Kevin Allison's Level 3 Sketch Comedy Workshop is performing their work in their graduation show:
Saturday, January 27
6:30 p.m.
The PIT
154 W. 29th St. (between 7th Ave. and 6th Ave.)
The cost is $8.
I only get on stage about once a year in New York; so this will pretty much do it for me till 2008. And of course Henry the Horse dances the waltz!
Friday, January 26, 2007
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Famous Unitarians
As you know, I am a Unitarian. There have been many famous and important Unitarians throughout history, including U.S. presidents such as Millard Fillmore.
Here is a list of famous Unitarians in arts and literature.
Even Unitarians can't remember who the famous Unitarians are: It is only today that I found out Herman Melville is one of us, which as far as I am concerned explains why Moby Dick is the most sonorous use of the English language in prose by an American in the 19th century.
Here is a list of famous Unitarians in arts and literature.
Even Unitarians can't remember who the famous Unitarians are: It is only today that I found out Herman Melville is one of us, which as far as I am concerned explains why Moby Dick is the most sonorous use of the English language in prose by an American in the 19th century.
Monday, January 22, 2007
What Tony is dreaming
Once, when I was in psychotherapy—why couldn't they come up with a name that didn't have "psycho" in it!—I dreamed that I was on my therapist's couch telling her about a dream I had and I suddenly had the realization that this was a dream and that I should tell it to my therapist. And then I woke up. Later that day I explained the whole matryoshka doll conundrum to my therapist.
I had a dream something like that last night. Over the past couple of years I have again become curious about the confluence of reality and dream, something I had grown out of as a teenager. (When I worked in fast food I swept the floor a lot. At night I would awake to find I had been dreaming about sweeping the floor, and I was annoyed that the only part of my life that could be exciting—my imagination—was as dull as my real life.)
A magnificent long-form improv evolves before you with all the wreckless logic of a dream, although I don't know why I am irresistibly attracted to long-form improv. It is painful to not go to Harold Night at the UCB Theatre, and yet I have not been since December 26th—the day after Christmas, and it was an excellent excellent show.
Last night I dreamed M— woke me up this morning. I was horrified when I saw my alarm clock: I needed to be at work in 20 minutes! M— was apologetic and said she had turned my alarm off.
"You're going to get me fired," I said laughing.
"I called your boss," M— said. "I want an explanation."
I gave M— a tour of my house. It was the house I shared in a poor neighborhood in Long Beach, Calif., down by the edge of the Los Angels River. I had five roommates and someone was always coming and going at all hours of the night; so, that fact that M— had come in and shut off my alarm did not strike me as strange.
I showed her the many-windowed little atrium over our front door—the six of us lived on the top floor of a two-story house. I told M— that my girlfriend and I lived in the atrium for a month, but the sunlight pouring through the windows was annoying in the morning.
That is factually untrue: I did not have a girlfriend and I never spent a night in that room. It did have a lot of windows and sun, and it was slightly larger than the bed that was in it. The atrium looked out on the park, where gang members hung out drinking and shouting and shooting off fireworks—and guns for all I know. If I was still going to therapy, Dr. E— would ask what I made of telling M— something that was totally untrue, and in a context of statements that are true.
I actually lived in a dinky room that hung over the side door of the house, a converted laundry room, slightly larger than my mattress, with a lot of windows. When I say "converted" I only mean that it didn't have a washing machine in it. I did have a very large sink—and I also had a small cupboard.
"I was supposed to hand in a book on Friday," I tell M—. "I've got to get to work and finish it off today." (This is absolutely true and, in fact, I got to work early today.)
"What is it about you and improv?" M— said.
"I'm not a performer," I say. "I've taken a few classes and I've seen a lot of shows."
"And yet your boss knows nothing about this," says M—. (I should add that M— is a real person and is very likable. When I woke up for real this morning I wanted to tell her all about this—it seemed so real! But unless she had the identical dream it would be impossible to explain why I thought I had to tell her my dream in which she asked me to explain myself re improv. If I was still in therapy, Dr. E— would ask me to explain this very thing, which would take many sessions at a cost of hundreds of dollars, enough money to take improv classes at the UCB all year, the very thing that I am try to explain. Also, I don't know M— all that well.)
"Listen," I told M—. "First of all, let's take it as a given that improv is important. You get it; so, let's skip that part of the explanation."
"O.K."
"Do you remember the last time I saw you?" I said.
"Yes. Of course."
I had two dreams about M— last night. Here I was referring to the earlier dream, in which we rode together on the train back to New York from Princeton, where I had seen an outdoor improv festival that she performed in. The train was a combined D, E, and F New York City Subway train, and once we sat down I spent most of the trip editing a book manuscript in my lap. (Facts: I haven't been to Princeton for years, I doubt that they have an improv festival, and certainly not on the football fields during winter, and, as a matter of reality, New York City Subway trains do not get combined to go farther distances and to places they don't normally go. My therapist would ask: Why Princeton?) O.K., back to the dream.
"Do you remember that manuscript I was editing on the way back to New York?" I said.
"Yes."
"That's the book that was due of Friday.”
"That was a month ago," M— said.
"The manuscript had a lot of problems."
It is here that I launch into a long explanation of the significance of improv in my life.
"Follow the fear"—Del Close said that. It's painted in white on the back wall of The Pit theatre. This is my second worst thing—I have not learned this lesson. My worst thing is my voice—I need to see a vocal coach; I need to get my deviated septum fixed. In the dream I go into vast detail that is too personal for this blog. M— interrupts . . .
"Wait a minute. Mostly I'm hearing I, I, I in all this," says M—.
"It's not so much about improv," I tell her. "That's why Freud was so interested in dreams. It's really about the dreamer."
M— doesn't look like she's buying that. So, I tell her plain as day: "I'm trying to transform myself for being uncomfortable with everything in my life at all times to being the ill-at-ease misfit I was meant to be."
By the way, I am performing at The Pit next Saturday (1/27) at 6:30 p.m.; $8. I'm in Kevin Allison's Level 3 sketch class and we're performing our work. It's a scripted show, however; so, it won't have the waking dream quality of long-form improv.
I had a dream something like that last night. Over the past couple of years I have again become curious about the confluence of reality and dream, something I had grown out of as a teenager. (When I worked in fast food I swept the floor a lot. At night I would awake to find I had been dreaming about sweeping the floor, and I was annoyed that the only part of my life that could be exciting—my imagination—was as dull as my real life.)
A magnificent long-form improv evolves before you with all the wreckless logic of a dream, although I don't know why I am irresistibly attracted to long-form improv. It is painful to not go to Harold Night at the UCB Theatre, and yet I have not been since December 26th—the day after Christmas, and it was an excellent excellent show.
Last night I dreamed M— woke me up this morning. I was horrified when I saw my alarm clock: I needed to be at work in 20 minutes! M— was apologetic and said she had turned my alarm off.
"You're going to get me fired," I said laughing.
"I called your boss," M— said. "I want an explanation."
I gave M— a tour of my house. It was the house I shared in a poor neighborhood in Long Beach, Calif., down by the edge of the Los Angels River. I had five roommates and someone was always coming and going at all hours of the night; so, that fact that M— had come in and shut off my alarm did not strike me as strange.
I showed her the many-windowed little atrium over our front door—the six of us lived on the top floor of a two-story house. I told M— that my girlfriend and I lived in the atrium for a month, but the sunlight pouring through the windows was annoying in the morning.
That is factually untrue: I did not have a girlfriend and I never spent a night in that room. It did have a lot of windows and sun, and it was slightly larger than the bed that was in it. The atrium looked out on the park, where gang members hung out drinking and shouting and shooting off fireworks—and guns for all I know. If I was still going to therapy, Dr. E— would ask what I made of telling M— something that was totally untrue, and in a context of statements that are true.
I actually lived in a dinky room that hung over the side door of the house, a converted laundry room, slightly larger than my mattress, with a lot of windows. When I say "converted" I only mean that it didn't have a washing machine in it. I did have a very large sink—and I also had a small cupboard.
"I was supposed to hand in a book on Friday," I tell M—. "I've got to get to work and finish it off today." (This is absolutely true and, in fact, I got to work early today.)
"What is it about you and improv?" M— said.
"I'm not a performer," I say. "I've taken a few classes and I've seen a lot of shows."
"And yet your boss knows nothing about this," says M—. (I should add that M— is a real person and is very likable. When I woke up for real this morning I wanted to tell her all about this—it seemed so real! But unless she had the identical dream it would be impossible to explain why I thought I had to tell her my dream in which she asked me to explain myself re improv. If I was still in therapy, Dr. E— would ask me to explain this very thing, which would take many sessions at a cost of hundreds of dollars, enough money to take improv classes at the UCB all year, the very thing that I am try to explain. Also, I don't know M— all that well.)
"Listen," I told M—. "First of all, let's take it as a given that improv is important. You get it; so, let's skip that part of the explanation."
"O.K."
"Do you remember the last time I saw you?" I said.
"Yes. Of course."
I had two dreams about M— last night. Here I was referring to the earlier dream, in which we rode together on the train back to New York from Princeton, where I had seen an outdoor improv festival that she performed in. The train was a combined D, E, and F New York City Subway train, and once we sat down I spent most of the trip editing a book manuscript in my lap. (Facts: I haven't been to Princeton for years, I doubt that they have an improv festival, and certainly not on the football fields during winter, and, as a matter of reality, New York City Subway trains do not get combined to go farther distances and to places they don't normally go. My therapist would ask: Why Princeton?) O.K., back to the dream.
"Do you remember that manuscript I was editing on the way back to New York?" I said.
"Yes."
"That's the book that was due of Friday.”
"That was a month ago," M— said.
"The manuscript had a lot of problems."
It is here that I launch into a long explanation of the significance of improv in my life.
"Follow the fear"—Del Close said that. It's painted in white on the back wall of The Pit theatre. This is my second worst thing—I have not learned this lesson. My worst thing is my voice—I need to see a vocal coach; I need to get my deviated septum fixed. In the dream I go into vast detail that is too personal for this blog. M— interrupts . . .
"Wait a minute. Mostly I'm hearing I, I, I in all this," says M—.
"It's not so much about improv," I tell her. "That's why Freud was so interested in dreams. It's really about the dreamer."
M— doesn't look like she's buying that. So, I tell her plain as day: "I'm trying to transform myself for being uncomfortable with everything in my life at all times to being the ill-at-ease misfit I was meant to be."
By the way, I am performing at The Pit next Saturday (1/27) at 6:30 p.m.; $8. I'm in Kevin Allison's Level 3 sketch class and we're performing our work. It's a scripted show, however; so, it won't have the waking dream quality of long-form improv.
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Monday, January 08, 2007
You can never have too much dinner
O.K., you can have too much dinner, but my point is I'm having dinner tonight and I am very excited about it. A friend of mine pitched a collaborative writing project to me and I was sold from sentence one. Tonight is our first meeting--and we're going to have dinner. I wish I could say more, but we're keeping fairly quiet about it until we have a solid draft and talk to an agent.
I have been looking to do something different since September--when my novel was conceptually done (I've got a couple more drafts to go, but it will mostly be cutting and transitions). I have been adrift: I already know the next four novels I want to write, but before I commit to another piece that's going to take two or three years I want to get a few other things written. And I have felt I needed a collaborative project. But who to write with? I knew I wanted to do something different, but what? Now I know.
I am currently writing a memoir with my sister, which I expect to work pretty heavily on into July. This new thing is something I can do at the same time.
I have been looking to do something different since September--when my novel was conceptually done (I've got a couple more drafts to go, but it will mostly be cutting and transitions). I have been adrift: I already know the next four novels I want to write, but before I commit to another piece that's going to take two or three years I want to get a few other things written. And I have felt I needed a collaborative project. But who to write with? I knew I wanted to do something different, but what? Now I know.
I am currently writing a memoir with my sister, which I expect to work pretty heavily on into July. This new thing is something I can do at the same time.
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Oh, why write?
Samuel Johnson once said "No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money." But let's put a footnote on that quotation: He spent years laboring on writing the English language's first dictionary. Lord Chesterfield offered to help and then provided no financing. With no money coming in for that project and no assurance that the thing would sell once it got published, Johnson, the original harmless drudge, forged on. After nearly ten years, right before Samuel Johnson finished the work, Lord Chesterfield sent a letter to Johnson saying something to the effect that he assumed it would be dedicated to him. Johnson fired back with one of the most sarcastic letters of all time. The dictionary sold when it was finally published, but did Johnson really just write it for the money?
If you're not only in it for the money, why else write? Make up your own reason. Without attempting to list my reasons here, I will list one of the components of my motivation, which is something I remind myself constantly: Don't quit just because other people are better at it than you (otherwise there would only be one writer in the world, which would obviate the need for William Saroyan's observation that there is always someone better than you--but you are always better than someone).
One writer who is better than me is Orhan Pamuk, the Turk who won the Nobel Prize in Literature 2006. BBC Worldwide has posted videos and transcripts, including in English, of his recent Nobel acceptance speech. I haven't read Pamuk's books, but even his list of reasons for writing are better than my writing. Well, we all have to start somewhere, and, besides, I'm better than someone (I hope).
If you're not only in it for the money, why else write? Make up your own reason. Without attempting to list my reasons here, I will list one of the components of my motivation, which is something I remind myself constantly: Don't quit just because other people are better at it than you (otherwise there would only be one writer in the world, which would obviate the need for William Saroyan's observation that there is always someone better than you--but you are always better than someone).
One writer who is better than me is Orhan Pamuk, the Turk who won the Nobel Prize in Literature 2006. BBC Worldwide has posted videos and transcripts, including in English, of his recent Nobel acceptance speech. I haven't read Pamuk's books, but even his list of reasons for writing are better than my writing. Well, we all have to start somewhere, and, besides, I'm better than someone (I hope).
Friday, January 05, 2007
If young people are going to misbehave . . .
. . . they should be thrown into prison! Yeah, that'll teach 'em:
New York [click here for stream]
New Orleans [click here for stream]
Venezuela [stream on NPR.org page]
New York [click here for stream]
New Orleans [click here for stream]
Venezuela [stream on NPR.org page]
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
So much for the sacrosanct
Last night I went home determined to work on my memoir instead of going to Harold Night. Until last night I had only missed one Harold Night since September--and that was to see an important novelist read.
I was dead tired when I got home but I decided I'd better write something or I would have wasted the entire day (I am doing something amazingly tedious at work these days--a special project). I took a nap and when I awoke it was 7 p.m.--if I went back to Manhattan now I could see Harold Night, and guarantee that I had not wasted the evening.
I did not go out. I fed Jenny. I cooked up a nice little dinner. I put my dinner dishes in the sink and sat in my chair--it's a beach chair--and opened a plastic tub of fresh papaya chunks for dessert. It was 8 p.m. If I went back to Manhattan now I could see the second show of Harold Night. Jenny leapt onto my lap and curled up and started purring. We had spent a lot of time together over the holidays, but as far as I am concerned Jenny can stay on my lap as long as she wants. She purred away and we listened to the radio and I decided I had eaten enough papaya. Then I could feel her fur heating up and she went to eat more dinner--she usually eats in courses.
I washed the dishes--which is also Jenny's cue to ask to be brushed. I feed her twice a day and brush her afterward because she always asks. Getting brushed after breakfast and dinner is her favorite thing in the whole world. I wonder if anything about this resembles the way Herman Melville wrote. I'm guessing not.
Then I brushed my teeth, figuring I would write and go straight to bed, meaning that as I fell asleep I would think of the next thing to write. When I sat in my beach chair again, Jenny jumped on my lap again--actually it was pretty much a repeat of what we'd done about 20 minutes before. Sometimes Jenny stares at me and meows for no reason; so, I pick he up and tell her I have not forgotten her. I think she was glad this night. Her fur got hot again and she leapt off me. Finally I booted up my computer and got to work. It was nearly 9 p.m.
By 9:46 I realized I had been writing solidly--which I didn't expect, because I had spent most of the evening fighting off fatigue and suspecting that I was finding ways to avoid writing. I wasn't sure I could keep going for 14 more minutes. Well, I did, and it was more solid writing. At 10 p.m. I stopped because I still had more to say (Hemingway's technique for making sure he could get started the next day). In that hour I had written a little over three pages. That doesn't sound very productive (20 minutes per page), especially considering my ratio of deleting half my first draft in my second draft. But this is a memoir, and I was remembering details from my childhood that I wasn't sure were there to be excavated, and my articulation of them on the page was strong. They were three good pages. I don't think I'm a person in real life, only on the page.
I was dead tired when I got home but I decided I'd better write something or I would have wasted the entire day (I am doing something amazingly tedious at work these days--a special project). I took a nap and when I awoke it was 7 p.m.--if I went back to Manhattan now I could see Harold Night, and guarantee that I had not wasted the evening.
I did not go out. I fed Jenny. I cooked up a nice little dinner. I put my dinner dishes in the sink and sat in my chair--it's a beach chair--and opened a plastic tub of fresh papaya chunks for dessert. It was 8 p.m. If I went back to Manhattan now I could see the second show of Harold Night. Jenny leapt onto my lap and curled up and started purring. We had spent a lot of time together over the holidays, but as far as I am concerned Jenny can stay on my lap as long as she wants. She purred away and we listened to the radio and I decided I had eaten enough papaya. Then I could feel her fur heating up and she went to eat more dinner--she usually eats in courses.
I washed the dishes--which is also Jenny's cue to ask to be brushed. I feed her twice a day and brush her afterward because she always asks. Getting brushed after breakfast and dinner is her favorite thing in the whole world. I wonder if anything about this resembles the way Herman Melville wrote. I'm guessing not.
Then I brushed my teeth, figuring I would write and go straight to bed, meaning that as I fell asleep I would think of the next thing to write. When I sat in my beach chair again, Jenny jumped on my lap again--actually it was pretty much a repeat of what we'd done about 20 minutes before. Sometimes Jenny stares at me and meows for no reason; so, I pick he up and tell her I have not forgotten her. I think she was glad this night. Her fur got hot again and she leapt off me. Finally I booted up my computer and got to work. It was nearly 9 p.m.
By 9:46 I realized I had been writing solidly--which I didn't expect, because I had spent most of the evening fighting off fatigue and suspecting that I was finding ways to avoid writing. I wasn't sure I could keep going for 14 more minutes. Well, I did, and it was more solid writing. At 10 p.m. I stopped because I still had more to say (Hemingway's technique for making sure he could get started the next day). In that hour I had written a little over three pages. That doesn't sound very productive (20 minutes per page), especially considering my ratio of deleting half my first draft in my second draft. But this is a memoir, and I was remembering details from my childhood that I wasn't sure were there to be excavated, and my articulation of them on the page was strong. They were three good pages. I don't think I'm a person in real life, only on the page.
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
What Tony is dreaming
As you probably know, it has been announced that Charlie Sanders has joined Reuben Williams. I saw this news yesterday and last night I dreamed about 1985. 1985 is performing tonight but I am so tired here at my job I can barely keep my eyes open. I've just got to go home, cook dinner, try to write for an hour, and then sleep--at which point I will probably be so wound up and awake I'll wish I was at the UCB Theatre. The thing is, I dreamed about 1985 last week, too. 1985! 1985!
So what was my 1985 dream? Well, other Harold Night teams were there too, on upper floors, but on the ground floor of my house it was 1985. In the dream all the rooms in my house are kitchens. (In fact, in my dream I have a house.) Anyway, all the kitchens are piled high with dirty dishes and pots and pans soaking in all the sinks in all the rooms. I think it's a three-story house, but after the first and second floors of messy kitchens I go back downstairs. All the sinks are blocked and flooding. None of this is my fault, although my parents blame me--even though it's not their house and they're not there. 1985 and the other teams are very helpful, but it's not their fault either. Actually, they're just doing object work--no one is touching the dishes, but it's the thought that counts. The waste baskets are overflowing and there's no place to throw away the half-eaten scones. I'm trying to be helpful too, but we don't have enough sponges and soap. It is at the point where I notice we are all ankle deep in overflowing sink water that I wake up.
Now the real questions: How does that make me feel? Why 1985? What do kitchens mean to me?
So what was my 1985 dream? Well, other Harold Night teams were there too, on upper floors, but on the ground floor of my house it was 1985. In the dream all the rooms in my house are kitchens. (In fact, in my dream I have a house.) Anyway, all the kitchens are piled high with dirty dishes and pots and pans soaking in all the sinks in all the rooms. I think it's a three-story house, but after the first and second floors of messy kitchens I go back downstairs. All the sinks are blocked and flooding. None of this is my fault, although my parents blame me--even though it's not their house and they're not there. 1985 and the other teams are very helpful, but it's not their fault either. Actually, they're just doing object work--no one is touching the dishes, but it's the thought that counts. The waste baskets are overflowing and there's no place to throw away the half-eaten scones. I'm trying to be helpful too, but we don't have enough sponges and soap. It is at the point where I notice we are all ankle deep in overflowing sink water that I wake up.
Now the real questions: How does that make me feel? Why 1985? What do kitchens mean to me?
Monday, January 01, 2007
Secrets of a Fix-Up Fanatic
My friend Susan Shapiro’s new book came out last week. And she talked about it on Weekend Today yesterday:
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