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I'm Spiritual, Dammit!
Don’t let the chirpy, self-help-book title sway you: Local freelance broadcaster Jenniffer Weigel’s monologue piece about seeking a posthumous, supernatural bond with her late father—sports anchor Tim Weigel, who died from a brain tumor in 2001—is a ladle above bite-size Chicken Soup for the Soul comfort food. Weigel, whose résumé also includes some early-career acting stints at legendary Wisdom Bridge Theatre, isn’t going to challenge Spalding Gray anytime soon, but her sympathetic naturalism onstage makes her anecdote-strewn journey easy to swallow.
Weigel peoples her quest with wonderful characters, self-deprecating skepticism, and insider Ron Burgundy–worthy stories of Chicago broadcasting that could (and should) form the basis for another solo work. The industry anecdotes establish Weigel as a earthbound bullshit-detector, making the neo-spiritualist journey that comes next acceptable instead of eyeball-rolling.
And yet it’s the father-daughter dynamic that, despite its centerpiece treatment, seems somehow shrouded. It’s admirable that Weigel doesn’t stoop to maudlin TV-ratings-sweep exploitation in describing her father’s final moments, and her lingering loss is palpable and moving. But it also hints at something she’s not saying. Weigel describes her father alternately as a great guy everybody loved and a distracted parent who, though encouraging, also seemed distant. So was Weigel looking for acceptance by pursuing her own broadcasting career? If so, her tales of Tim Weigel navigating the spiritual ether to connect with her, and his final, guiding advice would have more resonance. But who are we to put Weigel on the couch? Consider this the pop-spiritualist antidote to the Harpo Studios fan club.
