ASK THE CRITICS

Recently I was having a small hissy fit about critics who give away show secrets in their reviews. I was feeling so self-righteous I almost thought I would blog on it. But thankfully I thought better of it. Instead, I decided to interview two great critics I know. Kate Copstick is based in Edinburgh, Scotland, UK, and reviews comedy for The Scotsman. Colin Thomas is based in Vancouver, BC, Canada, and reviews theatre for The Georgia Straight. Both wear fetchingly bold glasses, and both were totally generous about giving me their time.

1) What do you love/hate about your work as a critic?

COLIN THOMAS: I get to think and feel for a living. Who could complain about that?

         And, of course, I love going to shows. I think that theatre is the most compassionate art form; it’s about imagining ourselves into the lives of other people, after all. That kind of imagining allows us to let go of the illusion of coherent—and isolated—identity.  I’m all for that. I firmly believe that our interior selves are all far more beautiful, complex, and chaotic than we usually let on.        
       One of the great joys of my job is discovering a new talent—a talent that is either new to me or new to the world. I remember seeing my first Caryl Churchill play, Ice Cream, for instance, and realizing about halfway through that the playwright was fucking with my narrative expectations—with the lie of justice that underlies so many narratives in our culture, for instance, the lie of order. That was so exciting! And I just saw a young woman named Camille Legg play Romeo in a Studio 58 production of Romeo + Juliet (that’s how they rendered the title). It’s thrilling when you see somebody like that and you go, “Oh my god. There’s one. She’s got it. She’s really got it.”        
       I don’t think that I hate anything about my job. Sometimes online comments bug me, but, even in that weird—and annoyingly anonymous—forum, my experience is generally pretty positive.

KATE COPSTICK: I love the fact that my job is to make insightful, interesting, useful comments on a performance/ performer. That is to say that it is a mix of the emotional and the intellectual. I get to consider and opine. Two of my favourite things! Whereas other opinionated people just go to a bar after a show and point out everything that they liked/ hated/ were irritated by in a show, I get to tell the world (well, a bit of it). I love to analyse. I like to know why things work. Why one line will make you cry and another simply seem bathetic. I love that one word in another line can make the difference between hilarity and nothing. And getting to write about it.

        What I hate is the way that the comics (and really only the comics) have turned me into a sort of points system. That is all a review is to them. And I don't like that being a critic makes me wary of becoming close friends with some spectacular people. I cannot review someone I am really close to. I would forgive them things I might not forgive someone else and that would not be fair.

2) How do your other creative pursuits inform how you approach the craft of reviewing? What kind of difference(s) do you notice between critics who are artists, and those who aren't?

COLIN THOMAS: I’ve worked as a playwright and I currently earn about half of my income by story editing novels and screenplays. As a result, I am all over narrative structure and thematic development.

       Because I’ve been a critic for 30 years, I’m in love with rewarding surprises. Let’s hear it for innovation!

       And, way back when, I used to be an actor. When I first became a critic, the dynamics of acting were more alive in my flesh. That responsiveness has faded, but I like to think it’s still there to some degree; I fancy that I can tell, for instance, when a selfish actor is creating a black hole on-stage—not giving anything back to their fellow performers.

       Because I’m familiar with the processes of writing, performing, and rehearsing, I might be able to differentiate the relationships between those processes a little bit more clearly. When is an actor trapped by a script, for instance, and when are they not realizing its potential?

       All of that said, I’ve read terrific critics who don’t have a lot of experience practising the arts forms that they’re writing about. I’m thinking about Frank Rich, for instance, John Lahr, Pauline Kael…

KATE COPSTICK: I think it helps that I have been a performer —all kinds of performer from straight actor through cabaret to stand up. It does make me quite unforgiving of performers who witter on about how hard their job is. It also makes me intolerant of dishonesty in performance. I failed as a stand up because I had no idea who I was then and just wanted to impress people with how clever I was. There was no person there. And so I know a bad comic when I see one. I know a game playing actor when I see one. I know an onstage bully. And I have been a writer and director so I know tricks. I think when you know a game from the inside you know when people are cheating. And a cheap cheat irritates me.

3) How do you feel about the star system?

KATE COPSTICK: I hate it. It is a relatively new thing. And the comics love it because they and their PRs just star count. They do not care where the stars come from as long as there are plenty of them. One female comic demanded of her PR "quantity not quality" in her stars. Also— again in the comedy section predominantly— it makes for laziness. Audiences will look at the star numbers and simply ignore the actual review. I have a huge desire to write a blisteringly scathing review of a show, describing an hour and a performer without merit and then put five stars at the top. See who goes along just for the stars. The stars are good for no one except tour bookers and PR.

COLIN THOMAS: From a consumer point of view, I can understand the desire for a shortcut, but, basically, I find the star system lazy and reductive. It shrinks artistic endeavours into quantifiable and commodifiable products. Thank Christ the paper that I write for doesn’t use star ratings.

4) One thing I appreciate about your reviews is that you give readers a FLAVOR of what they will experience if they see the show, but you don't give anything away. How do you do that? Are you sensitive to the concept of not writing spoilers, or are you just focused on something else entirely?

KATE COPSTICK: Oh I am TOTALLY aware that - with the good shows and performers - the audience HAS to come to it fresh. The surprises and the twists and the turns have to be theirs to discover. If you already know the twist at the end then that will colour the whole show for you. You are negating the writer and performer's work and at the same time spoiling the audience's experience. It is ALWAYS possible to describe the flavour of a piece without resorting to quotes or simply rehearsing the narrative line. The surprises are not yours to give away, the words not yours to fill up your prose. A critic has to have respect for both the production and the audience. And it is MUCH more interesting for me to do it that way. Other wise it becomes a Junior School essay on "what I saw last night at the theatre."

COLIN THOMAS: In my enthusiasm for an idea or a show, I have given things away a couple of times and, when I realized what I'd done, I felt shitty. So, you know, behaviour modification is at work.

       Mostly, though, I consciously try to give readers enough specific information to support my analysis and, hopefully, to intrigue them. But that’s a tricky dance, especially with comedy: to give readers the flavour of a comedy and make them want to see it, you’ve kind of got to give a way a couple of the best lines. I limit the amount I quote and I count on the fact that the jokes I do give away are always going to be funnier in the context of a live performance than they are in black and white on the page.

5) How would you describe your effect on/relationship to performers: do they notice you in the audience, how do they experience your reviews, what kinds of conversations do you and the artists you review engage in? What advice do you have for those getting reviewed?

KATE COPSTICK: I am always noticed and very frequently pointed out in an audience. I am used to the "Oh god, Kate Copstick's in the audience, now I'm fucked." There are so many new comics that most of them know me by reputation only. And for some reason my reputation is fierce. I am always honest. And if a show has been diabolical then I try to slip away and NOT talk to the performer. When I do the Grouchy Club (monthly in London and daily at The Fringe) we get loads of comics turning up and if they ask me questions I will answer honestly— they ask at their own risk. As I say, I find it hard to get too close to a performer because then it is not fair for me to review them and I do know that my reviews in Edinburgh are wanted. The brave people do come up and challenge me on my star count. I really do not mind that. I am always happy to explain why I wrote what I did. That is only fair.

COLIN THOMAS: Because I want to build better—more informed, more respectful—relationships with artists, every year I go and talk to the whole school at Studio 58. (The Studio is part of Langara University here in Vancouver and one of the best theatre training centres I know of.)

       I figure that mostly my job on those days is to show up and be human. I’ve been a theatre critic for over 30 years and, in the eyes of many, that makes me an institution, which means that I should be resented on principle. I talk to the emerging artists at Studio 58 to humanize my relationship with them. I talk about my biases and my experience. I let them know that I’m sincerely interested in my opinions being part of a discussion— with them.

       I almost always cry at some point during these talks; I love theatre and I love students, so it's a potent combination. I figure it’s a good thing when the scary judge that they’ve come to expect turns out to be a bald, bawling, 63-year-old homosexual.

       I encourage folks who are getting reviewed to look for the things in the review that are useful. Is there a handy pull-quote? Better yet, is there a workable insight? If so, go with those things and ignore the rest. (This is easier said than done, I realize; as an actor and playwright, I have been on the receiving end of both positive and negative reviews.)

       To get back to the earlier part of this question: I hope that I’m invisible to artists when I’m in the theatre, but I realize that often I’m not. All I can do about that is refuse to sit in the front-row seats that publicists sometimes reserve for me.

       I love respectful and engaged conversations with artists and audience members. Disappointingly, artists sometimes respond to reviews with ad hominem attacks: “You’re too old to appreciate my brilliance.” But, at other times, discussions with artists and audience members can be a gift. I reviewed a show called “Broken Sex Doll”, for instance, and, after my review was posted online, the online comments convinced me to change the review before it went to print.

6) How do you think you affect readers' decisions about what they see? How do you think your readers would describe your tastes?

KATE COPSTICK: I know people go to see things that I review well— but I am not sure whether they read the whole review or just look at the stars ... which I agonise over quantifying. My tastes now have been described to me as "out there." And "The weirder the better." I am now known as a big fan of the Free Fringes and the tiny shows. The "the weirder the better" thing is not true. I simply love honesty and bravery in a show and in its performer. And if honest turns out to be weird then I will defend it. If it is performed well. And well written. The Malcolm Hardee Awards (which I judge) are all about the "fringe" acts that don't fit into any niche ... what alternative used to mean. Before it turned into a term for irritating, middle class faux irony and "so bad it is good" nonsense.

COLIN THOMAS: For big touring shows— like when Cats comes to town for the thousandth time— I’m sure my reviews carry virtually zero weight.

       For local shows, I think I’m pretty widely read and I believe that readership is discerning. Still, everybody knows that the most important factor in selling shows is word of mouth, and that’s as it should be: it’s good to make your decisions based on the advice of a trusted source.

       I suspect that the Fringe is the event at which reviews carry the most weight; there are so many shows to choose from, and, especially in Vancouver, where the coverage by the dailies is appalling, there are few sources of information. Fortunately, I frickin’ love the Fringe; it’s my favourite time of the year.

       How would my readers describe my tastes? Geez, I don’t know. When I’m writing review, I assume that I’m talking to a smart person who doesn’t necessarily have a lot of insider knowledge. I’m hope readers think I’m smart— and entertaining. And, if they read the reviews, I hope that the artists involved will find my comments fair. Mostly, though, I just want to articulate my response as clearly as I can.

And there you have it. Cool, right? And how about those fun British/Canadian spellings?!

On days when we're feeling bitchy and low about some shitty review by a shitty writer who doesn't understand us, let us remember and feel grateful for the critics who care, who are deeply thoughtful, who are fighting the good fight to be in meaningful dialogue with the art they love. Fuck yeah great critics! Critique ON!!

HOLLYWOOD. BURNING MAN. EDINBURGH FRINGE.

I am moving out of Hollywood.

I went to my last Burning Man in 2005. 

I have just decided to go back to Edinburgh Fringe this summer. 

Sometimes people ask me if they should take a show to Edinburgh. I don't know. Below is something I wrote right after I got back last fall.

I just made a T-Chart of pro's/con's in order to actually decide that my Edinburgh Fringe experience was a good one. We all say "roller coaster" to each other during the month. Oh yeah, well, it's a roller coaster isn't it? which is to say that we understand that even if we had a really good show today, it's bound to be a shit show tomorrow, or something in between, or whatever man, the point is, there is no such thing as having a "good time" or a "bad time" at edinburgh fringe. It's just a fucking thing. It's no thing. It's every thing.

"You're addicted now," said Barry Church-Woods, who is one of the main administrators of the festival, and also—weirdly, considering it's the biggest festival in the universe—a super-approachable guy. Also clearly a maniac.

But maybe it is a kind of addiction. The Edinburgh Fringe is an incredible cocktail of Hollywood and Burning Man in a gorgeous old Gothic city. Maybe, sure, maybe I'm addicted now. Or maybe I'm just going again.

WHY IT'S LIKE HOLLYWOOD: Industry. Whatever That Means.

Edinburgh Fringe has Industry. People who make money off of performing artists! Mythical beasts! They come to Edinburgh to see shows and meet people! It could be YOU they meet, at one of the needy-grabby Fringe bars you need a secret card to get into. It could be YOUR show they wander into. And then BAMMO! LIFELONG TOUR!

That happens to some people, probably, maybe. Or it happens to differing degrees, but not the way you imagine. Or maybe it totally happens a lot.

The smartest advice I got was to be specific in goal-setting. Do some research, find some names, introduce yourself as much in advance as possible, follow up. Just try to move a teeny bit further along in your plans for world domination, in a specific, down-to-earth, case-by-case way. Keep your head down, except to notice the moody Scottish sky, hanging delicately above all that massive stone and chimney.

Being specific worked wonders, because on the "pro" side of my T-chart were actual people I invited to see my show, people who came. So they came! That's a goal met! Mazel tov! You don't know what/where/how may lead to gigs/gigs/gigs. The more specific you are in terms of whom you want to meet, the more clear your results or lack of results will be to you. And that is useful information for one's emotional brain, which during this festival is all over the goddamn map.

WHY IT'S LIKE HOLLYWOOD: Annoying Personalities Everywhere (Including Your Own).

Because this festival is aware of its own Star-Making-Potential Myth, stakes feel high for everyone, and everyone becomes potentially the worst version of him/herself imaginable. Or maybe it was just me. I was moody as hell, all month long. Some of those moods were great moods. I cried at BEAUTY, all month long. I was deeply moved by positivity, by hope, by art. I moved in a ethereal way, floating above a month-long Achilles tendon issue. How did I survive all those cobblestones with all that heel pain? Euphoria, my friends. There are euphoric moments.

But the bad moods were horrible. Feeling un-cool, worst of all. My wise flatmates talked me off many a metaphorical fire escape. (Seriously, living with friends was goddamn genius. I did make friends, but it's just not the kind of festival to go at alone.) It was a month in which I was somewhat embarrassed to be me, in terms of the levels of self-involvement that feels like it's in the water. And I drink a lot of water.

A month-dose of that kind of behavior is not horrible, though, when you consider that so many artists in Hollywood have to deal with that bullcrap every day of their life. You can take a month of Hollywood, right? Provided you can spend good portions of the rest of the year feeling more like a positively contributing member of society and not like a needy desperate devil-spawn of pipsqueak shitsackdom. Which Edinburgh did make me feel. Real highs and lows, is what I'm saying. Big ones.

It may be an addiction, Barry Church-Woods, but it's an addiction that can be managed.

WHY IT'S LIKE BURNING MAN: ARTISTIC ABUNDANCE!

Say what you will about Burning Man, it is full of creativity. There is creativity everywhere, not all good creativity, a lot of it inebriated creativity, but some of it genius creativity, plus plenty of damn fine creativity, and all of it inspirational. It does do something to you to be surrounded by that much creativity. And the hustle-bustle of Edinburgh when it's full of performers getting their shindig on certainly feels like something. You do feel part of something larger, that drop-in-the-bucket feeling, yes, but you know you love the bucket.

At Burning Man, there is no way you can see/experience everything. You will hear about some amazing fur-lined trailer where virgins drool cucumber water into your belly button to a chorus of singing bowls, and you can't find the cross streets or someone says it moved or left or whatever it's finished you lose.

So you learn, at Burning Man, that whatever journey you're on, it's the right one to have. And you have your adventures and paths, and you realize that there is an infinite amount of paths that were probably equally awesome, and the one you were on was uniquely yours.

There are far more shows at Edinburgh than you can possibly see. You want to see a lot of shows, and your capacity to see them is compromised. So you become okay with your unique journey.

One dear flatmate of mine experienced at least two dead raw chicken bodies in two different shows she saw, and she realized that dead raw chicken bodies were a theme in her Edinburgh experience.

Themes in my Edinburgh experience: catchy music snippets, spotlights, tiny shorts, drag, tea, crying, weight-shifting, cobblestones, cobblestones, cobblestones.

WHY IT'S LIKE BURNING MAN: IT TAKES ALL KINDS!

There are people who get up early at Burning Man, and sleep at night. When I did my time in Black Rock City, I did not meet these people. But we all heard about them. Apparently, they all made pancakes for breakfast.

Just like that, there are a lot of different ways to do Edinburgh Fringe. I know I mentioned the omnipresence of Industry, but I met plenty of performers who gave a lot less of a fuck about it. Why they were so sang-frois? Because they come to Edinburgh Fringe every year, the way some kids go to summer camp. They bring a new show, new material, every year. In this way, they get good at the Beast, they have perspective about the Beast, and they are far more fun to hang out with than, say, me. Guess what else: they're all fricking British. Or a lot of them are. There are some toughass not-Brits who go every year, and they are epically heroic and inexplicable. But of course it's mostly Brits who go every year, because it's a fricking train ride away. Why shouldn't they go?

And just like that, they get to be better artists. A month'll do that to you. It's a really good system, that way. Brits are lucky to have a Hollywood Burning Man so close at hand.

WHY IT'S NOT LIKE HOLLYWOOD OR BURNING MAN:

A lot of people, myself included, wound up caring a whole lot about how many stars were printed next to reviews of our shows. Did I get loads of 5-star reviews? No I didn't. And I officially think stars should go fuck themselves.

I don't think I'd feel differently if I had 5-star reviews plastered all over my face like so much foundation. Stars are an insult to reviewers, artists and audiences. Who wants this rating system based on no generalized criteria and no objectivity? Doesn't everyone want readers to actually read the reviews? GET RID OF THOSE LITTLE BULLSHITS.

Alright I'm off the podium.

I don't think my show is the son of Christ, but I think it's good enough.

Edinburgh reminded me I have a lot of faith in it, and love it.

That's a nice thing to know.

Edinburgh is toughening; toughening is healthy. Yeah, okay, do Edinburgh. At some point.

When you love the shit out of your show and don't give a fuck who likes it, because you love the fuck out it. When you love your show so goddamn much you want to give it a big crazy present. When you want to marry your goddamn show, you are that much soul mates. It is you; you are it. It is a once-in-a-lifetime show for you. Maybe twice.

Pack those bags for August. It's almost the honeymoon. Forget the crappy moments, and go love your show into the sunset. I LOVE THE FUCK OUTTA YOU, SHOW, you'll whisper, I'MA GIVE YOU SOMETHING YOU NEVER FORGET.

Edinburgh Fringe: pretty good, overall. It might be worth checking out. Three stars.

MAKING A NEW SHOW TO GET THROUGH THE HOLIDAYS

I just created a new show. I started about 2 months ago.

It was not enough time. Then again, there is never enough time, and you can never start too early, and maybe you can never start too late. No, you can definitely start too late. I started a little too late, but it could've been way worse, and for that I am thankful.

My character is pretty seasoned. Not Don-Rickles-seasoned, but almost a decade in. Still love it and feel like it's home. My friend Emily "High-Kicks" Newton said it best. "I used to think playing a character was hiding yourself. But it's actually revealing yourself."

I still feel like that about Butt. So I thought, what the hell. Throw up a goddamn Xmas show. I hate Xmas. Butt hates Xmas. We both love to hate Xmas. What a great way to get through the holidays.

Except it was utter, utter hell. It was unspeakably, ridiculously un-pleasurable. Nothing is a bigger gift than having the opportunity and luxury to create a show, and yet I could not take proper pleasure in it because I was so nervous. Just a few sips too many on the cappuccino and I would go NUUUUUUTS. I'm not capable of doing this. I'm lazy. I don't have what it takes. It can't be done. It won't be done. Those who love me now will see it and instantly love me less, and it will signify the start of my decline as an artist and human.

I have now performed this new show, publicly, three times so far, twice for paying audience members. I am feeling slightly better about it. Here are the things that got me through:

1) I HAD GREAT OUTSIDE EYES. I worked with Chloe Ziner (Mind of a Snail) in Vancouver and Ember Knight of Webo Bagdad in Los Angeles. They are very different. Chloe is a shadow puppeteer, jammer, clown, bespectacled, jazzy Western Canadian. Ember is a punk rock voice-of-a-generation comedy-scholar. Both are extremely snappy dressers. Both are extremely supportive, great story-see-ers—they both have specific, clear eyes and pure hearts. They are both coming at the work totally selflessly and in the service of the truth. I am very lucky to work with both of them.

3) I USED VIDEO. Don't get me wrong; I also fucked up using video. One of my first breakthrough rehearsals, I thought I was recording, I was not recording. Nonetheless, I prevailed, and video did happen several times in the process, and it helped me support Chloe and Ember in outside-eyeing me.

4) I BREATHED. I did breathing meditation. Breathing meditation is so far the only one I can really do, and it's life-changingly good. I do it lying on the floor of my dressing room covered in a coat, listening to a guided meditation on my phone. My first night in Bellingham, I would have lost my shit entirely if it weren't for the breathing meditation.

5) I'VE ALSO DISCOVERED THIS THING CALLED TRE. Tension and Trauma Release Exercise. Pretty simple. Just make yourself convulsively shake from your core. It's pretty much like giving yourself a massage from the inside. I might have to get certified in this shit; it's like that. That helped a lot too.

6) SELF-CARE BITCHES. This is a shout out to all my gurlz. This is to all the little gurlz out there with dreams, and enough pluck and spunk to make it happen. We work hard! You hear that voice in your head that keeps screamin, 'yer lazy'? Well, you're probably not. In a few cases, sure, maybe you are. But mostly you're just hard on yourself. Give yourself a goddamn bath. Put nice oil on. Juice, for godsake. Juice.

You're going to get it done. Lookit me. When all's said and finished, I put on a show, and nobody walked out. Granted, they're very nice in Bellingham. And for the LA show, I gave them all mulled wine and cheesesticks. But still, bitches. I got it done.

And I learned a lot. I begin to feel the momentum of the thing, and the spine of the show becomes a dragon that I am just learning how to ride, and it's fun, now that I'm up here, and feel less afraid. Okay, cool. Now comes the more fun part, the editing and sculpting and discovering part. Okay, cool. Not so bad anymore. Could be okay. Could be fun.

It's not always pretty, but you can get it done. 

READER REQUEST CORNER

hey Deanna I had an idea of something you might share on the blog. It's something that really inspired me from watching you this summer - specifically how you have never given up on Butt and persevered through the many iterations the concept had gone through, including all the times when it must have felt at a dead end. I have found it so difficult to find where to go with something once created and after the initial success or failure. Kinda like once something is created and a little bit established as itself there's a wasteland of what to do next. Maybe this is something only I feel but I think it happens to a lot of creators, losing momentum or confidence in the initial spark. Anyway I thought I'd suggest it since I don't think anyone talks about it.

I take requests for this blog. This one comes from my friend Jonathan.

Jonathan and I met when I had just found Butt Kapinski, about 9 years ago. I found Butt on a street corner in New York City. I was wearing my trenchcoat, as I did, because I was a big noir freak, and I said out loud, "It wath a dawk thtweet," invoking the speech impediments I had as a child, the ones my family continued to pull out whenever anyone wanted to say something funny. And as soon as I did it, I literally felt like YES! THIS! I'VE GOT IT!

I brought it to the clown class I was in at the time. I was so excited. The teacher watched with a furrowed brow, and then said, "Hmm. I don't think it's Clown." Over the years I've replayed that moment many times, and thought about all the things I wish I'd said to that teacher. But then I just say fuck it and have a bath.

Last summer, I got one particularly lame review in Edinburgh, from a "legitimate" theatre reviewer. One of his critiques was that I "leaned heavily on the audience for laughs." My whole thing is audience inclusion. I set audience members up to get laughs for the funny and awesome things they say and do. So this reviewer was 100% right that I was doing that, but he just didn't happen to think that it was a cool thing to do. Or, you know how that old saying goes: Hmm, I don't think it's Clown.

The point is, Jonathan, that every step of the way, there are stupid obstacles and critiques and bullshit. And if what you are doing is what you MUST do, you will not give a good goddamn what anybody says. You just won't. And if you find yourself listening to the I-Don't-Think-It's-Clown's (or IDTIC's) of the world, then probably you don't love your thing enough.

I don't feel like I'm helping. I think that building a character or a show takes a lot of single-mindedness and the kind of crazy commitment that feels deep and instinctual, like parenting. And if you don't have that feeling for a project, you don't have it. And if you do have it, then it isn't about "persevering." You don't even notice you are persevering. You're just doing what needs to be done.

That said, there are very few people who go it alone. Most shows and projects need an outside eye, or a team, folks to helm the ship, and push through those moments of IDTIC. Because we all have moments of doubt.

And here's another crazy thing I've noticed: put money into a thing, and you'll stick with it. I've started a few projects with friends, you know, just messing around, and they've all died in the water. Put your cold hard cash where your art is, and it'll be less easy to let go of.

So that's my solution to your dilemma, Jonathan: cash and craziness. 

THE GLORY OF A FOUR-PERSON CLASS

So, to be 100% honest with you, when I'm in LA I give workshops in my bedroom.

It is a very big room. It isn't exactly my bedroom. My bedroom has archway, an entrance, in the middle of it, so there's one room that is my actual bedroom: it has my bed and dresser and dentist lamp, and during the workshops, chairs and one big exercise ball.

(Just for the record, I recommend sitting on balls when one needs to sit. In my next workshop all of my students will sit on exercise balls when they have to sit, and they will bounce whenever they want to).

The "studio" part of the bedroom is empty except for wood floor, big mirror and a few lamps for lighting. It is about 8x10, not a huge playing area, but some comedy stages are way smaller.

Most of my workshops there have been 6-ish. Last night I started a new 4.

Don't get me wrong, the teacher-phallus in me wants BIG CLASSES with lots of Students Giving me that Big Phat Cash. But fuck that teacher-phallus, you know? I teach big enough classes elsewhere. Big classes are great for being able to work out your shit in front of something that feels more like an audience. But in terms of training the subtleties of your audience dynamics, small classes are the thing. Because each audience member counts so goddamn much. There are only 4 people watching you, goddammit, and if they're not at least having a good time then what the fuck are you doing in this art form? Of course everyone can make 4 people laugh, right?

Total wrong. It's a different way of working. It's hard; it's a rich starting place. There's way more elasticity between you and specific other people. It is an intense community (might I add, in my bedroom, not exactly, but kind of). If you are one with an intense community like that, and give back to it and nurture it in the Naked Comedy way, you will be able to create that dynamic in every room you're in. Guess what, YOU'll bring the nakedness, the community, the bedroom, the dream of intimacy among strangers united in love and laughter. Every room will drool over you. It's good to work this way.

And it's good to work this way as a facilitator. I get to really fine tune. I can work with one student on developing his physical instrument, and another on forgiving her audience, and another on finding bolder choices, and another on exploring her inner disgustingness, all in the same class. We need this kind of super-specific, tailor-made pedagogy, each of us, like the small child in the educational model of Enlightenment philosophe Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who walks arm in arm with his tutor in the woods, touching all the flora. It is a fierce wild thing, this comedy beast, and the closer knit our knights can be, the better we can all conquer and ride it into the sunset. Or at least onto Sunset. It's nice to be in LA, for a minute.

HOME IS WHERE YOUR LAPTOP IS

In three days, it will be exactly 6 months since I left my home to go On The Road. In case anyone was wondering, this tour is too long.

I didn't plan to be On The Road this long, but here I am. Now I'm in the Yukon. In August it was Edinburgh. In June it was Philadelphia. So it went, so it goes. At some point, I'm pretty sure it was September. I miss my cats, I miss my workout routine, my spices and my loose leaf teas. I miss my pillow, my sock drawer, and that settled, fresh feeling of knowing I have a clean-ish towel, and enough yogurt, and staples and postage stamps and printer cartridges in all the right places.

This is a new feeling, these Road Blues, and like I said, it's a product of this particular stretch of Road being too damn long. But this feeling is preventing me from being able to think ahead clearly to what the rest of my year can/could/should look like, because I don't want to plan any more tours, I just want to hole up in my sock drawer and stay put.

Lately I've been thinking a lot about what defines home. I remember summer 2014, I was in Calgary, complaining to some fellow artist friends about the state of my car.

"My car is a holocaust," I said. "Not a real Holocaust, of course, but obviously I must feel like it's pretty messy if I'm using the word holocaust right? Wow, things have gotten pretty bad in my car."

"Ha ha," said my fellow artist friends. All but Chase Padgett, who slowly shook his head.

Chase is a man who has seen his share of The Road. His eyes, great blue beams of truth, locked into mine. "Your car is your HOME," he said. "It's your HOME." And he said home not like someone might toss it off like hum, NO, he said it like hOHM, like hOHM Shanti Shanti. Like meditative NEXT-LEVEL shit, like SERIOUS zen serious meditative wearing robes and sitting on pillows shit, like NO JOKE. It wasn't funny anymore. Chase wanted me to understand in that moment that when you are on the Road, what counts as home changes, and you better hang tight and take good care of the slice of something-resembling-a-home that you DO have. Or else.

To extend Chase's metaphor, your car, your suitcase, your body, your mind: these are your only home on the road. You lose control of these things, you're homeless. And everyone knows that being homeless sucks. You can euphemism that shit and call yourself home-free, but that feeling of hOHM is essential to your mental and physical health; you cannot leave home without it.

I am not perfect at being At-Home on the road. But I am working on it. Thanks, Chase. Next time you go On The Road, maybe you'll let me watch you pack.

WAY, WAY BIG: NOTES FROM EDINBURGH FRINGE #1

It is 21 days since the 2015 Edinburgh Fringe ended. It's been 17 days since I left the Scottish beef farm yurt. The following was written in the middle of my first Edinburgh Fringe experience. 

It is 11 days since I arrived in Edinburgh. I think it's been a week since I've been performing here. I'm not positive about things like "time" or "days of the week."

Pretty much every day is show day. Often, there's another 10 min. performance or thing I've got to do. I'm getting into costume at least once a day, usually twice. I'm lugging my backpack and corpse-sack around town, cautiously navigating century-old cobblestones that like to play games with the concept of Level. I'm icing my left heel at night. I am getting almost the amount of sleep that I need; or maybe I need less sleep, somehow. I wake up without the alarm, heart already beating faster than usual.

I don't always understand what Scottish taxi drivers say to me, even when they're being super friendly and polite.

I am not flyering as much as I should. I should be out flyering for a few hours a day. If I were doing that, I would probably have bigger houses. I am generally satisfied with the size of my houses... and the day after I wrote that last sentence, I actually had too many people. And I didn't flyer at all. So who knows.

At other festivals I've been to, I have been alone and I've made many great new friends. At this festival, I am sharing a flat with good friends, and that means most of my socializing is done at home, cozy-like, and not necessarily out meeting people. I do not think the festival is so warm and friend-making at this stage in the game, though, so I definitely think I played this one right. I hear that in a week or so everyone will chill out and start making friends. But right now we all have our heads so far up our own asses that it's hard to see the possible new friends surrounding us at all times.

Flyers are everywhere. They collect in the streets, wedging their way into cobblestones, trodden upon by passers-by. They are the graphic-designed dreams of thousands, lovingly constructed to present hopeful souls and their art projects, hocking the experience theatregoers are sure to have if they follow that flyer to its intended destination.

Sometimes at my show people arrive with their flyers in their hand, and I have the feeling that these flyers are homing pigeons, safe at last.

I am doing okay emotionally, thanks for asking. But I don't recommend this festival to anyone who hasn't had loads of therapy or is armed with mood stabilizers. It's just too damn big, and there is no way to not feel like a lil' ol' drop in the bottomless well of needy actors. Or maybe there is a way, but I've got a pretty unique show and a fantastic publicist, and I still feel pretty goddamn small. So don't ask me what the way is.

I get excited to do my show about 3 minutes before I start. Before that, I am tired. But the show itself remains fun, most of the time. Sometimes there are moments in my show when I'm checking in with myself wondering, am I in this moment enough? And then I can get back into it, usually deeper than before. But my energy does need careful watching, because it's hard to keep a big boner for a show you've done daily for almost 2 weeks now, and will be doing for another 2 weeks.

I think I will crawl in bed pretty soon. I have no internet at my flat, and that sucks, frankly. I have "Pitch Perfect" on my computer, but I've watched it too many times, I think. I just can't justify watching it again. And what else do I have? "Back To The Future" (seen it too much) and a copy of one of my shows from Winnipeg. NO THANKS. I think I'll be going to bed and just breathing.

... stay tuned for post-month-recovery reflections! thank you for reading!!