Flash forward 10 years later and here I am at 30: Living in the hood, drinking wine nightly, a salon cuts my hair, I am married, healthier, wiser, older…old. As I pleasantly look around the comedic round table (we’re rehearsing every night this week) I notice there is a different tension in the room; when we were young the air was filled with possibility: maybe we would be big, maybe the audience would give us the love we needed, maybe we would all hook up…Cut to us ten years later and we’re more seasoned: We all hold day jobs, own plain wardrobes, and skilfully balance various romantic entanglements–oh, and my marriage is always hovering around.

Unlike when I was 20, I’ve now spent years living in the company of a man. The male mystery of bodily functions, 45 minute bathroom sessions, and bizarre eating habits has long been revealed. Spending time with Josh’s friends from elementary school has also wizened me up in the ways of male banter. I’m perfectly capable of holding my own when the conversation steers itself into the toilet. Why, just the other night I learned about the bowel movements of two of my cast mates (every other day for one and every 3 days for the other–like clockwork). I also heard myself say, “You know, Dave, with the reference to the class of ‘96 in your monologue you’ve left yourself wide open for a 69 joke.”

However, the old gang is still just as motivated as always to crank out the funniest product they can. I’m amazed at how good these guys have gotten, turning comedy into a science–from every beat to making sure the lines are perfectly delivered–my cast mates have it DOWN. While the vibe is not as loose and relaxed as the last Legends show, there is nothing but positive, successful, feedback. These guys mean business, and now that we’re more secure in our lives, we have the focus to do it.

Typically, when you sit around with other actors you eventually have a little stage show where everyone tries to impress one another. With comics specifically it becomes a game to see who can out-humor the other–this is especially apparent in my recent meetings with the improv company I’m now a member of. Everyone (all the guys) compete to see who can be the funniest, the one with the most riffs on one topic, the one with the biggest belly laughs from their constitutes. I find myself chuckling along but inwardly rolling my eyes as I watch yet another game of machismo unfurls before my eyes.

This is also coming off a six week run where the entire cast of improvisers were women. I found there to be little to no showboating during the rehearsal process or the performances. We simply related differently. Instead of launching into a big masquerade ball we would eagerly ask each other how our week went, if coughing matched recent flu symptoms, and the state of the weather. I’m not saying we didn’t compete at all, the cast was full of its own quirks (i.e. she’s bringing in negative energy, we have no sound operator tonight and that means the theater doesn’t love us, etc.) However, the tone was definitely mellower.

I used to feel the need to be just as witty, funny, and competitive as the next performer but now I feel it’s fine to opt out. I’m more secure with myself, not feeling the need to constantly prove something to everyone: I’m funny! I really am! Well, that’s a lie, I certainly do still worry about being I’m funny–hence I’m committed to nothing but comedic performances in the future. I also think that there is validity in being firm and not allowing oneself to be pushed around. It took years of being in the service industry for me to recognize my voice and my ability to stand up for myself (the customer is NOT always right). As improvisers you need to have the confidence to take the stage, end someone else’s scene (editing), and not feel like you’re constantly being stepped on–or over. I think my early years in an all male comedy troupe really helped me learn this.

As I look around the table, I can appreciate the process more, plus my personal life no longer distracts me. Being a performer is exhausting work, and while my marriage wouldn’t be considered ‘exciting’, I prefer it that way. At 30, It’s a lot easier knowing whose waiting for me at the end of day then at 20 when I was just hoping someone would walk me home.

In addition to some very poignant national security musings, memorable moments included Henry’s early interactions with Van Halen, interviewing Christopher Walkin, (and finding NO difference between Walkin the character and Walkin the real person), and some really excellent banter regarding the defense of gay marriage. Henry also has his own radio show where he pulls out his old vinyl and plays it, (check it out here, it’s pretty great). The best story was Henry enlightening the audience about The Ruts, the british punk band who created one of the first ska/punk sounds in the late 70’s. They lost their lead singer to heroine before they could produce a second album and the band never reclaimed their initial path to stardom. The band’s guitarist, Paul Fox, was diagnosed with lung cancer over the summer (and sadly died a few weeks ago). The Ruts reuninited to create a benefit concert and Henry was asked to perform as the vocalist. He described the concert as containing one of the best moments of his life: singing onstage with many of his punk rock idols. I was really moved by his story and so, of course, I looked it up on youtube and found it amazing. Here is my favorite:

It wasn’t as militant as I thought it might be. It was more of a celebration of the vagina as an organ. There was the typical, “how many names can we come up with for the vagina” segment, as well as the obligatory, “I wish men knew how to work it” portion. But for the most part, it was an encouragement for women to spend more time looking at, playing with, and sharing their vagina. How could I not get into that? (Hey-oh!)

The lessons I learned: The clitoris is a bundle of over 600 nerve endings and is a lot more sensitive than the finger tips or the lips. Plus, it is over twice as sensitive as the male penis.

Also, women need to reclaim the power of the word, ‘cunt’.

Tonight I went to the theater. Under duress.

As part of my Swedish language class (along the lines of English Lit 101) I am required to attend two theater performances this term. Tonight’s performance, on the surface, would appear to be convenient as it was shown on the island, about 10 minutes from my house.
Incidentally, my island has a number of cultural offerings that would otherwise seem anomalous to its rural, farming community setting: a major European watercolor museum, current events lectures, book readings of well-known (Swedish) authors, a yacht race in the summer that is more prestigious (in Europe anyway) than the Volvo Cup, which in and of itself is on a high order, Volvo being Swedish and all.

Economically, this performance was in the “affordable” range. 80 kronor translates to about $12 or therabouts. (Don’t quote me because I haven’t checked the exchange rate for a week or so.)

But it was just a painful experience because I didn’t have my translator with me. Tobey worked tonight and I was forced to really listen and pay attention. Usually I don’t need a lot of help, but every once in a while he will provide for me a quick translation, those tedious understandings can make or break my enjoyment of something. And I already knew that it would take me at least half the play to really “feel” the new speech patterns of the actors, something I struggle with whenever I meet or hear someone new.

I got about three-quarters of the way through, when I suddenly realized I had no idea what was going on. I thought, up until that point, that I did. I laughed at the appropriate times, felt what everyone else appeared to be feeling. But then something happened onstage that I completely misunderstood. Or, maybe really did understand it, but in doing so, also had a whole new wrench thrown into my understanding of Swedish culture.

The play was about marriage. But maybe, just maybe, it was about divorce. See, the man got down on one knee, confirming my expectation that this couple, despite their many (many!) problems wanted to renew their vows. The woman looked loving down at him and cried little happy tears (she was grinning from ear to ear). And then, in a grand gesture that made me gasp (loudly!), he asked her: Will you divorce me?

She said “yes!” And they danced and danced…and then started sawing in half the kitchen table.

I missed something along the way. I’m sure of it now.

In short, it stunk of mediocrity. The songs were forgettable, the singing/acting/dancing satisficing, but not stellar, and the comedy ham-handed. The best part was the set, which was well-designed, with seamless changes and some razzle-dazzle effects. But a fine set doth not a fine play make. So, yes, in short, lukewarm. (Sorry Mara.)

That said, please let me turn you on to some finer entertainment. Two things I can’t get enough of as of late:

Copy—DJ from Portland who put out his absolutely wonderful debut LP “Mobius Beard” on Audio Dregs a few weeks ago. (By the way, if you haven’t signed up for Emusic.com, now is as good a time as any: get 50 free non-DRMed MP3s, and after that pay only 10 bucks a months for 40 downloads (what is that? 25 cents a song?).) This album is full of pretty melodies and synthy dance beats. No fluff here, though: tight tight tracks that’ll get your hipster friends off the counter to shake their tails at 4 in the morning. Copy seriously deserves wider exposure . . .

Scrubs—I know I’m waaaay late to the game with Scrubs, but this show tickles me in a way I haven’t felt since first watching Arrested Development a few years ago. Don’t let its straight-ahead sitcom format deter you: funny funny funny hee. (I normally hate sitcoms, FYI, please be advised.)