#class show

The One Piece brain rot continues 🐊 Quick crocodile!!

"Pick someone on stage who is your protector. Now pick someone who is your enemy," Greg said. "Now try to keep your protector between you and your enemy."

It was 2:30 on Sunday, and here we were again: scrambling around the UCB stage, before our final grad show. I hated this warm-up. It was clumsy and physical, nothing a quick crazy eights couldn't achieve. But this was our last class show, so what the hell? Might as well have fun with it. "Get away from me, Jessica! You're my ENEMY!"

Our second warm-up was "Spotlight" also known as the singing warm-up. I have a thing about singing in public. If the situation arrises, I will always sing in my "I can't sing" voice. Truthfully, I love to sing but unless you're onstage about to perform with a band, I absolutely loathe hearing peoples' "real" singing voices.

It's silly, I know. Until you've sat hostage in the front seat of a friend's car, who recognizes a song they love, turns it up, and proceeds to BELT OUT Adele like they wrote the damn song, then you can't know my sorrow.

Thankfully, everyone in our class had the good sense to use their "I can't sing" voices too, so we were off to a promising start. 

The warm-up scenes were great. Greg gave an excellent note about trying to start each scene in the middle of the action. Just skipping all the formalities and jumping to the meat of the scene was very helpful. We broke into groups and waited in the green room.

"What should our team name be?" Team 1 asked.

"The Gabrielle Unions!"

"The Unholy Gabrielle Union!"

"The Beatles!"

"The Beatles 2!"

"Matt's Parents!"

"What about Jumbaco?"

"From the Jack in the Box commercial?"

My team was up first. We settled on Jumbaco, although I admittedly voted for "Matt's Parents" (who were in the audience). We did the "documentary" opening and found a lot of fun specifics. A substitute teacher, who was reviled. A little girl who liked hurting animals. Someone with a box-shaped head. Someone who was obsessed with pancakes.

I was still mulling over my initiation, when the first two scenes of the Harold came and went. A lot of my ideas got used up, which was fine, so I decided to go with my last idea: "actor who can't get work because she has a box-shaped head."

I pulled up two chairs. My scene partner was the very talented, super dry Mike Benner.

We looked at each other in silence, and I blurted out, "So you're my agent."

"Yes."

"And I wanted to talk to you about why I haven't been getting any work."

I propped my imaginary square head against my hand. Mike answered, "Well, it's about the pancakes."

"Oh?"

"You keep making pancakes at all your auditions."

I leaned forward out of "box head" space work and shifted gears. "Everyone likes breakfast! I want them to remember me and my swaaag."

"Yeah, most people consider perfume or gift bags when they think of swag, not pancakes."

"Do you think I should start bringing perfume?"

"NO. I think you should study your lines, memorize them, then go into your audition and ACT for once."

"I... don't understand."

"You're not getting any jobs because all you do is make them pancakes and leave."

The game of the scene was simple, and I was relieved we found something, even though it wasn't my original idea. For the second beat, Michael and I sat down again in silence.

"So you're my pimp," I said.

"Yes."

"And I wanted to talk to you why I haven't been getting any Johns."

"Yes, I wanted to ask why the lining on my wallet's so slim. Show me what you've been doing on the street corner."

"Well that's easy. See I get out there and act real sexy." I sauntered out of my chair and wiggled my hips.

"I look around to see if anyone's nearby." I checked both directions.

"And then I pull out these juggling balls."

"Now stop right there," Mike said.

"You see, the key to juggling is not to let one of the balls drop," I said, as I mimed juggling intensely.

We cut to a tag-out. A guy nervously approached me. "Am I supposed to pay you to have sex with me, or work at my kid's parties."

"I do both."

We cut to another tag-out. "Oh, you're not the hooker with the fire-sticks! I wanted the hooker with the fire-sticks!"

We cut back to scene with Mike, my pimp. "I've gotten a new client. She can work fire-sticks."

"WHAT?! You're dumping me?"

"People like the fire-sticks. They're impressive."

We cut to another tag-out with Mike and his new hooker. "I need to talk you you about your last hooker. She's stealing my Johns. She started using fire-sticks now!"

I immediately tag Mike out. It's me and the new hooker. We're both juggling fire-sticks, staring each other down like an ol' country Western. 

"You and I have matters to sort."

EDIT.

* * * 

The show was so much fun. Afterwards, we all met in the green room, where Greg congratulated us. "Those were two excellent Harolds, guys. I really mean it. You guys did me proud."

What a show. What a class.

We celebrated at Bird's, as is the UCB improviser tradition. Sean and I had a second show with our team, Princess Cake, at CrashBar only hours later. It was a blast.

On Sunday morning, I accidently woke up before my alarm clock and realized two things.

1) I had a lot of thrift shopping to do if I wanted to earn a paycheck.

2) Our 401 class show was today.

It doesn't take a lot to inspire stress dreams. I literally have nightmares about homework I forgot to turn in 6 years ago. But thrift shopping for my store + a 401 class show are two very legitimate anxiety storms just waiting to collide. Sleep be damned.

I went to Jet Rag for the weekly dollar sale and loaded up on '70s dashikis. Later, as I was rinsing off the vintage must from used clothes diving, I got a text from Sean, who was with a practice group. "Want to see 'The Devil Inside' at 3:20?" 

The obvious answer was yes.

I toweled off and headed out the door, bringing my "emergency" Klonopin with me (let's be frank. Driving on the 101 is an "emergency"). I picked up Sean and we headed to The Burbank Town Center Mall, where the parking is free and the food court perpetually smells like Panda Express. 

"Let's enjoy lunch. See the movie. I'll drive us to UCB afterwards, so you don't have to stress about that. We'll try to relax today and stay chill," Sean said, fork-deep in a plate of orange chicken.

"Yes. It's just a class show," I repeated for the millionth time. "We'll be fine."

We sat on the outdoor patio balcony, surrounded by Hispanic families and their children. The warm sun had finally broken the recent cold spell. I drowned a fried gyoza in soy sauce, and nursed my Diet Coke.  

"You should know," Sean said, "You're really good at this."

"So are you."

"I mean it. We've only been doing improv less than a year," he said. "Think of where we are now."

"We're not going to get WORSE!" I offered.

"Exactly!"

The night before, Sean and I watched our friends perform at Second City. It was a team comprised of the best improvisers from all of our classes (101 to 301), and their team was called Private Street. To watch them perform was somewhat of a religious experience. They performed a 30-minute set, and it was perfect. I'm not exaggerating. Watching Private Street was like seeing a roomful of future stars, who didn't even know it yet. 

As we pitched the soggy remains of our Chinese food, Sean and I headed for the AMC in the interest of "staying chill." Sean replaced my Diet Coke with a Wild Cherry Icee, and I knew life wasn't so bad. The movie was.

Fast-forward a couple hours.

We found a much closer parking spot by UCB than I would have liked. The walk to the theater was far too brief. I quickly found myself standing in a circle of equally terrified classmates, waiting to warm up.

"Okay. Hot Spot. Go!" Greg yelled from the empty audience chairs.

Which one is Hot Spot again?

A classmate stepped in the center of the circle and busted out singing "Sweet Home Alabama." Someone tagged them out, mid-croon and started to sing "Regulators." 

My heart sank. This was one of my least favorite warm-ups, and I was in no mood for "twenty seconds of insane courage." I needed something less scary like "Five Things" or you know, that pointing one.

I can't remember what bullshit ballad I tagged in with. Part of being a 25-year-old comedian with social anxiety disorder is the ability to block out entire minutes of naked humiliation. But if I had to dig deep - Harry Nillson's "Without You"? 

Our second warm-up was that "pick an enemy and friend" game that I'm almost positive makes no sense. Then we did warm-up scenes. My nerves were chewing at me like a piece of rawhide left with ten dogs. I wasn't warmed up. And the stage looked big and empty.

I don't remember the suggestion word, but I decided to initiate with something that would take the attention off me.

"Dad, I feel like I might have one of my panic attacks again," I said. "Will you sing me a song to make it better?"

Sean was my scene partner. He replied, "Now Miley, you know your Pa, Billy Ray Cyrus don't sing no more. That's your job."

"No, Pa! I don't wanna be a singer no more!" I said, suddenly adapting a southern twang.

"I ain't goin' to sing for you, Miley. You're the singer now in this family!"

"But Pa..."

"It's you, Miley! You sing! You sing The Climb!"

"I don't wanna Climb no more, Pa!"

The scene quickly devolved into a hillbilly screaming match before Greg called scene. The back line applauded. It was at this moment I felt all my nagging inhibitions vanish. I knew I could do this.