n o w p l a y i n g - s c r i p t b i n - f a n c l u b - s t u d i o

make love to the camera



April 11, 2002 - 9:14 am

Inappropriate Is Hard To Spell

Yeah, so I'm apparently on this set morning schedule that I didn't even realize. I went out to get the paper this morning, and I happened to walk by this guy that I've encountered a few times before. Each time I've seen him, he's given me a cheery "Hello," or "Hi there." These greetings are significant, as I realize they are not the type of greetings usually proffered by the Starbucks drinking, labrador owning yuppies who are moving into my newly gentrified neighborhood who want to build a sense of community and assuage their guilt for owning $780,000 condos by nodding 'hello' to the peasantry.

No, this guy wants my snatch.

Which is cool and all, and good and flattering because he's actually a pretty damn good looking guy. It's just a shame because his attention to me is such a waste of Manly Resources. I always want to say "You know, I have this friend Jon..."

So, when I saw him this morning, he stepped it up a notch by saying "Hey, how are you?" If you've ever woken up next to me in the morning (and if you haven't, give it a try) you know that until I get some coffee down in my gullet, I have no command of the English language. I didn't see him coming, so this morning's greeting took me by surprise, thus my reply was short and to the point:

"Gubph."

Unintelligible, but polite. That's me.

Speaking of things that come out of my brain that make no sense, my improv class this weekend wasn't so hot. I think it was even my fault. Yes, it happens. Even to me.

It was bizarre. We didn't really do scene work. We just worked on what they call 'the opening,' which is the standard way that teams at the Improvolympic start their shows. I was up there, doing that thing I do, and saying the things I would say, and I was simply not getting laughs from my classmates.

I didn't get it. Either I was off, or my audience/classmates were off. I wasn't doing anything differently from what I normally do. So, I became somewhat confused, and, as a result, I began to overthink. Overthinking, or, really, thinking at all, in improv is dangerous. Suddenly, I found myself working 'blue' as a result, which is so very not me.

I referenced 'dildos' and 'ass-fucking' at two different points.

In my own defense, the 'ass-fucking' was in context. It was during a scene about fraternity initiations. Ask this chap about ass fuckery as it relates to fraternity initiations. A wealth of knowledge, he is.

So, not a great class. What can you do? There's always next week.

Bad news about my vocal class, too. I thought that during the last week, we were going to be performing our individual songs in the auditorium for all the family and friends of my classmates. Not so. Instead, we're going to be performing up in the classroom, just for the people in our class.

I'm disappointed. I had invited people, there were going to be pictures, I was going to borrow a digital video camera. I was planning on embedding a little quicktime movie of me rocking out on this page. It looks like my rockstar fantasies are going to be on hold for a little while longer. Ah, well.

I can still act like a diva, and that's the important thing, really.

So, after my improv class on Saturday, we went out to be a bar as we usually do. There was a Cubs game, and as the IO is close to Wrigley Field, we decided to walk a few blocks away from the teeming throngs of baseball fans and find a place that wouldn't have obnoxious, unhappy (Cubs lost) sports fans. We ended up at a divey little place up near Belmont and Clark. Interestingly, I later learned that this gal was just up the street at Clarke's having waffles at the same time. Small world.

To give you an idea of the neighborhood, this is the part of town that has all the 'head shops,' and a place called 'The Alley' which serves all of your leather needs. There used to be a lot of gutter punks who liked to come into the city from the suburbs on the weekends, and play homeless by begging for cigarette money. There's also a Dunkin' Donuts which was re-termed "Punkin' Donuts." Once, my friend's older brother was beat up in its' parking lot for wearing the wrong kind of combat boots. I used to live there a few years ago, and I found it just seedy enough to be interesting. Chicagoans will remember that this neighborhood was also home to the incomparable and sorely missed 'Scenes' cafe. Now there's a Starbucks and an Alonti Cafe (or something like that...Corner Bakery?) kitty corner from one another, and the edge has been dulled.

None of this is important. I'm just trying to scoop you some local flava.

Anyway, my class and I are sitting around in the bar, when in walks a girl who looks very familar to me. It doesn't take me long to realize that this is an ex-girlfriend of mine. It is, in fact, the first girlfriend I had at DePaul my freshman year.

At the time, I was head over heels for her. I was 18, and I really felt like I loved her, although it turned out to be one of those month and a half long mini-relationships. She was a sophomore, so I was super cool amongst my comrade freshmen.

I approached her. She recognized me instantly. After the hugs and the 'Omigods' I found out that she was currently living in Los Angeles, trying to do the acting thing. "Interesting," I thought. "An ex-girlfriend in LA can't hurt. Perhaps there can be some rekindling, or at least someone to hang out with."

I also wondered what she did for a living. I was hoping she could maybe help my own career. LA is inside me, and I haven't even moved there yet. I am disgusted, yet amused by this.

So, we talk, and, soon enough, some guy returns to her side.

"This is Chris. We live together."

OK, fine. She didn't say 'boyfriend.' Maybe they're roommates. Sally lives with a guy, after all. We talk a bit more. We promise to exchange phone numbers before either of us leave.

I go back to my table. I report the events to my classmates, who all agree that her statements were vague and that there could in fact be some potential here. This theory is blown out of the water when she comes to my table before heading out. She hands me a matchbook. Inside is written 'Dana & Chris' and a phone number. "Call us," she says.

She leaves, and a classmate turns to me. "Sorry, man. You are not getting laid when you get out there. 'Call us.'" He laughs, and I agree with him.

It's always interesting to run into an ex, especially when they're with their current significant other. In the middle of all the handshaking and "What do you do?" I can't help but think "Hey, I used to get naked with your girlfriend. Does she still have that thing where her left nipple doesn't get erect? That was weird."

However, that is what we call "inappropriate conversation."

Oh, and neither of them can help my career. Especially not Chris. His career has very little to do with what I'll be doing.

Dana was the one who dumped me in that relationship, by the way. I was crushed. My little 18 year old soul was shattered.

I am very happy that she's now dating an accordion player.

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