Fun

Being onstage is my favorite thing to do for fun.

Mind reading shows are inherently interactive. The show is not about me, it's about you - the audience. Without you there are no minds to read, no thoughts to gather, no laughter, no applause.

My show is improvisational by design. The script has peaks and valleys that lead to an inexplicable dénouement.

The peaks are set-in-stone. Exposition and dialogue, crafted to move the narrative forward. The words must be clear and concise, engaging and interesting. And, in the process, a character must emerge. A fully-formed, three dimensional, onstage persona. Self-deprecating but smart, funny without trying too hard. In control, but not intimidating. Easier said than done.

Then we reach the mountaintop. The next peak is visible, mere minutes of dialogue away, but I have to cross the valley of improvisation to get there. 

Going downhill isn't bad in this scenario. Going downhill means building momentum. Every word and action that brought us here has led us to this place. And that's when it gets fun.

I don't know what I'll say in this moment. It's based on audience responses. The thoughts and ideas brought onstage each night are different, with each leading to a new path through my "Choose-Your-Own-Mind-Reading-Adventure" show.

Sometimes, when I'm rehearsing, I think of the valleys and they scare me. There's a big, intimidating gap in the script that never gets filled in until that exact moment onstage.

Will I remember their name? Will they be helpful? Will I respond with something clever? Or will I fall flat on my face and stumble over my words? Will I completely blank and fail to come up with a witty ad-lib?

I watch other performers improvising onstage and think to myself "Wow, they're good. That was such a fast response. I'm no where near that quick."

Then the show comes and something happens. I'm in the moment, listening and responding in real-time, but it feels like I'm on auto-pilot. It's as if all of my years of theatre and improv training take over for a few seconds, saying "Don't worry. We've got this!"

The words are there. The jokes are crafted in the moment, like last week: 

"Name a city in the world that you've been to before and would like to return to again."

"Tampa."

"Who would want to go back to Tampa?"

Or the night before, when a middle-aged woman kept voicing her thoughts (unprompted) from the front row:

"You don't have to say every single thing that comes to mind! You're like a typical boomer on Facebook, oversharing and unaware. Am I right, Millenials?!"

Those may not read as good as they sounded but believe me, after winning an audience over for the first 20 minutes of my show - those ad-libbed responses brought the house down.

The goal is to encourage this interaction, not squash it. There's no fourth wall. The audience is the cast, the thoughts are my props, and your mind is my stage. It's not a one-man show. We're all in this together.

When volunteers come onstage I have a series of three questions I ask to get to know them a little better.

  • Where are you from?

  • What do you do for a living?

  • What's your favorite thing to do for fun?

Knowing where someone is from is very telling and a career choice is certain to reveal something about a person that wasn't obvious before, but my favorite question is the final one: What's your favorite thing to do for fun?

95% of my volunteers don't have an answer for that question. They hesitate, unsure of how to respond, then awkwardly say the first thing they think of. Typically, it's answers like "Drink", "Go out with friends", "Party", and so on.

If my participants had a script, this moment would be their "valley of improvisation". This is the one question that gives them the biggest chance to express themself, to open up and say something personal. Yet, so few ever know how to respond.

It's as if the things that define us today are no longer our passions. The things that should take priority - our interests, frivolous pursuits, and more - have taken the backseat to the things that society deems more important. We have become defined by where we're from and what we do, not where we're headed and what we want to be doing.

However, every once in a while I do get an interesting answer onstage.

"Rock climbing."

"Skydiving."

"Sewing."

This is the 5% of the audience that interests me the most. These people have a clear idea of what defines them and how they choose to spend their time. They aren't boxed in by anyone else's presuppositions about modern-day life. They are fully themselves and not ashamed to admit it in front of a roomful of strangers. These are my people.

I was watching a documentary recently called "Particle Fever". It's about a group of scientists working on the Hadron Collider and studying the Higgs boson particle. (It's a fascinating documentary if you're into that sort of thing.) The closing line stuck with me:

“Why do humans do science? Why do they do art? The things that are least important for our survival are the very things that make us human.”
— Particle Fever

It's not where you're from and it's not what you do for a living that defines you. It's not what people tell you to say and how you say it. Staying on script can be awfully boring. The fun begins when you set off on your own, into uncharted territory. The fun starts when you give yourself permission to do what you've always wanted. The fun starts when you want it to.

So...what's your favorite thing to do for fun?

Learning

The road is never more lonely than after a bad show. The economy rental car silently cuts through the night, guiding you back to your room on its own. Your mind is elsewhere, contemplating the minutiae of the show, reliving the performance word-for-word, beat-for-beat.

A bad show is like getting turned down by the girl you asked to prom - except this time it's in front of 500 strangers. A bad show is like forgetting your sixth grade book report over and over again for 45 minutes. A bad show is like watching your coffee mug careen off the counter in slow-motion, crashing into a million pieces on the kitchen floor.

Don't be fooled. When you're bombing, you're completely aware of it. You know you're bombing and you do your best to tread water and get through it. A slight laugh or a hint of energy in the room gives you hope to continue, even though you may have lost the crowd 30 minutes ago.

Sometimes it's the audience. Maybe they weren't your demo. Maybe they were too drunk, or not drunk enough. Maybe they were too tired.

Sometimes it's the venue. Maybe the room was too big. Maybe it was too small. Maybe the sound system was outdated and people couldn't hear you. Maybe the client changed the floor plan at the last minute.

Sometimes it's the event. Maybe it went too long. Maybe there was too much going on. Maybe they were distracted by the company raffle or the dessert the caterer just laid out on the opposite side of the room.

The excuses echo in your hotel room as you stare at the ceiling. You question every decision that led you to this point. But the only person to blame is yourself.

It's always your fault - no matter what. 

You failed to educate the buyer or vet the client. You failed to effectively plan the layout. You failed at something.

It's always your fault.

You get into performing for the good shows: the applause, the standing ovations, the packed houses and rave reviews. 

Good shows are what you dream of on those early morning flights around the country. Good shows are the answer to every half-baked creative equation scrawled in your notebook. Good shows are the destination...but bad shows are how you get there.

Bad shows are your education.

A bad show stops you in your tracks. You're distraught and depressed but everyone else is going on with their lives like nothing happened. The sun still rises and sets, just like any other day.

At first it's hard to sleep and hard to move on, but developing a mental suit-of-armor is a must for a career in the arts. You keep the good and fix the bad, then move on to the next gig.

This isn't about a bad show I had recently. It's about something else. But you're supposed to write about what you know and I thought that the necessity of learning from bad gigs was a good metaphor for life. For every experience, you have to keep the good and fix the bad. You have to wake up tomorrow and get back to work.

Life will go on. It always does.

Patience

I love games. 

Board games, card games, party games - you name it. Strategy games were always my favorite. Chess, Stratego, Risk, Go, Pente, and more. I'm not sure why. I guess when you live in a small town and you don't have much else to do, you end up making your own fun. My fun was mastering any game I could get my hands on.

My fourth grade teacher loved playing chess. He was really good and never took it easy on me. Even when I moved on to sixth and seventh grade, I would walk back across town after school to meet him for our weekly chess match.

I had a long row of chess books at home and studied them more than my homework. But no matter how much I learned about chess I could never beat Mr. Kern.

Then one day I castled, sacrified my knight, and set myself up beautifully for the end game. We danced around each other on the board in silence, the custodian's keys echoing in the empty, familiar hallway.

We traded pieces and shielded our kings, and it became apparent that I wasn't going to lose. I had dreamt of this moment and anticipated his moves. Mr. Kern stared down over the board and, after what seemed like hours, he did exactly what I was hoping. Finally, it was my turn. 

It was a draw. I had pulled even. I was ecstatic.

Mr. Kern - Lyle - had given me a tremendous gift. He had forced me to actually learn the game and try to outwork him. He hadn't let me win and had always played his best. 

Somedays he would humiliate me, winning after a handful of moves. Others, we would fight hard before he would outfox me with a clever combination. But that day was different. I was prepared for his strategy and fought back. I had learned to hold my own and create my own opportunities. It took months and months of agonizing defeats, but my dedication had finally paid off.

I don't remember playing chess with Lyle much after that. Middle school activities got in the way; track, drama, basketball, and choir. I was caught up in adolescence, trying hard to fit in when I could and hide when I couldn't.

In high school I joined the tennis team. Only in a small town could your high school tennis coach also be your favorite elementary school teacher. Lyle and I had crossed paths again.

I had a volatile temper on the court, always knowing I could be better but unable to get where I wanted. And Lyle was there for me again, showing me ways to control my anger and channel it into my game. By my senior year, thanks to Lyle, I was a top-ten finisher at the state tournament.

My favorite games - just like tennis and chess -  teach you patience. You have to commit to something for a long time and know that your hard work will pay off in the end. You have to be willing to be terrible in hopes that one day you can finally pull even. You have to wait for your shot before you can finally unleash your forehand...or bishop...or new mind reading show.

There's no shortcut to success. There's no secret "lifehack" that will suddenly get you where you want to be. No one is going to take it easy on you and if they do, they'll only be doing you a disservice.

Some people find success quickly, with few roadblocks or detours along the way. For the rest of us, we have to keep working and writing and practicing and studying and finally - after patiently waiting - it's our turn to make a move.

We Did It!

Last night, I hosted the "Be Happy" variety show in Chicago in response to the election results. You can read about the impetus for the show in this post.

I was blown away at the support for the show. Nine of my favorite performers happily donated their time and energy to the night, The Public House Theatre graciously donated the space, and we had over 80 audience members who packed the house for a night of comedy, magic, and mind reading.

At the end of the night, we totaled the donations and discovered we had raised over $1500 for the American Civil Liberties Union of Illinois! My original goal had been $1000, so I was ecstatic to know we had surpassed my expectations.

The demands of putting together a show is different than my usual job of just being an entertainer, so I was much more nervous/stressed out than usual. I am a perfectionist about little details and lost a ton of sleep making sure this thing came together. I'm exhausted and won't come down from last night for a few days - but I'm so happy that we did this.

A special thank you to the remarkable performers: Junior Stopka, Dennis Watkins, Adam Burke, Soli Santos, Sameena Mustafa, AJ Sacco, Bill Bullock, Cody Melcher, and Prateek Srivastava.

Also, thanks to my friends Byron and Sasha Hatfield, who run The Public House Theatre, and my wife Stephanie for taking pictures during the show.

The goal of the show was always to help people forget about the shitty parts of 2016 and "Be Happy" for a night. I was wearing so many hats - producer, host, performer, ACLU spokesperson - that I didn't have a chance to thank everyone who came last night.

So if you were in attendance, from the bottom of my heart, I want to say thank you.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

It's so easy to stay home and pretend that a retweet is equal to activism. Thank you for getting out of your house, doing your part, and getting involved. Thank you for supporting live theater. Thank you for being part of something good. Thank you for doing something.

Last night was everything to me. I hope you're as happy as I am.

Thankful

Happy Thanksgiving.

It's hard to say that phrase because 2016 has been a pretty rough year. It's not the "giving thanks" part I'm having trouble with. I have plenty to be thankful for.

I have a beautiful, talented wife who is supportive of everything I do. We travel, create art, live, work, and play together. I'm thankful for her every day.

I also love what I do. I'm incredibly fortunate to do the exact thing I promised myself I would be doing 25 years ago. I spend my days making people laugh and helping them experience something that is becoming harder to find with every passing moment: mystery. It's my dream job and I'm thankful for it every single day.

Plus, I live in Chicago. The Windy City constantly challenges me to make my time count and to work harder. I always wanted to live in a city full of opportunity, surrounded by people different than me. Chicago is all of that and more. I'm so thankful to live here.

So yeah, it's not the "giving thanks" part I'm struggling with. It's the "happy" part.

I haven't been very happy this year - for a lot of reasons.

Work was slow for the first four or five months of 2016. I'm not sure why, but I was in a funk and I didn't feel like I was getting anywhere artistically. As a result, my business suffered. 

Most performers in my field pretend to be busier than they are. They boast of their number of shows and their first class seats. But I don't want to lie - not here on my own blog. The point of these essays is to be honest, so believe me when I say the start of 2016 sucked for me. Artistically and business-wise. It was awful.

When you're self-employed and business is slow, it puts a strain on everything. My wife and I would get frustrated with each other more often, looking for somewhere to place the blame. We had to go all the way to London to get away from our work and take a break.

I was also training for a marathon at the start of the year. I was logging between 50-60 miles a month on top of a busy show/travel schedule during the holidays. Then, I was out for a run one day and I felt a sharp pain shoot up through my right foot and into my leg. I went to a podiatrist who told me that my feet aren't really built for running. Some custom orthotics and several months of physical therapy later, I'm finally getting back to training. But my progress is gone. I hate starting over.

In August my best friend killed himself. I've never been more sad then I was the day I heard the news. There's an emptiness inside of me now that will never be replaced. A song will come on my iPod that reminds me of Jake and it stops me dead in my tracks. I try to smile through it but it hurts too much. I miss him every day.

As the bad news kept piling on over the summer, I tried to figure out what happiness means to me. Why do I feel so sad when I have so much to be thankful for?

I turned to my usual outlet - writing - and made a list of the things that were affecting my mental well-being.

  • Social Media

  • Society's Definition Of Success

  • Negative People

The things that contributed to my depression all had one trait in common: they were out of my control. So I made another list - some reminders for myself:

  • I couldn't control what people shared online - I could only control my response to it.

  • My definition of success didn't have to be the same as everyone else's.

  • I could choose to eliminate the negative people from my life.

Now, whenever I'm alone and uncertain I pull up those reminders on my phone and think about what makes me truly happy. I can only control my thoughts and my actions. Nothing else. So I choose to think good thoughts and do good deeds.

I choose to be happy.

Business has picked up. I'll end the year with more shows and flights than any prior year. It just took a while to get going.

I'm slowly getting back into running. I can't wait to do another marathon.

Losing a friend made me realize how important the people I care about really are. I will never take them for granted.

I've stopped talking to the people who bring me down. I limit my time on social media and remind myself how little it matters. And I view success differently than I did before.

I'm not as sad as I was at the start of the year but I'm not fully happy either. Still, I'm closer than I've been for a really long time. And for that I'm truly thankful.

Make Great Art

I spent three or four days after the election losing sleep and trying to come to grips with the results. Then, at the end of last week, I decided it was time to do something.

So I logged onto the American Civil Liberties Union's website and pulled up their donate page. I typed $100 into the submission box, then paused.

Blink, blink, blink.

The cursor taunted me, reading my thoughts for a change.

Was this the best I could do?

All last year I had donated to campaigns and causes, lent my voice to protests and debates. I was involved and educated, but to what end?

Here I was, ready to donate again, but it just didn't feel like anything would come out of it. After a vicious election cycle in our post-truth society, how would this truly change anything?

I could click send and have a small sense of pride knowing I had donated to the ACLU, but then what? I guess I'd walk over to my neighborhood coffee shop and listen to a podcast. Just like any other day.

But it's not any other day now, is it?

Blink, blink, blink.

As I stared at the blinking cursor, a few thoughts raced through my mind:

When George W. Bush was president I had serious concerns with his actions and disagreed with him on nearly everything. However, I still respected the office of the president. I knew it wasn't the end of the world and he would be out of office soon.

But this time is different. We have a president-elect (whose name I refuse to use because he already gets enough free advertising) who built his entire campaign on hate, sexism, racism, and more. He was endorsed by the KKK and encouraged violence at his rallies. Not to mention, he's a sexual predator and has really tiny, baby hands.

So no, I don't respect this person. And I don't understand the people in the media saying "Just give him a chance!" Isn't that what the campaign was for? You can't erase eighteen months of disgusting rhetoric with a victory. He's still the same awful person he was prior to winning.

That's why this time is different. That's why people are protesting and my neighborhood has grown eerily quiet. That's why people are wearing safety pins and speaking out. They're scared for the future and uncertain of what our country will look like with a thin-skinned demagogue in charge.

Blink, blink, blink.

The cursor winked back at me like it does so often when writer's block hits mid-essay. And I finally understood what I was feeling.

This time it's different. A simple donation on our way to work won't get the job done. It's time for more action. 

It's time for more love and more empathy. It's time for more understanding and more compassion.

This is a time for people to bridge the gap between different opinions. It's time to enrich and inspire, educate and enlighten. 

It's a time to make great art. Fearless, unapologetic, fantastic art.

So I opened my inbox and started reaching out to my favorite performers in Chicago. I messaged a local theater I'd worked with in the past. I opened Photoshop and started designing a poster.

And suddenly, an idea was born.

On Sunday, November 27th, I'm hosting a one-night-only show called "BE HAPPY 😀: A Forget-About-The-Election Variety Show", along with nine of the best performers in the city.

The best part? ONE HUNDRED PERCENT of the proceeds will be going to the ACLU!

When something bad happens I've always been a person who responds by doing more. I get more involved and make sure my voice is heard. I fight for what I believe in by taking more action.

Somewhere in the midst of a dozen projects, two browser windows, fourteen open tabs - between research, writing, and half-baked ideas - is that donate page. And that goddamn cursor, still waiting for my next move.

I can't wait to hit send on November 28th and get rid of that. But I need your help.

If you've been wanting to do something since the election but weren't sure what to do, then this is a great first step. Come to this show and forget about the election for a couple hours. You'll see some magic, laugh, maybe even let me read your mind. All for a great cause.

Then you can go do something else and get even more involved. That's what I plan on doing and so should you. But for now, get a ticket for this show and support the ACLU. I think we all deserve to BE HAPPY for a night.

You can read more about the show, the lineup of incredible performers, and buy tickets here. 😀

Silence

I walked down Lake Shore Drive in the early hours after the election. The results weren't fully in yet, but the outcome was inevitable.

My heart pounded ferociously in my chest and my breath was short and staggered. Numbed by this awful moment in time, I stared off into the darkness of Chicago unable to process my thoughts and come to grip with this reality.

The best I could offer were tears of solace and solidarity for my friends who would live in fear for years to come. But my best wasn't even close to being good enough.

My mind was racing but I couldn't form sentences. My feelings changed without warning, unable to be put into words.

I was engulfed by the silence.

My opinions are simple: I don't care what you believe as long as it doesn't hurt anyone else. That simple thought is at the core of what I believe and how I act toward others.

So how was I supposed to live in a world fueled by hate? The only country I've ever known had turned its back on decency and love for our fellow citizens.

Then I wondered, how do the people I've known my whole life feel about this election? How is it affecting them?

And that's when it hit me. The people who claimed to be loving and compassionate and caring and religious and kind to all were no where to be found.

They weren't posting meaningful dialogue online. They weren't contributing to the conversation. And they weren't voicing their disgust for a person who was openly against everything they claimed to believe.

Throughout this election, I've been subjected to various forms of bullying by people on social media. Old high school classmates have called me a "spoiled brat" or a "fucktard". They've made assumptions about my character and the character of my friends. I've been attacked viciously by white supremacists on Twitter and had to listen to old white men at gigs angrily tell me why they support a misogynistic, tax evading, sexist demagogue.

Where were my "religious" friends when I needed defending? Where were my "religious" friends when Muslims, women, immigrants, the disabled, Veterans, Mexicans, and other groups were being marginalized? Where were they when their voice could have mattered the most?

They were no where to be found.

This isn't on me. The ones of us who spoke out and attended rallies are not to blame. We're not responsible for this setback to this country we love. 

I'm sorry to my friends who are minorities. I'm sorry to my friends in the LGBTQ community. I'm sorry to the refugees and the women. I'm sorry to my wife and future children. I'm sorry to my friends with disabilities. I'm sorry to anyone with a religion other than the majority's. I'm sorry to the youth of America who will be bullied at school now because other children will have seen a person in power who bullies others, too.

I'm not religious. I don't go to church or send out "thoughts and prayers". I take action and make sure my voice is heard. I take a stand for what matters, as long as it doesn't hurt anyone else.

As a white man, I'll be fine. I'll go about my life like nothing has changed and everything will work out. But I'm not fine. 

I know everything will be okay, but things won't ever be the same.

I just wish the people who claim to have "values" - my family and friends who claim to be so "moral" and "good" - had done their part. I wish you had lived what you love to preach.

So to those people now, I say this:

I see you.

I see your "religion" and your "morality". But most of all, I see your hypocrisy.

Your silence has not gone unnoticed.

It's deafening.

Honesty

I'm a liar.

My voice isn't always this loud. I have a microphone on and it amplifies the words I'm saying.

Standing like this isn't natural. No one stands like this in real life. My "upstage foot" - the one farthest away from you - is slightly ahead of my "downstage foot".  It's a stance designed to make you feel as if you can still see me while I'm talking to someone onstage.  It's literally called "cheating out".

I told you. I'm not telling the truth.

We're in this room with three real walls and a fourth one that we've invisibly agreed exists in the space between us. 

Now we're just lying to ourselves.

You sit there, all facing the same way, and I stand here peering out at you through my glasses. One lens is necessary - I'm blind in my left eye - but the other is just a pane of glass. Another white lie to give the appearance of normal.

A faceless figure in the shadows is sliding switches and pushing buttons to make sure my amplified voice is the right volume and these bright lights - all pointed in my direction - turn on at the right time.

If they do their job right you won't even notice.

The inside of my briefcase, weathered by years on the road, is held together with gaff tape.  Extra pencils and batteries sit just out of sight. You'll never see the ugly truth behind this facade I'm showing you.

My watch doesn't work, but I glance at it just to keep up appearances.

I'll be saying the same words I said last night but making them sound fresh and new. It may feel unplanned but I spent hours writing the script on my MacBook and refining it onstage. It took years to write it out and give you enough clues to fill in the blanks.

So I stand here, surrounded by lies, as the most sincere version of myself.  Without those lies I can't give you the truth. I can't tell you the things that matter and make you forget the things that don't. I can't make you care without lying to you first.

I need this room with this invisible wall, and those chairs, facing towards the front. I need this mic and my mysterious friend to make sure I'm heard. I need to "cheat out" and say the same words I've said a million times. I need all of those things to keep this on the up and up. 

What better place to be honest than on stage?

Mark Toland’s world-class entertainment is the go-to choice for special events worldwide. His award-winning mind reading talents have been featured on ABC, CBS, FOX, NBC, WGN, TEDx, NPR, WBEZ, SiriusXM, and PBS. Mark is based out of Chicago and travels worldwide for events. Read more about Mark or check out the booking page for more info.