Getting Lost on Purpose

My own theory about comedy is this: what makes for good humor is when you take the banal and mix it with something kooky, like mowing a lawn made of Jello or take something kooky and combine it with something banal, like being fired from a cannon while using your wireless device to determine the arc and rate of the projectile so you can let the ambulance folks know exactly where to show up.

It’s all about the surprise element. About not being predictable.

I’ve lived in Madison for over 25 years and know the lay of the land by heart: Streets, lakes, stores, houses, etc. Getting around town happens habitually. However, there are some woods near where I live and I’ve been walking there lately. I never quite know where I’m going or where I’ll end up. It's such a luxury to have lived here for so long and still be able to get lost, to "not know" something in the middle of all things familiar.

Now I'm starting to recognize the thick stone steps that look like they lead to a castle, the tree that bends across the entire path, the funky bridge, the hilltop vista that reminds me of a wall-sized photo I once saw in Paris.

But right now everything is new and I have to pay attention. I can’t zone out or drift into thinking about other things. I have to be present. This is trickier than it sounds. As my character Helvi says, "There's a lot going on in the world, the country, the community and especially in our own heads, which is where we spend most of our time!"

The more I walk in the woods the sooner the mystery will fade and everything will become known. It's okay. Walking, listening to music, feeling the chilly autumn air on my skin is all good. Until I memorize the trails I revel in not knowing where I’m going. I love the 'not knowing.' It wakes me up to my world.

Uproar in Aisle 3: The Cohen Family

My parents are characters. They are funny, goofy, tender, smart, kind, animated and hard-of-hearing. (Not necessarily in that order.) This summer they drove up from Florida and spent a few weeks in a condo near Chicago. It was an empty condo with sparse-to-no furnishings. Instead of buying a couch for the den, they decided to buy chaise lounge chairs. Their logic: we can sit and watch TV, read, and then—-when we need to nap—-we can just lie back and voila! (Or, as my mother says, Wah-lah!)

We go to Target to buy the chaise lounge chairs. One thing leads to another and we get stuck in the chairs, caught in them, opening one end while the other end collapses and visa versa. Very Marx Brothers. We begin laughing uncontrollably, loudly, shrieking, with tears running down our faces so that my father has to hold onto a shelf to keep his balance and my mother wobbles around in the aisle holding her stomach. I need to change my pants when we get home. We are a noisy family when we’re having fun.

We are loopy. Utterly and totally wild in the moment. The louder we laugh, the less we are able to get a grip. I absolutely love that we went to get chaise lounge chairs and ended up crying with contagious laughter—-shoulders shaking, knees weak.

We are loud and noisy wherever we are. What's true is that it's normal to laugh uncontrollably, to be raucous, to be the one people are looking at when they're trying to figure out where all that noise is coming from anyway.

What’s challenging and scary for me, what’s outside my own comfort zone is being quiet and still. It's never my first choice to be subtle. Yet I try. There are moments when I know it would be easier to make a joke, do some modern dance, or howl for instance, but I don't. It's awkward and uncomfortable. I also know that if I'm willing to stretch, to slow down and take my time, it's how I grow.

And so.

Here is a photo of Robin and Harvey. My mother said the same thing all summer while lying indoors on her lounge chair: I hope we don’t get sunburned!! That line never failed to crack us up. People ask me, "What are your parents like?" And I say, "They’re like me, only more so."