v. Chair

This is the last entry in a series of posts about Chicago.

I could write more, but I won't. I started writing these as an homage to Chi-town. But they're getting harder and harder to write the closer and closer I get to leaving. That last entry in particular felt especially forced.

I now have less than 48 hours in this city. I've cried three times in the past week because I am a punk-ass bitch and I've been listening to Sam Smith while writing these (and because of this damn video series about living in Chicago). I haven't cried three times in the past ten years. So I kinda want to stop making myself feel bad.

Full disclosure: I am hopped up on Dayquil, slathered in Vaporub and grappling with all these very conflicting emotions right now. Also, I just watched "Birdman" last night and it hit a little too close to home so this might be very rambly and ranty. Neither of those are words. None of this makes sense. I'll keep this short. Amen.

This is a Bentwood chair. It's used by many improv theaters in Chicago (notably iO and Second City). For scenes and stuff. You can use it as a dinner table or as a fireplace or even a rocket ship because it's improv and you can do whatever the hell you want. The only limit is your imagination.

Most improvisors end up using it as a chair though.

A few years ago, I was this close to getting a tattoo of that chair. On my right forearm. I wanted a tattoo that would show off my dedication and love for the craft of improv. I thought of other tattoos. The word "React" on my arm. "Yes And" in cool type on my chest. Del Close's face on my left butt cheek. Ultimately, I settled on the chair. The only reason I didn't get it was, days before I was supposed to be inked, I went to an improv show and met a dude with that exact tattoo in the exact location I had planned on getting it.

There are no original ideas.

I do wish I had gotten that tattoo though. I still might get it. Maybe.

Not because of my dedication and love for improv. Honestly, I haven't done improv in a couple of years. iO and the Annoyance recently moved to different locations in the past few months. I haven't been to either. I honestly can't remember the last time I even went to an improv show.

You know how people say never meet your heroes because they'll only disappoint you? Sometimes I wonder if the same should be said of pursuing your passions.

There are many reasons I don't do improv anymore. The biggest one is that it just stopped being fun. I stopped loving it. It was as if someone flipped a switch in my brain. One week, I was taking three improv classes, devouring books on improv theory and attending shows every night. The next week, I just… stopped.

(Delma gets worried when I talk to her about this. "How can you just suddenly stop loving something you've loved for so long?" she'll ask. I don't know. It's a scary thought.)

So then why would I still get that tattoo?

Because it's what brought me here.

Improv was the catalyst that made me uproot and plant myself in an unknown city 1,100 miles from home. Even if improv ended up not working out, coming to Chicago was one of the best decisions I've made. The tattoo would be a reminder of that time, that reason, that passion, etc.

I don't know if leaving Chicago is the right choice. I might not love improv anymore, but even with the snow and the corrupt politicians and the hatred against putting ketchup on a hot dog (IT'S FUCKING DELICIOUS, CHICAGOANS, TRY IT SOMETIME), I still love this city. And, even if it's only been five years, I'm much more proud of what I accomplished in those five years here than anything else I've done in my life.

So I'm having doubts.

But if improv has taught me anything, it's this:

1) Never ask questions. Ever (not even if, in the context of the scene, it's a perfectly valid and acceptable decision to do so).

2) No choice is a bad choice.

The worst thing you can be as an improvisor is indecisive. Standing on stage, thinking of what to do next, makes for a shitty scene. Make a choice, any choice, and commit to it. Bold choices are usually the most rewarding, even if they are the most terrifying.

I've made a choice. Is it the right choice? Who knows. But it's a choice. It's happening. We'll see how this pans out.

But I'll miss you, Chicago. You've been good to me. Real good.

And scene.

i. Allende

Allende is one of the first Mexican restaurants I discovered in Chicago. Situated at the intersection of Halsted, Lincoln and Fullerton (one of the city's infamous six-way crossings), Allende is a mere taco al pastor's throw from DePaul university. As such, it's filled with students during the day and drunks at night.

When I moved here, I hadn't realized how segregated everything was. Each neighborhood has a distinct flavor and simply crossing certain streets changes the ethnicity of the people around you. Walk one block south or two blocks west and it's like changing the channel from Bravo to BET or Telemundo. Lincoln Park, the neighborhood I first settled in, was overwhelmingly vanilla ("filled with Chads and Trixies," I was once told). The only brown people I saw were busboys and line cooks.

Coming from an area of Houston that was over two-thirds Hispanic, this was unsettling. I was used to seeing Español splashed on signs and storefronts. "Pollos Asados." Or "Se Necesita Ayuda." The language wafted in the air everywhere I went, whether in the form of a quiet conversation at the bank or as a corrido blaring from a truck on 59. But in Lincoln Park, there was no Spanish, no corridos, no color. It's part of what made those first few months here so difficult (later on, I would venture down to Pilsen to meet a friend for lunch and think "Ohhh, so THIS is where we're at").

"Homesick" isn't the right word, but it's close. Two weeks after arriving, I sat on the couch watching the snow accumulate on parked cars and considered calling it quits. I missed everything about Houston. Family. Friends. Delma. Sunlight. The fact that the comedy scene was volatile and cutthroat didn't help.

Pride kept me here. It's stupid and stubborn, but I didn't want to admit failure so soon. I had faith that I would someday "make it," whatever that means. I still do.

But I missed home.

I discovered Allende on one of my many, many walks throughout the city (unemployment gives one plenty of time for walking and wallowing in misery). Its' exterior is unassuming and unimpressive, but not being able to find decent Mexican food anywhere, I went in. I picked up a paper menu and leafed through it as I walked to the register.

"Hi, welcome to Allende, what would you like?"

The lady at the register spoke rapidly. She looked down as she spoke, writing on a yellow legal pad. Her 'you' was pronounced as 'jew.'

"Hola. ¿Cómo estás?" I asked.

The lady glanced up. The conversation switched to Spanish.

"Good, good. Just here. Working. You been here before?" she asked.

"No, this is my first time."

Not having spoken Spanish in so long, the words felt heavy in my mouth. My tongue had difficulty with certain words, specific movements. Rolling my R's felt clumsy and unnatural.

She nodded.

"Everything's good here, but the egg and chorizo burrito is probably my favorite."

"Cool," I said. "I'll take one of those."

"Beans and cheese?"

I nodded.

She rung me up, then handed me my change. I sat down and took off my gloves, two hats and three hoodies (I still wasn't used to the cold).

The smell of carne asada filled the restaurant. Vicente Fernandez was blasting from the back room. The lady at the register was talking to one of the cooks in Spanish, laughing at the fact that he watched the same novelas she did.

It was familiar. It was home.

The burrito was ok. The eggs were burnt and the tortilla was hard. But it was familiar. A flashback to my mom making huevos con chorizo for us on the weekends. The lady at the register was far from my mom and Allende was not the apartment I grew up in. But it would have to do.

Like an Aztec warrior gaining strength by eating pozole filled with the hearts of his enemies, I was ingesting courage in the form of a breakfast burrito.

Most of the dishes were mediocre. The bread used for the tortas was too hard, the chicken was too chewy, the beef too salty. Yet the significance of Allende was not the food, it was the link to home, to family. For about twenty minutes, I could pretend I was surrounded by my sisters and parents, enjoying dinner with them. A psychological recharge of sorts. The lady at the register and I would have a friendly conversation, allowing me to brush the rust off my Spanish. Once I finished my meal, I'd gather my belongings (gloves, two hats, three hoodies) and head back out into the loneliness of the city.

Sometimes, if they weren't busy, I wouldn't even order anything. I would just sit.

Eventually, when Delma moved here and we found our circle of friends, Allende was relegated to the occasional 2AM sober-up meal (we had become the drunks of the night).

There are better Mexican restaurants in Chicago. There are better Mexican restaurants in Lincoln Park, to be honest. But those first few months here, Allende was a symbol of strength for me. A reminder of not just who I was, but where I came from and, ultimately, where I could go.

Animal Stories for Little Children

Houston has a lot of wildlife. I always forget. I've been back home for a little over twelve hours and I've already seen more animals here than I've seen all month in Chicago. I mean, it's not like Chicago is completely devoid of nature, but the harsh winter makes it tough for flora and fauna to thrive year long. Although I once saw a pair of coyotes trotting along Lake Front Trail in December. That was dope.

And it's not like Houston is the richest or most diverse ecosystem. We just got a lot more space for a lot more trees and a lot more trees for a lot more critters.

This morning, I made myself a cup of coffee and walked out into my parents' backyard for a little stroll. Here is a list of animals that I saw while sipping coffee:

-four wasps
-two mosquitos
-one possum (or opossum)
-one cardinal
-some ladybugs
-two squirrels
-one bluejay
-one bullfrog
-two pigeons
-a million fire ants
-two june bugs
-one gecko

(Also, I saw three dogs, but to be fair, those dogs belong to my family and people in Chicago have dogs too, so it doesn't really count.)

Now here are anecdotes based on each of those. You can read them. Or not. Whatever, I don't care.

FOUR WASPS

Wasps are scary bitches. I saw four this morning. And two of those four were INSIDE THE HOUSE.

I trapped one of them in the bathroom and left it there for my sisters to find. The other I killed with a shoe box. Or I thought I did. I heard a loud, satisfying crunch (like biting into a piece of celery covered in Crunch Berries) and looked under the box. The damn wasp was still alive, squiggling and squirming, wagging its butt around, trying to sting me. Wasps are the Spartans of the insect world.

I played the trumpet in my high school's marching band. During one rehearsal, we were in formation, standing at attention (i.e. we were standing perfectly still, backs straight, instruments in front of us). If you broke the formation, you'd have to do push-ups. So I didn't want to break formation.

But then this big-ass bumblebee started buzzing around the trumpet section. It hovered a few inches to my right. I could see it out of my peripheral. Then it launched itself in my direction. Twice. THWACK. THWACK. Against my back. It was like being smacked with a hard-boiled egg. It didn't hurt, but I was scared I was going to get stung. And yet, I also did not want to do pushups. So I did not move. The bee buzzed away. Or I thought it buzzed away. I kept it in my line of vision and saw it buzz by the tuba section, make a circle around the clarinets, zoom past the saxophones and then head towards the trumpet section again. Right. Towards. Me.

I broke formation and ran off the field, swinging my trumpet behind me, trying to hit the bumble bee that was chasing after me.

The band director yelled at me through his megaphone.

"AL-FON-SO. WHAT ARE YA DOIN'?!"

I had to do fifty pushups that day.

TWO MOSQUITOS

When I was in El Salvador back in 1994, I was sitting in a hammock outside, eating a banana. The air was buzzing with mosquitos and I'd have to slap myself every few seconds because they kept biting me. My aunt came out, looked at me and said "Mosquitos like the blood of those who eat bananas." I shrugged my shoulders and continued eating the banana, swinging on the hammock.

I had two bananas on the flight over here yesterday. I already have four mosquito bites in the short time I've been in Houston.

Mosquitos do indeed like the blood of those who eat bananas.

TWO SQUIRRELS

This anecdote does not involve a squirrel, but rather what I thought was a squirrel.

I was late for school one day so I rushed through my normal morning routine. I ran out the door and was unlocking my truck when I heard a "SKREEEEEEE." I stepped back and then something dropped right in front of me. I thought it was a squirrel that had fallen out of a tree.

Turns out it was a snake eating a bat. I didn't even know that snakes climbed trees, much less ate bats. But that's what I saw.

ONE BLUEJAY

In 3rd grade, Travis Jenkins told me that bluejays were the meanest birds. If you ever went near a bluejay's nest, the bluejay would dive bomb at you, beak first. His uncle had to get twelve stitches on his scalp because he got fucked up by a bluejay. Is that true? I don't know. Ask Travis. But I do know I have not gone near a bluejay since he told me that.

A MILLION FIRE ANTS

Kayla has been trying to get better at basketball. She wants to join the basketball team when she goes off middle school next year. She's been walking around the house, dribbling between her legs and trying to post everyone up. We have a hoop, but it's lying on its side in the backyard and it's too heavy for my sisters to lift.

I wanted to set it up for Kayla, but as I was picking it up, I noticed that it was covered in little red dots. That were moving. All over the backboard. Then I realized what they were. Fire ants. I dropped the hoop and shook my hands in the air, waving them like I just don't care, but the truth is that I DO care, I care a lot because fire ant are the devil and their stings burn with the fire of two Tattooine suns. I did not want to get stung. The hoop rolled to the side, revealing a huuuuge fire ant pile. The ants rushed out, thousands of them trying to either attack intruders or rebuild their damaged home.

When Michelle was three, we were playing at a park. It was summer and we were all wearing shorts. Michelle didn't have any shoes on because she's a wild child and wanted to feel the blades of grass under her feet. We were playing tag. Michelle was it and she was chasing me, when she stopped. She looked down. I walked over to her.

Her legs were covered in red dots. Moving red dots. Swarming her shins, her calves, going up to her knees, spreading like an invading army. Fire ants. She looked at me.

"Ay. Ayy. Ayyyyyyy..." she said quietly. I started slapping her legs, trying to get the ants off of her.

Her legs were torn up, y'all. To this day, fifteen years later, she still has scars on her calves and shins from where the fire ants stung her.

Fire ants ain't nothin' to play with.

TWO JUNE BUGS

Once, as I was riding my bike around my neighborhood, a june bug flew into my mouth and I swallowed it.

ONE BULLFROG

There's a small river by my dad's hometown in Mexico. When I was four, my uncle took me and two of my cousins to go swimming. My cousins tore their clothes off and jumped right in with their wingwangs a waving in the wind. I didn't want to take off my Ninja Turtle undies. Because I was scared that tadpoles would swim up into my wingwang.

ONE GECKO

I was taking out the trash earlier and saw a gecko on the garbage bin, sunbathing. I snapped a picture and showed my mom and she ran away screaming.

I'm pretty sure my mom has herpetophobia. That's not a fear of herpes. It's a fear of reptiles. But my mom's only scared of small reptiles. Knowing this, I still showed her the picture of the gecko because I am a terrible son.

My college roommate, Leo, bought me a gecko for my 21st birthday. It was a leopard gecko and I named him Chimi. Short for 'chimichanga' because the color palette of his scaly skin evoked memories of a chimichanga covered with cheese and sauce that I once ate. Chimi was small and Chimi was cute and Chimi spent a lot of his time chilling on a rock, looking fly as fuck.

I'm not gonna front. I was scared of Chimi. Small animals that make sudden, quick movements give me the heebee-jeebees. A baby mouse entered our apartment last year and Delma had to chase it with a broom while I stood on a stool, pointing and screaming.

It was a thoughtful gift from Leo, but sometimes I wonder if he got Chimi more for himself than for me. He adored that leopard gecko. Leo bought it a heating lamp and placed little toys inside his terrarium and even gave Chimi the Duff beer can that he used to store his weed.

"Chimi can use it as a little hide out," Leo explained to me. "For when he wants his privacy."

Often, I would get back from class and find Leo sitting on the couch with a beer in one hand and Chimi on the other.

I kept trying to interact with the gecko. I would put on rubber gloves and try to pick it up, but as soon as it darted away, I would freak out and try to rub the goosebumps off my arms. I managed to grab it by the tail once, but let go because that's where leopard geckos store their food and I didn't want the tail to break off. Leo would kill me if I ever hurt Chimi, even inadvertently.

Chimi's diet consisted of live crickets. I'd have to buy a bag of crickets from Petsmart every few days and just tip the bag into Chimi's terrarium. The crickets would pour out and hop around. I'd watch Chimi intently for the first few minutes after feeding him, hoping to catch him being a predator and tearing up some punk-ass crickets, but like a classy broad, he would never eat if someone was watching. Once, I caught the sight of Chimi with half a cricket hanging out of his mouth, but I never actually saw him performing the act itself.

One night, Delma and I went out for Thai food. When we came back, we thought our apartment had been broken into. The place was a mess. The couch was overturned, a lamp had been knocked over, the TV stand was in the kitchen... But the TV was still on the TV stand. Everything was out of order, but nothing was missing.

Then I heard a sobbing coming from Leo's room. I knocked on his door.

"Leo?" I asked.

"What?" he responded.

I opened his door. He was on his bed, under the covers, shaking and sniffling.

"What happened?"

"I lost Chimi." he said quietly. "I was giving him a bath because he was shedding his skin and I wanted to help him and... I fell asleep."

He gave a quiet sigh.

"When I woke up, he was gone. And I couldn't find him anywhere."

Delma and I looked around the apartment. There weren't many spots that Chimi could hide. Although the space under the door was JUST large enough for a tiny leopard gecko to squeeze through.

Leo and I moved out that summer. We expected to find a small lizard corpse as we were moving and were prepared to throw a Viking funeral. But we never did find Chimi's body. I like to think that he made a home for himself in that apartment complex, raising a family of little Chimis, always thinking of Leo for giving him a bath and giving him his freedom. But if I ever saw them, I'd probably freak out and run away.

/drəNGk/

Wine is delicious. Wine is... All of the positive adjectives. I can't think of them right now. I'm typing coherently, but if you asked me to spell it out for you, I'd say "Wineisdelishur." Because it's true. And because I'm drunk.

Yes. I am drunk. Yes, I had half a I had 3/4ths a bottle of wine with my salmon and tuna sushi rolls. I filled my glass to the brim because I thought one glass meant one full glass and I was all like "If most wine bottles contain 4-5 glasses of wine, why is this bottle nearly empty after one?"

This is probably a bad idea. Blogging while drunk, I mean. But so far, hey, zero typos!

I once did drunk improv. In college. It was one of the most fun improv experiences I've ever had, but apparently, it wasn't as much fun for the audience. My pants came off. My boxers did not. But they almost did. Had I had one more Jagerbomb, they most certainly would have. Delma was in the front row and she freaked out.

I don't drink Jager anymore because I once finished an entire handle of Jager by myself while playing Pokémon cards withs my cousins. I played Mewtwo and then woke up curled around the toilet with the wastebasket filled with vomit.

I want more of that malbec I bought. Is malbec a type of wine? I don't know. It says malbec on the bottle. It's red.

I'm not much for wine tasting. Or palettes in general. People will be all like "I taste hints of earthy cinnamon and singed oak with just a hint of truffle oil smothered with vanilla" and I'll be all like "I TASTE RED."

I just laughed for a minute straight at "I TASTE RED." I hope you did too.

Guys. Guys guys guys. These are the drunks ramblings of Alfonso Zapata. Alf Zap.

I went to the Museum of Contemporary Art today and I thought WHat is this shit? Honestly, I don't "get" it. But when I go to the art institute, I can appreciate the art, you know? I like it. Most of the stuff that's contemporary kinda sucks.

Except for this film of a dude riding the railroad through Alaska. That was sick. I wish I could travel likethat, but I'd freak out too much about my morning anxiety.

Morning anxiety? More like MOURNING anxiety, am I right, ladies?

ALSO, if it's CONTEMPORARY, why is it DONE?

I was thinking of using that as a stand-up joke, but it's kinda stupid. So I won't. But I wanted to share it. So I'm sharing it with you. Boom.

I don't know how long I'm going to make this post. I think I've been writing for half an hour. The laundry is being done. I put my boxers in there. I never realized how many boxers I got, but I gots lots.

I hope this is as enjoyable to read as it is to write.

Who was is that said "Write drunk, edit sober?" Was it Hemingway? Maybe. Maybe not. I DON'T KNOW, STOP PESTERING ME, JESUS.

I think about Delma a lot. I love her. A lot. This isn't just the malbec talking (seriously, is malbec a type of wine? I need to know). These past few months have been rough. I've been keeping myself super busy with work and reading and writing and stand-up, but it's not the same. Every night, when I go to bed, I think about her. I miss holding her. Every night, when she was here, I'd wrap my arms around her and kiss her neck. Then we'd just lay there until we fall asleep. And, every night, without fail, I'd have to wake up and move my arms because they'd be numb, but it was ok.

I know what you're thinking.

But whatever. I'm drunk off that malbec. Purple drank. Cus a malbec is a wine made frim purple grapes. Am I right, ladies?

ANYWAYS, I miss her. And I want to be with her.

But things (that originally said "butt things") are going great here in Chi-town. The job is better than I could have imagined. We're already pitching TV spots! What the hell?! We're in a great position to make shit happen. You know? In fact, we've already sold some radio. Here. Check it.

The stuff I do now will help me in the future. Also, I never thought I'd enjoy a job this much. It's ridiculous. We get paid to make people laugh. Seriously. It's awesome.

So there's that.

I will porbably be hungover tomorrow. But tonight, I am fine. I am more than fine.

I don't know. I'm tired of blogging. I just want to play Zelda while drinking more wine. It's Saturday night and I am already too much.

Airing out dirty laundry while doing real laundry. Blogging about shit I shouldn't be blogging about. I might regret this tomorrow.

Have a good Saturday night. Read this wile you can cus I'll probably take it down tommorrow morning.

Onion Feet

The apartment smells like onions. A big old nasty-ass red onion stanking up the joint. Smells like a big old nasty-ass foot. A foot that just went on a ten-mile run without wearing any socks and so now the shoe smells too. Gross, foot. Get out of here. Why does it smell like onion foot? Because I'm making slow-cooker barbacoa with a little help from my friend Rick Bayless.

I put the onions into the slow cooker first, which might have been my mistake. The slow cooker is slowly cooking the onions and their pungent odor is filling up the apartment and my eyes are crying and Vicki is looking all confused like "What the hell is that?"

Actually, now I'm slightly worried. Dogs can't eat onions because it destroys their red blood cells which could lead to Haemolytic Anaemia. But does that extend to smelling onions? Smell is connected to taste, right? So, ergo, if dogs smell onions, they're kinda tasting them. Right? Is that how it works? If that is how it works, that's hecka nasty cus dogs be smelling each other's butts and shiiiiiiii.

This Rick Bayless recipe is supposed to serve 6 people which means that, normally, Delma and I would have to eat this for 3 meals. Check my math, y'all. It checks out. Today is an abnormal day, though, because…

My sister is here! Kimberly is in my living room sleeping on my air mattress. Vicki is sitting next to her, keeping watch. Such a vigilant dog.

Kim got here yesterday and she's hoping to make it big in the big city. Kinda like how I did. Or tried. I'm still working on it. But Kim went to baking school and she can bake stuff so if y'all want cakes or cookies, order them from Kim.

See? Look how good that cake looks.

But with Kim here, that means that we'll only have enough barbacoa for 2 meals. Check out that math, y'all. 6 servings means 2 servings for 3 people. I used to be an electrical engineering major before I switched over to the highly lucrative and prestigious English major.

She's not saying anything, but I can tell she's stressin' a bit. I was when I first got here. Stressin' hardcore to the max. I came here three years ago (three years this Friday, actually) expecting to take the comedy scene by storm. Instead, I'm making slow-cooker barbacoa and my hands smell like onion foot. But I am happy.

Not everyone can be Bill Murray or Bill Clinton or Bill Russell. There's only room at the top for one. And I know that sounds depressing, but it's not. Really! You think Chevy Chase or Bob Dole or Wilt Chamberlain are super depressed? Well, maybe Wilt because he's dead, but albeit not reaching the success that Bill Murray has, Chevy Chase is still a legend. And Bob Dole is… Doing something. With Viagra.

The point is that you don't have to be number one to be happy. And I know that sounds like loser talk and maybe it is loser talk, but that doesn't mean it's not true. Will my life be over if I don't write a NYT Best-Seller? I mean, maybe. I might be dead. But that doesn't mean it will have been a waste or I wasn't happy. I am happy right now.

I have goals that I'm working towards, but I'm super happy. I count my blessings everyday. And I feel like I'm getting preachy so I'm going to stop getting preachy and start getting freaky.

Freaky deaky.

Happiness comes from within and all that jazz. That's what I'm trying to say. You don't need no accolades or awards. You just need a loving family, a loyal dog and a big pot of barbacoa.

Failure to Communicate

The distance from Houston to Chicago is 1,048 miles. Nineteen hours if you go slightly above the speed limit. Delma and I split the drive over two days to make it more manageable. Our mid-way stopping point is a Best Western in Marion, Arkansas. About ten miles south of Memphis.

It's not a bad drive. There aren't any confusing turns or dangerous areas that we drive through. We have a few favorite stops that we get excited about whenever we make the trip. Texarkana has the best Chick-Fil-A we've ever been to (in a strip mall next to a burger joint called Brick House). Sikeston has a cafe where they throw rolls at you (the last time we stopped there, Delma caught a roll from 20 yards away). There's a gigantic convenience store called Boomland that sells all sorts of kitschy shit in Charleston (they also sell fireworks, hence the name).

It's long, though. The drive. Nineteen hours in the confined space of a Toyota Matrix. When you're that close with someone for that long, the conversations can run deep. And when that someone is your significant other of five years, deep conversations can turn to the future. And when the both of you realize that you have conflicting views for the future, deep conversations can become heated. Smoldering, even. These conversations usually end with the driver's mascara running and the passenger sitting with his arms crossed, pouting.

We've had this conversation before and we'll have it again. Every time, Delma asks why. Why Chicago? Why do I want to stay so bad? Every time, I give the same answers.

It's an awesome city.

There's so much to do.

There are better job opportunities here.

Expected.

Typical.

Clichéd.

After school ended, I had two weeks to kill before we left for Texas. Two weeks to explore this awesome city and discover more about it to love. You know what I did? I stayed in my apartment with the blinds closed and played Resident Evil 4. Not Resident Evil 6, which was just released a couple months ago. Resident Evil 4. A game that came out in 2004. A game that I've beaten over a dozen times.

It's a great game, but to quote Delma… Why? Why didn't I take advantage of that time to find out more about Chicago? To do all of the awesome things there are to do here? If I really loved this city, I'd throw myself into its bowels with reckless abandon and work my way back, enjoying every twist and turn of Chicago's intestines, poking and prodding every one of its internal organs, mingling with the digested food that is the people of this city. Why.

Because those aren't the reasons I want to stay.

The reason that I want to stay isn't even a reason to stay. It's a reason to not leave.

If I leave Chicago, it will mean that I have failed in what I set out to do. Going back will mean admitting defeat. Telling the world, "Hey, guys, I couldn't hack it." Doesn't matter if that's true or not. Even if these past three years have been some of the most successful and rewarding times of my life, others will chalk it up as just another bullet point in Alfonso's long list of failures.

But it's not like that. I tried. I really did. Classes and workshops and auditions and shows upon shows upon shows. I could have tried harder, sure. I could have networked better. I could have gone to shows more often. But improv in Chicago just never really felt as natural as it did in Houston. Despite the dozens and dozens of auditions I went to, I only had one call-back. I made ONE team (RECESS) annnnd… It sucked. Doing improv with strangers isn't as fun as doing it with close friends.

And honestly? I don't really care about improv all that much anymore. It's weird how infatuated you can be with something for years and then simply fall out of love with it (Delma worries about this a lot, but as long as she keeps that hot bod, I'll stay with her forever). I was ready to get an improv tattoo on my forearm a year ago. Now? I haven't seen a show in months. I haven't done any improv since the summer. And I don't really care.

So then what's the point of not leaving?

Chicago is still a wonderful city. I love it here. I like the snow. The lake. The pizza. The people (for the most part). And, yes, there are a more job opportunities here than Houston or even Austin. But there's no real reason to stay other than "I LIKE IT."

In fact, there are plenty of reasons to go. Family. The warmth. BBQ. No state income tax (that's a big reason).

As recently as a couple months ago, Delma and I were discussing which neighborhood we were going to live in next (we were thinking Ravenswood or Roscoe Village). And Delma loves her job at All State. Maybe we'll decide to stay for a bit longer. Or maybe we'll decide to move to Kentucky for some reason. Who knows? It doesn't matter. We both have our preferences, but as long as we make this decision together, it'll work out.

We'll see.

More Improv Thoughts

Improv and I have been on a short break. We haven't broken up, per se, but we haven't seen much of each other recently. I wasn't fully committed to improv and improv was being kind of a bitch so we thought it best to just... Chill for a bit.

Over the past four days, I've seen more improv than I have in the past four months. Some of the shows were horrible. Some were really good.

I haven't actually done anything with improv yet. We're still in "break" mode, but I think we're going to get back together soon. The allure is just too much to resist.

Why did we stop seeing each other in the first place? Well, it wasn't just me. It was improv too. And when I saw improv this weekend, I was definitely reminded of all its flaws.

I was in a weird place. I just wasn't having fun, and if you're not enjoying something, why do it? I get a lot of shit for having that mindset, but I really do think it's applicable to everything, barring certain situations (if you're not enjoying your job, quit and find one you do enjoy, you know? Unless you're trying to raise a family, in which case, sorry, man...). I wasn't enjoying improv. I would get frustrated every time I got on stage, I'd be in my head, I'd be striving for perfection and get upset when I wouldn't achieve it. I was more concerned with the destination than with the journey, which is stupid with improv because there is no end destination there. The whole thing is about the journey. You're not getting anywhere with improv. Unless you're TJ or Dave, you're not going to make any money with it.

But that's where I was.

And I was frustrated with improv because it's super competitive here in Chicago. It seems like no matter how hard I work or try, I wasn't getting anywhere. Also, I don't know if it's just me, but Chicago improv people are super weird in the sense that most of them, unless you can offer them something, won't really talk to me. I saw 12 people that I knew on Monday night. I'm facebook friends with all 12 of them. Out of those 12, two came up to me and talked to me. And of those two, only one seemed genuinely happy to see me.

I don't know why that is. It might be more of an "Alf" problem than an "improv people" problem, but it sucks. Improv is a team sport and if that team is insincere and I feel like they ain't got my back, what's the point?

Which is one of the reasons I very much enjoyed two of the shows I saw. One of them was "Ideal Boy" in Houston, the other was "Villain" in Chicago. Both just seemed like they were having so much fun. They really liked each other and genuinely wanted to see everyone on the team succeed. That's infectious, man. That sense of fun spreads to the audience and everyone has a blast. The performers have fun doing it and the audience has fun partaking in the experience.

"Ideal Boy" had this crazy ass meta-form that seemed like it was rehearsed, but I later learned was improvised. And that blew my mind because it was really good and a clever statement on improv in general. "Villain" just totally had each other's backs and actually liked performing with each other, which was so refreshing and fun to see. The group after them seemed like they did not even want to be there and a lot of the times they weren't on the same page. In FACT, with "Villain" after EVERY scene, nearly EVERY member of the group was smiling. With the second group, I rarely saw that. In FACT, with a few scenes, people actually walked off the stage scowling or frowning. One girl even shook her head in disgust.

That is something that I never want to deal with. Support, man. SUPPORT. We're all in this together. Don't make it harder than it has to be by being all judge-y and petty and shit. SUPPORT.

I've dealt with a lot more of that here in Chicago than I ever did in Houston or Austin. Maybe because improv is so prevalent here? I dunno. In Houston, improv was precious. Our rehearsal time/space was limited and we cherished every minute of it. In Chicago, there nearly a dozen theaters putting on different shows every night of the week. Each of those theaters has dozens of troupes. In Houston, we had four troupes and nary a theater to any of them (well, ComedySportz had a theater, but that was it!).

I dunno, man. I love improv. I miss it. I'm going back to it. But it's tough sometimes.

I'm gonna go on a 20-mile bike ride now.

Agoraphobia

I'm sitting on a bed in room 512 of the Drury Inn close to the St. Louis airport. In St. Louis. You know, St. Louis, Missouri? Home of the Gateway Arch, the Cardinals and... other stuff. I don't know much about St. Louis.

The flight that was supposed to take me from Houston to Atlanta to Chicago ended up taking me here. We did indeed start off in Houston and made a stop in Atlanta (where they have a Chick-Fil-A in the airport!), but we had to stop in Indianapolis because of bad weather around Midway Airport in Chicago. "Golf-ball sized hail" is what the captain said.

There should be a new term for big hail. Anytime there's hail, it's compared to golf balls. It's boring now. Totes cliché. There are other types of balls out there. Tennis balls. Baseballs. Ping pong balls. And why not explore other avenues? Why stick with just balls? How about guayaba-sized hail? Or the face of a Casio watch-sized hail? Maybe even Pomerian poop-sized hail.

We had to land in Indianapolis (former home of Peyton Manning!) because of Pom-poo-hail and we waited. And waited. And waited. And then we were off! It's a short plane ride from Indianapolis to Chicago. Only about forty-five minutes. However, after an hour and a half, the pilot said we were heading to St. Louis instead. The runway lights at Midway were out. And the hail poop was returning.

After nearly ten hours of being in seat 17D on a 747, we landed in St. Louis. After another hour next to a dude who kept trying to fart discreetly but who was failing because everyone could tell he wasn't leaning to the side to stretch (that dude was me...), we were allowed to get off the plane. And wait. In line. For two hours. To be told that all flights were sold out for the next morning and that they couldn't give us any hotel rooms because this was not a Southwest problem. This was a Midway problem.

After another hour at gate 16, my mom called and suggested I just grab a room somewhere and I could fly out later the next day. The Southwest attendant booked me a seat for the 9:55pm flight (which apparently has now been delayed so that it's the 10:35pm flight) and I took the shuttle to the Drury Inn. Where I paid $89+tax for room 512 and a complimentary breakfast buffet.

Friends, let me tell you about that breakfast buffet. It was small. There were the essentials and then a nifty waffle maker. But I tore that breakfast buffet apart. The previous day, I only had an Orange Carrot Karma smoothie from Jamba Juice, a honey-whole wheat bagel with strawberry schmear, some pretzels and three chocolate brownie Cliff bars (I had a bunch in my suitcase).

This morning, I had a whole plate of scrambled eggs, two biscuits with some gravy, two sausage patties, a bowl of oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar, a cinnamon-raisin bagel, a slice of white bread, a Yoplait strawberry-banana yogurt with granola annnnd one of those huge waffles. I am stuffed, but if you charge me $89+tax for a room, I am going to tear up your breakfast buffet. Tear it UP.

I'm trying to decide whether I want to just wait till 10:35pm, try to do the whole standby thing for an earlier flight or just rent a car and drive the 4.5 hours to Chicago. The easiest and cheapest thing would have been to wait at the airport and just taken the first available flight out in the morning. But I didn't do that.

Not that I didn't want to. I felt like I couldn't. I can't do anything early (more on that in a second).

As everyone was waiting in line, four peeps around my age said "Hey, let's just rent a car and drive! We'd get there by 4AM and we can take turns driving and split the cost of the car and gas!"

It was a great idea. And a small adventure. A fun story to tell people later on in life, right (unless all four of them turned out to be murderers and tore me UP)? I was going to go with them, when right before we crossed security, I froze and asked myself a simple question.

What if I had to pee?

It's a stupid question, right? A normal person would just hold it. Or if they really had to go, we'd stop at a gas station or rest stop. No big deal.

Except it's not like that with me. I think I might have touched upon this briefly in a previous blog post, but I was half-joking about it so I don't think anyone took it seriously. So I'm going to try to be fairly serious about this for the next few paragraphs.

I have pretty bad anxiety issues.

I'm not sure what I have, but I think it's a form of agoraphobia. I've told friends and family about it, but it's so silly that either they think it's a joke or they don't know how to respond. Agoraphobia is when you have anxiety attacks when you're in a situation where it's difficult to escape. This can be an open field, shopping malls, buses, planes (the wikipedia article is very informative). It's different for everyone, as are the reactions. Some people have difficulty breathing. I feel like I'm going to poo or pee my pants.

Seriously. Right now, I'm sitting in the hotel room. I've been holding it in for a good couple of hours. I'm fine because I know there's a restroom only a few feet away. But tell me that I can't use the restroom and I will flip out and feel like I need to urinate RIGHT NOW. It used to be that way with bowel movements as well, but I've kinda got that under control. Kinda. I drink coffee (which is a diuretic) and then go to the bathroom four or five times in the course of three hours and then I'm fine for the rest of the day. Which is why I can't do anything in the mornings. Even if I don't drink coffee, I still get cramps and the sudden urge to go. The caffeine simply speeds up the process.

And I was actually doing a lot better with the bladder issues too, to be honest. I'd go hours without using the restroom. If I knew I was going to be in a situation where there would be no access to a restroom, I'd stop drinking water a couple of hours before heading out. I'd try to pee as much as possible to make sure my bladder was empty. There were situations where I freaked out and I use the bathroom a LOT more than normal people, but it was manageable. Under control.

Then Kayla came to visit for two weeks (which was awesome) and we went out everyday and I got a little stressed and then when we were going to fly back to Houston, our flight was delayed three hours. Then we got on the plane, waited an hour, and were then told the flight was canceled. That jumpstarted the problem because it really stressed me out. The few days after that, I couldn't hold it in more than an hour or so. Yesterday's flight issues have exacerbated it, but I think I'm settling back down.

It's silly, right? Kinda funny. Except not really. Excuse the emo-ness, but I feel like I've become a different person because of it. I used to say yes to nearly everything. Road trip at 4AM to somewhere I've never been? Sure. Hitting up Galveston at night to go skinny dipping? Let's go. I liked going out, I loved road trips, I especially loved flying. It was awesome. And now I try to avoid situations where I won't be able to use the restroom.

That's why I ride my bike everywhere. I'm in control when I'm on my bike. If I need to pee, I can pull over anywhere and go. If I'm on a bus or on the el, what do I do if there's traffic or if the el gets stuck for an hour?

Plane rides aren't too bad because they do have restrooms on the plane, but those fifteen minutes when taking off and fifteen minutes when landing are some of the most horrible experiences for me. I go before the flight, four or five times during the flight and then once more after the flight, just for good measure.

I have to have an aisle seat now. I used to love having a window seat. I seriously used to LOVE flying. I would write. I would read. It was relaxing. And now I hate it.

And it sucks. I want to stop being like this and go back to the way I was. I know when it started happening. I had my first freak out in February of 2008. Delma and I were stuck in traffic on 610 and I started panicking (Delma has been so supportive, by the way. Even when we have to cancel plans because I'm not feeling ready to leave the house). I just felt like I really had to go. Out of no where. We got off of the freeway, I ran into a Starbucks and... nothing. It got worse for a bit, then disappeared for a year or so. Then in 2010, on a flight back from Chicago, I had to pee. Really bad. I had downed two cups of coffee and four cups of water and I thought I could hold it. Right before taking off, I unbuckled my seatbelt and ran into the restroom. The flight attendants started banging on the restroom door, telling me to get out. We couldn't take off until I was out of there.

The weird thing was that I COULDN'T GO. I don't know why. It was as if my body locked up. After a little bit, I went, but it was really weird. I had to go, but couldn't. The flight attendant came over during the middle of the flight and, with one of those bitchy smirks, said I could be thrown into jail for doing that. Thanks, lady.

After that, things started getting really bad. I didn't want to go anywhere because I was scared I was going to pee myself. When Delma came to visit, we would be walking around Lincoln Park and I would have to stop and pee in alleys because I feared I couldn't hold it.

Thinking about it makes me freak out a little. I feel like I have to pee right now. And if I went, I'd probably go.

I don't know why I wrote about this. Maybe writing it out will help me figure out a solution. Maybe someone will comment and be like "You have THIS and HERE's the treatment!" Maybe it'll make someone laugh. It IS a pretty silly situation. And I have yet to ever actually pee/poo my pants.

My dad says it's all in my head. And I know it is. I've gone to the doctor and I don't have a UTI or any stomach issues (aside from having a faulty gallbladder). I have a peanut allergy, apparently, but even after I gave up peanut butter, I'd still have the panic attacks. So, yeah, it is psychological. But it's hard to convince yourself of that when you feel like your bladder is going to burst.

But yeah. Because of that, I didn't go to with those four peeps to Chicago and I didn't take any of the 6AM flights. So I'm stuck here for a bit.

It's all about control, really. I want to be in control. Of everything. I don't like situations where I'm not in control. Even improv scenes (I always relate everything back to improv, huh?). I tend to be the dominant alpha male in scenes. I try to control the direction of the scene.

I just need to learn to go with the flow, I guess. I thought I was pretty easy-going and relaxed. Maybe I'm not.

This is the type of thing that makes you question who you are. Existential agoraphobia.

If you went through and read everything, thanks. I'm not going to edit it. I should. Maybe I will later.

I'm going to go to the airport now and grab me a Cinnabon. I'll catch you guys in Chicago.

Random Thoughts on the CTA

Click-clack-click-clack-click-clack.

The CTA trains have a very distinct sound to them. Not only when you’re riding them, but also as you watch them woosh by. Onboard, you hear the rapid-fire click-clack-click-clack of the wheels going over the tracks. When combined with the gradual rocking and swaying of the train car, it’s usually enough to lull people to sleep. In fact, there’s a guy passed out on the train right now, his red Chicago Bulls cap pulled down over his eyes.

The sound of a train passing by varies depending on how close you are to the train itself. If you’re standing underneath the train tracks as it rushes past, you’re engulfed in a mouth of sound, unable to hear anything as the train vigorously roars it’s way past you. Although an intense experience, it never lasts for more than a few seconds, dispersing into the air as quickly as it came. If you live a mile away from the red line, like I do, you’ll hear the train sporadically throughout the night. Lying in my bed, the train is more like a curious tabby cat staring at me through the window, purring for a few seconds before dashing off into the alley behind my apartment.

Although the interior of the train is illuminated at all times by florescent lights louder than the train itself, outside it is glum. Raindrops are lightly pelting the city, covering it with a fine mist. Lightning pierces the darkness intermittently, allowing me to catch an occasional glimpse of Chicago as we race by. Wrigleyfield. Graceland Cemetery. The 7-11 on Belmont.

It’s been raining all week.

The bitter weather isn’t the worst part about living in Chicago. In fact, I actually like the cold. It’s a welcome change from the oppressive Houston heat and humidity. Going out when it’s five below isn’t exactly a picnic as your snot begins to crystalize inside your nostrils the moment you step out the door and each time you inhale, you can feel the cold stabbing your lungs, but those days are rare. Most of the winter has been like today where all you need is a parka and a hat to keep the wind from slicing into you.

It’s the duration of winter that gets to you. I was fortunate enough to head back home for nearly three weeks in the middle of December so I didn’t have to deal with winter for six months straight, but it’s still rough. The snow stops being charming once it turns into slush. When that happens, you have to stomp around sidewalks crowded with grey snow and, occasionally, brown snow as dog owners no longer bother picking up their dog’s waste. In addition, sunlight is scarce. I have gone several days without seeing the sun while in Chicago. This city has taught me to appreciate the warmth of the sun, especially now that it doesn’t set at 4:26 p.m. Thanks, Daylight Saving Time.

Click-clack-click-clack-click-clack.

Inside the train, I try to force myself to trudge through Salman Rushdie’s The Satanic Verses, but I’m not having much luck. I don’t like it. I’m sure it’s a wonderful book that will reveal some universal truth about humanity and religion at the end, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I try to jump into the forest of words enthusiastically, cutting through the pages as fast as I can, but, inevitably, I get lost. I start daydreaming before realizing that I did not process the last four pages, so I go back and try to read some more, a little slower this time. Then before I know it, I am lost again. I just don’t get it.

On the other side of the train car, just past the sleeping Bulls fan, are two men having an intense conversation. One of them is wearing a black jacket with the face of Benjamin Franklin printed on the back. The other is wearing a faded blue hoodie.

“They all bitches.” says the one with the Franklin jacket.
“Man, you can’t say that.” responds Blue Hoodie.
“All of them. All women bitches. Yo’ momma’s a bitch, yo’s sister’s a bitch, and yo’ daughter’s a bitch too!” Franklin shouts.

I put Rushdie away into my messenger bag.

Click-clack-click-clack-click-clack.

“Man, don’t say that, man.” says Blue Hoodie.
“Look, I ain’t got nothin’ against yo’ momma, but it is what it is. My momma’s a bitch. All women. All of them bitches.”
“That ain’t right, man.” protests Blue Hoodie.
“You a son of a bitch.” Franklin whispers dangerously.

Click-clack-click-clack-click-clack.

Blue Hoodie holds up his hands.
“Hey, man, that’s fine if you think women bitches, but don’t take it out on me, man. I ain’t done nothin’, man.”

“Nah, see, you got it all wrong. When I say you a son of a bitch, I ain’t disrespecting you. I’m sayin’ yo’ momma’s a bitch.” Franklin leans back into his seat, crosses his arms, and smiles.
“Man, shit ain’t right, man. Gotta have respect, man.” Blue Hoodie warns him.
“Shiiiiiiit.”

Click-clack-click-clack-click-clack.

Blue Hoodie leans back into his seat and, just like that, the conversation is over. I pull out my iPhone to check the scores for the night’s playoff games. The Celtics beat the Knicks, the Magic beat the Hawks, and the Mavericks are currently beating the TrailBlazers, 73 to 72. Every team I was rooting for has lost or is losing. The Houston Rockets didn’t make the playoffs this season, the Houston Texans have never made the playoffs, and the Houston Astros are currently last in their division.

I feel like I should have switched allegiances once I moved here. The Bulls have the best record in the NBA, the Bears were one win short of a trip to the Super Bowl, and the Cubs are currently leading their division (the very same division that the Astros are in). The Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup last year and the city went crazy. The White Sox won the World Series in 2005. Sadly, it was against Houston.

Houston's last championships were in 1994 and 1995 when the Rockets won back-to-back NBA championships. Unfortunately, those two championships were overshadowed by Chicago as the Bulls sandwiched those two seasons with back-to-back-to-back championships from 1990-1992 and 1996-1998. If I started supporting Chicago teams, though, I would feel dirty. I’d be a traitor. And then all of the Chicago teams would start losing.

Ding.

“Next stop, Fullerton. Thank you for riding the CTA.” a cheerful voice shouts over the intercom.

I put my phone into my messenger bag and put on my hat. It has ear flaps, which may seem tacky, but are absolutely necessary when navigating your bike through the harsh, Chicago streets. If I don’t wear my flappy hat, I get earaches within seconds of riding in the cold.

The train doors open and I rush out into the rain. I pull out a portable umbrella from my jacket pocket and open it up. Sometimes I feel like there’s no point in having an umbrella in Chicago, The wind’s only going to turn it inside out and then slam you with sideways rain. Before Chicago, I had never seen rain fall horizontally.

As I tighten my jacket around me, there’s a brief flash of lightning and I can see Blue Hoodie and Franklin continue the conversation. I turn around and head towards the exit. The train takes off. It starts off roaring, but soon it fades into the night, leaving only the sound of raindrops lightly tapping my umbrella.

Dinosaurs, Robots, and Lasers (DRLs)

DRLs is an acronym for "daytime running lamps." What are "daytime running lamps?" "Daytime running lamps" are exactly what they sound like. "Lamps" that start "running" during the "daytime." Lots of vehicles have separate "daytime running lamp" that turn on automatically, but most vehicles simply use their high beam bulbs at a reduced setting. DRLs are mandatory in Canada because of the reduced sunlight and excess snow that crazy country gets. Because of that, most vehicle manufacturers simply install them on all their cars, trucks, SUVs, whatevs.

I know lots about DRLs. Much more than I knew a few weeks ago. I know that on Toyota vehicles, you have to remove the headlight relay and cut off the pins numbered "56b" and "58" in order to disable the DRLs. On Chevy vehicles, you simply remove the DRL fuse in the under-hood fuse block. Older Volvo vehicles have a screw you rotate to disable the DRLs. DRLs may be required by law in Canada, but here in America they are not. In fact, many people want to disable their vehicle's DRLs because they burn out the high beam bulb faster. Spare bulbs are like $5 from AutoZone and in THIS economy, every cent counts.

I know LOTS about DRLs. And headlights and tail lights and side markers and turn signals and dashboard lights. Not to mention center high-mounted roof lights. I know the different types of halogen bulbs there are. I know that lights equipped with LEDs burn brighter and longer than normal bulbs. I know what Altezza tail lights are.

How do I know so much about DRLs? It's cause I have a job. Kinda. Sorta. Not really. It's more of a source of income than a job. Not a "job", but it helps me earn some moneys. I write "how-to" articles for a certain website that rhymes with "me-cow." I signed up for it back in September and I've steadily been increasing the number of articles I write each week. I started with five a week and now it's up to fifty. At $15 an article, I'm making decent change. More than enough to live off of. AND it's actually pretty fun. I claim the titles I want, then research, then write. Sometimes I find out that the article I claimed isn't as easy to write as I thought it would be and so I have to let it go and choose another one, but I'm consistently finishing ten articles a day in under five hours. My best day so far has been twelve articles in just under three hours.

It was an interesting turn of events that led me to "me-cow." I kept emailing out my resume to dozens of job openings and calling temp agencies, but I never got a single response. Well, that's not entirely true. I got four rejection emails and two emails that ended up being for some job scam. I stumbled upon this opportunity while reading about 'search engine optimization' and figured I'd give it a shot. It didn't sound legit at all. Like one of those "EARN MONEY WHILE WORKING FROM HOME" ads. But that is my reality. I earn money while working from home. In my Superman pajamas. While drinking a cup of coffee from my Jurassic Park mug.

It's a sweet gig. I wake up at around 8 am, make myself some breakfast and coffee, watch the news for about an hour, and then get to work. I take a lunch break around noon, finish work around 3 pm, go to the gym, have dinner and then I do whatever I want. Some days I play video games. Some days I read. Other days I go do some improv. It's an awesome life, but I feel like I should be taking advantage of all this free time, especially since I'm sure this is only temporary.

From what I've read, "me-cow" has a tendency to ban writers for the silliest offenses. One of those is claiming similar titles. Right now, sitting in my queue, I have one article on how to disconnect DRLs, one article on how to disable DRLs, and then another on how to turn off DRLs. I can't just copy and paste the same text for each title, so I have to repackage the information somewhat. I hope I can do this for a while though, because it's such an awesome gig.

Chicago has been awesome. Chicago IS awesome. There's so much to do. Life is grand. Like those biscuits. Delma and I have been eating a lot and, as a result, I'm back up to 170 pounds (I was 160 back in August). We ended up buying P90X, but that hasn't been going so well. Each session is over an hour long! It's ree-doodoo-diculous. And some days we're just lazy. Also, the main guy has an annoying voice. But because we wanted to buy the proper equipment, we have a power tower and some weights in our living room.

The whole weight-gain thing is one of the few complaints we have about Chicago. I thought I would hate the weather, but thirty degrees is awesome! I wear lots of layers. LOTS of layers. At this moment, I'm wearing a hoodie, a thermal undershirt, a t-shirt, a pair of boxers, a pair of thermal pants, a pair of pajamas, my jeans, two pairs of socks, and a beanie. And I'm in the living room. But it's awesome! I probably won't be saying that come January, but at this moment, I love Chicago.

A few days ago, we took Vicki to the beach. She had never been to Lake Michigan before and she was going crazy running around in the sand. Then she jumped into the lake. And it was thirty-three degrees out. Poor dog.

Improv is... happening, I guess. I dunno. I'm in a weird position with it. I'm doing improv about two times a week. Once at iO for class and once at a place called Theater Momentum with some friends of mine. We got together, found a coach, and we're practicing once a week, but I honestly feel like I'm regressing in my improv skills. It's weird. I'm being stuffed with so many rules and ideas and ways to perform. A lot of them even contradict each other so what's been happening lately is that I'll go on stage and just kind of freeze up and not do anything.

All during level 3, I was told that I needed to slow down with my scene-work. I tend to rush scenes and try to get everything out quickly and establish as much as I could in a short amount of time. In level 4, I'm being told that I take too long to get shit started. I need to establish as much information up front and let the scene work its way from there. I've had great scenes unfold through both techniques, but I've also had terrible, terrible scenes happen. Back in August, I was on an "emotion" binge. Every scene had to have lots of emotion to succeed. It seemed to have worked for the most part, but it always felt like there was something missing. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that a lot of successful scenes occur because of the "wants" of the two characters. "Wants" are what drive scenes. At least that's what I think. I've had even more successful scenes occur because of beginning scenes with discovering a "want," but there have also been some clunkers as well. Then you get into the whole thing of whether the scene should play the game hard or whether it should be focused on emotional, real connections and relationships and all this other mess. It's confusing. There are some days where I just want to get up and go, but it's getting harder to do that because I keep thinking about all the things that are required for a scene to be successful.

I had an audition a few weeks ago for a performance troupe and I froze up. I got really nervous and I didn't know what to do and I ended up not really saying anything. I get in my head and once I'm in there, it's pretty hard to get out.

I could be doing a lot more to improve. There's an improv jam practically every night and I don't go to any of them. I've been to a few and my excuse is that they're lame and that I don't learn much, but if I'm doing improv every night, I'm bound to get better and learn from my mistakes, right? Maybe. I don't know. But that's one thing I'm gonna try to get more involved with. At the very least I'll meet more people. With this "me-cow" gig, I don't get out of the apartment much.

I've also been looking at acting classes. There's a place not too far away that offers Meisner classes. Not really sure what the Meisner technique is, but it has to deal with finding the truth in your characters and fleshing it out. I think. I dunno. But that's a big part of improv and I've heard that Meisner helps with that immensely. It may even help with my writing. I tend to create caricatures as opposed to characters in both improv and writing. One-dimensional stereotypes that don't hold a lot of weight. Maybe this'll help.

The biggest issue I have with Chicago is that I miss my family. Especially Kayla. But I'll get to see them in a few weeks when I go back down to H-Town.