Shameless advertisement time: I should’ve mentioned this in the last fuck of an entry, my 5b reloaded shows are up and running a muck, 7pm in the Del Close Theatre on Sundays until April 20th 2008. We are the Campus Police, and you already know I’m the dirty cop.

Even more shameless: Bored every Saturday at Midnight? Looking for some new hot shit to hop into? Peep this with yo hot peepers, The Chicago Improv Rebellion is in The Del Close Theatre, every Saturday at Midnight!!! For your late night pleasure, there’s a college team, a specialty team (headlineresque if you will) and an iO team rebelling against the Harold!! Also, a different musical act every week, and then we change the game up, by dancing in that muhfuckah too, dat’s right a fucking party every Saturday night; it’s The Chicago Improv Rebellion, unlike no other. Did I mention I was the host?

Now onto to the shameless at hand.

THIS BLOG TOPIC WAS APPROVED BY MICHAEAL PATRICK O’BRIEN HIMFUCKING SELF.

READER DISCETION IS ADVISED

I have been saving this one for a lil bit of time now, so some of it might be a lil hazy; bare with me/deal with it. Also, minimal names will be used to protect the who done it’s and who aint it’s; hotdamn hoe, here we go again.

It was a late night after one of my favorite combination of shows, Deathstorm and Weaslicious, the Del Close green room was the official after party for the “insiders” and perhaps friends of “insiders”. Now I aint saying that some of the cast of these shows were there, but I am saying that for sure Pat O’Brien (of iO Chicago’s The Reckoning, Death Storm, Weasleliscious, and a Second City director) was present, and accounted for. He was in his comfort zone in a room of people he knew and people he knew enjoyed what he did, not to mention being a little loose after a few adult beverages. Imagine a room of laughter, with sitting/standing ladies and men with Pat standing in the center. “Why the fuck are you always laughing, I’m not being funny right now”. Let me just say, when in he’s in the zone the man is at the top of his game in funny, saturated in sooooooooo much truth.

“The real ones live improv, it’s not just an art form”.

-Jake Schneider(of The Reckoning)

There’s one thought every human being has had when in a room of inebriated men and women, “What if we all started fucking each other?” If you have never had this thought, than either your sex drive may be under ridden or you need better looking company. Pat was fresh off of a show, and still in the mindset of “yes and…” (improv slang for agreeing and heightening) or maybe it was simply “booze and..”. Whatever the case may be, he used the tools of improv to his advantage. “We should all fuck each other” he decreed. “Ha-ha-huh?”, was the sentiment we all shared in response to Pat’s offer/suggestion/gift. “Fuck each other?” one of the ladies questioned in a chuckle. “You’re laughing cause you want it!” he shouted in ah-ah(/detective making a break through) fashion. We all did our own collective chuckle, “Why are you all laughing??!?!?!?” he hollered at us; provoking us to laugh louder.

“This isn’t funny!!” he urged with a slight smirk on his face. I couldn’t resist commenting on the topic, as well as affecting it. “Pat, I think this girl was feeling the idea”. She snickered, “No I wasn’t!!” “Stop snickering, this isn’t a bit”, Pat stated slightly more serious now. I dropped in my three cents, moving things forward. “Yeah home girl, don’t laugh at the things you want in life, they’re important”. “Where would this even happen?” one of the dudes questioned from the side, not letting Pat and I fly this thing. We WERE on course to indiscretion land, but just that quick we were detoured to HaterMAN Bay, where the player haters even hate on themselves.

Pat loaded his brain with trouble shooting shells, aimed at the target. “We’d go to one of the rooms in the Annex.” One of the ladies asked ever so naughtily, “Then what would we do?” YES, problem shot! Pat smirked, reeling in his fish from the sea. “Well uh, as you can see, there’s a bunch of guys and girls here. We’d all just file up to one of the class rooms in the Annex, I’d turn the lights off and youuu’d…GET WHAT YOU GET(!)”. We all laughed, catching the naughty freak theatre vapors P.O.B. sprayed into the air. The ladies were curious, “How would we leave from here? Would we leave one at a time or…” The onetime hater face, had become a convert, “We’d use a password”. Pat liked the idea, and supported it, “Parrot”, I just say that, then walk out. He simulated a mock exit, demonstrating what the act is to look like. I stood up in an attempt take the heightening, to an exploratory status. “He didn’t say it Warren!” one of the ladies shouted with an open mouthed smile, as she wanted to be ready when it was time and it wasn’t. Or was it?

“Don’t get caught up in the password end of it” , said the would be catalyst of an improvised sexual encounter, on the group mind tip (aka orgy). “Focus more on the action, Warren’s got the right course of action, we should all support his gift of leaving”. Some of us were still laughing, making Pat feel as if he wasn’t being taken seriously. “Why are you all still laughing? Don’t laugh your lives away, this isn’t funny in the least bit, it’s very serious” he decreed to the room. Interestingly enough, the laughs did hush themselves rather abruptly, because Pat had laid more seeds of truth in yet another seemingly comedic moment in this episode.

He felt the energy shift in the room (as we all did), from comedic to curious. “I’m gonna go get a drink, and let everyone get their bearings together, when I come back, hopefully we’ll be ready for take off. Either you’re on board, or left behind, but I promise you all…it’s gonna be one hell of a trip”. He pushed the swinging green room door opened, exiting without looking back. The laughs had silenced, leaving the laughies to look around the room at one another. If they weren’t thinking it, I know I was, “What if we all started fucking each other?” Some moments later, the green room door pushed opened and it was Michael Patrck O’Brian, holding a frosty adult beverage, with a smirk upon his face, as if it had something to say….., and he did; but you’ll never know

On the next episode of, “Don’t Tell Charna”; The Rapid Fire Series tackles the issue of, “The Improv Crush”. It’s one of the only view types of attraction where looks don’t matter, but they damn sure make a difference. I might even tell one or two or three or four of my own crushes. Can you guess who?

1987
It was shortly after my first performance in a church presentation as the comic relief, my father (stand up comedy critic for the Chicago Tribune at the time) took me on assignment to Watler Gertz’s (yes Jamie Gertz pops aka Uncle Walter) “The Improv” comedy club for an evening of laughter with the grown ups. Tears For Fear’s “Shout” blared over the speakers as I shoved my face full of this Teriyaki chicken (damn that was some finger licking shit!) that the spot had become known for, whilst my father mingled with his cohorts. The joint was jumping (and juking) with entertainer types, that my pops fat in with better than dick in pussy, I remember (one of my oldest/fondest memories) of wanting to fit in with them too, “one day I’ll be an entertainer type”. One of those guys my father would mingle with before and after the show; a man he’d have as a cohort.

After any performance I had, he’d give a standing ovation and clap the loudest yelling, “Genius, genius, genius!!” The feeling I had in my heart when he did that, made me feel like nothing I could ever describe with words, (but I’ll try) it was as if for that brief moment I was one of his comedy club buddies, a cohort. I was a major talent at that moment, worthy enough to receive the praise that his entertainer homeys seemed to desperately crave. I was a talent validated by the great Allan Johnson, and it didn’t matter what anyone else thought, because I had him in my corner, giving me the push that I too desperately craved.

2002
2yrs prior I’d left theatre school due to ignorant behavior, it wasn’t the end all of my fellow drama major classmates in high school assumed I’d have after departing Chicago for New York, but like most ass holes, shit happens. Needless to say, there was no praising for failure, and that’s what I did, I failed my father and to this day that feeling of disappointment in myself still lives with me. I know for a fact, that until I do something big, I won’t get over what I did when I lost my scholarship money and was thrown out on my ass by the very institution he and I was so proud that I’d gotten myself into.

I hadn’t done a production in 2yrs and only auditioned once in that 2yr span, the well had run dry and refreshments weren’t insight, until I received a phone call from my father. “I’ve gotten you an internship at iO Chicago (at that time it wasn’t called that), they’ve got some classes I want you to take and a scene that I really think you’d be good for. I know your work and I know the business and I really believe you’d be a perfect fit for improv comedy”. My pops loved improv, often writing pieces on the art form, giving shout outs to the community, making sure Chicago was informed of it’s Mecca status in the improv world.

Jeff Griggs (of iO Chicag’s Deep Schwa/the author of “Guru”) was my teacher and I’d made about four friends who seem to have my best interest in minds, Noah Gregoroupolus, Katie Rich and Tj Jagodowsky (of iO Chicago’s Carl and The Passions and a boat/shit load of the shizznit); as well as the boss lady herself Charna Halpern. I was back in the fold of entertainment that I was literally bred for. I was bred in the manner of, kicking it hard on Chicago’s booming 80s stand up comedy scene with comics who would soon be juggernauts in the industry….; people this shit has been a major part of my life for damn near all of my life. I truly don’t remember a time when I wasn’t knee deep in this world.

But of course there’s a flip side, my personal life was out of control in my early adult years (19-20ish). I was back in college (this time for computer shit; that I don’t remember a lick of) skipping classes, working a grocery store gig that paid sunflower shells, barely making rent, hanging in the infamous Cabrini Green Projects, partying late and basically sinking my life into an abyss of nothingness; my father knew a change was in order. Once again, I was on my way down the road of failure, gassed with the fuel of self destruction. My pops made a suggestion that I recognized as sound advice; a change of scenery. I moved from Chicago to soul search in the same state my mom was living in, Ohio, iO was in my rear view and a career in entertainment faded in the distance, once again.

2006
When you’re bred for something, you can run all you want, but this thing will chase you. You can hide, and it will find you, almost like John Rambo thinking his war days are behind him, then suddenly a camp of evil doers find themselves in his machine gun’s sights…the bodies will hit the floor. Combat for him, is what entertainment is for me, inevitable and dare I say, destiny. By this time, it was normal for me to be doing at least two productions at once with two different companies or have a calendar with shows lined up months in advance….the machine gun was back in my hands. Things snowballed like this back in 2004, and I was fucking loving it, from contemporary theatre, to classical pieces to improv, I did it all in Columbus Ohio, and I was grossly engross in romancing the stage. From time to time, the thought of returning to Chicago glossed over my brain, it wasn’t until the untimely death of my father that this thought manifested itself.

By the end of the year, I was in Charna’s office begging for a chance, and she obliged. I dove back into this scene like it was 1987 again, this time my pops wasn’t chauffeuring me around, I had to do all of the leg work myself…..and I might as well been Michael Johnson (an Olympic running muthafuckah) because ya boy was making hellah moves. Studying shows and performers, developing my improv style in class, making homeys left and right, even getting drafted in shows waaaaaay before I was near the end of my training. My work wasn’t in vein, people saw I was serious and they rewarded me with stage time, fuck it, why not, I earned the shit.

For a year I was performing in that building, improv and scripted work, even getting some fans who’d cheer(on some dumb loud shit) when my name was announced at The Chicago Improv Rebellion (“WARREN PHYNIX JOHNSON, YEAAAHHHH!!!”), everything was coming together as I planned and foreseen. I paid extra attention to the student shows, knowing that this is where I’d be pulled from and put on a team. When I developed my improv style, I based it mainly on showmanship and doing what everyone else wasn’t, filling a void that rarely gets filled in this building. There’s a couple of peeps who I can say I’ve watched closer then others, because these were the people who’d take the leap that so many seem scared to take, that was the realm that I felt fitted me best, outside of the box. Like I said, I was bred and built for this shit, 20YRS DEEP on the scene and now 13yrs deep in the game, this entertainment shit is ALL ME…., or so I thought.

2008
“Sorry Warren, your name isn’t here, you didn’t make a team” Rachael Mason said somberly into the phone as she scanned the team page of iO’s website. My knees got weak, as I stood staring out of the break room window of my office gig. When I returned to work, I couldn’t focus for shit, my arms grew limber when it placed some document I didn’t give a fuck about on the copy machine. This had to have been some nightmare, this wasn’t reality, “Please god tell me this aint real”. But it was, after countless hours of kicking it on the scene, interning my ass OFF, even taking late trains to my south side apartment and having to walk maaad far from the station to my crib because the closer train had stopped running; performing for numerous crowds, hell I was up to three nights a week at one point, now suddenly…it was over. “I can’t except this, I’ve work hard as a dessert dry fuck to make this happen, I can’t be denied. How could I have failed again? How could I have failed my father, from beyond the grave?” This is what a melt down feels like, this is what a loss is, empty and distraught.

When I used to watch student shows, I’d make my picks of who would make a team and I was usually pretty spot on. Sometimes, I’d tell people, “You’re going to make a team” without knowing what the team makers (aka The Harold Commission) had in mind. Now mind you, I got 20YRS under my belt, I think I know a lil something about a lil something. I’d ease potential performers tensions by telling them, “Don’t worry, they’ll pick you”….and they would. There was even a homey who didn’t get picked right out of the gate who was ready to turn his back on the place, I said to him, “Next schedule, your name will be there”, and it was, because it’s just plain bad business to deny talent. There’s only one time I told someone they’d make it and they didn’t, but sure as shit stinks, they got teamed through auditions.

Tim Chiddister (of The Hot Karl) told me, “Everyone’s path isn’t the same in this place”, John Langen (of Fever Berry Mountain and iO Chicago’s Cutless Supreme) told me, “You’ll be fine, enough people have seen you perform, you had a good student show run, the work, will work for you”. Michael Balzer (behind the scenes iO ganster) said in response to me feeling as if I’m fired; “As far as I’m concerned, you’re not fired, you’re not done here” Charna Halpern herself said, “Nothing is ever completely over”. I wasn’t alone, I had my real friends who continued to keep my best interest in mind. After a weekend of feeling completely lost and confused, I received an email from Cesar Jamie (of iO Chicago’s Felt, The Lottery, Diplomat Motel and The Harold Commission) informing me of my notes, and an offer Charna made of reloading the clip on my 5b classes; i.e. they wanted me to go back through and take the student stage again. I emailed Charna who said this was to start immediately, she put the machine gun back in my hand, and once again the bodies will hit the floor. I’m built for this shit, I was bred for it, I’m the one who’s life has been shaped around this thing…it is dare I say, destiny. I must make my father proud again (from beyond the grave), or lose everything trying.

THE PHYNIX IS ON THE RISE.

On the next episode of, “Don’t Tell Charna”, THE RAPID FIRE SERIES has something very special planned for all of you lovers of team work, or rather, Pat O Brian does. He shows us what group mind is all about in, “Parrot”.

P.S. HAPPY BELATED BLACK HISTORY MONTH, TO ALL OF THE MUTHAFUCKAHS OF THE WORLD, FROM MY BLACK ASS TO YOURS…EVEN IF YOUR ASS IS PINK.

Here’s a lil treat for all of you real 80’s babies, and 80’s grownies…..

Dan Calamari (iO Chicago’s infamous Saturday house manager) and I aren’t strangers to one another, he and I had lil beef that involved a small physical confrontation that was chronicled in the entry “When Adversaries Align”. The reconciliation was made when he and I joined forces instinctively against a common enemy, an unruly drunkard. Since then he and I have actually become homeys, slamming our fists together giving each other props on sight and even defending one another’s names against any one who dares to doubt or disrespect.

“Dan’s cool, he just gotta know you- know you; at least he aint phony”, I said to a student having the audacity to diss my ally as a real homey. He even told the boss lady one night (and I was present for this shit), “I can pick the TV people from the airport Charna, since Warren is here, he can watch the shop”(or something to that affect), and that’s saying a fuck of a lot coming from him. It’s safe to say we’ve warmed up to one another dramatically since the last time I’ve spoke about him here.

So peep game as my life moves a thousand times faster than Max Payne bullet time. Here I am again, dumping more cash into the upstairs bar, because I’d rather help pay to keep The Clubhouse lights on than some bar of suckers who aint pleased that I’m there. Hell, some place else I couldn’t catch Dan C. singing Kanye West’s “Gold Digger” in his mind. Dan strutted past me carrying chairs, shaking his head no when Kanye spits, “the baby aint his”. I teased, “Hey Dan, you singing the song to yourself”, he simply smiled making his way into Rachel’s office for his coat. “I’m out”, he announced sticking his fist out for the goodbye, we pounded our respected knuckles into one another and he was gone knowing that The Club House was in good hands with me in the building.

I made my way downstairs to the Cabaret theatre for a scene change and hot damn if it wasn’t one. The controversial Jim Craigo was cutting into a can of beer as Bret Lyons (of iO Chicago’s Deep Schwa, Del Tones, and The Jam) was egging him on, “That’s not teen wolfing a beer, that’s Marth Stewarting it!” Craigo wasn’t trying to cut his mouth up in the name of Bret’s humor. “This is close enough” he urged, before pouring the brew down his gullet from the middle of the sliced can. Bret, myself and several others egged him on, “Go!! Go!!! Go!!!” the liquid dribbled down his chin and onto his clothes as he finished it up.

“Wusss!!” Bret insisted feeling cheated on what I assumed was a dare and you damn right I was right because Bret wanted what he wanted. “Who’s man enough to wolf a beer here!!”

If some of ya’ll aint hip to this shit that Michael J. Fox made famous as the teenage wolf in “Teen Wolf”, let me put you on your feet. As the wolf, Fox bit his k9s into the middle of the can letting the beer spew all over himself and others. This is a good idea if you’re a fucking wolf, for us humans this is an excellent was to slice your goofy ass mouth up. So most humans wouldn’t dare do some shit like this…but improvisers aint human.

“I’ll buy the beer if someone teen wolf’s it!!!!” Bret announced to the bar and naturally no one wanted no parts of this shit that surely may put you on medical leave. “Warren?!?!” Hell nah, knowing my luck the can might miraculously go from slicing my mouth to my neck. “Nah, I aint lucky enough to pull that off”. He propositioned Jorin (of iO Chicago’s Revolver), “C’mon Jorin, you can do this”. Jorin grinned proposing something we all should’ve, “How about I buy the beer and you do it”. Bret quickly shrugged the idea off, moving through the group for his victim of the dangerous dare. If Dan was there, I bet yo mamma’s sweet ass Bret wouldn’t have dared, dare this bullshit, but Dan wasn’t here and the game was afoot.

“I’ll do it!” a voice urged from behind a few shoulders and heads, emerging from them was Nathan Jansen (of Mission Improvable and iO Chicago’s Athens and The Jam). You ever watch one of your friends on the verge of doing something ignorant and just knew they shouldn’t dare make the move, but you had to see how far they would go. Some things never change, no matter how juvenile. Here we all were again in that exact same situation, none of us wanted to see Nathan hurt, but none of was gonna dare tell him not to engage…I sure wasn’t (but then again I’m an ass hole at heart). The can of 2 dollar Schlitz was in his hand and the moment of truth was among us. We all got quiet and only the music could be heard as Nathan lunged at the can with his k9s….and instead of blood spewing into the air and to the floor, it was malt liquor. Nathan was drenched, attempting to take it down, when it was all over his beery hand clinched the bitten can as we cheered in teen wolf fashion, “Wolf, wolf, wolf, wolf!!!!!!!!!”

Once again someone emerged from under shoulders and heads, it was Dan Calamari. “Wol…….”, we all were hushed once again as if we were caught by the teacher in mid adolescent angst, because we were. Jorin’s smiled turned into a mouth/face of “Where the fuck?” he didn’t even blink as Dan looked to Nathan who too had a face/mouth of “Where the fuck?” …and beer. “You gonna clean that up?”, without waiting for a response Dan informed us all as he whipped his keys from his hip, “I’ll get the mop”. Interestingly enough, the one who instigated the entire situation had disappeared.

Maybe I’m remembering this wrong, but Bret had vanished, just like the problem child in your elementary school who got you trouble for doing the wrong he wouldn’t. I honestly don’t remember what happened to Bret, I seriously couldn’t tell you what happened after that, other than iO Chicago’s newest adult teen wolf, Nathan Jansen mopping his own, Bret Lyons induced mess. I wonder if Bret would’ve put up some money for him to jump off the building…would he do it? What I do know is, that if Nathan was preparing to do so….not one of us would’ve told him not to. I’m sure I would’ve been the first one to call 911 because Dan wouldn’t have expected any less of me. Dare he not.

On the next episode of, “Don’t Tell Charna”, the RAPID FIRE SERIES presents a disheartening and controversial account of, unfinished business, remaining unfinished. See how it feels to teeter on the brink of emotional self destruct, I bare my soul in, “I’M THE ONE”. To be posted…whenever approved.

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: iO Chicago does not condone, nor advocate drug use of any kind and if Warren Phynix Johnson ever say any different, he’s a lying chode stick who can’t keep his mouth shut and you have no reason to believe his real talk or true stories and that’s only if he said anything different. Thank You.

In this life of entertainment there’s never a shortage on adventure or inebriation, we’ll say a friend’s friend has a party, and drank always falls into the mix, and somewhere that dank is enwrapped in a twist. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with getting drunk, I’m fond of it myself, but I’m more fond of reefer aka ganja aka Mary Jane aka a bunch of other names I’d rather not say on the world wide web.(Some shit needs to stay secret. Ya feel me fam?) So not being a stranger to the life of blurry vision and altered judgment, I tend to believe I’ve got a handle on things; when in that beautiful mindset where rum rains from the skies to a field of reefer flavored smog; and yes…this does induce a very good mood. Hell, at times optimism is a direct result of having a body of mini liquor lakes streaming through your veins and reefer smoke popping your brain cells…but that aint the only result.

PARANOYA!!!!!!!!!! What the fuck was that?!?!? Did ya’ll hear that? Who’s there? Better not be the fucking police. It’s the police!!!! Wait, it aint the police, it’s my reflection in the fucking computer screen! Damn reefer, playing tricks on me again, and again and again. That sweet cheeba(aka marijuana) gets all up in you, blurring your vision and obscuring/altering you reality, almost making you except damn near anything you see…almost.

Captain’s Log, stardate whenever the fuck; I’d just finishing facing a fine cigar because none of the smoking homeys were around and that damn thing was singing in my pocket, I had to shut it up. The saying goes, the party aint over til the fat blunt stops singing and she stifled with my last inhale of her strawberry flavored tobacco outfit. My smoldering nostrils dropped her love to the atmosphere, floating to space, as did I. My feet glided back to iO Chicago on a cloud of happy feelings, in hunt of a rum to top this attitude adjustment off with a little mind/body tingling drank, because sometimes enough isn’t that at all. (Can you say gateway?)

I ditty bop strolled into the building down the ramp in route to the bar, that was surprisingly deserted at the 2:50pm hour on a Saturday. Oh, that’s right, the fucking bar was closing. The music was still thumping and my thirst was still in need of quenching, but there was no one to drink with and that would make me an alcoholic if I drank by myself…so I ordered a double. Hell, I could holla at the bar tender for a spell, I’m sure it was one of the homeys holding down the dranky-dranks.

I slurped the beverage slow through my straw, simultaneously jamming to the music that the unkown DJ was pumping. Then he became known, from out the green room emerged Ryan Stone (formerly of iO Chicago’s Mr.Fahrenheit) with his book bag strapped firmly to his shoulders. “Warren drink and let’s make moves” he demanded of me. I didn’t ask where, because this young man had a nose for party whereabouts and that’s what I was about…, also the high wouldn’t allow me to question; it just obeyed, transforming my slow slurp of the vaccine into an expeditious chug. Then at warp speed we hit the street for a land unknown, until I asked without losing a step, “Where the fuck we going?”

He whipped his oney (aka one hitter-a name for a reefer smoking device) from someplace on his person, lighting it up and inhaling as if I asked him nothing, blowing out clouds of jane (aka chronic) he spoke the obvious, “Party”. His hands repacked the smoking device, then passed it to me in what seemed like one motion. This pattern continued as our pace seemed to pick up with each puff-puff pass, falling into some zoned out walking trans.

The street lights sparkled as beautiful as the stars through a telescope and the cars hummed hip-hop tunes as they hovered by…I was high…er. The brisk wind felt like the breathes of a gorgeous fire extinguished dragon blowing kisses at my noggin, I blew a kiss of smoke back, letting it ricochet to my nose. The vaccine I guzzled was taking affect as my legs grew numb the same as if they forgot they were walking…this was a great time to be alive.

It seemed as if we walked to another continent, but the buildings barely changed shape, the blocks merged into one and I didn’t question why. I could hear music from an old mix tape I once owned, loud and clear in my ears, but I wasn’t wearing head phones…and wasn’t questioning the music either. I wanted to look at my watch, but didn’t want to question father time’s bitter ass? Didn’t ask Ryan nor myself where the cops were, cause that question in my mind would be questioning the existence of jinxes. I wasn’t questioning who’s party we were going to or if we were invited?

In reaching what could’ve been third block south on Clark street, not far from iO, I had to question something I thought I saw, but wasn’t sure. You ever see something and was too embarrassed to ask your friends if they saw it too? I should’ve question Ryan if he dipped his weed in anything other than weed? I just knew I wasn’t seeing what I saw, walking in the middle of the street for all to see (paranoia setting in didn’t help either).

We were on the side walk, headed south and this figure was steadfast stomping north…it had to past us, I had to ask Ryan. “Hey, do you see that Ryan?” Who was in mid hit, not taking time to look up from his oney to question what I was talking about. His lips pulled from the smoking device to answer, “No, not at all”. Now I was adamant about this thing, because either there was something in my smoke or someone was playing a practical joke, or someone had a lil something in their smoke; because stomping up the street(and I swear to God about this, I never lie in these things and I AINT STARTING NOW COTDAMNITT) was a white man man, semi toned with a mullet hair cut (the lil bush at the top and the long strands in the back), no shirt, lime green Speedo type trunks and brown construction boots, lifting the air up and down, huffing and puffing as his head lifted and dropped with his arms…it appeared to be none other than, The Ultimate Warrior(and it was no where near Halloween).

For those unfamiliar with THE ULTIMATE WARRIOR, he was a professional wrestler from the WWE when it was called the WWF. He was supposed to be super strong and he did this lift the air, huff and puff thing when he would pump his adrenaline up to attack an opponent.

It wasn’t the weed, because cars passing by honked their horns for him to get his retired, pro wrestling, huffing, puffing, panty draw wearing ass out of the middle of Clark Street. The stoned, Stone looked up from his device at the honking cars, shouting, “Oh shit, is that The Ultimate Warrior’s…lil cousin?” Good question. Because this guy looked kind of like em, but it couldn’t have been him, he wasn’t wearing the ultimate warrior war paint.(Forgot to mention he wore some bootleg tribal warrior war paint). Not only that…it couldn’t have been him!! I had to question the generic Warrior as we walked past, “Are you supposed to be the Ultimate Warrior?!?!?” His head turned to us only a smidge as he continued his air pump, answering in a mid puff, grunting gingerly yet rough, “Yaahh, yuhhh, yeeaaah” I had to ask him, solely based off that response, “What the fuck did you say?” His eyes went from us to the upcoming intersection where there was a four way stop sign jump off.

His walk stopped directly in the middle of it, his hands went from pumping to directing…traffic that is. We had to stop our reefer induced march to take time to digest what we were seeing now, “Is he directing traffic?” The Ultimate Warrior (wish he was) began doing a traffic directing dance, patting his boot to the pavement, bouncing shoulders and nodding his head as he batted his fingertips in “come here” fashion to cars for their go signal. Then placing his palm up to others for the stop signal…and the cars had the audacity to obey this fuck who obviously was in an altered/obscure reality of his own. Then again, who would disobey The Ultimate Warrior?

WE ALL SHOULD’VE JUST SAID NO.

On the next episode of, “Don’t Tell Charna”, The Rapid Fire Series marks the return of iO Chicago’s very own tough guy, house manager Dan Calamari, in Teen Wolf. Nathan Jansen (of Mission Improvable and iO Chicago’s Athens) is an animal…and Mr. Calamari stalks his pray like one. Good luck finding the catalyst of this game of cat and mouse, Bret Lyons (of iO Chicago’s Deep Schwa, The Deltones and The Jam)

Now from parts unknown….The Ultimate Warrior!!!!!

Let’s say you’re Johnny Improviser living in Chicago (the Mecca of all improv) indulging in some iO home grown make em up classes, then yo ass get fired from the day job..now your broke improvising ass can’t afford indulgence no mas; but you really-really want it still. You want the dream but life is waking you up Johnny..wake up Johnny, the bill collectors calling Johnny…they aint improvisers, but you can bet your girlfriend’s ass they’ll call back.
Then all of a sudden….
…improv calls you foward, with one word, internship.

Some of the go -getters take advantage of the application process and put their name in the hat for some intern love, then they get got by whatever the behind the scenes process is, and are handed a black shirt with the iO symbol on the left breast in white letters and on the back is the word STAFF(STAFF), in capital white letters.Now you’ve got free classes, you made a deal with the world renoun Improv Empire, you’ll get yours and they’ll damn sure get theirs. Improv has just employed you, to train you it’s secrets and in exchange your ass is going to help hold the Empire down( “hold it down” slang phrasing for maintaining your ground/handling business). Some answere phones, make reservations, work the box office and then there’s the nitty gritty, right on the floor holding down a show. Sure you’ve got to run and get a bucket of ice, mop the floor, take out busted bags of trash as unknown liquids slide down your chest…but you aint gotta pay for the secrets you once had to…more money for more money spending.

This aint a normal job either, this the Clubhouse bitch!! Aint no telling what you gonna see on this scene, if you aint been reading this shit, scroll the fuck back and catch the fuck up, for my other peoples..ya’ll know what the fuck it is. More real talk and true story coming up on the horizon from the past days of my intern shirt sliding down my back, STAFF/STAFF.

Here I am posted downstairs in the crowded caboret theatre during a show, my eyes are multitasking, watching the show, scanning the bar, peeping the bathrooms hallways, glancing at the audience area, and of course my eyes hit the door…..just as I did so …somebody I don’t know is rushed down the ramp like they gotta take a thick dookie log shit..or they got immiediate business in the building. Mike Click Clack (iO Chicago’s Underboss) said check for student/performer id’s and tickets and damnit that’s what he means or I could kiss the free secrets good-bye like I told them for free. I put my hand up to slow this guy down and his steam roll lost ample steam coming to an ampled attitudfied stop. He huffed, “What’s up bro?”, flinched his eyes quick as if I waaas supposed to know who the fuck he was and I.. DID… NOT. “I just need to see your id or ticket man” I kindly said without any slither of discontent with his exsistance, just like a model intern should. He wasn’t too pleased with my exsistance or at least not my request, his ego had the sheer audacity to speak in the tone of celeberty to nobody usher, “Tah, bro, uhhhh.I’m in the lottery”. HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-,HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA,HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH, this muthah fuckah thought he was a super star because he had the talent to have his name pulled from a hat.(The Lottery is a phenominal show where students are randomly selected to play with skilled improvisers) He was probably thinking, “Go fuck yourself, I’m better than you because the paper with my name on it got grabbed”. HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH, HAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH, some people just don’t get it. What I do? I said come on in man, although the show wasn’t the Lottery, but I don’t think anyone would lie about that (no offense to the Lottery, nor the brillaint concept that it is; shout out to my homeys; Forest Hynes and Cesar Jamie the Dons of the Lottery click), and besides I’d be there all night and would officially see if he was a maggot ass lying shit bird or not He wasn’t. Haaaaaaaaaaaaa, HAAAAAAAAAAA, some of the people who understand how to read between the lines got that two word statement(/diss?). This guy….nevermind.

Okay, so people drink in a bar and sometimes people drink too much in a bar. Hell bars are usually often visited by people who participate in the craft of “bar hopping”. Who knew? I aint bout to suga coat a damn thing, muhfuckahs get drunk and behave a lil irrational.

It went down something like this, I was taking tickets in the downstairs theatre and seating time had come to it’s organic ending, the place was fill up anyway.The lights flashed and it was show time, after taking the (muhfuckah stop) podiumn back to it’s spot, a young coulpe stumbled in with their slower walking male third wheel. I seated them in the back of the back, witch aint bad seats. Little did I know that the slow one was up to no good…nor did he. There were two other interns on hand when he made his move, from sitting up in his seat, to keeled over in it vomittig…while the show was running. He wasn’t loud, but the splashes of his vomits were, and the audience members seated inches away from the splashes were louder, as were the people next to them and so on. What we had was a whole section of chattering people with the scent of overdrinking sandwiching the air they breathed, tingling the tips of their nose hairs. (Can you tell I just had a flashback?) I sprang into action(seeing the other two interns springing into their action for cleaning crap), walking up on the area of talkers who were over reacting to a little portruding internal implosion.(Okay maybe it wasn’t a little) I stepped right up on them and whispered with authority, “Ya’ll need to calm down, it’s about to be handled”. Louder splashes smacked the wooden floor, a dude who already was King Overeaction to the whole situation was putting on a show for his clergy.”Bro this is crazy digusting right now”. I walked up closer on him, whispering into his ear, “Bro, you’re being crazy ignorant right now and I need you to check yourself…vomit mouth is on the verge of being checked…” my attention went from the ass wipe to the lone intern with seeping mop in hand making his way to vomit central, crouching low past the bar sitters who were struggling to keep their attention on the show. Natuarlly my shit luck has to play a factor in this situation, in the form of one distracted audience member; Charna Halpern. I saw her frame make it’s way from the green room, directly over to the land of vomit and loud whispers. “What’s going on?” she asked walking up on me. “Someone vomitted in the corner and we’re…” she cut me off quickly, whispering sternly staring into my dookie browns , “We gotta get him outta here…now.”

I sprung into action(again), walking over to the keeled over drueling guy, lightly shoving past his friends, who weren’t feeling the black STAFF guy engagaing their sickly buddy. The man of the young couple put his hand to my chest, “We’ve got this”. Like I gave half a fuck, “You can have outside” I replied, pushing past his hand. Now when dealing with drunks, it’s key not to piss them off because they aint thinking straight and I should know, I’ve gotten plenty drunk and plenty stupid…plenty of times; and in those times I hate being insulted by those more sober than I. The boss lady to sprung into action herself, making her way up the ramp and out of the theatre. I placed my hand gently on the vomit boxe’s shoulder and made my request. “I need you to sit up, and come with me…you can lean on my for support if you need it” He wiped the slob and vomit chunks from his lips and chin replying quietly, “I do, this is embarrasing”. No shit, but aint nobody perfect out this bitch . “We’ve all been there homey, aint no shame in having fun, now let’s get you out of here”. He stood up whispering vomit fumes into my face, “Thank you”. Thank him for not being a dick, not only that, someone had to get that guy and someone had to play in the vomit(i.e., clean it up) and I damn sure wasn’t about to play in the liquids of this guys’ dinner’s past. He drug his feet from his seat, up the ramp to the lobby where the boss lady was standing, “Are you gonna get him in a cab?” she inquired to me. I aint this man’s keeper, I would’ve gladly tossed him in the gutter for a sobering evening of alley sleep, but the boss lady is a more kinder soul than I. Honestly I wanted nothing more to do with thisn guy or his scent and as luck would have it, his friends did. “We’ve got him” the male friend reinerated, taking my place at his drunk buddie’s side, “We’ll make sure he gets home”, the boss lady smiled pleased with the gentleman’s safety. I smiled, pleased with the safety of my nostrils, watching the three top making their exit. The boss lady then recieved a brick of V.I.P. passes from whomever was working the box office that night, then handed them to me. “Make sure to circulate these amongst the people sitting in his section, they’ve got to get something for their trouble” Not only that, I’m sure it’s never bad business to have asses in seats, sounds pretty fucking saavy to me. Ya’ll know I did what was asked of me, even King Overeaction got one..one.

It was touching to watch the other interns dive into cleaning up the mess that this guy’s gut left, because they did as if was nothing to do. In my world, cleaning up vomit that aint yours is a whole lot of fucking something, but I don’t think they did it with diligence because it wasn’t a chore. I genuinely think they did for the love of the game, and to insure their pipeline to the secrets student improvisers so desperately seek in coming to the Improv Empire that is iO Chicago. After all, holding down a theater/Club House comes with it’s obstacles, and if you’re willing to overcome said obstacles(and uphold your end of the deal), then the Club House/theater will up hold it’s end and hold you down. To all the people that’s ever slid on an iO Chicago intern shirt, you should be proud to be apart of something that’s far bigger than yourself, and to be able to actually make a diffrence in the world that you’ve hungered to be apart of. That’s what one may call, living the dream, real talk/true story…as always.

P.S. Ya’ll aint seen shit yet about the world of the intern, yet…literally. Shout out to Tom Novak (iO Chicago Alum/ex intern), what up familys, don’t forget to tell maggots to get the fuckoutta here…ya bitch. (Sorry, inside intern joke)

On the next episode of, “Don’t Tell Charna”, a wrestling icon makes his pressence known only a few blocks away from iO Chicago..or at least that’s what it appeared to be; kids just say no to drugs. Ryan Stone( formerly of iO Chicago’s Mr. Farenheit) guest stars in the next addition in THE RAPID FIRE SERIES entitled, “The Ultimate Warrior”.

THE RAPID FIRE SERIES PRESENTS:
Passing The Bar Episode III: Love and Vengeance

BUT BEFORE WE START, LET ME SAY THIS SHIT STRAIGHT OUT THE GATE,

Dear readers, thank you for taking time outta yo day to lay your eyes upon my blog and get some holla from the kid. I know that these things aint been posting like they should as of late but I gotta tell you, IT AINT MY FAULT. I aint the muhfucking web fucking master in this bitch nor the hot lil number(ya’ll know Charna is a cutie, if ya’ll don’t, I know I do) that run this muhfuckah, so don’t blame me for shit, cause I aint responsible for shit (except the bullshit I cause, and the bad aint on my hands..at least not this time) I just give them and the powers that be do what they must. So in the future, don’t run up on me asking bout the posting of this damn thang, cause I don’t know a damn thang, and you can tell the police and detectives the same thang. While we speaking candidly, I’d like to ask you, the reader a question. WHERE THE FUCK HAS MY COMMENT POSTS BEEN? WHAT YA’LL DON’T CARE BOUT A MUHFUCKAH NO MORE? I THOUGHT WE WAS FAMILY READER, I THOUGHT WE WAS HOMEYS…NOW YOU ACTING LIKE YOU DON’T KNOW ME. CAN A MUHFUCKAH GET A WHAT’S UP ON THE COMMENT TIP? SHIIIIIIT, AINT NO LOVE IN THE CITY FOR YOUR MANS AND DEM, YOUR WHODI MAN, YO BOI, YO MUHFUCKING PEOPLES WHO PUT YOU ON YO FEET WITH THE UGLY DETAILED BUSINESS? Frankly, ya’ll hurt me…, but I aint too hurt to stop writing this sizzling hot shit, I’ll keep it coming regardless if ya’ll do so or not. Let it be known, I’m for the reader and I could give a sundried fuck less if ya’ll with me or ya’ll aint…my love for the game is unconditional; I’ll use the shampoo and damn the conditioner. That last line made no sense, and that’s how I like it, ignorant, now get with this upcoming, bonified gangstaness, dropped straight from the Phynix gangsta nest. (Okay, that was definitely too far).

THE LOVE SIDE

Pit bull: Davie Lo’s aka Phynix’s aka Warren’s dictionary describes the pit bull as a vicious beast vomitted from hell’s intestines, they’re always portrayed evil in movies because the movies keep it real…when they aint lying for dramatiztion purposes; they’re aint no reason to dramatize an animal, walking on all fours is enough drama for any fucking film (case in point; pornos, and they never lie and are highly drama soaked). I know I’m talking like a man who was attacked by a satanic pit bull, but that’s only because I was a man who was attacked by a hellish, devil possesed, demonic, satanic, soul snatching, foot chomping demon dog named, Snowball. That male bitch gobbled up my boot with my foot in it one winter for no good reason, and he was my aunt’s dog. A piece of evil shit that my family tried to convince me was my cousin through some adopt a monster program, but all of my non monster cousins have never attempted to take my foot off via swallowing and chomping at it through my Lugz boot. In Snowball’s defense, I did attempt to kick his head from his neck, but that was only after he ran up on me talking shit on some roof-roof, rahhhh grawl shit, then he lunged at me. What am I supposed to do, say in a baby voice “Stop trying to kill me doggie…we’re family”, HELL NAH!!! I told him to back the fuck up, then I stomped at his barking beast face, hell I was protecting peoples’ investment, if I was snatched up outta the productions I was working on at the time over this creature’s “I want to kill you for the fuck of it” mentality then there would’ve been some(more) unpaid bills that I couldn’t have lived with. I had no plans of sitting in the dark with no cell phone, as this sack of sour dog druel relaxed in his own stank with a mouth of gravy beef bits…under the illumination of his master’s porchlights. I could hear one of the directors now, “Sorry everyone, Warren was dropped from the cast because he wanted to befriend a spawn of satan”. I can hear that being said.

Now here’s a lil quote from my aunt Sylvia about my other aunts melevolent pooch, imagine a rough older southern woman’s voice; can’t be too rough with this one. “Why in the name off all fucks would someone want a pet bull (she really pronounces it pet bull) as a pet!?!?! Pets are called that because that’s exactly what you do to them, pet’ em, show some love. Aint nahhh ounce of love in a bull, that’s why lil Mexicans in colorful tight shirts always fighting them in they even, lillllller stretch pants! Anybody in they right, wrong or in betweeenst mind know you don’t pet no fucking pet bull!! Shyyyyyiiitttttt, and you don’t name it something cute like Snowball, that shyyiiiitt aint no fucking snow ball, it’s a devil ball, hell ball, poltergiest ball, monster’s ball…any of that shyyiiit would suffice accooorrrrdingly. Petbull..aint that bouta biiiyytch…a human one”. -Sylvia Johnson (on the paraphrase tip, and she really does curse like that, it’s truely poetic).

Tom Middleditch(of iO Chicago’s Bullet Lounge, Felt, Improvised Shakespere and the infamous Mcdonald’s chicken mic nugget commercial): Davie Lo aka Phynix’s aka Warren’s dictionary describes Tom Middleditch aka Mr.Chicken Mcnugget as a very brilliant improviser and a pretty cool cat, a human one.

So it was after my (wannabe) Cupid Players set on a Saturday night a few months back, witch is akin to the end of The Bullent Lounge set in the downstairs (caboret) theatre; naturally Tom was still there kicking it with some nice young lady friends and a few of us club house kids. Drinks were filling glasses and laughs filled the atmosphere, it was what the theatre is all about, then something happened. I’m not sure who’s friend this guy was, but someone was let in the back door, and he wasn’t alone…you guessed it, he ushered in a leashed hell hound. I remember stopping in mid laugh the nano second I saw the Moby Dick/Jaws of doggies, uttering “What all of fucksake is that doing in here?” damn near flash backing to Snowball’s failed attempt at devouring a chocolate covered Warren leg. Middleditch took notice too, but his reaction was a lil diffrent from mine, “Ahh, look at the poochie”, he rushed over to the dog and it’s smiling owner. “No Tom don’t..it’ll ruin you career with it’s blood thirsty mouth!!” The owners smile dropped a bit at my warning, as if he was offended, “Hey my dog’s cool” he defended. That’s what all owners think, then when the pup earns them a lawsuit and doctor’s bill, nobody knows what could’ve happened. I’ll tell you what happened, that pup was in league with Lucifer, and it’s that simple. “It’s fine Warren, watch” Tom approached the dog slowly with wide hands and a smile on his face looking like an employee of one of those Discovery channel shows. I thought, “If white people aint investigating something, they tamming something or reasoning with something.. that can’t talk”. But I said, “This aint the discovery channel, at least they get paid to befriend the untrusted wild life they poking sticks at…stop poking your damn stick Thomas”.

He inched in closer, and that’s when something else happened, the dog, inched in closer to him. He moved in more, the dog moved in more, then the next move was Tom’s hand to it’s head that lowered down then up countering the light rough housing. Thomas threw another hand on it’s side, rubbing it on the shoulder baldes ooza boo-booing and whoo whooing this satan play toy.I stood still with one hand on my phone prepared to dail up 911, knowing that if pissing on a bees nest is a bad idea; filling up a pet bull should be just as detriemental if not more so. The demon hound made it’s move, to my surprise, rolling over on it’s back as if it were being tickled. Middleditch applied both hands making baby noises, “Ooza boo-boo, doo-doo” as his hands caressed and rubbed the fur of this hellish pup who seemed now possesd with joy. I’ll be damned if I didn’t see this monster crack a smile, “When in all of fuck did animals start smiling?!?!” Tom turned his head slightly to me replying for the dog in baby voice, “We always smiled, yoooouu just never care to look Warren, come rub my belly Warren”. First of all, that creatures voice wouldn’t sound shit like a human baby. Second of all, I don’t care to be in any animals mouth in any capacity. Third of all I wasn’t going any where near that demon pooch’s stomach smiling or not, “Hell nah I aint!!” Why wasn’t Snowball this jovial? Another thing….. if anybody has any Discovery channel contacts hit me up with them, I think Thomas Middleditch may have a new career ahead of him. All hail Middleditch, the king of beast/demon cuddling and caressing, his show could be called “The Lover Man Of Evil Beings” or, “Excorcist”, or a mixture of the two, ” The Lover Man Excorcist”. Don’t act like ya’ll wouldn’t freak a demon…I’m the sure the sex would be wickedly sultry. Don’t look at the screen like that, I think we all know by now that I’m a freak daddy…I aint ashamed of it no more.

THE VENGENCE SIDE

The wise philosopher Shock G aka Humpty Hump (of Digital Underground fame)once said, “Hit me and I’ll hit you back” he also said, “Tickle my tummy and I’ll tummy yo feet” but that’s way beside (and across the street from) the point.

Ferell Walsh (of iO Chicago’s Revolver) looks like a bad muhfuckah, and when screams to the top of his lungs the name of his homey, “ROB WHITE!!!” (of Revolver as well) he seems like a bad muhfuckah (more so even than Sammy Jackson’s Pulp Fiction wallet) but in actuality he’s a nice young man, the type you’d tell your daughter to date..at times care bearish in a non bitch way. That’s probably why he’s married to a dime piece (slang for very beautiful woman) no disrepect because I don’t want no type of troube with this muhfuckah, not unless it’s the board game type…then I’d kick his trick ass like a punk bitch tied to a soccer ball.

Once again I was by the bar, consuming drank and talking hella shit, at the same time, when I saw Ferell and his teamate Ryan Dolan(iO Chicago’s Revolver for attention defficiant muthahfuckahs) engaged in conversation. Nothing was special about the exchange except for the fact that Ryan was still rocking his biking helmet (the ten speed kind), but that would be the catalyst of something I aint never seen in the joint. Almost outta no where, a smiling Ryan began head butting his homey, then again a lil harder than one would expect. One knock, two knock, Ferell’s smile almost dropped midway through the first dome pop, “Alright that’s enough” Walsh warned. I was hoping Ryan wouldn’t honor the request, and he didn’t, three knock, four knock; then almost at the speed of light I watched Ryan Dolan’s feet flop to where his helmet once was and his back slam to where his foot once stood. That’s right kids, Ferell Walsh slammed the living and dead shit outta his teamate like a one armed rag doll owned by a unruley problem child throwning a temper tantrum atop the Sears Tower; dangling doll arm and all. Needless to say, there were no more knocks to the dome of iO Chicago’s nice young man/care bear and Ryan Dolan found a new use for his biking helmet, but learned the classic usage aint always for biking…even though it’s usally best used when falling.

Let this be a lesson for you kids out there, animals smile just like people do(even the dog of damnation the pet bull) when petted right; and don’t taunt humans bigger than you (unless you ready for the vengence of mother nature’s most malevolent beast;…man).Grawl and rahhh on yo stankin ass!!! If you guessed I’m drueling all over my key board, you’ve won the prize of me biting the shit outta you!!

Nah, that last line wasn’t too far, cause ignorance is bliss and I’m a Moby Dickhead swimming through the sea of our world’s delicate sensibilities.

P.S. On the next episode of, “Don’t Tell Charna”, THE RAPID FIRE SERIES continues with it’s first partial retrospect piece, entitled “My Intern Shirt”. We delve deeper into the realm of the intern, from getting dumb dissed by performers to protecting shows from the inebriation of drunk hecklers, it’s ironically something like being a super hero.

P.P.S. Shout out to Ben Seeder of iO Chicago’s, The Cougers for peeping game and spitting it back, real talk/true story on the “Spider Blog saves New Blog City from Dr.Blogtegon “, tip.

This is THE RAPID FIRE SERIES, less details, more bootychatter.

The Club House Pt.2
By
Warren Phynix Johnson

MISPRINT ALERT: I did the straight up dummy in listing the credits of one of my featured homeys in the last entry, the entail I received was from the mouth of an inside man who was inebri-fucking-ated on the late night kick it session…but he’s a reliable source that will remained unnamed. But let’s right this wrong right the fuck now, alright….get yo ass in the club house’s Del Close Theatre every TUESDAY AT 10:30PM FOR THE RECKONINING’S CERTIFIED GANGSTA/BRILLIANCE IN THEIR DO WHAT THE FUCK THEY WANT SET. It’s a team of all-stars, laying down the make em ups harder than cement, trust and believe that shit and if you don’t…you better ask somebody. That feels better, now get yo muhfucking shovels ready to dig this real shit, it’s the uncut, unwhipped, raw dope….(metaphorically speaking, of course).

SUPPORT SYSTEM PT.4
The warm sun beamed into the topless leather cockpit of the silver Solara I was riding shotgun in one afternoon with a black dog’s (Chief) fur pressing against my arm, his home girl, a blonde(dog) named Mia hung her head almost between Chief and the driver; their owner…Charna Halpern. Her hair breezed as she cruised the vehicle up the north side streets through puddles of water that formed the previous evening in a storm. Where we were going (or coming from) is neither here nor there, but what is here and there are the words spoken on the drive. “You’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing right now Warren, there’s no need to rush yourself…there’s a natural progression in this business”, she advised my hard headed simple Simon ass, with her focus on the damp road ahead. “I understand that, but I’ve put a lot into this business and I really want something back now, I’ve been acting for 12yrs…” her Hennessy colored eyes went from the rode to the rear view, then to me as slowed down the Solara due to an approaching stop sign, the wheels eased to their end roll. “Some people act their whole lives and get nothing back, nothing is the only thing promised in this business Warren”. She stepped lightly on the gas putting the drop top in motion, breezing her bangs over her eye brows as she continued to drop science. “The ones that do get somewhere are the ones who’ve endured all types of tribulation and shit work, constantly sacrificing for the greater good of their careers. You’re lucky because you started young and you’re still working for it….just stay focused on the work, in time things may fall into place, like they have for so many others. I got a feeling you’ll be just fine”.

CenterFilms
I remember fighting the temptation of “Myspace” and “Youtube” distractions one day, with the computer screen buzzing rays into my face, as I peeped my email demo; coming across an audition notice emailed from the training center (Rachael Mason…she’s the unadulterated shit!) to the students….and maybe performers too. But it was for some webisodes to be directed by Alex Findrich (iO Chicago’s 3033/Second City’s ETC/ Center Films) for his production company…Center Films. I read the synopsis knowing that it wasn’t for me, (I’m not sure if I’m legally allowed to say what it is)…I hit delete and continued to refuse the urge of posting one of my infamous myspace bulletins.

The day went on, blah, blah, time dash and dip, to several hours later with my cell vibrating at my hip…it was a casting agency calling on behalf of Center Films, I’m a shit enough to delete an email, but not a big enough one to turn down an audition invite…cause that’s what the fuck was happening.

Walking into the casting agency’s office across the hardwood floor, my eyes searched the audition room early, on that peep the terrain tip. I aint see any homeys but I did see, this bad ass Asian star working behind one of the desks in the office, I thought I heard the Wayne’s World “Dreamweaver” in my head or any song by R.Kelly (don’t judge that man if you aint see the tape and if you did….you gotta admit, that kid must’ve watched a lot of late night television), she aint notice me but she honestly looked familiar…like maybe I knew her in highschool…but that would sound like a such a line, “I think we went to high school together?” Nah, I gotta focus, find the sign in sheet and don’t look at her again.

After signing in, I relaxed on one of the couches reviewing the scripts that were emailed and the character I was up for aint have many lines so I put the text in my brain dumb quick…just in time to say hello to three club house members making their entrance. Wes Haney (of Baby Wants Candy and iO Chicago’s Cutless Supreme…not to mention, The TVSHOW click), Paul Brittain (of iO Chicago’s Rattle Snake Highschool and the one piece jean suit trio Topaz), and Pat O Brian rocking his signature big framed glasses ( of iO Chicago’s The Reckoning/ Second City Director/ and not to mention, a muhfuckah unlike no other, you’ll find out what I mean…one day), we all what’s upped and mingled pleased to see fellow club members in the place to be. Alex Findrich made his way in on the slick tip, as he rushed in the audition room, he pointed at Pat (on the what’s up tip) who pointed back smiling. Just like that, it went from audition to a kick it session…. “I wander if that guy is coming up?” Pat asked himself out loud. “What guy?” I inquired out loud, getting all up in his Kool-Aid. Not being stingy he shared his pitcher, “Alex asked some UPS guy to audition and he said he’d come up”.

Almost as if he heard us speaking of him, a black guy in a UPS outfit stepped in the room with wandering eyes, “Shit” I hurumphed, and Pat noticed, turning his head to me with a smile, but still in what up fashion. “He’s black Pat, he’s my new competition” we snickered at the joke, that really wasn’t a joke at all. The UPS guy didn’t wait around, his curiosity brought him up there, but his schedule took him out, “Yes” I cheer leaded to myself, “Looks like you doing good again” Pat observed, but had to question. “Who are you reading for anyway?” With the script in my right hand, I slapped it with the back of my left asserting, “Thad”. Pat grinned a bit nodding with the huge lenses holding down his face, “Oh yeah? Me too.” DAAAAAAMMMMMNNNNNNN!!!!!! I thought, but said, “Aint this bout a bitch.” Pat chuckled a bit, “What’s wrong”. Like he didn’t fucking know, “You know what’s wrong, I’m up against you. I knew I wasn’t right for this shit”. Pat must’ve been in a good mood, because his facial expressions were either big smile, grin or smirk and at that point he was on smirk. “You’re not right? I think these roles require people in their early twenties and late teens…I’m fucking thirty, I didn’t see crusty grown ups in the synopsis. Are you done with your script?” I nodded yes, handing it over to the man who I assumed I was handing the role over to, and just over my left shoulder a group of auditionees were exiting the dreaded audition room with their heads low. That’s when my name was called…and it was time to make magic happen.

If I’m not mistaken, Wes Haney was the only club house member being auditioned with me, we stepped in to a couple of cameras aimed at where we would be standing, a few monitors and a group of people, one of those people was Alex Findrich who I immediately approached to shake his hand…after all, we were just hanging out at iO a couple of days prior.

REAL BRIEF, I’LL SAY THIS…
Alex Findrich is cool as an interplanetary Captain Kirk fuck, and that’s cool as the Antarctic or Pluto and I aint talking Oliveoil’s creep( a slang terminology for mistress or person on the side). I knew he was cool from kicking it at the club house, always got something kind to say, and a big hand shake up/shoulder bump for the homeys, but that don’t mean he’s cool as a director. But why not?

After shaking up and getting into our line to introduce ourselves, I went to remove my glasses because I enjoy working that way better….Alex signaled for me to keep them on…I’ll be damned if he wasn’t helping me out. But why not? We’re homeys, and that was the thing, if we weren’t homeys than this would be a normal audition, but instead this was better than a normal audition; here the powers that be wanted to see you do good, and not (as it normally goes) weed you out. We read from the script, then actually improvised some elements and hot damn spinning on a flying saucer…it was actually fun. Alex and his peeps shot out laughter at our tweaks of their writing, he lent a couple directorial notes to lead our actions, notes that weren’t handed down as a criticism or commands, but more so in a tone of, “Peep this homey” at least that’s how I interpreted it.

When it was all said and done, I walked out to a snickering Pat and Paul, kicking it in the plush casting office, without a hint of nervousness on them. Walking to them, my eyes wandered once again back to the China doll who I could’ve sworn I knew, but refused to embarrass myself with a lame introduction that might’ve put my eligibility for the role at jeopardy. “I’m not saying shit to her” I thought out loud. Pat’s head turned around to find where my eyes were planted, it didn’t take one of Ms. Warwick’s psychic’s to figure out where my eyes were. “It can only be one of two things you looking at” he guessed. “The Asian” I answered. “Oh…okay, one of three things…yeah, I see it, she’s nice…looking, cause she could actually be a bitch”. I took my eyes from the girl to make eye contact with my homey, who’s eyes met mine from behind his huge lenses. “I aint bout to find out, cause I’m….” Pat’s head did a small twitch, as he cut me off, “Scared?” My face instantly scrunched up at the suggestion of being scary of the ladies (never that, really though), “Shiiiit, not I said the blind man, as my father used to say.” Pat nodded a bit, encouraging (/sending off- a slang terminology for misleading or tricking) me, “Than don’t turn a blind eye to your wants…go ahead, use all of that courage and make a move”. He almost had me, but then I remembered who I was dealing with here, a very quirky individual, on and offstage, “Nah, I aint honoring shit you saying, you just want me to be the lil send off man”. He looked back to the script, sending off once again, “Fine Warren I’m not gonna utter another syllable about it”. I looked to the top of his head, stating, “If you’re going up north, I’ll hang out here and wait for you; I need to waist some time”. His head looked up with a sideways smirk, “That’s good Warren, use me as the scapegoat for your passive aggressive stalking.” I hopped to my defense, “I’m not stal…” He wasn’t hearing that shit, “Sure, you need to waist some time, I’m sure the girl would be flattered to see you hanging around gazing into her face and forehead…” I wasn’t hearing him either, “I do have to wai…” He was gonna win this game, “not to mention how it would look to the people in charge of hiring, maybe you’ll look dedicated and not awkwardly weird” The winner was, Pat O Brian, “Fine Pat, I’m out, but that wasn’t why I was chilling” He nodded with his sideways smirk on an angle, I reached out to slap hands with him and Paul, reasserting, “It wasn’t”.

Skip the Callback( where Paul and I acted a stinky donkey ass as Alex watched our shameless slapstickish shenanigans on a big screened flat tv, nodding at it like a scientist watching his monster come to life) and jump straight to the Phone Call.

I don’t remember where I was or what I was doing, but I do know the phone either sang Dave Asher’s (of Melody Knife and iO Chicago’s piano man and The Republic’s Coach) “That’s What You Remember” if that’s the name of the song, or it simply vibrated. I yanked it from my hip or from the nightstand or wherever the lil flat fuck glamorized Star Trek communicator was, and answered, “Hello?” The voice on the other end was that of one that sounded pretty attractive, “Hi Warren, this is Char calling from Center Films”. I nodded as if she could see me (I think we all do that), greeting “Hi Char. What’s popping?” “I’m calling to offer you a roll in the webisode series”. I did a lil dance, as I often do when I land a gig, and replied very Shaft like, “Thank you, and I’ll except.” She cleared her throat lightly before forewarning, “Great, but there’s a small catch” In my life people, there’s always a fucking catch, but that aint always a bad thing (but usually it is). “What’s that I asked?” afraid I’d have to wear a penis costume or drink a bowl of animal excrement and or secretions. “We don’t want you for the roll you read for, we’d like you to actually play Warren.” What? Play who? Moon? Beatty? But I asked out loud the logical question, “Myself?” “That’s right, yourself and naturally your wardrobe would be your own, just wear something fun and Alex says…bring the bucket” My Kangol bucket hat, I love that fucking hat and so does Alex, the man digs how I get busy on the fashion tip. “Sure, I’ll bring the bucket”. “Great, you’ll receive more information via email, including the script witch will act more as a skeleton for your work, we’re confident you’ll add your own flavor”. Of course, I’m playing myself, I thought as I continued to silently dance harder than before at the very thought of Center Films wanting me to not only work on the project…but play myself…they wrote me in…as me…remarkable. What I said was, “I’ll definitely do my best, and thank you very much for this opportunity”.

THE SHOOT
(DISCLAIMER FOR DAT ASS): Due to the fact that as I’m writing this, the shit aint out yet so I can’t give away too much of what we were doing…sorry, it’s the business…plus I aint SNITCHY LONG STOCKINGS either!

I was met on the corner near the train stop by….(I forgot your name homey, and I’m damn sorry about that because you were cooler than a shit ice pop, sorry again) and walked to the set that was about a half block south from the corner. I was really looking forward to seeing who got hired and I’ll be damned if it wasn’t a group of improv All Stars, we were met in the alley a few feet away from camera equipment, a monitor (or two?) and a garage where the film magic was being concocted, by non other than iO’s sharp shooter (on the quick thought tip) Bret Lyons (of iO Chicago’s Deep Schwa, Armondo Diaz Experience, The Jam and if I aint mistaken, some Second City work), “Just say you came from the airport and that’s why you were late” (oh yeah, I was a taste, just a taste late…but it aint me it’s the one armed public transportation administration) he commented pointing at my Tribune issue gym bag with airplane tags still on them from my last out of state trip. “I didn’t come from the airport” I replied in all honesty. He rolled his eyes slightly, “I know, but you can say that as your excuse” We aint even started working yet and he was already looking out for the kid, that’s the type of shit we promote in improv, make excuses for your friends when they wrong and cover their ass when it’s exposed.

My feet paced closer to the set and the garage and their Alex was, giving some directorial words to the guy playing the main character…and I aint sorry for not remembering his name, because that was the only time I met him and I aint seen him nowhere before…but that don’t mean he wasn’t cool. I scanned the garage past the camera work to see, Andy St. Clair (of Second City’s ETC, iO chicago’s 3033 and The Armondo Diaz Expreince), he was chilling on the couch with his baseball hat covering his eyes…yet he saw me. “What’s up Warren” he greeted waving. Alex arose from his conversation, giving an approving smile with his hand extended for a big handed shake up. “Good to see you man. You ready for this?” I nodded and followed up with an elegant, “Fuck yeah”. He nodded smiling, “Good to hear” then from the backyard area came the owner of the voice that phoned me, Ms.Char (aka The Producer Lady). “It’s about time you got here, let’s get you set up with wardrobe”. She looked liked she sounded and I’ll leave it be at that, she led me past the rows of sandwiches and fruits set up across from the garage on the stone covered ground…not rocks but big stones on some medieval shit to two tents that held and protected the cast members clothes. My eyes went past the tent to the beautiful house we were behind, just then from the backdoor exited, Mr. Pat O Brian wearing his big lenses glasses and fisherman’s cap on the Gilligan’s Island tip. He smiled as he approached enroute to the set, his hand extended for the shake up, “Warren what’s up…they’ve got me acting like a neeeerrrrrddd” he informed as he did the shake up in motion. I could only laugh, because some people can be hilarious no matter what they say…but he did a voice inflection that I won’t go into. Yes people I was playing with the big boys today, and it was time to bring the pain, right after I put a hurting on the sandwich table….and I did…and that just was de-fucking-licious ya’ll. FREE is my favorite seasoning on any food…except chitlings(pig intestines-happy holidays from the hood).

I stood snacking because I wasn’t called to the set for at least another 45mintues, with a mouth of food I also held a brain of curiosity. (Who’s crib is this?!?!) The owner stepped from the back door with her high cheeks in a cocky smile and her blue(?) eyes bright under her brunette bangs…it was none other than, Susan Messing(an Annoyance Theatre lady Don, she’s also an improviser who lays the teaching game down in institutions all over the city and the suburbs I think, not to mention her legendary Annoyance show, Messing With A Friend, the woman is a boss lady…early, never late) “Stuffing your fucking face in backyard are ya Warren”, it wasn’t a question. “Yeah” I replied with fat cheeks of turkey sandwich. We embraced, cause it’s been a minute since I’ve seen my level 2 teacher. “Nice house Susan” I complemented. “Yeah, it’ll work for what I got going”. She then got her mingle on with the wardrobe guy, as I was summoned to the set.

As stated before, I aint letting nothing go, but I will say, we had to fight the wind, passing cars, and nosey chode bites, “You can’t be out here, people are working and you’re disturbing them” the chode bite complained with arms full of chode belongings. “Sorry sir, and thank you” Alex pacified. Being on film is fun, but a fuck of a lot different from the stage, “Just remember, you don’t have to big, we’ve got it all in the lens” Alex advised in a stern yet, do your thang tone. I must admit, it was cool as hell to play myself, my name was even in the script. When the rain came, everyone scattered to save the pieces of equipment that wasn’t covered in plastic, cause muhfuckahs was prepared for muhthah nature to act an asshole. The actors took a breaky break, hanging out in the garage talking all type of shit I can’t remember, then making wardrobe changes when feeling mah nature letting up on her liquid bitching. I strolled in the house with my clothes in hand, in doing so I stumbled on to Kate Duffy (iO Chicago’s Felt, Wednesdays@ 8:00pm and The Signatures), she arose from the Top Model shit that was on the reality TV to give a hug. This woman is the shit in my world ya’ll….perhaps I’ll break it down at a later date…just stay tuned…and that wasn’t a lead in to another continuation..(ah nah, this muhfuckah is getting done today).

Let’s skip forward(past the part where, Muhfah nature stop her fucking around atop our heads, as well as the part where Susan Messing and Joe Canale’s, boo him, daughter slid onto the set and snatched herself a scene, but how could she not…this kid is undeniably adorable damnit…and she got her act on. She made a cameo in a Chicago Improv Festival video last year, I think someone’s got a career on the horizon. But anyway, were skipping ahead) to the last scene of the day, we (the cast) were huddled around Alex as he got his direct on, assigning us each missions, Bret do this with the jump off, Pat get the demo popping, Andy get busy like we do when we do the dam thang, guy who’s name I can’t remember…you play off them (naturally this aint what he said at all and that’s why there aint quotes, I’ll quote someone if I can get relatively close to what they said…but that wasn’t popping with this demonstration, except for when), his eyes cut to me, making his contact solid when he said, “…then you take focus” (he did say that). The mission was simple, but the way the order was given to me was on the, I have faith that you’ll do your thing tip and this is where and when I want that thing done. The combination of bestowing trust and knowing what one wants, is actually two of my favorite qualities in a director. When Alex pulls your coat tails to his directorial wants, he do it in a manner that makes you feel empowered, and protected, some muhfuckahs will say some ol, “Do…this that and the third and if I don’t like it then we’ll do something different”, with Alex P., it’s “I want this, that and whatever you think will get it popping, we’ll do it a couple of times to find it”. Ya’ll feel me? Not only that, he’s our homey and it’s easy to be directed by your homey, because you already know what he likes and all you gotta do is what he said, and the shit you know he’ll feel, then poof…you’ve conjured up a happy homey director friend (witch damn sure aint the same as R.Kelly’s homey lover friend…that’s for another blog entry, jeah ladies).

After the last scene wrapped we signed some contract shit for our dough, paper spread, green back, guap, cream and luccini, simultaneously a cooler of brew was revealed and we aint talking Natti Ice or the infamous 211 (liquid crack, disguised as malt liquor), it was Heineken and some other name brand shit, that I drank with ease…as I would 211, cause I’m classless…and aint ashamed or afraid to admit it. Then from out of the house came another special guest, equipped with an entourage, Rachael Mason aka Momma Masoney aka Miao Yin, (and ya’ll should know who she is by now), and one of her very attractive partners in crime, Lil Mamma Assets aka Gracie Law. “Hey Wawrren” Miao Yin’s smiling mouth addressed as she approached with open arms, holding a half full wine glass, that waved the red liquid she was sipping on the closer she got. We embraced as we often do, and so did G. Law and myself, it’s nice when the love comes in doubles. “You having fun Wawrren?” I tipped my beer to my lips, then assured, “I am now”, looking past the ladies into Susan’s kitchen where more ladies were congregating, then it occurred to me what was going on, “The Girl Party”, Rachael often blogs of, shit, they even got a myspace page and an obsessed fan…because these all girl parties are supposedly the shit; and I don’t doubt it with a banging ass the guest list fem fatales. “What are looking at in there Warwrren?” Rachael asked, knowing I wanted to cause some mischief. “Girls Party” I answered my lady don. “Exactly, for girls and not for boys”, she clarified to my perv mind. “How was the shoot?” she questioned, curious at the camera crew and what not. That’s when things came together, in my brain shoving the pervous section to the corner and dusting off the gumshoe section (witch aint even close to ten percent of my brain), the email came from the training center and Rachael’s the boss of dat there, then the casting agency hit me on the celly cell, “Rachael you gave the casting agency my number?” Her brown eyes nestled under her eye lashes, looking up at me over her black Dolce frames, her half smirk responded “Of course I did, I knew they’d like you, and Alex is good peoples…he needed assistance and I did what needed be to please him and company. That entailed emails to students and performers and the dispensing of some of the theatre’s talent’s digits…and I don’t feel at all phased by it…okay, maybe phased in a good way”.

Once again, Rachael Mason was there to show the kid some love, “Damn you the funky shit Rachael”, her pink lips unhinged from the rim of her glass as she retorted, “That’s so sweet Wawrren, I’m happy it worked out for you…I knew it would”. My eyes moved back to Messing’s kitchen, to spot…Asian food of some sort. Chinese, Thai, Vietnamese, it don’t matter I love me some Asian(women) food, plus there were a couple of hotties inside (not Asian) and seeing how Rachael was showing love, “You think Susan would….” , it aint hard to talk someone up when your on their back porch. “Tell Susan what?” she asked stepping onto the wood of her backness. “Hey Suan, you wouldn’t mind if I came insid…”, she wasn’t honoring that shit, “If it aint to use the bathroom, then yes I mind, the bitches are being bitches in there and you guys are you guys out here, soon to be you guys gone and not here”. Well, I see the love whale ran dry on my cotton mouth ass. My grandfather (Leon Grace) always said, “Shorter visits make better friends” I could feel my departure time coming upon me like the day those tags got strapped to my gym bag. I said my farewells to the ladies on the porch, before they made their way back into the house, then thank yous to the Alex and his crew, “I like what you did with that last scene” Alex commented, and of course I had to pull his coat tail to something. “It’s about the atmosphere the director creates, if he cool then the work environment will be comfortable enough for a muhfuckah to get loose, and you did a splendid job of that homey.” I made my way to the cast that was left because everyone had schedules to honor, “Pat it was cool as hell to work with you” I complemented a man who’s work I’ve appreciated and studied sense my return to the Windy. “Thanks a lot Warren, you did good job too…as always”. YES!!! The man was once my teacher(one my favorite fucking ones to be exact) and he we were working on a project together…needless to say, although I have already in so many words, I was dumb pleased with life…at least at that point.

A week and change later, my check came, as well as an epiphany, if it wasn’t for The Club House, none of that shit would’ve been possible. I mean from getting the gig, to knowing who I was working with, to Alex getting his talent assembled, to me having the training necessary to be able to share a camera lens with improvisers of that caliber. iO Chicago just made a shit load of shit happen, all based on the relationships created within her walls (iO is the “she” if ya’ll didn’t peep game already), relationships that weren’t forced but developed under the unified flag of theatre and good times…that was some nostalgic(thanx Shae)/special/magical/intricate shit, that got shatted from the abyss/community/asshole/scene that is iO Chicago. Interestingly enough I stood at my mail box starring at the check asking myself, “Whats popping at the club house tonight?” cause something’s always popping in that muhfuckah and you damn right most of that check went straight to that muhfuckah. It feels good to have a special place to find refuge, fun, work, and like minds…ya’ll better get in this muthahfuckah… and tell em, Phynix sent you to “The Club House”, it goes down in this muthahfuckah. Real Talk/True Story. Muthahfuckah.

P.S. The Give A Fuck hot line has some fucks to give out, so lets get it popping. Roll call comment click, Cindy, ya man’s blessed to have you, Shey you one of the reasons on a long list of reasons I write this joint, Rasheeda, dizamn you got a smile and style that make muhfuckah go “ooweee”, Christy (AKA Peaches, Whew!) you’re the shit times my favorite drink double…anyday of the week, Jeff(?) whoever the fuck you are, thanx for posting and reading and yes.. it is very dangerous, Lenny Mason, I don’t think I know who you are but you read and holla back, so you that makes you my fam in internet land, Drew, any brother of Devin’s is a brother of mine…even in South Korea. Nathan Cotter (tech guy for The Chicago Improv Rebellion’s Midnight Show) you are king of The Hobo Belly…in a good way. Wooz (Madlab Theatre) That play is almost as much yours as it is mine, do whatever with it…real talk. Tab, thank you for making me feel as if what I says matters, Jim(?) who ever you are, we’re ALL black…it’s common knowledge. Hey Hoffman, I’m proud to call you one of my father’s students, Crago, you aint a racist and my mother loved talking to you, but she’d hate your impression of her. Miss Mason, you know what it is and Katie Rich…I never not miss you. Oh yeah, and Jon Dewalt, we all miss you and know you’re doing exactly what you’re supposed to out at the Boom-Boom. Anybody I missed, holla at me about it and I’ll give a fuck…cause that’s what this hotline’s about.

P.P.S. On the next episode of “Don’t Tell Charna”, it’s the world premiere of the “RAPID FIRE SERIES” , kicking things off with “PASSING THE BAR EPISODE III: Love and Vengeance” featuring Farrell Walsh, Ryan Dolan (both of iO Chicago’s Revolver) and Thomas Middleditch(of iO Chicago’s Bullet Lounge), let’s see if ya’ll smell this.

P.P.P.S . Special give a fucks straight to John Langen( of Fever Berry Mountain and iO Chicago’s Cutless Supreme), thanks for giving me the idea for the Rapid Fire series…I got shit for they ass coming…on the spew tip.

P.P.P.P.S. This lil clip speaks my heart 110%, and it truly speaks the soul of “The Club House”…on several levels. iO Chicago aka The Club House aka Jump Street?

SEASON PREMIERE!!!!!!!

A key thing that a lot of people/outsiders don’t understand about iO Chicago, it’s not just a theatre, or a business, or a networking hub for actors (more on that in a minute), it’s most importantly a club house. Damn skippy pippy, it’s got three floors, several rooms, a cash bar, televisions, internet access and even live comedy shows, now you can’t tell me that’s not a banging(slang terminology for very nice and more than adequate) ass club house….hell some people would even call that a resort, but let’s not get crazy. Who’s the club house for you ask? (and if you didn’t I’m telling yo ass anyway) For improvisers/actors who want to hone their craft, by performing, watching shows and class time (now I’m usually opposed to classes, but these weren’t painful like I’m used to), these are the people who will find shelter in this theatre.

These people are the ones who make our community, click, crew and family, and with these people one will share their joy, sorrow, and drunkenness, and through those actions….a bond is forged. A bond that most don’t intentionally form, but through spending time with people who’s ideals, and dreams are similar to yours, a bond is bound to begin. Noah Gregoropoulos (iO Chicago’s Carl and The Passion’s/Chicagoland/iO Chicago’s 5b Don) and I have closed down the bar a number of times, kicking around personal stories of triumph and defeat. Nick Hausman (iO Chicago’s Alpine Rescue/Chicago’s team of improv outlaws, Hodge Podge and Comedy Sports) and I have partied in spots until the sun came up, then hit a diner for breakfast afterwards, it’s impossible not forge a kinship under circumstances of this caliber (you can only get fucked up with someone so many times before they become your REAL friends, it’s a scientific fact from the Institution of Rum&Coke).

I love hanging out and mingling on the scene but there was a consequence that I completely forgot about in doing this, these people who I shared fine cigars with and cracked ignorant jokes alongside not only work at iO Chicago, but all over the city. Ya’ll see what I’m getting at? I had no idea at the time that what I considered live ass partying had another name too (no not alcoholism…, okay maybe in a circle of anonymous people confessing shit), networking. Shit yeah on ya face homey, networking, this separates the “possiblies and aregonnabes”, “the go sitters and the go getters”, the “I’d like to haves and the bitch break yo selfers”, the old adage is… “it’s not what you know, but who you know actually on some real shit and not just in passing”. Here’s a taste of what getting twisted in the club house has done for the kid, just a taste…I aint trying to fuck up dinner over here.

BUT BEFORE THAT…THE PHYNIX AUDITION PHILOSOPHY

Auditions can be an unbridled pain in the ass, mad competition to beat out, monologues not hitting like they supposed to, your clothes, hair, charm and if there‘s improv involved …there’s always a possibility the work is off point that day; aint nobody always on…except maybe Noah G. So it’s imperative that the peeps holding the auditions make us performers feel as comfortable as possible, decorum is usually the main factor in every audition. That’s from the mind of an actor with 12yrs experience; I should know what the fuck I’m talking about…I should at least.

Mission Improvable

Walking into the lower level of Gill Park for my Mission Improvable audition should’ve been a bit nerve racking, if I pulled this thing off, than I would be touring the Midwest and the East coast getting stupid paper (or so I’ve heard) performing for large college houses (and college girls, jeah…perv daddy in full effect ya’ll) and basically living the dream. Despite the high stakes, I wasn’t the slightest nervous, because I honestly felt my work wasn’t up to snuff. These guys turn down everybody and they momma’s momma and my momma’s/step momma’s son probably wasn’t gonna be any different. The competition wasn’t some snot nose cock smoke fresh outta junior high, I’d be going up against some reputable muthahfucks. One of the first people I saw in the spidot was Mort Burke (of iO Chicago’s The Strangers/TVSHOW/The Playground’s Mort, if I aint mistaken and he was either on Quincy or…..fuck, I can’t remember. I hate getting people’s credits wrong…ya’ll get the cotdamn point, the man’s not a game with this shit). Then Seth Dodson aka Johnny Always Gotta Hilarious Character (of iO Chicago’s Cutlass Supreme) as well as Jon Brewster, (formerly of Callous) who’s a true master of support and gift giving.

Competition was stiffer than the inside of a condom in use (witch, may not always be that stiff, the usage gotta end sometime), but at least they were all friends who understood the concept of making the other look good. Upon walking in the audition room, we were greeted by a panel of sorts, like any other audition…but one of the panelists was a very familiar face from the theater; Nathan Jansen (iO Chicago’s Quincy/ The Strangers/Armando Diaz/ and Mission Improvable). This guy and I have gotten sloppy drunk together and vented to one another about the pitfalls of being in this business, whilst living through said pitfalls…it was almost like psychiatry(for the working actor, who can’t afford the needed mental health needs).
We commenced to get the improv popping on the audition tip and everything felt good as a raw dog fuck (…okay, not that good) and I produced some of my best work, not because I’m the shit but because the atmosphere was the shit, as opposed to the shitty bullshit. The call back didn’t go as well, no fault to Nathan or the Mission Improvable click, I was just sucky that day and needless to say…I aint get it. But if I wasn’t in the community as tough as I am, than I probably would’ve been sucky and or shitty out the gate, due to the fact that a lot of auditioners don’t create the Zen vibe(shout out to Holly Laurent for being our theatre’s queen of that shit) necessary for the unshittyness….but this wasn’t the case that day, cause it was just some homeys getting their prov on for the benefit of…money, cross country prov and the love of the game. It always seems as if when the stakes are high amongst friends in competition, regardless the outcome, no one loses in the end…except the guys who aint get the spoils. Ya’ll feel me?

Comedy Sportz Pt. -1

I found myself mingling at the cabaret bar on one of my intern nights after thoroughly bathing in the mystery juices of leaking garbage bags. Of course I changed shirts, but like Metallica (did I spell that right?) said, the memory remains. “Nasty fucking secretions of improviser trash just slimed my chest, I have a right to get my drunk on. Is this weekly nastified trial of disgustingness even worth it?” I vented to Nick Hausman (iO Chicago’s Alpine Rescue/Chicago Improv Rebellion’s Hodge Podge/Comedy Sportz/my partner in improv crime if you will) “You want free classes right?”. As I removed my money clip from my pocket I of coursed, “Fuck yeah, I’m a starving artist in this bitch, I even want free shit freer than the free it is”. Hausman reached in his pocket removing a card, “Opportunity is usually free”. He handed the card to me, I reached out for it rebutting, “Infomercial opportunities always cost something 99”. My eyes read the card over as Hausman offered his rebuttal to my rebuttal, “This isn’t an infomercial”. But it what it was an invitation to an audition for Comedy Sportz, “That won’t cost a thing Warren…but time”. I smiled at my homey who just showed me the love I was in need of, “Time is money my friend, that’s why internships are possible”. Still in rebuttal mode Hausman asked, “So is the secretion of intern trash work the time?” I slid the secret invite into my golden money clip for safe keeping, whilst answering my homey, “Apparently it’s worth every juicy second”.

ANOTHER PHYNIX AUDITION PHILOSOPHY

Friends can always ease the nerves, they don’t even have to say anything at times, just a smile or a supportive nudge before stepping and baring your soul before a couple of strangers staring at you in search of what they consider talent. Fuck, sometimes just seeing a familiar face in the room makes the entire process that less painful. Muthahfuckah, I know what the fuck I’m speaking on here, I’m a professional with this shit, ya heard! I better be at this point, or I’ve shat all over my life by wasting this much time, real talk.

Comedy Sportz Audition

I saw some of everybody and they momma in that audition, hell somebody even played my momma in that audition, Gina Nicewonger (Feverberry Mountain/iO Chicago’s The Strangers…I think, I’m shitting all over credentials in this one). Hey fuck it, I’ll start with her, this is my home girl. We worked on iO Chicago’s legendary TVSHOW together and ya’ll know how much I loved that cast. She’s really an under rated improviser in my book, our momma son scene was fucking hilarious. She’s one of those types who knows what’s funny, but lands it on a natural note, not that hokey shit a lot of people find themselves doing(including myself…at times), subtle like. Josh Breit (of iO Chicago’s Mr. Fahrenheit) was in the house, doing his strong character work as usual…his shit is dope because they may be outlandish characters(or caricatures) but they seem to be real people with a strong point of view; fuckers that demand attention and understanding…of some sort. The homey Jim Craigo (former bartender/formerly of iO Chicago’s Callous) listened to the beat of the scenes, a one up type…he’s the one that’ll flip over the dinner table after the wife in the scene cursed him out. Honestly I liked his work better in that audition than anything I’ve seen onstage of his; sorry Jim. My very talented homey, Craig McCarty(iO Chicago’s Chopper and Chicago Improv Rebellion’s Hodge Podge) was in the spidot doing what he does best, being quick, witty, responsive and genuine, he’s a stone cold pro with this shit ya’ll. There was even the lil momma Andy Woody (student and intern@ iO Chicago), who held her own with the big boys, like a big girl…but she aint a big girl (she’s phat, not fat). Then there was this guy Patrick(who I don’t really know shit about, I see him at the theatre, around the city but I don’t know credential the first about this guy….he’s a human being; that’ll work). He did some good stuff, him and I had a pretty fun scene together where I became the serial killing co-worker with a chain saw at his cubicle, cause you never know when you gonna need it. Joey Bland(iO Chicago’s Bullet Lounge/Comedy Sportz and Second City Tour Co.) sat in on the process and I think Rance Rizzutto too, but I don’t know them all like that, so I won’t speak on them too tough. I will say this, once again, I was extremely comfortable to see so many familiar faces, especially ones that I usually see in drunk vision. The ice was already broken and we were all free to just work, although that’s what we should already be doing regardless of who’s in the room. With so many buddies in the spidot, it almost felt like a mini jam on the downstairs stage of the Chicago Performing Arts Center and not an audition, but it was an audition and some of us wasn’t gonna get called back.

I remember attempting to make my picks of who I thought I’d see at the callback, needless to say I just knew I’d see all of my buddies. “Comedy Sportz can’t deny iO got that good shit popping in the building”, I thought to myself (and damn sure not out loud). I sat in my seat confident, because I got called up so many times and pretty much laid my game down every fucking time, aint no denying the kid got skills with the “make em ups”. Or is there? Walking from the building captain cocky style it never occurred to me that the one person I wouldn’t see at the call backs…was me. That’s right, I aint get called back, no matter how well my friends or myself felt I did, but one of the other homeys did…then they got the job. No one lost because one of our friends got the gig, a member of the club house was chosen, so in the end we all won….except those of us who aint get fucking hired. I was lividly pissed, and furiously angered, because I could’ve sworn I nailed that one.

Fuck I’ve been doing theater for 12yrs, I know what’s good (right?), I grew up in comedy clubs, I know what’s funny. There aint many 20something year olders in the world who can say they were on the scene during the 80s comedy boom, but I can(so in actuality, I’m 20yrs deep in this shit!!!!!). I know this work and I felt(and still do) I deserved a fucking muthalessfucking call back. Guess who wasn’t a happy camper after finding out the news, that’s right, my tent of confidence had taken a spill. (If you didn’t guess, I’m the shitty camper. If you didn’t guess, log off of your computer and go pitch a tent in your bathtub, filled with mud and dookie, then attempt to start a campfire in them mucky shits…ya stupid tack headed tick brained fuck pop you!!! I’m sorry, still a tad bit bitter). As a matter a fact I wasn’t pleased at all about not getting that callback, dare I say, I wasn’t pleased at all with myself. “Why didn’t you do the work better, I thought you knew what you were doing Johnny Professional? Obviously not”. With a subconscious like mine, ego is a necessity.

SUPPORT SYSTEM PT1.

Shortly after stinking up the Comedy Sportz audition I ran into the man who did receive a call back, the same man who landed the gig, in the exact same place where we met, the club house (iO Chicago). We were switching off on light duty for a show when our paths crossed in the cabaret’s green room. Now mind you, I aint a hater and I really do believe as long one of the club house members lands the job than we all landed the job (but not really…, because if that were true than we’d all have a Comedy Sportz jersey wouldn’t we), but I really didn’t want to be reminded of that audition at the time. But being the congratulator and not the hater, I had to show my love, after all I love the man’s work and I truly believe he deserved the job more than I. He was walking up the tiny staircase that leads to the light/sound board when I stopped him on the second or so step, “Good work Josh (Breit) in that audition the other day”. He smiled sticking out his hand, replying, “Thanks a lot Warren, I was surprised you weren’t in the callback”. We shook hands and let the notion of not making the callback marinate for both of us, we relinquished hands and my ego responded, “Yeah me too”. He then went on to compliment, “Yeah you had a good audition”. I didn’t feel patronized, but I didn’t want to hear that, so I brushed it off, “Whatever” quickly turning to exit the green room, the fingertips of his right hand halted my turning right shoulder in a don’t turn your back on me/don’t brush me off/ fashion; so I didn’t. I turned completely around to face my fellow club member; his serious glare peered deep into the evils of my self loathing subconscious, demanding complete attention without a hint of foolery. “You had a good audition, and I wasn’t the only one that saw it and you should know it”.

Miraculously, my salty subconscious released its unrelenting grudge against…myself; and just in time too, for yet another audition was on the horizon.

QUICK NOTE

I only get super salty about not landing gigs when I feel that I fucking should’ve got em, or at least the callback, fuck I’d at least like the chance to think there’s a possibility of success, I mean at least give a muhfuckah a sense of hope. But then again, there’s no need to waist anyone’s time.

Second City

So there I was, North and Clybourn, the bum ass bus would’ve taken forever and a day (who sang that song, Forever and A Day? I’m fucking up clear across the board today!!) and I was already on the verge of being later than a positive pregnancy test…that’s still in the blurry…so I wasn’t late yet (but I was in a sense that I needed the test. That went on way too long and is still doing so.) I hopped a cab, “To Second City and hurry fucko!” The cabbie turned around baring a face of “what the fuck” then he asked very interestedly, “Second where?” Luckily, he just didn’t hear me clear through the bullshit protective glass and his bullshit buddies screaming into his earpiece about whatever the fuck, and we were there in the nick of time. I walked up the escalator that was on the same page as me, upward (literally and metaphorically) when I heard the sounds of improv warm ups, I checked in at the desk, “I’m here for the diversity audition” otherwise known as Brown Co. No, I’m not making that up, it’s fucking Brown Co, I would be offended if I didn’t find it funny. Upon walking up on the warm up circle I recognized the back of a familiar dome by their trademark ponytail, he turned around and it was non other than iO Chicago’s, Blaine Swen (iO Chicago’s Bullet Lounge/The Del Tones). He turned around with a big smile and gave a head nod on the what’s up tip as he continued to lead us in warm ups.

SUPPORT SYSTEM PT.2

This sidebar actually has nothing to do with the audition and everything to do with Blaine Swen and the very blog you’re reading. I ran into Blaine last week(a hot minute after the audition) when he had something he felt he definitely needed to fill me in on, as we passed each other in iO’s Del Close Theatre restroom…yeah muthahfuckah, I said the restroom. There’s nothing wrong with two men sharing a moment in the restroom, that is unless you’re a politician, but that aint got a thick shit to do with me. “Warren, you know I read your blog right?” That always warms my heart, when someone tells me they read, it just fuels me to write more, stokes the fire of my passion to scribe, interestingly enough, that type of shit is extremely humbling. “Yeah man, and thank you very much for doing so”, I said with a timid smile on my face. “Okay, I ran into a homeless guy in the alley who tried to get me to punch in the stomach…just like in your blog, Hobo Punch.” I was shocked, because that was one hell of a hobby for a homeless guy, but fuck…he’s got led in his stomach, might as well treat it like an X-man super power. “Get the fuck outta here”. Blain shook his head no smiling, “Yeah man, he tried that same trick on me, I told him, I heard about you and that stomach…there’s led in there, and he smiled like a super villain and walked off”. It sounds like someone was proud that their legend had traveled and Blain, “I’m happy I read your blog, I would’ve never known what was going on with that guy”. That’s right ya’ll, my blog is saving the hands of improvisers, one hobo belly at a time. Thanks Blaine, hearing shit like that is one of the many reasons I write this fucker, and all you naysaying, doubting tomcat fuck snacks out there better believe, my shit is the real dope…uncut, 100% pure (metaphorically speaking, for you Fed heads I’ll be doubly clear, I’m talking about the authenticity and realness of the stories in my blogs), I don’t make this shit up ya’ll. It’s always real talk and a true story.

Now with that being said……..

After the warm ups were over, I had a sidebar with Blaine. I know him from watching the Del Tones(Saturdays in the cabaret@ 8pm) almost every week, religiously in that piece, plus I had to be upstairs for Cupid (Saturdays@10:30pm in the Del Close Theatre and I promise I won’t plug that show again…until I mention it next time) and we’d often cross paths at the bar and spark a torch of conversation. At that time it had been at least a good 7months of my Del Tone routine and he and I had were pretty acquainted enough to do a lil shop commentary.

BLAINE SWEN’S AUDITION PHILOSPHY S.P.PT. 2.5

“When