It seems, for the past five years, that I've been taking between two and three two-to-three-month trips a year. I have identical battery chargers with three different countries' plugs. There is currency from five different countries in my change jar. I have spent way too much time overwhelmed by jet-lagged, needlessly-terrified during airplane turbulence, and bereft of my collections of impractical onesies and heavy necklaces. I have spent a large chunk of several years being on tour. I'm retiring.

I'm not retiring. But I have turned down two well-paid international gigs this year already, gigs that would fly me to faraway places and put me up and all that stuff. I have said, enough is enough, for the time being. Def no more overseas work for the foreseeable future.

You know, unless you get an offer you can't refuse. But you can't wait around for those.

It is, of course, bittersweet. I loved touring. I met so many beautiful people, I grew so much as a teacher and a performer. I mean, the shows! All over the dang anglish-speakin' wirrld! And the workshops. The incredible communion with performers from all over the place.

It all really hit me during Edinburgh last summer. About a week and a half into shows, the audiences were applauding right when I came on, like I was famous or at least someone they recognized from their gym. I have no idea how that happened, and I'm sure there's some reasonable explanation for it—but it occurred to me in those moments, this might be the height of your performance career. It may not get any better than this. I killed it at the biggest arts fest in the world, night after night. For me that felt like a big deal.

But then again, my definition of "killing it" at Edinburgh means that I cleared a few thousand dollars and had a lot of great shows and didn't get seriously depressed even once. There's of course further to go. My famous friend always asks me, when I'm about to go on another tour, "Are they paying to fly you first class?" And I have to say no, and remember that, if they were, I probably wouldn't be semi-retiring right now. I'd have a personal chef and an entourage, and I'd never be lonely again hahahaaaa.

But that's a whole other life.

I think in order to get to "the next level" with Butt Kapinski, I would have to first amp up my social media and video content by roughly a gazillion percent, and then, I'd have to put Butt around TV/film-type opportunities. That's just for starters, and who knows, really, if if if if if. There's a lot to do in this world. I have a lot of other plans.

Which is not to say that Butt is dead, not at all. I'm pretty sure I will do Butt Kapinski for the rest of my life. It probably just won't be for month-long runs at faraway festivals.

I mean, you never know... but I've noticed things about myself on tour for the last year or two... I'm not as social as I used to be. Wherever I go, I seem most excited about finding a local pool and a good tupperware to carry salads around in. When I'm not actually working, I spend a lot of time watching "RuPaul's Drag Race" in bed. I make fewer friends each tour; I rarely go dancing; I miss home.

And so, I'm hanging up my golf-club-case and my battery chargers for the foreseeable future.

But I'm definitely going to enjoy this last tour. One month in England, two weeks in Australia. Some long flights, but a lot of opportunities and inspiring artists and good black tea. Each time I've toured, I've seen the progression: the way one's reputation has baked even more into the soil of the tour in front of you, so you feel that the soil is more prepped for your seed than it was the first time you tried to plant it (so to speak). You feel those moments when you headline some lineup show that wouldn't have booked you three years ago. When you hob-knob with someone you used to think was far beyond your coolness level. Those moments when someone wants to gush over how amazing you are, and you know what? You stop them. Because enough people have gushed over you now. That I'm famous feeling is fun, but it's fraught, too. It's fragile. It's like 6am on a spring day, when the air is so fresh and delicate you want to suck it all up through your nose. Actually no it isn't. It's like those Trader Joe's chocolate truffles that you eat ten of the first time you try them, and then the next time you encounter them, you can only eat two, and then you don't want any anymore ever. Your body just sees them and shakes its head.

Did I choose to semi-retire, or did semi-retirement choose me? Who knows? I think every career has its own trajectory and its own momentum and its own path, and everything has to end sometime. Not like it's over, but it could be semi-over. And I'm kinda fine with that. I'm 44, you know what I mean? But it's not just about age. It's about coziness and routine and community, and how increasingly important those are to me now that I've really found them up in my Slightly-More-Urban Twin Peaks, USA. It's the spot from which to go forward with my personal next-step-in-world-domination.

It's a big world; sometimes going further means taking smaller steps.

HOW DID YOU MAKE THAT SHOW?

2018-02-23T12:01:00.000-08:00

An awesome workshop participant suggested I put up a blog post about how I came up with my "solo" show Butt Kapinski, so that in moments where somebody asks me that question and I don't have time to have a coffee with them, I can say, at least there's a blog post!

Well, it seemed like a nice idea.

But the truth is, I kinda have no idea how I made my show. Or rather, I have no idea how far back in my life story to go to start the answer to that question. Do you want to hear about the clowning and improv classes I took when I was six? Probably not, right?

I also think there usually are two sub-questions inherent in that question. There's how did you create that character? AND how did you decide to wear a light and make the show interactive/immersive? And, really, when you boil it all down, the question beneath the question is probably actually How can *I* make a show that makes ME feel the way I imagine YOU feel when you're doing your show?

Well, I can try to answer some of that, anyway.

First: Butt Kapinski the character is a very organic distillation of a whole lot of me-stuff: film noir fandom, slight gender dysphoria (misogynistic-societally-induced or organic, who can tell), childhood speech impediments. When the character came out of me, I was not expecting it, but it made absolute sense right away. It immediately felt like the most logical direction I could go in. It was the easy choice. It was obvious. It was and is utterly me.

The wearing-my-own-light concept probably came from going to Burning Man a few times in the early aughts. It blew open a lot of things for me: the artistic aesthetic was three-dimensional, inviting interaction. I saw how spaces could feel electrified, how costumes could blend function and fantasy. And I saw a lot of creative use of light, people wearing lights. Mostly to illuminate themselves, not others. But it did get me thinking.

Then when I started really getting into clown work, I felt hungry to interact with the audience and too limited by the stage lights and, frankly, other clowns. I said to my boyfriend at the time, What I really want is a light that I can wear so I can go anywhere. And he said, That's what you should have, then. And then my dad, who has a degree in electrical engineering, designed it, and my lighting designer friend built it. And so it was born. And the light's creaking sound just developed through use; none of us knew that was going to happen.

All of the material for the show was developed either in performance or in rehearsal with friends acting as audience members. For the first two or so years of doing Butt as a solo thing, I just did 10 minute bits at Variety and Burlesque nights, which gave me a lot of experience with different audiences and some confidence that what I was doing could and should be a longer piece.

And like I've said before, being a high school English teacher was my best training for clowning, and for doing a full-length solo show. The day-after-day practice of putting together an interactive performance for the classroom, that really did it for me.

So... that's how I made my show.

How should you make your show? Uh... (shuffles feet, looks elsewhere)

Well at the very least, here are four ideas I would throw your way:

1) Slaughter the 10-minute bit first. Like, totally slaughter it. Like, have them hooting and cheering and begging for more. Maybe get your 10 minutes so good that you get paid for it sometimes, or at least, sought after. It's a strong indication, if you have an amazing 10 minutes, that you might be able to have an amazing 20, or 34, or 57.

2) Think about the experience you want an audience to have. Beyond just sitting there, what can you give them experientially, so that they are able to put a piece of themselves into your show, and be rewarded for having been there. The world already has enough just-sit-there-and-watch-me shows, don't you think? Fourth-wall theater is dying. Make it an event, or make it for Youtube.

3) Assume that you might only have ONE character in you, ever, that anyone will ever love. Why make that assumption? Because I think that makes you realize that you better put everything you got into that character. Don't save shit for that character down the line. Everything you have now, everything you are and ever were, use it now. Make it about you, deeply—where you're from, what makes you tick, what your obsessions and loves are, what gives you pleasure, what you want most of all. And don't forget the shame—shame is probably your most powerful tool for creating a character that people can laugh at and feel catharsis through. I still feel shame every time I perform; I cultivate that shame, because keeping it around, and going forward anyway, makes me brave. But you can't be brave if you aren't sharing something that some part of you would prefer not to share, not to have others laugh at. No matter how good a performer you are, you can't pretend vulnerability. It's either there or not there, and the audience can smell it either way.

4) Consider getting into teaching, if you're not there already—especially teaching students you have to work a bit to win over. Maybe teaching will satisfy your solo-performing needs and then you won't even need to make a show!

Ha ha ha ha ha!

SHOULD YOUR COMEDY CLASS BE A SAFE SPACE?

2018-01-02T17:26:00.004-08:00

Sooooo, last summer a participant asked me if our workshop was a "safe space," and I told her it wasn't. That was probably a lie.

What does it mean, safe space? This is a big messy subject, and chances are I'm going to get stuff wrong and miss stuff, because there's so many nerve endings that this issue touches, and I know I'm not going to touch them all right. Anyway, we'll go in together.

If we choose to define safe space in the most broad terms, as in, A space in which you will not be bullied, harassed or assaulted, then of course, our workshop is a safe space. And in these times, I'm going to venture a guess that most comedy workshops are.

But that's not what my workshop participant was asking. She wanted to know if our workshop was A wink-nudge SAFE SPACE wink-nudge, which probably means something different, something more along the lines of, A place where intolerance is not tolerated.

That is where things get very sticky, because then how do we define intolerance, how do we define not tolerated, and for that matter, how do we define IS... you see where I'm going here.

The truth is, I haven't had to think very much about this question, due to a very excellent screening process that happens almost independently of anything I'm doing. First of all, I'm a female-coded person (as the kids are saying)—so whoever has signed up for my classes already thinks that a female-coded person might be able to teach them something about comedy. That disqualifies a whole buncha douchebags right there.

Second of all, I'm teaching a class called Naked Comedy. People signing up for such a class are both (A) not freaked out by the idea of nakedness; and (2) already very open to being vulnerable.

That seems to be a potent cocktail in terms of getting ideal people to my class. Who knew? It doesn't appear to be a particularly elaborate screening process, and yet, my classes are full of really awesome people, like, almost without exception— awesome after awesome after awesome. That's just who signs up. Just because of my gender and my class's name.

So what I'm saying is, you can ask me if my class is a safe space, and I can squirm at that idea and get all rabble-rousin' and Del-Closey and bray out, Naw, man, this shit ain't SAFE! We're all punk rock and Not-Safe-Spacey round THESE parts!

But I'm full of it.

I'm playing with a majorly stacked deck (and you should see the stack on this deck! jk).

But, see, there are plenty of other comedy classes. Those classes are called "Generic-Sounding Comedy Training" with teachers' names like CHET and CHAD and CHEVERETT. Those classes might not have the same self-selection in their signups. Are those classes safe spaces? Should they be?

I'm going to venture a guess that, in times like these, most comedy classes are going to strive to have some safety in them. Comedy schools are no doubt doing everything they can to define safe space as Not Inviting Lawsuits.

A variety of people sign up for "Generic-Sounding Comedy Training." Some on the woke-r side, some maybe less so. But the comedy world is generally, as we all know, full of liberals (ed. note: I'm using the Amurkin definition of liberal here, which is synonymous with leftie. But it is fun for us to remember, Amurkins, that liberal elsewhere in the English-speaking world actually means conservative. Whooda thunk?) So while there might be a few non-liberals in our comedy classes, no doubt they will smell the leftie-leaning odors in the room and keep their dumber instincts to themselves. Mostly. Maybe.

Everyone is coming into their comedy class carrying varying amounts of privilege and garbage, both. And how do we create an environment that checks our privilege and garbage, that doesn't perpetuate the same-old same-ol? How do we create the space in which it feels like the master's tools are available to everyone?

I wonder sometimes about the safe spaces that are safe in some ways and unintentionally problematic in others. Comedy is still largely a rich man's game—it's changing, but there it is. Most of the "comedy authorities" out there are, at this point, still privileged men. Do these men know how to cultivate the funny of those different from they? Some do, right? But some...? You've been in those classes, right? Where it felt like the alpha white dudes were the only ones the teacher really "got," because he himself was an alpha white dude, and so, while he really wanted to support, he just didn't have enough of the master's tools to loan out.... And so we all paid our money and did our time, and nodded our thanks, and left the class saying, "Yeah, it was ohhh-kay..." But we felt like we were watching somebody else get to use the fancy hacksaw. And that feels unfortunately familiar.

It's not that the space wasn't safe. It was safe. Nobody got harassed, nobody got abused. But still. It wasn't enough.

Should your comedy class be a safe space? Obviously.

Should your comedy class be a wink-nudge safe space? Yes and no.

Yes, your comedy class's infrastructure and facilitation should be making every effort to privilege the voices of the less-privileged in a way that doesn't single anyone out or make anyone feel weird. That is a mighty difficult balance to strike, but it's a priority. Affirmative action is necessary for our comedic evolution. We need different voices, desperately, right now. If your class can only cultivate the comedy of the privileged, then it might be a Don't-Sue-Me safe space, but it's not a Ultra-Mega-Major-Fluffy-Kitten safe space. And maybe, we're all at a point where Ultra Mega Major Fluffy Kittens are mandatory.

But no, your comedy class should probably not keep you safe from the potential ignorance or unconscious violence of other participants in the class, provided nobody's doing anything on purpose to be an asshole. Our comedy classes are an ideal battleground to meet those monsters. If you feel challenged by somebody else's comedy in a comedy class—whether they're being misogynist, racist, phobic or just dumb—it's an opportunity. And your class environment should provide for and welcome those opportunities. That's why the right facilitator is so important: making sure that the space is held in a way that allows us to all try out and test and fail and explore and confront and see.

Our comedy deserves a cozy environment in which to breed and grow. It is our armor, our great weapon against all the little psychological blows in life, and it can get bigger and tougher the more we use it. It's time to use it. We have the scimitars of resistance, the martial arts of mischief. It is the time to kick comedy ass and wipe the floor with somebody else's ignorance or unconscious violence. That's the only way any of us will truly be safe.

We are here for the soft battle, and we are ready.

WHAT'S NEXT FOR YOU?

2017-11-21T11:13:00.000-08:00

Sometimes as a working artist, you have a meeting with an Industry Person. This is someone whose job is to buy the work of performing artists. There are plenty of nice ones, so I'm not knocking them per se. Without fail, though, they always ask this question:

"What's next for you?"

They want to know what your next project is, what your next show will be, the next direction for your work. Why do they always ask this? Probably a few reasons. Not being an Industry Person, I have to hazard guesses.

Perhaps one reason is to take the pressure off the work you are currently trying to sell them. Maybe Industry Person feels the truth of things: that selling one's performance work is stressful and it's a buyer's market and that sucks because that's a lot of pressure pressing down on something that just wants to flutter and breathe and be. Maybe the conversation got heavy and the Industry Person likes it light. So they try to focus on the future, hoping it's less confronting to talk about than your current present.

Also, they probably want to know if your next product is something they might want to buy. Either in addition to or instead of what you're currently offering.

Hey, who can blame them? Industry People want what we all want: good working relationships with colleagues. When they find someone who meets the basic requirements for Good Colleague—you answer emails, you can spell, you treat them courteously no matter what's going on in your life—they want to know if they can continue to have a working relationship with you. It's way easier than trying to find someone else who is courteous and can spell. They want the nice option they already know.

The problem is only for us, the artists. Frankly, thinking about our commercial viability, thinking about our work as a series of products, well, it might just kill what we do—kill it dead.

Here's an example I can think of: um, myself! I came up with a good show. It's cheap (solo, with minimal baggage), innovative, and fun. It's led to a lot of touring and performing opportunities all over the place. I did one good one! I win! But of course you never win. The thing is, that might be the only show I've got in me. Seriously. I mean, maybe, at least. I definitely might not have another solo show in me—see every blog post I've ever written about how fricking lonely solo-touring can be. These days I'm focusing more on teaching, exploring local performance opportunities, writing. I've also become way more interested in interactive experience design, escape rooms and games. All of this boils down to me not being able to tell an Industry Person What's Next.

This is what I tend to say: "You know, I still really love doing this character and this show—it still feels really fresh to me, and although I'm interested in a lot of different things, I don't actually know what's next."

Sure, it feels momentarily bad, when you realize that you might not be a viable product, that you may not be an Industry Person's best bet for those long-term relationships, that if you don't have a What's Next, in their eyes, you barely have a What's Now.

But we have to honor where we are, and what the Muses have already given us. We can't get too greedy in this life. We don't have to apply capitalist principles to our art-making, just because other people do. Just because it feels gratifying to our capitalist veins, our capitalist capillaries, to have those moments of capitalist blood beating through the body UNHHHH, SOMEBODY'S PAYING ME MONEY FOR MY ART UNNNHHHHH. Yeah, it's fricking awesome. Does it mean you need to think of yourself as a product farting out products on somebody else's idea of a schedule? Yeah, have fun with that. You see what happened to Season 3 of "Crazy Ex-Girlfriend" (and if you haven't seen, for satan's sake DON'T WATCH SEASON 3). You see what happens to every artist who has to crank shit out on the regular. Art does not respond to factory conditions. I mean, neither do people, once we start really going for this train of thought. But seriously.

Maybe it's fine to not know what's next. I'm not saying it's fine, like, you'll still get Industry People to return your emails. Most of the time, I have no idea how to get Industry People to return my emails. They do when they want to, they don't when they don't.

I'm saying it's fine like you're still probably a worthwhile artist, even if you don't have another Insert- Artform-Here all ready to pitch. You've made something valuable that gave you and a lot of other people joy. Once in a while, in your dark nights—with the unknown unfolding in front of you, like a ribbon from a future birthday party for a friend you don't yet know—focus fully on what you've already done, and let it surround you, and just sometimes, let it be enough.

ARE WOMEN "STUPID" ENOUGH ALREADY?

2017-11-15T21:18:00.001-08:00

Soooooo back in the olden days, right, there was a King, and there was a Jester. The King was a man, and he was the Establishment, the Power, and all the patriarchal Patriarchy you can shake a patrician pater at. And the Jester was also a man, but he was a little man, relatively speaking. He was not the Power, he was the "fool"—and in the fool we see all the important stuff that makes up clowning: high ridiculousness, physicality, willingness to be the joke, willingness to subvert, mock or at least hold a lil' mirror up to the King so that he can see himself. The fool is Humanity: an embodied reminder that the human experience is about more than Civilization and Hierarchy. It is about the madness and glory of just being alive and going through this ridiculous shit called Life!

All amazing shit, and pretty wrong-headed that it's in the "disempowered" figure that all the truest lessons live. But that's the patriarchy for ya. I'm wondering, though, if maybe I can keep the patriarchy offa my clown for a minute.

I'm going to use the word "clown" in this blog entry, even though I try not to use it in mixed company. We're among friends, right? We'll define "clown" as the comedy realm which is without a fourth wall and rooted in vulnerability. And we'll try to go back to Never Using The Word Clown directly after.

In my clown world, I hear the word "stupid" a lot. Clowns call each other "stupid" as a compliment, a signal that a clown is really in the zone, really being human. I hear myself using it too. It's useful; so much comedy is trying soooo hard to be clever. When you see the opposite of that kind of cerebral comedy—body comedy, heart comedy—maybe you have to call it stupid, just to signify the refreshing contrast.

Nonetheless, "Stupid" or "Idiot" never really felt good to me personally. My particular frequency of clown has never been activated by the idea of being a stupid idiot. If I may speak of "my clown" for a moment, ahem ahem, my clown is brilliant, my clown is a mastermind, my clown has lots of determination, my clown will get it done, my clown cannot get it done because the world, man, but hey, my clown abides.

And I've been wondering about that idea of calling on the clown to be stupid—whether it's really a call from one man to another to be anti-patriarchal, to do the anti-male thing and be vulnerable, and fail, and be loved. But here I've been womaning along my whole life and nobody needed to tell me to do all that, or rather, that's what everyone and everything has told me to do all the time. And so to call my clown stupid might be, essentially, in this fucked-up world, maybe a little fucking redundant.

I get activated by words and phrases like Ferocious! Monster! Killin it! Wipin the floor with it! Destroying it! Slayer! Who's a slayer?! You're a slayer, you big slayer! Triumph! Conquest! Roarrrrr!

Big fierce words make me want to get out there and really go for it. Of course I'm still gonna be vulnerable, that's a given. I'm so vulnerable maybe don't call my clown stupid to my face. Maybe that's some locker room talk, some macho shit, maybe some other clowns need that, and I need something else.

And yet, I get that it totally still makes sense to talk about the clown being stupid or an idiot. If only because you're in comedy class, or comedy circles, and those cultures should be funny, and sure you can say "oh, that clown is so HUMAN, so VULNERABLE", but it's not as funny a thing to say as "That's fucking stupid, amiright. That person's an idiot."

So I'm just asking the question. Answer it as you like.

WHEN YOUR HEROES ARE HYPOCRITES

2017-11-03T09:55:00.000-07:00

My first love was a senior when I was a sophomore, and he was really good at Model U.N. He was already in Early Decision to a good college, and he wooed me with elaborately constructed mix tapes and slyly effusive notes done in cursive and colored pencil, and the kind of banter I had only dreamed about and watched on Moonlighting. He introduced me to Elvis Costello and Woody Allen—I mean, my teenage heroes. He had a girlfriend at another school, which was confusing for me—actually, really shitty and confusing—but he was my first love and I didn't know any better. He would take me out and cuddle me and hold my hand but never more. And after months of this, when I was like, what the eff—he cut it off, sort of, but kinda also led me on for maybe another 5 years. It was a bad first love, frankly—and it was made worse because the music and movies he turned me on to became my music and my movies. So it was hard to get rid of him, without that lingering feeling of gratitude which can sometimes be confused for everlasting love.

Elvis Costello, Woody Allen, David Lynch, Philip Roth, Raymond Chandler... I look at these artists who shaped my voice, who helped me understand my voice, my anger, my funny, my clown, my me, and they're pretty much all woman-hating assholes. I remember reading an interview with Elvis Costello when I was 16: "People look at my lyrics and they think, He's a misogynist. But I love women! Honestly." What could be a more misogynist answer than that? Even then I knew, I guess, but what could I do?

That's what I grew up on, artistically: I grew up sucking on the woman-hating teat of angry white male artists. I grew up forming my artistic anger, my existential rage, coloring in the outlines that they had drawn for me—a world in which, frankly, women suck, and men suck too, but maybe not as much or not as cleverly, not as indelibly. My artistic inspirations flowered in the soil of a white male ecosystem, a white male eye.

And sometimes a moment comes along—when you re-read the interview, or you really see the teacher you've learned so much from, or the man you thought you could trust—suddenly you really see them and they are so small and broken—and you realize, whoa, have I been conditioned to see these guys as mentors and leaders my whole life, has my entire being shaped itself around the worship of these flawed, flawed little boys....

And then #metoo doesn't feel enough, because to say #metoo is to say that it happened to me, when what I feel is that, along with and worse than that, it happened inside me, from age 15 and long before, when the art inside me joined with what I thought was the Divine Truth of the art of all of my influences—their words and music promised liberty to me. My soul thought it married a fellow victim-saint, and it really married a perpetrator. And to see that both that liberty and that sainthood are so tainted, to feel how rotten they are—how rotten I am...

That's the problem. That's the moment when you wonder why you didn't stick with the Indigo Girls and Jeanette Winterson. You wonder what was it inside you that picked the wrong men, in literature, in record stores, in life. Or were there ever any right men to pick? I picked men who echoed my sense of powerlessness and anger and urge for personal freedom, men who all would screwed me over had I known them personally, and the ones whom I did, did.

And in those moments when you see them for what they are, sure, it is a growing time, it is a good time to transform and spend more time listening to Bonnie Raitt and reading Zora Neale Hurston. Sure. But in those moments when you long for your past, for those teenage moments in which you fell in love with music and books and movies, and for that matter, men, you realize that those moments are kinda gone for you. And all the little Harveys inside of you don't have a home anymore, but stagger around, lost, plucking at their little-boy suspenders and wondering whom they matter to anymore.

I think it's probably different now, for other women artists. Or it must be. Soon.

PERFORMANCE AND DEPRESSION AND ME AND YOU

2017-08-03T06:08:00.000-07:00

There's never a bad time to tell everyone you know that you live with depression. They all live with that shit too.

It is, of course, a question of degrees, and a question of how we manage it. Some of us manage it way better than others. I have had times in my life of not managing at all. In my late teens and early 20's, depression ate my soul. It wanted my body, too, but I didn't let it have it.

DEPRESSION is a terrific word. It really does capture the experience of having an elephant sitting on your life force. Maybe nothing so cute as an elephant. But something big and heavy is pressing you down, and you don't feel like you are even in there anymore, really. You've been pressed away.

I've been lucky, in that meds and therapy worked when things were very bad, and now, exercise and breathing and mindfulness do a pretty good job keeping the elephant cute and manageably-sized. Sometimes when I'm running on the treadmill and a particularly inspirational 80's pop hit comes on I run even faster and my blood beats in my brain: I'm alive, I made it, I got through and I do it and I do it for that little back-in-the-day Me who didn't know if she was going to get through. I run and run for her.

Unsurprisingly, or maybe surprisingly, but probably not, working as a performer can bring a lot of dark shit right back to you. I don't exactly understand the brain chemistry of it, but I have theories. The kind of performing I do seems to cause a big rush of chemicals to flow through me, so that, afterwards, I'm high as a skyscraper off my own brain. But the next day, especially a few hours before my next show, it's like the skyscraper was never there.

At first, I don't think I really understood what a weird cycle I was on. Showbiz! my mind said, and I went on drinking coffee, eating sugar, checking my email in bed and doing whatever-the-fuck.

I keep a show journal. I journal before each show, done it for years. I started it to clarify my thoughts, get my head in the game, write out any new jokes, priorities for the show, but then I started to notice that entry after entry started with something similar to I don't want to be here/ I don't want to do this show/ I'm so unhappy. After flipping through pages and pages of this garbage, I thought, what the shit?

The shit seems to be that my brain goes through a cycle of some kind of pre-show depression and post-show euphoria. Nowadays I think of my brain as cleaning house to make way for the post-show chemical party. But it took at least a year or two of journalling for me to really see the pattern. And of course, now that I've seen it, the mood swings are less dramatic. The euphoria is less, sure, a little, but that's fine, it was kinda crazy in there anyway. And the depression is less. That is the most exciting thing.

Here I am at the Edinburgh Fringe again. Last time I was here, two years ago, it was hard, mood-swing-wise. I didn't feel in control of the chemicals in my brain. But I've done a few of these big long festivals now. It's all about self-care and exercise and journalling and rest. Does that make me boring and uncool? Of course it does! Does it make me sane in my brain? Yes, it does that too!

And I run. I run for the Me who couldn't run. Then I get up in front of people and we hit the highs and lows together. We do it for those who can't. We all do it for those who can't. We run for everyone.