You Have a Crush on Bradford Jordan

Improv Thoughts #1

Mon, 14 Feb 2011 19:35:40 -0500

I just listened to Joe Bill’s Improv Resource Center podcast. I think the guy is a genius and that his general thrust is on the money. He is also a magnificent performer.

My concern is that he doesnt seem to be able to communicate his philosophies very well. My deeper concern is that he takes a certain pride in his theories being so high-minded that they are inaccessible to most improvisers. This makes him seem intelligent and mysterious, but I am not sure that it makes improvisers become better improvisers. Dunno. Just a suspicion. Anyone studied with this dude?

"I have felt for awhile that New York under Bloomberg has approached some sort of American ideal...."

Tue, 10 Aug 2010 10:40:48 -0400

"I have felt for awhile that New York under Bloomberg has approached some sort of American ideal...."

This is the chorus from a father’s day song that my...

Sun, 20 Jun 2010 20:37:16 -0400

This is the chorus from a father’s day song that my girlfriend Brigitte and I made for our daddies.

I love it.

I am (not) Going to Be President!(.)

Sun, 16 May 2010 01:39:00 -0400

It must have been the dead middle of the summer of 2005 when the doorbell rang. It must have been the dead middle because I hadn’t realized that the summer had started and I had no idea that it was about to end.

In through the entryway dotted with “authentic” African Masks - which, I am given to believe, were fashionable entryway decorations in the 1970s - strolled Arnold and Phylis Rowe. They were carrying a bottle of white wine.

Like my parents, Arnold and Phylis changed their surname after being married for some time. My parents made the move from Janowitz to Jordan and Arnold and Phylis leapt from Rojakavik to Rowe. While my parents were pleased with their stayed surname shuffle, Arnold and Phylis seemed to be made only more nervous by the fact that they had upended the natural order of their own identities. They were nervous to begin with - Phyliss had that quivering vocal whine which conjours up memories of a Sunday School teacher and Arnold seemed as though he was always bracing for a meteor to strike right dab in the center of Riverside California. They probably should have just left their name the way it was.

With an uncharacteristic flourish, my father swept the bottle of wine from Phylis’ unsteady embrace and seemed to have corked it by the time he said “welcome.” Sure, the Rowe(jakavics) were our neighbors, but this was first time in twenty years that my father had invited them over. It was also the first time since the funeral that they had been inside the house without my mother present.

Their daughter, Aimee, and I used to ride bikes around the cul-de-sac when I was little. What a very idyllic picture that paints. And, for the most part, it was. I have a vague memory of Aimee having a serious surgery when she was about eleven years old, but the dominant memory is of us just chasing each other around in circles on our Schwinns.

Back then I was known as a “smart kid.” Not a nerd, really, just the sort of kid that no one wants to be around because he knows that he is smarter than you and your kid because his mother told him so. And because he just destroyed you in that uninstigated debate about Nicola Tesla’s place in the scientific pantheon. I was the kid that would proudly parade around the supermarket announcing my upcoming candidacy for president. As soon as I turned thirty-five (which my research told me was the requisite age for me to assume my rightful post), I would be the President of the United States. This must have been the most annoying fucking thing in the world to hear from a four-to-thirteen-year-old, but I didn’t care. Neither did my mother. She beamed. She loved shit like that. Anything that set me apart as superior was worn like a charm on her Bradford Bracelet. Jingle Jingle.

At age eleven my life plan was to be a child star on television (something like You Can’t do That on Television, but cooler), and use my millions to start running campaign ads twenty years before I ran for president. The ads would air, staring a fifteen year-old Bradford Jordan. I would approach the camera and say, “Hi, I am Bradford Jordan. Get to know this face. In twenty years, I will be running for President.” I also imagined a print campaign - busses, benches, skywriting. Every year, I would run the same campaign, just as a year older version of myself. America would watch me go through puberty, college, and, ultimately, vote me into office. Genius.

My dad ushered the Rowes out into the backyard. We never had people in the backyard. He turned on the fountain. He poured the wine. He engaged the neighbors in conversation. Arnold looked up often. I suspect he was keeping a lookout for ominous cloud formations which might portend the invasion of an alien rock into our atmosphere. Phylis did most of the talking. Only is wasn’t really talking. It was yammering. We were all just yammering at each other.

In the dead middle of the summer of 2005, I was living at home with my father. Just the two of us. In our family’s house. It had been four years since someone randomly carjacked and shot my mother twice in the heart, killing her instantly. We were still deep in the process of recovery, but there we were. Assembled in the backyard were two bachelors, a nervous wreck and a nervous goof. Yammering.

Then, out of the low mumble, and about two and a half glasses of wine in (Dad had supplemented their offering with one of his own), Dad’s bass voice erupted above the rest.

“Brad? Well - who knows? He’ll probably be President some day!”

I looked at my father like he was some kind of alien. First of all, that was Mom’s line. Second of all, no I wouldn’t.

I had spent my senior year of college smoking enough weed, having enough sex with random people, and committing enough petty theft to fill a decade’s worth of political attack ads, but that was hardly the point. The point was, I didn’t want to be president. I didn’t want to be involved in politics. People just seem to hate each other in politics. I was taking a class at the Groundlings theater in LA. I wanted to do that.

There was no way Dad could have known those things, of course. Sitting out there in the back yard of the house he bought with my mother way back when African masks were considered a welcoming decoration in suburban California, he was doing his best to channel Mom. He was trying to be the one that beamed for me in that “Jingle Jingle” kind of way that only Mom could. And, if he hadn’t been so wildly off base, he would have been doing a hell of a job. Phylis and Arnold were certainly convinced. They looked at me with that “ugh / oooh! This kid could really be something —- and he probably is” look that I had cherished for so long. Only this time, it made me feel dirty.

I have had a lot of long phone conversations with my father over the years. He is a great dad - he listens well. In many of those conversations I lamented the fact that I felt like I was pretending to be two people at once. I would sometimes cry and tell him that I didn’t want to wear a mask - that I felt like it alienated me from truly connecting with people. For a good chunk of my life I was truly afraid that I would never learn how to be honest. I was disproportionately concerned with being “impressive.” And I knew it. He would counsel me compassionately and tell me that it was all a part of growing up - that personal congruity was an admirable struggle to undertake. I would nod on the other end of the phone, whether I was in England or New York or Ecuador or California, and thank him.

Dad always seemed to be able to be congruous.

That warm evening in the dead of summer in Riverside, however, with Phylis quaking on the rocking bench and Arnold eyeing his wine like it was a foreign elixir, Dad was incongruous. Dad was trying to be Mom and Dad at the same time and it felt fucking weird. If it had been just Dad, I would have told him that I didn’t want to be President. I would have told him that if I had a million dollars I wouldn’t blow it on an ad campaign to alert America to my burgeoning greatness. I would have told him that I just wanted to be a guy who could amble onto a stage or into a classroom once in a while and laugh hard at the beauty of the world. But I couldn’t do that. Not then. Because it wasn’t just Dad. It was Mom/Dad - a bizarre otherworldly concoction of memory, fear, and love.

Arnold and Phylis probably think I am going to be President, but I doubt it will bother them much if I am not. Sitting in their quiet living room twenty yards from the living room I used to do crosswords with my mother in, I hope they can find solace in the simple fact that they will probably die before an asteroid hits earth.

In the summers since 2005, Dad and I have talked about that moment and how strange it felt to both of us. He is a great Dad. He listens well. And he shares even better.

At this moment, right now, the three of us are all ourselves. I am me. He is Dad. And, Mom is Mom. And none of us are President. And that is just perfect.

williebhines: bridgecomedy: charlietodd: Gangsta rap ode to...

Fri, 14 May 2010 10:57:47 -0400

williebhines:

bridgecomedy:

charlietodd:

Gangsta rap ode to the UCB improv scene. I love it!

totallymorgan:

My friend Patrick Noth created the most bad ass improv gangster rap of all time. By improv gangster rap, I mean it is all about the improv community and it will melt your face. It’s a theme song for the show Improv Nerds with Brandon and Chelsea.

Reblog if you’re an improv nerd.

This is all over tumblr b/c it rocks! Nice work, dude!

After I listened to it five times I had to reblog just to publicly declare my allegiance to this song.

The Full Audio of the Chicago Improv Festival Panel Discussion - 2010

Tue, 04 May 2010 01:26:00 -0400

Charna Halpburn, Mick Napier, Jeffery Sweet, and Michael Gelman

Moderated by Jason Chen.

Highlights:

Why every improviser should take an acting class.
We stand on the shoulders of giants.
Why improv doesn’t belong on Broadway.
How to create a great ensemble.
Why Mick Napier’s DVD of fucking a baby’s mouth was never released.

"Something screws up and [Jeff Bridges] says to me: “It’s ok. It’s a gift. If..."

Wed, 28 Apr 2010 14:00:22 -0400

“Something screws up and [Jeff Bridges] says to me: “It’s ok. It’s a gift. If something screws up, it’s a gift. Don’t be afraid of it.” That forces you to make something special that you didn’t plan. You’re in that moment and you’re forced to deal with it and deal with it together.”

- Robin William on Marc Maron’s WTF Podcast

what is a shae?

Wed, 21 Apr 2010 16:20:00 -0400

If one were to ask a shae what a shae is, the shae would respond with an uncomfortable grin that it is, “like the stadium.” A shae says that it likes being a shae because, “it is original.” Fiddle faddle. One can no more easily discern the nature of a shae from a shea than one can press garlic by hugging it.

Indeed, to fully understand the shae, one must observe it at length in its natural habitat, ideally twice a week for three and a half to four hours. Should you have the opportunity, I most strongly recommend you take it.

Remembering a Douchebag - Lucas Horn & Camp Greylock

Mon, 19 Apr 2010 13:12:00 -0400

Every summer from 1992 to 1994 I spent eight weeks 3,000 miles from my home in Riverside, California at Camp Greylock for Boys in Greylock, Massachusetts.

I did not like this camp. This was a camp for jocky, jewish, athletic, wealthy, northeastern kids. And everybody had a nickname. I remember Wombat, Peanut Butter, and Sharkie. Putting them together now, they sound like partners at a cartoon law firm. The sort of lawfirm that defends Acme corporation against allegations of unsafe products. Rocket Boots should have breaks. End of story.

Nobody ever gave me a nickname, which is just as well, because it probably would have been, “California,” which is a little too prison-sounding for my taste. I was not good at sports, so in an effort to entertain myself, I fucked with people. For example, I built elaborate narratives around the fictions that my sister was a cop in Compton and that I had had sex with my babysitter when I was 9. It was around this time (ages 10-12) that I started to realize that my dream job was to be a Confidence Man and that my ideal career would be dating wealthy women and stealing their money.

In the meantime, I set up a number of semi-criminal operations at Greylock that I operated with gusto. By far the most successful operation was the import and sale of Pringles and Zippo lighters from the outside world. Remember in Shawshank Redemption how Morgan Freeman was the guy that could get you a porno or a rock hammer or a Kazoo? I was that guy at Camp Greylock. And pre-adolescent boys went fucking bonkers for Pringles and Zippo lighters.

I was in cahoots with a couple of counselors that would go into town and buy the zippos and pringles for me. One of them was named Robbie Hyman. His nickname was ‘Buster.’ I would compensate the counselors and then turn around and sell, say, a ‘gun metal’ zippo which cost $25 at the mall to a 10 year-old kid for $100. He would then go burn newspapers behind his bunk and feel like God. Fair trade.

Enter Lucas Horn.

As the lore went, Lucas Horn worked for the FBI three seasons out of the year, but opted to spend his summers as a director of Camp Greylock. He wore tight black t-shirts and aviator glasses. He had a posse of veteran campers that flanked him and ached for his attention. Also, Lucas Horn looked like a fucking asshole.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Lucas and I did not get along. For the most part, I avoided him, but we would have run-ins once in a while. He is the kind of guy I would give the finger to while my hands were in my pockets. I would tell him that archery practice was going great, but in the hidden reaches of my jeans, two middle fingers were mocking his stupid face.

It might seem like I am being overly cruel to Lucas Horn. After all, he is just an FBI agent who wants to relax during the summer, right? What is so wrong with that? Being born with a douchey face doesn’t make a fella a douche, right? Did I really have to Google his picture and put that text over it? And then add that drop shadow so the text really popped? Seems excessive. Something must have happened.

It was the middle of my third and final summer at Greylock. Even though I had never enjoyed it, I kept going back. Mostly because if I stayed in Riverside, I would have become a meth addict. I remember the OJ trial being a big deal that summer. It was also the summer that I played Bill Sykes in the Greylock production of Oliver!. I was really more of a Fagan, but there was no accounting for casting choices in the mid-nineties. The Zippo and Pringle trade was booming.

One night, I decided to sneak out of my bunk and up to the dining hall to get some Lucky Charms. It required a long walk up a dark hill and was expressly forbidden. I would do this once in a while, partially for the adrenaline and partially because Lucky Charms are delicious.

As I stood over the huge cereal buffet filling a bag with colorful treats, a light came on. Standing there, relaxed, eating big seedless grapes, was Lucas Horn. Attached to Lucas Horn’s head were his aviator glasses. It was midnight. Busted.

Lucas grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and put me in the golf cart he used to jet around camp. In silence, we drove to the theater and stopped. He motioned for me to enter as he ate his last grape. The theater was warm and smelled of props and paint. I spied Bill Sykes’ ridiculous paper mache top hat in the corner of the stage. I was going to have to talk to the costume people.

Lucas put a chair on the stage facing the audience and motioned for me to sit. Then, silently, he turned the stage lights up to their brightest. I couldn’t see more than two feet in front of me. I was scared. The entire camp was asleep.

Lucas told me that if I didn’t come clean about the lighters, I was going to be sent home. His voice boomed from the shadows and he sounded like he was having fun. In fact, he sounded like he was finally getting to play the cop he wanted to be.

It was in those moments, scared shitless, surrounded by ill-wrought stage backdrops of Dickensian London that I realized how pathetic Lucas Horn really was. In the FBI, he probably did paperwork or answered phones and tried to ‘accidentally’ be at the same bars that the field agents hung out at. I was certain he had a third nipple or a tiny penis. Maybe when he was a kid, his camp nickname was “Wimpy,” and he was trying to compensate.

He was shouting now and the lights were burning my eyes. ”Where did you get the Zippos!?” he demanded. I wondered why he didn’t seem to care about the Pringles, which, while not as profitable per item, did better as a volume business. I kept my mouth shut. Tears streamed down my cheeks, but I didn’t say anything.

“You’re out of here. You’re leaving! It’s shits like you that try to ruin this place. You are fucking done! You are done!”

I was twelve.

The fact is, Lucas Horn’s charade was something I had heard about before. In the murmurs of the Greylock criminal underworld - the gossip of the cigarette smokers, the laughs of the porno dealers, the hiccups of the beer drinkers - a lanky 16 year-old counselor in training named Kit had told me about the time Lucas had dragged him into the theater and put the lights on him. It was Lucas’ favorite interrogation technique. Kit told me that the key was to keep quiet no matter what. Then Kit showed me a Polaroid of himself holding a bazooka in a basement and offered me a sip of his beer.

Lucas was tiring himself out. It was past one in the morning and I hadn’t done anything to incriminate myself or others. Silently, Lucas drove me back to my bunk and dropped me off. I watched his golf cart buzz away.

Scared, sad, and proud, I took a few long munches of sweet, sweet, Lucky Charms and went to bed.

For the curious, Lucas is the first person to appear in the video below. Yeah, he is the one saying, “The most important thing to your son is the staff member and how they are going to interact with your child.” An ironic statement and a poorly constructed sentence. What a douchebag.

Above: Swords in the Chicago Tribune 4/16/10 and Dirty Water...

Fri, 16 Apr 2010 14:38:00 -0400

Above: Swords in the Chicago Tribune 4/16/10 and Dirty Water Improv

Swords is performing at the Chicago Improv Festival with the awesome Dirty Water Improv. We’d love it if you could come and check us out on Thursday, April 22nd at 8pm. The Chicago Tribune thinks it would be a good idea.

curtisgwinn: YES

Fri, 16 Apr 2010 11:59:58 -0400

curtisgwinn: YES

The Story Pirates on MSNBC!

Thu, 15 Apr 2010 13:04:29 -0400

The Story Pirates on MSNBC!

New video from Swords.

Mon, 22 Feb 2010 15:38:17 -0500

New video from Swords.

Blood Into Wine Patton Oswalt, Tim Heidecker, Eric Wareheim, Bob...

Wed, 27 Jan 2010 10:41:27 -0500

Blood Into Wine

Patton Oswalt, Tim Heidecker, Eric Wareheim, Bob Odenkirk, and Maynard James Keenan (apparently the Bon Jovi of viticulture) make a documentary about winemaking.

Every aspect of this tickles and confuses me.

As a side note, Bob Odenkirk has always been - and presumably will always be - a terrible actor. He is also one of my all-time favorite performers.

Eugene Mirman Comedy Festival Full Bouncer Audition Video This...

Fri, 22 Jan 2010 13:03:16 -0500

Eugene Mirman Comedy Festival Full Bouncer Audition Video

This is much better than most television.

I found out today that I was invited to be one of the Striking...

Wed, 13 Jan 2010 00:12:15 -0500

I found out today that I was invited to be one of the Striking Viking Story Pirates’ newest teaching artists. I have loved this group since I first saw them in 2007. I am humbled…and very excited.

Mr. W This remains my favorite commercial of all time (though...

Mon, 11 Jan 2010 16:02:33 -0500

Mr. W

This remains my favorite commercial of all time (though the Taco Bell dog is a close #2).

Google Promotes Openness | Topical Funny

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 12:54:48 -0500

Google Promotes Openness | Topical Funny

Nerd Alert: I got goose bumps watching this. Literally...

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 11:12:28 -0500

Nerd Alert: I got goose bumps watching this.

Literally everything in this video, including our groovy curator appears to be from 1972.

Inside the oldest mint-condition microcomputer

Do you find performing your signature "pop my front teeth out" move during your improve act works for an easy laugh?

Thu, 07 Jan 2010 12:13:00 -0500

My ‘improve’ act is my signature self-help seminar. Improve Eyes is my self-help book series.

As you know, I was born without two of my front teeth and I wear an orthodontic prosthetic. Popping my front teeth out during my Improve Eyes superseminar is my way of reminding the audience that I am fallible…that in one small way…I am like them. Then I proceed to revolutionize their lives with my signature mix of “rock and role play,” “glass ceiling smash,” and “that baby is not your responsibility” exercises.

Remember, J, “Look in the mirror with Improve Eyes and see the world anew!”*