Two IRS Employees and a Downtown Pickup, Skyscrapers Overhead, Froot Loops Underfoot

 Two IRS Employees and a Downtown Pickup, Skyscrapers Overhead, Froot Loops Underfoot

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I picked them up downtown—two IRS tax employees in suits, both carrying satchels and luggage that made them look like they were already inside a very structured kind of day. I pulled over near a safe spot by a busy intersection, tall buildings around us, skyscrapers. 

The guy immediately introduced himself, like he was setting the tone, maybe trying to get a sense of who I was and whether I was capable of getting him through downtown.

He told me he was in a slew of meetings (a slew of meetings), and I clocked that phrase right away.

My car had Froot Loops on the floor, which I noticed a second too late. That detail just sat there quietly in my mind while they got in.

They were very composed. Unfazed. That’s the word. Like nothing about traffic, detours, or timing was really going to touch them emotionally, they were just adjusting variables in a system.

I took the “slew of meetings” as a sign he might want to talk, like we were about to have some kind of driver-passenger conversation to pass the time.

But then I realized he wasn’t really talking to me.

He was on the phone with someone else.

On the ride, one of them was on a high-intensity phone call about real estate. It kept circling this pressure point, whether to move forward on a deal or switch to another lawyer who would cost them a $300 conversation just to keep things moving.

At some point, I told them I did improv comedy.

I asked if they liked comedy, like I was trying to justify the pivot in real time. I think they said yes, or at least enough to keep the conversation from dying immediately, and I leaned into it, talking about improv, how it helps me think on my feet, read situations, not freeze up.

They asked where I perform, and I could tell they were halfway curious, halfway just being polite, but I kept going anyway.

And then I made a joke about my own IRS situation, something about how I had recently dealt with it through University of Minnesota tax lawyers. And even as I said it, I had that split-second internal pause like, why did I just say that, especially to IRS employees sitting directly behind me.

It was one of those moments where your mouth is already ahead of your judgment.

We got onto I-94 West, and then there was a detour. I hesitated. I couldn’t immediately find my way back onto the interstate, and suddenly I was the one unsure.

And somehow, they weren’t.

They stayed calm the entire time. Unfazed again. Just adjusting to the delay, measuring everything in minutes rather than emotion.

And then they were the ones guiding me back, this strange reversal where two out-of-state passengers were helping me navigate a city I was supposed to be driving them through.

Two IRS employees in suits, me talking about improv and laughing a little too fast at my own thoughts, all of us trying to get somewhere different but sharing the same moving box of time for twenty minutes.

And underneath all of it, I realized this is what I do, I talk my way through uncertainty. I reach for comedy when I’m not sure how I’m landing. Even when it’s messy or slightly awkward, it’s how I stay in motion

Ride share story #100

 Today I picked up a passenger and we started talking about what counts as high-adrenaline—what people actually do versus what they imagine doing. He mentioned that at his warehouse job, a lot of workers can’t even go up on the high scaffolding, not because they don’t want to work, but because they’re too fearful.

That stuck with me.

So I asked him, what’s the most high-adrenaline thing he would do?

He said, “Roller coasters.”

I laughed inside. Nothing is more funny than seeing adults say they’re fearful of roller coasters, as if that’s the only thing they could come up with at this point in life.

Not skydiving. Not anything extreme. Just roller coasters.

He laughed and said, “I have to be pushed out of a plane to skydive,” like no one really chooses that in a normal moment.

And that opened the door to a story I probably didn’t think through before telling.

I told him about an earlier passenger I’d had—a woman who had been in the army. She told me about people she served with who had to jump out of a helicopter during a mission. One of them… their parachute didn’t open.

She died.

I kind of regretted saying that in that moment, so I said, “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to scare you.”

But he just shrugged it off. Said he wasn’t planning on jumping out of a plane anytime soon anyway.

Then he started talking about his dad.

His dad had been in a war too. He was on an aircraft that went down, and afterward, he had to pull his fellow soldiers out—people with broken legs, broken limbs. Real, physical damage.

And somehow, his dad talked about it like it was just something that happened. Like it was survivable. Like it was… handled.

But then he said something that lingered.

That a lot of the people who came back from war weren’t really okay.

After I dropped him off, the car got quiet again.
That kind of quiet doesn’t last long in this job.

My next passenger got in, and the tone shifted almost immediately. We started talking about school—specifically women trying to get into med school. She was weighing her options, thinking about what it would take, where she could go.

And without really planning to, I found myself giving advice. Talking about alternative paths, even mentioning places like the Cayman Islands, how people find their way into careers through routes that aren’t always the obvious ones.

It was such a different kind of risk.

Not jumping out of planes.
Not pulling people out of wreckage.

Just… choosing a path and hoping it works.

And then there’s this other part of the job that doesn’t really fit into any of that.

Like the gas station.

There’s this weird, almost cinematic moment where you’re just standing there as an Uber driver and suddenly you’re in someone else’s story. One guy hit on me twice—once inside the store and then again outside, like he was really going for it.

Finally he asked, “You got a man?”

And I said to him, “Yeah—he’s really great.”

Which wasn’t true.
But it was easier than explaining anything real.

And it all kind of sits next to each other—the adrenaline, the stories, the choices, the little moments where you decide what to say and who to be.

Sometimes it’s about surviving something big.
Sometimes it’s about choosing a future.
And sometimes it’s just standing in a gas station, answering a question in a way that lets you move on.

The Wizard of Oz at CTC: A Review

The Wizard of Oz, directed by Rick Dildine, is currently playing at the Children’s Theatre Company in Minneapolis on the UnitedHealth Group Stage. Adapted from The Wizard of Oz, the production features music direction by Victor Zupanc and choreography by Christopher Windom. Designed as an all-ages theatrical experience, the show brings a familiar story to a younger audience.

There is a moment early in the production that captures its ambition: Dorothy’s house lifts into a swirling, tornado-like projection, a kind of holographic image that carries her into Oz before landing, famously, on the Wicked Witch of the East. It’s visually inventive, and for a brief stretch, it feels like anything might be possible.

That sense of theatrical magic returns whenever Glinda appears. Descending from above on a trapeze-like rig, surrounded by a glowing circle of light, she brings a calm, almost otherworldly presence to the stage.

Elsewhere, the pacing is less certain. The first half lingers on extended sequences with the townspeople, which seem to dilute the momentum. In a show so closely associated with its central trio, the Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Lion, it’s noticeable when those characters take a back seat. For a production aimed at younger audiences, that imbalance can feel especially pronounced, since keeping children engaged requires momentum, and prolonged focus on secondary material can cause that energy to dip.

When those familiar characters do take center stage, the energy lifts. The Cowardly Lion, in particular, draws some of the biggest reactions. His playful bravado, especially in moments where he attempts to prove his toughness, lands as genuinely funny, and the audience of children clearly connects with his goofy confidence.

The Scarecrow, in particular, delivered a strong performance. You could really feel his personality come through, and there were moments where his movement, especially rising from a low, grounded position into standing using a turf-like dance technique to get to his feet, was striking, expressive, and highly effective.

The ensemble work is another highlight. Musical numbers are tightly executed, with choreography that feels synchronized and fluid as townspeople move in and out of scenes. There’s a strong sense of coordination across the stage, and at moments you can feel the audience responding to familiar musical cues and rhythms, which adds to the shared energy in the room.

There were also moments where the production could have pushed further, particularly in its pacing and sense of humor. A slightly more relaxed rhythm in certain scenes might have allowed stronger acting beats to land more clearly, especially if the production leaned into more playful “winks” or acknowledgments to the audience. Given that the staging already includes inventive moments like Glinda’s descent on a trapeze-like rig, there is room for more consistent use of theatrical effects or design choices that might heighten the sense of spectacle even further. At times, the overall visual approach feels relatively minimal. In scenes where Dorothy’s house is referenced, the staging sometimes relies primarily on projections with sparse farm materials in the foreground, which can soften the impact of the iconic image of the house being swept into the sky.

The frequent visual shifts from story moments into projection-heavy staging often feel like resets rather than continuous transitions. Instead of building seamlessly from one environment to the next, the production sometimes appears to restart visually with each scene change. This can also affect how performances land, as attention is repeatedly redirected toward new visual environments before character work has time to fully register.

Not all elements come through as clearly. At times, the sound design feels uneven, with moments where voices don’t fully resonate in the space.

Dorothy anchors the production with a steady presence, though the performance remains somewhat understated.

Ultimately, this is a production that shines in flashes, through visual effects, standout character work, and moments of stagecraft that gesture toward something more immersive. But those highlights are occasionally slowed by pacing choices and uneven technical execution.

The Wizard of Oz continues at the Children’s Theatre Company through June 14, 2026.

Four World Premieres at Luminary Arts Center:a review

 The program at Luminary Arts Center on Saturday, April 19 at 2 p.m. brings together a range of choreographic voices, including works by Shane Larson and Assaf Salhov, performed by the ARENA DANCES company. The afternoon situates itself within a contemporary framework that blends structured composition with moments of improvisational feeling, drawing from multiple musical and cultural influences.

The program unfolds through shifting atmospheres of light, sound, and collective movement, where dancers often emerge from near-darkness before dissolving back into it. Faces disappear, leaving the body, and the surrounding soundscape, to carry the weight of expression. This interplay creates an environment where perception feels slightly altered, as if the audience is being asked to listen as much as to watch.

One of the most striking motifs is a recurring sense of suspension and trust. Dancers launch themselves into one another’s arms, bodies held horizontally in midair before being caught, evoking the instinctive leap of a child seeking safety. The feeling stays with me, as the repeated trust-fall moments suggest dependence and a search for footing within a world that often feels sonically unsettled. The dissonant, radio-like textures in the score heighten this tension, as if clarity is always just out of reach.

In Fishscale, choreographed by Shane Larson, the structure appears to follow a sequence of musical chapters, “Overture,” “10 years,” “Chess,” “Quick departure,” “Where am I gonna land?”, and “Immunity.” These function as compositional sections rather than separate dances, each marking a shift in tone or pacing. The title suggests layering and protection, something textured and overlapping, mirrored in the way movement accumulates and sheds across the work.

The Fold, by Assaf Salhov, draws on a diverse musical landscape, including selections by Béla Bartók and Getatchew Mekurya. At times, the choreography references elements of Ethiopian traditional dance, particularly in moments of quick, rhythmic shoulder isolations and head movements, gestures reminiscent of eskista, known for its intricate upper-body articulation. These sequences carry a grounded vitality, contrasting with passages where performers roll across the stage in continuous, wave-like motion, creating momentum that travels from one body to the next.

A vivid section unfolds under a deep crimson backdrop, accompanied by the sound of children’s voices, curious, questioning, and unguarded. The layering of these voices with fluctuating, tuning-like sounds evokes a sense of discovery, as though the piece briefly inhabits a child’s perceptual world. Elsewhere, dancers gaze upward into an unseen light source, as if responding to a distant opening beyond the stage, something luminous and just out of reach, inviting both wonder and uncertainty.

Throughout the performance, the interplay between individuality and ensemble remains central. Whether in moments of stillness, subtle gesture, or full-bodied propulsion across space, the dancers navigate a shared landscape that feels at once intimate and expansive. The result lingers less as a fixed narrative and more as a series of impressions, textural, emotional, and quietly resonant.

Sunday Blog post

 This week felt like a sprint, one thing after another, no real gaps in between.

Earlier in the week I volunteered at Peace House, a soup kitchen on Franklin in South Minneapolis, showed up, did what needed to be done, then moved on to the next thing. I felt a little bit anxious being there, not in a bad way, just aware of everything going on around me, so I ended up writing a story about it afterward to process it.

I kept going to the gym every day, no breaks, just part of the routine at this point.

I made time to sit at the Eagan Library so I could write in between everything else, just plotting myself there for a bit to get words down before heading back out.

Friday started early, dropping my son off at school in the morning, it looked beautiful outside, clear, calm, almost like a perfect morning, and then within an hour the rain started. Later I went to the Eagan YMCA and it got so dark outside it looked like nighttime through the windows. I remember walking through the gym and looking out thinking something was off, like the whole day had shifted.

At some point I picked up a passenger driving for Uber in North Minneapolis, didn’t recognize her at first at all.We worked together at Robbinsdale Farm and Garden (Robbinsdale in one of Minnesota’s most historical towns). We started talking, and I remembered she lived a block away from where I grew up. We weren’t close back then but we knew a lot of the same people, so we just kept going back and forth naming people, remembering things, connecting everything.

We drove through a hailstorm while all this was happening, and I had to pull off the exit ramp from the highway to be safe and we just kept talking about childhood and people we hadn’t thought about in years. She mentioned how Facebook feels like a ghost town now, which felt true.

She was going to her mom’s house, same house, still there on Girard, just a block from where I used to live. I dropped her off and almost immediately got another passenger a few blocks away, took that ride all the way back to West St. Paul where I live(such a coincidence!) . Right after that I got on the phone with my younger brother, he knew the girl from the neighborhood too, and we started connecting even more dots, naming more people from back then, building out the web of who knew who in that neighborhood.

It rained on and off all day, at least five different times, starting in the morning and continuing through everything. After that last ride the weather cleared up almost immediately but I was so wiped out,I picked my son up from school and went to bed.

On Saturday afternoon, I went to the Luminary Arts Center to see Arena Dances, the space is right next to the Minnesota Opera and Acme Comedy, everything kind of clustered together, easy to move between spots, different kinds of energy all in the same area. The event itself was loud, fast, a lot going on.

Then I went to a spontaneous theater event at the Central Library in Minneapolis where we wrote monologues for writers and then watched actors perform them right there, write it, hand it off, see it acted out immediately. I got lucky with timing because I was already downtown, drove over and found parking about two minutes away. Parking downtown can be like a needle in a haystack with metered spots, but this time I got in and out easily and kept the energy going.

Rideshare client and ptsd

I had a rideshare. Liner who told me about her daughter who had been in the military overseas during the war. She said there was an incident where two of her daughter’s comrades jumped out of a plane and their parachutes never opened, and after that her daughter really changed. She said it led to a lot of PTSD and a sadness that kind of stayed with her.

And I told her, yeah, I understand that more than people think. I went back to something I said earlier about my father, how I would describe him as “angrier than shit,” like he was carrying that military weight in him all the time and it would just come out in different ways. And she said, “yeah, that military experience, it affects the whole family,” not just the person who went through it.

I also told her about another passenger I had picked up before who said she actually received benefits because of PTSD from both of her parents being in the military, so it really runs through families in a way people don’t always talk about.

Then she shifted back to her daughter and told me she’s actually doing well now—living in Washington, running her own hair salons, and even getting ready to have her business advertised on a billboard. And I said, “that must be a proud moment for you.” And she was like, “yeah, it is, but I wish she was here. I don’t like the idea of my grandkids growing up without seeing their grandma.”

They had gone through about 10 years where they didn’t talk, mostly because her daughter had trouble opening up emotionally, but she said they’re on good terms now and she’s really happy about that.

And I told her, yeah, that’s really what matters, just being able to talk again and have that connection in the present.

I think moments like that are why I like these rides. People end up sharing parts of their lives they probably don’t say out loud that often, and for a short time, you’re just there listening. Sometimes that’s enough.

 

The First Thing I Said Was “I’m Really Anxious”: My First Day Volunteering at Peace House

Walking into Peace House in South Minneapolis, I thought I needed a role. Instead, I learned what it means to simply show up.

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When I first arrived in South Minneapolis, I couldn’t even find parking. My GPS kept looping me around, making it seem like the building was a mile away when really it was right there the whole time, and by the time I finally parked, I was already overwhelmed. Outside, there were people digging through a trash can, trash scattered across the ground, and I remember thinking, what am I walking into?

When I stepped inside, the first thing I said to the volunteer was, “I’m really anxious right now.” I didn’t even try to hide it. I needed something—someone—to attach my mind to, just to steady my racing heart.

At first, I didn’t understand what I was supposed to do there. I had come thinking I might learn how to cut hair, but there was no one there to teach me, and I kept wondering what I was even doing there, what volunteers actually do in a place like this. One of the women told me, “If you’re not doing something like hair, you’re here to listen. To be a presence. To be a kind of friendship.” But the room didn’t feel still enough for that. People were constantly coming in and out, grabbing food, talking, leaving again, like dozens within the hour, and it felt chaotic in a way that made it hard to imagine sitting down and really knowing anyone.

She showed me around anyway. There was a wall of volunteer photos, and she mentioned, “Sometimes people just take their pictures down.” Then she brought me to a back room with shelves of hygiene items and clothing, and told me, “If something’s missing, I’ll go to the thrift store with my daughter and pick it up.” Shoes, small essentials, things that might not seem like much but clearly mattered. That stayed with me because she was already volunteering her time and still finding ways to give more. There was also a place where people could charge their phones, and that detail hit me in a very practical way—of course, if you’re less housed, where do you charge your phone, where do you keep anything steady for even a few hours?

We sat down and she offered me food, and I said yes, mostly because I needed something to focus on besides how anxious I still felt. Later she told me, “You did a really good job regulating yourself by the time we sat down,” which surprised me because it didn’t feel like I had done anything intentional, just that sitting helped.

We started talking about her past as a substitute teacher, and she said none of this made her anxious compared to what she had seen before, like students throwing chairs or situations that felt unpredictable in a different way. I told her, “I had a small student jump on me once and beg me not to call her mom that day.” Another volunteer nearby laughed and said, “Yeah, you’ll be lucky if you see me for the next eleven days after this,” and we all laughed, and it felt like a moment where I could actually exhale.

At some point, I could tell she thought I’d be capable of doing this kind of volunteer work. Maybe she says that to everyone, because it’s obvious they need people, but it still made me pause and think about whether this was something I could actually do.

I started thinking about why I felt drawn to this space at all. My own mother was less housed for a long time, and even saying that out loud felt complicated, like something I wasn’t sure how to place. But I’m starting to understand that it shapes the way I see places like this—not because I share the same circumstances, but because something in me recognizes it, or feels close to it in a way I can’t fully explain.

Later, I sat with a woman who had bright purple hair, curled carefully, and she told me, “I did it myself.” We talked for a few minutes about hair, about how important it is to feel put together, to feel confident as a woman, and it was such a small, light conversation, but it felt real in a way that didn’t ask anything from either of us.

Before I left, the volunteer explained more about what people could offer there. She said, “You’d be surprised—people can give as much as a nail cut. Or help identify wounds and point someone toward a free clinic. A lot of people who are less housed don’t know where to go, how to get insurance, or what resources are even available. Sometimes they just need someone to advocate for them.” That stayed with me too, the idea that something as simple as knowledge—something I might take for granted—could actually be a form of care.

I also couldn’t stop thinking about the food. Something as simple as a tortilla, some lettuce, and refried beans. It didn’t feel like enough, not for a grown person trying to get through a day, and it made me think about how there are still gaps, not just in presence but in resources, in funding, in what people are able to give.

I don’t know yet if I’ll volunteer there again. But I do know that places like Peace House matter. They matter because they offer something steady in the middle of instability, a place to sit, to eat, to charge a phone, to be seen, even briefly. And I think there are more ways to contribute than most people realize. Not everyone knows how to cut hair—I don’t—but maybe someone can trim nails, or recognize an infection, or share information about a clinic, or help someone understand how to get insurance. Those are not small things. If anything, this experience made me realize that giving back doesn’t always look like a big, obvious act. Sometimes it looks like noticing what you already know and offering it to someone who needs it. And maybe the city doesn’t just need more places like this, maybe it needs more people willing to see that they already have something to give.

Sunday blog post

 This week I was able to take my son to the indoor park on Saturday. I also went to the library, where I spent about two hours reading my comedy work. Tomorrow, the library has an audio production, and since there are no cubicles available, I will go in and use the space to study. I also want to plan how to catch up with some old friends this week.

In Improv, some of our scenes were based on “meet cute” moments from When Harry Met Sally. We were at Paradox and talked about how we got to know each other from the start. Later, we were given a national product to sell. For example, I was given a product called an emotional regulation jacket that acts like a hug. (This is somewhat of a real project in production right now, designed to help people who are vision-impaired understand when someone is nearby.) These were very enjoyable scenes.

Later, we were split into groups and given an occupation and a quirk. I gave someone the occupation of taxidermist and someone else the occupation of ventriloquist. It was interesting to see how these two characters interacted. At one point, the ventriloquist visited the taxidermist to help with a deceased puppet. They were initially scared( because that was the quirk they were )given because they didn’t realize it was a puppet, and the taxidermist didn’t want to perform on people

Overall an enjoyable week..

Sunday Blog Post

 This week has been all over the place. My former company was acquired by a new one because of financial issues. We’re all trying to make head of the new company. The aftermath included orientation sessions, online trainings, and the final class improv show.

Wednesday night was the improv final at Northeast Middle School. We did a short-form game where my partner and I ran a scene, then repeated it in a different genre. A candle turned into a sci-fi scene where I became a robot. 

I threw myself on the floor to exaggerate a scene of quiet quitting, and there was a roar of laughter. At the end, my partner “unscrewed” my hardware so I wouldn’t repeat myself, and I declared that I was human again.

Saturday I went to a gathering for my friend’s mom, whose husband had died recently. It was part of the Hmong community to show up. About a hundred people came over the course of the day. There was food laid out. We ate, talked, and commiserated. My son played on the playground at the church where it was held. The elders packed me up three bag fulls of shrimp, chicken and watermelon, so I was as gen Z states: "stacked.":)

Afterward, I took my son and his friend to an indoor park (highly necessary as its still in the 40's in Minnesota). While they played, I jumped into a Zoom improv event.

In addition, there was a death in my building recently. It’s been sitting quietly in the background. Not loud, not overwhelming, just there.

The Hmong gathering was the highlight of my week. It really helped to be around supportive friends in the heat of a job transition. I felt a little lighter.

Sunday Blog post

 

Our improv troupe, Waxy Comedy, had a fantastic outing for our last Improv show at Bryant Lake Bowl: The Residency on Friday. It was especially exciting because my small group of fellow improvisers, whom I invited, got to experience the show alongside us. We performed alongside the amazing group DrBrothaMISTA.

After the show, my son and and I had some relaxing downtime with Super Mario Brothers, which was the perfect way to unwind and celebrate a week full of creative energy.

Saturday brought even more fun with a trip to Eagan Good Times Trampoline Park, which was a hit for my son. Bouncing around, laughing, and enjoying the bright spring-like weather was a fantastic way to close out the week.

Meanwhile, my son’s YouTube channel has been blowing up! His gameplay of 99Nights in a Forest on Roblox has picked up thousands of views, and I even posted a few clips of our troop’s performance from the week on YouTube. You can check out his channel here: https://youtu.be/ytuFaxsEzd8?si=ujnWotqw9R3KSRJR. Seeing our improv and creative projects reach wider audiences has been such a rewarding way to wrap up the week.

All in all, it was a week full of laughter, creativity, and family fun.

Review:Loyce Houlton’s Nutcracker Fantasy, State Theatre, Minneapolis

Re-post from 2021

 

December is perfect for watching a holiday show like The Nutcracker Fantasy. Minnesota Dance Theatre (MDT) is showing it until December 19th at the State Theatre in Minneapolis.

Review: Orthogonal Cabaret at Southern Theater

Stepping into Orthogonal Productions’ Cabaret at the Southern Theater felt like being pulled straight into a 1930s Berlin nightclub: sultry, vibrant, and brimming with electric energy. The story follows American novelist Cliff Bradshaw, who becomes captivated by the eccentric singer Sally Bowles, all while the city teeters on the edge of political upheaval.

I chose a front-and-center table, placing myself fully in the performance, surrounded by music, movement, and laughter. The theater’s tiered setting, with tables adorned with candles and black tablecloths, creates an intimate, club-like atmosphere that lets each audience member decide how close to the action to sit. I felt completely swept into the heart of the Kit Kat Club.

Moments of laughter came easily from me and the rest of the audience, especially when hotel staff characters shed their aloof, above-it-all demeanor and joined in the playful mischief. One character even remarked:

“This city is filled with risqué characters who are like children having fun until their parents come home.”

The line lingered, capturing both the reckless joy and the fragile illusion holding the cabaret together.

Dance was presented through subtle symbols rather than spectacle alone, but for me, the heart of the evening was the performance itself: a high-energy variety show of music, movement, and comedy. The orchestra and performers generated a kinetic charge that drew me completely into the moment. During quieter passages, when new performers entered the stage, I noticed the precision of the conducting shaping the atmosphere and heightening each beat.

As the orchestra quickened, Sally’s (Erin Grams) mounting frustration at the inability to entice the writer became palpable, with Cliff (Carter Roeske) absorbing the exasperation as the music amplified the tension of the scene. Performers moved fluidly onstage and off, creating a sense of immediacy that made the performance feel alive and lived, while the emcee, played by Max Kile, anchored the evening with a sharp, seductive edge, guiding the audience through playful mischief and shaping the rhythm of each scene.

Costumes caught my attention immediately: fishnet stockings and form-fitting evening gowns in silk and satin, evoking both glamour and a tawdry allure. Imagining the bar scene required little effort: pyramid phones, typewriters, flirtatious gestures, and costumes all hinted at the energy and eroticism of the period. Choreography carried raw energy, with performers pressing their bodies flat to the floor in close proximity. I found the movement thrilling, inviting me to lean into intimacy, and the performers delivered fully on that promise. One striking sequence had performers leaning shoulder-to-shoulder, holding each other at the waist in a line lean, maintaining glamour while keeping an air of mystery.

As the show concluded, the contrast between the intimate, warm, and seductive atmosphere and the sharp, icy Minnesota air outside lingered with me. When I called a friend to describe the performance, I noticed a subtle transformation in myself: adopting the characters’ detached cool, lips pursed, voice measured, for perhaps the first time ever, since I’m anything but detached on any given day.

Cabaret is showing now through February 14, giving plenty of time for anyone curious to step inside Orthogonal Productions’ daring, intimate world and let winter loosen its grip, if only for a night.