Spoke with an old chum, Larry, last night. Back in the early 80s, we worked together at the
L.A. Connection Theater. Improvisational comedy was the venue. Based on audience suggestions, actors would preform a scene that was hopefully either funny or brief. Scenes ended when the light guy blacked out the house, again, hopefully, on a laugh line. Rehearsals were on Tuesday nights out in Sherman Oaks. As the cast was hard-drinking even by acting standards, our breaks included a stop down the block at Tony's Liquors for beef jerky, Marlboro cigarettes, quart bottles of Budweiser and Auto Club Cocktails - mixed drinks in a small can. (The second half of rehearsal tended to be more raucous than the first, degenerating into bawdy suggestions and cat-calls that prepared us well for our audiences.)
Belonging to the L.A. Connection was money-out-of-pocket for "dues." Most of us were earning little or no dough, living in Hollywood and Silver Lake. We hung out between shows, talked about this show biz job or that show biz opportunity, and kept on struggling and complaining about the director and paying dues and how the dues were spent.
Eventually, Larry, myself and six or seven others coagulated in a cast that performed Friday nights from 1982 to 1984. Some evenings we sold out. Other nights we played for a half-dozen people. You worked with tension. Audience expectations were generous as they saw improv comedy as high wire walking without a net. Nevertheless, they did expect something. Full house or no, the goal was to get laughs. That's what made performing so sweet - bombing sucked the life out of cast and audience. Nailing a scene on a blackout line to big laughs and applause pumped the actors higher than Ozzy Osbourne in his prime.
(I would give examples but trying to describe old improv sketches is like trying to relate a sexual experience - words fail the deed.)
After the shows, we'd head over to someones house to beer-up and watch
SCTV, or over to a local bar, the Chimney Sweep, where a pretty, blonde Canadian waitress served us all the alcohol we could pay for. ('So hey, would you like a
chuter with that beer.')
In time, we drifted off to this and that. Back then we were in our mid-20s to early 30s. Now we're all solidly middle-aged.
Larry has been working for a casting director for almost 20 years.
Tina lives out in Arizona, doing something New Age.
Ken Segall writes animation and fed me my last few scripts for an MGM show.
Autumn teaches acting in Orange County.
Ken B. runs a dive company, taking people out to the waters around Catalina.
Elaine trains dogs, sometimes for the movies.
Bob produces segments for History and Discovery channel shows. As far as I know, he was the last to perform on-stage, appearing in a one-man show in 2007.
No one knows what happened to Darrell.
As we were drifting out, a new cast was drifting in, including
Marc Drotman,
Mitch Watson, and some young punk named
Rugg.
From an experience that seemed rather cheap and low-rent, many good things emerged. I still hang with Ken Segall who was best man at my wedding. I met
M.D. Sweeney and
Sherri Stoner and, through them, went on to work at
Acme Comedy Theatre and Warner TV animation. Bob and I acted together at Acme and stay in touch. Rugg is a horrible pain-in-the-ass that I can't seem to shake.
And the L.A. Connection rolls on. I still meet young actors and writers who have gone through the Connection, bitching about the organization and the director. Hopefully, they'll keep a few fellow cast members in their lives. At best, they'll have a lot of laughs.
I mostly remember the laughs.
And the stinking dues!!! Did I tell you about the sign party? We were trying to raise money for a sign this one time, see? And instead . . . .
In La Cañada last week, a huge car carrier lost its brakes and crashed through an intersection, squashing cars and passengers, finally halting inside a charming little book store that my wife and I used to frequent. Vehicles crumpled like pop cans, two dead, a dozen injured and three shops destroyed or damaged. 
