The One Thing They Remember

After I graduated from college I moved to Los Angeles as soon I could. I knew if I put it off then I would never go.

I had $500 and two bags of props. My computer stopped working soon after, so I’d sneak into a college library to check my e-mail.

I read everything I could and worked tirelessly to get my name in front of people. I’d take gigs off Craigslist and donate my services to charity functions. But nothing seemed to stick.

Then, another performer gave me some advice:

“You need to find the thing that defines you - your one trick that people will remember you for.”

So I set out on a quest to find my trademark performance piece, the one thing that would become synonymous with the name “Mark Toland”.

I tried it all.

I worked on hypnosis but (and this is absolutely true) I kept falling asleep during the course.

I worked on advanced material from classic performers. I studied circus arts and sideshow stunts, hoping I would discover the one thing that would set me apart.

Then, I stumbled across something incredible. I found a video of someone walking barefoot on broken glass. At the time, it was a demonstration that few people were performing. It was so rare, in fact, that I couldn’t find any instructions for it.

So I taught myself.

Some friends had just moved out of their apartment and I claimed a long carpet that they had left behind. I went to the Dollar Store up the street and found two heavy-duty plastic buckets and a hammer.

At the time I was living in a tiny, smelly apartment with six roommates. I was sleeping in a literal closet, with a tiny mattress shoved up against the wall. There was no A/C and no space. I called it “the crack den.” But, my roommates were big drinkers and gladly let me “recycle” their bottles.

Soon I had collected over a hundred bottles and had filled both of my buckets with broken glass. Once a day, I’d lay out the blue and white striped runner in the parking lot behind the crack den. And for a couple hours I’d work up the nerve to step across the glass without wearing any shoes.

I cut myself too many times to remember but I kept at it. Eventually, I performed it for a show in Long Beach, then a show in Hollywood, and another in Santa Monica.

It was a staple of the act.

I didn’t have a car so I’d take my trusty buckets with me on the city bus. I’d ride two hours to a gig, then two hours back home. I walked on broken glass in a barbershop downtown, at rooftop parties, and even poolside at a movie producer’s home in the Hollywood Hills.

Often, I’d get off the bus several blocks away from my show so the client wouldn’t know I didn’t have a vehicle. Then I’d haul the glass and my other props the rest of the way to the show.

Once I was trudging along a dark street late at night, trying to find the correct address for my gig, when I ran into a hard-to-see fire hydrant. I yelped in pain and grabbed my shin, releasing the buckets at the same time. Glass spilled onto the sidewalk.

Little did my client know, but I spent the last few minutes before I rang their doorbell picking up a hundred broken bottles worth of glass with my bare hands and putting the pieces back into my buckets. If they had opened their doors they would have seen the “world class entertainer” they had hired crawling around the sidewalk on his hands and knees in a three piece suit.

But I stuck with it, convinced it was my claim to fame. I did it on TV and in at least 20 states. At one point I had backup stashes of broken glass in three states (Illinois, Texas, and Florida) and joked I was going to “have a set in all 50”. I was half-kidding.

Then, it got popular. I saw other people doing it more and stopped doing it as much. I got tired of driving to gigs and started flying. The glass stayed home.

Eventually, I only brought it out for special occasions in Chicago. Then, I stopped bringing it out altogether. It went in a closet, locked away and forgotten.

Until last month. After an apartment renovation and a quick break between the tour and the fall schedule, I was reassessing my closet of show props and production equipment. And that’s when I found the broken glass.

I took a long look at it and realized what I had to do. I boxed it up and put it in the recycling.

At one point I was certain that I would be walking barefoot on broken glass for years to come. I was sure that it was the spectacle that would put me on the map. But it wasn’t. And it didn’t.

It took hundreds of bottles, cuts, bloody towels, broken buckets, busted shins, and long drives to have a simple realization. It took those three years of storing the glass in the back of my closet to fully get it. I finally understood that the advice that other performer gave me back in L.A. was wrong.

I had spent all of that time working to find my calling card but the most progress I made was when I had spent time working on myself. People weren’t wanting to see the mind reading or the broken glass. They were wanting to see me.

The truth is, it’s not a skill or a trademark product, it’s not a signature piece or a notable work that’s going to make your name. It’s not the art - it’s the artist.

The one thing they remember is you.

Assume The Best

It’s 2014. I’m on a rooftop in NYC, surrounded by 8 or 9 strangers. I silently write a name on the back of my business card then slide it across the table to the lady in the white dress.

“Who are you thinking of?” I ask mysteriously.

“My husband, Kevin.” she says.

I gesture to the card. She turns it over.

Everyone loses their shit.

It’s this past summer in Orlando. I’m working a trade show. A young man nervously asks me to read his mind.

I stare into his eyes and say “Does the number 13 mean anything to you?”

He stays quiet and stares at me for what feels like an eternity. Then, almost imperceptibly, he mutters under his breath.

“No fucking way.”

It’s 2016. I’m on a small stage in a hot room in Connecticut. A roomful of adults look on.

My volunteer is dressed to the nines. A New Yorker, she is clearly cynical about the proceedings. She keeps a poker face and refuses to give anything away. I’m sweating.

I pace the stage, doing my best to stay in control. Then I lean in and whisper something into her ear.

And she breaks down. Tears roll down her cheeks and she shakes from pure joy. She gives me a hug and the audience breaks into spontaneous applause.

I nix my finale. Nothing will top that moment.

A friend approached me after a show recently and said “Man, that one guy was a jerk!”

I had no idea who they were talking about. Yes, some volunteers hadn’t reacted as well as others and some were more cooperative than most, but they all seemed to enjoy it.

My friend thought the volunteer in question was being rude, but I just thought they were being themself.

If there’s anything I’ve learned from my job it’s that amazement means something different for different people in different places. Whether I’m doing a small cocktail party or a huge theater full of people, it’s something I always try to remember.

Some people react internally. Some people scream and run. And some people don’t react at all. They just stare back, completely blown away.

My job has taught me to give people the benefit of the doubt. Maybe the barista is being impatient because they had a flat tire this morning. Maybe the man on the street just had a family member pass away. Maybe the valet is an introvert and the bellhop is a morning person.

No matter who it is, I just assume they’re giving me their best.

Impression

One random night eight years ago I met Craig Ferguson in a crosswalk. I’d just finished having dinner with a couple friends and we were heading back to our car across the street.

I looked left. No cars.

I looked right. No cars.

I started to cross and looked back to my left. And there was Craig Ferguson. 

“How’s it going, Craig?” I said. “Can I get a picture with you?”

“Do you mind if we finish crossing the street first?” he quipped.

He spent a few minutes joking with us and taking photos.  We laughed as he made fun of my friend’s hat and asked us some questions. Then, he shook our hands and strolled off into the shadows of Hollywood.

At a private event recently, a man asked me my name and why I was in attendance. I explained that I was the entertainment and would be performing following dinner.

He dismissively made smalltalk while never quite making eye contact with me. Then he turned to leave, saying “Nice to meet you, Matt.”

“It’s Mark, actually,” I corrected him, and nodded politely as he walked off.

Later, after my show, he approached me raving about my performance.

“That was amazing, Mark…let me buy you a drink!” he exclaimed, and dragged me over to show off to a table of his friends. 

“I was friends with Mark before we knew how amazing he was…” he bragged, as I introduced myself to the other guests.

The night went on but I couldn’t forget how he had treated me before he saw me in my element. Featured entertainment or not, I felt that I should have been met with common decency from the beginning.

It’s amazing to me that a celebrity in the middle of the street made a bigger effort than a person having a one-on-one conversation with me at a small dinner party. It shouldn’t matter if the person you’re talking to is a stranger or your best friend, you should always strive to make that person feel special.

At my gigs I make a big point of befriending the crew. I learn the names of the sound and lighting people, the stage manager, the director of the venue, the director of catering, the custodians, and the servers. Sometimes I’ll end up talking with them even more than my client.

I do my best to make them feel important. I’ll read their minds backstage and ask them where they’re from and what they enjoy doing. It doesn’t take much to make a positive impression on someone.

If something goes wrong or I need some help, the crew is always more apt to assist me. I would be kind without the extra incentive but it’s always nice to know they’ve got my back.

Just this week I learned that one of the employees in my garage suddenly moved away and is no longer working in my building. I used to show him tricks and ask him about his family every chance I could. Now he’s gone and I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye.

I just hope that when he thinks about Chicago he remembers me and knows that I thought of him as more than just the valet grabbing my car. I thought of him as a friend and a fellow human being. I truly enjoyed getting to know him and will miss him dearly. No matter what kind of day I was having, he always put a smile on my face.

It could be a crosswalk or a parking garage, but it’s amazing how much of an impression people can make on you in such a short period of time. And quite often, they vanish from your life as quickly as they arrived.

Evolve

This essay was inspired by a joke from my show.

The joke happens when I have a lady join me onstage and think of the name of her first crush. The joke itself is irrelevant. It’s the wording that matters here - specifically one word.

I used to make a joke about the volunteer, referring to the crush as “him”, but one day after the show my wife gave me some insightful notes on the drive home. She had the brilliant observation that saying “him” was making an unfounded assumption about a volunteer that might someday put me in an awkward position on stage.

Ever since that conversation the joke has changed. Now I refer to the crush as “them” so I won’t offend or embarrass my volunteers.

It was only one word but it’s made a huge difference for that small moment. It's still funny - possibly funnier - and better than before.

There was a similar moment during my tour this summer that made me rewrite a small section of my show all over again.

At the time I was referring to a drawing of a stick person as a “stick man” but I didn’t realize I had a transgendered person in my audience that night. They politely called out “Stick person!” and it stopped me dead in my tracks. I made a small joke and continued with the show, but that night I stayed up late rewriting my script so it wouldn’t happen again.

The goal of theatre should be inclusivity. I don’t want a single member of my audience to be personally offended by something I say during the show. I may make political or topical jokes, sure, but I don’t want to make an unnecessary comment at someone’s expense. I don’t want a single person to feel singled out.

It seems we’re at an impasse in society where we can either say “I wish things were the way they used to be!” or we can consider other people’s feelings when speaking to them. If the choice doesn’t seem obvious, then I don’t know how to convince you that you should care about other people.

When someone makes an off-color joke at my gigs now, I make it obvious I’m offended and I walk away. I refuse to put up with any degrading, deplorable “locker room talk” or offensive comments. 

You can say I’m being a “snowflake” or call it PC Culture run amok, but the truth is society is going to keep changing whether you like it or not.  If you want to stay relevant, it’s up to you to embrace it and evolve with the times.

Another Show

I overheard the following exchange between two performers recently:

“Hey, how was your show?”

“It was fine. Just another show…”

Maybe I look at this differently but I didn’t spend my childhood dreaming of being onstage so I could just do “another show”. I didn’t spend my twenties sleeping on couches and pounding the pavement so I could just do “another show”. And I refuse to take the obvious path towards “another show” in my thirties.

I want more.

I want people to view what I do differently and I want them to talk about it for weeks after. I want them to leave the show feeling differently than when they arrived.

When I was younger I remember seeing a production of “The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe” that left me transfixed. It was one of the earliest memories I have of watching a show and saying to myself “I have to do that.”

After the performance I tracked down all of the performers - local high schoolers - in the lobby and had them sign my program. I’ve been a collector of playbills, autographs, ticket stubs, and theatre mementos ever since.

I was only 7 years old but I still remember that show. Why?

It was perfect timing, I guess. I was young and seeking inspiration. I was encouraged to try new things. And I had a vivid imagination.

And now, nearly 25 years later, I have an incredible opportunity to take the stage on a nightly basis and do the same for someone else.

Maybe there’s a youngster in the crowd who has always wanted to perform but didn’t know how to get started. I could be the spark of inspiration that sets them down their personal path to success.

Maybe someone hates magic because of how it’s presented in pop culture. I have the chance to do something different and change their mind.

Maybe someone is having a bad day or needs an escape. Maybe someone is a big fan or seeing me for the first time. Maybe they’re on a date or celebrating a birthday. I have an opportunity to create something special that they’ll always remember.

I have a chance to be their “Lion, Witch, and Wardrobe” moment.

I hear the naysayers now:

“You’re just an entertainer. This is a little over-the-top, isn’t it?” 

No, it’s not. Not for me.

That’s why you’ll never hear me demean what I do. You’ll never hear me call it “silly” or shrug it off like it doesn’t matter. 

It does matter. It matters to me.

You can take what you do seriously without taking yourself seriously. You can demand respect for your profession and refuse to fall into the same patterns that other people do. 

What do you do best?

For me, it’s mystery and amazement. I’m in the business of blowing minds.  My show is funny, yes, and hopefully entertaining. But the real point is to amaze. The real point is to show someone something truly impossible.

Comedians have jokes and singers make music, but I work in the medium of jaw-dropping, pure, unadulterated wonder. That’s what I always return to. And I refuse to give it any less than my best.

If you treat what you do with respect then people will take notice. They’ll do a double-take and sense that what you do is just a little different. They’ll get it.

Before I take the stage, before I say my opening words, before the host finishes their introduction and my walk-on music plays, before I walk through the curtain and start the show, I remind myself that I’m about to take a roomful of strangers on a journey. I’m about to show them something special.

I don’t want to be another line in their calendar. I don’t want to be an easily forgotten night or exactly what they expected.

I refuse to be just another show.

---

Photo by Neseman Creative

Do Over

Here’s a secret:

Everyone has bad shows. (Or days or games or whatever is applicable to your life. My life is onstage so I’ll stick with what I know.)

When you see other performers posting a constant barrage of fancy hotel rooms, large venues, enormous audiences, and rave reviews it’s easy to think that they are nothing but successful. It’s easy to forget that they have bad shows, too.

Oh, but they do. And so do I. Horrible, awful, cringe-worthy shows.

How do I know? Because I’ve been there. I’ve sat in their audience or watched them live on the internet. And, as for myself, I’ve bombed horribly. It’s just the way of life when you work in the entertainment industry.

If you’ve ever slept through an alarm on the first day of a new job or seen the look of disappointment on your boss’ face, then you’ve experienced the same thing. I’ve spent hours traveling across the country to do a show, only to fail miserably in front of a room of strangers.

I can usually sense it from the first moments onstage. I start sweating and the lights seem to grow hotter. Every uninterested face in the room starts to stick out like a Tr*mp voter at a Lady Gaga concert.

“Is my client massively disappointed? What do they think? They’ll never invite me back…”

Sometimes it’s not as bad as I think. And sometimes it’s surely worse.

Albeit, I haven’t had a show that bad in years. But I still have bad shows all the same. It’s just that now when I have a bad show it’s discouraging because I know how good I can be and I’m disappointed in my performance. It’s a different kind of bad.

Years ago I booked my first out-of-state show. The fee seems laughable now but at the time it was a huge milestone. My wife-to-be and I loaded up the car and drove nervously across the border from Kansas to Nebraska.

The event was for a small tractor dealership in the middle of nowhere with a group of about 50 employees just getting off work. The show was held in the company cafeteria - a long room with bad lighting and poor sight lines. 

The employees entered, rudely elbowing their way to the buffet, and took their seats. The client motioned for me to begin.

Unsure of myself and too inexperienced to control the room, I gave one of the worst performances of my life. There were too many distractions to contend with. People were talking in the back, loud music was playing down the hall, and a group of noisy men were (I KID YOU NOT) building a giant pyramid of beer cans at the very front table.

I wish I had taken control and demanded their attention. I wish I had known that was an option. But when you’re 20 and you’ve never done that kind of event, you don’t know what to do.

So I tried to persevere. I pushed through and did my act. It was painful to watch, I’m sure. My last-ditch effort to be mystifying during my final routine was destroyed by the loud clatter of no less than 100 beer cans falling to the floor. The men roared with laughter as I sheepishly finished the show and scurried from the room.

I left as quickly as I could, utterly humiliated.

A few weeks ago I entered a similar venue with a similar demographic. Suddenly I flashed back to that time in Nebraska and felt the wave of embarrassment rush back over me. Then I took a deep breath and let the hundreds of shows and years of experience I’ve had since then take over. And I crushed that show.

I felt like I finally had a chance to redeem myself. A much needed do-over, if you will.

I needed that.

So yeah, I have bad shows. All the time. And so do all of the other performers you follow. They may be too busy crafting their successful online persona to remind you of that, but don’t forget that we all have to start somewhere. We all had to go through awkward, embarrassing, painful situations to get where we are.

I needed every one of those bad shows to get the rave reviews I received from Chicago Fringe last week or go on tour this summer. Good shows feel great but bad shows make you who you are. Bad shows are your education.

Embrace the bad and get better. Soon you’ll get a chance to redeem yourself, too.

---

Photo Credit: Sarah Elizabeth Larson Photography

Cash or Credit

If you enjoy, use, or otherwise benefit from an artist’s work then they deserve to be compensated for it. The way I see it is you can either give them cash or you can give them credit.

Let’s start with the cash. 

When you fork over your hard earned dollars in exchange for a work of art, you’re helping an artist realize their dreams. Your money gives value to someone’s hard work and helps them continue to creatively contribute to their community.

Cash can take many forms. You can purchase someone’s work or a ticket to their show. You can support their work online through Patreon or GoFundMe, or more. You can donate to their cause or tip them for a job well done.

Cash is king.

But maybe you can’t afford to buy a piece of art or contribute to a Kickstarter. Hamilton tickets are expensive and so is your rent. I totally get it.

That’s where credit comes in. And when I say credit I mean C-R-E-D-I-T, as in credit-where-credit-is-due.

When you read someone’s work or watch their video, that creator has probably entertained or inspired you in some small way. Maybe it was for a matter of minutes or a matter of days. It doesn’t matter. They deserve your appreciation.

The simple act of giving someone credit goes a long way in helping an artist pursue their passion.  And in 2017, crediting couldn’t be easier.

Take the time to smash the “like” button or comment. Share the post and start a dialogue about it with your friends. Passively reading or watching someone’s art without reciprocating does nothing for their cause.

Crediting means you aren’t allowed to repost someone’s photo without letting people know where it came from. You can’t copy and paste a funny tweet and pretend it’s your own. You must always attribute the creation to the creator.

ALWAYS.

I do my best to credit anyone I work with. Event photographers, other performers, journalists, event planners, companies, vendors, producers, you name it. They deserve respect and appreciation for their work and I would expect the same from them. Crediting means we all get to enjoy success, instead of a select few who took advantage of their fellow artists to get ahead.

So the next time you enjoy someone’s art, writing, video, pictures, blog, novel, tweet, web series, vlog, or more, be sure to pony up some cash. Or, at least “like”, comment, share, and give them some credit for creating something for your enjoyment. It’s literally the least you can do.

Almost Ready

A year ago I submitted my show to the Chicago Fringe Festival. It was my first festival and a nerve-wracking experience.

In the span of four days I went from ZERO pre-sold tickets to SELLING OUT.  I only did three shows but I got bit by the fringe bug. And I began planning The Mystery Tour.

Around the same time I had a bunch of personal stuff happen all at once. I lost a friend to suicide and my apartment flooded. It was a rough several weeks. Being onstage gave me a respite from the realities of life and I channeled any stress I was feeling into my creative projects.

Flash forward to this week and I’ve come full circle. It took a full year - A FULL YEAR - but the new floors were finally finished this week.  I’ve been living out of boxes and bags for months, sleeping on a pull out sofa, and unable to get in a routine.

But somehow, over the last two months, I wrote the fragments of a new show.

I storyboarded ideas onto post-it notes on the back of a door. Then, when the door came off the hinges I moved the notes to the floor.

I wrote several new monologues for the show - really personal, cerebral stuff that I’m still not quite convinced anyone will care about but me. Somehow I discovered a thru-line and tied all the stories together.

But last week as I was tearing boxes apart in search of a prop, I literally freaked-the-fuck-out because I couldn’t find what I needed. I eventually found it but not before I had a full-on mental breakdown. The stress of the home renovation, the exhaustion of traveling, and the rigors of working in this environment had finally gotten to me.

It was time to come to terms with my situation. I had to be honest with myself and admit that the show is finished - but it’s not ready.

It’s 50%, maybe 60% ready, but it’s not up to my standards. When it comes to my show, I’m a perfectionist. And it’s hard to get the show where I want when I’ve been living in a construction zone for the past six weeks.

With another two weeks of rehearsal in a less chaotic environment I would probably be ready to debut the new show in full. But, this is the reality of living where you work and working where you live. When you live a creative life you learn to be satisfied with how far you've come even if you aren't quite satisfied with where you are.

A year ago my fringe show was a few lines in my notebook. But now, a year and 100+ performances later, I’ve written not one - but TWO - completely different shows. And I’m putting the greatest hits from both shows onstage seven times over the next ten days at the 2017 Chicago Fringe Festival.

After that, I’m going to perfect the rest of my new material on my new floors at home. And once it’s ready, I’m going on tour all over again. You’d better get ready, too.

Privilege

I’ll be honest. I wasn’t fully aware of the extent of my white privilege until earlier this year.

I was performing for an event in the middle of nowhere as the featured entertainment for an annual celebration. Many of my gigs take me to obscure locations around the country. Gigs in middle America are vastly different than gigs in major coastal cities. Fancy hors d'oeuvres and expensive wines are replaced by buffet lines and All-American beers. The meal is prefaced with a prayer and everyone is incredibly polite.

That’s one of the biggest perks of my job: I get to travel the world meeting people from all walks of life. I’m thrust into new situations and get to pretend like I belong for a few hours. It’s a constant adventure.

But, many months ago, I had a realization. I was chatting with my client about living in the city. They responded with “I don’t think I could go to Chicago. There are too many eth-en-ticities [sic] there…”

I bit my tongue and changed the subject. I wasn’t going to end racism by fighting with sixty people in a small town. (Plus, I still needed to get paid for that show.) But it did make me think of something that I hadn’t before: 

I realized that they thought I was one of them.

See, I’m from a small town in Kansas so I have a folksy, down-to-earth charm that allows me to fit in everywhere I go. I may be a big city liberal elite but I’m a chameleon at the many events I work. I’m able to relate to different people in different places and get along with all of them thanks to my midwestern upbringing and, more specifically, the color of my skin.

It was the first time I realized that other performers in my field were probably missing out on these gigs because they were a different race than I am. It occurred to me that there was a whole portion of the population that were too afraid of hiring someone different than them and, as a result, they were missing out on experiencing some of the best entertainment in the world.

In that moment I was angry and sad and everything in between. I finally understood how incredibly fortunate I am to be a white man in America. Not only do I get to make a living as an entertainer, but I get to do so wherever I want without fear of discrimination or injustice.

If you can’t see that you’re even more privileged than I am.