Real Life Is Funnier Than Comedy Programs

This was on the USS Rock N Roll Blog Montag:

One of my favorite improv class platitudes is “be real,” because the funniest moments in all of our lives come when we’re not trying, and real life just happens.

Aspects of it are tragic, but there is a tremendous amount of comedy in last week’s early morning escapade by Delmon Young. He is a left fielder for the Detroit Tigers. Five hours after arriving in New York for a series with the Yankees, Young was arrested by the police in baffling situation outlined here.

The long and the short of it are summed up in the first two paragraphs:

Detroit Tigers left fielder Delmon Young has been arrested on a hate-crime harassment charge after police say he attacked a group of men and yelled anti-Semitic epithets.

Police say Young was standing outside of the Hilton New York, not far from Times Square. A group of about four Chicago tourists staying there was approached by a panhandler wearing a yarmulke.

The emphasis is mine – I have certainly never seen those words together and they are formidable.

There is also a pretty good post about it on Yahoo by David Brown which features the titanic line, “So, he’s got a temper. And possibly a problem with alcohol. And maybe a problem with Jewish people.”

As Brown points out, this is not Young’s first brush with indiscipline and indiscretion. He notes that the incident Friday morning occurred six years to the day of this incredible incorrigibility:

Because we know the umpire is fine, I can’t help but laugh (this might make me a bad person, but meh), and marvel at the cinematic feel.  What we don’t know makes it all the more fascinating. The plate is not raised, so we can’t see if the pitch is over. We can’t hear what he says to get booted. And the fact of the bat flying in from off-camera is like something out of Duck Soup, so unexpected. (Also the commentator kills it with the closing words, “Oh boy…that’s a bad move by Delmon Young.” You said it, fella.)

Finally, another blast of online reality-based hilarity. My friend Jeff Lung, ultra-marathoner and curator of the baseball blog Red State Blue State, has catapulted into a different kind of cyber-celebrity along with his family on the Awkward Family Photos site. (It’s also very worth checking out the Couch Potato people the day before.)

There’s a lot to admire here in the photo itself, but I can’t get over the pithiness the first couple comments. “The wind didn’t stand a chance”!! And some random Norwegian gets in on the action?? Too good, too funny. Real life is so full of tragedy that comedy can’t help happening.

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Suggestion: The South

This went up on the USS Rock N Roll blog today:

My friends Tim and Shad and I get together and sometimes we do timed writes: set a timer for ten minutes and just write on an agreed upon topic. This idea is simple enough, but would never have occurred to me. We took a workshop with Tami Sagher, who explained the exercise as outlined in the excellent Natalie Goldberg book Writing Down the Bones.

What follows my (now edited) short story inspired by the suggestion, “The South.”

 

The swamp moss hung languorously from the trees, moisture dangling in the air like ripe fruit. Little moved down by the old porch swing and the breeze did not lift the shimmer of heat.

An old man sat on a stump, eating a peach, contemplating the end of the world. While there was no outward indication this was imminent, he spent a good amount of time chewing on the prospect. Continue reading

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90% of improvising is mental. The other half is physical.

This went up on the USS Rock N Roll blog today:

I think that about a third of a being good improvisor is being an invested human being. Another third of it is being a good listener. And then the final third is being a real weirdo, having a unique point of view.

In honor of the opening week of baseball season, today I’m going to focus on two of the funnest, weirdest points of view I’ve encountered lately. They came up through rewatching that Ken Burns Baseball documentary. Inning 7, chronicling the 1950s, absolutely kills me. (In a good way, but it also in a bad way, considering the Yankees success, on which more later.)

Something about the ’50s really gets me. The Brooklyn Dodgers finally win a Series. The country is idyllic, but rife with social issues which would explode in the ‘60s. Things were perfect, but so terribly off.  Though it was published in 1963, I think part of my fascination with the era may well come from the voice of J.D. Salinger’s Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters, which I read not necessarily every year, but frequently. Rightly or wrongly, I equate his writing style with a very ‘50s sensibility.  (That book speaks less to me now than when I first read it at twenty-three, the age of the narrator, but I still sure do like it.) There’s something innocent but also depraved about that whole time period, and about that story. The weird wholesomeness juxtaposed against impending tragedy. Continue reading

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Sour Grapefruit

This is on the USS Rock N Roll blog today:

Tuning in to spring training baseball is simultaneously fascinating and boring (presupposing avid interest the game). There are many side plots[1], but a main factor of interest for me are the lesser-known young players scrapping for roster spots, fighting to be the 1% of the 1%[2] who make it. Or trying to make a memorable impression when injuries crop up.[3] Waves of players whose names I’ve never heard foul off cut fastballs, field fly balls in dramatic escapades, fly around the basepaths. The difficulty of the game is startlingly clear, and it strikes me how routine the elite players make it look. I am continuously reminded: baseball is hard.

I haven’t made it through a whole spring game yet, but at the moment I am consumed by the notion of how do we evaluate what is good? These young players no doubt evaluate themselves in a specific way, their hits, or walks, or on base percentage. But if Tigers hitting coach Lloyd McClendon doesn’t see the swinging mechanics he needs to, it doesn’t matter. If pitching coach Jeff Jones doesn’t see the young reliever hitting his spots, or his arm slots, or whatever metric, even if the kid gets out of a jam and keeps a sub-3.00 ERA, it doesn’t matter. Because it wasn’t good enough.

The notion of what is good and how do we know what is good is on my mind because this week the improv team I coach was “retired” from the theatre which created it, after six months.  The explanation behind the decision essentially boiled down to the notion that even if audience members, the players on the group, and I felt the work being done was good, it doesn’t matter because the decision-makers concluded it wasn’t good enough. And we will lose that argument every time. Continue reading

  1. [1] Such as, what happens when the 270 pound version of Miguel Cabrera plays third base for the first time in four years? Does hilarity ensue?! Does a professional ath-a-lete simply display the staggering physical acumen de rigueur in the league? We shall see!
  2. [2] These figures are arbitrary but seem highly accurate to me at the moment.
  3. [3] Two years ago the Tigers were so depleted of A-listers by injuries that in September there was merchandise online with the Tigers logo, but the team name was changed to “Miggy and the Mudhens” (referring to Miguel Cabrera and the Tigers’ AAA team, the Toledo Mudhens).

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There Will Be Time (?)

This is on the USS Rock N Roll Blog today:

St. Louis-born T.S. Eliot swore loyalty to the British crown and renounced American citizenship at the age of 39. His accent is very anglo, and the sound of his voice is ridiculously poncy. The last few years I’ve developed an arbitrarily strong distaste for his change of allegiance. American letters needs all the heroes it can spawn! But then I take a hard look at my own wannabe Euro antics: I harbor a fascination with the Premier League and BBC programming, pretend to speak French, and came home from two years in Ireland with what my friends called an accent*. The pot has already hung up with the kettle. My friend Tom says we must be aware when someone irritates, because they manifest something we don’t like about ourselves.

While trying to shape this post I did a good bit of staring out a diner window at the rain, hating March, and thinking ole Thomas Sterns was wrong about April being the cruelest month. I was awash in familiar waves of despondence. And that got me thinking about Prufrock, and that sometimes I think I should indeed have been a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas, and how much I find comfort in the words:

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of toast and tea. Continue reading

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Tiger Spring

This went up on the RSBS MLBlog today:

As soon as Victor Martinez went down, I thought, “well, season’s over.” [1] But then the Tigers won the Fielder sweepstakes (at a cost that boggles the mind: apparently Little Caesar’s is a pretty lucrative organization. Everybody reading this please buy a five dollar Hot N Ready so they can pay the Prince. And here is my obligatory admission that the back end of that contract is going to be a total nightmare). A season that looked suddenly suspect just as suddenly became the most exciting spring I can remember.

If they can keep healthy, and get production anywhere close to last year from Delmon Young, Alex Avila[2], and Brennan Boesch’s first half, and get consistent quality from Messrs. Verlander, Fister, Scherzer, and Porcello (not to mention the newly Dotel-ified bullpen), it augers Another Very Interesting Year To Be A Tigers Fan.

There are still some big question marks. It’s looking like a platoon of Ryan Raburn and Ramon Santiago at second, which doesn’t do a ton of favors at the plate. With the diminished defensive range and crInge worthy batting of the once-exceptional Brandon Inge,[3] the Miguel Cabrera return-to-third experiment will be interesting and hopefully not embarrassing. Danny Worth and Don Kelly[4] will probably spot start there as well. Finally, can Austin Jackson achieve leadoff effectiveness even approaching two years ago? Continue reading

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Taking One Thing With Another

This was up on the USS Rock ‘n Roll Blog today:

Sometimes I am uncertain! This is not unusual, but today, trying to write, I am worried that it will not be exceptional.  So I will use a favorite tactic, and lean upon others. There are a lot of great lines in Kurt Vonnegut books. He drew great pictures in Breakfast of Champions, including this one of a rattlesnake:

There is a lot of formidable writing in that book, including this section regarding Kilgore Trout, Vonnegut’s alter-ego in many of his novels, a homeless science fiction writer with unshakable self-confidence: Continue reading

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Consider these dinosaurs:

How about this drawing by a six year old kid in the after-school program at Rowe Elementary where I work?

They are stencils, and he decided randomly on two colors. He may have just laid a big stencil down and colored them all in at once, or they may be individual stencils. Either way, he made random choices, and random choices go on to give meaning to a viewer. I wrote some earlier and tried to list the things in the picture that were interesting to me, and why. I talked about things like placement and color and shapes. I had a theory that the composition is dominated by what is missing (especially from the stegosaurus, the triceratops, and the unknown one at the top) and the ambiguity of the missing makes it both thought-provoking and pleasing to the eye.

These are fine ideas, but that six year old wasn’t thinking about any of that. He just did it and gave it to me.[1] I am talking about composition and placement and colors, when in reality the kid just slapped it down and made it without thinking about what it means or why it’s fun. The randomness makes it even more interesting, and what happens randomly is far more important in life than any premeditated decision we ever make. Continue reading

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USSRnRticle

This went up on the USS Rock n Roll blog today:

An ensemble I was in a while ago did a form devised by our director TJ Jagodowski called The Fibonacci. You start with an opening scene, A, which goes for maybe two minutes. Then you have a second scene, B, which is related thematically or somehow inspired by scene A. Then you repeat A as exactly as possible, same actors hitting all the main beats and as many of the lines as they can, with the caveat that you are going to flavor it with information from and tone of scene B. You then repeat B similarly, as faithful as possible but somehow incorporating the sensibility of A. Then you do a new scene C, similarly inspired by but contrasting the earlier two. Then you go back, repeat A, then B, then C, and create a new scene D, and go on and on as such until you’re out of time.

One thing I used to love about it was TJ’s analysis: this form is designed to fail. Your brain can’t possibly wrap itself around every single detail, so inevitably it will start to break down once you try to repeat the fourth, fifth, sixth scene. And when it does, it can become transcendent. That bizarre character from scene D wanders into the taut dramatic reality of scene C and then bang, all of a sudden, an unexpected catharsis. Continue reading

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John Joe Scanlon and the Knackers

John Joe Scanlon is a septagenarian living on the road between two small villages in rural County Clare in the west of Ireland. He has a very soft voice, and in that area is well-known for lilting, a kind of old-timey, percussive singing that mimics the sound of traditional Irish instruments. My friend Paddy O’Donohue told me this story, as told by John Joe, about the time knackers broke into his house. Knacker is a slur for Travellers (itinerant Irish people frequently associated with social problems), many of whom live in trailer parks all over the country. This is not a respectful word, but I use it because it was used in the account I heard. Additionally, “hob” means stovetop.

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