Comedy

Improvised Shakespeare Chicago – The iO Theater – June 28, 2019

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There appeared to be many repeat attendees at the performance. When the cast asked the audience for suggestions for a title for that night’s play, they were ready with a host of responses clearly thought out ahead of time. Otherwise how would you explain an immediate shout out of the chosen title – The Gift of the Gobbler? One doesn’t come up with that out of thin air in a split second.

So, given that the premise of the performance is not taking a named Shakespearean work and riffing off of it, which I would have known had I read that part of the promotion that said a “fully improvised play in Elizabethan style using the language and themes of William Shakespeare”, what makes this show Improvised Shakespeare? Nothing. That’s just to draw you in, which I’m glad it did.

So what made the product Shakespearean? Well, they used the word proffer a lot even though there weren’t any lawyers or courtroom scenes in the show.

There was a woman playing a man and men playing women and none of them were named Yentl or Tootsie.

There was British royalty, scheming, and a lot of rhyming, but no one named Hamilton.

Enough people died that it suggested either Shakespeare, George R.R. Martin, or Quentin Tarantino, but there wasn’t any nudity, so not Martin, and there weren’t any profanities or racial slurs, so not Tarantino.

Though many of the characters died on stage, none of the actors did, relying on their perseverance, skills and tricks of the trade (both short and long form improvisation “need a mechanism in place to relieve the audience of the excruciating pain of a scene that is not working”) to entertain and move the story forward.

As is often said, dying is easy, comedy is hard.

The Paper Machete – Green Mill – February 16, 2019

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It’d been a little over a year since I first went to see The Paper Machete live magazine at the Green Mill on a Saturday afternoon. I learned from that experience that seats are hard to come by (the Wednesday evening show, at least the one time I went, isn’t as crowded), and so arrived an hour and a half before show time, which was only 15 minutes earlier than necessary to avoid unintentionally making lots of new friends among a crowd of people standing around, pressing their bodies into an insufficient amount of space.

Getting there early also affords one the opportunity to watch emcee Christopher Piatt, standing behind the bar, trying to not so subtly rehearse his frenetic Danny Kaye court jester lip-synching routine.

Piatt is a constant, but the rest of the cast of The Paper Machete changes from show to show, so it was an amazing coincidence that Becca Brown, whom I saw perform there a year ago, was again on stage, showing off her strong singing voice.

The comedy also was good, as before, but I was there primarily to see Big Red, that is Meghan Murphy, do her thing, as I have done at Theater Wit, Steppenwolf, and Venus Cabaret.

She didn’t disappoint, capping off her performance by holding the last note of her set long enough that I could have read a couple chapters of a book, had I brought a book.

Piatt, in thanking Murphy and expressing his admiration of her talents, referred to her as the personification of Jessica Rabbit, which seemed to please Murphy.

Fanboy that I am, I couldn’t resist approaching Murphy after the show as she sat at the bar drinking with friends. I introduced myself and fawned over her for a respectable, but not creepy, amount of time before going on my way.

Adult Seminars (Classics of Comedy and Wonderful Town II) – Newberry Library

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As Justice Potter Stewart might have said, I may not be able to define comedy, but I know it when I see it (or hear it, or read it). And I’m quite certain I know what is meant by a classic. So I was somewhat taken aback when the instructor for the Newberry winter seminar on Classics of Comedy picked as our first reading a short story no one in the class had heard of, by an author none of us (or the internet based on my search) had heard of, and that wasn’t funny, except to the instructor.

So it didn’t come as a shock when the instructor informed us that the author was a friend of his who, the instructor (and presumably the friend/author) believed, hadn’t received the recognition he deserved. Now that’s classic, but not why I enrolled in the seminar. So I left during the break of the first class to claim a refund of the registration fee. I imagine the instructor didn’t think that was funny, but I did.

I also enrolled in a Newberry winter seminar called Wonderful Town II, about music from New York in the 30s, 40s, and 50s. What a difference. The instructor, Guy Marco, has an encyclopedic knowledge of the music of those years (which he experienced first hand, as he is 90 years old), from Broadway to classical to pop to opera. When I asked him how many rooms his music took up at home, he answered “all of them.”

He even made the mercifully short operatic selections tolerable (which is saying a lot coming from me) with his detailed and humorous analyses, such as his observation in one instance that there was no way to determine from the story line why a particular character had died. And he signed off the last class doing his best Benny Hill impression. His dry wit led me to think that he also should have taught the Classics of Comedy seminar.

The Nerdologues Presents: Your Stories: Cast Away Edition – American Writers Museum – March 30, 2018

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We missed some of the Nerdologues program out of fair-weather fan loyalty to the Loyola basketball team, watching the entirety of their defeat at the hands of Michigan. I didn’t mind showing up late, as the Nerdologues program was scheduled to last three hours, which seems like too much of anything, except Lawrence of Arabia, which flawlessly clocks in at 3 hours and 48 minutes. (How did Peter O’Toole not win the Best Actor Oscar?)

We got to the program at intermission, which was perfect timing. It gave us a chance to have a conversation with Kevin Turk, one of the founders of International Tom Hanks Day (ITHD), which was being celebrated by the Nerdologues in this special edition of their weekly podcasts.

Kevin gave us the history of ITHD, how it started as a college keggger, an excuse to drink and watch movies all night. Four years in, Hanks found out about it and the rest is history, as the event has turned into an annual charity fundraiser. The night’s raffle prize was a DVD of Saving Mr. Banks, which the Nerdologues made fun of, but I admit I liked, which must put me on the extreme edge of nerdom.

Attendance was sparse, probably due to the mystical convergence of Holy Saturday, Passover, and the Final Four. Instead of hearing serious stories handed down from generation to generation for thousands of years (or in the Loyola Ramblers’ case, 55 years), we heard four storytellers, three of whom were very funny as they related first-hand experiences of ramblin’ man road trips and raunchy parties (the fourth merely rambled on incoherently).

We also heard a few songs, including one that included a nice Roy Orbison impression, and one that featured someone playing a melodica, a wind-powered portable keyboard instrument that looked like a tricked-up hookah (see picture).

Louder Than a Mom – Martyr’s – March 19, 2018

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I went to see my former storytelling teacher (see my January blog about the class) tell a story, proving beautifully, at least in her case, that those who teach, also can do. Martyr’s is the fourth different venue I have been to for storytelling. Four down, a hundred zillion to go.

The quality of the storytelling was high and the humor was rampant. Not knowing how crowded it would be, my friends and I got there two hours before showtime. No one else showed up for another hour. This allowed us to get the full attention of the waitress and acclimate ourselves to the almost complete lack of lighting in the venue. It’s not a good place to go if you have cataracts. Our smart phone flashlights really came in handy for reading the limited menu.

Next time I’ll eat somewhere else first. They didn’t even have mustard, though at least, unlike the restaurant the night before, they weren’t out of chicken. We all agreed that ketchup on chicken was a nonstarter, although the waitress said she has witnessed it. Perhaps she can get counseling for that trauma.

My former teacher, MT, introduced us to one of the hosts of the event, Kate, who encouraged us to tell a story at a future event. Though one of my friends and I were two of perhaps six men, one of whom was the bartender, at this well-attended event, Kate assured us that we would be welcome additions and that you don’t need to be a mom to participate. In fact, one of the eight speakers that night was a man, though his story was about the birth of his child, so, you know, kind of a mom story. Actually, he gets a pass on that as his story was about how ugly newborns are. (If you need a refresher on the Seinfeld episode, the Hamptons, about a “breathtaking” baby, you can find the script at http://www.seinfeldscripts.com/TheHamptons.htm).

Julia Sweeney, Older & Wider – Judy’s Beat Lounge – March 11, 2018

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We had dinner at Topo Gigio, where, fortunately, the service was a vast improvement (or we wouldn’t have made the show on time) over where I dined the night before, where we sat for an hour before the waiter brought the check, without having brought the food (picky, picky, picky), which reminded me of the Steve Martin short film, The Absent-Minded Waiter (see https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fsh47iNVRkM).

Judy’s Beat Lounge is a casual 56-seat space at Second City, with general, unreserved seating. We got lucky with four seats together along the side wall, with no sight line issues, even after two of the people in our group were told at the door that their tickets were for a different, prior night (oops). Fortunately the box office was willing to sell them two more tickets (very generous).

Sweeney, who is most famously known for her androgynous character Pat, as a not-ready-for-prime-time player on Saturday Night Live, has been living somewhat under the radar in a northern suburb of Chicago for the last 10 years, apparently for the sole purpose of raising an adopted daughter who provides her with an endless source of material for her routine, including the two most memorable lines of the night – one about her daughter intentionally bringing an uncomfortable dinner conversation to an abrupt end by announcing that she was experiencing a heavy flow and the other about how Sweeney’s husband started calling their daughter’s boy friend Rolf (as in The Sound of Music) in response to information about his politics.

The show is billed as a stand-up work in progress, but, except for Sweeney’s occasional glances at her notes when changing topics and occasional comments about whether a bit had worked or not, it seems ready for prime time to me.

Storytelling Class – Second City

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My search for new activities after retiring led me to try the hottest thing around town, storytelling (the Moth has been around for 20 years but it seems like there has been a noticeable growth spurt in the last few years, at least to me, with numerous locations hosting monthly events).

It was a natural choice for me, as I am an excellent, though infrequent liar, using my skill not to deceive, but to amuse (honest). Hyperbole, sarcasm, and parody, if you will.  As I learned quickly in my storytelling class at Second City in early 2017, however, the stories are supposed to be true. This limitation means that not only do you have to pay attention to what is going on around you, but also that you have to remember it (a young person’s game). As much as that sounded like work, I forged ahead, laboriously dredging up memories thought to be lost in the undefined depths of my mind (unlike legal writing, storytelling thrives on adjectives and adverbs, long underused, but welcome accessories in my vocabulary).

The class was excellent and it returned to me the joy of creating a story and standing in front of an audience, small as it might be, for whatever appreciation I might get, small as it might be. For years I’ve had two relaxation stones, given to me by a friend, one engraved with the word create, and the other with the word laugh. That sums it up for me.

During the run of the class I went to a storytelling event, my first, at Steppenwolf Theater. I found a number of the stories depressing (mine will attempt to be humorous), but seeing experienced storytellers do their thing was useful.

Since then I’ve gone twice to Mrs. Murphy and Sons Irish Bistro to see more stories, including one by a friend with whom I took my class. Inspired by his performance, I’ve signed up to tell one of my own, which probably won’t be until the fall. In the meantime, I’m telling short stories on this blog. Stay tuned.

iO – January 7, 2018

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Though I was a member of one of the original ImprovOlympic teams in the early 1980’s, I had never been to the iO building on Clark or their new building on Kingsbury until now. We performed at the Players Workshop, a bar named CrossCurrents, and events like ChicagoFest and Loop Alive.

I find it amusing that the International Olympic Committee is so protective of their name (which is why ImprovOlympic became iO many years ago) given that the things I most associate with the Olympics are drug scandals, payoffs, cost overruns, and boycotts.

iO doesn’t have a parking lot. I didn’t feel like circling the neighborhood, even though the block on which iO resides is made up mostly of loading zones. I was able to translate the plethora of regulations on the street signs and boldly parked in one of the zones that seemed to be safe for a couple hours. Still, it’s always a little scary when no one else braves the same zone, as was the case this night. What if the authorities don’t have the same grasp of reading signs that I do?

I went to see a friend from the storytelling class I took at Second City perform with her current improv classmates at iO. Improv is hard, so I wasn’t expecting a lot from a group still learning their craft. But as with a lot of improv, there were moments that made me smile, bloop singles if not home runs, stolen glances if not stolen bases. And there weren’t any scenes that dragged on forever, the curse of any type of sketch comedy. If a line works, get out of Dodge, know when to fold ‘em, fight and run away and live to fight another day, take the money and run – take your own advice.

Tomato Throw – The Comedy Bar – October 3, 2017

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It is said that audiences as far back as Shakespeare’s time used to throw rotten fruit at the actors. So I considered it a cultural excursion to go to The Comedy Bar in River North on a Tuesday night for one of their Tomato Throw shows.

Okay, I actually went because a friend’s son was performing there that night, but there’s nothing wrong with a twofer. Audience members don’t throw real tomatoes (so much for historical accuracy).  That would get expensive and messy. The fake tomatoes are made of soft plastic so that you can’t throw them very fast and they don’t hurt when they hit you, or so I surmised as I was not the target of any and no paramedics appeared during the evening.

Only one of the performers gets paid, the one who has the fewest tomatoes directed his or her way for subpar humor. Even before the show started we realized that the rules provided a huge advantage for whoever went first because no one yet knew the quality of humor of the field and because the nonregulars such as myself might be a little hesitant at first to join in the fray.

Our assessment was accurate. The first performer’s bathroom humor was not, in my opinion, even close to funny, but he escaped fairly unscathed. After that, however, something hit the fan, or more accurately, the tomatoes hit the wall. It got to the point where not only would people hurl missiles for little or no reason, the performers would encourage them to do so, knowing that they had no chance to win the money and figuring that they might as well endear themselves to the audience by becoming willing targets.

Next thing you know I’ll be going to state fairs to see the dunk tanks.

Paper Machete – Green Mill – January 13, 2018

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Somehow, until now, I’ve been unaware of Paper Machete, the live magazine comedy and music review that moved to the Green Mill in December 2012. We arrived there about twenty minutes before the advertised 3:00 start of the show. But the Green Mill is at heart a jazz venue, so they didn’t start until about 3:15, early by jazz standards. Nevertheless, it was SRO to the max when we arrived, and I have no idea how early you have to get there to get a seat.

Though most of the crowd was a lot younger than us, there was a table of four that was a notable exception. They looked like they originally had come to see Billie Holiday in the 30s or 40s and wisely decided not to give up their seats. In the interesting seating configuration that is the Green Mill, their backs were to the main stage, but I was still jealous.

We wound up standing near the side door, constantly dodging waitstaff, but with a decent view of the primary stage and the area behind the bar used as a secondary stage. This put us next to a tall gentlemen who also was older than most of the crowd and who turned out to be the father of one of the performers. Even with that, he had to stand.

The emcee introduced acts, sang, and commented on the news. His opening wild, arm-flagellating, lip-synching routine tired me out just watching him.

In addition to him and that day’s band, we saw two comics, one of whom reported on important new devices displayed at the Consumer Electronics Show, such as smart toilets that create profiles of use by each person in your house.

When the show broke for intermission, we broke for the door, not out of dissatisfaction, as the comedy was spot on (though I’m hesitant to tell you what one comic said about cucumbers), but in response to a cry for help from my lower back ,which was tightening like a screw from standing in one place for an hour and a half. We need a new plan next time.