Jul. 31, 2003 - 6:38 p.m.
Dear Meghan:
The week since you’ve been away has not been amongst my favorite. At the law firm (gig), I continue to strive to become an instructor. Though I believe that I am making tangible progress, I am still not nearly where I wish to be – that being, teaching hardcore, being brilliant, insightful, educational, patient. Learning this particular gig is akin to learning an entirely new language, and its frustrations are huge. I was asked to coach (second-chair) a session the other day, and I did fairly well, at least on the Vincent-o-Meter. I could have done better. It is a strange hill to be climbing at this point of my career, but, like those daft fools who see Mount Everest and say, “you’re hot!”, I find I cannot resist the challenge.
Likewise, the dynamic in Suspicious Clowns keeps changing, and I’m finding it a little difficult to keep up. Even those who have left the group have had their impact. We are currently rehearsing at Second City in prep for the Big Retrospective Show, and it is at Second City where ex-Clowns Terri and Scott can be found on a regular basis. This has caused a small pebble of worry in me – a pebble the size of the iceberg that cracked open the Titanic, perhaps. After nearly two years of being fairly headstrong, I found myself in a scary deep pit of doubt, wondering what’s wrong with “me” that the ex-Clowns would perform in theater, just not with the Clowns – or specifically, me. I have managed to crawl out of the pit, thanks to tiresome and grueling e-mails to Jeb (naked guys are decent people), in which I have come to the conclusion that I’m probably too driven for most people’s good. There are other reasons, but I’ll pass on them now. All I need, Meghan, is to find four or five more of me out there. Moody, over ambitious, shut-in-with-a-typewriter comedy geeks unite!
That is not to undervalue Jeb during these days. Jeb has been my rock through this particular episode, though, astrologically, he should not be. He and I are both Leo’s, and, as it is written, we’re not supposed to be very supportive of one another. Unfortunately, even if we’re not the best of friends, I think we have tremendous respect for each other onstage, offstage and on paper. That has been enough. He’s been the ‘other’ I have needed to balance my recent stray into Weirdland.
My mother and I keep exchanging voicemails back and forth. It is hard to gauge the significance of it, but, knowing my mom and me, there’s probably significance galore. I don’t know how much I’ve told you about Mom – or Mugsy, as is her nickname. We’ve a strange relationship, buoyed somewhat by the fact that I don’t think either one of us wants to intrude on the other’s life. As a result, years may drift by without more than half a dozen mini-chats. When I think of her, I always think of how she wraps up phone calls: “Well, I don’t want to run your bill up…” From her point of view, this is probably just giving me (or her) an out; from my point of view, allowing Ameritech (or whatever your local phone carrier is) to dictate how long a mother/son should converse is twisted.
My father is a different bag altogether. Again, I don’t know how much I’ve told you about Dad – or Mad Jack, as is his nickname. Essentially, I have one story about him and here they are. He married Mom in 1960 or so, got divorced in 1977 and died. He didn’t physically die, of course, he just sort of gave up the whole ‘life’ thing. Various members of the family – even Mugsy, to a certain extent – had the odd go at bringing him out of 1977 and into the present day. Like a bad kid, he would stomp his feet, expertly find the wrong the thing to say, and vanish into his little home in Joliet (a distant, dirty suburb of Chicago). I’m not sure the last time I spoke with him, but I’m pretty sure Reagan was still in office.
This weekend will be full of making postcards, posters and press releases – and of course, our premiere at Second City. Oh – the funniest thing about working at Second City? It’s that everyone seems to think it’s a lot more important than it is. There’s this wacky reverence which defies – and bastardizes – the whole satirical vibe that Second City used to be known for. I look at the walls and see pictures of Bill Murray, John Belushi, Dan Ackroyd, Chris Farley, Catherine O’Hara… and think, “Wow, at least Billy is still respectable.”
Years ago, Lenny Bruce did a routine in which he approached black people in his audience and said ‘nigger’. Over and over. And over. And over. Until… the word had no meaning. He robbed ‘nigger’ of its meaning and power, right in front of a roomful of people who has spent their life giving it meaning and power. That was genius. Someone needs to go round and say ‘Second City’ a lot, I feel.
Wiley,
Vincent
what they said - what they will say
