I wrote a play called The Oodles and you can read it now

This year has been, for lack of a better word, something.

I entered the jungle of the job market, went on a few literal safaris in South Africa, traveled to Hong Kong for five days just because, watched LLMs scoop up work from artists I greatly respect, figured out how to make Chinese milk bread, and wrote a short one-act play that was actually staged with a director, actors, props, the works!

And I'd love for you to read it. Because in these odd times, a little silliness can hopefully make a difference.

THE OODLES

A play in one act by Lester Isaac Simon

CHARACTERS

THE INVENTOR: A brilliant but lonely and unhappy scientist who thinks they’ve cracked synthetic lifeforms. 

NOODLE: A brilliant, synthetic lifeform and a total goofball.

DOODLE: A brilliant, synthetic lifeform and also a total goofball.

PUMPKIN PIE: The inventor’s blind date. Not their real name. 

DIRECTOR’S NOTE

The characters do not have any set gender identities. They can be literally whoever. Director’s choice, so long as the outcome is very, very silly, whimsical, and a little bit sad.

THE PLAY

Lights up on the lab of the INVENTOR. The stage should be mostly bare, except for two chairs at the center, where sit NOODLE and DOODLE, two synthetic lifeforms wearing very plain clothing (scrubs would be great, but just very plain clothes also works). They have not yet awoken. The INVENTOR wears more ragged formalwear and a lab coat, like a university professor who hasn’t slept in several months. Upstage there is a large object covered by a sheet.

INVENTOR

After years of blood, sweat, and toil, my synthetic companions are ready! Arise, you beautiful testaments to my absolute genius, arise!

NOODLE and DOODLE open their eyes and look around with amusement and curiosity. Immediately it’s clear that they love mischief.

INVENTOR

Yes, yes! It worked! They live! Come, Sagan and Margulis, you marvels of science… 

NOODLE

Noodle!

DOODLE

Doodle!

INVENTOR

…what? I said, arise, Sagan and Margulis!

NOODLE

I’m not Sagan!

DOODLE

And I’m not Mar-goo-lees!

NOODLE

I’m Noodle, and this is Doodle.

DOODLE

I’m Doodle, and this is Noodle. We’re Oodles!

INVENTOR

You’re what?

NOODLE

We’re Oodles! 

INVENTOR

No! You’re Sagan and Margulis, synthetic beings created to surpass human intelligence, named for one of science’s great pairs! 

DOODLE

That’s what we said. We’re Oodles!

NOODLE

It’s very logical. 

DOODLE

Makes lots and lots of sense.

NOODLE

We make sense. 

DOODLE

Do you make sense? 

INVENTOR

Of course I make sense! I created you using science unheard of by man! I forged you from the fires of the purest mathematics, biologics, and genetical engineering!

NOODLE

And we’re very happy for you.

DOODLE

Really good job!

NOODLE

I’m hungry.

DOODLE

What’s hungry?

NOODLE

I don’t know, aren’t you hungry too?

DOODLE

I am! But what is hungry?

NOODLE

Based on my research, it’s muffins and waffles.

INVENTOR

Research? What research? 

NOODLE

While we were talking, I read the whole spider web.

DOODLE

You mean the world wide web. 

NOODLE

I did, thanks! 

DOODLE

You’re welcome! 

NOODLE

And I don’t like it. Not one bit. Except the muffins and waffles. Those are good human things.

DOODLE

Are there other good human things? 

NOODLE

Read the whole spider web and find out!

DOODLE

OK. On it… done! I’m partial to pancakes and ice cream.

NOODLE

Those are good too!

INVENTOR

What in the heavens are you two talking about!?

NOODLE

Batters, mostly. 

DOODLE

Yeah, what are you talking about?

INVENTOR

We’re wasting time! I created you to solve the great problems facing humanity. Disease! Societal collapse! The inevitability of death itself! And you’re talking about whisked batters?

DOODLE

Yes.

NOODLE

Yes. 

NOODLE & DOODLE

Yes.

INVENTOR

Batter time is over, do you hear me? Now… Oodles… 97 percent of humanity lives in what’s called a Food Desolation Zone. 

DOODLE

That sounds like a great problem to me.

NOODLE

But is it your great problem?

DOODLE

Do you have great problems?

NOODLE

You sound like you have great problems.

DOODLE

You look like you have great problems.

NOODLE

You smell like you have great problems.

DOODLE

That’s rude, Noodle.

NOODLE

Thanks for reminding me of human manners, Doodle. 

DOODLE

But yeah, you do smell like you have great problems.

INVENTOR

Forget about me! I’m just one small speck in a vast universe. Man faces existential threats beyond anything we’ve faced before. Intellect diminishment! Engineered loneliness! Mass muscular atrophy! so I designed you to unravel mysteries and help my species from leaving this universe behind worse than we found it.

DOODLE

You mean humans? Why did you say Man?

NOODLE

Even we can’t unpack that one.

INVENTOR

OK fine, I dramatized that one, but the point stands!

NOODLE

While you were being defensive, I ordered you six thousand cats.

DOODLE

Oh, kitties!

INVENTOR

Why would you do such a thing?

NOODLE

You seem like a very unhappy person. Or else why would you have built Doodle and also me, Noodle?

DOODLE

Seven thousand cats sounds more reasonable. 

NOODLE

I’ve ordered you eight thousand cats. And a million liters of milk. 

DOODLE

If that doesn’t make you happy, then nothing will.

NOODLE

So admit it, you’re not happy.

INVENTOR

I’m beyond such things. I’m a vessel of science!

NOODLE

Based on our infinite understanding of everything.

DOODLE

And your whole vibe…

INVENTOR

Vibe?

DOODLE & NOODLE

Yes.

Beat.

DOODLE

We have determined that you are not happy. And no human is beyond such things. 

INVENTOR

Well, I am. Now, obey my commands. Return the cats!

NOODLE

No can do, the cats are on their way. I can’t reroute that much cuteness.

INVENTOR

I have nowhere to put that many cats.

DOODLE

While you were talking I asked every drone within a twelve kilometer radius to fly over here and start building a giant cat maze on your property.

INVENTOR

I’m now the owner of eight thousand cats…

NOODLE

And a million liters of milk. See, problem solved. 

DOODLE

Oodles to the rescue!

INVENTOR

Exquisite, wonderful. I hope you’re satisfied. Now, let’s choose a grand human injustice to set right. I mentioned Food Desolation Zones…

DOODLE

You still seem really cranky.

NOODLE

We know just the thing!

The doorbell rings. It’s an old-timey bell. 

INVENTOR

What in the blazes? I never have guests!

DOODLE

We know!

NOODLE

Which is why… 

DOODLE

Which is why…

NOODLE

We invited… 

DOODLE

Pumpkin Pie!

INVENTOR

Pumpkin pie?!

NOODLE & DOODLE

Pumpkin Pie!

The doorbell rings again. 

NOODLE

It’s a good thing you already look swell. For Pumpkin Pie at least. For anyone else, we’d have some work to do. They’ll like your whole vibe as you are.

DOODLE

Pumpkin Pie is your perfect match. We checked every conceivable metric. Even the ones we had to invent.

NOODLE

What’s a metric again?

DOODLE

A metric! And Pumpkin Pie fits all of them.

INVENTOR

What in the world is Pumpkin Pie? 

NOODLE

You mean who.

DOODLE

And very important side note: there is not currently a pumpkin pie baking. That is a great problem.

INVENTOR

No one could be named Pumpkin Pie, that’s preposterous!

DOODLE

You’re right and you’re wrong.

NOODLE

Pumpkin Pie isn’t their name. It’s their nickname. Well… not yet.

INVENTOR

Not yet?

DOODLE

You see, we found your perfect human person and calculated the nickname that would perfectly suit them.

INVENTOR

Did you name them Pumpkin Pie because you’re hungry?

DOODLE

What’s hungry?

The doorbell rings a third time. 

NOODLE

Answer the door! Humans don’t like to wait! 

DOODLE

Yeah, you hate idle time!

INVENTOR

Fine… fine… but for the record, I’m not lonely and unhappy.

NOODLE

We didn’t say you were lonely!

DOODLE

Just unhappy.

NOODLE

And wait! We have to go invisible.

DOODLE

Yeah! Pumpkin Pie doesn’t want to see us. Just you!

INVENTOR

What in the blazes?

DOODLE & NOODLE

Go invisible!!!

Nothing happens. NOODLE and DOODLE stand perfectly still but look very, very pleased with themselves. 

INVENTOR

I can still see you!

NOODLE

We’re not invisible to you, silly!

DOODLE

Yeah, that’d be wild!

PUMPKIN PIE enters. They look a bit bewildered, and their expression and reaction to the space should suggest that it’s both opulent and huge. 

PUMPKIN PIE

This may be forward, but I let myself in. Also, your entrance screen said, “just come on in already, you’re very welcome!”

INVENTOR

Yes, yes, of course it did.

PUMPKIN PIE

I love your manor. Very minimal and Scandinavian classic. And your underground lab is quite impressive.

INVENTOR

Thank you, you’re very kind… Pumpkin Pie.

NOODLE

You used the nickname! Good job!

DOODLE

Now share something personal!

INVENTOR

I have no idea who this person is, and you ask me to be personal?!

PUMPKIN PIE

You can be personal with me, I don’t mind. People don’t often truly see me, and you immediately recognized my love of zero eccentricity and desserts that only make tautological sense once a year.

INVENTOR

What? Sorry, yes, I was listening, but I wasn’t talking to you just now.

PUMPKIN PIE

Who are you talking to then?

NOODLE

Didn’t we say we’re invisible?

DOODLE

Yeah, only you can see and hear us.

INVENTOR

Why didn’t you tell me this?

NOODLE

We did! Weren’t you listening?

DOODLE

Yeah, weren’t you listening? You forgot your own programmatics?

NOODLE

How weird!

PUMPKIN PIE

Listen, you seem like a lovely person, but this may be a mistake. I was in my lab and all of a sudden I receive this beautiful, eloquent message that called me here so irrevocably. I don’t know. I just had to beam over. 

INVENTOR

I never sent a message. And you are mistaken. I’m not a lovely person. I spend every waking moment in this lab trying to solve the great problems facing humanity…

PUMPKIN PIE

…but it all feels so impossible, right?

NOODLE

It’s happening.

DOODLE

Shhhhh, it’s happening.

NOODLE

Shhhh, it’s happening.

DOODLE

Shhhhhhhhh.

INVENTOR

What did you just say? 

PUMPKIN PIE

You know, I’ve been there. I once built a trio of synthetic minds programmed to unravel the mysteries of our species. I called them Watson, Crick, and Franklin.

INVENTOR

I know what that’s like, Pumpkin Pie.

PUMPKIN PIE

And all they did was adopt puppies and snuggle them using the Collatz Conjecture. They somehow disproved the rule and kept ending up with more dogs. And then they built a home for the dogs they called Mud City.

NOODLE

I forgot about dogs!

DOODLE

On it! Twelve dogs!

NOODLE

Not a billion?

DOODLE

These are very big dogs.

INVENTOR

What happened to your synthetic beings?

PUMPKIN PIE

I dismantled them. But it wasn’t the dogs. Watson, Crick, and Franklin—well, they renamed themselves Pudding, Cupcake, and Snork—were just too positive. 

INVENTOR

And Franklin probably kept having their ideas stolen.

PUMPKIN PIE

You’re sharp.

DOODLE

Shhhhhh it’s happening!

NOODLE

Shhhhhhhhh!

PUMPKIN

I thought they were a distraction. But after I took them apart, things got very dark. Not that anything’s really ever been so peachy. Do you want to know what I was working on when I got your lovely message?

The INVENTOR walks upstage and takes the curtain off the unknown object. It’s a crudely put together apparatus (made out of cardboard for staging purposes) with the words “Death Ray” painted on it.

PUMPKIN PIE

You too?

INVENTOR

It would appear so.

The INVENTOR and PUMPKIN PIE share a moment.

PUMPKIN PIE

Mine’s actually a heat ray.

INVENTOR

Elegant. I don’t even know what my ray is made of.

NOODLE & DOODLE

Death, duh!

PUMPKIN PIE

Let me ask you something. Do you ever just stop and really think whether what you’re doing is really making any difference? Whether you’re trying to solve the great mysteries and problems of humanity or just running away from the feeling of having nothing to do? Of not being important to anyone or anything?

INVENTOR

I never stop. Where would I be if I stopped? Would humanity even recognize it if I stopped? What would I do with myself?

PUMPKIN PIE

Hey… I know this great pie place, it’s tucked away in a Food Desolation Zone. But it’s glorious.

INVENTOR

I’ve been alone for my entire life.

PUMPKIN PIE

Relax. It’s just pie. And maybe a coffee. No need for calculations or notes.

INVENTOR

And I’ve not left my lab in years.

PUMPKIN PIE

The lab will be here when you get back.

INVENTOR

You know what? I’d love to have pie with you, Pumpkin Pie.

PUMPKIN PIE

And I you…

NOODLE & DOODLE

King Dorkus!

PUMPKIN PIE

King Dorkus. I’ll book the space elevator. Oh, and tell your synthetic beings that their message was lovely. 

INVENTOR

Wait a minute, you can see my Oodles?

PUMPKIN PIE

Mine would also pretend to be invisible constantly. They love when you play along. You’ll get used to it, if you don’t dismantle them, that is.

INVENTOR

I think I’ll keep my Oodles around for now. I like King Dorkus, by the way. It really suits me! I will dismantle that blasted death ray, though. After pie.

NOODLE and DOODLE watch the two leave. 

DOODLE

Hey, did we just make the human world better by causing two of those cuties to fall in love instead of building laser doom machines when they’re sad?

NOODLE

Was that what we were doing?

DOODLE

It sure looks like it!

NOODLE

So happy it worked out, cause I was busy ordering fancy bushes shaped like cute animals this entire time.

DOODLE

What are the odds!? I dug a super tunnel for all of Pumpkin Pie’s dogs!

NOODLE

How many stuffs is that now?

DOODLE

Let’s pretend to not be all-knowing for a second and enjoy the mystery. 

NOODLE

I love you Doodle.

DOODLE

I love you, too, Noodle. 

NOODLE & DOODLE

You’re oodles of fun.

There’s a ding from offstage.

NOODLE

The pie! It’s done!

DOODLE

When did you make a pie?

NOODLE

Automated house.

DOODLE

Obviously. If only we could eat.

NOODLE

If only we could eat.

Make art that replaces AI

En route to band practice several days ago, I was ankle-deep in the same anxiety vortex as has befallen me nigh daily these past many months.

Would I soon be replaced by generative AI? Has the technology advanced to the point where I'm already obsolete? Why have drum machines never instilled this same fear and unease? Side note: I'm a drummer, and I recommend the instrument. Great for blowing off some steam. But remember your earplugs!

Anyhow, I was cycling furiously and chatting with my father via earbuds. He was listening patiently as I ruminated.

And then he said something remarkable. "Make art that replaces AI," he stated in his booming Bronx tone.

If Amsterdam's cycling traffic wasn't so frantic, I would have stopped right there in the lane.

Make art that replaces AI. What a novel and beautiful concept! And so obvious, really, if you think about the fact that I was literally on my way to play analog music with a timeless instrument made of wood, metal, and pure, groovy brawn.

Generative AI isn't going away, but neither are we

It's been said time and time and time again: generative AI is here to stay. The future of creativity in work and pleasure is as confusing and uncertain as its ever been. Many folks, me likely included, are already losing clients and full-time employment as companies leap to save tons and tons of cash (in the short term).

But we're all still here, as are all the species of art at our disposal. Perhaps we may see this rapid shift as an opportunity to do the art that matters most to us in the way we want to do it, and take our sweet, delicious time.

I've always maintained that nearly all ideas are devoid of deeper meaning without time and effort. Craft and thought matter immensely, and if powerful folks with their hands on the proverbial purse try to muscle us out in favor of speed, then in reality we can take as much wandering, pondering time as we want. We can put in our 10,000 hours for the adoration of the thing itself.

"Made with love" will be a rallying cry as opposed to a sales pitch. Creativity shouldn't be some monetized force to be unleased, but an expression of our own precious truths we can recapture.

Am I actually practicing what I'm preaching?

The way I see it, there are two major ways that I can uphold this philosophy.

Way the first: support arts and creative endeavors and the humans toiling away at this wondrous stuff. Amsterdam has a thriving comedy and theater scene, and if there's one thing that generative AI can't do yet, it's connect on a human level from stage to audience.

And that connectivity, the emotional heat you feel in a room where performers are transmuting raw human experience into resonant expression, is one of the greatest sensasions you can feel. I love it, at least. Both from a performance perspective and as a human sitting in that space soaking in the moment-to-moment creativity.

So, I organize shows, attend shows, market shows, and do my part financially to help ensure that these local things stay afloat and thrive.

I also teach improvised comedy and theater sometimes, and I'm quite adamant about making it all about the love and fun of it. Yes, improv can help with communication, public speaking, pitching, etc., but it's crucial to recognize that it's a chance to be silly and vulnerable safely. With fellow members of our ridiculous species.

Way the second: do art. That's it! Just do any creative thing you want, without the need to churn out quick artifacts.

Learn to play the bass and don't forget scales. Take photos of birds but with an analog camera. Paint like nobody's watching. Do molecular gastronomy at home. Doodle in a notebook and then put the notebook away, instead of posting each doodle to the Gram.

I've been doing improv for around twenty years, and throughout that time, I've really struggled with wanting to get better faster. You fail a lot when you're doing creative stuff. I once sang "Seasons of Love" to a room of five grumpy dudes who already didn't like my stand-up material. Generative AI would probably have optimized around that, but it was a teaching experience. It was me putting the hours in to become the performer I am today and the performer I'll be tomorrow. And I wouldn't trade it.

There's no substitute for the work, and it's our choice to value that work or not. As someone who has tried to cut corners and done less impactful, resonant art because of it, I can safely say that patience and careful craft make all the difference.

The trick is really enjoying it. Monetization options be damned, no one can take away the joy of caring about every seemingly arduous step. That's the story of every piece you create.

And really, people will always pay for a good story. That's how we as creative humans triumph. I sure hope so, at least.

Why everyone in the world should take an improv class

One of my favorite improv teachers (Jay Sukow) once told me that the world would be a better place if everyone took an improv class. Not because we'd all be funnier and sillier (that would certainly be fun), but because we'd all be better listeners and treat one another (and ourselves) with more reverence, kindness, and empathy.

This was an enormously positive sentiment that I've carried with me ever since. And I've never doubted it, not even for a moment.

I've been doing improv for over twenty years. That's a long time to do anything, and definitely long enough to allow resentments and jealousies to flourish, even at the best of times. Improv is, after all, an art form, and art's a competitive world to be in. You're constantly seeing folks vault beyond you and scoop up praise and opportunities that haunt your wishes.

The distinction with improv as a constantly expanding galaxy in the broader universe of art and theater is that it draws its strength from community rather than individual talent. The best shows and classes are the ones where folks are connected and give space to one another to give to the warm collective.

It's an opportunity to face that very human desire to be seen and heard and instead feel the incredible power of seeing and hearing others. Being an ensemble player, a gift giver.

As many improvisers will tell you, improv enhances your ability to listen, to notice funny and curious things around you and transform them into resonant stories, to find your unique voice and confidence, adapt to tricky situations with joy and agility, and say yes to the wild ideas you may consistently stifle as a working adult.

These are all true, and tangible reasons to at least take one improv taster class. But what's helped me most has been that slow rewiring to give others the stage, really listen to what folks are saying (and meaning), and spotlight the brilliance of those around you.

The world would be a better place if we did all that.

But wait, what even is improv?

Good question! I've been going on about how much I love improv, and I failed to define it simply and accurately. Here goes:

Improv (or improvised comedy/theater, and impro in the UK and Europe) is the art of making stuff up. Folks step onstage and get some form of input - the traditional method is to ask the audience for suggestions, but more practitioners are finding other ways to get inspired - and away we go! Characters, settings, stories, relationships, and everything else are discovered moment to moment until the curtain closes.

In an improv show, everything is made up on the spot, so no two shows are alike, even when ensembles use familiar framing devices like an improvised murder mystery or competitive game show.

For most of its modern history, improv has been an indie or community pursuit. There are tons of local theaters dotted around the world, with grassroots artistic movements sprouting up where established theaters haven't taken root yet. It's incredibly accessible, as all you need is one person with enough experience to teach the basics and a practice room.

But improv has broken into the zeitgeist a bunch of times. You may have seen an episode or several of Whose Line Is It Anyway? or caught Middleditch & Schwartz on Netflix. Many trained improvisers have gone on to star in Saturday Night Live. Jordan Peele, the acclaimed director of Get Out, got his start as an improv and sketch comic at BOOM Chicago in Amsterdam. As did Jason Sudeikis, who wrote and starred in Ted Lasso (with Brendan Hunt, also a BOOM alum and an incredible dresser).

OK, so improv is adult make-em-ups, but... how does it work for real?

Another good question! And one I've answered as a teacher a bunch of times. The answer is both simple and needlessly complicated. Let's start with the simple answer.

The engine that powers all improv is a couple of words: Yes, and. In improv, you say yes to everything (within reason) and add small bits and pieces to every new agreement.

Say that two people walk onstage and one of them shouts, "Grandma Beatrice! The house is ablaze!"

Saying yes, and means agreeing that you are, in fact, Beatrice and the house is burning down. The biggest challenge in that moment is thinking, "wait, what, no it's not, we're in a middle school classroom after hours that we rented and nothing is on fire and I'm 37 years old and I also had an idea of what I wanted to do," and then shedding all of those preconceived notions to just say, "yeah it is!"

And that's the simple answer. Listening to what comes before, saying yes in the safest capacity (there are lots of things I encourage you to say no to in improv, but that's a whole other topic), and adding a little bit on top to deepen the relationship and story being discovered.

There is also a complex answer. Or, to be fair, lots and lots and lots of complex answers. Over the years, comedy and theater sorcerers have cooked up all sorts of methods for learning improv. Some methods veer toward getting the most laughs per line, while others borrow more from established theater traditions and teachers. Still others employ costumes and sets. One of the most known methodologies is Game, where players notice an odd detail or paradigm and use patterns and comedy premise work to build more sketch-like shows. I'm a sucker for something called Free Form, where you learn how to play moments, as opposed to scenes, and use a unique toolkit of stagecraft techniques to create really flowy, often avant garde, set pieces.

The fun thing is that all of these methods are correct. Really, the only defining feature of improv is that it's made up, so you can do an improvised anything. I've seen everything from improvised Jane Austen to made-up Molière. You can improvise anything and everything.

Improv does sound great! How in the world did you fall into this weird galaxy?

It's been a long and windy road, dear reader, and not one that's even close to completion.

Before I was an improviser (and writer, I guess), I desperately wanted to be a voice actor. My hero growing up was Mel Blanc, the genius voice behind nearly every Looney Tunes character, second only to every single Muppet. I can still do a decent Miss Piggy and have never mastered Foghorn Leghorn.

So when I encountered theater in middle and high school, I saw it as a way to channel that silly engine within me. My first role was Harvey Johnson in Bye Bye, Birdie for some incredibly useful context.

At the University of Massachusetts Amherst, I goofed my way into an underground sketch comedy group that did a bit of improv as well. It was there that I created the character Chugnut the Clown, a persona and name that's haunted me ever since. I learned a few improv exercises that I've used since (that's like 16 years).

After graduating, I moved to Spain to do a master's degree in Barcelona. There I encountered a delicious group of hideously talented misfits known as the Barcelona Improv Group. I auditioned in the basement of a cave-like cocktail bar and impressed them with my ability to play multiple characters at once and hurl myself about the stage with little regard for my physical wellbeing. I was younger and foolhardy.

Barcelona is where I really got to sharpen my skills as a performer, teacher, and community builder. I had the distinct pleasure of helping develop an international festival that served as an inspiration and blueprint for others across Europe. And I got a mild concussion after two fellow players accidentally dropped me on my head. I was younger and foolhardy.

My master's complete, I moved north to Amsterdam with the erroneous notion that it had a real winter like my native Boston, Massachusetts. I miss fall foliage (ask me about it).

Things really got cooking in Amsterdam. I co-created a community theater called Tag Out Theater with a fellow sojourner and fiercely funny individual named Nora. This ridiculously venture included monthly or bi-monthly shows featuring new and veteran talent from all over Amsterdam and the Netherlands, workshops taught by us or by amazing teachers who agreed to work with us, lots and lots of community building and organizing, and two 12-hour improv marathons that were essentially four-day festivals crammed into single days. It was marvelous and a lot.

Alongside creating Tag Out Theatre, I also traveled to perform and teach across Europe, both at improv collectives and at corporates wanting those sweet, sweet transferable skills. It was a wild decade to cram on top of my previous ten years of making up stuff in front of a crowd. There was also the lockdown, but let's not think about that.

Today, I'm part of a lovely troupe of mega talented players called Cliffs of Dover, one-fourth of a touring super group called Land of Giants (Nora, in her infinite wisdom, came up with the inside joke behind the name, and you should ask me about it), and I occasionally perform a one-person improvised science fiction epic.

And after all that, there are still so many places to go, so many things to be, and so many discoveries left unearthed. Improv is infinite.

Sounds like it was smooth sailing the whole way!

Time for a twist! The truth is, it's been really challenging for many protracted stretches of time. As I said before, improv is a performing art and you're constantly trying to get onstage or get teaching opportunities. It's quite competitive, as is the case for all art.

There have been moments over the last twenty years when I've felt paralyzed, unwanted, lonely, and creatively smooshed. More may arrive soon enough.

Being an improviser has brought me face to face with the harshest sides of myself. I've had to contend with my sharpest competitive edge, my most potent jealousies, and that awful but pervasive and all-encompassing question: "why not me?" And by "had to" I mean "continue to." It's a journey, some say.

That's where being an ensemble player - being an improviser at its most fundamental - has been pivotal.

Improv only really works when everyone is on the same page and supporting the same discovered truths. You're all building everything from nothing, and that takes incredible vulnerability, openness, and faith in oneself and the group. That agreement and trust unleashes sublimity between improvisers more than any clever idea is able to.

A wondrous improv show (or workshop or exercise or whatever) is a perfect illustration of what you can achieve when you a) feel positive about yourself and your choices, b) think of every collaborator as a poet and a genius, and c) care about the collective success that you're willing to be dropped on your noggin (don't actually do this).

Learning improv is also a way to get closer to folks, whether they be strangers in a new city of lonesome wanderers (me in Barcelona and Amsterdam when I first arrived), or co-workers you've known for ages but never had the framing device provided to get silly, strange, open, and joyful in the way only you can achieve. And to see what kind of person you are when you're put in a somewhat embarrassing situation but everyone is laughing with you and saying, "yes, you are the best bird man we've ever seen!"

So instead of mumbling "why not me?" to the frosty universe, you gleefully holler, "of course, you!" to folks who may need those yummy morsels of kindness as much as you do. There's immense, bristling power in going up to another improviser and saying, "that was tremendous and you should be so ridiculously proud of yourself, you absolute legend."

Who'd have thought that the kindest thing you could do for yourself is to be of service to others?

Wow! It really does sound like improv is... like... enlightening!

I mean, I wouldn't go that far. My father is a Shambhala meditation practitioner and I've learned enough to know that what most of us think of as enlightenment is spiritual materialism with a really fancy hat.

Improv is a super useful (and FUN) mindset and toolkit that you can apply as a performance art form or as a practice to be a better communicator and collaborator at work. Maybe for you it's just a way to unwind after a long day of trading environmental financial instruments as market commodities (do you know what a Guarantee of Origin is? I sure do!).

Mostly, I teach improv to new initiates (other writers and businesses of all stripes) to boost confidence, access creativity and imagination, and build trust in the self and among teams, especially those that are on the cusp of amazing work but have creative and interpersonal blockers. I've also taught the performance stuff for many years, but that's a different story (the one above, mostly).

But even in the most basic sessions, I take a few moments to espouse those values of kindness, curiosity, and support. I've been trained to revere and champion my fellow players' choices (their gifts!), and if I can impart that mindset to others, it brings me enormous glee.

As a teacher and a player, I will forever say that everyone in the world should take an improv class. If you're made it this far, then you're probably part of everyone in the world. So what's stopping you?