Today, I'm sick.
I just recently had another stand-up show with the Infamous Commonwealth theater's "Side Series". I had fun and I began to remember the way I used to do it before I started trying to make it more "stand-uppy". Apparently, being myself onstage is enough. That's a hard thing to accept though. Because if I have no idea what I'm doing that makes me funny that means a.) I don't know how to not be funny and b.) If I stop being funny, I won't know how to fix it.
It's like breathing, don't think to hard about it because you will forget and you will die.
I'm in a play right now too. In this play, I have to kiss this lady. Now I'm sick with the same thing her two kids have. And I can't get the glitter out of my pores. And syphillis and herpes have combined in the glitter to create a new venereal disease called "The Bell of The Balls". It manifests itself in raised bumps that seem to be wearing tuxedos and formal dresses and seem to be very uncomfortably looking for punch and also seem to be trying to determine whether tonight is going to be "the night". It's a very uncomfortable outbreak.
I decided not to go to rehearsal today for the improvised children's show that I'm in because I'm also getting laryngitis just in time for the sunday opening of the grown-up play I'm in. I should be fine by sunday but prom is ruined. I figure I can spend today being relatively productive before I have to go in to work. I guess I'll do some more solicitations to grade schools for the improvised children's show. We need to sell some shows. By the way, maybe the phrase "improvised children's show" is misleading. It's not the show that's improvised, it's the children. They're improvised in the same way the Iraqi insurgents explosive devices are (God, I hope Steve is reading this). You see, if you combine the parts of several insects with sugar and spice and puppy dog tails you'll get an androgenous, homeless tramp. Which is what we want in our audiences. We'd like our audiences to look like "The Pre-Naptime of the Living Dead" but with laughing.
I don't want to be creative today because I've actually finished at least the first or second drafts of three plays of varying lengths in the last two weeks so my self-expression center has been at least temporarily burned out. However, I do have three very important things that I must work on:
1. My talent agency is adding an online talent search to their services, which means I have to call and get an ID number and upload all my info onto the site. But I'm sick.
2. I have to arrange some previously written material into a cohesive, three-character audition for "Don't Spit the Water". But I'm sick.
3. I've also decided to do the school solicitations. But I'm sick.
and I guess I really should study my lines for the play I'm in. (Sundays, Oct. 2, 9, 16 at the "Side Project" 1520 w. Jarvis, 7:30pm. $15.) It's actually a very heavy, serious show with drugs and gay themes and death and schemes but, of course, I am funny.
Okay, one small creative brainstorm. Since I've finished three plays in the last two weeks, I'm out of "old" ideas to work on, so I have to work up some new ones. Behold the creative process:
Scenario one: A boy from the suburbs of the swamps of Arizona State begins to wonder if maybe the world is bigger than the chained closed refrigerator that he's been stuck in at the bottom of the swamp for these last three years. Sure, the food's still good in there but the human waste is piling up and the front door is letting water in. It's a tough life but little Wayne is still proud of where he came from. When finally the hinges rust off and the door and the chains fall away, Wayne decides to take his first deep breathe and, since his lungs are only accustomed to freon vapor, he drowns. After drowning, he decides to go on vacation. Then he meets a young lady in China who actually spent her first three years in a sunken Vanagon. They fall in love and commit suicide. After the suicide they decide that they should see other people.
Scenario two: The southside of Chicago erupts into a giant tsunami of blood when the latest Museum of Science and Industry special exibit comes into contact with a frayed extension cord. The wall of blood opens a dance club called, "Don't Worry, We All Have It.", which becomes wildly successful and causes the wall of blood to reevaluate it's life and mate choices. He sends a
tear stained letter to his lady friend who is a waitress at a median strip. Is this the end? Wait til thursday...
That's it. I'm sick.
It's like breathing, don't think to hard about it because you will forget and you will die.
I'm in a play right now too. In this play, I have to kiss this lady. Now I'm sick with the same thing her two kids have. And I can't get the glitter out of my pores. And syphillis and herpes have combined in the glitter to create a new venereal disease called "The Bell of The Balls". It manifests itself in raised bumps that seem to be wearing tuxedos and formal dresses and seem to be very uncomfortably looking for punch and also seem to be trying to determine whether tonight is going to be "the night". It's a very uncomfortable outbreak.
I decided not to go to rehearsal today for the improvised children's show that I'm in because I'm also getting laryngitis just in time for the sunday opening of the grown-up play I'm in. I should be fine by sunday but prom is ruined. I figure I can spend today being relatively productive before I have to go in to work. I guess I'll do some more solicitations to grade schools for the improvised children's show. We need to sell some shows. By the way, maybe the phrase "improvised children's show" is misleading. It's not the show that's improvised, it's the children. They're improvised in the same way the Iraqi insurgents explosive devices are (God, I hope Steve is reading this). You see, if you combine the parts of several insects with sugar and spice and puppy dog tails you'll get an androgenous, homeless tramp. Which is what we want in our audiences. We'd like our audiences to look like "The Pre-Naptime of the Living Dead" but with laughing.
I don't want to be creative today because I've actually finished at least the first or second drafts of three plays of varying lengths in the last two weeks so my self-expression center has been at least temporarily burned out. However, I do have three very important things that I must work on:
1. My talent agency is adding an online talent search to their services, which means I have to call and get an ID number and upload all my info onto the site. But I'm sick.
2. I have to arrange some previously written material into a cohesive, three-character audition for "Don't Spit the Water". But I'm sick.
3. I've also decided to do the school solicitations. But I'm sick.
and I guess I really should study my lines for the play I'm in. (Sundays, Oct. 2, 9, 16 at the "Side Project" 1520 w. Jarvis, 7:30pm. $15.) It's actually a very heavy, serious show with drugs and gay themes and death and schemes but, of course, I am funny.
Okay, one small creative brainstorm. Since I've finished three plays in the last two weeks, I'm out of "old" ideas to work on, so I have to work up some new ones. Behold the creative process:
Scenario one: A boy from the suburbs of the swamps of Arizona State begins to wonder if maybe the world is bigger than the chained closed refrigerator that he's been stuck in at the bottom of the swamp for these last three years. Sure, the food's still good in there but the human waste is piling up and the front door is letting water in. It's a tough life but little Wayne is still proud of where he came from. When finally the hinges rust off and the door and the chains fall away, Wayne decides to take his first deep breathe and, since his lungs are only accustomed to freon vapor, he drowns. After drowning, he decides to go on vacation. Then he meets a young lady in China who actually spent her first three years in a sunken Vanagon. They fall in love and commit suicide. After the suicide they decide that they should see other people.
Scenario two: The southside of Chicago erupts into a giant tsunami of blood when the latest Museum of Science and Industry special exibit comes into contact with a frayed extension cord. The wall of blood opens a dance club called, "Don't Worry, We All Have It.", which becomes wildly successful and causes the wall of blood to reevaluate it's life and mate choices. He sends a
tear stained letter to his lady friend who is a waitress at a median strip. Is this the end? Wait til thursday...
That's it. I'm sick.
posted by Churchill at 9:40 AM
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