The past two Fridays have been great.  They have been reflections of one another, opposites almost, but the days have been productive, and I’ve felt more of a person.  There has been a sense of belonging.  Last Friday, I was still riding on the excitement from our Funny Bone improv show, and it was that time of the month to perform our regular Bank Show.  Things were going extremely well, and I felt as if I was on a great path to perfecting whatever talents that I have been showcasing (writing, improv, personal ventures).  Yesterday, my Friday was plagued with confusion, fearing the unknown and What If’s, and I’ve been holding on to dear life as friends grabbed my ankle just before I fell down a crater with an infinite depth. As a string of them–one grabbing my ankle while the rest grab onto each other–form a rope of (hope) people; the last person, of course, is holding on to some immovable facet.

It’s good to know these people, these individuals I have confidence in that I can trust.  From them, I have met other people, who display similar qualities; granted, I still don’t know them as well.

My college roommate rode out with a couple of his buddies to Rochester to watch some golf.  Bill booked a hotel room in Syracuse weeks before, so he could come to my improv show that night.  Whenever friends come watch improv for the first time, I get more nervous than usual.  It’s not stage fright, but I am nervous about what they will think of the show.  If you are not used/familiar with improv, you’ll be surprised, and Bill acknowledged this surprise.  We do short form improv similar to Whose Line is it Anyway? on occasion, but not often.  We do bits of long form, which most people are unfamiliar with.  We want to create a play for you off the top of our heads then and there.  We don’t do stand-up, but we will guarantee something will be funny, and these funny moments will not be on purpose.

After the show, I helped Bill pick his jaw off of the ground and fasten it in place.  He ended up sitting with my parents, who have attended every show (yes, more reasons why they are awesome), who were incredibly happy to see him.  (The last time the three of them have been in the same room has been 2005.)  After the show, he met the incredible individuals who I in cahoots with.  It’s good to have these two seemingly separate parts of my life combine.

To show him the Downtown Syracuse scene, we ventured to the watering holes that are Empire Brewing Company, Al’s, and The Blue Tusk.  Not a bad trio of venues.  He highly enjoyed the bars, which probably sold him on coming back.  Unfortunately, depending on my ventures, this may or may not happen soon.  At the Blue Tusk we came across a trio of Canadians, who preferred to speak in French.  The three of them were speaking with Bill’s friend, Shaun, was speaking to the three and two other guys were in the company’s area as well.  These two other American guys displayed a few qualities which give Americans (and guys in general) a bad reputation.

• Visibly dunk
• They would talk to the women, get quiet, and then talk to themselves
• (Please refer to the previous bullet)
• (Please refer to the second bullet again)
• The guy standing up ventured off repetitively, leaving his (sitting) friend, and would come back
• The sitting guy spilled his beer down the front of him
• The sitting guy spilled his beer down the front of him a second time.  The glass tipped towards his person, and the beer just flowed

Brett, Bill, and I walked over to the table to join in, and the two other guys hovered around the table and did not say a word.  The two finally left, but it was awkward.  So, as normal people would do, we talked about them after they left.  The one Shaun was talking to understood and spoke English well.  The one to the left, knew English, but preferred to speak in French.  The middle Canadian, seemed to not know English at all (which was hard to believe), and Lefty had to translate.

Oh, I remembered another American boo-boo:

• The two other American guys mistook their country’s language as German.

Okay.  I know mistakes happen, but there is a significant difference between German and French.  German–do not get me wrong, it is a beautiful language, and the Germans I met in Frankfurt airport were incredibly cordial–sounds a bit abrasive at times.  French is soft and fluid–it is gorgeous; I think it is more beautiful than Italian.  Either way, if these women were German and not French, it would be a definite error.

Lefty grabbed my attention, and pointed out that I did not speak often, but I did at certain points in a conversation.  I explained to her that I love to listen and watch.  I pay attention to what people say, how they say it, and how they act.  I transform that into my writing.  She understood.

The night was over before we knew it.  I hitched a ride home, and the six friends cabbed it back to the Crowne Plaza.  Tracy Morgan was staying there as well, and I guess the guys went up to give him a bro hug, which wasn’t accepted. Can’t blame them for trying.  Also, it’s funny how the three day stretch (Wednesday to Friday) started and ended with improv, and everything came full circle with the guys running into Tracy Morgan, who performed at Funny Bone, where the stretch of days began.