Skip to the End.

Last Tuesday evening, Jansen and I took a stroll through Uptown, awaiting to hear whether or not our big city improv training impressed the brains behind Six Ring Circus. The conversation turned to Hippie Girlfriend.

Jansen officially gave her seal of approval, and as much as she was shocked that someone this cool was dating me, she was even more surprised that I was dating her. I agreed that it was the unlikeliest of matches, but we had something that worked. More than that, I confessed that Hippie Girlfriend was hands down, the coolest and best relationship I've ever been apart of.

I wasn't aware of it at the time, but I guess due to the position of the sun, I was casting four shadows on the street below.

Thursday morning is when I got the text that said, "I have a lot on my mind, can we get a drink after you're done with work?" which is text message for "We need to talk" which is girl for "You need to stop calling."

Hippie Girlfriend is now just a hippie. (That's a term of affection, she's really not a hippie...or my girlfriend anymore for that matter)

I won't get into any detail except to say that it was sudden and unexpected, like one of those car crashes that happens three or four times every season of Lost.

I wish I could tell that there's no hard feelings between the two of us, but if I'm being honest, there are. Again, using the car accident metaphor, things are hurt, broken, smashed in, and need to be repainted. Not to mention that my eyebrows are going to start growing together again. There will come a day when there'll be no hard feelings, but that day is not Monday.

Silver linings include the finest hour my improv group 7:22 has ever seen. Partly because I told them that last week's set was so bad, Hippie Girlfriend left me. Mostly however, due to the fact that for the first time our group had been together, we were all on the same page, paragraph and word with what needed to happen. In fact, in creating our faux-sitcom scenarios, we (By which I mean, me) accidentally created a real one.

Due to the break-up, and the knowledge that my dad whisked away to the Bahama's to marry a woman with a tramp stamp, I actively made a choice not to have an angry character. I was angry enough already, so I used that energy to create someone positive, likable, and apparently Australian.

It was some of the most fun I've had improvising. The last set I was that proud of took place the night after the Joshtober-Fest that ruined my life. Katie suggested that perhaps I should have a horrible week before every set, to which I replied, "I kinda' already do."

After the set, I decided to buy a beer for everyone in the cast as we went over notes. I purchased four beers, and turned around to see Amanda, my High school, ummm, I want to say crush, but obsession is probably more accurate, and how the courts would describe it.

We hugged. She praised. I pretended I didn't agree with the praise, but secretly I thought she was underselling us. She asked if my mom was at the show. She wasn't.

"What about your girlfriend? I want to meet her!"

"Yeah, we, uh, broke up this weekend."

"Oh, no," she said as looked down and saw me clutching four beers in my two hands. "Not taking it well?"

"These are for the team! We're celebrating!"

She believed that....I think.

See, look at that, getting right back on that awkward horse already.

Sigh...

Hi, I'm Martin Blank, you remember me? I'm not married, I don't have any kids, but I'd blow your head off if someone paid me enough.

LESSONS LEARNED AT MY TEN-YEAR REUNION:

1. Sure, I was dragging my feet in deciding to to check "Yes" in the well-sent in advance invite, but I had my reasons! After all, I'm a hitman completely detached from society and afraid of confronting of my last remaining shred of humanity in the form of my high-school sweetheart, whom I ditched on the night of our senior Prom. There's also the fact that the lives of my best friend and I are not as super-awesome as we thought, so we planned on purchasing business suits and epically huge mobiles and claiming one of us invented Post-Its, while the other decided to make them yellow. And on top of all that, my old high school band, The Darnells, want me to perform with them onstage, but I'm worried that everybody will make fun of how fat I've gotten. My wife Harriet has a fool-proof diet that'll help me out, but it won't get to the core of my real problem: Stage fright. Of course, I may be confusing all my problems for not wanting to go with the plots of movies and one episode of Family Matters, but all reasons are just excuses, and the real reason is that everybody is nervous about attending these things. And there you go.
2. Indecision leads to getting scheduled at work when you should've had the forthright to take the night off well in advance, and that ends up pissing you off. However, it all ends up being a cosmic lesson, since the wedding you're scheduled to bar tend is wall-to-wall Preggo's, and you make it to the reunion in time for dinner anyhow. So, you know, make up your mind quicker...if you have time.
3. While it's been ten years, fill a room with alumni of your high school and tables, they will only see the cafeteria, and place themselves accordingly. The cliques you thought long since passed will emerge once again, despite the fact that we're just a buncha' a-holes with debt now.
4. Much like the real-life President, our class President has no business speaking in public.
5. While I can speak publicly, oftentimes I shouldn't, because I'll end up joking about the many stabbings that take place at Time Out in Blaine, directly after someone just won a gift certificate to Time Out in Blaine.
6. Everybody vocally wondered why I wasn't famous yet. Several times. In varying degrees of awkward social situations.
7. While most reunions will have contests like "Who's Been Married the Longest?" They really want to be having contests like "Who's Had the Most Marriages?" Those contests are held in secret at every one's table.
8. Just because there's a twelve-year-old DJ, don't mean anybody gonna' bust a move.
9. Michael Phelps has the ability to make the world stop. Don't tell me that guy's not a supervillain. Why a villain? Have you ever seen a superhero with a male Butter Face?
10. Though well known in high-school, I thought it was for all the wrong reasons, and I never considered myself popular. Apparently, there were groups of people who considered me a part of the popular group. I took that as a compliment, and not a horrible judge of who the popular people were.
11. I was making fun of my Waterama friends for being busted on the "I bet you don't even know my name!" encounter. I mocked and told them they deserved it. Apparently, I deserved it as well.
12. I have no idea what the hell I was writing about in my Senior Will back in 1998. I'm sure it was fairly hilarious at the time, but the only incidents that I still had vivid memories about involved nudity. You always remember the naked people.
13. There are so many fucking babies now. Literal ones, not metaphorical.
14. Though everyone still pretty much stuck around, you can tell we all intended on partying hard in Blaine that evening, as we all called our Moms at one point asking if we could couch in our old room/couch/floor of the computer room where we would later pass out.
15. If getting a cab isn't an option, it's good to have a buddy who's a cop. A buddy that's an off-duty cop.
16. You can tell he's off-duty, because he does nothing when a man breaks a bottle over the head of another man at the table next to you. Apparently, it was too crowded at Time Out in Blaine.
17. Our Facebook friendship requests have sky-rocketed!
18. After drinking all night with your nearly thirty-year-old classmates, it's not wise to bitch about your hangover at work the next day by saying, "I feel like I'm still drunk." Because the passage that will hold resonance with your co-workers and superiors is "I'm still drunk."

All in all, the reunion was an unexpectedly great time, and I look forward to creating excuses about not going, but eventually attending at the last minute the fifteen year, with even more babies and second and third marriages.

"So what do you want to do, bonehead? Just sit around and wait to see who drops next?" "I don't know...Phonehead!"

Technology has made us seventy percent more 'tarded.

Case in point: the other morning* as I was leaving Hippie Girlfriend's new apartment in yet another neighborhood where you have to walk outside using your car keys as faux adamantium claws, I realized that I left my cellular telephone on her nightstand**.

No problem, I can just call her later and inform her. Only...I have no idea what her phone number is. I have no idea what anyone's phone number is. The only phone number I know off the top of my head is my Joyce, my babysitter, and she's been in heaven for five years, and I haven't needed babysitting for three.

The Contacts feature has ruined me for phone numbers. I used to be able to recite phone numbers as if they were the alphabet, but my brain capacity can only hold whichever speed dial I assign them, and I'm pretty sure Hippie Girlfriend's number isn't really four.

Fine, Plan B. I'll e-mail her. Only...she just moved. She has no internets yet.

Holy crap, Plan C. I'll just wait until she's almost done with work, whatever that work may be, and wait outside her place. Only...I've been to the place once, and I only accidentally found my way the first time, because my new GPS seems to think getting within a three-block radius is good enough before it starts speaking Spanish or some shit.

She is officially off the grid. There is no reaching her. She could leave me that afternoon if she so chose, which is exactly the way I think she likes it. I'm gonna' have to track her by tasting dirt and surveying the broken twigs and leaves (And that's only if I were tracking her in a jungle setting)

But, before I could begin tracking her -- I had to survive the rest of my day. Forget all the important, life-altering phone calls I was inevitably receiving that afternoon, how was I going see my friends and family again?

Honestly, how the hell did people meet for dinner or drinks or golf in 1987? What did they do when they got there, and they didn't immediately see the person they wanted to see? How would they be able to find out if they were ten minutes away, or just sitting in the back corner behind the server's station? Did they just enter the meeting place and start screaming the name of their desired company? HOW DID THEY LIVE!?

In the brief instances I made contact with the outside world, being unreachable cancelled plans of both business and leisure. Setting up a specific time proved be too much, as we live in a society of "ish," as in "Let's get together about six-ish. Somewhere downtown-like. I'll twitter you the address, oh, and btw, funny status on Facebook."

I felt like that over-privileged dick in Into the Wild, only I was exiled to the stone ages, as opposed to being an ungrateful fuckwad that gets whats coming to him in the end.***

I needed to track down my phone. I'll admit it outright, I don't own the phone, the phone owns me. I had to find out what my girlfriend's phone number was.

I went with the Kevin Bacon approach, by calling a friend of hers, or the boss of her friend, or the friend of a friend that may have the phone number stored on their SIM card.

It was at this point I realized that when my cell phone rings, unless that name's already in my memory -- I screen. Why should anyone else be any different? (I don't do it cause I have some sense of importance, I just like the surprise of the voicemail. If the mystery number doesn't leave a voicemail, I will call the number and demand to know why.)

All was lost. I was never going to speak to my loved ones ever again. I would lose all jobs and opportunities, as one missed call throws me onto their "Dickhead Who's Too Good to Answer or Call Back" list. For all I knew, Hippie Girlfriend's scheme went exactly as planned, and she was well on her way to some Compost/Pot Farm, free of her underachieving shackles.

I had yet to try Plan Z. Calling my own phone. As I lay there dying, with my final gasp, I plug the only other number I have memorized into a borrowed mobile device, praying that somewhere, somehow, somebody was hearing the Sanford and Son theme, and realizing they have to answer that call, and not dance.

That's when I heard the sweet sound of Hippie-Girlfriend's voice: "Hello?"

"Oh, thank God! You answered the phone! ::slight pause:: Why the hell are you answering my phone?!?"

EPILOUGE
I did miss several calls that day, the only one of importance being my agency calling me to inform me the audition I woke up early and went to anyway was cancelld.

While I did have missed calls and texts into the double digits, most of them came from Justin, and most of them were of this variety:

"Did you see Tropic Thunder?"

"Don't you like me anymore?"

"This isn't Corey Anderson, call me back!"

"What did I do you?"

"Don't you like me anymore? God!"

"Let's talk, that's what best friends do!"

Had this been a Tennesse Wiliams play, I would've gotten home to find Justin, adorned in a torn wife-beater, screaming out my name in the rain.

*MOM APPROVED VERSION: the other day, just before dusk
** MOM APPROVED VERSION: on her chastity shrine
*** Why do you think the high school's put that book on the curriculum now?

No Mr. Connery, that's "Therapists," not "The Rapists"

My internets isn't as connected as I'd like it to be these days, so the only access to the world wide webs is when I steal some precious, precious bandwith, or wander into an Uptown coffee shop for as long as I can stomach the patchouli stank, therefore I'm forced to truncate a few entries into one, so here goes:

"The Game Show"
I always used to tell people that I'd simply just win the lottery when they asked what I do for money if I were to pursue a career in the arts (Which is a question I get less and less the closer I stagger to thirty, because...I guess I'm doing what I'll do for money) Of course, winning the lottery was never really the plan, merely a flight of fancy on par with what I would do with the power of invisibility*. No, the REAL plan was to win all the money on a game show.

Which is why I sat in a three-hour line at Mystic Lake Casino for Netflix and Who Wants to be A Millionaire's special Movie Week! I felt like I was an American Idol audition, but replace "singing ability" with "goofy looking bastard-ness."

We were hauled into a room where we were given two tests, the general knowledge test and the movie knowledge test. The MC then delivered the most specific and detailed instructions on how to handle a Scantron test I've ever heard, and in one case, helped someone spell their name. My confidence soared, as I knew how to do all of this, and have only misspelled my name once in my life*.

The tests themselves struck me as easy, especially the movie one. Finally, wasting my life would pay off. The general knowledge test went better than I thought as well, and any questions I didn't know, I would talk it over with Meredith Vieria in my head. Afterwards, a gentlemen beside me consulted his Iphone for all the questions we were unsure of, and I was pleased to see I had guessed about 85% of them correctly.

Then, the list of those who passed was presented, and my number was not among them. I'm not smart enough for Who Wants to Be A Millionaire.

The noose was about five knots deep when it was brought to my attention that it's never revealed what the producer's criteria is, however, when the end-product is a million dollars, who would you want sitting in the chair? The one that got all the test answers right, or the one who thought Megatron was the bad guy in The Godfather?

Alas, my never being wrong has screwed me again.

"The Book"
I recently finished I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell by self-proclaimed genius Tucker Max. I’ll let the back-flap of the book tell you what the pages within contain:

My name is Tucker Max., and I am an asshole. I get excessively drunk at inappropriate times, disregard social norms, indulge every whim, ignore the consequences of my actions, mock idiots and posers, sleep with more women then is safe or reasonable, and just generally act like a dickhead. But, I do contribute to humanity in one very important way: I share my adventures with the world.

I hate this douchebag. I want to punch him directly in his much beloved dick. Here are a few of my reactions to a book I truly hated, yet didn’t, or couldn’t stop reading:

1. I realize that hating a writer whose intention is to be hated is falling right into his hands, but I hate him for different reasons. When a personality has such a vulgar persona, it’s usually an act. That’s the routine, the show. I realize that. Yet there’s many that don’t. He’s playing to the lowest common denominator, and those little frat fucks are gonna’ worship the dude who bangs a fat chick on a bet, and then throws her clothes out the window so she’ll leave, or upon hearing the news that he impregnated a girl who at the same was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, he had to “fuck it out” with the girl he had in the next room, while the pregnant girl cried in his living room.

2. He’s a liar. It’s human nature to deny one’s true state. If we’re hurt, we act like we’re not. If we’re an alcoholic, we vehemently deny it. So anybody that claims to be something is either a liar, or has some other agenda to tend to. A person can’t claim themselves to be creative, that’s just going out of their way to let you know they think they’re clever. When a girl says she’s complex, she’s not complex, she just wants an excuse to be a C-word. And when a guy in a bar tells hundreds of stories about how awesome he is, because of how drunk he got, or who or what he laid, or how he put some “poser” in their place, he’s really an insecure twat keeping a running tallying of how people out there like him, while at the same time being the only person who truly doesn’t like him.

3. This blog turned book, which has itself become a new bullshit phrase called “blook,” cements my theory that assholes rule the world. Not because of his exploits, but because of his exploitation of his exploits. This is some spoiled brat, who was bored by law school, and decided he had a calling in becoming a terrible writer. Now, his bullshit stories are being idolized by the drunken masses, and he got a movie deal, and he never has to worry about money again.

For all my problems with the book, I still bought it, and I still read it, so the asshole wins. I’m kinda’ worried about the influence this book will have on me, so before I go make a fat girl cry, and then use her tears as lube so I can nail her until she pukes, then rub her face in it, and somehow make her apologize to me, I decided to read something a little less hyper-misogynistic and/or depressing.

Then, in the first five pages of my next book, the girl is raped, murdered and dismembered. This is the fuel I’m putting into my brain tank.

”The Tribute”
Summer of 2008 has not been kind to comedy. Harvey Korman. George Carlin. Bernie Mac. And though, not as widely known as all those, Minnesota has suffered its own loss in that of Joe Kudla aka Snot.

Puke and Snot are a comedy team that began their little vaudeville act at the Minnesota Renaissance Festival, and have become a stable of that festival ever since. Theirs was the first comedy routine that I memorized, from the lines, to the delivery, to the supposed flub that causes both actors to break into “unscripted” laughter. These guys were pros, Puke, the more suave of the two making him the mentor, and Snot, the funnier, sloppier, cruder protege.

I would also run into Snot, this time as Joe pretty regularly at Shaws Bar and Grill on the religion that was Wednesday night karaoke. Joe performed two songs, and two songs only: “To all the Women I’ve Loved Before” and Bob Marley’s “Is This Love?”

I never spoke to him, save for the occasional raise of the glass after one of our American Idol worthy performances, and in a sense I regretted it, but I always regarded it as any other celebrity encounter, even though outside of the small faction of Ren Fest attendee’s in this or some other state, he was just another guy, and I looked on it as a pleasure to receive a rare performance outside of the pirate stage.

And despite not knowing him aside from his work, I feel as though that work warrants a raise of the glass, and an acknowledgment that the Ren Fest, Minneapolis, and the world itself, just got a little less funny.

So, thanks for the laughs Joe, on and off the stage. And sorry I keep calling you Snot when your name is Joe.

*I know a lot of people say locker-room, but there are a lot of fat people at the gym. Really, I think I'd use it to spy on other people and prove that I'm not paranoid, cause they ARE plotting against me.
** YOU try filling out all those forms when you were working at the Carlson school not getting mixed up!

It's Not HBO, it's TV.

MITCH! is an improvisational comedy team compromised of myself, Katie Moen, and Jim Moen. It is so named because the Moen patriarch Terry, who has met and spoken with me many times, and is well-aware of my name, greeted me one evening with an enthusiastic:

"Hey Mitch! (Short pause) You're not Mitch."


And then he walked away.

And the name of an improv group was born. Just as the group was picking up steam and gaining Go-Go fandom, I went crazy and moved to Los Angeles.

Upon my return, we had hoped to bring MITCH! back to life, but conflicting schedules, past-deadline Go-Go lotteries, and Jim Moen falling in love with a team of sled dogs and following them across Alaska in the hopes that eventually society will one day accept their inter species and interracial polygamist relationship have all suffocated MITCH! with a pillow.

That left myself, and the hotter yet less feminine Moen (Before you leap to Katie's honor, reread that and realize which Moen I'm really taking a shot at) with three MITCH! slots to fill in August, but no MITCH! to present.

Go-Go has served up some pretty incredible improv sets in the last couple of years, and there's been no shortage of improvisors daring to branch out and try something new, ala Police Cop Detective PI, Staredown (The Quentin Tarantino improvised movie) as well as pre-existing heavyweights finding new ways to reinvent themselves.

I've always been spotty with improv.

No, no -- it's true.

::ALL OF MINNEAPOLIS AND CERTAIN SECTIONS OF LOS ANGELES. Uh...., we didn't say anything.::

I'm too self-aware, too concerned with being "the funny guy," too desperate to be liked, too willing to put an entire box of DOTS in my mouth and try to carry on a conversation (On second though, that bit's pretty solid) As a result, I've never felt like I truly fit in to the improv community. (This was my own thinking. Nobody in the improv community ever made me feel unwelcome. Well, nobody but Butch.)

So, with these open slots, I wanted to aim a little higher than a buncha' scenes until they turned the lights off, or trying to take off Jim Moen's pants. I wanted to make my own contribution that could stand proudly among the quality sets that frequently pack Go-Go from Sunday to Sunday.

So that's when I called up several improvisers I was keen to work with, as well as not being showcased themselves nearly as much as they should be, and told them about a little idea I had:

An improvised sitcom. Not just sitcom, specifically late eighties, very early nineties. Think ABC in its Full House, Perfect Strangers, Growing Pains, Family Matters, Who's the Boss*, and to a lesser extent Just the Ten of Us, hey day.

The group was to be named 7:22, so named because a book on sitcom writing had an entire chapter devoted to writing towards the "22 Minute Moral." And I added the seven, because we're in central/standard time.

With the rag-tag group of improvisers assembled, we set out do the simplest of tasks; create an entirely new improv structure from the ground-up, without a common group knowledge, or even rough plan of what we wanted in the end.

The wind was set out of our sails a bit when research revealed that there's a group in Chicago that already does an improvised sitcom, or at least did perform that structure back in 1996, but Chicago Improv is to Minneapolis Improv as The Simpsons is to every other animated sitcom of the last twenty years. They did everything first.

The Chicago group sent along some literature that aided in building our foundation. Rehearsals of varying success and attendance followed, members of the group were born and perished before there was even officially a group to speak of, and rehearsal sitcoms contained everything from an affirmative action prom with guest speaker Morgan Freeman, to two-men in drag trying to lead a girl scout meeting, meanwhile, one the men's wife and daughter stole his basketball tickets and went to the game instead of them.

Eventually, all the days before August 10th were crossed out, and our debut had arrived. A form still hadn't been found, a tone hadn't been reached, and a set had yet to reach completion. We had thought it best to hold off the debut of 7:22, and appearing for one night only as Here's A Buncha' Scenes Until the Lights Go Out.

But, one of the IO mantra's is that if you're going to fail, fail huge. And if there's anything I can do, by God, I can do that!

So, 7:22 took to the stage, and who knows why, but it worked. It was possibly one of the best sets I've ever played (One of the best sets I've ever played. In all-time improv history, it's probably only in the top five.......thousand).

Perhaps it was the right combination of nerves, lack of expectations, actual ability, and the two-giant Red Bulls I drank, the second I had to sneak in like some sorta' addict. (Even the Super America guy paused before he rang it up. "You're sure you wanna' do this son? This is a big drink." I slam my money on the counter: "I'm a big guy.") (Also, never drink two giant Red Bulls, which are equal to four regular Red Bulls. Lights begin to have trails, and you'll see more dragons than you ever thought possible.)

Our sitcom of the evening was called Bowl of Feathers, and I'm pretty sure it was about an excitable (Four Red Bull excitable) college professor who attempts to keep his sanity when his entire family, compromised of his over-bearing mother, her greasy new boyfriend, his inconsequential sister, and his possibly wise, possibly insane grandfather, are forced to share his tiny one bedroom apartment.

There was laughter, applause, and for the first time in my history as an improviser, I was unaware of the audience for the entire set. I played, I joked, I stuck to my guns, I probably still talked too much, but nothing short of a direct hit is going to take care of that.

In the end, we launched a new group. One that performed solidly, but has room for improvement. Which means more than getting the laugh, because it means there's a future for 7:22.

The direct future is our last two Go-Go dates of the summer - Aug. 17th and 24th. 8:00pm. One dollar. Come on by, and check it out.

We'll maybe even let Laura talk in this next one. Maybe.

*A lot of people seem to think it's boy-crazy Mona, but in truth, Danny Pintauro . Don't believe me? Go back and watch it again, and sense how much Danza's voice trembles when says "Jon-A-Ton"

I remember what the wonderful Bobby De Niro said to me. Well, not to me, I read it in an article.

When not directly involved and having in my possession an artist's pass (Which I hear is now something fascist called a "Rush Pass," and it doesn't even guarantee you admission. For a supposed festival celebrating art, they do seem to get more and more creative about shafting the actual artists) my Fringe limit seems to be about five shows as I run out of Fringe gas after that.

The fifth and ultimately final show if my work schedule speaks for anything:

Shakespeare's Land of the Dead
1/3rd Shakespeare in Love, 1/3rd Shaun of the Dead, 1/3rd The Final Project That Would Make Every English Teacher in the World Simultaneously Lose Their Shit - this is an excellent, excellent play all around. Solid acting, more-than-solid writing, sleek, professional presentation. Its only fault is that, often times, it's perhaps too clever for its own good, and a lot of jokes are aimed at the 1% of people that would get it. The trouble is, true one-percenter's don't laugh out loud, they knowingly chuckle and nod approvingly. Don't think that means they're playing to a silent crowd, because the faux one-percenters roar with laughter, maybe because they got the joke, or maybe because they want everyone to know/think they got the joke.

Here are some other Fringe experiences I've had this week:

• I feel as though these last five months haven't counted, and I've JUST moved back to Minneapolis, since I ran into numerous people that assumed I was just visiting Minneapolis to go to the Fringe. And after I told them I was back here, bar tending at a golf course in Blaine, they reacted as if I told them I had a brand new disease, so deadly and incurable and mutant-like they had to name it after me.
• Most of the shows I attended were at my old stomping grounds at Rarig Center. I even ran into several of my former theater majors, current baristas. I haven't seen a handful of them since leaving that building, so I like to imagine they all live in the basement somewhere. Many nooks and crannies for the homeless and starving (Both artist and just plain lazy) to hide in.
• I heard several rumors about myself while waiting in line at a lot of these shows. Some were spoken directly to me. A former classmate asked me how life was in Arizona. I replied, balmy I'd imagine, and then after I told them I haven't spent much time in Arizona, they asked, "Then how can you live there?" Then we just stared at each other until they let us into the show.
• My second favorite is when I was asked how my little girls were. The tone implied children, and not a harem. I laughed and said, "Oh, no, I don't have any kids.......do, I? Are they in Arizona?"
• I ran into my eleventh grade English teacher who was always one of my favorites. (Mr. Kuzma, for those of you in the know) I spoke with wife, son, and daughter-in-law, and I informed them it was the encouragement of Mr. Kuzma that led me to pursuing a life in writing, and, for that, I've hated him ever since. (And just in case you're wondering, Kuz is definitely a true one-percenter. Guess what show I ran into him at?) Also, while he did stop and say hi to me, having recognized me, he completely forgot my name. So, remember that one teacher that inspired you and you owe your life to? They've forgotten you. Accept that.

And finally, perhaps it's the mixture of nostalgia in the ol' theatre building, or the genuine happiness I had with theatre, or just being plain ol' Fringe drunk -- but this week has awakened the creative beast within. I'm crawling out of my cave and getting back in the game and many other cliches! Don't believe me? I've already got five auditions lined up, and a semi-completed outline for a brand-new, non-remount Mainly Me show.

Anybody know where a brother can get him a venue?

So here's us, on the raggedy edge.

Like all of my human relationships, my relationship with the Fringe Festival is complicated.

It began with brief flirtation. Then intense infatuation. Then a whirlwind courting period in which everything moved so fast, but felt so right. Our benefit to one another seemed unlimited, the future was ours for the taking.

Slowly, we both realized that what you saw, was what you got, and our acts grew stale in one anothers eyes as quickly as had convinced ourselves that fate had finally brought us our other half. Then the bitter fights, both drunken and sober. The inevitable split-up, the seeing of other Fringe Festivals and venues. The jealously and anger of realizing the other was moving on faster than you.

Then the Fringe and I show up at the same party, and the Fringe has to awkwardly explain the tension, but qualify it with a "He's a great guy, and he's capable of so much. He just needs to find whatever it is he's looking for. And sure, let's make-out."

I use the word complicated, but it's a fairly open and shut case that the Fringe just hates me and wishes I would take the constantly being sent to voicemail as a hint, but I just keep on hanging around.

That was my quirky way of telling you that I've been Fringing over the weekend, and here are some of my reviews and thoughts of what I've seen thus far:

Waking in Minneapolis
This show is a symphony of maybes and almosts. It's cute, fun, oftentimes funny, but doesn't come together as a whole. The shift in tones is often jarring and whiplash inducing, as is the constant use of blackouts, or what I like to call "Momentum Cancer"

However, there's talent behind the show, and I've no doubt that a great show is in the future for the creative team involved.

When I saw this show, I sat next to St. Paul Pioneer Press critic Dominic Papatola, who seemed excited to see me, despite telling me I should have a shredder near me the next time I wanted to produce a play. I watched him as much as I watched the show, and his intense expression, furrowed brow, and feverish note-taking inspired me to warn my friends in the production to brace themselves, as those acts foreshadowed not only a bad review, but one of his "funny" ones.

Both came true.

An Intimate Evening With Fotis: Part 2
Mike Fotis is a great writer, and engaging story-teller. I hope one day to purchase a collection of these stories in novel form, though despite his skilled verbage, the power of the piece would be lost without his delivery. The book-on-tape would sell like fucking hot-cakes though.

While watching the show, I found myself thinking "Man, hanging out with this guy is probably a laugh riot 14/7." I then realised that I consistently hang out with him, and he hates attention, so usually just blends into the background. Huh.

Mortem Capiendum
Another stellar piece of work from the always consistent Four Humor's team. Their love of theatre and daring is infectious (in the good way) and only matched by their ability to crank out juggernaut-after-juggernaut that is embraced by brows both high-and-low.

Musical The Musical!
I didn't really know what to expect from this show, aside from a musical. I've long said that the surefire way to a successful Fringe show is including the word "musical" after some random noun. If that random noun is also "musical," you're either going to create the greatest success story the Fringe has ever seen, or rip a hole in the dimension, allowing all other dimensions to bleed into one another, and destroy everything.

I'm happy to report this show was one of the most delightful surprises I've ever seen at the Fringe. A brilliant script from two hilarious people, Dough Nethercott and Hannah Kuhlman, that doesn't shy away from telling all the jokes that most shows would just allude to, as well as the most, forgive the somewhat unintended pun, pitch-perfect cast I've ever seen assembled at a Fringe show.

If you don't get a chance to catch this show in it's Fringe run, no worries, there's no doubt in my mind, that it will have a long healthy life afterwards.

[SIDE NOTE: After the show, Doug was giddy with excitement, which not to sound all Nethercotty was worth the price of admission alone. Anyhow, he jokingly ran up to me and announced, "I wrote a hit play! This what you felt like!" I told him that he can ride this feeling out for the next three years, it's at that point you realize you only had the one in you, and you'll ever be chasing the dragon that is the aftermath of your first show. Then we patted each other on the back, pretended we had monocles, and repeated the names of our plays to each other.]

ACK! Look at the time, I've gotta' run. More Fringe stuff later as I'm not done Fringing yet, and I didn't even get a chance to write about all the rumors I heard about myself waiting in line for these shows.

APARTMENT UPDATE:

- I have twenty-year olds who like to move it, move it directly under my bedroom. That means they party and drink all night, not humping. Haven't heard that yet. They kept me up most of Saturday, and the only thing that prevented me from walking downstairs and asking if they had any beers to spare was opening the bar at six am.

- I bought some of that egg-cartony foam stuff and it's the most uncomfortable bed in the world into a real bed. One that lets me sleep on it now.

- 1986 Lady apparently has a policy with the cable company that cable and Internet* cannot be installed without her written consent. This would've been great news to hear from anyone other than the cable guy explaining why I wasn't minutes away from having cable or Internet. All the more frustrating is the fact that 1986 Lady specifically asked me if I planned on getting cable, to which I replied yes.

Adding another element of shady to the entire ordeal, the cable guy and I attempted to find out where the cable could be installed, and from our brief investigation, it looks as though the cable can be installed via The Forbidden Cave of Mystery and Danger.

Will Josh get his cable, or is he going to have to keep going to coffee shops, kicking off his shoes, and sprawling out on the couch like he owns the place? Stay tuned.

*I just wanted to point out that I didn't feel the need to capitalize Internet, but spell check did. The computers are not only going to take over one day, they're pretty pretentious about it.

The sportos, the motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, waistoids, dweebies, dickheads - they all adore him. They think he's a righteous dude.

August 1st is a dark day in the history of Minneapolis for tragedy has befallen our fair city two years in a row on this precise date.

Of course, there was the Wednesday afternoon when an-up-until-then harmless bridge killed thirteen of our citizens and inconvenienced the rest, and then there was yesterday, when I officially moved back to Minneapolis. At press-time, it's unknown which equally horrific episode will incur the most casualties.

I am officially a citizen of Uptown once again, which carries with it no significance aside from parking my ass at the Green Mill five nights out of the week instead of three.

My apartment is located two blocks away from the lake, and two or three blocks away from the fun parts of Uptown. It's fully furnished with utilities taken care of, as I'm sub-leasing from a woman who is leaving the country for nine months. There's a deck and a backyard, and a closet big enough to put a desk into, which promotes it from closet to an office where my clothes and underwear are also located.

There are problems with the apartment. For instance, it also seems to be a wormhole back to the year 1986, where it is forever trapped. The decor, the rotary-dial phones, the last time the circuits were inspected. If you attempt to smuggle something from the year 2008 into wormhole, 1986 will invade that something, and transform it into the 1986 version of that something. Which I think is the reason that all my DVDs turned into Beta-Max copies of Top Gun, and I'm updating this blog on my "new" Commodore 64.

My landlady has her own set of quirks as well. She's a shockingly serious woman, almost as if she were the result of Ben Stein and a thesaurus deciding to get drunk one night and just see what happens. I have all access to the apartment, except for a den which has been blocked off, and I am under strict orders never to invade her Forbidden Cave of Mystery and Danger. I am not anxious to break this rule, as I'm fairly certain the den would send me to 1886, and then I'd have to become a Blacksmith and fall in love with Mary Steenburgen.

And instead of a bed, she sleeps on a fold-out bed, and insists that I not try to replace with an actual bed. Does anyone have any pointers on how to make one of those more comfortable?

She also hasn't left yet. When I arrived with my first bundle of Josh-stuff*, she was still in the apartment. Despite the rent check having exchanged hands and emptied out of my account. There is an agreement that she is able to come into her Forbidden Cave of Mystery and Danger whenever she needs to, but I will be given advanced warning.

That being said, shortly ago, I received a call from Landlady, informing me that she was standing inside the apartment, making popcorn, and deciding to have a garage sale. Whether it's with mine or her stuff, that'll be a late-night surprise when I get home from work tonight.

I guess the same can be said on whether or not I have a roommate.

Thus far, it's one of the more bizarre living arrangements I've stumbled into, but even I didn't like freaky-weird risks, I wouldn't even be looking on Craigslist to begin with.

So, if you're in the neighborhood, stop on by. We can sip beer on my deck and talk about art, or whatever those pseudo-hipster Uptown douchebags are into nowadays. Or, if you want to find out what your life would've been like had you just hit that baseball in the big game, I've nearly perfected a method of sending messages to the outside world of 1986.

Oooh! We could fix the bridge before the bridge gets broke! Look at that, silver living.

*Which, I'd like to point to all friends that I made this move all by my lonesome, so file that away for the next time you move.