Yes And...Go F*ck Yourself

My mother doesn't like when I curse in these.

There are a few pieces of personal history that I’d rather not admit to you. Yes…I did exclusively wear Under Armor when I was 8 years old. Yes…after the New Girl Season 4 finale, I did believe Rivers and Roads by The Head and The Heart was a profound piece of music. And most importantly to this piece of weekend revelry, yes…I did take an improv class at The Groundlings. I don’t mention these truths as some sort of shame exercise. No sir. Well, the first two, yes. That feels like a few monkeys off my back. But my introductory education in improv?

I learned a new form of it this weekend.

I found myself in downtown Culver Friday evening, after drinks with friends of the newsletter, Kyle and Jenna. Public School was the destination. An upscale chain put on earth to celebrats 34 year olds’ birthdays. This night though, it was just about the only joint willing to sacrifice one Dodgers World Series television for the Knick game. Knicks won behind the court vision of floor general, Tyler Kolek. Dodgers, on the other hand, were getting bent over a barrel and shown the Niagara (Canadian side). Prior to such beating, I’d intended to make my way from Public School over to Venice for a small viewing party with only the most insufferable Dodger fans I know. But post-grand slam, I knew the vibes wouldn’t be to my liking. So I found myself, instead, without plans in downtown Culver City. The baby monitor capital of Los Angeles.

Luckily, friends of the program, Brockwell and Marco, didn’t have anything going on either. We met up at their Culver 4 bed and fired off some ideas. I’m told there are no bad ideas in a brainstorm, but we had a few. Namely, just about every bar west of the 405. So Marco sent himself to bed. But Brockwell and I dragged ourselves to a bar that I’m as tired as going to as you are reading about. Chucho.

Not a bad crowd, though. Even a few Iknowyoufromsomewhere’s. Good Iknowyoufromsomewheres too. But yes…Groundlings. Improv. The first paragraph. Here’s where that comes into play. Brockwell met this guy. We can call him Theodore. A name I’d imagine he wishes his parents had chosen based on the faux-intellectual khakis he thrifted two sizes too large and his circular framed glasses, I really hope are blue light. Theodore seemed nice enough at first. Out of the corner of my right eye, Brockwell struck up the conversation. A friend of a friend, or so I’m told. So, I ventured over from my IKYFSWs, and hoped my night of conversational pinball would keep going. Theodore, unfortunately, had other plans. He studied an evil form of improv. It’s called Yes and…Go Fuck Yourself.

Brockwell sniped and labeled it immediately. An iteration on the yes and… rule of improv that instead of celebrating world building, character construction, and positive conversation…pushes forward an attitude of passive aggression. A yes and go fuck yourself artist will not at all ignore you. In fact, Theodore’s eye contact never broke. His questions never stopped. He had no interest, to my knowledge, in speaking to anyone else. But say…I ask him what type of music he’s listening to…Theodore couldn’t name just one band. In fact, he couldn’t name any. Too many good ones out there, I guess. Not a very good yes and. Then he’d ask me the same. “Well…I went to a Father John concert at The Greek. Been throwing him in the rotation lately.” Theodore would nod. Even agree. But follow this acknowledgment with a good ol’ “Dude…that’s so cool you’re getting into him.”

Yes…and go fuck yourself.

Try asking Theodore where he went to school. Let’s just say Southern New Hampshire University for the sake of anonymity. “Hell, I know a few buds who were Penmen (actual mascot)…”

“Yeah…Brockwell and I already went over that. Don’t know em…that’s so cool you went to State though. I thought about it.”

Yes and…go fuck yourself.

I tried one more on my new friend Theo. Something basic. Complimented his hat. I didn’t really like his hat, though. Just trying to yes and as any good man would. He appreciated the compliment. I think. Maybe? I actually don’t remember. All I know is he said something about this damn hat that pissed me off enough to jump on the exit ramp, aka the line for the pisser. So instead of lying to you for the sake of story, let’s all do a little yes and go fuck yourself’ing ourselves. A little Groundlings class right here in the damn newsletter. Comment or reply to this newsletter with a passive aggressive, subtly insulting, but technically polite response to the prompt below:

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The Pioneer: I like your hat.

Theodore: ________________________ (your reply)

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After we’re all finished with the exercise, let’s put the skill to bed. And this Halloween Weekend, whether we’re talking to Tarzan, Tinker Bell, or even the 8^th dude in a red bathrobe sipping a Modelo (it will be quite hard not to subtly insult this man’s lack of creativity) - be pleasant in conversation. If you’re unable to? Just say no.

Don’t start yes and go fuck yourself’ing.

Oh and check out this very newsletter friend on Elevator Pitch this week…