HOME IS WHERE THE ART IS
02/25/08

"This place feels like a really cool garage," I thought as we hung out in the black box space at the Ferguson Center for the Arts, on the campus of Christopher Newport University.  We were getting set to do our second show there that night, and as the cast dined on fish and broccoli I was stalking around the small stage, only a few inches off the ground, practicing a song on guitar I was going to try out in the set that night.

Earlier that day Joey had led us on a mini tour of Colonial Williamsburg and his alma mater, William & Mary.  After making our way up and down the historic main drag, snapping photos in the stocks and popping into a small shop where Boaz purchased a penny whistle, we ventured into The Cheese Shop for lunch.  Known for its sandwiches, the small gourmet market also sold "ends and house," a college delicacy introduced to us by Joey, where they sold you a bag of leftover bread ends for a dollar along with a container of their house dressing for just a bit more.  Making our way onto campus we moved toward the Sunken Gardens where two professors were holding class outside.  Strolling past the closer group of students we noticed that one was wearing an old school, dark red Second City t-shirt as we thought about somehow interrupting his class to let him know we were there.

While I played my song in the set that night I asked Anthony, Joey and Brooke to go into the audience and interview individual audience members to ask them what they would like to see us do a scene about.  We then proceeded to improvise them: a Goth cheerleader interacting with her peppier peers before "a big fall" occurred, two people escaping office life for an adventure on a nude beach, and something involving puppies.

A week earlier I had been chatting with RedCo's Tim Baltz when he mentioned loving doing shows in black box spaces, when I realized that I had never actually played one with Second City.  My first one here was a great experience, with receptive audiences sitting only a few feet away in the kind of intimate environment our shows are truly designed for.  There was single row of chairs on a balcony that ran along the outside of the lower seating, reminding me of the Donmar Warehouse in London.  I had seen the first production of Richard Greenberg's "Take Me Out" there, marveling at how on top of the action we were, how easily it was to connect to the show.

Our third night at CNU had us in a different space, a gorgeous theater of dark wood, balcony and blood red velvet seats.  "This is how I want my den to look," I told Abby, imagining a day where I would have a living space with enough rooms to merit calling one a "den".  It felt small despite its size, with a sense that the audience was above, below and around you all at once, a potential embrace of either affection or seizure depending on how the performance was going.  Luckily it went well.

Earlier that day we basically got to relax, with most of us going to see "There Will Be Blood" and getting lunch in the mall, my third trip to Chick-Fil-A in as many days.  So that night we were well-rested when Anthony, Boaz and I ended up hanging out with a big group of students from the theater department, getting a much better feel for the social life at the school, tying back in to our college house party days and even, at one point, getting a four-man group to perform one of their sketches for us.  It was alarmingly good.  The students we hung out with seemed to worry that taking us to a house party would somehow be sub-par for us, but after seeing just about every iteration of Applebee's in the country, something with a personal feel and a shitty keg was a much needed and welcome change.

The next day we drove to Richmond and straight to Joey's house, where once again we were lucky enough to spend time with his family.  It's not a surprise given how great a person Joey is, but his family does not have to strain hard to imbue any environment with a sense of inclusion and warmth.  We ate a big lunch, chatted with his twin sisters, debated the reality of vampires and got on our way to the hotel, an inn downtown where Edgar Allen Poe had been raised at one point. Boaz and I proceeded to nap with a coma-like depth.

"This is exactly how I want my apartment to look," I told Abby again as we piled into the green room at Toad's Place, our second consecutive Sunday in a rock venue.  Almost brand new, everything was in outstanding shape and our dressing rooms couldn't have been more to my taste– hardwood floors, exposed brick, thick wooden support beams spanning the ceiling – the sort of converted factory look of every loft featured in Architectural Digest.  We had a great dinner, ordered from their kitchen and snuck out to peer down over the crowd as they filled in the tables and chairs set up on the floor, the balcony, as well as just about every nook they could fit into all around.  It must be a hell of a place to see a concert.

That night we hung out with the crew from the theater at a bar nearby, dominated their trivia contest and defeated all challengers in the dares presented by the tattooed and often abrasive host for the evening.  Later on I'd find myself at another house party, eating Rice-A-Roni and playing Rock Band, relaxing on someone else's couches and wondering whether or not my plants back home had been watered.

If you have any questions or comments for Seth about Second City or life on the road with the Touring Company, please feel free to send an email to easywriter@secondcity.com. So long as Super 8's still have wireless access he promises to reply promptly.

WHEN'S NOVEMBER AGAIN?
02/14/08

"Wow, it just dawned on me that his life right now is kind of like ours," Boaz said as we lay on our hotel room beds, watching Barack Obama deliver a stump speech live from Bangor, Maine. A few minutes earlier I had asked, "Did you ever think you'd be sitting in Waco,  Texas watching coverage of a woman run against a black man for the Democratic nomination?" And yet, that's what we were doing, an hour to kill before we made our way to the Waco Hippodrome for our tech.

The crossword for the Waco-Tribune Herald sat open next to me, resting atop yesterday's puzzle from the Austin American-Statesman. With a day off in the middle of our trip we were lucky enough to stop into the capital city see some old friends, catch some improv at the Hideout and have Crispin Glover walk by us as we sat in the bar at the Driskill drinking overpriced cocktails and noshing on jalapeno-stuffed olives.

Sipping some dark, local beer the bartender at the Dog and Duck had recommended, I had asked Andy – a local improviser Anthony and I had just met – whom everyone around there was supporting. "Most of the people I hang out with? Obama." For some intangible reason this got me excited, that guttural twitter that precedes a new toy or a first date.

"You know, you can actually tell, he looks tired," Boaz said, watching the Illinois senator deliver what was easily his fifth or sixth stump speech that day, hopping around from state to state, trying to deliver performances that live up to his 2004 Democratic Convention Speech or his New Hampshire post-primary comments, knowing that every moment on stage is a chance to pull someone on board his train of support that seems to gain momentum each day. "He must just lose track of time altogether..."

Two days earlier we had been in Lubbock, Texas at Texas Tech University, virtually the only thing in town. Tumbleweed actually blew across the runway as we landed at the airport. The afternoon consisted of buying $14 shoes at Wal-Mart and watching Brother Jesse on the Trinity Broadcasting Network praise God with the effusiveness of an overly caffeinated child.

The theater, which took us a while to find on campus, had about as wide a stage as I've ever seen and a house that yawned to reveal a sea of upholstered chairs worthy of a Magic Eye poster. As my BBC announcer character in the show I come out a few times to transition scenes. Here, I reminded the audience when their primary was, thinking their turn-out could only help Obama, delivered a barb about Bobby Knight who had just resigned as their coach a couple days earlier, and tried out a "Bush is stupid" joke in the heart of Texas. The latter was met with a huge response of cheering and applause, the actual intent of which I am not sure.

After the show, we sat at a table and signed autographs to smiling students who seemed happy to have something to do on a Thursday night, and who treated us as if we were much more important than I think any of us see ourselves. But that was all four days before we were getting ready to leave Dallas.

We woke up at 8, which was painful having stayed up late the night before watching Cape Fearwith Joey. A Fred Thompson appearance was alarming only in that his persona while playing a character in a movie seemed to resonate all too greatly with the one he had projected as his own as a candidate running for president. I'm not sure if that indicator is a greater vilification of actors or politicians.

Everyone but Anthony piled into the cars and shot downtown, tucking into a garage and finding ourselves at the site of the Book Depository and the JFK assassination. We were approached by a man who I'm not sure was homeless, but could have played the role, and asked if we wanted a tour. Joey inquired as to the cost, which proved to only be tips. On some odd whim we consented and proceeded to get a concise, informative and conspiracy rich tour of the surrounding area for the ultimate cost of a few bucks per person. Ron, our brightly yellow clad guide had an extensive knowledge of the events surrounding the tragedy but peppered in enough horrific jokes to remind us periodically that he may have been mentally unstable. A former director of the Conspiracy Museum ("It no longer exists," he said), his theory was known as the Six Bullet Theory and pegged the murder on Lady Bird Johnson.

Two days earlier Joey, Shawn and I woke up early and headed out to Crawford to try and find Bush's ranch. We first stopped in at a "Western White House" memorabilia-covered diner where W himself had apparently signed the paperwork for his ranch. We enjoyed the breakfast buffet and had little in the way of conversation. There was something numbing about the place.

When we'd arrive at the venue later that night – The Waco Hippodrome – we'd discover that the artistic director was not only at The Governor School in Virginia during the same summer as Joey, but that he had grown up and been friends with my brother in law. I'd like to say "small world," but I also pass thousands of people every day that I have no affiliation to whatsoever. "Occasionally coincidental world" – now that's more like it.

Driving past the picture of Laura and George that greeted us on our way into town we followed along on some printed out directions to the road where the ranch was. Unable to secure an exact address we just started barreling down it past ranch gates that popped up along the road like carnival game targets and with an equal air of levity. At five miles we vowed to push on, but two verbal check-ins later, at six and half miles down the road we turned around. At a gas station minutes later we'd learn that another mile and we'd have been there, yet only to take in "no standing" signs. I think a sense of minor failure was unavoidable.

About ten seconds into our Hippodrome show, the mics would go out and we were forced to do the show au natural. Not a problem. Earlier that night the tech director had told us, "If y'all hadn't come tonight, I probably would have killed myself." Nice, no pressure there. Turns out he had to put two of his dogs down because they had taken out one of his neighbor's cows. As I listened to the shrill of feedback I could only hope this would not put him over the edge.

Why didn't we turn back for the ranch? 'Cause we had to make our way to just outside of Waco to try and find the site of the Branch Davidians compound where David Koresh had made his stand and died amongst his mass of followers.

During breaks in the show I would check on the election results, ultimately celebrating Obama victories in Louisiana, Nebraska and Washington. Following the performance we were invited across the street to an out-of place trendy bar/restaurant called The Green Room. There, Michael, an upscale real estate developer bought us all drinks, let me try his veal and talked it up with me about high-end architectural development in central Texas. I'd soon be at a table with his buddy Hap and two random women who had seen the show, talking politics, which I quickly realized I should not say much about.

"I don't think this is it." Joey said as we got back in the car, staring at an empty field that we couldn't explore further due to a giant shut gate. We headed up the road and almost immediately realized that it hadn't been it because not only did we find the right street, but within a few hundred yards we found the new home of the Branch Davidians, built right on top of and in memorial to the victims of the fire that claimed lives of 53 adults and 21 children.

"You know if we pull out of Iraq now, then that war is going to come home to the US. You can count on that." I decided against responding to Hap as I somehow got the feeling that it was not going to be easy to change his mind. "Well, everyone talks about how Obama is some big change, and they keep talking about change. But honestly, the only change I see is that he's black." Laura, a middle school teacher, had said it with an air of ignorance that made the accompanying air of indifference at the very least logical, although hardly excusable.

After a long deliberation and parking the car at the side of the road, we had made our way onto the property of the Branch Davidians. They had clearly rebuilt their church and some utility trailers behind their giant stone sign and memorial to the deceased. With a Sunday morning air hanging over us like an itchy wool blanket we crept around the property examining everything as if it were a newly discovered dead body. I snapped photos of everything as quickly as possible, convinced that at any moment someone was going to pop out and yell at us. We got back in the car and headed right back into the compound to get a closer look at their church, a "Don't Tread On Me" flag waving outside.

The band in The Green Room was a three piece set-up that covered everything from John Prine to John Mayer, bringing it all home to a soulful, smooth style that seemed out of place on main street Waco, as did the entire establishment. Stepping outside we'd discover that it was the only thing open within view or earshot.

Our car pulled around the bend and we saw more trailers where it looked like they must live. I threw it into reverse and after briefly spying memorial plaques for the ATF agents who had died that day in '93 and the victims of the Oklahoma city bombing which McVeigh carried out exactly two years later, we were gone down the road, moving furtively as if we had just taken a painting off the wall of a museum.

Our hotel room in Dallas was the least impressive of the trip, with thin green foam blankets that evoked a mental institution and a bathroom that was designed as if it was in the Mexico section of Epcot Center. The venue was easily the most unique I've ever done – a straight up rock venue (voted 1 place to see a show by the paper) called The Grenada Theater. Instead of our standard stage left and right exits, we only had one. And it was directly upstage center. This required a decent amount of retooling

"I think he could actually pull this off," I said to Boaz, glancing down at a clue, trying to remember what country the painter Lucas Cranach was from, wondering if we'd have time to visit the Dr. Pepper museum while there in Waco.

Steve Vai, Blues Traveler, Reverend Horton Heat, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Ted Leo – they'd all played The Granada where we'd just received our third standing ovation in a row from a small crowd who clearly had no clue what to expect when they arrived that night. Outside the staff had set us up a little tent to relax under, with small tables and big, soft benches. I sat across from G, the backstage manager. He had gone to Texas Tech before joining the Army and going to the first Gulf War, before going to work for Reader's Digest where he solidified his love for Ayn Rand and The Fountainhead but couldn't stick with the shirt and tie vibe and landed at a Harley dealership, although it wasn't long before he decided to act on his dream to be a fireman and ended up a paramedic until a few weeks into the gig when he carried a two-week old dead baby out of a house in his arms, forcing him to seriously consider the managerial position at The Granada they had offered him while he was working the door there on the side. I didn't ask whom he was voting for.

Driving home after a night of $2 cocktails and slices from a place called "Terrible Pizza," a visit to see where one of the most inspiring presidents in the history of the country had been shot looming the next morning, it was hard not to think of disaster. Crawford, Waco, Dallas. I leaned my head against the window and wondered how cold it was in Chicago, wondered how long it would be before a third party candidate won the presidency. The beauty of seemingly impossible events occurring is that you suddenly feel entitled to the luxury of indulging other fantasies. Percy Sledge came on the radio, I was fairly certain it was Sunday and everything was just moving forward.

If you have any questions or comments for Seth about Second City or life on the road with the Touring Company, please feel free to send an email to easywriter@secondcity.com. So long as Super 8's still have wireless access he promises to reply promptly.

WHEN'S NOVEMBER AGAIN?
02/14/08

"Wow, it just dawned on me that his life right now is kind of like ours," Boaz said as we lay on our hotel room beds, watching Barack Obama deliver a stump speech live from Bangor, Maine. A few minutes earlier I had asked, "Did you ever think you'd be sitting in Waco,  Texas watching coverage of a woman run against a black man for the Democratic nomination?" And yet, that's what we were doing, an hour to kill before we made our way to the Waco Hippodrome for our tech.

The crossword for the Waco-Tribune Herald sat open next to me, resting atop yesterday's puzzle from the Austin American-Statesman. With a day off in the middle of our trip we were lucky enough to stop into the capital city see some old friends, catch some improv at the Hideout and have Crispin Glover walk by us as we sat in the bar at the Driskill drinking overpriced cocktails and noshing on jalapeno-stuffed olives.

Sipping some dark, local beer the bartender at the Dog and Duck had recommended, I had asked Andy – a local improviser Anthony and I had just met – whom everyone around there was supporting. "Most of the people I hang out with? Obama." For some intangible reason this got me excited, that guttural twitter that precedes a new toy or a first date.

"You know, you can actually tell, he looks tired," Boaz said, watching the Illinois senator deliver what was easily his fifth or sixth stump speech that day, hopping around from state to state, trying to deliver performances that live up to his 2004 Democratic Convention Speech or his New Hampshire post-primary comments, knowing that every moment on stage is a chance to pull someone on board his train of support that seems to gain momentum each day. "He must just lose track of time altogether..."

Two days earlier we had been in Lubbock, Texas at Texas Tech University, virtually the only thing in town. Tumbleweed actually blew across the runway as we landed at the airport. The afternoon consisted of buying $14 shoes at Wal-Mart and watching Brother Jesse on the Trinity Broadcasting Network praise God with the effusiveness of an overly caffeinated child.

The theater, which took us a while to find on campus, had about as wide a stage as I've ever seen and a house that yawned to reveal a sea of upholstered chairs worthy of a Magic Eye poster. As my BBC announcer character in the show I come out a few times to transition scenes. Here, I reminded the audience when their primary was, thinking their turn-out could only help Obama, delivered a barb about Bobby Knight who had just resigned as their coach a couple days earlier, and tried out a "Bush is stupid" joke in the heart of Texas. The latter was met with a huge response of cheering and applause, the actual intent of which I am not sure.

After the show, we sat at a table and signed autographs to smiling students who seemed happy to have something to do on a Thursday night, and who treated us as if we were much more important than I think any of us see ourselves. But that was all four days before we were getting ready to leave Dallas.

We woke up at 8, which was painful having stayed up late the night before watching Cape Fearwith Joey. A Fred Thompson appearance was alarming only in that his persona while playing a character in a movie seemed to resonate all too greatly with the one he had projected as his own as a candidate running for president. I'm not sure if that indicator is a greater vilification of actors or politicians.

Everyone but Anthony piled into the cars and shot downtown, tucking into a garage and finding ourselves at the site of the Book Depository and the JFK assassination. We were approached by a man who I'm not sure was homeless, but could have played the role, and asked if we wanted a tour. Joey inquired as to the cost, which proved to only be tips. On some odd whim we consented and proceeded to get a concise, informative and conspiracy rich tour of the surrounding area for the ultimate cost of a few bucks per person. Ron, our brightly yellow clad guide had an extensive knowledge of the events surrounding the tragedy but peppered in enough horrific jokes to remind us periodically that he may have been mentally unstable. A former director of the Conspiracy Museum ("It no longer exists," he said), his theory was known as the Six Bullet Theory and pegged the murder on Lady Bird Johnson.

Two days earlier Joey, Shawn and I woke up early and headed out to Crawford to try and find Bush's ranch. We first stopped in at a "Western White House" memorabilia-covered diner where W himself had apparently signed the paperwork for his ranch. We enjoyed the breakfast buffet and had little in the way of conversation. There was something numbing about the place.

When we'd arrive at the venue later that night – The Waco Hippodrome – we'd discover that the artistic director was not only at The Governor School in Virginia during the same summer as Joey, but that he had grown up and been friends with my brother in law. I'd like to say "small world," but I also pass thousands of people every day that I have no affiliation to whatsoever. "Occasionally coincidental world" – now that's more like it.

Driving past the picture of Laura and George that greeted us on our way into town we followed along on some printed out directions to the road where the ranch was. Unable to secure an exact address we just started barreling down it past ranch gates that popped up along the road like carnival game targets and with an equal air of levity. At five miles we vowed to push on, but two verbal check-ins later, at six and half miles down the road we turned around. At a gas station minutes later we'd learn that another mile and we'd have been there, yet only to take in "no standing" signs. I think a sense of minor failure was unavoidable.

About ten seconds into our Hippodrome show, the mics would go out and we were forced to do the show au natural. Not a problem. Earlier that night the tech director had told us, "If y'all hadn't come tonight, I probably would have killed myself." Nice, no pressure there. Turns out he had to put two of his dogs down because they had taken out one of his neighbor's cows. As I listened to the shrill of feedback I could only hope this would not put him over the edge.

Why didn't we turn back for the ranch? 'Cause we had to make our way to just outside of Waco to try and find the site of the Branch Davidians compound where David Koresh had made his stand and died amongst his mass of followers.

During breaks in the show I would check on the election results, ultimately celebrating Obama victories in Louisiana, Nebraska and Washington. Following the performance we were invited across the street to an out-of place trendy bar/restaurant called The Green Room. There, Michael, an upscale real estate developer bought us all drinks, let me try his veal and talked it up with me about high-end architectural development in central Texas. I'd soon be at a table with his buddy Hap and two random women who had seen the show, talking politics, which I quickly realized I should not say much about.

"I don't think this is it." Joey said as we got back in the car, staring at an empty field that we couldn't explore further due to a giant shut gate. We headed up the road and almost immediately realized that it hadn't been it because not only did we find the right street, but within a few hundred yards we found the new home of the Branch Davidians, built right on top of and in memorial to the victims of the fire that claimed lives of 53 adults and 21 children.

"You know if we pull out of Iraq now, then that war is going to come home to the US. You can count on that." I decided against responding to Hap as I somehow got the feeling that it was not going to be easy to change his mind. "Well, everyone talks about how Obama is some big change, and they keep talking about change. But honestly, the only change I see is that he's black." Laura, a middle school teacher, had said it with an air of ignorance that made the accompanying air of indifference at the very least logical, although hardly excusable.

After a long deliberation and parking the car at the side of the road, we had made our way onto the property of the Branch Davidians. They had clearly rebuilt their church and some utility trailers behind their giant stone sign and memorial to the deceased. With a Sunday morning air hanging over us like an itchy wool blanket we crept around the property examining everything as if it were a newly discovered dead body. I snapped photos of everything as quickly as possible, convinced that at any moment someone was going to pop out and yell at us. We got back in the car and headed right back into the compound to get a closer look at their church, a "Don't Tread On Me" flag waving outside.

The band in The Green Room was a three piece set-up that covered everything from John Prine to John Mayer, bringing it all home to a soulful, smooth style that seemed out of place on main street Waco, as did the entire establishment. Stepping outside we'd discover that it was the only thing open within view or earshot.

Our car pulled around the bend and we saw more trailers where it looked like they must live. I threw it into reverse and after briefly spying memorial plaques for the ATF agents who had died that day in '93 and the victims of the Oklahoma city bombing which McVeigh carried out exactly two years later, we were gone down the road, moving furtively as if we had just taken a painting off the wall of a museum.

Our hotel room in Dallas was the least impressive of the trip, with thin green foam blankets that evoked a mental institution and a bathroom that was designed as if it was in the Mexico section of Epcot Center. The venue was easily the most unique I've ever done – a straight up rock venue (voted 1 place to see a show by the paper) called The Grenada Theater. Instead of our standard stage left and right exits, we only had one. And it was directly upstage center. This required a decent amount of retooling

"I think he could actually pull this off," I said to Boaz, glancing down at a clue, trying to remember what country the painter Lucas Cranach was from, wondering if we'd have time to visit the Dr. Pepper museum while there in Waco.

Steve Vai, Blues Traveler, Reverend Horton Heat, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, Ted Leo – they'd all played The Granada where we'd just received our third standing ovation in a row from a small crowd who clearly had no clue what to expect when they arrived that night. Outside the staff had set us up a little tent to relax under, with small tables and big, soft benches. I sat across from G, the backstage manager. He had gone to Texas Tech before joining the Army and going to the first Gulf War, before going to work for Reader's Digest where he solidified his love for Ayn Rand and The Fountainhead but couldn't stick with the shirt and tie vibe and landed at a Harley dealership, although it wasn't long before he decided to act on his dream to be a fireman and ended up a paramedic until a few weeks into the gig when he carried a two-week old dead baby out of a house in his arms, forcing him to seriously consider the managerial position at The Granada they had offered him while he was working the door there on the side. I didn't ask whom he was voting for.

Driving home after a night of $2 cocktails and slices from a place called "Terrible Pizza," a visit to see where one of the most inspiring presidents in the history of the country had been shot looming the next morning, it was hard not to think of disaster. Crawford, Waco, Dallas. I leaned my head against the window and wondered how cold it was in Chicago, wondered how long it would be before a third party candidate won the presidency. The beauty of seemingly impossible events occurring is that you suddenly feel entitled to the luxury of indulging other fantasies. Percy Sledge came on the radio, I was fairly certain it was Sunday and everything was just moving forward.

If you have any questions or comments for Seth about Second City or life on the road with the Touring Company, please feel free to send an email to easywriter@secondcity.com. So long as Super 8's still have wireless access he promises to reply promptly.

18-1
02/12/08

It should have been the end to a great weekend.  Hanging out at Anthony's house with his wife  and Boaz, watching the Super Bowl two hours behind on his DVR, a stomach full  of delicious smoked meats he had made a few days earlier.  It was all set up.  Then Josh McDaniels offensively coordinated  up a big shit sandwich for the Pats, Tom Brady got hit in the face about fifty  times and the dream was over.  The  greatest team of all time – yes, still – had to watch Eli Manning struggle to  lift the Lombardi Trophy over his head while every New Englander sat back  wondering what the hell had just happened and why that E-Trade baby had to  throw up.  It didn't help that Boaz (from  New Jersey) decided to remember he was a Giants fan and rub it in while I  worked at holding back tears in between mesquite burps and text messages to  half the state of Rhode Island.

Charlie (see the trip to Boston blog) and I haven't even  spoken yet, and I'm relatively sure it's because he's holed up somewhere trying  to figure out a way to spin back time, to make this awful feeling go away.  I have sought comfort in a wide range of  media outlets, waiting for someone to find a way to make this seem okay, but  not even The Sports Guy was able to do it.   The only comfort I've been able to find comes from Andre Dubus, in his  book of short works entitled The Times  Are Never So Bad in which he writes, "What creates despair is the  imagination, which pretends there is a future, and insists on predicting  millions of moments, thousands of days, and so drains you that you cannot live  the moment at hand."  I think that's  it.  Long before kick-off I was already  dreaming about being able to tell my kids about the year that the Red Sox won  the Series and the Pats went 19-0.  If my  imagination was getting greedy, maybe I'd crown the Celts and Duke in there as  well, but at the very least a Super Bowl victory seemed inescapable.  I mean, could the Giants be any more like the Colorado Rockies were this  year?  Miserable all year and then a tear  at the end only to bite it in the last chapter.   Unfortunately Eli Manning was too stupid to realize he had no business  winning that game. Stupid New York...

That was how it ended but the weekend actually started  wonderfully.  Sitting in Midway Airport  with the snow piling up like Eli Manning interceptions, I was convinced that  there was no way we were leaving Chicago.   I even told my roommate as I strolled out at 6:45am, "See you tonight."  But the reverse jinx energy worked and we  were out of Chicago with barely a delay, on our way to Northern  California.  A gorgeous view of the  Golden Gate and Alcatraz beneath us, we coasted in over San Francisco and  touched down to find Boaz and Abby waiting for us.  Both with strong San Fran ties, they had made  their way out a day early but now piled in the rental cars with us as we drove  into the belly of the hills and finding ourselves in Antioch on the other  side.  The weather was gorgeous, the  skies as clear as the space between Michael Strahan's front teeth.

By the time Joey, Boaz and I got to Carl's Jr. for lunch it  was still the early afternoon, and yet we had been traveling for ten  hours.  Flying west always gives that odd  sense of protraction, like a ten-minute opening drive in a fluke victory, and  by the time we arrived at the venue I was sure that somewhere along the way it  had become Saturday.

El Campanil Theater in Antioch had been a theater way back  in the early 20the century before being converted to a church and then back to  a theater.  In the dressing rooms we  found a pretty impressive smattering of signatures preserved on the walls  including Donald O'Connor and Al Jolson.   Later we were asked to sign, which felt oddly incongruous, like a  February victory parade in Manhattan.   The sharply rising balcony seats were equipped with barriers behind each  row.  We later learned this was from the  original design so that men couldn't turn around and look up women's  theater-going dresses. 

Great show, hot house, Lilly spilled salad dressing all over  the carpet.  That night I crashed hard,  but not before catching twenty minutes of Bill Maher, whom I would love to see  compete with Jon Stewart for the title of "Most Likely to Interrupt Someone  Speaking to Do a Bit."  Don't get me  wrong, I adore both of them and their shows, but they will bowl someone over  like an uncharacteristically lazy Patriots offensive line.

The next morning couldn't have been better.  One car had to leave early to get to a  workshop, and Boaz was back in San Francisco with friends, so Abby, Anthony and  I got to sleep in late, take a leisurely drive to Pleasanton and then hit up  In-N-Out Burger for lunch.  Now I have  been dying to go to one since I read about them in Fast Food Nation as being a model for how fast food can actually be  done without screwing over the consumer, the workers or the suppliers.  Turns out that food is damn good.  (In fact, Anthony and I went back after the show to get more food from  there…)

Interesting personal moment in the show that night.  I've mentioned the scene Rocker before, where  Abby and Lilly are getting a bunch of suggestions in the context of a scene and  at the end I come out and do a monologue that weaves them all together.  One of the "gets" is for the audience to  basically yell out something that has been a hardship in my character's life,  and here in Pleasanton they yelled out "schizophrenia".  Now after running this scene for quite a  while this was the first time we've ever gotten that suggestion, and it's easy  to know exactly what the audience wants to see.   They want you to come out and start talking to imaginary people, only  they don't know you're coming out and have no clue that's exactly what they  want to see until you're doing it and they're laughing.  In fact, on the surface the art of the  "call-back" is not a complicated one at all.   More often than not all you have to do is show them exactly what they  said earlier and it seems like a magic trick, the result of which is laughter  and applause.

But artistically, it's feels cheap to take the obvious road,  especially with something like this that's a pretty serious psychiatric  impairment.  Chicago has always taught me  to play to the top of my intelligence, to never just take the easy joke, and  Second City on the whole has thrived on the creative visions of actors who have  been able to embrace the needs of the audience and serve their interests while  simultaneously informing, commenting and reshaping the grist given to them for  the comedic mill.  So in the middle of  trying to spontaneously weave together six or seven disparate elements into a  cohesive and funny character monologue, there's also the challenge of trying to  elevate the audience's input to a higher level while maintaining the integrity  of their idea enough that you still get recognition when you re-present that  information.  Good thing my director has  more faith in me than Bill Belichick had in Stephen Gostkowski, opting to go  for it on fourth and thirteen instead of letting him attempt a forty-nine yard  field goal.

So what happened?  I  ended up forgetting to use "schizophrenia" because I was too busy belly dancing  and trying to explain why I wasn't allowed to play harmonica any more.  Way to go Weitberg.

Then there was Black Sunday.

Monday we rocked a really fun home show, Bill's first as our  director.  We spent the rehearsal that  day cleaning up some scenes and pitching ideas for new silent scenes.  It was great to get an assignment from him  right out of the gate and it let us hit the ground running with turning parts  of our RO over as we move through the winter.   So far we've got plenty of stuff about death, black empowerment and  dysfunctional relationships – sounds like an Ike Turner obituary.  In the set that night Bill just had us  improvise a few two-person scenes, and Joey and I ended up landing on a really  nice scene with two brothers at their grandmother's funeral, that he encouraged  us to get a script down for.  By  Wednesday we had already put it up on its feet in front of everyone and gotten  notes for the rewrite – it's an incredibly exciting way to work.  It's like watching your team win 18 straight  games in a row and having the thrill of thinking you're never going to have to  see Don Shula's shit-eating grin ever again.

Luckily our season doesn't have to end, though, and Joe Buck  never commentates during our performances.

If you have any questions or comments for Seth about Second City or life on the road with the Touring Company, please feel free to send an email to easywriter@secondcity.com.  So long as Super 8's still have wireless access he promises to reply promptly.

THE WRAP-UP
1/28/08

Do you remember what it was like when you got back to school in September, inevitably faced with the question, "How was your summer?"  Some wide-grinned kid staring at you with his Vuarnet France t-shirt and his shark-tooth necklace that he obviously got at some chintzy kiosk next to some island beach.  And in that moment you struggle to sum up three months of camp, hanging out, family-time, barbecues...that's kind of how I feel right now trying to fill everyone in on the last week in Vienna, the trip to Prague, the return home, the big news...

Boaz and I set out on that Tuesday, whichever Tuesday it was, toward Swedensplatz to look at the synagogue.  We were the only ones on the tour which afforded a high degree of personal attention as we moved through the two rooms that were the reward for our entrance fee.  In addition we got a pretty intense security screening from the hired Israeli guards – l'chaim!

Killing time...scharfer wursts...clock museum...crazy lazy-eyed security guy...ticking...

Opera House tour...Mahler...Rodin sculpture...bombed in WWII...modern...chandelier...

Wednesday morning we went to the Museum Moderner Kunst or MuMoK, where you can get a heavy dose of the most stereotypical example of German-language modern art.  I mean, straight out of the 1950s and 60s and your worst jokes, we got at least two floors of people bleeding, defecating and vomiting on things and each other.  Within a historical context it makes sense that the stoicism and conventionality of the mid-century needed a radical kick in the ass from the art community to make way for the open expressionism of the 60s and 70s, and yet placed in a modern context its hard to look at this work and not think of 2girls1cup as its closest kin.  Mom, please do not try to explore that reference on the Internet.  The upper floors had a great modern Chinese installation including some exciting video pieces, and that in concert with the remarkable architectural design of the interior ended up justifying the admission.

MuseumsQuartier...roaming...food design...science project...five wasted euros... laundry...piano...

In the afternoon I had a workshop with students from 1st Filmacademy, Vienna, a drama school with an emphasis on film acting that requires the students to do work in both German and English.  I was a little nervous going in not really knowing what to expect of their improv skills nor their desire to be there.  I had nightmarish visions of them secretively being derisive in German as I stood there trying to get them to play Zip-Zap-Zop, but that couldn't have been further from the case.  Anthony and Lilly had met with other students from the school the previous two days and both had great experiences so I was pretty excited by the time 2pm rolled around.  The thirteen students weren't that much younger than me, which I think can sometimes create a weird dynamic.  One girl admitted to me later that her first impression was that she would have to "wait for [my] dad to get there to teach [her] something."  Nice.

Once we got going it was in no way different from any improv class I've taught in the States.  Students default to the same arguing, they freak out when I make them sing, they try to cross their arms and I yell at them for being guarded and giving off judgmental body language – all the same jazz.  They were all familiar with improv from their classes and had the leg up of being able to do it in two languages, so I tried to focus the work we did on the applications to the work they were doing on-camera – making strong choices, connecting to their scene partners, playing the moment.  I was impressed with how well they responded to everything and by the end they were putting up some very lovely scenes, leaning heavily on their acting chops.

Hot show...improv...Café Lange...Gosser...CNN International...

The next morning Boaz and I went to the Haus der Musik, a highly interactive exhibit on both the history and science of music.  This spot officially takes the cake as the coolest place I went in Vienna.  We pretty much had the joint to ourselves as we rocked out on interactive sound stations, learned all kinds of crazy stuff about formants, overtones and timbre, created a futuristic rock sound on the "Brain Opera" floor, and walked through the entire history of classical masters from Vienna.  There is also a Virtual Conductor exhibit, where you get to lead the Vienna Philharmonic on a giant screen through a number of different pieces using a censored baton.  If you screw them up they refuse to keep playing and scream at you in German.  Just like my nightmares!

Walking...kebab...overcast...hotel...

By this point in the trip I found myself scouring my guidebook, picking through the remains of what sites were left to hit and was down to a few museums and a couple coffeehouses.  I've come to realize that travel guides, especially ones to single cities can make a lot of stuff look much more important or time-consuming than it really is, and I've now gotten relatively astute at figuring out which stuff is going to be cool and worth travel/money and which stuff is total filler.  So in the afternoon I set out to hit two of the remaining hot spots left in what now felt like a vastly explored city.

The first was the Neue Burg section of the Hofburg Palace; built between 1881 and 1913 it is the newest section and home to three museums that all flow together, accessed for a single price.  At 8 euros (including free audio guide) this was the best bargain I found in town, especially since I enjoyed it so much.  The Collection of Musical Instruments was straight up bad-ass.  I think I spent at least an hour just roaming those rooms back and forth enjoying the audio guide that allowed you to not only hear the history of just about everything but also listen to recorded pieces using the instruments.  The Collection of Arms and Armor was totally cool but I didn't have the patience to listen to much of the guide, as by this point I was starting to feel a little museum-ed out (a sentiment that just about everyone shared by the middle of this week.)  That meant that the Ephesus Museum, displaying all the rock and ruin that the Austrians stole from Turkey, got an obligatory and cursory walk-through before I bolted.

Hot show...Café Lange...hanging out with students...pizza with Anthony...

The next day we set out to Schonbrunn Palace...

Huge...gardens...maze closed...Gloriette...café...views...sunshine...train...

Friday night we went back to Ronald's for dinner again, where he gave us fleece wolf hats from some vodka company along with some of our last plates of Austrian cuisine.  Most of the students from my workshop came out to meet us which led to closing down the bar before moving on to a club before roaming the streets...When it was all said and done Anthony and I rolled into bed at around 8 in the morning and slept in a good chunk of our last day in the city.

Our last show was bittersweet to say the least.  We became very close not only with the city but the crew at the theater as well, and after our encore set we signed some cards for people, packed things up and said goodbye to our backstage area, with its high stack of British tabloids and its washing machines that none of us could figure out.  I love touring, I love my job and I love all the places we get to see, but I'll be surprised if another gig comes along that's able to top this one.

The next day Joey and Anthony took off for home, Boaz decided to stay in the city for one more day and the rest of us made moves to Prague.  The train ride was comfortable and easy, dumping us at Nadrazi Holesovice (proper Czech accents missing) where we gathered up our things, got some Czech Crowns out of an ATM (17 to the USD) and started our walk to the Old Town neighborhood where Abby, Lilly and Brooke had booked a hotel room.  We managed to instantly get turned around and the thirty-minute walk turned into a slightly longer affair through the windy, cold weather, eventually discovering the U Tri Bubna Hotel underneath the cacophony of our luggage wheels on the cobblestone streets.

I hadn't booked anything but managed to snag a room in the same place, one of the few in the small hotel that felt smushed between buildings on all sides.  The first stop was to find food.  We wanted to find something relatively inexpensive but even at 3pm we were ready for a substantial meal.  Given that it was Sunday a lot of the city was already starting to wind down, so as we ventured away from the heart of Old Town  Square (Staromestske namesti), things thinned out.  We ended up landing at an Italian place where Abby got tapas and I got goulash – go figure.  I'm not sure the Czech are known for their food but even writing this now I could seriously go for a big portion of goulash and dumplings.  That shit is ridiculous.

We wandered the city for a while, discovering what felt like the westernized center of the town, Wenceslas  Square.  Lined with casinos, cabarets, currency exchanges and souvenir shops it became clear to me that this was the hub of the new Prague, the Prague that realized it was a hot vacation spot, a unique gem of a destination for travelers from across Europe and beyond.  When I went to Budapest a lot of folks told me that they thought it was like Prague was twenty years ago – now I saw why.  I don't think the clear commercialization of the city detracted from my love for it at all, but given a longer stay I probably would have tried to get further outside the city's two and half mile-wide center.

A walk up the square led to the palatial national Museum, which easily could have served as a government building given its grandeur, glowing in the crisp night as if lit by candles.  We turned underneath its shadow and headed back in the direction of our hotel, stopping at a café inside a streetcar in the middle of the square (Café Tramvaj) for some coffee.  Here we discovered that although English is as prevalent in Prague as in Vienna it's handled with less ability on the whole, by speakers who are much less confident.  In a few minor instances I got further with my battered German than even my most deliberate English.

Back at the hotel I emailed Boaz as we worked out how to meet up in the city the next day, layering numerous contingency plans until we felt like our connecting was assured.  I then set out into the city alone to a sports bar I had found online where I could watch the Patriots play the AFC Championship Game against the Chargers.

Prague to me has two distinct feels to it.  The first one that you notice immediately is its fairy tale nature – castles and spires, uniform red roofs and old cobblestone streets, a winding river striped with bridges.  The second is there all the time but really comes out at night, which I'll call its Kafka nature – a mesmerizing interlacing of streets that seem to vanish as soon as you move past them.  Our hotel, which was only a few feet from Kafka's birthplace, felt like the epicenter of much of this madness and as I voyaged out to find a street named Ve Smeckach I made a concerted effort to note numerous landmarks along the way to ensure a safe return home.  At 8:30pm it was already pitch black outside with occasional light spilling out into the narrow pathways from the occasional bar or jazz club.  It wasn't until I got back to Wenceslas  Square (the street I needed to find ran perpendicular) that I saw any real signs of life.  Other than the Karlsplatz U-Bahn station in Vienna, I hadn't seen many homeless people during my time in Europe thus far but this square was definitely a gathering point for folks looking for shelter and food, as I was asked numerous times for coinage on my way to watch the game.

Once there I discovered that although the notion that Prague is an incredibly cheap city is not entirely true anymore, when it comes to beer it couldn't be more right on.  I was told that the bar I was in was pretty expensive, where a half-liter of Pilsner Urquell on tap cost me about $2.50.  It was a trip watching the game there with other TVs showing a Spanish League soccer match and a whole mess of American students acting stereotypically obnoxious, eventually getting kicked out for sneaking their own beers in.  Also, there was a full roulette wheel set-up in the middle of the bar, a sports book taking up a whole section and numerous video gambling machines spread throughout.  I ended up talking to a girl from Southern California who was in Prague teaching English and who seemed to be able to offer very little information in regard to things I should do or see whilst in the city.  After another Patriots victory (the view is great from atop this bandwagon by the way), I made my way home and despite the most meticulous recollection of my earlier path I somehow ended up two hundred feet from where I had started.  It was only a day later that I realized that what I thought was an open street during my trip out was actually just a passageway, which at the hour of my return had been shut off thus forcing me down a different, identical-looking street.  'Cause Prague will do that to you, secret passageways 'n shit.  I mean, I generally have a very good sense of direction and this town messed with me like a line segment on a Jackson Pollock painting.

I ended up figuring out that the girl from the bar probably had little to say about the city because there really wasn't an overwhelming amount of things to do in Prague.  To be honest, that was nice given how short a time we were there, and if we wanted to dive deeper into the cultural aspects of the city I'm sure we could have found more than enough to fill many days.  The next morning the ladies went on a quick walking tour while I roamed about, finding the Opera House, the Radio Free  Europe Building, a Cubist lamppost and a wide array of the city's finer architectural pleasantries.  We reunited to cross the Charles Bridge, lined with statues of religions figures, covered with various kiosks hocking photos, paintings or cheap jewelry, and surrounded by majestic views of the city down the river and in all directions, with Prague Castle looming in the distance from its perch on the hill.

Lamenting the discovery of the future site of Prague's first Starbucks, we made our way up the hill, lined with restaurants and souvenir shops, embassies and small hotels, eventually reaching the castle steps and turning back to see the entire city of Prague unfold out in front of us for miles.  Inside the castle walls we made our way to the ticket office where we inquired about admission without either a guided or unguided tour, hoping just to roam the grounds and see the place without the confines of a longer history lesson.  At first it seemed like you had to pay 250 crowns, at the least, for a short unguided audio tour, but then it turns out that is just the admission for entry to three of the castles seven "attractions" and that the audio guide is another 250 crowns, which we turned down.  Oh yeah, you also have to pay another 50 crowns to get a sticker that says you can take photos.  Castle Racket.

The three points of admission were more than enough, including the Old Royal Palace and St. George's Basilica.  The third was a Disney World-esque mock-up of an old street lined with bullshit souvenir shops.  We got through everything we wanted to see in about an hour or so, glad we didn't pony up more for a guide or to see a bunch more of the minor buildings.  At this point I'm really content to just see the architecture from the outside and take in the views of the city, which we did in spades, snapping enough photos for a scrapbook worth of postcards.

We made our way back down through the city, pausing only to watch a guy smash a snow globe on the street with a hammer.  From there we went to the Astronomical Clock, or Prague Orloj in Old Town Square to meet up with Boaz.  From Wikipedia:
 "The Orloj is composed of three main components: the astronomical dial, representing the position of the Sun and Moon in the sky and displaying various astronomical details; "The Walk of the Apostles", a clockwork hourly show of figures of the Apostles and other moving sculptures; and a calendar dial with medallions representing the months."

Every hour tourists gather in droves in front of this thing to watch the show, which amounts to a small procession of big-headed dolls moving stoically through two small windows, followed by a sound that can be described as a fog horn sputter.  The clock itself is beautiful and ornate, and the collective letdown after its hourly ritual purely comic.

Once Boaz showed up we went to a cafeteria-style place to eat that the ladies' tour guide had recommended as it was cheap and an easy place to try a bunch of things.  I ate more goulash as Boaz caught us up on his last day in Vienna before heading back to the hotel for a little nap and rest, while the others plowed on with sightseeing.  That night Boaz and Lilly were off to see a marionette version of Don Giovanni while the rest of us busied ourselves.  I walked around more and then went to a stand in Wenceslas Square to get a sandwich of fried cheese and mayonnaise I had been eying since our arrival, not so much with the hopes it would actually be any good, but more for the novelty of being able to say I tried what appeared to be a popular item.  It ended up being awesome, a lot like a mozzarella stick sandwich with condiments.  Well done Prague.

Brooke and I met up with Boaz and Lilly and headed out to one of a number of jazz clubs I had heard of, discovered, or researched.  The first was a hole-in-the wall kind of place called Café Ungelt.  Entry into the bar was free but it was another 200 crowns to go into where the band was.  Lilly and Brooke decided to go off to find food elsewhere and Boaz and I stayed so he could eat dinner, thinking we'd be able to hear the band when they started and determine if it was worth the cost of admission.  It wasn't, so we moved on to another place called AghaRTA where Bill Clinton once took the stage to play sax in the early '90s.  The whole place was underground and felt like a cave portioned into small rooms with the area around the stage only big enough for around fifteen tables.  We paid the 200 crowns and got one of the last couple spots right in front of the bass player and settled in for Hot Line, billing themselves as a fusion jazz quintet.

We quickly surmised that it wasn't really fusion but was great all the same, with a solid drummer and an amazing bass player named Wimpy, who started timid but by the end was ripping slap bass solos with aplomb.  Cheap beer, good vibes.

The train ride back to Vienna the next day was simple although we were met by a pleasant rainstorm upon arrival.  I hightailed it to the U-Bahn and then back to our hotel to grab the big bag I had left behind reception before going a few blocks to my new hotel.  Since we were on our own time, we were on our own dime and I needed to find a spot with a lower rate, which didn't prove to be difficult.  I checked in and made my way up the old timey elevator to my floor.  That night I had a box seat at the Vienna Opera House to see Don Giovanni and I planned on getting gussied up in my show suit and making a night of it.  They delivered an iron to my room and I settled in to get cleaned up, but the second I touched the iron to my shirt, the fuse blew and all the power went out.

Standing there in a stunned silence, I waited for a minute or so thinking it might switch back on.  Not wanting to be an inconvenience I assumed someone else would have phoned down and with the prospect of the power not coming back on for a little while I decided to go eat.  When I got down to reception, though, I was the first to deliver the news.  She assured me that it couldn't have been from my iron, which I still somewhat refused to believe, and that she'd look into it.  One hour and one last durum kebab later I was back in the hotel with the power back on in my room, but none in the hallway, so she gave me a flashlight so I wouldn't kill myself trying to move around the antique desks and trunks that lined the hallways.

The opera was killer and the luxury of being in a box well worth the expense.  For the first time I really got to watch the conductor communicate with the singers as well as the orchestra, which becomes much more of a vibrant entity when you can observe it in its various parts.  At the interval I treated myself to a bitter lemon soda and a honey cake covered in a neon pink frosting reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland.  Growing up with a father who is an avid opera patron, I've come to find that I take in the art form with equal parts nostalgia and aesthetic admiration.  On this night, though, it became a celebration, the musical epilogue to what had been an experience that consistently shirked the bounds of measure.

On the flight back we were pissed off because we couldn't pick movies whenever we wanted and had to wait almost three hours before watching The Bourne Ultimatum.  Screw you Swiss Air, with your multilingual flight attendants and your fresh hot towels.

We had known for a little while that the following weekend, a three-day trip to Michigan, would be our last with superstar stage manager Angie Jasper, but in the days following our return we also learned that we would be losing our director, Pat.  Now generally, I'm not good with change and yet hearing this news I noticed that my body was not having the typical negative reaction, the tensing of stomach muscles and racing mind that often accompany my bouts with future uncertainties.  I think the reason lies in the fact that both are moving on to amazing opportunities, and GreenCo in turn is gaining the services of two outstanding creative minds.

Angie is going to work for The Chicago Shakespeare Theater, a dream gig for a stage manager, where she will actually get to do stage management as opposed to checking us in at the hotel and running our lights.  Pat is actually, in his words, "becoming one of us," moving to a different one of the touring companies as an actor, a shift that could not be more well deserved.  He was one of my improv role models when I moved to this town and I've learned as much from watching Pat on stage as any other performer in my life.  I cannot express how wonderful it is for The Second City to have him representing them on stage and I can't wait to see what his genius gives birth to in this venue as a performer, as it has yielded so much awe-inspiring work everywhere else.

Our new hires?  Bill Bungeroth steps in to direct.  Billy has been around The Second City in various capacities for a while now and around the city of Chicago for longer than that.  He was in one of the first groups I looked up to in the city, The Outsiders, with SC Las Vegas's Katie Neff and the mad genius tornado Tom Blandford.  In addition, he's an amazing musician whose bands have rocked out or souled up just about every stage in the city.  Our new stage manager is the incredible Shawn Pace, whom I worked with back in the early days of the Jewsical, the first show I ever did in the building.  Shawn's resume is pretty sick, including stints on Broadway, at The Goodman and with the Tony Award-winning Children's Theatre Company in Minneapolis.

These changes oddly timed up with a trip right outside of Pat's hometown, meaning he could actually come to the show, spend some time at home and then have us all over for brunch with his adorable parents.  The night before they had taken us to a post-show party at a friend of a friend's house, where a neighboring caterer had covered the kitchen with food and sweets (and filled it with a deafening voice to rival Abby on a mocha high).  So we were already in the down-home Michigan feel when we arrived at Pat's house for a delicious meal – three different frittatas!  We got to snap some photos, hear stories about young Pat making up events from town history while writing for the local paper, and read from the array of press coverage he had done prior to our arrival.  His parents could not have been more kind.  We have now officially done shows for the family of every single member of the company.

At the second show in Roscommon (read: middle of the woods) we gave the set to Angie, who asked us to do a musical and freeze.  The former was a mini epic about a little girl finding her way in the sport of mud wrestling on ice, ending with Lilly skating over my dead body, having defeated the Serbian Svetlana Cantstopskatin.  Freeze had my favorite moment of the year, when Joey on complete accident named one of Anthony's characters (who is black) Uncle Tom.  The look of shock/embarrassment/apology that hit his face the split second after he said it was the best entertainment of the night and what followed were a couple attempts at apologizing from within other scenes before the end of the show.

Back to work on Monday we got to rehearsal for our homeshow, where Shawn basically learned the entire running order in a few hours before stepping up for a really fun show with a hot crowd.  Pat played the entire set with us before making giving a few quick words where he opened by saying how "directors don't really give goodbye speeches," and closed by claiming to have written the whole show including the improv.

If you've made it this far in the blog, I commend you.  There was an incredible amount that went down in just about a week's time.  I'd like to point out that this is the one-year anniversary of this blog and so perhaps it's fitting that we mark it with its most long-winded entry.  Thank you to those of you who read this thing regularly and to those of you who are just discovering it, I promise they're usually much shorter.

A brand new stage manager...a brand new director...a new year...another van...another plane...another show...

22 HOURS IN BUDAPEST
01/17/08

Pat and Beth spent their last day in town on Saturday, as we  made our way through the Naschmarkt checking out the fresh produce and meeting  an effusive Austrian man who wanted to do Rocky impressions and hang out.  After spending time around the city we  settled at the theater for a 6:30 notes session before diving into show number  three, which was a noticeably quieter audience than the first two.  After the show we met Sean, the director for  one of the English Theater's touring companies, who invited us out for drinks  at a place we're now calling The Old Town Ale House of Austria, as it's right  by the theater, quite cramped and overwhelmingly smoky.

Pat and Beth had gone to Ronald's place to eat with plans to  meet us at the bar if we couldn't get over to them earlier, so it seemed like a  good idea to just go across the street.   There we met all of the other touring company actors, mostly British  plus a couple of French, whom we ended up having an outstanding time with.  Andy gave me lessons on my British accent,  Abby and Matthew became best friends and by the end of the evening the  shuffling of seats allowed everyone to spend quality time getting to know  everyone else.  There was a unique sense  of communion speaking with another touring company and I think we all took a  liking to them right away.

The next morning Pat and Beth hopped a flight back to the US and the rest  of us set out on our plans for the day off.   Boaz was nursing himself back from a cold and laid pretty low, some  people had a relaxing day in Vienna, others went  to Salzburg, Anthony went to the palace at  Schonbrunn, and I set off alone to Hungary.

The night before I had found a hotel right near the opera  house, but other than that, I knew nothing about the city, nor did I have any  kind of map, book or guide.  Honestly, my  intention was to make a bit of an adventure of it, and just see what would  happen if I flung myself into another country without much directive other than  "be careful."

I took the U-Bahn to the Westbahnhof Station and bought a  second class ticket on the Bundesbahn to Budapest.  With a little time to kill I found a  bookstore with the intention of at least getting a map, but the closest thing I  could find - after about twenty minutes of searching - was a map of all of  Hungary that was not much help.  Oh well.

I didn't realize that as you get on the train a series of  symbols on the cars indicates a number of features regarding your  transport.  Instead, with the hope of  sleeping I just got on where there was a window seat with no one next to me or  across from me.  Unfortunately, it meant  that I got on a smoking car filled with a few crazy people.  Most of them were speaking Hungarian but you  can still tell from other people's reactions that even they think they're  crazy.  In addition there was a  middle-aged British man who spent the three straight hours talking to two  eccentric-looking British teenagers about philosophy, academia and the like.  It made for good eavesdropping as I drifted  in and out of sleep.  At some point a  stout Hungarian man got on and sat diagonally across from me, with no qualms  whatsoever about staring at me for long periods of time.  Eventually, feeling uncomfortable I just  stared back at him, right in the eyes.   After a good five second staring contest, he turned away and didn't look  at me again.  Meanwhile two Hungarian  teen girls across the aisle clicked away on their cell phone games and giggled  beneath their broad-brimmed wool hats.

The Brits proved to be quite helpful as I very well might  have gotten off at the wrong station had the older one not said something to  the others about their being two, the second of which is in the actual  city.  The one before is also called Budapest, and I realized  that I hadn't written down the proper station name, which is Keleti Pu.  We got off and I made my first mission in the  beautiful train station to find a map.   Swallowing my pride, I went into a small tourism office where the girl  kindly handed me a free one upon request.   I asked her where the nearest ATM was, and after she identified three  for me I took off.

Littered with advertisements, including marking every one of  the Burger Kings in the city, the map proved to be quite helpful.  It listed a number of the city's major  landmarks/tourist attractions, giving me at least a starting point of things to  see.  I stopped at the ATM to get some  cash as I was thirsty from the trip and hadn't eaten since breakfast at the  hotel.  The currency in Hungary is the  Forint, which I learned at a currency exchange measures at about 170 per US  dollar, not exactly the easiest number for quick calculations, especially when  I had gotten so used to devaluing my sense of our currency versus the  Euro.  So I took out 10,000 forints, about  $60, and started weaving the streets toward my hotel.  It seemed that doing so took me down a ton of  local roads as the train station is pretty far East in the city, and I wanted  to get there as directly as possible, which meant leaving the major streets.  The map was easy to read and helped me  identify the squares and churches I was photographing as I passed them.  Stopping at a small store, I grabbed a Red  Bull and a water, and kept plowing forward, tearing off the extra ads from the  map so I was left with something more transportable.

There was a bit of an adjustment dealing with the Hungarian  language everywhere, which is unlike anything I've ever seen or studied.  At least in Austria I could get some sense of  every fifth or sixth German word but this was pretty much gibberish.  People I encountered spoke very little  English, which meant the adventure was going to involve a lot of pseudo sign  language.

I eventually got to Andrassy Utca, one of the city's main  streets, where I saw a number of theaters including what I thought was the  Opera House.  Well it wasn't, but I  didn't realize that until I was leaving with a ticket to the matinee in my  hand, went one block and saw the actual Opera House, a palatial building not  more than one hundred feet from my hotel.   It turns out I had gone into the Operetta Teater, and bought a ticket  for some Hungarian operetta called "Maria fohadnagy".  A trip into the Opera House lobby revealed that  Tannhauser, a Wagner opera, was playing that night at 6 but that the box office  didn't open until 3, the same time I'd be sitting down for the other show. So  my plan became to go see the first act of the one show, go grab a ticket to the  opera, eat, and then return for Wagner.

I decided that by doing all this, I could then get to bed  early and wake up as early as possible to walk the city before having to head  back the next day.  I checked in at the  hotel and settled for a few moments.  It  turned out to be much nicer than I would have expected, and I flipped around  Hungarian television for a little bit, watching some Sumo wrestling and resting  my feet a moment.  I only had about ten  minutes, though, before I had to get back for the operetta, which proved to be  quite the experience.

First off, I had unknowingly gotten a second row seat that  surprisingly cost next to nothing.   Second, the piece was in Hungarian with German super-titles so any hope  of understanding anything was gone.  All  I know is that it seemed like there were at least twelve story lines and all of  them involved a different couple.  There  was a big party, a massive celebration on the docks, then they went to war…and  this is all in the first act, which lasted a cool hour and a half.  The mood of the whole thing felt a lot more  like a campy musical than an operetta and the singing was pretty average, but  what ended up being a huge surprise was the abundance of traditional Hungarian  dancing.  A number of the routines were  accompanied by immediate audience clapping, right on the beat, which signaled  to me that they must recognize certain dances.   I'd describe it as a cross between Irish step dancing and swing  dancing.  I was pretty much blown away as  they swung each other around with an abundance of snapping and clapping, lifts  and tosses.  At one point, one couple  actually took a bow in the middle of a scene and then returned to speaking – I  couldn't blame them.  That shit was  impressive.

After the marathon of an act (I was sure it was over no less  than three times), I made my way out in search of food.  My wanderings took me in a big loop where I  was confronted with St. Stephen's Basilica, a massive church that stretched out  higher than anything nearby and broad enough to span the whole block.  Making my way south I had hopes of finding a  kebab stand like they have here in Vienna, just something quick on the street  or in a booth so I wouldn't have to go into a restaurant and battle the  Hungarian language.  Were they well known  for their food I might have made a greater effort but I was fine with just  getting by in the culinary department.   After a good twenty minutes of walking I was dangerously close to going  to a Subway when I finally saw a Dohner Kebab hole-in-the-wall down a side  street, filled with a small group of English folks around my age.  Although we didn't speak, there were numerous  knowing glances, teeming with the sentiment of, "Can you believe we're here?"   At the hotel I had asked the woman behind the desk how to say "thank  you" in Hungarian, so I at least could be appreciative.  Here I also learned "svendiche" was  "sandwich."  That made enough sense.  I eventually figured out that "utca" was  "street," "lepsco" was "steps" and that even after they indicate they can't  speak English most of the people in Budapest can put enough words together to  at least sound like your average Long Island resident.

With my wrap in hand I accidentally bumped into a massive  synagogue, which is not listed with a name on my Burger King map, nor the one I  snagged in the hotel lobby.  I have later  learned that it is Nagy Zsinagoga, the largest Jewish synagogue in Europe and second largest in the world.  It was gorgeous, and I walked around the  whole thing, snapping pictures and swigging my bottle of coke as I circuitously  made my way to the opera.

The Opera House was stunning, both outside and in.  If you care, I'm sure a wikipedia search  could tell you a lot more about it, but I'll just say that short of the Met in  New York it's the most impressive one I've ever seen, with four levels of balconies,  a regal intermission lobby, a sprawling staircase and rock hard wooden seats  with a thin layer of fabric (okay, that last one's not so great, but it made it  feel older).  To be honest, the posterior  discomfort was probably to my benefit as Tannhauser is easily a four-hour  affair, and there were numerous moments where I was struggling to stay  awake.  It opens with a ballet during the  overture, an incredibly sexual representation of the happenings upon Venusburg  that was easily the most impressive dance piece I've ever seen.  Save for a slightly out of tune alto the  singers were great, the conductor was precise and the heavy dose of Christian  moral was inspiring!

Afterward I went straight back to the hotel to crash for my  early wake-up.  Before falling asleep I  watched a little bit of a German game show that I would describe as a pretty  even mix between Survivor, Fear Factor and American Idol.  When I tuned in a woman was operating a giant  crane, on which a guy, covered in iodine and sitting on a hook made of grass  and straw, was being lowered into a pen of pecking ostriches, who attacked him  while he tried to grab plastic stars off the ground with his feet and drop them  into baskets.  After it was done, they  went back to their cots in the middle of the Outback and then people could call  in and vote for them.  Later, another  couple had to fill a vat with river water that they sucked out of a bowl  strapped to a helmet, strapped to someone's head.  It seemed like a perfect way to end the day.

I woke up at six, showered and hit the free breakfast, which  had more than I could have ever wanted to eat.   With a big day ahead I packed it away, including a pretty large helping  of baked beans, which oddly enough I had been craving ever since discussing  traditional English breakfast with our British friends on Saturday.  I stopped on a computer to quickly email a  few folks, letting them know I was alive and safe, figuring that if I  disappeared or something it would be good to have time stamps.  Optimism!

The first stop was the Parliament building.  I moved north and then started west when I  thought I had gotten there.  There was a  huge, beautiful building that I thought wasn't far enough yet but couldn't  imagine it not being it.  Then I turned  around to take some pictures of the square I was in when I actually had the  wind knocked out of me by the sight of the actual Parliament building in the  distance.  It is by far the most stunning  thing I have ever seen in-person, and I mean, I've been to the Kum and Go in Lamoni, Iowa.  It's almost four hundred meters long and  dwarfs everything else, pretty much in the country.  The design is meticulous, with an endless  amount of spires sharply stretching from the maroon roof.  It's how I imagine Bavarian castle, and yet  still more ornate, more majestic.

I walked around the back of it and realized that since it's  right up against a main road which is right up against the river, the only way  to see it full on is to cross the Danube into Buda (did you know it's  technically two cities, Buda and Pest?).   So I followed the sidewalk south to the Szecheny Ianchid or Chain  Bridge, where two twenty foot-long lion statues are perched ominously at the  entrance.  Looking up I saw the Citadel  and the Buda Castle Funicular stretching up Castle Hill, marveling once again  at the size of the structures in comparison to the miniscule cars that raced  around at the street below.

The bridge took about ten minutes to cross as I took a  stream of photos, the reflection of the buildings resting calmly on the Danube, the sun still rising in the east and the air  crisp with a faint, hanging fog.  I kind  of felt like I was walking through Cloud   City to meet Lando  Calrissian.  On the other side I turned  and walked along the river until I was head-on with the Parliament building,  almost more impressive from a distance where it dominated the horizon.  Turning around, I made my way into Buda,  passing a number of beautiful churches all within a few blocks of each other,  as I intended to find something on my map labeled Fisherman's Bastion.  In so doing I did a lot of uphill walking and  not much finding.  I probably walked  every inch of the block where it was supposed to be, with no luck.  But it proved a happy accident as I ended up  at Matthias Church,  boasting some of the highest perches in the city, gorgeous stone towers from  which to look out over not only Budapest but  miles beyond into Hungary.

The trip down the hill was quick and crossing the bridge  again I moved south to check out the Vigado Concert Hall (also a tricky find  due to poor map indication...thanks Burger King) and the main shopping street  before making my way back to the hotel.   I checked out, paid, and hiked it back to the train station.  Now by this point I was feeling the full-on  effects of whatever cold bug had been traveling around our company, so I  decided to stop in at the Apothecary and get some meds.  Now in one of these places, unlike a  Walgreens or a CVS, you can't browse on your own.  You tell them your symptoms and they give you  something.  The lack of English-speakers  made this a formidable task but enough pointing and pantomime and I eventually  walked out with something that resembled Tylenol Cold and Flu.  As Brooke would later point out, there was a  picture of a face on the front, and the big red arrows pointed to all the right  spots.

With a burning desire to sleep as much as possible I decided  to spring for a first class train ticket back, which I assumed would ensure  some greater degree of comfort.  This  proved true as I was in a closed off cabin with a seat that could fully  recline, air conditioning controls, and only minor interruption from the  Austrian police demanding that I show them my passport.  I got back to town and made a sandwich in my  room before passing out for the rest of the afternoon.  My body was drained from the cold and the  non-stop walking I had done for hours that morning, not to mention the giant  blisters that were my feet.  By my final  count, I really only did three things in Budapest: 5.5 hours sitting in theaters,  6.5 hours sleeping, 10 hours walking.  I  lucked out big time with where my hotel was in proximity to all of the things I  ended up wanting to see, and although a little more time would have afforded me  a more relaxed pace through the town, it's amazing how much you can accomplish  with little time to spare and a willingness to walk at a good pace.

The next blog will include an account of week two in Vienna as well as our end-of-work trip to Prague!   Keep on rockin' in the free world.

VIENNA PART 1: A HANDY PROCESS
01/11/08

Well friends it's been a while, and a lot has gone down. I'll try to get you up to date as quickly as possible...

During our run at the Beverly Arts Center we were in full mode already fo Vienna. Our show, which was billed as a "holiday" revue, was down to only a couple scenes that mentioned anything occurring in the month of December as Pat tested out scenes and got us comfortable with stuff. During this time we also were tweaking some original material for Austria. This mainly involved the show closer, which was a scene I wrote as a call-back to our opener, and a song Joey wrote (music by Boaz) that the scene would flow into.

After New Year's we had two shows to get ready before hitting the high seas - an expression which now refers to getting into an airplane. The first was a special evening show in the e.t.c. last Wednesday. It was a sold-out, hot house with our producer Beth in attendance, along with Second City director Jim Carlson, who has been to Vienna with a TourCo, and was there to weigh in on stuff. Given what we had worked on, I don't think we could have executed much better and all in all the show killed. Then we were back in rehearsal a few days later before our Saturday matinee tune-up, the last show before our Monday departure. Pat had made a few changes to the RO, and Joey and I had significant rewrite assignments to our scene and song, both of which were approaching around draft number five or six.

The major theme we were exploring was centered around the idea of "this is the world we've made," which is actually a line I say in the opening scene, called Affair. My character, originally played by Scott Adsit explores the idea of everything in the universe being related causally, and so by the end of the show we weave together a number of the images and characters to hammer home the idea of how our decisions effect the world. Anyone who's ever seen a long-form improv show is probably nonplussed by the paraphrasing I just gave of the arc of our show, and yet it actually pans out to be pretty darn cool, and, I hope, avoids the trap of one of those "remember when you saw all of these characters?" kind of show closer.

Okay, jump ahead to Monday. Our flight was at 7:15pm and in addition to our company and Beth, Pat was coming along as well, which makes an already amazing trip that much better. I can imagine that not every director in the world would be someone you'd be dying to travel with, but we're lucky to have one that we love spending time with so much. The SwissAir flight was pretty easy, with a good load of free scotch and a personal entertainment system that allowed you to choose form a huge range of shows, movies, video games, music, etc. Angie and I watched Balls of Fury, and then I passed out for about six hours until we arrived in Zurich. The Swiss are an impressive people, not just for their relentless diplomacy, but also in that most of them, it seems, can speak English, German and French just for starters. In fact, all of our in-flight announcements covered all three languages, and I believe I heard some Italian sprinkled in.

With the Alps looming in the distance out the window, we hopped another quickly flight and landed in Vienna, where we were swept up and taken to our hotel in advance of a formal dinner that night. We're staying at the Cordial Theaterhotel, about a block from the theater in the 1st District of Vienna, a spit and a holler away from the Parliament building and the Rathaus, which is like the city hall.

I know present you with a slew of Ausrian/European observations regarding our residence. First off, the workers couldn't be nicer, and always seem to placate my lame attempts at speaking German with the handful of words I've collected. Second, you can leave your key, which is attached to a giant hunk of metal, at the front desk when you leave, and then just get it from them when you return. I've just realized that you can just walk in and tell them the room number, and I'm not sure what would stop them from letting you go into anyone's room. Some of them are there more often and will grab the right key before I even say a word, a gesture which carries an air of hospitality I haven't experienced before. Next, not every room is the same at all. When you enter mine, there is a beautiful, large mirror covering the wall next to the coat hooks. Off to the right is a big bathroom with a European style shower and water-conserving toilet. Just to the left is a small kitchenette with s stove and mini-fridge, opening into a small hallway to my living room/bedroom, which sports a little table and chairs, a good-sized bed, tv, and a giant window that looks out onto the street below, Josefstadler Strasse. To turn on any of the electricity, you have to put your key in a lock right by the door, which means when you leave, everything shuts off. Clever! You also can't get locked out, because it's an actual key for the door. There is an old-timey radio built into the headboard of the bed, and as best I can tell, there are only a couple outlets in the whole room, both of which are tough to get to. There's no clock, but there IS a very quick system for wake-up calls, where you just use the phone and a quick code to program it. I really couldn't be much happier with the living arrangements.

After about a half hour in the room, Beth, Boaz and I went to the nearest coffeehouse in an effort to caffeinate and stay awake through the jet lag. Now in an Austrian coffeehouse you can order a single drink and sit for hours without anyone ever saying another word to you, in fact, it's pretty tough to get the tuxedoed waiter (they ALL wear them) to give you the bill, which we learned a couple hours later. Once they come over with it, they expect you to pay right away so you've got to be on the ball with the cash and deciding on a tip, which would be around 10% at the most. In addition, they serve food and a range of pastries, and are a pretty luxurious place to pass the time. I haven't had a chance to explore the cities array of them yet, but plan to in the coming days.

That night we went to Zum Kuchldragoner where we met up with Ronald, the owner and an old friend of Second City, for a welcome-to-town dinner. There we were joined by a number of local actors including Kristen, whose premier on a tv crime show we watched briefly, Olivia, who was happy to discuss the American acting scene at length, and Biggie, who fielded my questions about standard tipping practices in Vienna. Ronald could not have been more generous, doling out multiple courses of garlic soup, spatzle and beef, and strudel with a famous vanilla sauce. A reporter was there taking pictures, which would show up in the local paper on opening night - pictures of Pat behind the bar serving a beer and the women feeding vanilla sauce to a wide-eyed Ronald.

The dinner was also a great chance to start checking in about language or references in our show that might be elusive to even the best English speakers in town. Of considerable concern was a song I wrote that we've been running for a long time called Bars, the course of which refers to "bars" as in the amount of power left on your battery. In the states we thought people might confuse it with signal strength, so as we developed it, we added some more references to the batter and whatnot to make it clear, and it's been our act one closer for a while. Well not only did our new Viennese friends not know the expression "bars," they were pretty much clueless on "cell phone" too. "Mobile"? They knew it but it was not used widely. Nope, in Vienna they refer to a cell phone as a "handy."

Olivia seemed well-aware of the American colloquial use of the same term, but assured us that people would best understand what we meant if we talked about handies. After a hearty conversation on American politics and the upcoming election, and a round of compulsory shots from Ronald, we took our leave to get the first dose of good sleep in what felt like days.

The next day we dined in the hotel, where we get breakfast free each morning, and then pretty much went right to the theater where we were to preview for Julia, who runs the English Theater. After rehearsing for a bit in an auxiliary space (an Italian play, Lei Dunque Capira, was loading out of the stage area), and changing every cell phone reference in the show to handy, we got started with the informal presentation of the show. In addition to Julia, three other folks came in to watch, but I'm not exactly sure what their roles were. I believe one was an actor who was leaving town and wouldn't be able to see us, and the other two had closer ties to the English Theater somehow. It was nice to have them there, as doing a two-act comedy revue for just a couple people is slightly daunting task. The goal, though, was not necessarily so much to impress as it was to find out what things were simply not going to translate. So after we finished the show all of the actors got an hour-long break while Beth and Pat had a session with Julia, going through the show and making decisions. After we returned we learned that we were going to make a handful of changes to certain terms or phrases as she has recommended, as well as cut one scene entirely.

Making our way back to the hotel, Boaz and I checked in on some music options for the night, including the Vienna Philharmonic and the Volksopera, of which we chose the latter and actually were able to get most of the group to join us. It was a bit of a hurry to get there in time, but the trip forced us to take the U train for the first time, which was easy enough. Having some grasp of the public transportation in any city is always a source of comfort, but as we would learn later, you really can walk just about everywhere here. We got there just in time to grab a row of seats in the balcony and settle in for a German operetta. Not the finest music I've ever seen, and far from the best farse, but on both counts was still enjoyable, especially given the company. There were super-titles for the songs, and a sort of paraphrasing of the action when they were just speaking. This led to numerous occasions where the entire audience would laugh and we'd be staring at a screen reading something like, "Henri is discussing his sea voyages."

Easily our favorite lyric of the show, which was sung by the full company, full-voiced and standing proudly, was roughly, "Telegrams are often inconvenient. Sometimes I wish electricity had never been invented." Huzzah! We learned about the "chic" lifestyle, the maid messed around with everyone, and a spit take later we were grabbing our coats and heading south. We actually had been required to check them, and all over Vienna there seems to be a heightened awareness of what to do with one's coat. At the coffeehouse everyone hangs them near the table, at restaurants, bars, even the rehearsal room at our theater had a rack set up. As Beth pointed out, there's something very civil about the whole thing, a much diminished sense of protective hoarding that you often find in the states.

Still not having eaten dinner we walked all the way back to the hotel and then beyond to go to a Wurstelstand, or hot dog stand where you can get a wide range of sausages and drinks. Just a plain hot dog is a real treat, although you can also get them with cheese inside of them, bacon, a whole slew of different types of meat, etc. And they serve them by punching a whole out of a small loaf of bread, inserting all of the condiments inside and then shoving the meat in. It's hard to not giggle a little. You can also buy beer at these stands and drinking on the street is totally legal. As far as cheap eats go, it's a pretty sweet set-up.

Thursday we had a long tech rehearsal in the space, setting lights, taping out the stage, running scenes. We were mainly working on slowing everything down in an effort to make sure that the audience would understand us. The degree of over-enunciation and slowed pacing left scenes feeling oddly distended, as we worked to find a new rhythm to a show whose pacing we had so acutely refined. After running Ts and Bs we took a short break to allow the fire inspector to look over the space, which then turned into a long break as the piano had to be moved from the floor in front of the stage to on the stage itself.

Pat, Joey and I went to the grocery store to stock up on lunch food to keep in our rooms, and had a bit of an adventure trying to figure out what was what. There was a solid five minutes of trying to figure out what the word for mustard was, not immediately realizing that it would be housed in what looked like tubes of caulk. On the whole things were pretty cheap, including beer which weighed in at around 50-80 Euro cents for a 0.5 liter can. We retired back to Joey's room and ate sandwiches and paprika-flavored Crunchchips, while watching MTV, one of the two English channels we get. It's fun to watch it along with the German subtitles, as we try to learn the language.

As Olivia had shared with us the first night, when Austrians speak German, it's pretty different from how they speak it in Germany itself, much like American versus British English. So even a lot of the typical expressions you may have heard don't get used here and it's helpful to eavesdrop on other people to try and pick up the slang. My favorite aspect of the German language is how they just stick a bunch of words together whenever they need a new one. As a result you end up with words like, "entwicklungszusammenarbeit." Sometimes a word's parts are easily translatable, often not.

After a pretty intense nap it was back to the theater, where inside the stage door I found a woman waiting for autographs. She somehow had my headshot printed onto small cards that I signed, in addition to her book, which everyone had done before me. No one seemed to know who she was, but we assume some patron of the theater who probably does this for every show that comes through. We worked on the closer for about an hour, got a final round of notes and then retired to our green room and dressing area. It's a nice, cozy space with a very convenient kitchen and a washer/dryer I'm hoping to be able to use later. We ironed and relaxed and before long it was time to do the show.

Julia came back and gave us a well-wishing of "toy toy toy bisse," the meaning of which we are still unclear, although "break a leg" was the general idea." After all of the horror stories we had heard about the potential for no laughter whatsoever, the show went smashingly. There are definitely things we want to clean up and tighten in a final rehearsal today, but we all felt great about how things went down. The highlight for me was in an improvised scene called Roman Novel, where we interview a couple and then do a short piece inspired by their answers. In the States it's always some dude who likes computers, and some girl who likes to shop, they met in college and they both think the other is "nice" and "fun." Only in Vienna, as we did last night, do you get Ingrid and Johannes who met when he crashed a party at a champagne factory in the 19th District. Brilliant. After the show Julia informed us that he is actually the theater's lawyer, and that he and his wife divorced only a few weeks ago, so Ingrid was his new girlfriend. Crazy. Other highlights included figuring out that a very extended formal bow is pretty much expected (we had been prepped to a certain extent, but still had to go back out for more after leaving the stage) and having Grace Kelly's cousin in the audience.

After the show we met Julia's daughter Anna, who walked us over to a local restaurant for an opening night celebration. I actually ended up talking to her for most of the event, quizzing her on the German language and the city of Vienna, and I will credit her as a huge help in figuring out numerous linguistic difficulties that have befallen me in the past few days. From there, Beth, Pat, Angie, Anthony, Abby and I moved to another bar to continue with the celebratory cocktails, a hole-in-the-wall kind of joint with numerous connected, yet intimate rooms covered in various concert posters. Ordering goes about as successfully in general as is the proficiency of the server's English language skills, although personally I feel like I'm getting better at the German, and am trying to use it as much as possible. Eine Helenenbrau, bitte!

Alright, that's a lot of words and I still feel like I haven't said much. Well, we'll be here for a while and I'll continue to try and best express this completely overwhelming experience. It is a more beautiful city than I could have imagined and given our work schedule thus far, its true exploration on our part will be coming as soon as the show is settled in. I am going to try to write more than once a week, so check back soon, perhaps following our day trip to Budapest on Monday. Also, I haven't had much time to take pictures, so the ones here are a bit of a random smattering.

Auf wiedersehen!

MURPHY'S LAW
01/03/08

Good tidings for you and your kin readers! Hopefully the post-holiday malaise finds you well and your list of resolutions is long and forgetful. At present I am holed up in my frigid apartment, surrounded by stacks of junk to be put away and shadowed by an ominous tower of dirty laundry from the last week and a half.

After returning from Ft. Lauderdale we had a day of rehearsal working out a new closer for the show and then I was gone again on a Southwest flight back to Rhode Island to see my family for a day - an early afternoon with my sister and nieces, lunch with my father, dinner with my mother. The next morning I had a little time to get some work done and eat at my favorite falafel place in the world, East Side Pockets, before catching a train up to Boston to see my best friend Charlie. After our failed attempt to get World Series tickets (he's a rabid Boston sports fan across the board), we decided to get together for the Pistons/Celtics game in the Garden, where he split season tickets with a bunch of friends.

I grew up in the North End neighborhood of Boston, a Robert Parish arm-length from the old Garden, where my first memory of seeing a game there involves staring at the back of the press box that inconveniently hung in front of our seats. Our nostalgia for these old stadiums always seems to either omit memory of or manufacture affection for such bold obstructions. Yes, the new building lacks the same character, but I'm glad my seat faced the court and there wasn't a pole in sight. If you haven't been following the Celtics this year then you're probably unaware that they wheeled and dealed enough in the off-season to bring in two big-time free agents and nine new players in total to completely transform the team. Having skyrocketed from the basement of the Eastern Conference they now boast the league's best record, I'm sure to the great pleasure of hapless coach Doc Rivers. Other than holding the clipboard, I'm not sure what he does. Occasionally he must have to call in a play, which he did with the Celtics having the ball in a tied game and five seconds left, only to give possession back to the Pistons with two seconds. It didn't turn out well from there. Regardless, Charlie and I got to witness a pretty entertaining four-man brawl (don't worry, no one was hurt) that happened about five feet in front of us, which for the rest of the evening seemed adequate consolation for the loss.

The next day it was snowing from the time we woke up until we went to bed, so we decided to go get lunch, buy a board game and stay in all day. I'll put a small plug in for the one we purchased, Anti-Monopoly, where you can play as either a monopolist or a competitor, and each operates under a different set of rules. Time and again, through the game, Charlie and I proved the absolute dominance of free market economics.

Bright and early the next morning I was off to meet the rest of the company in South Carolina to do two shows in Greenville. After connecting in Charlotte, I landed in Greenville to a text from Angie saying that they had been delayed in Chicago. After a second delay, I decided to take the rental car and go eat lunch to kill time until their arrival. Then another delay, so I went and checked in at the hotel where soon I would find that their flight was cancelled. After some attempts at rerouting, it was finally decided that our show was cancelled as well and I would be alone in Greenville for the night.

Given the run-around of the last two weeks I didn't mind the night off, and yet was looking forward to some of the new material we were getting set to put in, as well as spending the night in a fun town with everyone. After killing a couple episodes of Deadwood I got a call from the managing director at the Peace Center for the Performing Arts, just checking in and letting me know that to accommodate all of the Friday night ticket-holders they were moving Saturday's show to the two-thousand seat concert hall. She invited me to come check it out, so with little else to do I gladly accepted the offer and made my way over.

Downtown Greenville was alive with the Christmas spirit, with lighted trees at every turn and a holiday village on Main Street, where some local chanteuse sent the melody of Silent Night out through the crisp South Carolina air. At the theater I met the whole tech and managing staff who were there late preparing for the next night, and got a tour of the facilities including where we were to teach workshops the next day.

Making my way back to the Hawthorn Suites I already felt some command of the city and its geography, navigating my own route so that I could pick up some sodas and a scratch lotto ticket (no dice, down three more bucks). Back at the hotel I ordered a pizza and watched the Celtics crush the Bulls, falling asleep before the third quarter and spending the night battling the thermostat's unwillingness to shut off at any predetermined temperature.

The next day I busied myself with the continental breakfast and local paper, trying to pretend I cared about Clemson basketball coverage before making my way to the theater to teach a workshop. Joey, Abby and Anthony were to meet me there and split up to run advanced and beginner groups, but of course, they were delayed. To kill time while awaiting their arrival from the airport I gave a brief Second City history lesson ("Alright, who here is a Howard Alk fan?") and did a Q&A session for the participants from both groups, who ranged from Peace Center board members to high school students who didn't exactly know where they were. Thankfully this only lasted a half hour before the cavalry arrived and we were able to get on with the workshops.

That night we were doing a five-person show with Lilly having booked out the weekend earlier in the year, which always gives a different energy. You end up feeling like you're never off-stage, checking in with your running order whenever possible and trying to memorize the next four or five scenes and chair sets before diving back out into the fray. It's an exciting way to do a show. Oh, and did I mention that United had lost everyone's bags, including our prop bag? Yup, that happened too. So everyone had traveled with an extra set of show clothes and Angie hit up the local Wal-Mart of Greenville to try and replace as many props as possible.

So there we are, dressed in different clothes, down a person, brand new replacements for about half of our props, in a two thousand-seat house, with brand new material to test out. Sure, why not. I was pretty stoked to do a scene with Joey, Anthony and myself from Toronto, where one friend confesses to having an inoperable brain tumor. I know, sounds cheery! Like a lot of these Toronto scenes we've been working on, though, it's phenomenally well written and deftly handles the comedy between these three friends in light of the circumstances of the story. In spite of that, though, it's a tall order to ask an audience to go along with you on that ride when they come to the theater to see a holiday sketch comedy show. The scene starts with the three guys just looking out over a lake for a while with cricket sounds in the background and after enduring as long a pause as she deemed appropriate, one woman yelled out, "Boo!" Luckily it was the last interruption and the scene went well, hopefully securing a place in our ROs for the near future, if not Vienna as well.

That night everyone crashed pretty hard, but not before Boaz and I watched some coverage of a local elementary school chorus on public access. The next morning, more delays! Since I had flown in on a separate flight, I flew out separately too, with a layover in Charlotte, and by the time I got home it had been a nine-hour day of travel. Having witnessed the fall-out of my friends' lost luggage I was relatively certain that the holiday travel gods would steal mine as well, a thought that weighed on me during the thirty minutes I spent in O'Hare starting at a stationary baggage claim conveyor belt. I had checked the new bag of replacement props since it was in my rental car trunk, and figured that losing two prop bags in two days would have to be some kind of Second City record. Looking around a baggage claim, you can see the absolute dread on everyone's faces, the ringing sentiments of, "Please just send MY bag out, please..." There is something tragic in the juxtaposition of the intense holiday traveler's needs and the shoulder-shrugging indifference of the average airline employee, and I took some solace in the fact that at the very worst I would be losing my suit, with a week to replace it before a weekend of shows. After going through all seven stages of grief for my inevitable loss, there they came, both bags one after the other, all alone on the neuroses encircled conveyer. As I plucked them up in one bend, I turned to find the rosy face of another passenger in waiting, her arms wrapped around her handbag as if it were her last possession. "That was amazing," she exhaled. Indeed.

SETTING THE SCENE
12/19/07

Mrs. Bagnall is probably pissed off.

We met Brooke's parents in Red Bank, NJ and she expressed concern that a new posting of this blog was delayed, wondering whom she could contact to expedite its appearance. It would be a couple more days before it arrived on the Internet, and now this post comes just over a week later making me think that she must once again be consternated by its delay. I assure you Mrs. Bagnall that regardless of the rate of this feature's regeneration, you are will situated in my thoughts, and feel free to contact me personally for updates if this blog does not satisfy your want for information. It's an offer I warmly extend to all of you.

Prior to our arrival in Hanover, Pennsylvania, we stopped at the battlefield of Gettysburg. Snow and ice had covered the historic location such that our driving tour of the landscape was at times impeded by closed road signs. This, luckily, only slightly affected the route necessitated by the audio tour CD we had purchased in the visitor center, and our resident historian, Joey Bland, was able to fill in gaps of information as needed.

We were relatively alone as we made our way through the sleepy town and its surrounding landmarks, our progress narrated by an unseen guide through our car stereo speakers, our view at times clouded by thick globules of salt that had by this point in the trip caked the windows of our rental Kia. The battlefield itself was an expanse of white. The snow had fallen in thick sheets for a number of days and by the time we arrived, history itself seemed to be settled in snuggly underneath a cool blanket.

State monuments popped out along our path honoring the soldiers from each part of the country who had fought on both sides of the war. Little and Big Round Top crested into the horizon marking the failed attempt by the Confederate troops to attack the left flank of the Union soldiers. An observation tower let us climb high into the brisk winter air and survey the site with a sense of hindsight that begged the question, "What if Longstreet only had had an observation tower in the middle of the action?"

At the risk of being unpatriotic, there were moments along the tour where it began to feel long and I felt my mind wander. I don't have the best aptitude for history as it is, and the spatial awareness-driven part of my brain wanted to keep checking in on the map to try and visualize the events as they were explained. This was not unlike in high school when I used to have to imagine the men of the Constitutional Convention sitting around having conversations just to grasp elements like the Small State Plan. I have tremendous respect for those for whom the subject matter is mastered with ease - despite my best efforts I still have to double check the birthdays of immediate family members every year.

Jump forward to Red Bank, New Jersey where the aforementioned Bagnalls were kind enough to travel to our show and see Brooke in action on her first tour. It was also a bit of a reunion for us with Second City friend Jarrett Pressman, a former employee as well as the original co-host of Mainstage Musical Director Ruby Streak's podcast, We'll Be Right Back. The whole lot of us plus some friends found our way after the show to a nearby watering hole recommended by the tech crew at the Count Basie Theater, where we had performed a few days in advance of Clay Aiken. The bar was basically an old house where you could sequester yourself with company in one of the many rooms. It was a bit of a challenge to carve out a space to fit all of us, but eventually we were settled in - for me with a Yuengling and a piece of caramel apple pie. Brooke's mother fits the mold of what seems to be a trend of GreenCo spitfire mothers - you know, the good kind of spitfire with all of the pep and none of the rage.

Then up to icy Valhalla,  New York where Anthony and I had a delicious late-night meal at a great diner, chock full of more stereotypical New Yorkers than a Woody Allen movie. Within what seemed like moments later we were in 80-degree weather in Jupiter, Florida, where my dad's twin sister came out to the show, joining us for drinks and another usual late meal out. The place we went to easily had over seventy beers on tap, and despite my road fatigue I felt obligated to sample a couple before giving in to the feeling of exhaustion in my body, falling asleep moments before my head actually even reached the pillow.

It was then back to Chicago for the Second City Holiday Party, a couple of rehearsals and then back out, right down to Florida again and the gorgeous Ft. Lauderdale. My body, still trying to catch up on the lack of sleep from the past ten days out, was confused by the temperature shifts and yet no way protested to the ease of the humidity. We settled into our hotel, which was a jackpot if we've ever gotten one.

The venue put us up in a resort and spa right on the ocean, where drinks at the bar cost $15 but the view was divine. Within five minutes I was already in a Red Sox/Yankees argument with a bellhop regarding the just-released Mitchell Report (that's why Clemens's head has gotten twice as wide!), who soon thereafter revealed to Anthony that the Baltimore Ravens would be staying there the next night.

Joey and I were rooming together, which is still a relatively new occurrence as my old roomie, Anthony, is now a member of Actor's Equity, which means he always gets his own room and the other boys rotate through the other single. I enjoy getting to spend that extra time with Boaz and Joey, both of who easily rank in the top echelon of intellectually stimulating people I know. They're also both great to watch stupid TV with.

Mr. Bland and I entered the room to not only find beds that seemed to hug you with pillows made out of air itself, but a private balcony looking out over the ocean. We left our things and made our way down to the beach. En route we discovered the pool area, which could have been an entire suburban community on its own, with a bar/restaurant, endless rows of lounge chairs, and uniformed attendants rushing to and fro with frozen things full of rum and tequila. After presenting our room keys to prove that we weren't delinquents, they gave us soft, blue and white-striped towels to take out to the sand. Once there you cold also rent umbrellas or cabanas, or procure a special flag that when raised would bring a server over to make trips to the bar or kitchen for you.

We settled in on the free chairs and were met by Jasper. She and Joey wisely covered themselves in spray-on suntan lotion, while I foolishly set in to my book with a much greater focus on the warmth of the mid-day sun than the potential effects it could have on my chicken-white body. It has been some time since I've gotten to rest by the Atlantic, which I've always thought of as my "home ocean." For the first eighteen years of my life it was never more than twenty minutes away, and usually much close than that. The breeze coming in over its waves pushed the heat right past us and made for a sublime comfort. Joey and I read for a little while as seagulls hovered around us, hoping for the boy ten feet behind us to relent in his affection for chicken fingers. We put our books down and chatted about Hitchcock as a muscle-bound attendant made his way past us repeatedly, sporting a wristband pulled up his forearm and a clumsy gait, possibly impeded by old football injuries or a dare to hold a pair of goggles between his quads all day. He plodded past us on the sand as Joey and Angie made their way off to lunch and I to the water.

My first steps in came with the typical shock of cold, the momentary consideration of retreat which then dissipates as you move forward slowly, before diving in head first with thoughts like, "Hey, it's actually quite nice." I bobbed with the water, periodically diving through the front of a peaking wave. I turned from time to time to ride toward the beach on my stomach, which my father had taught me to do in the Gulf of Mexico when I was little and still baffled by the thought of someone moving twenty or thirty feet in a matter of seconds. Knowing there was a sand bar about a quarter mile out, I was tempted to just keep moving out, eventually halted by the fear of Angie having to explain to a client why one of the hired actors was in the emergency room with shark bites through his face. For a moment, I had forgotten I was at work.

I stopped in at the outdoor restaurant to find Brooke, Lilly and Angie working on lunch. After briefly surveying their fruit cups and chicken sandwiches I made my way to the hot tub, where I was able to sit alone for quite some time. Lo and behold it turns out my neck, back and legs have an uncanny ability to harbor tension, and I was more than happy to let it dissipate through the act of remaining static for an extended period of time. The palm trees around the pool swayed like inebriated college students, the breeze now carrying an array of melodies from Charlie Park to Dobie Gray, as I pondered how my body would react to the dissonance between the freezing Chicago temperatures, forty-eight hours away, and the severely irregular sunburn covering my chest, which would manifest itself momentarily.

Bit Tripper December 18th, 2007

Dear Blog,

This is my last blog. We have come to the end of the road. The producers have removed me from touring and out of the city of everyday operations. Everyone agrees we will all get more work done this way.

I am off to Las  Vegas to join the cast of the Second City Las Vegas at the Flamingo Hotel and Casino. It was a wonderful year of touring, and working with such wonderful people. You know, like what's name, and that one girl, and the other guy, and my ex's friend, and him, and the lady from that one thing, and Chuck Malone.

I'll miss my friends, my hang outs, and my Leave-In Conditioner. It will be nice to be done with all those bumpy van rides, poor eating habits, and Shad constantly asking me to "float him till 5th street."

A lot of people have come up to me and said that even after 9 years in Chicago, they still feel like they don't know me. If you are interested in my story, all one needs to do is listen to the Mobb Deep classic track Shook Ones. Queens is always in the house and there ain't no such thing as half way crooks.

I managed to sell or give away most of my belongings, but I still have a few things left that are just going to get thrown out if no one takes them. Let me know:

• Lord Of The Rings 3 Volume Erotic Fan Fiction Box Set
• SoloFlex
• 12 step addiction recovery program covering gambling, sex, and buffets. (Still in Box!)
• BowFlex
• Rebuilding The Forth Wall: An Actors Guide to Severe Anger Management
• Roboflex (Recalled)
• Movie memorabilia! The trench coat from Darkman worn by the bad guy who also played Bennie, the law clerk with down syndrome, on LA Law.
• Homoflex (I'll miss this one!)

In addition to joining the cast of Second City Las Vegas, I will continue to work on side projects with my newly found free time. Here is just a sample of things to look out for:

Screenplays
Projects Teacher

Liam English has moved to America from England to teach in America's wealthy suburbs, but when a seedy real estate agent tricks him into living in the projects, he has no choice but to teach in the projects. What happens next is an English teacher teaches some things to some kids in the projects.

Sample Dialogue
  (Heavy English accent)

"You want to sell drugs? Fine! But you're going to be the only drug dealer on the street corner who can speak Japanese!"

Book
Ever since my internship at Columbia College of Chicago, I have been Louis Gossett Jr's official biographer. I am now ready to publish my opus, Iron Eagle Yet a Gentleman.

Commercial
The creative minds of my fellow improvisers are often used to create some of the advertising beamed into your very home. I have compiled a portfolio of my own work. Here is a sample coming to a small screen near you soon!

(Open up on a homeless man seated against a wall. He has a cup out, for soliciting loose change from the passersby. A few people drop change into his cup. Switch to Homeless man's perspective. We see the little girl from those Ray Charles Pepsi commercials, or her clone, walk up. She approaches the homeless man, smiles, and hands him a can of Pepsi, and walks away. The homeless man moves to open up the can, when another one drops onto his satchel from above. Then another one is thrown into his cart. Another one falls right into his crotch. He rushes under his makeshift shelter to shield himself from the Pepsi can shower. Camera widens as we see passersby throwing their cans of Pepsi into the homeless man's "nest." Cut to couple observing)

Wife
 Why are they throwing all those cans of soda at that homeless guy? 

Husband
 Because Pepsi tastes like shit. 

(Cut to Logo on Black screen - Coke)

Restaurant Concept
I am looking for investors for my chain of dinner theater theme restaurants, Renaissance Fighting Times. Where everyday at 8 PM and 10  PM, "It's the Renaissance, and they're going to fight!"

Music
Just in time for State Fair Season, I will independently release my debut LP, Ten Pounds of Hits in a 5 Pound Bag. Look out for my first single I Want A Girl Who Has A Car, and 4H Must Stand for 4 Hearts, Because That's How Many Hearts You Have.

Nutrition
 I have developed a diet for myself that I hope to sell to the masses in a series of infomercials hosted by 1984 Best Actor Oscar Winner F. Murray Abraham. It is called Super Vegan. F. Murray explains it a lot better then I do, but basically it means you can not eat any thing that has ever lived. Not even plants. It similar to what a robot might eat. Mostly it just means I drink to much Diet Dr. Pepper.

Politics
 I'm running for President of America next year. My platform is taken verbatim from the Waffle House rules. Here is a sample of my positions:

We do not tolerate sexual, racist, or unlawful harassment of any customer or associate.
We are open 24 hours a day 365 days a year
We reserve booths for 2 or more people

MacArthur "Genius" Award
From what I gather, before you are awarded this prestigious (and lucrative) award, the MacArthur Award committee follows your work for a year without you knowing. I can only assume this is currently happening.

I hope to see you three ways. Soon, often, and hungry!

Michael