Tag: Non-fiction

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 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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Clown School Day 1: The Honking Commences

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Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.

A pair of large red shoes emerges from behind the curtain. Above, a painted face under a red wig.

“Am I in the right place?”

—

I considered entering clown school in full Ronald McDonald regalia. Starting with a joke. Establish a clear reputation from day 1.

But that’s not clowning. At least not here. Here, clowning is an Earnest Art. It’s Authenticity. Connection. Sharing. Giving. Kindness. Lightness. Joy. It’s a Raw and Unadulterated Openness. The successful threading of a needle where one side is the Error of Honesty, the other Pretense. We do neither.

Instead, we Play.

Light,

Open,

Gentle,

Subtle,

Friendly,

Kind,

Grounded.

And the best part:

it’s all a lie.

—

We began the day by walking around the space. “Think of a naughty thought,” our teacher prompted. Immediately, eyes magnetized. Twinkled. Lightened. Brightened. Illuminated.

I know my Naughty Thought. My cadre of considerations. My illustrious internal illustrations.

Heeheehee.

The strangest feeling:

some of the students remained flat. Some stayed boring.

But others.

Oh lawd.

Drawn to them: intellectually, physically, psychically, carnally. With appetite, curiosity, interest, want and need.

Whoa.

How beautiful is it to watch someone play.

How beautiful indeed.

After class, I approached one of the clowns. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” I said. “But I loved watching you with a naughty thought”.

She promised me she’ll tell me her thought

as soon as this course ends.

—

Have you ever felt you’re in precisely the right place?

I have.

Twice.

Once, in a Chicago airport. I had flown in for an interview at an arts program for a master’s degree. My bag became weightless. I was Following My Purpose.

The other, today, upon entering Ecole Philippe Gaulier.

Glee. Humor. Airyness. Mixed with hard work and trials. Difficulties and action. Giving it your All and then some.

Crying. Caring. Trying. Opening.

And then

ideally

success.

—

I am currently a student at Ecole Philippe Gaulier, the world’s premier clown school. I write and publish daily.

Mugged in a Crowd

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On a muggy New York summer afternoon, only One Man is fool enough to wear a sweater. He’s attractive in a grungy, Brooklyn sort of way as He leans against a lamppost, cool and calm despite the summer heat. I’m walking south only a few blocks from Times Square when He locks eyes with me. He springs to attention. His opening line: “Give me money, Gypsy.”

There are twenty people within arm’s reach, yet I’m suddenly alone. I’ve never before been called a gypsy, and while I don’t know its associations I suspect it’s intended aggressively. I mutter something noncommittal. His face looms closer to mine: “Give me money for the holocaust, Gypsy.” His sentence betrays a lack of historical understanding, yet I suspect this fact irrelevant to our circumstance.

When I had first spotted Him leaning against the lamppost, I had clocked the precisely-styled single braid dangling beside His head as attractive. Now, I see it more like a distraction on the end of a spear.

I say something that equates to “leave me alone”. The words I choose are imprecise and confused. I only slept 30 minutes last night. But my words, like His, communicate mainly in tone and posture.

“Give me five dollars,” He elaborates. “Give me five dollars for the holocaust!”

I tell him I don’t carry cash.

He’s angry I wasted His time. His right arm pulls back, then shoots forward: a punch. I instinctively pull back my right side, meeting His force with less resistance.

A few New Yorkers turn and comment. It’s not every day you see violence in vivo. Yet no one does anything. Why? Maybe because there’s nothing to do. We could call the police and wait for them to arrest This Fellow, but what would that accomplish? The best argument I can imagine is akin to “it’s your civic duty to get someone like this off the street”. But if that’s true, then why am I the only person I ever see picking up litter as they pass it in Central Park?

Growing up, angry kids told me on at least three separate occasions that one day someone was gonna punch me in the face. I’m now 30 years old and this prediction has not come true. Somehow I think this altercation doesn’t count.

Five minutes later, I arrive to my afternoon date. I tell her this story. She says I was mugged. I agree: it was at least an attempted mugging.

His punch left a bruise, but I’m more struck by my nonchalance. Still now, a day later, I don’t feel afraid. At no point – not even now – was I concerned for my safety. Maybe I deeply understood This Guy. Maybe I knew I’d be fine. Maybe I knew this to be the cost of engaging. Most New Yorkers avoid eye contact with strangers; I’ll meet the eyes of anyone equally bold.

Honesty in Comedy

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Yesterday I intentionally lied to you. I posted an AI-generated picture of a tattoo, claiming to have received this tattoo while drunk in Bali.

I have never received a tattoo, nor have I been drunk in Bali. I lied because it was April First, the only day out of the whole year when non-malicious lies are more than accepted: they’re celebrated.

I’m currently writing a personal-history one-man show that aims to be honest, to entertain, and to have impact. Honesty is tough when speaking to a diverse audience. New Yorkers will take your words at face value unless you indicate exaggeration via a clear tonal inflection. (Does this make New Yorker a tonal language? I say yes.) Brits and southerners prefer a deadpan that allows them to employ their own bullshit detector. One cannot satisfy everybody’s requirements for honesty while preserving the level of humor I desire. In my upcoming show, I will need to choose between being a comedian (entertainment) and being a journalist (honesty). I will need to have a defined stance, if only to maintain my ability to sleep well in the face of twitter criticism. John Oliver threads this needle by claiming comedy, which allows him to have the impact of a journalist without the industry’s behavioral constraints. Is this cheating? Absolutely. But it’s also an elegant way to win. So here’s how I define my stance:

These distinctions are absolute tosh. They’re like saying “a comedy ends with a marriage; a tragedy with death.” When was the last time a romcom ended with the marriage of all significant characters? Or a modern tragedy ended with a Hamlet-like bloodbath? We’ve been mixing genres over the last few years because they’ve always mixed. And April Fools is a holiday to remind us the ability to impact truth through lies. Is Amazon’s 2013 Cyber Monday claim that they’d have drone delivery in two years any more of an April Fools hoax than the 2019 April Fools joke of an Amazon delivery blimp? Many people even treated the April Fools one more seriously while ridiculing the the Cyber Monday one as a joke! Impact-wise, isn’t the main difference publication date, enabling Amazon to be the most-discussed retailer on one of the most profitable retail shopping days of 2013?

Approximately 50% of the people who received my tattoo message recognized it as an April Fools joke. The other 50% were hoodwinked. I debated over telling these hoodwinked people “April Fools!”. I’ve concluded I’m not going to. Because at some point most of them will realize that it was an April Fools joke. And doesn’t the fact that the joke lasted months or years make it even funnier?

And for those who never realize it, I’ll take solace in the fact that I’m not a journalist, nor a comedian: I’m an axolotl that regenerates its skin every few months, which is why the tattoo has already vanished. But I’m sure you already knew that.

An In-Depth Review

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Airbnb reviews only permit 1000 characters. So here’s my full review of a place I stayed in Cairns, Australia 🤪:

“I’ve been a poor university student for the last four years, but staying here is the first time I’ve felt like it.” —a fellow guest at Anita’s Airbnb

Internal tension is not, generally speaking, what one seeks in an Airbnb. Yet during my 6 days at Anita’s place in Cairns, I found myself not only experiencing a profound sense of dissatisfaction, but somehow enjoying that dissatisfaction and feeling grateful for its lessons.  

Anita’s place somehow provides slightly-above-spartan accommodations at slightly-above-discount prices, but in a hodgepodge of uncanny ways. I’ll give an example: The room boasts plenty of wall outlets — at my count 6 — which is very desirable in an Airbnb room. However, the majority of these outlets are placed above the head on one’s bed, and at no point has any person said “I’d like to plug in my devices right here, above my pillow, with no location to place the device while it’s charging.” The shower, too, isn’t quite wrong but seems like it was designed by someone who had heard what people like in a shower but never used one themselves, as it boasts beautiful tiling, ample hot water, and bountiful nozzle settings, but also dampens your towel because the only place to hang it is on the inside of the shower door. The outdoor dining table is a lovely place to chat with a fellow traveler on a warm summer evening, yet this delight is diminished by the requirement that you wave at the automatic light sensor every 30 seconds to turn it back on. 

If there’s a word to describe my stay at Anita’s in Cairns, that word would be it: “uncanny”. It’s uncanny that I would find the mattress perfectly comfortable, yet also awaken with a hip pain of a sort that I’ve never before experienced. It’s uncanny that I would have a long conversation with the host about making the internet work in my room, which it definitely didn’t beforehand and after which it somehow magically does. It’s uncanny that the Airbnb listing includes twenty-three (23) rules which one must follow during tenancy, and then posters and text messages upon arrival add an additional three (3), and yet existing in this space gives you the sense that breaking the majority of them would simply be ignored. As I was leaving, I snuck a glance inside Anita’s room, and was shocked to see it resembled a security office. If she has three screens of cameras, all presumably monitoring and recording, then why are the drying rack and kitchen trash can always overflowing? I suspect the only rule that Anita enforces strictly is the “absolutely no guests” policy, but somehow also get the niggling suspicion that her uncanniness would give me the thumbs-up on updating my Airbnb reservation from 1 guest to 2 as I’m walking home with a sweetheart in real time.

Anita’s Airbnb gives the impression of an earnest person really truly trying their best but tripping in random ways. Sure, she spams you with a bunch of tour and travel options immediately after you make your reservation, but after that initial volley it’s not like she’s pushy – or even brings them up again. Yes, she’ll make a bit of huff when you’re on your phone at 8:58pm and quiet hours start at 9pm, but it’s the sort of gentle and direct huff that makes you wonder whether you actually were being too loud for even pre-quiet hours. And then, when you’re quieter, it’s somehow totally fine that you talk until 10. The place is spartan yet functional, and isn’t functional what matters? If travel is about exploring a new place, and therefore yourself, isn’t it appropriate that you finally feel like a poor university student if that’s what you are? Still, it’s not particularly pleasant to feel like a poor university student, so I give Anita’s place three stars.