Chapter 1

It is my goal to write the worst book of all time.  I will begin here.  Brace yourself for a shit spectacle of paranormal proportions that will beset this blog.

This is for all the Rebecca Blacks, Stephenie Meyers, and George Lucases out there.  You guys suck.  Now here's my pile of shit.  Go on; read your hearts out.

1. Opening Image:
A battered tanned ball rips across a bloodied orange sky with a scream of unholy vengeance, like an 80s hair singer's opening crescendo for a stadium splitting rock melody, ripping through the air to meet it .  The worn orb is a baseball adorned w/several extravagant, but fading inked autographs.  The scream that reeks of thrash metal advertises from the the pitch guts of an obese armed blind worm(or some odd creature that could somehow be tied to baseball)

While soaring through the deep pumpkin colored sky the ball's trail becomes a rowdy echo of the hearty wooden crack which propelled it from the bat that smashed it skyward. 
As the ball nears the gargantuan freakish worm the signatures of Baseball legends past glow gold in the already amber air, and ignite the ball into a cataclysm of hobbied wrath. 
The baseball tears through the maw of the wurm exploding into a miniature supernova of fiery light.  

The batter, surprised at the power of this simple toy, stands mouth agape for a moment.

But, through the small cloud of ash that falls from where the demon was previously airborne he sees 30 more creatures that are the same rotten pallor, but in different likenesses beginning an advance toward him.

<Battle description> 

Trophy falls to one knee and his forehead comes to rest on the butt off his wooden falchion.  As he eyes the dirt beneath him, and struggles for air Trophy's garb turns back into the lame street wear he's considered cool punk fashion. 

"I'm so fucking awesome with this bat...", Trophy smugly whispers through a pleasant smile to himself. And shrugs into an exhausted slump; collapsing onto the corpse of  a lanky demon.  Looking forward Trophy sees the battlefield of his hometown: Empty, orange, and ravaged.  Trophy's thoughts counter to the figure of a woman fleeced of pretense.  The figure walks toward Trophy and stops just short of his reach.
"Alaska?", is Trophy's only muttering before his fatigued eyelids betray him.  The streets of Boston become darkness as Trophy's eyes close into sleep. 

*  *  *

2. Theme Stated
Love Song plays on the radio of a completely average sedan

The answer is not 42.

Any normal Friday in Westwood.  UCLA students fill the streetside restaurants, and line up outside the local ice cream and cookie shop where you get sweet treats on the sly cheap.  One street over from Diddy Riese, across a small pay lot, and through a unmaked black door there I am.  I prepare to leap into my first scene of the the night before a packed out house of 20ish-ers  With one of my closest allies next to me, he's Beast and I'm a grown man with the name of a half-Japanese teenage girl.  Together we are willingly made slave subjects to: The Improv X-ecution. 


This weekend I had the venerable joy of surviving my first Improv X-ecution match; an event almost three years in the making.  I remember first stepping into what was still "Ultimate Improv" back in '08 to watch my roommate in his X-ecution.  Next door to the UCLA In - N - Out I'd see the contestants warming up in the parking lot.  Usually in a circle.  Usually doing something resembling a focus exercise.

It was my second time auditioning that landed me in a position where I am actually performing in this charade.  The first time around I remember getting my acceptance call from J.D. while at the "Dude Ranch", my old apartment and the one adjacent to it.  I ducked into John and Sean's bathroom in order to avoid the noise from the living room.  That same spring/summer I ended up going to Miami w/Powerchord Academy and  had to resign from the X-ecution before it even began. 

But now, after seeing Ryan, Mauricio, and Nick do very well for themselves in this competition I now take on the mantle. I represent iO, Shirts on Shirts, and Monkey Butler.  And also myself. 

I have found through practical introspective, and thoughtful amateur self psychoanalysis that I am a person who finds much worth in what I do.  That working is actually a motivator for happiness.  Even moreso working where I am able to fire the cannons of my specific skill set like mad.  One would say I have found self worth, and meaning in my work.

However, lately I've been finding that the answer to the question of the meaning of life is closer to group mind, and zip zap zop than one's career, or even numerical justification(thanks Douglas Adams).  Improv connects people to each other.  Emphasizes agreement, and positivity over pointless conflict.  Focus on eye contact over looking out at a void of nothingness.  So few people at work actually look each other in the eyes.  The corporate hoards that rarely smile usually surmount to fear vs. Love... and who's winning? 

I'm very blessed to be able to get up on a stage w/a diminishing group of people every week, perform, and get cut into about my work.  Thank you if you saw the first round, and thank you if you'll be out anytime until my death.

Improv X-ecution: Friday 8:00PM, The Improv Space, Westwood, CA