Category: General Gabbing

A variety of delighting sights; a smattering of happenings; a compendium of concepts…

Clown School Day 9: Clown Fight!!!

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In which Our Hero proves he’s got rubber balls

Today I pissed off a clown.

It’s better to piss off a clown than to be pissed on by a clown.

We were playing 9-square. It’s like 4-square, but with 9 squares and more chaos.

I was playing legally. The rules say you can’t block another player, but you can wander outside your square. I was the King—the occupant of the center square—but I spent the whole game standing off to the side. Because: strategy.

The owner of that square complained.

The ref said my move was legal.

The owner complained again.

The ref asked me to move.

I moved.

Then I taunted the square’s owner.

The owner complained a third time.

The next ball that came to me…

I smacked it as hard as I could at her feet.

She was pissed. The crowd gasped. She appealed to the ref, who shrugged, as if to say: He played the game hard. What do you want me to do about it?

She stormed off. Later, I caught her venting to another player, confirmed later as badmouthing: “Can you believe that?”

Here’s what I learned:

  1. When I feel someone’s playing shenanigans, I get righteously pissed. When I get pissed, I get determined. And when I get determined, watch out.
  2. My classmates will now play differently with me.
    1. The fun-first crowd will avoid my wrath.
    2. The competitive ones will know I don’t back down.
  3. I may have just become the enforcer of clown school. Neither good nor bad—just a role.

It’s no coincidence that the person I clashed with was the second-best at the game. Competitive people find each other. And when they do, sparks fly.

I respect her. She plays hard. She got the ref on her side, a valid tactic. Later I overheard her admit she’d been feeling a bit touchy today. So maybe we both just hit the limit of our light play energy.

And she got me back. In the final round, she served me a tiny, dinky little ball: barely legal, perfectly placed. I was out. No one else noticed.

Well played. Respect.

(Though I’ve since heard others reacted to her venting with a kind of “Wait, what’s she mad about?” bemusement… so maybe the last laugh is still up for grabs.)

—

But what is this about, really?

Is this a story about clowning? About performance? About theater?

Maybe.

In a way, 9-Square is theater: it’s a miniature social hierarchy. The King in the middle. The peasants below. Everyone clawing their way upward by knocking someone else down. Game of Thrones played with rubber balls.

In singles, you play for survival and glory.

In doubles, it becomes a romance—your fate tied to your partner’s. You win not through aggression but through sync, trust, and conservatism.

It’s a lesson in status, alliance, and timing.

And like all good clown work, it’s about how you handle the fall.

—

As for my reputation: some classmates already dodge competing against me. Fair. For me, winning is part of fun, but the real goal is shared joy. I just happen to find joy in playing hard. Someone has to be clown game king: might as well be me.

Clown School Day 8: Nice, Simple, Social

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In which Our Hero makes a friend!

Once in a blue moon, you meet a person who feels like someone you’ve known your whole life. In my case, today’s was a trans, autistic, lesbian philosopher with eerily similar experiences to my own. Dinner started at 7 p.m. and ended at 11:30, including a long, leisurely walk around the park.

My goals at clown school are threefold:

  1. Learn the practicalities of clowning
  2. Learn the theory of clowning
  3. Make friends I’d like to spend time with after clown school

It’s nice to move forward on #3.

Notes from clown school today:

  • Blindfolded ball pickup: Walk toward a ball with eyes closed, then pick it up. The key is counting the right number of paces, then walking normally even when, near the end, excitement floods in.
  • Chair swap game: Don’t let others rattle you. Don’t move until you have agreement.
  • One structure of game: One vs. Group. A bunch of people beating up on one idiot (à la Monkey in the Middle). Perhaps funniest when all are idiots.
  • Some people are more confident than they are right. One classmate especially.
  • Idiots trying very hard at something they’re terrible at → very funny.
  • Smart people tease each other; idiots conspire.
  • Regardless of external intensity or internal emotional intense, I must still speak in a BIG, BOOMING VOICE.
  • Idiots playing smart games → lots of apologizing.
  • A conspiring group mirrors fighting over limited resources; one-on-one intellectual duels mirror fighting for extraneous desires or abstract pleasures like honor.
  • Teaching hunch: if someone ends on a mistake, they dwell on it, therefore learning faster.
  • When the major/minor switches → fixed point.
  • A “miser for pleasure” hoards joy inside instead of sharing it.
  • Loud creates an impulse. The important part is the impulse.

Clown School Day 7: First Impulse

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In which Our Hero fails via simian ejaculation

“At the sound of the drum, you must make the sound of an animal ten seconds before it has an orgasm,” said our teacher, in his typical Swedish accent.

I chose my animal. I spotted others’ mistakes. I planned my route. I considered the method by which I was likely to fail. And then, when the time came, I failed. Bombed. Flopped. Crashed. Kathunked.

We were playing a game of cannibal chairs. It’s exactly like musical chairs, except your teacher is from Sweden. And when you’re out, if your animal’s orgasm is enjoyable enough, you’re saved.

Some students latch on to the impulse right away. They grab the failure and they start DOing. Prancing about the stage; braying like a donkey; mooing like an aroused cow, etc. Others take a beat. I decided I would be in the second category.

My first impulse is often fear. So I decided I’d wait. Take the second. Build the second wave instead of grasping at the first splash. First impulse is for those who ride external energy; second is for those who find it inside.

I noticed this dichotomy when a friend failed to find a chair, then walked to the side of the room, thunked the wall, and began his performance. The three seconds pause allowed him to collect himself. When he arrived, he arrived. His face was open, eyes shining. We loved him. Life saved.

When I failed, I latched onto the first impulse. I flailed. Yuck.

My first impulse was, as it so often is, fear.

My second impulse. Security. Comfort. Presence. That can be beautiful.

Another lesson I will need to incorporate.

One I have learned before.

Perhaps one day my first impulse will lack fear. Perhaps one day it will be honed enough to succeed. Until then, it is mere panic. And panic has no place in clown.

Clown School Day 6: Putting the Text on the Game

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In which Our Hero attempts to cohere the visual-auditory media 🧐

Should the game be a visual metaphor for the scene, or should it be an unrelated game?

My suspicion is the former. A coherence between the game and the dialogue makes for richer depth of audience experience. It does, however, bring increased danger of “playing the text”, which is bad.

The scene is Taming of the Shrew, Act II Scene 1. The scenario is: Petruchio (me) commences his wooing of Kate (my classmate). The game is… well, that’s what we’re deciding.

We want the game to be not so on-the-nose as to be boring (ie “playing the text”). I also want the game to be sufficiently related that the visual experience parallels the auditory experience.

My partner suggested catch. I think it’s a sufficient, satisfactory choice, a serviceable game. I wonder if we can elevate the experience by mirroring the text more. Dodgeball instead of catch, for instance. Or we line up a row of soda cans behind us and have to defend them while the other throws a ball to knock them down. These games mirror the text: verbal prods à la dodgeball; or Petruchio attempts to knock down Kate’s defenses → Kate fires back → we repeat.

It’s fun to watch people play a game. It’s fun to watch multiple communication media cohere. I think ideal theater is both.

—

My roommate received five zeros today. The most zeros I’ve seen. Brutal.

When he strode onto the stage, the teacher said, “This guy never understands anything.” Then, after he spoke one single word, the teacher banged the drum to kick him off stage. He walked back to his seat. She said “You get zero. No: zero is too good for you. You get double zero.” He said, “I understand it now: give me another chance”. She said, “It’s Monday, so I give you another chance”. He returned to stage. He spoke one word. She banged the drum and bestowed upon him three more zeros.

An hour later, I saw him at home. He told me he understood what he had done poorly. Her zeros had taught him. He went to the bar to socialize with friends.

In April, my final presentation received a zero. The one thing I had practiced for three weeks: when it came to my final performance, zero. “First zero of the day”, my teacher told me.

Somehow, being first didn’t help.

Maybe that’s the game: collecting zeros until you crash. And the moment you give up: you receive your first one.

Clown School Weekend 1.2: Phoning It In

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In which Our Hero phones it in with a brief reflection (it’s the weekend, after all)

I started memorizing lines this weekend. The school doesn’t care what the words mean: only that you say them exactly right. It’s strange to memorize language as sound instead of sense.

I’ve been using a first-letter mnemonic I found on YouTube, which works surprisingly well. Combine that with the top-secret trick of practicing right before bed and again first thing in the morning, and the lines get codified much faster.

That’s all for today. Tomorrow begins Week 2 of Clown School. Onward! 🎭

Clown School Weekend 1: The Tragic Flaw

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In which Our Hero contemplates monkey business

Why is it funny to watch someone trying so hard? Repeating the same failed strategy over and over? Exaggerating a single specific trait?

Is clowning the humor version of a character’s tragic flaw? Is the same element that drives us to extrapolate a whole character from one personal or physical or psychological deformity also the same that makes us love this repetitive, heightened, exaggerated play?

Do monkeys clown? They certainly have tragic flaws. Do they goof? Perform mockery? Satire?

—

I visited a clown performance today. Half a dozen clowns stuffed into one small stage. One read the story of Snow White and walked oh so slowly across the stage. Another pantomimed a horse and played the audience like a musical instrument. A third sang Disney songs and perhaps was a burlesque performer not a clown. My favorite was a clown singer. Here’s what he did:

  • Appeared on stage in a shiny jacket and ascot to announce “and for my final song…” (which is already a funny opener)
  • Followed it up by announcing it would be “one from my new album…”
  • Cued the DJ by referring to him as “song boy”
  • Performed precisely three funny gestures
  • Sang the beginning of a song
  • The song had some small snag, so he stopped and refused to sing again until we the audience showed him enough love (eg by demanding an encore)
  • Repeated from the beginning

I loved the whole thing. My only gripes were 1) the women behind me who were talking during the show, and 2) the ending could increase our love for the performer rather than merely end it.

I have a few hunches on how to execute #2. I’ll share them with the performer when I see him. (It’s unfortunately not legal to execute #1.)

—

The funniest-in-concept performer was a poet who wasn’t obviously a clown nor obviously a poet, who prompted the audience to not know whether it was intended to be earnest or funny. I couldn’t stop laughing.

After the show, I approached this poet. I needed to know if he was real or not. My conclusion: he’s a real poet who really did just find himself repeating reordered sequences of the same sentence of words at an underground clown show.

Maybe that’s the secret: the clown, the poet, and the rest of us: each repeating our flaw until it becomes a performance worth watching. And perhaps that fact is the funniest of all.

Clown School Day 5: The First Presentation

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In which Our Hero learns that punctuality is for mimes

Monday after class, every student except one gathered outside the studio to form teams. That one was me. I was off to buy sushi. A grave mistake.

Earlier that day, we had received our first presentation assignment. “In groups of 5, show us or teach us a game”.

On Tuesday, my default group (as it was the only group missing a fifth) suggested we assemble after class. I have a meeting after school every day, so I vetoed this idea. We scheduled instead to meet at 9:15 the following morning.

On Wednesday, four of us assembled at 9:15am. The last arrived at 9:20, at which point one of us agreed to babysit a small child until 9:25, which became 9:30.

On Thursday, one of us forgot we had a 9:15 rehearsal. He arrived at 9:25.

On Friday, one of us texted saying she would be 10 minutes late. She was actually 17 minutes late.

This place is full of clowns.

—

For our presentation, we played a game.

On one side, a large bird of prey screeched his desire to eat tiny chickens.

On the other, a mama bird defended her children.

We were light, airy, generous, friendly, open, and with impulse. And then, if we succeeded, we had to add text atop the game. It’s very easy for text to kill the game. But we care not for text. We care for impulse and complicité and game.

My group was the first to succeed.

It feels good. I’m excited for more!

—

Comments from this week:

  • “I’m afraid to shout because it makes me cry” — a student
  • “Your arms are floppy like you smoke hashish” — a teacher
  • “Did you have nazis in your family?” — a teacher, upon learning one of our students is German
  • “You speak in a toilet voice” — a teacher
  • “I think you’re funny for the wrong reasons”. —my roommate, about me

Clown School Day 4: Impulse

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In which Our Hero finally does something right

Impulse is not a Sunday afternoon jog; impulse is race day, the gunshot ringing in your ears.

Oftentimes, a theater player starts with strong, vibrant impulse… and then that impulse drops to the floor.

Instead, bring the impulse out to the audience. Up to the sky, sometimes. Never to the floor.

We played a game today where students were caught by their fellows (in a trust-fall sort of way), then launched forward and back across the room, like boxers bouncing off the ropes. The impulse of being thrust forward is unmistakable. The challenge: you must then take the impulse with you as you run, careening to the other side with vibrancy and vigor. Do not confuse impulse with speed. A snail crossing the road can embody more impulse than a hollow-eyed sprinter at 10,000 times the pace.

Now, add text atop the impulse. When you speak Shakespeare, are the words flat? Do they sound like some archetypical Shakespearean Actor, or do they erupt FROM YOUR VERY SOUL???

Impulse is that soul expression. It’s a small green twig poking out through cracked concrete. A baby bird pushed from the nest: now falling, fly or die. Can it use its vigor to propel itself forward? A person on soporific drugs, sapped of their vitality: they lack impulse, which is perhaps why seeing them is such an emotional pain. It reminds us of the lifeless state to which we will one day return.

I felt, today, the vigor of impulse. To land my words on top of this impulse like a pebble skipping across the pond. If each word you say comes with VIGOR, with REALITY, with EXISTENCE, being ENOUGH AS ITSELF,

the ripples will cascade farther than the pebble ever could. Impulse is where creation comes from. And creation is everything.

—

I was told today my impulse was good. My voice was good (Our teacher: ”We will not need hearing aids”). My fixed point was good. I remembered the game. As close to a compliment as one receives at this school: I received the lessons and demonstrated them today.

Impulse isn’t mere theory. The day after my breakup, I applied to clown school. That’s impulse. Nurture it. Follow it. Help it grow.

Now, at clown school from October through June, the goal will be: keep the impulse alive. Stoke it. Add fuel as it requires. Harness it when it becomes too spastic. Power forward with the impulse. Even through each fixed point.

Of course the impulse powers through fixed point. You can stop the body, but never The Game.

Clown School Day 3: Fixed Point

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The third principle of clowning: don’t move.

That’s it. It’s not complicated. Stop moving.

Some of you are confused.

It’s called “Fixed Point”: Just. Don’t. Move.

What about this is so hard to understand?

—

Some of the concepts at clown school are intricate and nebulous, fleeting and momentary. Others are utterly, groundedly practical. Complicité is the former. Fixed point is the latter. Complicité is the relationship between you and your fellow performers. The earnest, authentic, deep, rich, kind-but-not-always-nice connection between two best friends that we see on stage. Fixed point is “Stop moving”.

It’s a weird juxtaposition: the ethereal with the mundane. The alchemical with the tactical. Today was about fixed point.

I don’t have much trouble with fixed point. When someone tells me to stop moving, I simply do so. “Remember the game while moving” is much more complex. What is the game? What is the game now? How has the game changed? Have you forgotten any elements of the game? Who are you playing with, and in what ways? What new games will you bring with you, thus heightening and transmogrifying The Game into a whole new game? These questions are complex. Fixed point is simple.

I get that people have different challenges. And that fixed point is important. When you tell a joke; when you make a move; when you hit the apex, you must let the audience catch up. A comedian does not simply begin the next joke right after completing the first. They may let the joke sit, even waft its embers a little. Stand completely still, then raise an eyebrow. The eyebrow is funny because of the stillness. It requires the stillness. If you want people to see you, move big. If you want people to SEE YOU, move precisely.

I just don’t have much trouble with fixed point. When to use it, absolutely: that’s not trivial. How long to do it, same deal, oof. But the physical act of stopping movement; holding still; being in balance: these are easy.

Today was fixed point. Worth learning, yes. Worth dedicating a day to? Perhaps not.

Le Jeu (”the game”), complicité, and fixed point. These have been the first three days, consecutively. Le jeu is not easy. One must always know the game, play the game, be aware of the game. The game is paramount.

Second is complicité. You can play the game without complicité. This is common in solo endeavors. A performer with no game is boring. A performer without complicité is unkind. We accept unkind people if their performance is good enough. We do not accept boring people.

Third: fixed point. It feels out of place. Like someone said “Most important, you must remember the existence of God, keeping Him in your mind and heart. Secondly, you must remember your fellow humans. And third, sometimes you must stand completely still.”

Is the tactic really that important? It probably is, as this is the world’s best clown school, and the teachers really hammer it home (i.e. they likely know better than me, so it’s likely significant even though I don’t yet understand why). Perhaps it’s to solve a common problem? But if the problem is too much action, why is the concept “fixed point”? Why not have the concept be “stillness”? It could encompass isolations. Or balance. Or very slow movements of some parts of the body while holding others completely still. That concept has depth. Fixed point is, well, less of a Big Idea and more of a tactic.

On day 3 of driving lessons, I don’t think you spend the whole day on the zipper merge. Maybe you teach all the different merges and turns. But a whole day dedicated to one maneuver?

Today we practiced fixed point and played human chess. Other students love human chess. I think it’s silly (and not the good kind). It practices the ability of jumping soundlessly. It practices also the ability of being silent when others are playing. Both are good skills. The latter is much more important. Perhaps I don’t really have those troubles. I’m unlikely to be a physical-first performer, for which jumping would be significant. I’m also not bad at silence. Perhaps some people are.

If the question were “when is it your turn to play?” That, to me, is a worthwhile game. A valuable lesson indeed.

Day 3 of clown school and already I’m a critic.

But I’m only here for around 120 days. And I wish to emerge an expert.

So now, for the next 45 minutes, I shall sit completely still. Unless, of course, I find a more interesting game.

Clown School Day 2: On Priorities and Preferences

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Clown school is the study of choice.

Wait, no — that’s economics.

Clown school is the study of…

Well, now I’m thinking about choices.

Here they are:

  1. Study the Shakespeare lines for next week
  2. Drink alcohol at the local bar
  3. Sit with people drinking alcohol at the local bar
  4. Run
  5. Eat
  6. Clear out my email inbox
  7. Write
  8. Rehearse with classmates for this week’s presentation

A day only has so many hours.

School takes four, plus thirty minutes on either side to prep and recombobulate. Add eight hours for sleep (okay, nine — I like to wind down in bed :), and you’ve got thirteen hours accounted for. I like running every day, so add an hour for stretching, run, five-minute abs, and shower. That’s fourteen hours. Ten remain.

So if the math works so well, why have I been failing?

Sequencing.

I haven’t been eating lunch, so I’m starved after school, which is prime socializing time. If I brought my lunch, I’d be less famished at 2 p.m. I like doing movement class fasted, so I’ll keep that. But maybe a nice burger patty and baguette for lunch… could be nice. 😋

And then, who to socialize with?

Drinkers have it easy: go where people drink → drink → hours disappear. I don’t enjoy drinking, nor do I enjoy drunk people, so I’ll pass. (I gave it a try today. “Maybe this context is different,” I thought. Turns out it’s students slowly soppifying, discussing people who aren’t present, maybe one bit of information every thirty seconds, and a lot of “what was that?”. And when someone stands up to leave, it feels like monkeys pulling the escaping monkey back into the boiling soup.)

I’m glad I ran. I’m glad I ate. I’m glad I wrote.

I’d like to be more social. The key, I think, is to socialize in my own way.

It’s day two. I’ve not yet clicked with the people I’m going to click with.

I grabbed coffee with a student today. That was nice. Worth doing. An enjoyable hour.

There are thirty of us. Will I get coffee with everyone? At one per schoolday, that’s six weeks. 😬

I prefer meeting people one-on-one. Spending time in depth. Learning what makes them tick.

I’ve scheduled dinners for tomorrow and Thursday. I hope to find people I enjoy seeing socially.

The class itself has been nice. Not much to it, but nice. We’re learning the definitions of words by repeated use. A few tactical elements (“Show your teeth! We want to see your teeth!”); mainly punishments (“You forgot the game: you get a zero!”).

I want to meet my people. To find the ones I fancy. Then, to build habits around those happenings.

9 a.m. wakeup. 9:15 a.m. rehearsal. 10 a.m. movement class. 11:30 a.m. lunch. Noon improv class. 2 p.m. rehearsal. 2:30 p.m. phone call with my sister, perhaps while running. 3:30 p.m. rehearsal, study, socialize, catch up on life… 🤔

Clown school is about choice, if only because everything is.

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