Dancing in the Streets, Literally

Years ago I taught improv at my synagogue every now and then, on Sunday mornings. If the holiday was Purim, the kids and I would play games about kings and queens and whatever else came to mind. A favorite moment was acting out stories about King David in the marketplace when this boy Maurice said he wanted to play a detective in the scene. I remember being so charmed by his unabashed desire to be a secret agent no matter what century we were in. (This memory is made all the more poignant since Maurice died of a brain tumor a couple of years ago as a young teenager.) There was also a girl named Lea in the class and she was dramatic and rebellious, full of mischief.

Fast forward about ten or so years. This past Friday afternoon I ran into Lea and her mom sitting outside the Dairy Queen, eating ice cream. It was gray out, muggy, mid-afternoon. I was due back at my desk at World Headquarters, Lea had a physics test to take at school and her mom was also heading back to work. Everything felt so sluggish, like we could have all laid down for naps right then and there.

When I asked what’s new, Lea said she was going to be on the news in a short clip showing her dancing in scenes from West Side Story accompanied by the University of Wisconsin-Madison band.

I said, “Oh phooey, I won’t be home to see the news. Will you show me the dance right here, right now,” She said, “Sure,” and set her ice cream cone on the table.

She then proceeded to dance parts of “America,” “Cool,” “Dance at the Gym” and “Maria” on the sidewalk. Complete with turns, jumps, plies, releves, hip swivels and snapping. Right in front of me. I mean, gosh. This tall, gorgeous, strong young woman was dancing the original choreography. In all of her glory. With poise and sparkle. I had asked so casually and had no idea I’d be rewarded with a small concert right then and there.

It felt like that scene in Fame, the movie about the arts high school, when the kids poured into the streets of New York City, dancing on top of and around all the cars, stopping traffic. Even though it was one dancer on the sidewalk in the Midwest, Lea stopped me in my tracks.

I woke up after that. Her brilliance, her boop boop dee doo was contagious and spilled all over me.

I couldn’t stop beaming.

Could it be that we are all walking around ready to burst into song and dance, some of us more readily than others? What if we simply asked each other? If someone asked you to set your ice cream cone on the table and show off what you’re passionate about, what would you do?

Why We Laugh and Why That Matters

I fight being funny. I resist being labeled that way. I avoid checking off the box or describing myself as a humorous motivational speaker. (I could honestly throw up from that title.) And yet. And still. Humor is a big part of how I move through the world, how I filter things, how I get the message across, whatever the message might be. Sigh… I guess it’s a good problem to have, being thought of as a funny person. But—the first thing that comes to my mind when I hear someone say that I’m funny, or refer to me that way, is a child’s voice that cries out, while stamping her foot: “Yeah, I might be funny but dammit, I’m also deep and profound!!" (It’s obviously a child who knows how to swear.) As if being funny is mutually exclusive from being smart and sharp and insightful. Not!

Years and years ago in a bio for a project I wrote: humor has been my raft and my armor. That still rings true. Humor is what helps me get through, get by, get around, get over things and people. Humor allows me to float. And it’s also my armor, and a way to deflect and protect myself from feeling anything, from digging around on the inside. Ah, the perks of sarcasm. As with any skill set, I can use it for good or evil. (It’s a simplistic way to boil it all down, I know, but still, I have a cape and some tights, so why not?)

In 1995 I moved across the country to study with Anna Halprin at the Tamalpa Institute. It was the most extreme thing I’ve ever done. What a wild ride. I did learn something that changed my life forever as a performer. I learned to think of the people who come to see the work as ‘witnesses’ instead of as ‘the audience.’ For me, there is a huge, vast difference between thinking about people showing up to receive the work vs. people coming to watch or judge what’s being offered. The difference is that the first perspective allows me to feel connected.

And for me, little old me, that’s what it all comes down to: being connected. Yesterday, I read this and it reverberated in my core DNA: Real humor has little to do with telling jokes and everything to do with connecting with others.

People ask me all the time what I do. The truth is that I help people connect with themselves and each other. This is no small feat. We spend an awful lot of time looking out and resist reaching in. And what in the heck does it mean to reach in anyway and why does that matter? All I know is that if I’m doing my job well as a speaker or trainer or coach, people are engaged and connected to each other in a way that they weren’t before we began working (or playing) together. There is always laughter involved. And laughter changes things. It requires deeper breathing. Our molecules rearrange themselves differently when we laugh. Tight things loosen up. Loose things go flying. We are changed by laughing at ourselves and laughing with each other. The armor melts. You can’t stay separate if you are laughing. Or not for very long. Trust me on this one. We are different after we’ve laughed because we're connected.

A big part of my job is making people play. Oy! Who has time? There’s so much email to read and so many blogs to read (ahem) and we must watch our stocks and annuities. Sometimes I tell people that I am going to ‘make’ them play. Sometimes I just slip it in under the radar. Adults get a little twitchy if you tell them they’re going to have to play a bit in order to learn something new or stop repeating the same old same old. It’s a conundrum. But then we play and then there’s laughter and people defrost or get wiggly or find themselves and their hearts pried open. And trust is built. And we connect with one another emotionally and that is how and when true learning and change takes place.

[I will now take down my inflatable podium.]

Here is a photograph of my father helping my mother onto a fake horse in front of the Kodak museum in Rochester, New York. (She has her hand on her tush to cover a spot on her pants.) From the moment I said, "Hey, help her onto the horse," we were hysterical.

So, why do we laugh?

Well, I think we laugh because we are unsure of ourselves. Or embarrassed. Or we are afraid. Or we think we're pretty funny. Or we make a mistake and get busted. Or someone else makes a mistake. Or we think other people are quite entertaining. Or we don't want to show any other emotions and laughter is the easiest one to express. Or we laugh with relief when someone (finally) speaks the truth. We laugh when it comes to risk—either before we’re about to take one, or in the middle of taking a risk, or afterwards when we notice what we did. We laugh when we notice. Or we laugh because of what Joni Mitchell said: "laughing and crying you know it's the same release." We laugh because we are delighted. We laugh because it's what distinguishes us from the rest of the animal kingdom. We laugh because we are wired to chortle. And we laugh because sometimes the pain gets so big.

Show Some Emotion

"I have perceiv’d that to be with those I like is enough,
To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough,

I do not ask any more delight—I swim in it, as in a sea."

Walt Whitman, "I Sing the Body Electric"

So my buddette, my improv guru, my Bunny girl was in town and one gray morning we went to Mother Fool's for some hot chocolate with her dear friend Gilly (pictured on the left).

We were all kind of tired and blah and did I mention it was gray outside?

And then...
Until...
I fired up my cell phone camera and simply said something like, "You are so excited to be here you can hardly stand it" and immediately they struck a pose. They were game. They woke up. In the spirit of all terrific scene partners, they didn't think or argue or comment or do anything but say YES. And then they posed. And since we live in 2008, a world of instant feedback, we viewed the photo immediately. And they giggled delightedly.

Well. This was the beginning of our 'photo shoot.' I tossed out different emotions—confused, angry, afraid, etc... for more posing. The ennui disappeared, as did the hot chocolate. Some of the kazillion poses:



After we tired of that 'kind' of posing I suggested hand posing and tossed out ideas such as, "You're in a haunted house and just heard a funny sound," or "You are Rockettes, dancing at Radio City Music Hall."



And then some foot posing! Yes, indeed, foot posing. Why limit expressiveness to just faces or hands? More scenarios and premises. None of us quite remember what they were, but just by looking at the photos I think perhaps there were suggestions about fleeing, best friends, bravery, shyness.



Who knew that four feet could reveal so much emotion? (Not this pony.)

Then we put our socks and boots back on, bundled up, drove back to Gilly's house singing, making up songs about the sun and the weather, wailing, screeching loudly, laughing, laughing, laughing all the way home.

4 Wigs, 3 Macaroni Sculptures & a U.S. Senator

So who was sitting in the front row of my recent performances of Oy & Joy to the World but Russ Feingold, U.S. Senator extraordinaire. I mean, really.

There I was taking off wigs, adding a boa, playing my $1.26 guitar I bought on ebay (and paid $35.00 to ship) all the while thinking, look what I do for a living and look what you do for a living.

Throughout the entire show I kept wondering: Does Russ think this is funny? Is Russ having a good time? Is Russ going to do the singalong at the end about making art?

All six shows were packed, wild and juicy. People showed up expecting to be entertained and boy oh boy, were they ever. Each audience has its own vibe and flavor, making the improvised segments the most fun. A highlight: a man asked Pet Psychic Zelda Goosebump why his goldfish would only swim backwards and Zelda suggested he try standing near the bowl with a mirror.

When Russ yawned I got nervous and worried that I wasn't exciting enough. Then I remembered that he shuffles way more paper than I do and he could be just a tiny bit fatigued due to his ginormous workload.

What a week. Six sold-out shows at a Chinese restaurant where the staff who work in the back—which is where I hang out—only speak Chinese and look at me funny in my purple hair and turquoise boa.

My favorite part: After hanging up the theatre lights I set up the coatrack with all of my props—including but not limited to— 4 wigs, 2 hats, 1 boa—and then stood in the back of the room, looked at the scene, and thought, "What an odd and unique way to make a living." I thought of the women whom I admire, whose work inspired and continues to inform my own work: Carol Burnett, Gilda Radner, Lily Tomlin, and thought, "How blessed am I."

Happy New Year y'all.

Remote Control Theatre

Was just at the Denver Improv Festival.

My personal improv workout began before the official festival with my (BFF and) true improv teacher Liora. I’ve known her since she was two and have ‘studied’ improv with her from the moment we met: she was in a pink tutu and we were being chased, then hiding, pressed against a wall, eyes sparkling at each other as if our lives were on the line. She’s my soul sister, artistically, and always pushing me beyond my creative comfort zone.

One night after dinner Liora designed the remote control featured here. (Her family only watches TV if they’re watching a movie, FYI.) She then handed the remote to me, told me to announce which button I was pressing and proceeded to act out the various channels and scenarios ala the remote.

Sports included commentary as well as action (the Rockies were just going into the playoffs when I was visiting), Comedy involved lots of pratfalls and physical shtick, ‘Liora Main’ was a series of ‘my favorite color is, my favorite song is,’ etc… Other buttons included fast forward motion or reverse, with or without sound. I added the following ‘buttons’: Slow Motion, Gibberish, Tragedy (which involved a lot of fainting and falling on the floor) and Drama. Liora didn’t skip a beat, even as several buttons were pushed at the same time, such as: Sports/Slow Motion/Reverse or Comedy/Gibberish/Fast Forward or Tragedy/Silent.

She improvised kazillions of scenarios for about an hour. We (the adults) shifted from the table to the living room, Liora got ice cream sandwiches for us and also ate her own—and made everything part of her ‘scenes.’

I think of that line from the old Superman show: “Able to leap tall buildings at a single bound.” That's my girl: fearless, fierce—yet relaxed—while creating, while playing, while inventing.

What a pleasure to witness how Liora relishes the unknown, rolls around in it, takes suggestions and just transforms one idea to the next, with no room for insecurity or doubt or second-guessing. The remote control theatre experience just flowed.

Then it was my turn to act out the scenes as Liora took over the remote. It was tricky to switch gears so quickly. As with anything done well, she’d made it look soooo easy. Believe me, it wasn’t. But it was a good workout. After running through all of the buttons, Liora stayed on the Drama channel, calling out ‘switch’ when she was bored and wanted to see a new scene in the same genre. I improvised back-to-back stories about planting cotton, fires, a banjo, rocking chairs on a porch, heartbreak and disappointment, love gone awry and generic longing. That’s all I remember, as it’s all kind of a blur.

Needless to say, this remote control theatre experience made me fall in love with my sweet friend all over again. How did I get so lucky to find someone who has this much fun?

The Ultimate Travel Rewards

Early morning in Denver:
Cranky. Only three hours of sleep, not in a row. After passing through the metal detector at the airport I redress, reshoe, repack, regroup so I can take the train to the terminal. And then, after stepping off the fifth escalator of the morning I see standing before me a young girl in a white floor-length dress, wearing a silver tiara with a big blue jewel in the center, silver glitter shoes and purple mardi gras beads. It never even occurred to me to travel as a princess or a fairy, yet here is this lovely creature, at dawn, waiting for the train, holding her father's hand. I soften, immediately.

On the plane:
I’m seated next to a young man who is movie star good looking, with eyes that the camera would love in repeated close-ups. He’s wearing a tan turtleneck sweater with socks and loafers that match. I decide he is a secret agent. When the flight attendant comes over and informs us that we’re in the exit row and asks if we’d be willing to save every single person on the entire plane if there’s a problem, I’m a bit slow to respond. The secret agent says, “Yes,” very casually and I eventually grunt something along those lines. As the flight attendant walks away, I turn and ask, “What exactly did we just commit to?” The secret agent says, “Don’t worry, I’ve got your back,” and even though I’m buckled in and tired and bleary and older, I’m pretty sure I swoon.

We take turns napping. (Do I snore and drool? Probably.) The secret agent and I start a typical airplane conversation: I was in Denver teaching at the improv festival, he joined friends to run a marathon. One thing leads to another and my seat partner of the dark curly hair and big dark eyes is sharing where he is in the age line-up of five siblings. He tells me this story: how his parents jumped through all of the complicated hoops to adopt a daughter. For an entire year—paperwork, home visits, etc… Then, the day they went to pick up their new daughter, while at the foster parents’ home, they find out about, and meet, their new daughter's younger sister. And as he gets to this part of the story, my seat mate gets teary and starts crying as he tells me that his parents refused to leave without taking both girls, that a judge had to be called off a golf course somewhere to approve the decision, and how his parents came to get one daughter and left with two. He is a little embarrassed that he still cries as he tells the story, that it still moves him, that he is amazed by his parents’ compassion. It’s such an intimate moment between us, this revelation. I touch the back of my hand against the back of his hand and look away. When I look back he is trying to regain his composure. I lean over and say, softly, “It’s a big deal, what they did. It’s a sign of life that you are still touched so deeply all these years later by what happened. Good for you.”

If you pull on the right thread in a conversation, sometimes you get lucky.

The airlines will not grant me any extra literal miles for these two specific moments, yet the internal mileage provided for my heart are infinite.

It's a 'Woof' Thang

In the restaurant lobby waiting for my pals to arrive, I heard a woman at the bar exclaim in a loud voice, “Woof!!” I heard her say this a couple more times and thought, “Well, someone’s had a bit much to drink.” Sure enough, the Woof woman stumbled from her barstool into the lobby to greet a friend and while hugging him said, “It’s so great to see you—Woof!”

Soon Molly, Rebecca and I were seated at a table near the bar, near the Woof woman, who continued punctuating her conversation with repeated Woofs. When she finally wobbled out of the restaurant, everyone started imitating her. Woofs were bursting from all corners of the room. (Here a woof, there a woof, everywhere a woof woof.)

The three of us wondered: is the Woof woman using Woof as punctuation, or as a way to emphasize good sentiments or bad? We weren’t sure, we couldn’t tell. But we were curious.

We decided to try out a bunch of Woof variations ourselves. But then we’d forget about our experiment until one of us would respond to something with an excited ‘Woof!’ or a somber ‘Woof.’

‘Woof’ became a shorthand for us, a way to respond without having to use many other words, as ‘Woof’ pretty much summed it up most of the time and became the go-to phrase of the night.

We kept finding ways to insert a ‘Woof’ every now and then, no matter what we were discussing. Together—with our group mind, our creative collective—we invented so many more ‘Woof’ variations than I ever would have on my own.

That’s the gift of working as an ensemble.

People say to me all the time, “I could never do what you do—that improv stuff, where you make things up on the spot.” Ah, but we all do it all the time. Case in point: Woof!!

All improv scenes involve a who/what/where. So if you're with friends, having dinner in a restaurant, the scene is set.

All you'd need then is a suggestion from the audience.

We got ours without having to ask and it was "Woof!"