You Say Hello

We say goodbye. But just for a second… as long as it takes you to click on our new site, TheGLOC.net! Check us out over there for some more amazing content, including an interview with the delightful Kristen Schaal!

G.L.O.C.

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Beyond The Bitch: 9 to 5

9 to 5

9 to 5 Photo: JoshandJosh.typepad.com

Beyond The Bitch
9 to 5
by Caitlin Tegart

In comedies, women are often the girlfriend, the wife or the bitchy friend of the girlfriend or wife (Leslie Mann, God bless you, you’ve worn all the hats). But there was a time when women did some seriously kooky shit in movies and got the be the funny, flawed, active idiot all the guys get to play. So let’s take a look at these movies and aspire to reach their level of kookiness.

Dolly. Jane. Lily. Torture. Drunkenness. Snow White fantasies. If there’s not something in 9 to 5 for you, then you just can’t be pleased. 9 to 5 is the story of three women at different stages in their careers who band together to end the sexism in their office and the tyranny of their lecherous boss, played with epic panache by Dabney Coleman.

The film follows secretary Judy (Jane Fonda) as she enters the work place for the first time after her husband runs away with his secretary. Judy meets Violet (Lily Tomlin) who’s just been passed over for promotion. Tomlin shows Fonda the ropes of Consolidated Companies (screenwriter presumably fell asleep while naming the business) and specifically how to deal with their chauvinistic boss and his toady Roz (extra points for going against the obvious and making the corporate lackey a woman as well). Judy and Violet believe the boss’s personal secretary, Doralee (Dolly Parton) is having an affair with him, just because she has big boobs (though still not huge by Dolly standards.) Judy and Violet drop their beef when they all get drunk together and dream up ways of killing their boss. Indeed, that’s how many great friendships have started.

The next day, Violet maybe accidentally poisons their boss. Or maybe not. It’s not clear: it’s only clear that rat poisoning and sweetener should make an effort to distinguish their brands. The trio think they’ve killed the boss and steal his body from the morgue, except the boss is alive and comes to work the next morning. Zombie sexist boss! All should be well, but sneaky Roz overhears the zany adventures that have taken place and turns in the gals to their boss. Roz, you just don’t get girl-code. To avoid being turned into the police, Judy, Violet and Doralee kidnap the boss and send Roz on assignment.

While the boss tied up (literally) in his own house, the kidnappers enact some progressive changes in the work place because, you know, if you’re holding a man against his will, you can at least keep his business afloat. The work place changes particularly help the female employees and those with families. And guess what? The place is more profitable for the effort. Hey, these ladies might be able to do business!

The boss man plans to expose our heroines, but when he arrives back at Consolidated Companies (it’s still called that) after his wife comes home from vacation and unties him, he finds the chairman of the board at his office, praising his initiatives that have increased efficiency. The boss is asked to move to Brazil and Violet is promoted to his position. Hooray! Judy marries a Xerox representative (in case you forgot for a split second this movie takes place in 1980) and Doralee quits to pursue country music (in case you forgot for a split second where else you’d seen Dolly Parton). The boss is abducted by an Amazon tribe, which is a little racist, but he did deserved it.

Join us for a party to celebrate the launch of TheGLOC.net on March 31st from 6-8pm at 92Y Tribeca (200 Hudson Street @ Canal)! Tickets: http://bit.ly/h4IfPF

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Tragedy Plus Time: Everybody Plays The Fool

Deborah Gibson as Eponine on Broadway- Photo: Joan Marcus

Tragedy Plus Time
Everybody Plays The Fool
by Kate Tellers

It’s a truth as old as pi, tragedy plus time equals comedy. In this column I take my bumps, my bads and my beastlies to show you that, with a little bit of time, that milk that spilled is just as good as the proverbial banana peel.

Boys changed everything.


MONDAY

I will not get to sing Eponine today, this much is clear. My best friend Maura, with whom I’ve been singing the Boublil and Schönberg’s canon for these first few months of eighth grade has replaced Cosette’s first few phrases in “A Heart Full of Love” with “I’m embarrassed, I’m embarrassed,” and she’s not even in the right key. I try to help her along, “Maura!  NO FEAR NO REGRET!” — no luck. We’ve sung Les Miz a thousand times before, but today we are singing it over the phone to boys, cute boys who play hockey that Maura met a few weeks ago at a Friday Night Open Skate. She grabs the cordless and I can hear her giggling towards hyperventilation in my kitchen. I close the book of sheet music and wait for her to hang up.

TUESDAY

Over our third bowl of after school cereal Maura announces that she and Dan talked on the phone for two hours last night. So basically it is serious. While to date I have received exactly one phone call from a boy, and Keith was just confirming the car pool for our piano recital, Maura is the poster child for the swatch phone. Before I can get jealous she tells me, “Dan and his friends want us to go to the rink on Friday.” Really? This time when they call and interrupt “The Movie in My Mind,” I don’t mind as much.

WEDNESDAY

This time when the boys call, I answer the phone. They ask what we are doing and I tell them, really casually, that we’re just singing. Because we sing. Really well. And I also play the piano. There’s a lot of phone passing around and finally I hand the phone to Maura because at this point she’s been on the phone with them every night this week, and I think I’ll play to my strengths and quietly pick out “Stars” on the piano in the background. Probably Maura is going to go up into the woods with Dan on Friday, I wonder if I’ll go up too.

THURSDAY

Maura is so tired today because she was on the phone with Dan all night. He sang to her! He sang “Beauty and the Beast,” because he knows she likes Disney songs and also it is about us. She giggles, I do not. There is one beauty and one beast here, and I am way behind on phone time to be the princess in the yellow dress. I’m embarrassed. I’m embarrassed. For the first time in my life I realize two things: One, I am not pretty to boys, and two, I desperately want to be. Even though Maura and I both share the same jewel toned mock turtlenecks from Limited Express, we do not look the same.  Her brown hair is straight and thick, mine is permed and frizzy. Her skin is smoother and tan, her waist is smaller and she does not have braces. Now that the boys have noticed, I see it too.

FRIDAY

We go to the rink. While I wait with the boys for Maura and Dan I put my hair over my face and do a pitch perfect Eddie Vedder impression. It’s not getting me up into the woods any faster, but it makes them laugh. I know I can do that. Oh, and I kill on both the sides of the Ellen/Kim duet.

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An Interview with the Admirable Adira Amram

Adira Amram will pump you up!

Comedy chanteuse and G.L.O.C. ADIRA AMRAM is one of those genuine, half-full kind of gals. Her performances leave you pumped and she’s a constant supporter around the New York comedy scene infusing anyone in her presence with a feeling of indescribable happiness. A lover, supporter and insanely talented to boot, let’s find out where her flair for the comedic pop song comes from. Welcome to the world of Adira the Great.

So, Miss Amram, where did you grow up?

I grew up on a farm in Putnam Valley, NY. The farm was a little like Noah’s Arc—not the Logo show, I wish!—we had horses, three cows, goats, chickens and ducks and ten cats, which were my favorite.

Singing at Symphony Sapce. (L to R) Lora Lee Ecobelli, Adam Amram, Dave Lindsay, Adira Amram, David Amram and Alana Amram. Photo: James F. Fischetti

You grew up in a very musically-inclined family, did you have a family band when you were a kid?

Well, kind of. My dad would always have us come and play on stage with him. I remember doing it when I was four or five and I would just play a rattle. It wasn’t like Partridge Family-style, although we did sing in the car a lot.

What was your go to travel song?

“In The Jungle”. I remember my brother being like, “aweemba way.” [laughs] Now it’s funny because I sing in my sister’s band and I sang on her record. I would love to do more stuff with my brother but he kind of does more punk rock stuff so he doesn’t really need me for that.

Adira and her brother, Adam Photo: Lora Lee Ecobelli (Adira's Mom)

What was the first instrument you learned to play?

At home there were always a ton of instruments around, but I remember in fourth grade I wanted to play the trombone. They were like, no, we actually need someone to play French horn. They knew my dad played it. I think they were thinking they were going to get a great French horn player for their school. [laughs]

Little Adira with Mandolin, Photo: Lora Lee Ecobelli

Continue reading

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We’re Moving

G.L.O.C., Gorgeous Ladies of Comedy, Moving

We live! TheGLOC.net

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ImPRESSive! G.L.O.C. Launch Edition

G.L.O.C. Launch Party

The word about the G.L.O.C. Launch Party is out and the consensus is: Code Red! This beast is burning up the internets faster than Rebecca Black on crack!*

Check out some of the fantastic press the launch is receiving: the Village Voice gives us a glowing endorsement and we’re a Time Out NY Critics Pick! The launch is being gorgeously sponsored by BUST Magazine and Shap Sweeney of ComedySmack not only loves the site, but women in comedy in general. That’s our kind of fella! We also heard from a little birdy that NY Mag, The Frisky, Improvisation News, The Skint & The Marie Sue will be covering the event. These folks can cover us any time. A handful of fantastic photographers will be snapping the night away so dress to impress, ladies and germs. (Funky and fun cocktail attire is recommended.)

To top off all that greatness, tickets are a measly six bucks! Have you purchased yours yet?

Thanks to all our readers and the gorgeous ladies in the neighb’ who are adding to the buzz. This is sure to be the event of the season. That season being… spring?

See you at the Y!

*Rebecca Black is not on crack, we are just fans of rhyming. Unlike Rebecca Black.

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A Day In The Stride: Lincoln Center Rush

L Train, New York City, subway, G.L.O.C.

L Train Photo: freewilliamsburg.com

A Day In The Stride
Lincoln Center Rush
By Glennis McMurray

Welcome to a new G.L.O.C. column highlighting the ins and outs, ups and downs of being a working actress in New York, A Day In The Stride, written by founder of G.L.O.C., GLENNIS MCMURRAY.

I am a New Yorker by way of a trailer park in Colorado. I claim the title “New Yorker” with pride just as I did the title “trailer trash” in my early life because, dammit, I earned it. My domination of these gritty New York streets began at age 19 when, upon arrival, I vowed, in my overalls and box-colored blonde hair, to make it as a real New York actress. And I don’t mean to brag, you guys, but I am one of those rare and enviable overnight success stories. Just 12 years later—twelve!—I am certifiable. Don’t hate me because I’m living my dream; hate me because I just booked a local Wendy’s radio demo. (After two callbacks.) I am an actress living in New York. This is my story.

The sounds coming from my ear buds change from the gentle stylings of Paul Simon to the booty-blasting beats of the Chemical Brothers. We are clearly on shuffle, iPod and I, and the volume has clearly not been equalized. Add that to my To Do list. My eardrums threaten to revolt down into the safety of my bowels in the wake of this audio assault. Could I help I would, but figuratively speaking, my hands are tied. Literally speaking, my arms are pinned to my sides as I stand packed in a sea of hipster sardines on a rush hour L train streaking under the East River into Manhattan. I break into a sweat in my winter wear as I frantically try to reach the iPod in my right pocket before my hearing is permanently damaged and my affinity for techno causes an eye-rolling revolt among the uberhip that surround me. My head, which is packed with a sort of concrete mucus mixture from the super virus I’ve caught, for the second time, from the cast of my current show, threatens to split wide open and ruin the vintage wear of my fellow passengers. I do the only thing I can think to do. I stealthily wrap a finger around the cord aiding the assault and rip the ear buds from my ears. Relief! Momentary. I instantly realize these block-rocking beats are now blocking and rocking everyone within my direct vicinity. Spontaneous dance party, anyone? Not today, McMurray. Throwing genuine looks of apology throughout the train as we sway back and forth, I wonder if indoor rain is a possibility as it’s the only thing that could make my morning commute worse. Perfectly on cue, my blocked-up nasal passages let loose and I feel a tiny line of snot start to run down my upper lip.

Jealous?

The doors open at my transfer station (sweet relief!) and I bolt off the train simultaneously checking my phone for the time (late!) wiping my nose (with my sleeve!) and replacing the dangling ear buds in my ears. Bonnie Raitt accompanies me through the tunnel connecting the red and orange lines as I dodge morning commuters in my raggedy 6-year-old boots. My neon yellow sock pokes out of one of the many holes (one for every year) threatening to disintegrate the boots mid-stride. I’m going to get these boots repaired. Tomorrow. It’s on my To Do list. The red subway line in sight, I check my phone for the time. I have 15-minutes to make it 52 blocks uptown. I hope for the sweetest of New York moments: perfect commuter/train arrival synchronization. I near the steps leading down to the subway platform.

Shitballs.

The platform is nearly invisible under a sea of bodies. Train troubles. My brain goes into overdrive. Should a train arrive in perfect synchronicity with me (seriously, there is nothing better) it will be another exhausting fight to climb aboard. Well, bring it. Give me all the dirty looks you want, ladies and germs (sniff, sniff *cough*), I am getting on this mother-humping train. Don’t you know who I am? Don’t you realize where I am headed? I am a New York Actress! Today I perform at Lincoln Center! Yes! THE Lincoln Center! In a theatre! Yes! A real theatre! For children! Yes! REAL children! So stand aside, you paper pushers, I have an improvised musical to perform.

Jeff Hiller, Glennis McMurray, Baby Wants Candy, G.L.O.C.

Jeff Hiller & Glennis duet in Baby Wants Candy Photo: Leah L

Yes, musical improv. It’s sort of my specialty. (Cher-like hair toss.) I performed in a two-woman group for 5 years and all I got was a lousy box of t-shirts nobody cares to purchase. Spending 5+ years of your life perfecting a skill, such as the improvised musical, is a little like getting a degree in Philosophy. Useless in the real world and an embarrassment to your parents. Regardless, the audience of 6th graders that morning eat it up, and I leave the theatre feeling like I’ve really made a difference in their lives. Sure, they sat silently, arms crossed, as I portrayed possibly the world’s most delightfully neurotic hoarder turtle (the irony of a turtle buying paper towels in bulk is wasted on the youth) and they boo’d when I mentioned Justin Bieber (noted), but I’m pretty sure at least a few of them will take to the stage later in life because of me. (As political figures looking to cut arts programs.) You’re welcome!

The show ends. I head outside, check my phone and secretly puff a cigarette—the first & last thing I need—in a hidden corner out of view as the children head to their buses. I wouldn’t want them to see their idol succumbing to her vices. I leave that to Lindsay Lohan. I have 20-minutes until my next appointment in a day without a real break until 10 p.m. that night, when my (NY Times reviewed!) show ends and I can wearily drag myself home only to rinse and repeat tomorrow. It starts to rain but I’ve come prepared and I slip two plastic bags over my socks to counter my holy boots (Batman) and protect my sweet, neon socks. Putting out my cigarette with my boot, I rub my eyes with my paws raccooning my mascara. I’m already exhausted so I reach for my morning bagel nestled inside my purse to fuel me through the next few hours. Looking up at Lincoln Center, I remind myself how cool this all would have sounded to the 19-year-old me sleeping on the floor of a railroad apartment in Jersey City. I’m not chained to a desk in a shitty day job and in a few minutes I’ll be auditioning to be the new voice of Yoplait. You’ve come a long way, McMurray.

I mean you’re still kind of an idiot, but now you’re an idiot who makes money doing what you love.

Jealous?

This post was commissioned by and originally posted on Comediva.com.

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