Self Help for the Rest of Us: "The Nerdist Way"

First, an apology for the long absence. I don't want to be all "life's been crazy!" but, well, life's been crazy. I'm now writing reviews for Chicago Theater Beat as well as blogging for RedEye and I just started a new full-time job. Also I'm taking the NaNoWriMo plunge again (maybeimamazed02 on the NaNo site if you want to be writing buddies) because I'm just that much of a nerd. 


And speaking of nerds, I'm jumping back into the Unpro with a review of The Nerdist Way! This ain't your momma's self-help book, I tell you what. Read on:


I was never the biggest fan of Singled Out, mainly because of Jenny McCarthy's never-closing mouth. I always wondered how many flies she swallowed during her tenure on MTV's finest dating show. Meaning I didn't remember her co-host Chris Hardwick was until I heard he interviewed Joel McHale for his podcast, The Nerdist. As I love all things McHale, I tuned in and was hooked on Hardwick's geeky enthusiasm for movies, video games, the celebrities he was interviewing and...a lot of other things.

I recognized that obsessive need to know every detail about something you like. There's a name for us folks. That name is nerd. And in his very first book The Nerdist Way, Hardwick turns self-help on its awkwardly focused little head, outlining everything from healthier eating to positive-r thinking for everyone out there who got beat up in junior high for singing show tunes (me) or playing D&D (so many of the men in my life) or knowing just a bit more than everyone else.

Chris Hardwick's a study in reinvention. A bowling champion's offspring, a Catholic school alum (represent!) and the former roommate of Wil Wheaton, Hardwick fell into an MTV career in his early twenties. By his late twenties, however, Hardwick had hit bottom: he worked only sporadically, drank very heavily and became a borderline recluse. Since then he's turned things around. He cut back on the beer, started working out and lost a lot of weight. He's got a happening stand-up and writing career, and in 2008 launched the blog Nerdist.com, which has since grown into a podcast and television show (cohosted by cohorts Jonah Ray and Matt Mira), and now a pretty decent self-help book that doesn't ask you anything about parachutes.

When I heard on the Nerdist podcast (oh yeah, he's also interviewed Tom Lennon and Ben Garant - download it! Tom's hilarious and Ben gets all riled up like the good ole Southern boy he is) that Hardwick was penning a tome, I used my super blogger powers (aka Google) to request a review copy. I came, I saw, I read.

I like!

Though I'm a big advocate of self-help actions (e.g. therapy, physical activity, healthy eating), I'm not a fan of the books. (Yes, I read a poem from Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul in my valedictory speech. I was seventeen. I didn't know any better.) I felt differently about The Nerdist Way. Chris Hardwick reminds me of the dudes I was friends with in high school, like my artist classmate who gave me movie trivia books, my speech team and dance partner who shared my penchant for broad humor and double pirouettes and my Star Trek-obsessed buddy who taped South Park for me when I asked nicely. He's accessible. He's funny. He not only owns his nerdiness but has turned it into a career. He hit bottom - as we all do at certain points in our lives - and turned it around all by himself. And now he instructs readers on everything from decision-making to cleaning up credit scores to bench-pressing.

Regarding the latter, I could have done without the pages and pages of detailed workout tips. Then again, I have an established fitness routine already (burlesque, yoga, walking) and I realize those pages could be extremely useful to someone else. Just like people who didn't grow up Catholic might not recognize how hard it can be to enjoy when good things happen - rather than forever waiting for the other shoe to drop. I know this feeling. God, do I know it. I just didn't realize I wasn't alone in this thought process and I appreciated not only Hardwick's empathy but his tips on how to combat it.

Also, the chapters on creative productivity are excellent. As a full-time employee and part-time arteeste, I regularly beat my schedule into submission - but it's hard not to get tempted by cat videos and Reno 911 DVDs. Or that issue of Cosmo taunting me from the other side of the library. When I read Hardwick's tips on maximizing one's free time, I felt relieved I was doing something right - and I learned the difference between "good busy" and "bad busy."

Finally, Hardwick instructs readers how to use the "evil genius" method to achieve goals. I won't spoil it for you, but let's just say having a celebrity crush can be totally helpful. Hardwick's theory revolves around channeling sexual energy into motivation. Did you hear that? I AM VALIDATED, Y'ALL! Little did I know that my dorky fixations on Garant, McHale and various other high-profile gentlemen with snarky barbs and cute butts can actually serve a purpose! Hardwick's so getting a hug for that, should I ever meet him.

So yeah, I recommend The Nerdist Way. Jocks be damned. Like evil geniuses who stop at nothing to get what they want, nerds are doing it for themselves - in a nicer way, of course.

Girl Walks Into a Bar: My Experience with The Moth

In my past life (meaning, up until my early twenties), I was a performer. I lived and breathed theatre, music and dance and dreamed of the EGOT (Emmy, Grammy, Oscar, Tony) way before Tracy Jordan made it a thing, Liz Lemon. Even when I put aside my artsy-fartsy dreams for the more realistic path of law school, I took dance classes to keep myself sane and even directed a production of The Vagina Monologues, one performance of which was in a parking lot, which is another story for another day.

Performing took a backseat in my mid- to late twenties, as I was doing the whole figuring-out-my-life deal. I came back slowly: in 2008, I started taking dance again. In 2010, I was in two flash mobs. Also last year, I branched out into burlesque and took part in a group performance, which was one of the most terrifying and electrifying experiences of my life thus far.

This past Tuesday, in the very same bar where I'd bared my bod, I bared my soul.

I did it. I told a story for The Moth.

I was first introduced to The Moth by my coworker Megan, who attended a StorySlam event with one of her friends. "It's so cool and you'd love it," she gushed to me the next day. "You put your name into a hat and if you get chosen, you have to tell a five-minute story in front of everyone, with no notes. In front of a sold-out room of people."

"My God, that's scary," I said, and promptly forgot about it.

Late last year, however, I was fighting a bout of depression and for some reason, listening to podcasts helped, so I asked my friends for recommendations. That's when I learned more about The Moth: like Megan said, it consists of true stories, told live, without notes. The mainstage events are in New York City and often feature published authors, musicians and other celebrities. However, there are StorySlams in Chicago, Los Angeles and Detroit, where regular folks like me can take part. Each event has a theme and your story has to fit into that. If you put your name in and are chosen to go up, you have a 45-second warning, so you better be ready.

The podcasts mainly consist of the famous people, though StorySlams sneak in every now and then. And the stories, famous or not, are phenomenal. Joyce Maynard, one of my favorite authors, did one about being a mother that brought tears to my eyes as I walked along Clark Street. A recent favorite explored her relationship to two religions: evangelical Christianity and Mary Kay cosmetics. And one of the best, in my opinion, involves a middle-school drama teacher with an attitude problem.

When I found out about the latest StorySlam here in Chicago (theme of the night: Confusion), I invited Megan. Unfortunately, she had to bail at the last minute, but I decided to go anyway. The morning of the slam, I was walking to work listening to the latest podcast.

And I had an idea.

Up until then, I'd thought I had no stories in me. Nothing true, anyway. My life hasn't been all that interesting. And five minutes with no notes, my own experience in my own words? No way. I can make up stories or follow a script with the best of 'em, but I'd never be ready for The Moth.

But something happened several months ago. Nothing horribly traumatic. Nothing terribly unique. However, maybe that was the point. And if I told it, to a room full of strangers, maybe someone could relate. And maybe I'd feel better.

On my lunch break, I wrote out the story. I got to the bar early and couldn't find a seat, so I propped my notebook up against the wall and muttered the important stuff. Oh, and I put my name in the hat.

I may not have known anyone, but the audience members around me were incredibly supportive when they found out I might be going up. One had me tell him the story, which assuaged my nerves considerably. Another said, "I walked over here when you were telling it and I thought, 'I want to hear more.' So if you're up there and you get nervous, just look over here, because I want to hear more.'"

Ten people would be called up that night.

I was number five.

It was nerve-wracking. Again, these were my own words, my own experiences. There are real people involved--even though no names are revealed, and none of them were there that night, that's still a big deal. I'm not exactly the anti-heroine in the story, but I come off very, um, human. Very imperfect.

According to the emcee for the evening, I "hit it out of the park."

I had a beer bought for me. People came from across the bar to tell me I was good. One set of judges (that's the other thing, people volunteer to be judges and score you) gave me a low score and THE WHOLE BAR BOOED THEM.

More importantly, I understood why people, well-known and not, choose to reveal their histories, their flaws, and their heartbreaks to a waiting crowd.

Forgive me for sounding corny, but it's damn therapeutic.

And that's how I found myself standing in front of a sold-out bar, taking a deep breath, and saying my opening line into the microphone:

"I spent my whole life trying to avoid cliches, only to end up in the supermarket parking lot three days after the blizzard."

This Used to Be My Playground: Elegy for a Borders

I'm a bad, bad hipster.

Don't get me wrong, I'm all about the local.  I live in a neighborhood that yes, is more gentrified than it was ten years ago, but still boasts a bevy of indie coffee bars, clothing stores, restaurants, brunch-y type places, you name it.  It's one of the reasons I pay more rent than I should--I love being surrounded by the ingenuity of my fellow (wo)man.

But today, I cry for a corporate behemoth on Chicago's Mag Mile.

You see, last weekend Borders on Michigan Avenue closed its doors forever. 

And I, the alterna-girl, am heartbroken.

I have a special affinity for Borders, for many reasons.  I love, love, love to read and those SOB's have everything.  I get killer coupons in my email and I don't even have to print them out: just show them on my smartphone and we're copasetic.  Their Seattle's Best coffee kicks ass and their spinach omelet sandwiches are like delicious, eggy crack.

More importantly, however, Borders is my mothership, my point of return at the various stages of my life.

After I lost my virginity and the lucky man had to go to work, I went to Borders, plopped in an armchair, and contemplated how I felt: at once forever changed and exactly the same.  In law school, I went to the local Borders so often the staff knew my name (and I even taught some of them at the university).  When I was a temp in downtown Chicago, I'd head to the State Street location on my lunch break and just browse around, smelling that irreplaceable new-book aroma.  (I've never been an eating-at-your-desk type because I can just feel my ass getting wider with every bite.)

That same year, I even worked at my neighborhood Borders over the Christmas season, dealing with preppy college students, cranky oldsters, and indie rockers--and that was just the staff.  I remember riding the elevator with some of my coworkers after closing late one night.  Someone cracked a snarky joke and I knew that this was my crowd, my neighborhood, where I fit in best.  I knew right then I'd made the right decision to move back to Chicago.

(Not to mention I had a really gorgeous coworker.  Yes, he could be a real douche, but he was also 6'5" and would shelve the books little 5'4" me couldn't reach.  In return, I would work on the bottom shelves for him, as it hurt his knees to squat.  Plus, we would rock paper scissors for who got to work the register.  It's the little things.)

And the Michigan Avenue Borders, well, it was a gateway to all of the above.

I first moved to the city as a college freshman, wide-eyed and innocent as the cows in the farm town from whence I came.  I couldn't believe my luck when I happened upon the Borders--three floors devoted to books!  Imagine that.  My college's downtown campus was just down the street, and for four years I took advantage of the free shuttle service.  Sometimes I'd take homework, but more often I'd grab a stack of books and read to my naive little heart's content.

This past year, I experienced a serious bout of sadness and stress.  I got in the habit of taking long walks to clear my head, and more often than not I'd find myself at the same Borders, choosing some titles and feeling more content for just a little while.  It was on one of these nights a couple months ago, that I heard a cafe employee break the bad news: soon, the store would be no more.

I'm not a huge fan of downtown, especially on weekends.  I've also had a friend work at this Borders, and she's had to deal with more annoying asshole tourists than anyone should have to see in a lifetime.  I can never understand how so many people think Chicago is the Mag Mile and that's it.  It's so much more.

But I'll always be grateful to this Borders.  In some ways, it's watched me grow up, from a college-age pixie to an ambitious temp-by-day to a semi-serious adult still figuring my shit out.  I'll miss the pretty view of the Old Water Tower, the smell of chocolate from the Hershey store, the sounds of hustle and bustle mixed with quiet contemplation.

Downtown will remain, of course, but it'll never be the same to me.

RIP.

Hey, Chicago: It's FREE MOVIE Time!

Hey everyone,

Do you like Shawn Ashmore?  He's a twin, I think he was on the Animorphs series, and then he grew up and did X-Men where he screwed over Anna Paquin (I think).

Remember The Ruins, when he was shirtless?  I do!

Anyway, The Film Yap is giving away free passes to his new movie Frozen (in which he will hopefully be shirtless again--probably not, given the film's setting, but I can dream).  Click on the link for your chance to win!

Free Movie Screening in Chicago

Hey everyone,

So The Film Yap, this most excellent movie website I've been writing for when I'm not blogging here, is starting to give away passes to free screenings in Chicago.  As a Chicagoan myself, I will be helping to promote these screenings (and I may even show up at some!  Unpro in the flesh, y'all!).

Anyway, if you're from Chicago or know someone who is, and if you like The Rock and/or cheesy kids' movies and/or free stuff (and who doesn't like free stuff?), click here to win passes to a screening of Tooth Fairy taking place Thursday, January 21.

You may remember Tooth Fairy as the film Theresa's daughter Gia unsuccessfully auditioned for on The Real Housewives of New Jersey.  No?  Just me then?

Anyway, spread the word to your Chicago pals, and let's pack the place with freebie-lovin' moviegoers, shall we?