A Very Sharpton Thanksgiving, Wesley Crusher Blogs, Sororities Are Mean, My Tummy Hurts, and Pandas Are Cute

"The Rev. Al Sharpton is a descendant of a slave owned by relatives of the late Sen. Strom Thurmond." Awkward! Thanksgiving cannot be a relaxing gathering for the Thurmond/Sharpton family. (Not that they actually celebrate holidays together, of course...lame joke.)

Former teen Star Trek star and uberblogger Wil Wheaton has written recaps of his own shows for TV Squad. That is super mega meta. The kid has been blogging since way back when, and I've always had a special place in my heart for him, owing to his sweet and touching performance in Stand By Me as well as his Star Trek role as Gene Roddenberry's own (widely hated by fans) Mary Sue, Wesley Crusher.

According to a paradigm-shifting report by the New York Times, sororities discriminate against girls on the basis of weight and attractiveness. Also, the sky, on clear days, is a lovely shade of blue.

Science Daily reports that overly anxious people are more prone to Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Duh. Being a nervous twit with IBS myself, I can attest to the amazingly efficient way that my body transforms anxiety into bellyaches that last as long as a day or two (not to complain - stomach pains are the very least of the range of symptoms for that condition, and I'm really quite lucky). On the flip side, my body also gives me unmistakeable cues when I hit on good ideas as well. Whenever I'm working on something creative (or romantic - why are those two things so bound together?), I wait until my hands and/or knees start shaking, and then I know I've identified a strong prospect. Sometimes it makes sense to me that that's how the Supreme Court works - they chat about rulings and constitutional issues until Scalia gets woozy and pukes on his judicial robe, and that's where they halt the conversation and write a new law. It's as likely as other explanations, no?

Apropos of the random, slapdash nature of this post, I'd just like to state for the record that I am not, in fact, the shortest person in Chicago comedy. Fay Canale is 5'3" and 2/3, giving me a height advantage of at least 1/4 of an inch (I'm not good with fractions) . And I haven't made Becky Garcia stand back to back with me, but girl is tiny. (Also, why, when we finally met Nate, and asked him about his first impressions of us, did he simply say that K-Rock was taller than he thought? Does that mean I come across short in my writing, and therefore when he met me, that was no surprise?)

And, finally, today's installment of "cute and hilarious." Have you ever heard a baby panda sneeze? And seen its mommy startle out of a sleepy chewing pleasure coma? You have now.

Static: Bear Fat, Lye, and Giant Diaper Pins

An ode to the comic potential of static electricity.

Bear Fat Formula Pantene. Last week at Second City my writing classmates and I were sitting around discussing show issues. I was absent-mindedly stroking my hair with my hands, and all the sudden everyone started pointing and laughing at me. Obviously I had charged myself up powerfully with static electricity, because select strands of my hair were standing on end.

"Maybe I shouldn't wash my hair every day when it's this dry out," I said, embarrassed, trying to tuck my hair into my hood.

"Do you use a moisturizing shampoo and conditioner?" My classmate S. said sympathetically.

"No, I use bear fat and lye, like everyone else, duh," I said, and tried to slick my hair down with a little of nature's smoothing serum (also known as saliva).

"That's not going to do it," someone said, "You need to discharge the static electricity you've built up."

My face was turning red.

"What, like this?" I reached over to the metal railing and let out a high-pitched scream as a sharper-than-expected shock shimmied up my arm. "Oww!!"

Corduroy Depends. The other night, Sloan and I headed to Berlin to get our dance on. I went out in a very long corduroy skirt that is slit on either side up above the knee. (It's one of my favorites - sort of a Madonna/whore skirt. When I'm standing still, it looks long and modest. When I walk or sit just so, it's "legs, legs, legs.")

The air outside was so dry that with every step, the front and back panels of the skirt creeped up and lodged underneath my long heavy coat, and when I wiggled out of my coat, it looked like I was wearing a giant corduroy diaper. Hot.

...Because I Love You Too Much, Baby

We are trucking along nicely with our sketch show at Second City. Here's the perfunctory MySpace page I slapped together for our show, which is now officially called "Brazilian Wax Museum." (An early prototype of our show poster is at left.)

Yesterday we writers sat in the dark at the back of Donny's Skybox, eating M&M's and giggling appreciatively as our director and actors worked on the choreography for our opening song, which is a ridiculous exploration of totally misinformed assertions about South America and its various cultures and traditions. (I know it sounds rip-roaringly hilarious, no? Of course, deconstructing comedy takes all the fun right out, so be happy knowing that you'll be able to see video clips of the show at some point in the near future, and you can see the funny as nature intended.)

Yesterday we also realized that every one of the Lisas in our group (two are actors, one is a writer) are all Lisa Maries, which opens up a lot of questions about the judgment of the parents involved. Yes, we get it folks, Elvis was great, but there are so many ways to go with honoring him with your baby daughter's name. How about Priscilla? Gladys? Yes, Gladys. That's what they should have gone with. The world needs more Gladyses. Gladys'. Wait, how do you pluralize Gladys? Gladysses? Whatever.

Valentine's Day, Naked Mole Rats, and Creative Inspiration

It's Valentine's Day. It's time to stop whining about the obvious inconveniences of the harsh Chicago winter, get schmoopy, and count my blessings.

Bella Rossa is two years old! I had forgotten that yes, indeed, I began blogging the week of Valentine's Day 2005. Here's the first week of posts, crappy graphics and all. I was living in a tiny town in Indiana, vaguely dreaming and hoping of a move to Chicago. I had no idea all the great new friends and amazing experiences that were in store for me, and all the opportunities that blogging would invite into my life.

Cuddly cats. My girls, their little feline souls already softly shaped by my affectionate and indulgent hand, are even sweeter and more eager for physical reassurance when it's this cold. The windows by my bed leak a terrible little chill across the blankets all night long, and my little fuzzbunnies sneak under the blankets with me and curl up under each of my arms, giving me a little purring bundle of warmth to soothe me through the night.

Indoor time can mean productive creative time. Yes, I miss sunshine. Have I lost my tan (like I ever really had one)? Yes. I'm beyond the pale. I'm translucent. In the mornings when I wander outside, blinking into the daylight, reddened by the windchill, I feel like a naked mole rat, startled and pitiful and ill-suited for life above ground. My hibernation appetite is monstrous - I've eaten more pizza, nachos and sweets in the last week than six average Bears fans (thank god for the no-excuses gym, about a hundred steps from my front door).

But cabin fever can sometimes give way to beautiful crazy creative spurts. My little group at Second City has been hard at work on our sketch show. I've annoyed our director with eight drafts of my sketch and even snuck in a wonderfully weird musical number for our actors to play with.

After a half-frozen but fun trip to the art supply store, Sloan has been painting a lot this week, and including me in some fun crafty art projects. We've also done some really cool photography for her new website (I'll post the link when she's put the finishing touches on it).

And last night, in the middle of a blizzard, Sloan and I (cooped up in my studio apartment, and then hers) came up with a whole new strategy for some of our creative exploits. I can't go into details yet, but suffice it to say that in the next two weeks or so I'm going to pull something ridiculous and totally cool out of my hat and slap it all over the internet. And it's honestly the kind of idea you can't have when it's sunny and beautiful and 72 degrees outside, because then you're too busy bike riding, swimming and flopping on a blanket in the park with a good book and a cute boy.

So Happy Valentine's Day, my beloved readers. Count your blessings. Go kiss someone you love.

I Hang With Lois Lane

...or Chloe Sullivan, depending on your point of reference.

The point is, K-Rock (acting on a tip from our Big Poppa Nate in NYC) broke a story here in Chicago today, on behalf of our humble Bastion, that got picked up by our buds at Chicagoist and Gapers Block.

The other two sites seemed a bit hesitant to use a comedy webpub as a source, with Gapers Block saying "yesterday the Apiary's Chicago sister site the Bastion posted a purported statement from DDB denying any connection." It was a real statement that Kristy managed to get from the ad people, who weren't even talking to the New York Post. You heard me.

But I don't blame them for being reluctant to use us as a "real" news source. After all, I have written headlines for the Bastion like "Aide to Ald. Dick Mell Sees Dicks Everywhere."

High fives to Chicago's own Edward R. Murrow. In a cute skirt and boots. With a higher-pitched giggle.

Columbia Journalism Review, Olympics, Opera, Dirty Snow Expressions

Columbia Journalism Review's website has quoted this very blog on the Lisa Nowak astronaut love triangle story. Wow! Maybe that three-week hiatus did me some good, after all.

My brother A. is doing some cool work related to Chicago's bid for the 2016 Olympics. I'm very proud of him and can't wait until I can share more details on that.

A friend has been named choral director of the Lyric Opera here in Chicago. Congrats to him.

In other news, it's still really cold outside. Negative two, as of a few minutes ago. On days like this in my former home in suburban Indiana, little kids made snowmen adorned with twinkly little charcoal eyes and brightly colored scarves. Here in Chicago, they use their mittens to etch genitalia into the thickly layered snow on parked cars. Ah...city life.

It's A Weird Week For Headlines

Ground control to major nut: "Astronaut charged with attempted murder." That's an entirely new headline, huh? Interesting how the morning news programs are covering it from an angle of "if an astronaut could wig out and drive hundreds of miles in an adult diaper to confront a romantic rival, could any of us?" Just remember, no matter what kind of bad day you're having, at least you're not Julie Chen, asking some bleached blonde pop psychologist a question like that on national television.

Adults are just as vulnerable as teenagers to looks-based anxiety and self-esteem issues. Can we get a collective "duh" on this one?

Why didn't Prince get electrocuted as he sang Purple Rain in the Superbowl rain last Sunday?

Frankie Lane, who sang the theme song for Blazing Saddles (one of my favorite movies) has died. Let's crack open a can of campfire beans and sing a bit of the chorus, just once, in his memory.

He rode a blazing saddle
He wore a shining star
His job to offer battle
To bad men near and far

Don't Bleed For Me, Ferragamo

...'cause I'm not bleeding for you anymore.

Damn these backup boots. Like any woman who's adapted well from small town life to city life, I understand the need for a good pair of black boots. And, given that part of the bargain of my new hometown includes crappy sloppy frozen weather like today, the need for backup black boots. And I found some. And they're awesome.

Except the new pair that I got (okay, that my mom got for me and brought up from Indy when she came up for a family party a few weeks ago) rubbed my heels raw and made me bleed through my tights. Ew. There's a unique disappointment in finding a really cute, really cheap pair of boots, letting your anticipation build for weeks until you get a chance to actually wear them, and then having them shred your Achilles tendon with every step when you finally do.

(They weren't actually Ferragamo. I just like the way that phrase falls together. But they did look like some really good riding boots I once had.)

What else is up? I interviewed Ike Barinholtz today for The Bastion. He was seriously nice and, let's face it, he's cute. I'm pretty sure he was kidding about visiting Chicago again soon, but if not, maybe I'll to try to bump into him. Perhaps I'll try the old "followup questions" approach. Hee. Naw, probably not. I usually get pretty dorked out and tongue tied when I meet bigger name comedy people. Last week I mispronounced my own name when introducing myself to Morgan Murphy. Oh, well. Someday I'll be cool.

*This post got me noticed by Gapers Block, who called my blog "very well-written."

A Cold Day in Chicago

And I don't mean just the weather (although that's enough - it's ONE degree right now).

Yeah, as the entire world knows by now, the Chicago Bears - and I hesitate the use the word "lost" - failed to win the Superbowl last night.

I was hanging out with some cousins, not expecting to get too emotionally involved in the game, since I'm generally uninterested in sports I'm not actually participating in, and because I was caught in the middle between my hometown and my new hometown.

I did my best to get into the spirit of things. I cracked open a few beers. I gnawed on some Home Run Inn pizza. I tried to figure out the weird Superbowl commercials. I intercepted phone calls from my family in Indiana who were calling to razz my cousins every time the Colts scored again.

After that first miraculous dash across the field by Devin Hester, I admit I yelped in amazement with everyone else. A great chorus of triumph swelled in the house as we all screeched with joy. It was a beautiful moment.

But it was for naught. As quickly as I got caught up in the excitement of that first astonishing Bears touchdown, my spirits fell, along with those of millions of others in the Windy City. My cousins became more agitated, and even the one who teaches toddlers started swearing like a sailor and calling for Rex Grossman's head on a platter.

I consoled myself by cuddling the family's Jack Russell terrier, and chomping another bratwurst, but all was lost. Sorry to say, Chicago, I even called for my cab well before the game ended.

I still love you, Chicago. I really do.

Did I mention it's really cold today?