YKWIM #109: So many dogs left to meet

Stay gold, Woody

Woody in an early Unplanned Comedy show. Photo by Anna Bender.

My old improv coach, Woody Drennan, passed away last week. I haven’t done improv comedy for years, but improv was a really big part of my life for a while. Ten years ago, when I was deep in it, I couldn’t have imagined he would be gone a decade later.

Woody held comedy in the highest esteem. Improv wasn’t just a silly little game with him, it was an art form, and his passion was infectious. He believed in performing from the height of intelligence, not jokes for joke’s sake, and it made everyone else around him want to be better too. Woody’s influence on the Pittsburgh comedy scene cannot be overstated. He was magnetic, charismatic and complicated, stubborn as hell, and an excellent teacher.

I remember our last conversation very clearly. I hadn’t seen him in a long while and I went to see a friend do stand-up at Woody’s new warehouse theater space. After the show, we were shooting the shit and I made some quip about how cold it was— you know, in a warehouse. He almost fell over laughing. “God, Andrea, you’re still the same, never change.” Then, he kissed the back of my hand and gave me a big hug.

I’m really stuck on the simple fact that passing away means he’ll never pet another dog. Woody loved dogs. He talked a lot about the two pups he had back in LA and how they’d eat avocados that fell off the tree in his yard. One night, walking back from the bar after a bunch of shows, a group of us ran into a guy walking his Australian cattle dog and Woody crouched down to love on that pup, telling us how it reminded him of his old dog.

And it’s like, why do I remember that? I just do. It’s like how when I think of a former boss who passed away, I’m reminded of the beautiful gold bracelets she used to wear and the way her laugh echoed down the hall. It makes me wonder what crumbs I leave on the countertops of other people’s lives.

I’ve been trying to figure out how I feel. There’s no language or expected behavior when someone from the periphery of our lives passes away. We go on with our day as usual and maybe a little pinprick of pain. Even mentioning it makes me feel uncomfortable. The polite thing for others to do is say they’re sorry and that makes me feel even more uncomfortable. More uncomfortable than talking about death, if you can believe it.

What I landed on is even if our paths never crossed again, I hate that he’s no longer in the world. I wish he was still starting his day with a hot cup of coffee. There are so many more dogs for him to meet. Woody used to tell his students, 'Do 1000 shows. See 1000 shows,’ and I can’t help but wish we had a final tally because if anyone came close to that, it was him. I hope he knew how many people cared about him.

He would probably hate how sentimental this is, so I’ll let him have the last word. As Woody ended every email—

Stay gold.