Advertise Yo' Art
The good people at the Minnesota Playlist asked me to write a blog post about promoting your art. Is it blasphemy? Is it necessary? Well you can read my thoughts on the subject by following the link below, or scroll down and read it in Wingdings!
You are your own marketing department.
by Eric Simons
"I live to perform in front of desolate, echo filled houses!" - No One Ever.
Nothing like baring your soul in front of a group of six people, three of which are performing after you. I mean even Helen Keller liked Anne Sullivan to be around when she performed. You know, for constructive feedback.
So why is it deemed so evil to advertise for your own craft? Dont you want people to see you? Dont you want to feel the energy of people connecting with your output, your viewpoint, your sense of wonder?
And to another extent, to pay to see it. I mean the baby's got to eat.
Full discloser, I'm an improviser. Anyone who does improv knows it pays in $1 beers and green room assorted nuts. Not a slight against the scene at all, just the reality. While improv is getting bigger in our fair Twin Cities, the demand isn't quite there yet. I dont see an end in site for my performing days, just as much as I dont see it as a career. But that doesnt mean I want to perform for six people.
When I started my Twin Cities improv life a few years ago, I was ecstatic. Look at me Ma, I did it, I would say. I wanted all of my friends to see me. It was fun, it was funny, and it was gratifying when they would come, which was quite frequently. I lose track of how many times my sister Danielle and her husband Josh would bring their friends by the Bloomington Sheraton to see me with Stevie Ray's (which has since moved towards the South Dakota border).
But that got old. Yeah, it's new every time you see improv, but how much can I expect my friends to come and see me. This is maybe the most underrated metro area in the country; there are lots of cool things to do every night. Plus, I feel like my friends at a certain point would feel like they are obligated to come. Maybe thats my own paranoia, but I don't want them to ever think, "Well, I should go." So you pull back on the promotion a bit. I did. I still do. A lazily made Facebook event here and an awkwardly non-sequitur mention of my plans for the night there. Nada. No dice. Plus by this point I've really narrowed in on very niche market of people who put up with my shenanigans enough to hangout with me (Webster's Dictionary calls them friends, Oxford's calls them blokes).
Again, I don't do this for a living. But I know lots of people that do. And it makes me sad to see them in front of an empty house. Whether it's for their pocketbook or their soul.
Yes, yes, art should be for yourself first. But whoever said that first probably had a grant, an inheritance, or died with no one knowing what great writing they have done, until some estate sale ruffler found their journal years later for 35¢.
I guess its just my two cents that art is for you first. Then the discussion and discovery of others in a very close second. But it makes me sad when I find out a day later that a really cool show was going down at Bryant Lake Bowl or that there was a Rent Party at Huge Theater. Why don't I go to the Southern Theater more? Were you at Comedy Underground at the Corner Bar last week? Sigh.
No one bats an eye when other forms of business promote themselves. @MrResturantPerson advertised their menu specials on Twitter or the insurance guy gave you his card. Yes, that insurance guy is annoying, but you still bought insurance from him didnt you? Cause he did half the work of letting you know it was there to be purchased in the first place.
Just don't be afraid to put yourself out there, you do it on stage anyway. You pour yourself naked onto the canvas (figuratively and some of you, literally). Your heart is all over your hooks, stanzas, and arrangements. Yes, I know so very little about music, but that doesnt mean I won't appreciate it. Just be genuine and honest when you promote yourself and what your doing. I won't mind. I bet others won't either. And you might bump that crowd of six up to a crowd of seven. Then that seven turns into eight. Next thing you know you've got a Schoolhouse Rock song and a full house. Thats something worth talking about.
#FixNetflix
Netflix has a great service to offer, but they have a ways to go to optimize it.
Starring Brian Roberts, Stephanie Wilkes, and Gregory Parks.
Written and Directed by Eric Simons
Hipster State of Mind
So something that has bothered me quite a bit as of late is the blind usage of the term hipster. Or maybe more accurately, its true lack of a definition.
Now I’m no angel. I’ve thrown the term around myself. I’m usually one of the first people to call my dear friend Beth a hipster, probably more for the reaction she will give. But do I believe she is one? Hardly. From the picture above, I’ve been called a hipster or slightly less insulting as having “hipster glasses”. Do I consider myself a hipster? Hardly, but lets examine what it is that makes someone a hipster.
The definitions on Urban Dictionary and Wikipedia are both pretty similar, so I’ll just post Urban’s:
“Hipsters are a subculture of men and women typically in their 20’s and 30’s that value independent thinking, counter-culture, progressive politics, an appreciation of art and indie-rock, creativity, intelligence, and witty banter.”
Outside of maybe progressive politics (why so many fiscal republican friends Eric?) this describes about 98% of my homies and homegirls. Now here is a snippet from a Huffington Post article written by Julia Plevin that is probably closer to what most people think of as hipsters:
“[The] whole point of hipsters is that they avoid labels and being labeled. However, they all dress the same and act the same and conform in their non-conformity to an iconic carefully created sloppy vintage look.”
Now that’s more like it. The only ones really worth calling hipsters are the ones who proclaim it for themselves. She also points out that:
"[The] definition of ‘hipster’ remains opaque to anyone outside this self-proclaiming, highly-selective circle."
So basically it’s to be defined by those on the inside. They typically remain undefined by definition, if that makes sense. Or the flipside is that people will evolve a never-ending list of things they can attribute to hipster culture. Is it for funsies or contempt? I tend to not mind the former, jest is jest in my book. It’s when it happens with the latter that can be annoying. Here are some generalizations I’ve noticed more often:
- PBR drinking
- Horned Rimmed Glasses
- Flannel
- Shirts with Catchphrases
- Shirts with Old Pop Culture
- Vintage Clothing
- Record Collections
- Mustaches or Unkempt Beards
- Bike Transportation
- Converse
- Ironic Detachment
To those keeping score at home, I believe I registered 8 to 9 of these things. Though I don’t know that any of my friends would seriously label me a hipster. But you combine that with the fact that I value intelligence, like foreign and independent films, and like Beirut.
I must be a hipster.
Well then, as my next order of business, I will add to the list of things that I like, to help you expand the definition.
- Improvisational Theater
- The movie Gigli
- All Replying to Emails
- Solitaire (Free Cell or Klondike)
- Fruit Snacks (looking at you gushers)
- Metro Transit
- Modern Family
- Water
- Laughing Pictures
- Swearing
If you liked any of these things, guess what? You’re a Hipster too. If you actually enjoyed the movie Gigli (like I did and can explain why if I need to) you could be King of the Hipsters. Wait no, Hipsters need a leadership name that is less mainstream. The ArchHispter or Fonzie of the Hipster Nation, maybe?
I guess that I just think it’s a silly thing to stereotype, or to want/not want to be a part of. Everyone has his or her likes and dislikes. Far be it from me, or you, to decide what makes or breaks hipsterdom. This all said I’ve never been to Williamsburg. So maybe I’m the asshole for writing this when I’m going to have to recant the whole thing later when my Richard M. Nixon fears of the unknown come crashing back at me. Until then, I’m just going to sit here in my horn-rimmed glasses, with my vintage UNC jersey (Ed Cota baby), crack open a tall boy and post this to Tumblr.
Hail Hipsters!
Nonsensical Scribblings: Rain
NATURE’S GROWTH HORMONE.
BAPTISM OF THE SENSES
SPRING ACTIVATOR
LEVEL 1 POWER WASHER
GOD’S SPIT VALVE
SLEEPYTIME MOTIVATOR
SLEEP MOTIVATOR
NATURAL HARMONY
MOBILE PERCUSSIONIST
SKY’S LEAKY FAUCET
UPSIDE DOWN SPRINKLER PARTY
HOMELESS SHOWER
TREE RUFFLER
LEAK INDICATOR
LAST ON A BUCKET’S BUCKET LIST
SHOE MOISTENER
PUDDLE MAKER
FLOWER VITAMINS
FESTIVAL SLAYER
HAIR SALON HECKLER
HEAT RELIEF
SUN’S OCCASIONAL SPECIAL GUEST
GRASS MOISTURIZER
PRE-DEW
PICNIC ASSASSIN
Ma-Guffaw
So there are a great many things in this world that make me happy. The pulsating of live music. A sunny yet crisp autumn day. Inducing my own sneezing (I never said some of them wouldn’t be weird).
But one of the top three to five things I enjoy, is making my mother laugh. More specifically, making my mom cry from laughing too hard.
Now, it’s not always a simple as just telling a joke. You see, my mom “hates” comedy. While this statement isn’t meant to be taken at face value, it’s something she helps perpetuate herself. After I’d get home from class in junior high, I wanted to watch The Simpsons (this was when they were still in the tail end of their solid first decade). I would always get my way, but she would always put up a fight about watching a show that is so “silly,” when we could watch something starring Meredith Baxter Birney. She would always watch with me, commenting on why something is funny versus actually laughing (a huge pet peeve of mine, probably the origin). Mind you, my mom’s favorite movie is the Blues Brothers. So like I said, she doesn’t “hate” comedy. Though I think the music in Blues Brothers coupled with a shared empathy of Elwood and Jake’s plight with the Penguin, might have something to do with this being her favorite flick.
So growing up, I think I found it a challenge to get my mom to admit something was funny, but not her admitting it was funny with words. Nope, my mom would reveal it through uncontrollable vocal spasms or laughing as normal people just do.
So to my delight, as I walked through the curtains at Huge Theater last Thursday for my Theater of Public Policy show I spotted my mom and dad a few rows back. I greeted her with a :-P (yes that is an emoticon, but there didn’t seem to be a way of describing my standard hello to my mother, that didn’t come off as a bit Oedipal and creepy). I think I can count on two hands the number of times I’ve gotten my mom to start crying based on something I’ve said or acted out. Of those times two or three (including last Thursday) I didn’t get to witness, but was informed of it happening later, in this case from my mom. The best part is her getting “mad” at me for making it happen, like I’m some sort of maniacal comedian. But instead of trying to take over the world, I just want to make Yvonne laugh. I’m just Sam L at the end of Unbreakable, screaming, “They called me Mr. Glass.” I guess if that my destiny, so be it. I’ll relish every chance I get to make my mama laugh, be it from my wit, or just me being a dumbass. I think she’s proud just the same.