LEAVIN' LAS VEGAS

I was 5 minutes late for the 45 minute check in that Frontier Airlines requires (though nowhere on my e-ticket did it say that). I wasn’t really concerned because there was no line at check in, save for the mom and 2 kids in front of me. The ticket agent whose God given name is Kristen (her Kerri Van Auken given name is so much worse and I want a PG-13 blog) asked if I was on this flight to Denver. It told her yes, expecting her to say, “hurry, let’s get you through” as has happened to me many times before, she flat out said that I wasn’t getting on the plan. I told her that I was a fast walker and she said, no way was I going to make it through security and to the D gates in time. While remaining calm and friendly asked her please let me try to make my flight. She said no, absolutely not. I have to mention that she did not smile, smirk, laugh or come close to breaking that death glare, pinched face, bitch voice at any time. She then said she was putting my bags on standby for the next flight and I could try to go on that flight, but she can’t guarantee. I thanked her in my daze of confusion and leftover martini and hauled ass to the gate. I freakin’ made it and elicited an admiring “Wow” from the security people who marveled at how I removed bangles, shoes and a hat in about 1.5 seconds. Don’t tell me I can’t make my flight.

So, I arrive at the gate and approach the ticket agent there. Richard Anderson did not look pleased to see me. I on the other hand was thrilled to see that the plane had not arrived. Yay! I can get on. I told him what happened and he started to slowly type some things on the computer and tell me what I already new, which was that stupid hag Kristen, had not checked me in. I said well I’m here now can we do it? He sighed and heaved and started pecking at the keys again. I was perplexed as to why, since I was there and since the plane was not, why they still wouldn’t let me on the flight. Had they closed the doors and boarding I would have understood, but this…again he told me he couldn’t do anything. I asked to speak to a manager and then he made a call and came back to me saying that the manager was Miss Kristen Piss Face and that she wasn’t going to help me. Meanwhile the plane arrives and passengers begin deplaning. I again try to plead to Richards’s rational side by saying that I was a paying customer and that I was here and ready and there was no real reason on God’s green earth why I shouldn’t be put on my flight.

Again, I’m subject to that vacant, vapid, sad sack look that I will become so accustomed to in dealing with the Frontier ground crew, along with a sigh asking if I had any bags. I told him that World’s Happiest Manger Kristen had put them on standby for the next flight. Richard seemed relieved by this and told me I have to travel with my bags. Then he walked away. I couldn’t leave as I was utterly stunned. I looked over Richard (who now deserves to be called Dick) and he was whispering behind a clipboard to the two young women who were taking boarding passes. They both shot me darting glances. This is utter crap; our bags went winging to Jamaica last year while Mars and I were stuck in Miami eating sauceless personal pan pizzas. IF I hear “ever since 9/11” one more time…

I was at a loss. I couldn’t throw a fit or I would be arrested. How could you trust these employees who barely look you in the eye, and when they do they look at you like you’re nothing but a problem for them. They wouldn’t hesitate to evoke their rent-a-cop status to a rent-a-cop w/ a gun. So, because I need to rail and to feel superior somehow, I call my assistant Sylvia from my dead charger less cell phone and tell her that I wouldn’t be able to make the conference and to get a hold of my editor at the TRIBUNE and get some AP interns from Northwestern University or Columbia, and the capper, “Obama is going to be pissed.” It was comforting to pretend like Obama would care.

I waited there until MY plane was boarding I tried to ask the ticket taker employees, one young African American girl with a head band and short braids, the other a woman of Latina descent, both appearing about 20-22. Neither of them would look at me to answer any of my questions. They would either fiddle with some papers, type on the keyboard or simply walk away from me. I have to point out that I had yet to raise my voice beyond an excited “Please, please, can you let me on this plane?” I’d not insulted, scowled, glared, condescended to, swore or anything that would peg me as a difficult or unmanageable passenger. Conversely, all of those things had been done to me by multiple Frontier ground employees.

Then I go use my remaining $2.90 in change to call my husband to cry. That change was about 3 minutes worth. I then call back collect using the name “Butt Ram” just to show him I wasn’t entirely down for the count. He did his best to make me feel better, but I still couldn’t believe how unwilling and bitter these customer services sloth’s had been to even attempt to help me. I truthfully felt sick to my stomach. I go back down to ticketing to just buy another ticket home from Southwest. The line was too long. I bought a prepaid calling card (HELLOOO 1995!) and called my mom who was coincidentally flying into Vegas with her friend Mike. She didn’t answer so she must be up in the air. I called my husband back and had him call her and tell her to page me in the terminal when she landed.

After that I notice a short black guy in glasses over at the Frontier counter. I stupidly think he may be able to help me at least get bumped up the standby list and show me my options once I got to Denver. Again I’m greeted with a sigh and a glare. Now I’ve been flying on a regular basis for 30 years and I know how to deal with customer service people. It’s annoying enough to have a customer service rep. that does their job and helps but is sort of rude about it and may be generally unhappy with their life, but it is a complete travesty to have someone who is both unhelpful and doesn’t even meet the minimum requirements of being able to communicate with human beings. Dudley was about to become the new Kristen.

I approach the desk as he looks at me as if I were a million pound weight that was to be strapped to his back. I explained my plight as quickly as I could. He was either very Zen or very retarded. I couldn’t tell at that point. He said he couldn’t tell if I would get on standby until that flight was closed. He went on to say that he couldn’t guarantee me a seat on the flight from Denver to Chicago and there were only two seats left. The only way to guarantee is to buy a one way ticket from Denver to Chicago. Fine. It can’t be more than spending the night in a Denver hotel, eating, cab, etc. He told me it would cost $225. Fine, fine. Here’s my card. So he’s typing away for literally 10 minutes, not really answering my questions. Then I hear, “Kerri”. It was my mom and her friend Mike. I just said, ‘I need you.” There was something so amazingly kick ass and strengthening to have your mom show up at a time like this. Unless, of course, your mom works for Frontier on the ground crew, in which case, she probably sucks ass.

A major line is forming behind me. Dudley is still typing and would not make eye contact to answer any of my mom or Mike’s questions. None of us can really believe that I hadn’t been allowed to board the plane in the first place even though I beat it to the gate. She said she new all along that she’d see me, even before Mars’ call. Boy, she’s just like that sometimes. FINALLY Dudley stops typing as said that while we’ve been standing here the ticket price had gone up to $409!!!. What the F#%@!? Fine, here you go you aviating pocket rapists, you flying buttresses, take my mom’s credit card because I didn’t have enough cash in my checking account to cover it. Yeah, I’m 33. That felt awesome. While Dudley is taking my mother’s hard earned money, Dick Anderson waddles back up to the counter and asks if I’m feeling better. My inner dialogue said, “Go F#$% yourself fat ass!” while I actually said, “No, not really, but my mom’s here. Thank you for asking.” My mother, who knows my temper soooooooo well, was extremely proud and shocked really, about how I held it together and remained polite during this whole ordeal.

I hated being polite mind you. Just hated it. I wanted to hit, punch, throw, yell, scream, insult, bash, call names, and be extremely witty yet hurtful. HOWEVER, I knew damn well that these miscreants would not hesitate to call security and throw my ass in jail, which would end up costing a lot more than $400.00.

We stood there waiting to see if I would be getting on this next flight ready to have them go get my bags off the flight if they weren’t going to let me on. Dudley did call my name; I thanked him as I grabbed my boarding pass. Note: I THANKED him. I didn’t snatch my boarding pass. I remained polite. I think the Lord had a reign around my neck. Either that or I was in shock over this whole ordeal. I kissed my mom and hugged Mike and boarded the plane.

My seat is in the emergency row which is nice because there’s a bit more leg room. The nice, pretty flight attendant stops and asks If I’m comfortable sitting in the exit row. I tell her I can’t wait. She laughed. The next thing you know I see her coming back down the aisle with Dudley behind her. What was going on? What did I do now? Why do they suck so much? I hear her asking people in the seats around me if they wouldn’t mind switching seats with me. I was extremely confused. I’d just told her I was happy to be in the emergency row. The gentleman directly in front of me said he’s switch (what do these Vegas passengers care, they were just going to pass out anyway.) so I got up to switch with him. I joked to the man next to me that “they didn’t trust me.” The flight attendant smiled and laughed and told me that that wasn’t it. Dudley then helpfully chimed in, “YOU’VE HAD A BIT TO DRINK.”

I thought I was going to die. I have never in my life been so stunned, humiliated and pissed off all at the same time. I sat down and literally put my head down because I knew everyone was staring at me. Still, as I type this, I really cannot believe that it actually happened.

The flight attendant came back and offered to buy my Direct TV for me. I pursed my lips with my head still down and shook it “no.” She came back again during beverage service and asked if I wanted anything. Again, “No.” She knelt down and said how sorry she was that that had happened. That Dudley thought he smelled alcohol on me. HELLOOOOOOOOO, this is VEGAS not SALT LAKE. I’d bet 1 million dollars that the majority of the people on the plane smelled like booze. Hell, I’d been out until 4:00am and I knew my mouth tasted like crap, I knew I probably smelled, but I also new that I was not drunk. She actually argued with Dudley and said that she’d talked to me and didn’t think I was the least bit drunk. I explained that I wasn’t and that I most certainly was last night, but most certainly was not now. She said, yeah, she didn’t know what went on out there with him, but she thought it was weird.

I didn’t think it was weird. I thought that it was perfectly consistent with how I’d been treated up to this point.

The rest of the leg was long, but uneventful. Well, besides the delay the 90 minute delay in Denver. When I finally landed in Chicago at 1:15a CST (was supposed to have landed at 4:40p) I felt like I’d been beaten from the inside out. My spirit had been crushed by a mother f@#%ing airline. I will not even bother to defend these people at Frontier, not when the security guards, store employees, baggage handlers and the multitude of other workers at McCarron were perfectly pleasant and actually responded accordingly to smiles, pleases and thank yous. What sorts of species are immune to general human pleasantries? Zombies perhaps? Hmmmm…..we may be getting somewhere. The slow movement, the lack of eye contact, the despondent tone, the absent compassion…OH MY GOD!

ALERT, ALERT, ZOMBIES POSING AS FRONTIER AIRLINE TICKET AGENTS FLOCK TO MCCARRON INTERNATIONAL, LAS VEGAS, NEVADA!!!!!!!! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES. THEY WILL SUCK OUT YOUR SOUL. DISMANTLE YOUR DIGNITY AND BASICALLY STICK IT TO YOU JUST BECAUSE THEY CAN. DON’T LET THEM GET YOU. STAY AWAY FROM FRONTIER. YOUR SPIRIT DEPENDS ON IT.

RIP Ballys

June 15, 2006


So my gym closed today. Bally’s as a whole is still monopolizing the fitness industry, but my humble location, Bally’s Europa closed its doors.

Europa has been the only constant in my life since I moved to Chicago 8 years ago. It’s small, comfortable and unpretentious; filled with average Joe’s working out on their lunch break or after work. The past 4 years I’ve worked right across the street from Europa. The convenience meant having the time to get my workout done at lunch and not having to wait until after work where there was plenty of time to talk myself out of working out.

This past year, my friend Jen and I began working out together at lunch. It was a great break from the day, nice to have a partner to chat with and to visibly cringe with when the carefree nekkid old ladies skittered across the locker room floor.

Jen was out of town this week and missed our last workout at Europa. I totally took a picture of myself working out and sent it to her cell phone. I’m not going to lie, I got teary. Like I said, it was the only constant in my life since moving to Chicago.

Bally’s Europa got me through a called off engagement, multiple break ups with the same person (Thanks Cardio Kick Boxing), the “I fucking HATE grad school and I’m leaving debate, a new boyfriend, it filled the time between work and rehearsals, saved me from shopping during lunch, made it easy to avoid forced office socialization, worked out wedding planning stress, helped me learn my lines for every show/scene/monologue that I’ve ever done, made me realize that the people who type closed captions are not perfect typists, fed me multiple protein bars for my dinners on the run, ahhhhhh Bally’s Europa, you were so good to me.

The members have the option of going to the Bally’s across the Loop. I call it Circus Ballys because it’s so noisy, crowded and smelly and don’t know how anyone can focus. Besides, I could never do lunchtime workouts if I had to get over there. That leaves Gay Ballys or Dixie/Wixie Ballys. Dixies and Wixies are essentially our neighborhood yuppies. Nothing will match Europa, the most unsexy, unhip, comfortable as your favorite old t-shit gym I’ve ever known.

Love and props to the following Europa regulars who made me feel sane, grounded and terribly amused.

The middle aged lady that put on perfume pre-workout.

The skittish midget who work out faster than anyone I’ve ever seen.

The same midget who made noises like a dog sneeze when on the elipitcal.

Yes, the same midget who wore a swimsuit to workout in and didn’t care when the straps fell down.

The lady who ran on the treadmill with toilet paper hanging out of her pants.

My buddy Marvin who works in my building and works out at Europa.

Maggie the trainer for her jolly disposition.

The man who wore such short shorts and long tank tops that I forever thought he was pantless.

The man who went so fast on the stair stepper he could have toppled over at any time.

The really skinny gay dude with the most amazing triceps.

The soccer mom lady who was the most dedicated treadmill runner I saw at Europa.

The hyper, fake mammed fitness queen who carried around a 35lb back pack while working out to train for a hike in the Grand Canyon.

The nekkid except for a workout turban lady who won the “let it all hang out” award.

The postal worker who worked out in his uniform.

All the super heavy people I’ve seen (all middle aged or older) push themselves to remarkable weight loss through their dedication.

The grunting mustached dude.

The novice turned body building competitor lady.

All the people who weren’t jerks when I told them they were on the machine I signed up for.

All the people who left behind their InStyle, Spin, Rolling Stone, Glamour, Self magazines because God knows Ballys only had ripped copies of Skiing and Divorce.

RIP Europa. You were good to me and I’ll miss you.

Yes, I KNOW it’s a gym. I’m sensitive.

Leggings: Who's to Blame? Just One Theory...

Grandpa Would Be Proud

This is long, so be warned. This also isn't very entertaining, but I do want to archive it for if I ever want to look back and see that I am indeed the type of person to write complaint letters.


April 4th

Chicago Transit Authority
Office of Inspector General

To Whom It May Concern:

On Thursday March 30, 2006 at approximately 8:10 a.m. I went to add value to my Chicago card at the Western Blue Line station. The machine reflected my present value after holding the card up to the sensor. I put in $3.50. The machine reflected the added funds. I put the card back up to the sensor. After multiple tries holding the card to the sensor the machine canceled my transaction and it showed an error message and to see the attendant. The machine did not spit out my $3.50. At that time the attendant on duty told me to call the 800 number and give them the machine number to get a refund sent to me. She started to walk away, I said that the machine had taken all the cash on…then she raised her voice to me and said, ‘Hey, are you listening to me?” Well, I wasn’t because she hadn’t been saying anything, she was just walking away. It was only when I presented her with my dilemma did she get angry and defensive. She then let me on the train. I thanked her for her help. This employee appears to be around 55-65 years old, about 5’4”, 190lbs and is an African American female.

When the exact same thing happened to me today Monday April 4, 2006, this same attendant was immediately defensive, unhelpful, accusatory, rude and dishonest. After receiving the error message and the see attendant message, I took my card to the attendant’s booth and told them what happened. She came out of the booth and told me she couldn’t do anything about that and that I should have held my card up longer. I told her that I held it up until the machine said “canceled” and “see attendant”. She demanded my card, I gave it to her. She then looked at it and said it was cracked and that I needed to call the 800 number. I said, that’s fine and thank you, but I still have no money because the machine took it. She then walked away from me. I told her it took all of my money. She told me to take $2 and buy another ticket. I told her again that I didn’t have any money because the machine took it. She ignored me and proceeded to have a conversation with a customer. It was then when a kind woman offered me her fare card to get to on the train so I could get to work.

I thanked her profusely and then I approached the attendant, who was still chitchatting with a customer, and asked to borrow a pen so that I could write down the number of the machines so I could reference them when I called to report the card errors. She looked at me and said, “You were here the other day, this happened to you then!” I started to reply, “Yes, I kno…” And she yelled, “Yes, it was you, this happened before! You needed to call that number!!” I said, “Yes, I know, which is why I really need that pen.” She told me, “No, we’re not supposed to...”.And then she continued her conversation with the customer she’d been speaking with. I asked again, “You don’t have a pen?” She said, “No.” I pleaded with her that per her instructions I had to give the machine numbers to the customer service so I could get my money back and I wanted to make sure not to forget them. She told me no, she wasn’t going to give me a pen and that the numbers were right there on the bottoms of the machines. I said, “Yes, I know WHERE the numbers are, I just need to make sure that I record WHAT the numbers are.” I then noticed a pen in the booth and I knocked on the window to the attendant inside to see if perhaps that attendant would be willing help me. The first attended then started yelling at me that the attendant in the booth is on the phone. I said, “I’m sorry, but there is a pen right there and I really need to write this information down so I can report this properly.” She continued to walk away from me, turning her back on me and having a conversation with this customer. I was forced to ask that very same customer if he had a pen. He did and he gave it to me to use. I wrote the numbers down, thanked the man for the pen and got on the train.

I do not take this encounter lightly. I am a loyal CTA customer and I have been for nearly a decade. I purchased this Chicago card for convenience and to take advantage of the locked in $1.75 fares. Since my card updates have started failing, I’ve had to pay the full $2.00 per ride, have lost $8.50 and have been treated like a criminal by your employee. Her defensiveness was completely unnecessary. She made a choice to get mad at me for something that is beyond my control and then she chose to deliberately ignore my situation. If this is how your employees are trained to treat customers then I am appalled at your methods. If this is just how this employee chose to treat me, as I’ve seen her chatting up many customers over the years I’ve been going to this particular station, then she is an embarrassing representative of your organization. In the past I have see her get impatient, rude and gruff with customers were in the midst of experiencing some sort of problem with their cards or passes. It is apparent to me that this person cannot handle assisting customers with issues that are inherent in this field of transportation. I do think that if your job is customer service, then you should be able to handle most any and all situations that typically arise on any given day. This employee has shown to be rude, ignorant, dishonest and completely unhelpful. Not to mention her behavioral inconsistencies where one day she let me board the train while another day, when the same thing happened, she turned her back on me, walked away and told me she couldn’t do anything.

Your customers should not be treated like this. I should not have been accused, berated, ignored and lied to because your machines ate my money two times in one week. I read an article in the Red Eye about the problems that riders were having with your cards and how it is advised to keep the card protected from getting scratches and cracks. I heeded that advice and I do keep my card protected. The inconvenience of having my updates fail repeatedly, making me late to work, making it so I have to pay more for a service than I should, spending 15 minutes on hold with your customer service so I could report my stolen money and then having to way 10 business days to receive a replacement card is enough to make me a dissatisfied customer. Throw in an ill-behaved, incapable and defensive employee and you run the risk of having a multitude dissatisfied customers. I use your services daily and I gladly pay your fares. I understand that systems have their glitches from time to time, but what I cannot understand or condone are people being treated as if they had done something wrong as opposed to merely being victims of a technical glitch.

This is a formal complaint and I implore you to look into this situation. I wish to have this employee reprimanded and disciplined accordingly. As I use this station on a daily basis, I will monitor her actions and I will be quick to report any mistreatment of my fellow CTA customers as well as myself. Last fall on the loop bound blue line I witnessed the physical mistreatment by of a passenger by a security guard and I sent in a letter of complaint to the CTA. Initially, I received responses via email and telephone assuring me that this matter would be investigated. I never heard from anyone again though I did follow up. I do not make it a habit to complain for the sake of complaining, please be assured that all I want is for unjust, unfair treatment of CTA passengers by CTA employees does not continue.

If you have further questions for me, please email kerri.sanford@nmfn.com.

Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Kerri Sanford

As Ye Sow, So Shall Ye Reap

Dear Jessica,

Look at you up there dancing on your slippery slope of fantasy versus reality. Honey, (LOL, I totally didn’t mean that as a movie reference just a means to be condescending) when will you get that if you prance about grinding on poles, undulating your midriff and allowing a movie camera to film directly up your butt crack, you will be viewed as a sex object. You have spent way too many years visually stimulating America not to be anything else. Votes are counted, you won most sexy. YAY!

Given your past roles I would think that you would be honored for the title that Playboy has bestowed on you. And since you beat everyone else, it seems only right to give you the cover. I mean, you won. Your name was in the magazine, your photos were in the magazine, you are all over that magazine and many other gentlemen publications. Not to mention the millions of men who’s mental rolodexes are filled with you er uhm…dancing in their heads.

But no, you continue to ponder why on earth you are not taken more seriously as an actor. First, start calling yourself what you are which is well-paid eye candy. Though you studied acting with Bill and Felicity at David Mamet school, nothing really seemed to stick. Second, please know that people start to feel sorry for you when they hear you speak on screen because when you talk you hear sounds and words but they’re not connected to anything internal, like emotion. Guys totally don’t want to feel sorry for anyone that brings them gratuitous pleasure. Third, it’s sad to watch you delude yourself into thinking that since you wanted to be an actress since you were 5, you have the ability to do so. You behave like you really belong competition pool that you have no business swimming in. Producers, directors, writers and studio heads all agree and in fact, you said yourself…

'It's not always so great to be objectified but I don't feel I have much of a choice right now. I'm young in my career. I know I have to strike when the iron is hot. I look forward to the day when I can do a small movie and act and it's not about me wearing a bathing suit or chaps.'

The thing is HONEY, there are plenty of young actresses who are very beautiful AND have talent. If you could really act, you would really be acting. You “don’t have much of a choice” my eye. Come on, our lives are made up of choices and the consequences thereof. “…not ALWAYS so great to be objectified…” must mean you KINDA like it. You are utterly and totally responsible for how you are perceived by America and the world at large.

Fourth, F*CK you and your really nice deluded butt!!! You are sending your “people” to Playboy all up in arms because you claim they are misleading people into think you are nude in the magazine. News flash you moron, you’ve been nearly nude in movies and completely nasty nude in the minds of millions everywhere and it’s not going to stop. This cover in no ways changes the way anyone views you. It does perpetuate the image that you have already set up for yourself, but it does not change anything. How you think you are quelling your father’s fear by taking such an adamant “never nude” stance is a joke.

You, dark angel, are nothing but an American Made Ass Factory. So take your deluded little brain, quit whining and just accept the fact that you make MILLIONS of dollars doing virtually NOTHING while real actors wait tables, work in offices, teach, tour, sweat, and slave just to scrape by. Trade ya, you little B*TCH.

Most sincerely,
Mrs. Never be Most Sexy but will Always be an Actor

Vision Quest

It has hit me recently that I am an artist. I mean REALLY hit me.I’ve spent so many years in plays and being part of an ensemble of actors, directors, writers, designers, technicians, etc. that I failed to recognize myself as an artist on the whole. Actors are trained and groomed to be the ultimate yes men. Please do not interchange actor with celebrity. Actors bodies, minds, voices must be ready to take on any challenge that comes their way. For arguments sake, the challenge is a play/film/sketch show. It shouldn’t matter what the challenge is from Shakespeare to Second City, the actor is relied upon to help the director/writer/producer bring their visions to life.

As far as actors go, I’m as reliable and open minded as they come. I look to the director for some guidance, but I challenge myself to bring things to the table and make discoveries from first read-thru to closing night. The process of creating a character and working to attain physical and vocal transformation is what thrills me, confuses me, frustrates me and constantly reminds me how blazingly complex and beautiful the human psyche is. My art lies in that creation.

When I am not allowed freedom to create my art is taken from me. This very thing happened to me recently. It hurt my soul. Rehearsals got so bad. We actors were so fed up with literally being pulled by our arms, being told HOW to say things, how to FEEL about things, how many inches to the left your thumb should be, what inflection that sigh of defeat should have, etc. that we reverted into 4 year olds. Aside from one giant dense mother fucker who didn’t know any better, we were the most uninspired collection of artists I’d ever seen. When one is uninspired, one gets bored and sort of sad, when one is bored and sort of sad, one can get into trouble. Naughty little kids in church we were. It got so bad that I peed my pants on the stage.

I don’t want to be in that position again. I spent hours upon hours rehearsing and commuting with the end result being me asking myself and other cast mates what type of funny moustaches we should draw on our faces. As funny as that was, and it was hilarious, it advanced me none as an artist. I’m talking about growth and not notoriety. This brings about the conundrum. If I want more notoriety anyone here in Chicago would tell me to audition, do shows, audition, do shows…It’s a very easy recipe for an actor to follow as well as a very easy trap to fall into. Believe me with a new theatre company popping up every 5 GD seconds here in Chicago, it ain’t hard to get cast in SOMETHING. (Follow up blog on you little dreamers who INSIST on starting your own theatre companies coming very soon.)

After five years of doing what “they” tell you to do I’m realizing that because I really am the ultimate YES man, that I should take into account the fact that I have things to say. I have developed a creative process, I have experienced dozens of styles and approaches and while I don’t particularly care about sharing them with aspiring actors (ie: teaching), I want to explore more what they mean to me and to see what I have to say and figure out how I want to say it. I could have just said that after this current production I’m in closes, I’m going to be creating for myself for awhile, the end goal being a one-woman show along with a couple of other projects that have been kicked around as of late.

I’m not stupid or arrogant enough to think that I’ll see these projects through without the assistance of trusted advisors including, but not limited to, writers, directors, actors, improvisers and just overall smart, funny people. The goal here is for the first time since my slew of childhood products I’m going to be working toward my vision and not the visions of others. God, I feel like such a sack for only realizing this now.

I have no idea what this vision is by the way. Any ideas????

"Goin' to the chapel, but first squeeze out a baby."

Don’t know where this is coming from. I’m no prude. I’m not a traditionalist. So I thought. Lately, our culture has been inundated with celebrities. The celebrity couple is at the forefront of all of this type of “news”. As if two people getting together on a set (or through a pre-arranged meeting), fucking and falling in love is any sort of “news”. Even so, the press is all over the prospect of wedding bells for the latest celeb hook up. Does anyone have wedding bells? Can you imagine, just beginning to date someone and your friends and family start asking about marriage? Any person with any semblance of good sense and that possesses knowledge about what it takes to be in a successful coupledom knows goddamned well that you DO NOT say forever and make forever commitments within the first six months of a relationship.

Don’t even say, “My great grandma and grandpa met as teens and it was love at first sight…” Yeah, it was also 1915 and they just wanted to get it on, but back then you had to get married first. Odds, people, it’s about odds. Odds are, in the first three months you will be blinded by passion, in awe of this magical love you have found. Yay for you. After three months the descent from ecstasy filled dances on the clouds begins. Oh, SNAP, that pedestal is gone. Reality sets in and you begin to see each other for who you really are and it dawns on you that relationships require work. It can be disappointing to come to terms with the fact that things just aren’t the same as they were. If you’re not a weak ass load, you will see that perhaps the person that got you all hot and bothered was simply a good lay. There is nothing wrong with that. You may even have loved that person. Falling in love or as I say, falling in lust, for a brief time is fine. It’s not a failure to not have worked out. It’s a blessing.

I’ve observed that women have a lot of trouble in the letting go area. They feel like failures and think that they’re worthless and “Oh, why, oh why, when it was so good?” Whatever. Shut up. (I’m married and all of that, but I’ve been here, so I can totally talk shit.) Society has conditioned women to get a man and hang on to that motherfucker for dear life. I think women in 2006 should know better than to buy in to that old school jargon, but then again, when I see television, newspapers, the internet beatify celebrity couples I can see how it would be very hard to escape the notion that there is no need to race to the alter or at least to start a famdamily. I think Paul Anka says it best:

You’re havin’ my baby.
What a beautiful way to say
How much you love me.

Brangelina. You thought it before I even wrote it. TomKat. I just vurped. There are the lucky few, and I know some personally, who end up in the family way with the right person, the one they wanted to work a relationship/family with anyway. BUT…odds, people, it’s still about odds. Oh, and kids. Oh, the miracle of the baby. It can fill one with such a sense of purpose and accomplishment. It’s like your own tiny human trophy. Except you have to share this trophy. I do not advise sharing trophies if you do not fully know, trust, and understand the person you’re sharing it with. If you’ve seen Family Guy, you may have glimpsed the horrific consequences of trophy sharing. Jealousy, envy, and lack of trust drove the gang to turn against each other until Brian the dog made them take a look at themselves and see just how retarded they were being. I’m totally simplifying and generalizing, but ODDS people ODDS. Try NOT to get knocked up in the first few months of blissful coupledom.

No one knows what will happen to the celebrity families in the making. Honestly, we don’t care, but if their influence penetrates society and plants the seed (punny) that love at first sight and baby at first (fill it in), is the hot new thing to do, then I will personally go and replace all of their celebabies with actual trophies. The kind you’d get at the little league awards banquet. You know a fake marble base with a gold painted plastic dude holding a bat. Most Valuable Baby.

Do NOT even THINK about burning them. EVER!

Request. Ladies of the comedy world, I implore you, no matter your size or your shape, please, please, please take care to wear proper undergarments when you are performing. By proper I mean one that fits well and provides a lot of support. You never know what is going to happen on the stage; running, jumping, dancing, etc. In your mind, you’re prepared for anything. Your breasts should be prepared for anything too. Many a show have I seen where there have been a woman (or women) with improper under attire on. By improper I mean unsupportive, ill-fitting and perhaps the wrong color. There is a Chicago improviser whom my husband and I call “Floppsie”. She’s hilarious, but what’s the FIRST thing that pops into our heads when we see her?

I saw a show last night where one woman in particular not only had a white shirt with a black bra, but the black bra was not up to task to handle the job, unless the job was to get her boobs as close to her belly button as possible. As an audience member it’s terribly distracting . Everyone notices and everyone looks. This takes away from the scene. It’s gross and unnecessary to be subject to the embarrassing results of what is simply an oversight on the part of the performer. Oh, and lady teammates, if one of your fellow female performers is lacking proper undergarment awareness, help her, unless she’s a bitch.

Along with wearing a proper bra or other such item, it is crucial that the female performer avoid wearing those spaghetti strapped, stretchy tanks with built in bras. Cute, sexy and practical off stage, but (aside from a mini skirt) one of the worst possible items of clothing you could wear on the stage. They offer very little support, offer up tremendous views of cleavage, and even if you’re not terribly well endowed, these little numbers offer NO protection from a sudden nipple outburst. I’ve seen a lot of shows and for the majority of female performers, this doesn’t seem to be an issue. That being the case, all the droopy, floppy, nipply, ladies stand out all the more. So please, fix yourself. Don’t make me give you a nickname.

The stages of Chicago cold. (My L.A. Homies Can Keep Their Pretty Little Mouths Shut)

Today is the first bitter cold day for 2005. Mars and I have yet to turn on the heat this year. Heating costs are to soar and the thought of dipping into clothing funds or travel funds to pay a freakin’ utility bill is abhorrent. I bought a bunch of hand knit ponchos and long wrap sweaters at the thrift store for a reason. So, as we watch ‘Lost’ tonight, we will cuddle under our blankets, cover our cold noses and feel thankful we weren’t on Oceanic Flight 815. Moving on…

This is my 8th winter in Chicago. Each year, we brace for, resent, endure and ultimately accept that Chicago weather is the shittiest winter weather in this country. Flat as a pancake, no protection from mountains or hills, and the great (smelly, polluted, far too big) Lake Michigan to the East makes us the meteorological bitch of the Midwest. Oh, I must mention the nasty ass Chicago River that flanks my office building to the West adding a delicious chill to the sweeping wind, presenting a nice challenge to the capabilities of any scarf, hat, gloves or coat.

After eight winters, I have developed somewhat of a system to deal with the erratic weather of the Windy City. I know this nickname originated from political connotation, but c’mon, aside from Ellensburg, Washington (Whoo Hoooo!), this is the only other place where the wind has swept me off my feet. Couple the wind with freezing temperatures and precipitation and you have what I call ‘The Little House on the Prairie Effect.’ This is on the more severe end of the spectrum. Some days it’s just wind, sometimes just precipitation, sometimes it’s that lovely, sunny, crisp day that makes you want to go outside. Mostly, though, it’s cold and sloppy.

City dwellers, for the most part, are pedestrians. I walk an average of 40 minutes a day just to get from home to work and back. The thought of leaving my bed in the winter is enough to make me cry. In order to make this bearable, I spend a lot of time watching the weather forecasts and pre-planning my winter weather outfits. Layers are the key. When the temperatures start dropping in October you’re wise not to go right to the winter coat. Rather you should layer sweaters or invest in suede or leather. I am partial to the wool wrap. Don’t wear gloves or heavy tights. Wear hats and scarves that offer no protection from the weather, but are purely for fashion. The point is to start toughening up your skin. Even if you’re chilly, tough it out as the current 45 degrees will feel like springtime come November.

Next, when daytime temps are within freezing (below when you factor the wind chill); you need to bump up the outer gear. It’s time to put on your winter coat. (Just your wool one mind you, DO NOT wear he goose down or the multi layered North Face just yet.) Hats, scarves and gloves are also acceptable at this point. You may also break out any lined wool slacks. Feel free to layer sweaters and long sleeves too. On precipitation days be prepared with a weather proof coat, shoes and unless it’s snowing, an umbrella. People in Chicago carry umbrellas in the snow. They look really stupid.
When the temperature falls below freezing degrees, but above 15 degrees you must add layers. I’m a fan of two pairs of tights, but beware of athlete’s foot. Long underwear is a great option too. I learned the hard way that thongs are an issue. I’ve dealt with butt freeze for the sake of the not having a disgusting panty line, but beware that you’ll have to suffer for it. You may want to have some lined footwear at this point, frozen toes are no fun. Definitely invest in a fancy pants parka with zip out liners or a long, puffy goose down coat. I scoffed for years before I realized that the goose down is so effective that you don’t need as many bulky layers. Mine is white with a hood and I look like a Storm Trooper. Mars makes me run and do the turn around and shoot while still running move, while making “bew, bew, bew” gun noises.

Below 15 degrees, is when pride must go out the window if you want to stay warm. I hearken back to the sub zero weather in the winter of ’95 where I marched 25 minutes across campus looking much like an Ewok with my fleece pants on my head and the legs wrapped around my face. It was very effective. Yes, I referenced Star Wars twice. Something about hard core outer wear I guess. Do whatever you have to do to keep covered from head to toe. Don’t be afraid to look fat. Go so far as to wear sunglasses or goggles to keep your eyes warm. Cold eye feels weird and makes you tear up, which freezes to your face, which sucks.

Well below zero hits this region a few times a year, thankfully, it doesn’t stay too long. My advice is to call in sick. Sometimes it’s just inhumane to put yourself through such frigid temperatures.

The point of these stages is so the severe won’t feel as severe. I stand by my stages, even though I may just be fucking with my mind. This is all a coping mechanism for dealing with the wrath of Chicago winter. Work, rehearsal, life, it won’t stop for weather, so unless I want to drop out of life for 1/3 of the year, I have to deal.

Here are some other tips given to me by friends, some of whom have dealt with Midwest winters the whole life.

• Drink copious amounts of red wine.
• Laugh heartily at the skinny blond clone bitches standing in lines at stupid bars in identical black tank tops and open toed shoes.
• Wear socks on your hands.
• Wear leg warmers for actually keeping warm and not for some stab at retro fashion.
• When in need of a cab, call one ahead of time and have them pick you up at your front door.
• Eat twice as much food as usual.
• Go tanning? Yeah, someone swore by that. Just don’t get orange. You’ll look like an ass.
• Only venture out to places with adequate heat.
• Caulk your cracks.
• Do that plastic covering stuff on your windows.
• Cook a lot and enjoy the ovenous heat.
• Warm pants on the head double as a hat and a scarf. Think Lawrence of Arabia or Combat Ewok.
• Hair dry your body when getting out of the shower.
• Keep a warm robe in your bed with you and put it on before you step out of it.
• Use heating pads and electric blankets.
• Wear snow boots when there’s snow. I don’t mean Uggs either, jerks who wear Uggs with mini skirts.
• Embrace the Russian peasant look with multiple wool wraps.
• Eat hot foods.
• Exercise in your house.
• Run from the television to the bathroom so you won’t notice the cold.
• Have your husband start the car well before you have to get in it.
• Marvel at how tough you’ve become in the face of another Chicago winter.

I’m sure there are more. I welcome any suggestions. Locals, God speed. West Coasters, the Seattle gloom is a welcome gloom.

Much love,
Kerri, Durla, KSan.