These hands were made to heal
Imagine the first blizzard of the year, a city choked in snow, a night filled with cars spinning lazy 540’s through crowded intersections. Now imagine choosing to spend such a treacherous evening driving to Potawatomi Casino to check out Drew Carey and the Improv All-Stars at the lovely Northern Lights Theater. What follows, dear readers, is the absolutely true account of just such an evening. Accompanying me on this recent laugh-o-licious night out was the editor of this fine monthly, Jon Anne Willow. It’s a story filled with raunchy comedy, unembarrassed laughter, and poor driving conditions. And, unsurprisingly, it’s also a story that involves me touching a strange man’s thighs.
After braving the elements and arriving in one piece, Jon Anne and I are ushered to our sweet-as-hell front booth seats complete with panoramic view of the stage and proximity that allows us to count the pores on Drew Carey’s face. The strains of an electric piano and drum machine signal that either we’ve time-warped to a 1987 L.A. comedy club or that the show is about to begin. The cast includes Drew Carey, Kathy Kinney and Greg Proops, whose thighs I will soon be softly caressing. The show is done in the style of “Whose Line Is It Anyway?” and proves to be unabashedly funny: a 90-minute, completely improvised high-wire act that’s both hilarious and a wee bit nerve-wracking. Among the highlights: a mock Jeopardy episode (a crowd member suggests the answer “Strawberries,” to which comedian Jeff Davis replies, “What’s between a scarecrow’s legs?”), a ridiculous soul ballad improvised around the life of a rather repulsed-looking audience member (in fairness, if I was a 25-year-old mother of four married to a guy with a job at the phone company, I might lose my sense of humor, too), a few completely non-sequitur lines (“These hands were made for healing!”), and plenty of gags involving George W. Bush and Dick Cheney spooning. Jon Anne and I are laughing like idiots and eating up every second. At one point we turn to each other and shake hands. This is good.
I snap out of it and realize that not only has the game begun, but that I’ve heard almost none of the instructions. I’m standing directly behind Greg Proops while across the stage another audience member stands behind Drew Carey. Then I remember; we’re supposed to move their bodies while they talk. After a few arm movements here and there, it becomes apparent we’re going to have to make the two comedians walk over and meet each other. I tap Proops’ right leg: he takes a half step. I tap his left leg: he takes another half step. Realizing just how long and unfunny this could be, I take a deep breath and simply cup his thighs in my hands and make him walk at a steady clip. My brush with fame reaches dizzying new heights; I finish it all off with by affecting a Carey-Proops hug that gets big laughs from audience and performers alike. The electric piano and drum machine roar to life and the crowd is applauding – my time is suddenly up. Before I leave the stage, however, I manage to hijack the microphone and do a killer 10-minute bit on airline food, Viagra, and the wacky differences between men and women. (Okay, not really.)
The rest of the night in time lapse: getting busted taking pictures in the casino, being dropped off at the Cactus Club, talking to a girl named after a Greek goddess, cutting my hand and bleeding all over my guitar. After the show, with no room left in any vehicles, I’m forced to ride in the back of our bass player’s pickup truck, exposed to the glacial December air. Lying down alongside snare drums and guitar amps, Les Pauls and Telecasters, I watch my breath as it clouds the latticework of stars spotting the sky, everything spinning like a wheel when we turn a corner. Soon I begin to float above the pickup like a ghost, weightless and transparent, gaining speed now, the lights from the city disappearing in a snap-zoom. With no one there to confirm, no one to pull me down and check the facts, I can only give you my word that yes, it really did happen. VS
