Sam Adams Couldn't Save Improv

The challenge with introducing culture to one's life is the too often chance that culture can be stupid. High culture, like art museums, high budget plays at established theaters, concerts with musicians in tuxedos, is generally a safe bet, but we've all visited these cocoons of theoretical criticism and snobbery. My concern here is working-class culture, not alternative theater with pierced nubiles dangling from hooks while reciting free-form poetry, but work intended to reach a wider audience, mainstream entertainment as an alternative to TV and movies. Slight culture, but safe.

Portland provides myriad venues for such pseudo-culture, and Amber and I attended one such event on Saturday night. I'm sure there are more exciting things to do in a city on a Saturday night than visit a newborn stage and its sketch/improv cast, but hey, it was free and we are cheap.

We started the night at Old Town Pizza, which oddly, is not in Old Town; The original Old Town Pizza truly is in Old Town, but we were on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard east of the river. This Old Town Pizza, an extension of the original, was merely decked out in faux-old town style: wood beams, copper fixtures with a slight patina, and a dark atmosphere despite the crisp construction of a nearly brand-new building. Dinner was fine, eating at the bar, accidentally stealing lemonade, fearing a drunk woman celebrating her 30th birthday. Oh, we had rosemary chicken and garlic pizza, and I sampled a Caldera Pale Ale with a bit of a bite. Just a few doors down stood the Curious Comedy Theater, our night's main attraction.

The Portland Area Theater Alliance (yes, they have established an alliance fearing they would be booted out of Portland by the Braindead Conglomerate during the highly elaborate voting ceremony) joined forces with other national theater groups for free nights of theater to entice viewers out of their homes and away from their television sets. It worked on us and, judging by the audience, several others, as well. Unknowingly, we attended both the free performance and the pay performance. We didn't know they were having two shows in one night, but I'm glad we attended both. The adage, "You get what you pay for" seems more than applicable in this case.

"Will Work for Change," a minimalist sketch comedy performance with a smidgen of improvisation, made me laugh more than a few times. Most of the sketches were well-written and well-performed. The troupe criticized Portland cyclists, made light of medical marijuana, skirted subtly ironic turns of phrase, and twisted the 700 billion dollar Wall Street bailout into a PTA sketch. Some sketches fell flat, but overall, the show was solid and the performance strong. I especially appreciated the human-size cigarette brandishing its middle-fingers. Once the "Change" troupe left the stage, however, the show fell apart.

The concept seems intriguing, but clearly reveals a number of pitfalls only the strongest performers could avoid and overcome. "Sam Adams, Sam Adams, Mayor Ex Machina" is an entirely improvised musical. Yeah, improvised musical. Combine the challenges of acting, improv, and lyric writing, fold in the fickle, comedic tastes of a mixed audience and BRACE YOURSELF FOR DISASTER. What the hell are you thinking? Short sketch improv is hard enough; making jokes in character without always referring to your screw-ups or retreating to some static character that more-often-than-not draws a chuckle from the audience is hard. I tried improv in high school acting class and sucked; I wasn't funny. I wasn't even interesting. Why make it even harder by incorporating song while trying to develop a story line for a play? Are you starting to see the pitfalls I mentioned earlier?

At the start of the play, an actor asked, "What's the motivating factor in your life?" Some jackass with too much time on his retired hands shouted out, "Anger." Meditate or something, man. Let it go. I'm sure everyone's forgotten about that baseball game you blew back in second grade and your dad really did love you. You're not the reason he drank. I have the number of a good therapist to work through all of this. From here on out, we both feared the worst; this was going to be ugly. Anger shouldn't drive anything but a Tarantino film.

It just so happens, the displaced mayor of Portland finds secret passages throughout the city and tries to exact his revenge by planting explosive charges in his personal, underground sidewalk and sink the town into the open mouth of Hell. Why not? We've had politicians with similar plans. The plot, further thickened by an age reducing facial cream and subsequent addiction to said cream, stumbled around for an hour with poorly constructed songs about pee in a cup, going down, down, down, and selling out to L'Oreal. Someone's face melted off; I thought it was the mayor, but it was one guy playing two roles. Sounds great! This bleeding and flailing raccoon of a play was finally smacked in the head with a shovel by Sam Adams and sent to God's wilderness preserve. The new mayor, Sam Adams, magically had a time machine and liked to eat bombs for breakfast. Way to wrap it up. Bravo! Huh? Even though it was free, I paid with something more precious than money. Part of me died.

I can appreciate improv actors stumbling through lines, or forgetting character names when an entire hour-long performance is made up on the fly, but when songs don't rhyme or follow any beat, that's just too much. Call off the song, shut down the Casio, and write a god-damned script. It can't be any harder than making up this crap.

I actually feel bad writing this. They tried hard; they really did and I appreciate that. I couldn't get up there and prance around, making up lyrics as I go, but neither could they. And that's my point. The entire concept of an improvised musical is absolutely ridiculous. Perhaps, it's the ridiculous to which I cannot relate. Things did not make sense in Monty Python, but John Cleese was funny and everything worked out fine. Maybe the stars weren't aligned on October 25th for the Curious Comedy Theater, or maybe I can't stand poor performances; I don't know, but I wouldn't hire this pack of Whose Line Is It, Anyway hacks for to clean Port-A-Potties.

Hollywood! Hollywood! Come and get me, Hollywood!

Not just another neighborhood, the Hollywood district promises glitz and magic fro its namesake alone. Imagine, a slice of the stars in fashionable Portland. Well, keep imagining. Other than a handful of mildly intriguing shops, with similar fare to our old Northampton, Hollywood is a lack-luster doppelganger to its internationally known overlord in California.


Behold, the grand Hollywood Theater! The roaring 20's era theater inspired the neighborhoods agnomen with its opening on July 17th, 1926 with the silent movie, "More Pay-Less Work". It stands as a still-working theater with close ties to the community, offering programs to students interested in created documentaries. The local theater focuses on low-budget films for the intelligently arrogant socially concerned set, with documentaries and political flicks speaking out against the world's crimes. The costs are low ($6.50 for adults) and the building is honestly striking. The blazing red and white HOLLYWOOD hangs into the street and is visible from several blocks, while the detailed and intricate Art-Nouveau spires draw in your visual interest.

It is gorgeous and anchors the neighborhood with a clear connection to its early 20th century roots, both celebrated and embarrassing.


The Hollywood District, touted as a shopping haven for northern neighborhoods, boasts several antique stores (like the one to the left, an antique mall, if you will). We visited three, and I would argue the 42 Station is the weirdest and has the strongest odor of old people possible outside a retirement home. The entire stock seems to be on consignment, with an awe-strikingly-large collection of periodicals in the basement and some of the strangest crap you can't imagine. They had furniture, records, toys, lunch boxes, and way more garbage than is worth remembering. However, one, note-worthy item was a cookie-jar, a la Tom & Jerry's housemaid, an Aunt Jemima, black-face minstrel in patchwork dress and cotton bonnet. I can't imagine I would have noticed. It seems innocent enough, an insultingly racist cookie jar from the 40's sold in a junk shop by an elderly couple and their lab Harley, but the history of Portland hints at a less-than-open minded past, one at odds with the city's progressive reputation.

As late as the 1950's, a restaurant touted the city's ignorant and latent racism, The Coon Chicken Inn. Popular for twenty years, the Inn offered reportedly good meals, cheap, and drew in most of the city. It's hard to stand here, now, fifty-odd years later and condemn a city for what was socially acceptable. It's not even like I actually care; I'm not the type. I'm just a little surprised, is all.

Hopefully each weekend, Amber and I will explore another section or neighborhood of Portland. We have our eyes set on the Alberta Arts District for next weekend.

Will Work for Sanity

Life has rolled into the mundane. Amber's begun her second week at Providence and leaves very early in the morning, waking me, I think, out of spite and general forlorn remorse of having to beat the dawn to work. I envy her for having the duties and responsibilities of work, not the alarm clock. Anyway, each day boils down to much the same for me.

I get up and begrudgingly eat a protein empty breakfast before settling down in the diffused and weak light to search the Internet for employment. I'm still on the job hunt and dedicate several hours to finding a suitable position. I average nearly a dozen applications per day in the first half of the week, with a steep drop off around Thursday. I dutifully call prospective employers and often hear the same response: "The position is still open and we're still accepting applications. Call in about a week, OK?" It's not really OK. How about you give me the job and we sort everything out while you pay me, OK?

The market here is pretty dry; unemployment is up and fall is quickly revealing its raw pressure. The days aren't as long and the highs aren't as high. I won't complain about the heat until next summer. However, that means Halloween is just around the corner, quickly pursued by the formal holidays, Thanksgiving and Christmas, and the long stretch of winter every Oregonian tries to warn me about when they discover I'm new. We'll see how the rain suits me.