A trip down memory lane!

This is my very first blog post, ever:

It's from nearly 10 years ago. I was a freshman in high school, I really liked punctuation and I'm pretty sure I thought I was the shit when I posted it.

...I'm now an ~adult person~ in the working world, I like correct punctuation and, well, I'm still the shit, but at least I have the general constructs of typing on the internet down.

This is my lame filler post for the night since I've been attempting to write something quality for two hours now and all I've accomplished is frustration.

You're welcome, internet.

(At least I spelled "kindergarten" correctly. Kind of amazed that I did, let's be honest here)

An awkwardly emotional post about Chris Gethard.

I've honestly lost track of how many people have said that if you want to become a "member" of the Chris Gethard Show community, you just have to talk to someone and you'll instantly be welcomed in and feel like you were always there.

I was skeptical when I parked myself in the UCB line last Friday night.

There were three teenage boys in front of me, and I caught snippets of their conversation. Chris' name kept coming up, but I didn't think much of it or jump in because he's one of the main performers in The Stepfathers, so I just assumed they were fans or whatever. Around 8:15, though, I realized that everyone else in line was going inside first to get their actual admission tickets, and I hadn't, so I double-checked with them to see if that's what I was supposed to do.

They must have talked about me while I was inside, because when I got back in line, one of them, Coby, started berating me with questions about myself -- of course, that could have been payback for the only other thing I said to them before that; I yelled at him for never having seen Donnie Darko. ANYWAY.

In the next 45 minutes, we did not shut up. We were joined by Mimi, the hula hooper from TCGS. We laughed about the stupid claims to fame that Erie, Pa. has. They let me have my fangirl moment when I first stepped inside the theater. They invited me to sit with them during Stepfathers. After the show, they introduced me to the other cast members and then we talked with Chris for half an hour. We awkwardly said goodbye countless times.

The specifics of our conversations aren't what I'm going to write about -- they're not that important to you if you weren't there and they're the memories that I'm going to keep with me when I think about my first time at UCB. What IS important and what I'm going to dwell on for a long time to come, though, is how right everyone was.

The community that Chris Gethard has formed with his show is one of the most perfect things I've ever discovered.

Obviously, TCGS is a comedy show that is usually unplanned and tends to make its way into some interesting places -- hell, the show I went to in Philadelphia started off with a random nobody throwing a burning copy of Chris' book onstage and ended with another random nobody rushing the stage and drinking more of the Milkshake of Death than Chris himself did. But I digress (and also don't want to spend too much time thinking about that milkshake). Comedy is, by its nature, in-your-face and not afraid to go to uncomfortable places.

When I first started watching TCGS (aka: binge-watching the first 15 or so episodes in one day last witner), those uncomfortable places were what made me love the show. Sure, the Human Fish is hairy and hilarious; Bananaman is, well, a banana; Rob Malone is the world's best dancer and I love him for that. But those real moments, when people were allowed to be unhappy and talk about their problems? I'm an emotional person, so... I was hooked.

And THEN Chris' book, A Bad Idea I'm About to Do, came out. And he started writing long blog posts about depression and ambition and topics that make me want to hug him. Chris reveals so much of himself to anyone and everyone, and because of that, you just want to get to know him. And, when you're given the opportunity to actually hold a conversation with him, you realize that there is absolutely no facade or barrier. He's the same person, everywhere. He's got flaws and issues and he isn't afraid to let people know that.

It's inspiring.

It's also laced throughout every single person involved with the show -- and it's why I instantly had such great connections with them on Friday night. I've always been outgoing thanks to 15 years of theater. But, in most cases in my life, being that outgoing person has earned me many acquaintances. I might chat with someone at a bar about all sorts of things, but at the end of the night, my life isn't changed because of them. Of course, there are some perfect exceptions, like Evan, the topic of my train blog post. The people in the TCGS community? Every single one of them is the exception.

The person who runs TCGS tumblr actually just recently posted that if you want to become a "member," you just need to strike up a conversation with someone. Talk about the Human Fish. Talk about the issue that you've been struggling with. Whatever. I walked away from the Stepfathers with a handful of awesome new friends who I am currently missing like crazy because I'm not in New York with them right now. When you add up the amount of time we actually spent talking with each other, it's not much more than two hours, and I feel like I've known these people for much longer. Going into a friendship knowing that you have a niche interest in common is one of the most fantastic things -- it's why the friends I've made through Tumblr are so important to me. Knowing that everything I heard about TCGS community is true is what it must feel like when a little kid sees Disney World and they can actually touch Mickey Mouse's ears (is that a weird comparison? I feel like it is).

I would say that I feel lucky for the way things happened on Friday, but since it really is that easy to just put yourself in this amazing position... it's not quite luck. I WILL say, though, that all of us are so, so lucky that some misfit from New Jersey decided to make people laugh.

I got home from New York on Sunday night. On Monday morning, the news broke that IFC has adopted Chris for a year of promotions and they are going to help him develop a pilot script based off his book. Knowing that so many more people are going to be exposed to this man makes me feel like a proud parent. He's finally getting the attention that he deserves, and I hope that between this new deal and my post, maybe you'll check out his stuff, too. Every episode of his show is archived here, there's a blog here and the IFC site here.

This is the post he wrote on depression makes me cry every time I read it. I recommend it to anyone, even if you see the world through rose-tinted glasses.

I can't wait to get back to New York. I'm craving more conversations and laughter and ~moments~ and I want to meet EVERYONE.

PS. Coby... have you watched Donnie Darko yet? :)

PPS. Stepfathers was absolutely hilarious and the perfect first improv show for me.

That time I got stuck between two train cars

It's hard work, being a cynic who also lives for those Lost in Translation-esque encounters and moments.

Now, I love Bill Murray more than I love most of the people in my life, but I am not saying that I want to fall into the sort of star-crossed love that he finds in that perfect, beautiful movie. I'm not emotionally stable enough for that. But those moments? When he glances at that dumb actress Scarlett Johansson and his sad eyes hold all the unspoken words in the universe? When he lets out a breath or notices something otherwise tiny and it suddenly means the world? 

Those sort of moments are the only things that keep me from being absolutely unbearable to myself and people around me (not to mention, completely miserable).

Last year, I was on a trip, mostly alone, to a place I'd never been -- not nearly as foreign, though -- Chicago. I boarded the Amtrak in the middle of the night, and the only thing that was on my mind was two of the five Kids in the Hall that I was going to see that evening. After a few hours of sleep (?), I decided to head to the snack car for Amtrak's version of breakfast. 

Maybe it was the lack of sleep or the Scott Thompson/Kevin McDonald-fueled excitement or a combination of both... whatever the reason, I was completely unable to open the shoomp-y door between two train cars. I must have looked like a complete moron to the lucky bastards who got the extra leg space of the front-of-the-car seats -- here was a girl in pajamas and dressy boots (I packed light, okay?), kicking and shoving a door thinner than an iPhone with all of her might, to no avail. You know how when you're throwing your weight into a train car door at 5:30 a.m. for just a few moments but it feels like an eternity? I was there, fighting with the train for an eternity, and then a random passenger came up behind me. I think he swallowed a laugh before helping me finally break into the snack car. 

After groggily ordering my breakfast, I turned to the dining car, only to see that every booth was occupied. The man who had helped me open the door was at one of the booths, and he offered to let me sit with him since we had shared that moment.

The next four hours honestly blur together now.

He's a composer by trade, a martial arts king (that's a thing... right?), one of those artsy types who seems to know a little bit about everything. He asked me questions that made me question myself and more sure of myself simultaneously and he didn't seem at all fazed by the odd glances I caught occasionally by the other ragged travelers. 

The moment I realized our conversation was special was when he asked what brought me to Chicago, and I muttered Scott and Kevin's names like they were no big deal because, let's face it, unless you say "Pastor Dave from That 70s Show," 98% of America has no idea who you're talking about -- and even then, they usually just go "Oh, him..." in that way that you just KNOW they have no idea who this guy is, but they just want to shut the crazy fangirl up. Anyway, he instantly knew who I was talking about and proceeded to crush the heads of the other passengers.

A few times throughout our breakfast, I caught myself glancing out the window, in an attempt to ground myself in reality. Somewhere in my sleep-deprived mind, I was convinced that the entire trip wasn't real -- it was too good to be true on so many fronts and this perfect new friendship threw itself into my lap. The pitiful scenery that is rural Route 5 definitely kept me on earth.

He and I talked more than I have ever talked with anyone -- both in number of topics and in depth. We watched western Ohio and the entirety of Indiana pass by the dining car windows as we discussed our personal lives, our goals, our views on religion and politics and the real issues -- Kids in the Hall and Saturday Night Live. Seriously, though; you name the capital-t Topic, and we covered it. 

Before we headed back to our seats to properly watch Chicago come into view, we exchanged phone numbers and added each other on Facebook. In the past almost-year, I've kept up with him as he's traveled throughout Asia with his wife, and he's always made a point of commenting on my status updates whenever I take a trip. 

I honestly have no idea if I'll ever run into him in person again, but as much as I would obviously love to, I would not be disappointed if I did not. That trip to Chicago was a BIG coming-of-age thing for me -- my first time traveling completely alone with no one to meet me when I arrived, my first time spending my own hard-earned (ha!) money just because, my first time meeting ~famous~ people, etc. The friendship we developed felt instantly understood, in that cliche "omg, it feels like we've known each other forEVER!!!11one" sort of way. 

I'd like to thank Evan for keeping me a little less than purely cynical. Our meeting is one of those things that's going to stay with me for a long, long time. I know that to many people in my life, one of my faults is that I get too attached, too excited. But that's only because I know how good it can be. I know (and crave) that feeling of sharing something, anything with a person -- the closest friend or a relative stranger. That feeling is why I do theater, it's why I love live comedy, and it's why I keep going, even when most things in my life are horridly mundane.

Did you know that I used to win awards for my writing? (Says the blogger who frequently keyboard smashes and uses excessive question marks...)

When I was in college, I was ALWAYS writing. Of course, being a liberal arts major at a liberal arts college obviously lent itself to a liberal (ha! I made a funny!) amount of writing -- if I wasn't working on an ~award winning~ poem, I was coming up with a column or feature for the school paper. I was thrilled when I finally got to the usually-dreaded Senior Thesis 401, because it meant that I was ready to plunge into an entire course where the only outcome was a paper.

That being said, almost the instant I graduated, I stopped writing. I don't know if the lack of looming deadlines was honestly THAT connected to my creative process, but whatever the case, it's been rare for me to actually open Word or pick up my Moleskine and get out something I'm at least a little proud of.

Luckily, my closest friend from college gets on my case every now and then and encourages me to write. A few weeks ago, I finally bit the coffee-fueled bullet and got this out. It's not much and it's definitely not my favorite, but it's something. And it's out there now, so it feels good.

First Love 

The first love

I had was not

romantic love.

The first love

I had was for the comedy

my father loved.

I’d return from delighted

evenings in neighbors’ yards

and ask dad for a tuna sandwich.

He’d laugh, turn his eyes Belushi-black

and yell “Cheeseburger!”

The darkness behind Belushi’s humor

was irrelevant.

The weakness and addictions

my dad kept hidden

didn’t matter.

What mattered was the grin

that spread across my dad’s

time-worn face

as he kicked his legs,

a homage to Steve’s Happy Feet.

I laughed, sure, at the jokes

that he told (or rather, stole

from his comedy heroes).

But I laughed more at the joy

that wove

through our house. My dad

was happy and that made me

happy.

He could have quoted

the greatest comedian alive

(he often did),

and I wouldn’t have cared,

so long as I caught

his smile,

the one I mirror

when I watch SNL today.

I want to do comedy.

The biggest compliment anyone can pay me is a genuine laugh. I grew up onstage, so I've always loved applause and hugs and roses and the tangible energy that is the lifeblood of all theater kids, but there is something so truly encouraging about laughter.

I grew up surrounded by comedy. My father would perform SNL's Olympia Restaurant whenever I asked him for a tuna fish sandwich, and Steve Martin's old stand-up routines worked their way into our everyday conversation. If it's been on NBC in the past 18 years (holy shit, Friends premiered 18 years ago...), I was watching it. I recently set out to watch the entirety of SNL (well, aside from all copyrighted material, so half of SNL) on Netflix. I avoid making plans on Thursday and Saturday nights because of the comedies that have given me a safe haven during the screwed-up mess called being a 20-something. 

I don't actively share this obsession with many people in my "real" life, only because I've felt I needed to protect MY comedies somehow. Of course, if you follow me on Twitter, you've seen my feed become overrun with SNL livetweeting, but that's beside the point. The friends that do realize that comedy is the one thing that truly keeps me going have been telling me for a few years now that I should pursue comedy for myself, since it's what makes me happy.

That thought fucking TERRIFIES me.

Which is why I hope to someday do it.

The idea of attempting stand-up makes me absolutely sick to my stomach... which probably means it'd be the best thing for me to try first, let's be real. But really, I don't think I could ever see myself captivating the audience for an extended period of time, by myself. I've never taken any sort of improv class and I am absolutely dying to, since the majority of my comedy heroes got their start at beautiful places like Second City and Upright Citizens Brigade. I LOVE watching improv and it seems like it'd be hilarious to do, once I got the technique down. Of course, living in a tiny, conservative city makes that sort of thing hard to accomplish (but that leads to my I-need-to-move-to-New-York rant and let's not get into that). 

What I'd really like to do with comedy would be something along the lines of Weekend Update. Delivering little one-liners that comment on the news and pop culture, with some guests and maybe a co-anchor? That'd be awesome.

...how does one get a job like that?

I hate "First post!" posts...

Six years ago, when I was just about to start college, I had my future all planned for myself, as most cock-eyed optimists fresh from Catholic high school do. I was going to major in elementary education, I was going to land a GREAT PAYING!!! job in my home diocese and I was going to marry and have children and settle down and blah blah blah.

It's funny now, because I hardly recognize that version of myself. I can't believe that there was part of me, however large and overpowering, that wanted those things. In the past six years, I have realized that children are not in my future. I may never get married if I keep up with the attitude I have toward life -- I don't mean that in the negative, teeny-bopper bad attitude way; I honestly can't see it working for me and the way I view the world. While I was in college, I changed majors four times and landed on a major that won't lead to a career, but had classes and professors I enjoyed, so why not?

...Of course, now I have a part-time job that, while I laugh my ass off all day with some really fantastic people, is the exact opposite of fulfilling and usually leaves me flat broke by the end of bill-paying time. I have little to no qualifications for "real" jobs and I usually spend my work days discussing how little I actually want to be there.

I don't want this blog to become a whining mess, though. I have other outlets for that (ahem, sorry, Twitter followers). I miss writing. I was talking with some coworkers at lunch today, and reminded myself that I used to win awards for my poetry and journalism. I'm always going to regret never changing my major to communications, but if I don't remind myself that regret does not accomplish anything, I'm never going to get anything but a bad mood. The only thing I can do is try again, in different ways... so here I am. If no one reads this, that's okay. But I desperately want to reach out to people, whether that be in funny or meaningful ways. 

I don't know where this post is going, and I hate those cliche first posts so... this is it for now. Hopefully, I won't abandon this like I have so many other blogs.