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When I first started out teaching improv a million years ago at The Second City Training Center in Chicago, we would occasionally have small classes. Sometimes only five or six people would show up for a Saturday afternoon improv class.
I would get really frustrated when that would happen, and I would find Michael Gellman in the hall, hoping he would join me in my misery, and say something, like "Shit, I only had four people in class today." Instead, in his deep voice, he would say, "That’s great; those are the best classes."
Michael said a lot of wise things to me in those days that I did not understand until later in life and this was one of them.
Last Wednesday night, I was on my way to teach my Art of Slow Comedy Level 3 improv class during a huge thunder storm. It was pouring, the kind of rain that floods the street and forces the traffic to stop. A distance that normally takes you a couple minutes to drive now was taking an hour, and anytime we get any sort of moisture in the air in Chicago people for some reason have to drive super slow. When I got to class, my pants were soaked from sprinting one block in the rain from where I had parked. When I got into the classroom, I was surprised that three dedicated improvisers had made it through the storm and were eager to play.
When I first started out teaching, I had an arbitrary number in my head that I needed six people to teach an improv class or I would cancel it. That’s when I lacked confidence and experience. When you teach for yourself, and you don't have the policy of the institution behind you; you have to carry on. So that’s what I did. I didn’t wait for more people to show up. That wouldn’t be fair to the people who are already there, and I knew on a night like this, three might be all we’d get.
So, I started class with three improvisers, and I decided to have them start doing three-person scenes. About half an hour into class, another student showed up. She said it took her three hours to get there because of the rain — talk about dedication.
Whenever I have a small class, there is always part of me that thinks the students are going to be disappointed that there are only four people in class, and I have fear that they’re going to hold it against me. I usually feel shame and think if my class is small, it must mean I’m a failure.
I could not be more wrong. I got an e-mail from one of my students who loved the smaller improv class because of the individual attention. The woman who had traveled three hours posted something on Facebook about how much she learned that night. And me, I finally understood exactly what Michael Gellman had told me over 20 years ago: A small class is actually a great class.
Some of the worst decisions I have made in my life I made by myself. When I was in my early 30s, Saturday Night Live was going to fly me to New York to audition for the show. I made the "brilliant" decision all by myself to not go because I thought I really didn’t do characters or sketch.
Then there was the time when a group I was improvising with in the ’90s got hired to write for a new network late night talk show. Without consulting anyone, I turned it down because I thought I wasn’t a “writer.”
I have had paying gigs fall out of the sky into my lap, really great opportunities, and instead of saying yes, I said no, because I thought I knew what was best for me. Clearly, I did not. When I am left to my own devices, my decision-making process can be dangerous and reckless and can lead to a lot of regret.
When I teach corporate improv workshops, I am often hired to come in and focus on team building. Companies usually want their teams to work together more, share ideas more and be less territorial. Improv is a very effective tool in this, but only after people realize that their territorial behavior comes from fear — fear of asking for help, fear of being wrong, fear of looking stupid, fear of being shot down. Fear, fear, fear, fear.
When you practice improv, your brain gets wired differently. We are always asking for helping when we are improvising. Even though we don't explicitly say it, we know we cannot do improv without someone else, and we learn that if we trust other people, we always end up with better results.
So how can we do the same at work, in our careers and in life so we can make better decisions?
Whether you learn to rely on a group of friends or people at work or your fellow improvisers, you have to create your own culture where you not only feel ok asking for help, but it's actually encouraged. You need to trust that these folks can make better decisions for you than you can.
And the relationship needs to go both ways. It’s just as important to ask for help from others as it is to have others asking help from you. Giving and receiving -- where have you heard that before?
The real secret in all of this is to trust that your support network has your best interest in mind. Your group of “trusted advisors” could be just three people, though I encourage you to keep expanding it.
Today, I rely heavily on my support network before I make any decision that I’m not sure about. The bigger the decision, the more input I get. There are times when I have made multiple phone calls to multiple people to help me make a decision, and they all agree with my original hunch. In those cases, it always helps with my personal confidence, and I usually get the extra bonus of having peace and serenity around the decision.
Other times, I will ask people for their advice and feedback about something, and they will tell me something completely opposite of what I would do, and I have to trust that they know better than I do. Still other times, I will get conflicting opinions about what the right answer is. In that case, I just keep asking more people until I get a majority opinion.
My own personal experience has shown that when I reach out and have people help me with my decision-making, things always turn out better than I could have hoped and my career and life get bigger. Kind of like improvising.
As improvisers, expressing ourselves is what we do. We do not have a choice: We are born this way. It’s no accident we are drawn toward the performing arts: sketch, stand-up, improv, and acting. These are the way we express ourselves.
For me, the need to express myself is part of who I am at the core. It’s the thing that keeps me alive; it's my oxygen. When others try to shut me down, they are suffocating me. When I’m told I can’t say something or I shouldn’t say something, I feel like I can’t breathe, like they are trying to kill a part of me.
For years, I never quite knew why I loved teaching improv so much, even after all these years, but something that happened last month made me realize it’s because it gives me the chance to encourage others to express themselves, and there is nothing that is more important to me.
Recently my world changed when my father died. A few months before my dad’s death, I had asked him how I could help him prepare for his death, and he told me to speak at his funeral and make it funny.
But after he actually died, my family did everything they could to prevent me from speaking at his funeral. My family tried to ignore me, guilt me and emotionally blackmail so I would not speak. I’m not sure what exactly they were afraid I would say, but they said things like, “We don’t trust you,” and “save your negativity for your blog.”
At the eleventh hour, the night before the funeral, a peace agreement was struck between me and my mom where she agreed that I would be speaking at the funeral along with my brother and my sister, and we would each get three minutes. Nine minutes total to sum up my dad's 81 years of life.
When I got to the church in the morning, my pregnant wife, Lauren, and I were ignored by my family and then blindsided by the priest, who told me that the plans had changed and now nobody was going to speak at the funeral. My brother and sister gladly threw themselves under the bus so I would not speak, and of course, like was true during most of my childhood, my mom was nowhere be found.
To say I was angry was an understatement. I went ballistic, postal, into a full-on black-out-rage. I stood up on a wooden church pew and demanded to speak, and then began reading the eulogy I had prepared as people were still filing in for the funeral.
Out of nowhere, a stranger in a dark navy suit tackled me off the pew. I hit the ground and he would not let go of my legs. I heard one of my loving family members yell out "Call the police!" Some of my friends started chanting, "Let him speak! Let him speak!" The cops showed up, and the church now had the same hostile energy as a Trump rally.
The priest rushed over trying to calm me down asking me to come down off the pew, so we could talk. The choice for me was clear: Either I was going to speak or I was going to get arrested. It was the bravest, craziest and worst day of my life. More words were exchanged between me and the priest. I saw terror in peoples’ faces. I know I was scared shitless. The priest, either listening to God or fearing a riot, agreed I could speak. He gave me three minutes, and said I needed to speak right then, before the mass started, as people continued to pour into the church.
When they realized I was going to speak, my whole family, including all of my nieces and nephews, cleared out of the church like I was some sort of terrorist with a bomb.
Only one of my brothers stayed to listen as I hobbled up to podium to read my eulogy with the help of my friends and even Lauren’s parents joining me on the altar. I did the best I could as I try to read the eulogy. I had read it to Lauren earlier that morning at home and it had made both of us cry, but at this point, my heart was racing, my voice was hoarse from screaming, so let's just say it did not have the same effect it did when I rehearsed it at home.
It’s been almost five weeks since the funeral where I created a scene in the same church where I had both my first communion and confirmation, and now apparently my bar mitzvah. I am still feeling shame, anger, hurt and deep sadness. I think I may be suffering the effects of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I am not only suffering trauma over that clusterfuck of my dad’s funeral, but I’m also suffering trauma for an entire life of not being allowed to express myself in my family.
But in the aftermath of that experience, I have discovered a new appreciation for what I do as an improv teacher. It's an honor and a privilege to be able to help people to get to express themselves. I have taken this for granted. As improvisers, the need to express ourselves is who we are. We don't not need to apologize for it, only to nurture it, for what we have is a gift that is as precious as gold.
If you’ve been performing with an improv group for a while, you’ve probably started thinking about taking your group on the road, and traveling as a group to an improv festival across the country is not only a fun bonding experience, but an awesome way to take in some shows and workshops and have a fun-filled three-day weekend.
Unfortunately, getting accepted into an improv festival isn’t always as easy as it sounds. So we asked a few people who produce improv festivals to share their advice on Do’s and Don’ts when applying to an improv festival. Good luck!
1. Write a Good Description
Most improv festivals require that you submit a description of your group in order to be considered. Don’t just slap something together; really think about what sets your group apart.
Dave Buckman, producer of the Out of Bounds Comedy Festival in Austin, TX, recommends avoiding words like “zany,” “creative,” “rollercoaster of emotions,” “high-paced,” “fast-paced,” “out-of-control,” “ridiculous,” “laugh riot,” or “larger than life.”
“They are phrases that might describe your show compared to other forms of entertainment — and only a few are actually zany. But, when compared to a hundred other comedy acts, they all use those words,” Buckman says. “Make yours stand out from the crowd of hundreds of improv troupes. Find words that really separate your troupe from the other improv acts that look and feel just like you visually. What's your hook?”
Nicholas Riggs, executive producer of the Tampa Improv Festival, recommends keeping your description to 100 words or less and mentioning your group’s style as well as other festivals you’ve performed at. “Anything that oversells the group is usually an indicator that the group doesn’t have a lot of experience playing away from home,” he adds.
2. Include ALL Requested Materials
In addition to a description, festivals usually require that you submit a high-res image of your group, a video, and other basic information. If you don’t submit all of the information requested, your group comes across as amateur, and you will be less likely to be selected.
“Not including the info requested is always something that I don’t understand, especially with photos and videos,” says PJ Jacokes, producer of the Detroit Improv Festival. “If your troupe is at the level that you think you’re good enough to travel with it, it’s time to get a quality photo and video. Logos aren’t as crucial, but they certainly make your team seem more legit.”
3. Get a Good High-Res Photo
When a festival requests that you submit a high-res photo, that’s exactly what they mean — something that has large enough resolution that it can be printed. To qualify as high-res, your photo should ideally have a resolution of 300dpi (dots per inch). If you’re in doubt, open your photo up in Paint or Photoshop and look at how many pixels wide it is. If it’s not at least 1000 pixels wide, it will not be high res. If you can’t see the entire image when you open it up, that usually means it’s big enough.
Also, Buckman says, “Please do not send us a picture of your diverse cast of eight, if only two or three of you are coming. We want a picture on our website of the actual performers that will be at our festival.”
4. Submit a REALLY Good Video of Your Show
Now, for the most important part: Your video. This is what makes or breaks your admission to a festival, so you want to make it good.
“We focus on videos that really show the live event experience the group creates,” Riggs says. “The truth is, if you don't have the ability to produce a decent quality video that shows you putting something on stage that's well-oiled and has a solid audience, it's probably not time for festival travel.”
Jacokes says a group’s video tells him a lot about the quality of a group. “When watching videos, I look to answer these questions: Is the troupe entertaining? Do they respect their audience? Can they be heard and do they understand basic staging? What can they bring to Detroit that other troupes can’t?”
Festival producers want to see a 10- to 15- minute video of one of your actual shows, not a sizzle reel or highlights reel. So it’s a good idea to film several shows so you can submit your best one.
“The video should show you grabbing the audience’s attention within the first three minutes, holding them at around minute 10, and finding a strong button in the last minute,” Riggs says.
“Most screeners only have to really watch the first five to seven minutes of an improv show to get a sense of how well the competency level and showmanship is,” Buckman says.
Videos must have good sound and lighting and be shot in front of a live audience. Avoid videos that are shot from way behind the audience or from the far side of the front row. Other turnoffs for Buckman include anyone in shorts, baseball caps, open-toed shoes or flip flops.
5. Think About How You Use the Suggestion
One of the things festival organizers tend to look at it your video is how you use the suggestion from the audience.
Jacokes says one of his pet peeves is watching the host pick and choose from the suggestions an audience is calling out. “If you don’t pick the first thing you hear, you tend to start off in the red with me,” he says.
6. Bonus Points If You’re From Out of Town
One way to increase your chances of getting into a festival are to apply to festivals that aren’t in your backyard. Many festivals pride themselves on having groups from all over the country, so if you’re from further away, you may have an advantage.
“We know that our audience and local performers don’t get to travel much or see improv from outside New York, Chicago or LA,” Riggs says. “If a team is willing to come from Seattle to Tampa, we'll most likely take them and try to help make their trip as affordable as possible. It’s all about getting the whole improv experience for us, so anything that can expose our audience to eclectic styles is a big winner.”
7. Do You Have Diversity?
Both Jacokes and Buckman say they consider diversity – in terms of gender, race and sexual orientation – when selecting groups.
Buckman says he looks for groups that have a good mix of people of color, LGBT folks and women, as well as how well those members are supported by entire group. “We really strive to have a solid mix of good and decent people involved at Out of Bounds, and troupes that consist of four white dudes in flannels, beards and glasses or troupes with preppy dudes in tucked-in collared shirts who don't let the non-white dudes get their ideas out — you guys are a dime a dozen — so we only need like a small handful of you.”
8. Have a Unique Angle
Festivals also want diversity in terms of types of shows being offered, so the more unique your show is, the better.
“We love seeing stuff that pushes the boundaries of the art form, as long as the team still has great stage presence and improv swagger,” Riggs says. “Shows like From Justin to Kelly, History Under the Influence, and In the Zone couldn't have been more non-traditional and couldn't have been more fun.”
So you’re thinking about signing up for your very first improv class. Maybe people have told you that you’re funny, or that you should take an improv class just because it’s fun. But what is an improv class really like?
Before you panic or try to get out of it before even showing up, I thought I would put together some things about what you can expect to experience at your first improv class.
It’s spring in Chicago and that means the Cubs have our hopes up, it could snow at any moment and the Chicago Improv Festival will be taking over the city.
This year, the Chicago Improv Festival is taking place from May 2-8 at venues all over the city and will feature tons of shows from groups from Chicago, around the country and even around the world.
If you’re newer to improv, you may not realize that the Chicago Improv Festival was one of the first national improv festivals in the country, and after 19 years, it’s still one of the largest festivals around. That sounds great on paper, but when you’re looking at the schedule and trying to decide what to see, it can be pretty overwhelming.
So I thought I would help you out and give you my 6 favorite picks of this year’s shows and save you some time. Think of it as my little service to you.
Grief is new to me. I really have not had that much experience with it in my life, up until now. I have had grandparents, aunts, uncles and friends die, but I have never experienced this level of grief before. It is confusing based on my relationship with my dad. He was not my "best friend," and I cringe when other people say that, because for me it's an unbelievable concept. To say "he raised me" would be generous. And I get annoyed when other people say, "He just did the best he could." It may be true, but it feels like bullshit.
But he was my dad and I only had one. As it was explained to me by a wise old friend, there is a bond between a father and son. And this friend went on to say that even though his dad was abusive to him when he was growing up, it was still hard on him when he died. He missed his dad terribly. This is how I feel; though my Dad was not abusive, he was neglectful, which is a different side of the same coin.
I guess going through this is a rite of passage. The memorial for my Dad is happening at the end of this week, and by the end of June, I will become a father. At 51, I am coming of age. This is either pretty sad or pretty humorous, but not surprising, since I am a late bloomer.
Grief is not one emotion, but an umbrella of many. I have felt sadness, anger, fear and anxiety or combination of them. They are unpredictable and intense. There are also long stretches of time you want to be alone. Returning a phone call or reading the paper seems impossible. Sometimes you want to be around people and sometimes you want to kill them.
There are short patches of time where you are focused, like now, as I try to write this blog, but most of the time, I am not on the same frequency as the rest of the world. I am tuned out, flaky and annoyed. It’s been four weeks since he died, and I thought by this point I would be back to writing about improv, but as you can see, I’m not.
Some of my feelings don't come up as easily. They are trapped deep down there, like those coal miners from Chile who were waiting to be rescued.
Others, like anger, come right to the surface, like when I’m in traffic or in line with the slow cashier at the CVS. And still others need to be tricked to come up, like sadness by watching Titanic with my wife where we both cried and I got a new appreciation for James Cameron.
However they come up, I am glad when they do because I feel better for the time being.
This Saturday is the memorial for my dad, and I am planning to speak at the service, and hopefully avoid the drama of my family. The last time I spoke to my brother about the eulogy, he wanted all of us five kids to speak no more than two minutes about our dad. That is impossible and crazy. When I talked to my dad about speaking at his funeral months ago he asked that I be funny and not portray him as a saint. I believe I can do at least one of those things.
God speed Dad, God speed. I miss you. Love your son.
After interviewing Jon Favreau recently for an episode of Improv Nerd in a swanky hotel suite off Michigan Avenue in Chicago, I crawled back into my therapist's office in pain and said, “He could not have been happier to see me, he gave a great interview, he even gave me a souvenir from the movie, The Jungle Book, and yet I left feeling ‘less than.’"
My therapist, who is not one to let me wallow in my self-pity, said, "Can't you see you are as accomplished in what you do?"
"No, I can't,” I said.
He pushed me: "In your teaching improv? In your interviewing?"
"No, I can't,” I said again, as if he did not hear me the first time.
This is what I really believed. I have been torturing myself this way for years. I always feel this way because I compare everyone else’s accomplishments to mine, which is a game I never seem to win.
But after that conversation, something seems to have shifted.
Last week I was in LA pitching Improv Nerd as a TV show. I also lined up some interviews for some upcoming episodes of the podcast. I was fortunate to get to record the episodes out of the state-of-the-art studios at Starburns Industries, where FeralAudio.com records some of their podcasts. Dustin Marshall was there to produce, and I had set up four interviews with people I had worked with in Chicago.
Usually, when I measure myself up against people I started out with in improv in Chicago who have gone on to do work in LA, my internal scale shows them as being more successful than I am. They have far more TV and film credits and more money than I do, two of the many things I use to judge myself against others.
But for whatever reason, this time, those measuring sticks weren’t working. For the first time, I didn’t feel less than. It’s been part of my schtick for years to feel like a loser, but for whatever reason, this time, I actually felt accomplished. (Don't tell my therapist).
I actually was feeling a sense of pride as my first guest arrived at the studio. I felt like, “Look at what I have been able to do with this tiny podcast out of Chicago!" I was in a Los Angles recording studio, inviting my successful friends that I started out with in Chicago in to be interviewed by one of the best interviewers in the business: me. As accomplished as they are in TV and film, I finally realized that I am accomplished in interviewing.
What’s even more amazing is that feeling lasted the entire week. Each time a new guest came into the studio and they put on their headphones and we turned on the microphone, they got to experience my incredible talent as an interviewer. That last part is not easy to write, but I am not changing a word, no matter how uncomfortable I feel later.
This week, I am writing my blog in LA. I am here for two reasons: To get some episodes for the podcast and to pitch the idea of Improv Nerd as a TV show.
If you are an outsider, you probably think this trip is going pretty well. I have already had three meetings with production companies. I got to be on Dan Harmon's podcast, HarmonTown, which was incredibly fun, and I was only supposed to be on for 15 minutes and we ended up improvising a scene and I got to be on for 45 minutes. After I finish writing this, I’m off to do another podcast and I’m getting the chance to interview some old friends for Improv Nerd later this week.
But since my perception is all screwed up, I cannot tell you how the trip is going.
All I know is I want to go home. I miss my wife, Lauren. I miss my cat. I miss my routine. And the grief of my father is weighing over everything. It sticks to your ribs like Thanksgiving dinner, making you feel stuffed for days.
And despite the seeming successes so far, there is a big part of me that feels ridiculous being here. I’m like, “What the fuck am I doing?” My father just died, Lauren is pregnant and sick, and we dipped into our savings to pay for this trip. I feel like an idiot trying to peddle this "niche" little show.
But there is another part of me that is like, “Shut the fuck up, Jimmy. You are showing up, and that’s good enough.”
Like my poor therapist has been telling me for over 12 years, enjoy the process; the outcome doesn’t matter. Let's say for this blog that I actually believe that. If so, then just coming out here and showing up for the meetings is enough. And by doing this, I am telling the Universe through my actions that I am finally getting serious about my career. I know I have waited until I am almost 52 to get serious about my career, but there is no time limit on stuff like that. And don't forget, I didn’t get married until I was 47 and I am going to be a father at 52, so better late than never.
And just to be clear, Universe, I came out to LA because I am ready for more. More exposure, more success, more money. Please understand when the "more" comes -- the exposure, success and money -- I will be out of my mind. I will resist it. I will be terrified. I will do everything in my power to ruin it and sabotage it. Most likely I will be angry, sad, scared and I will want to die. All signs I am heading it the right direction.
But the good thing is I have lots of people – my friends, my wife, my therapists, and improv and recovery folks -- who will get in the way of me sabotaging myself. My whole life I have blown off opportunities and not known how to show up because I was crazy and had did not have people in my life to help me get through things like this. I’m glad today I have people who help keep me going.
Talk to you when I get back.
I have written in previous blogs about my father who has been sick and dying. Last week he died. I am not going to lie: I had a complicated relationship with him and I am grateful that in the end I showed up and got to say goodbye.
On Wednesday night, Lauren and I spoke to my mom over the phone. She said my dad had taken a turn for the worse and he would probably not make until Friday. We drove over to their house the next afternoon. When we got there, my two brothers were in the living room, one buried in his smart phone and the other one on the land line. I barely got in the living room when my older brother barked the order to go up and see my father. I hate being told what to do, even in times like this, but I get it — we all grieve differently.
Lauren and I went upstairs to the tiny bedroom where my Dad lay asleep in a hospital bed. He was pretty morphined up. He could not move and could not talk.
They had hired an aide to take care of my dad. The aide was a small Filipino man dressed all in white. He was wearing a white cap and had the cleanest white gym shoes on, like they had just come out of the box. He looked like the Good Humor Man that I remember driving around in an ice cream truck when I was kid. I have fond memories of Good Humor products growing up; I loved that Toasted Almond Bar.
But the Good Humor Man wasn’t cheering me up. I felt scared and sad. Lauren and I sat in a chair next to the hospital bed and I asked the Good Humor Man a question, but the answer he gave me, either because I was uncomfortable or because of a language barrier, made no sense. I was annoyed, and then he said, "He can hear you."
I said hello to my dad and he began to cough, and then he opened his eyelids slightly at the sound of my voice. He was somewhat lucid, considering the amount of morphine he was taking. My throat got tight and my eyes teared up.
I have had issues with my Dad since I can remember, some of them I have resolved and some will keep me in group therapy for the rest of my life. I always thought that work was always more important to him than his kids, that he was not a great role model, and I am not even going to bring up his criminal past, which landed him prison for 22 months.
My mouth was so dry I felt I could not speak, and honestly, I had no idea what to say. "Goodbye" did not seem appropriate since it was implied. Then my Higher Power spoke through me: "Dad, I love you," I said. I reached over to gave him a hug and started to cry. The miracle was not what I said, it was that I meant it.
His left shoulder began to shake. He lifted his left hand to acknowledge what I just said. I imagine if he could still speak he was saying going to say, "I love you, too." Since I have a hard time with intimate moments like this, I grabbed his hand and tried to control it and put it back down.
Later that night, my youngest sister arrived from Colorado. She got there around 10:30 p.m., and by 12:15 a.m., we got the call that my dad had died. I think he was waiting around to say goodbye to her, too.
I am like my Dad in many ways, and the one that annoys me the most is this constant feeling that I am not enough and that outside success of money, fame, power and having a building with your name on it will fix all of that. It never does, but I am stupid enough and I keep trying. He, like me, very rarely saw the gold that what was right in front from him, in his case his five kids. Most of us kids turned out pretty well — one exceptionally well, the one who is writing this blog. But my Dad could never see it until the end.
Maybe I am lying to myself, but I want to believe that my Dad finally got it, that his kids did matter to him more than he realized. That he loved us more than he realized and that I loved him more than I realized. Either way, that is how I want to remember it, so I can learn for my soon-to-be-born daughter.