The thing about decisions is that they need to be made. Right god-damned now. Just be honest and realistic. If it pops into your mind that you’re holding an oar and that you’re on a canoe, start paddling. I know that moment where you aren’t sure if you should make a decision. What if it’s ‘wrong,’ or ‘too blue,’ or unfunny? I have succumbed to that fear and followed through on innumerable boring, safe or confusing scenes that aren’t funny or interesting because they lack risk. I have also blown right through that fear and made the audience groan. Either scenario is terrible.
The thing is, decisions in improv are all about controlled risk. The whole purpose of taking classes can be boiled down to two things: (1) making decisions fearlessly (which is really more on you than on the instructor or other students), and (2) learning to make good decisions. A ‘good’ decision is always relative; if something is on or off game, if something is too blue (i.e. crazy) or too grounded, etc. It all depends on what you want out of the moment. In a harold, for example, your first beats should be really clean cut and narrowed down: get in, find game, make three moves, edit. So in first beat scenes, a good decision isn’t “Why hello Grandma, these are my Nazi stripper friends. Want a lap dance?”
The point is, you need to know what the moment needs, and that’s what decides what sort of decisions you need to make. It’s a difficult knowledge set and it comes from understanding the group you’re in at the moment, their style of play and goals, and what sort of feel you want your show to have. You’re falling back on group mind to affirm your decisions. All you need to do is practice together, and soon enough you’ll have a working show to put on for audiences.
When your group doesn’t know how to handle one another, you’re just adding more stress. You’re going out without a rope. The more stress you have, the more likely it is that you’ll end up afraid and get stuck in your head. Audiences are like sharks. They smell fear. The more you fear, the less likely you are to be strong; and if your partner is afraid as well, you’re almost certainly doomed to clunk around inactively, make a few bad decisions, and have a terrible set.
It might be my irrepressible love for improv, but if I’ve learned just one thing, it’s that you’ll always be happier saying yes. Saying yes takes you somewhere you didn’t expect, somewhere you didn’t see coming. It leads to a place of discovery and nuance, where you can learn as you go.
Fluffy language aside, saying yes is the route to go. You will want to say no; unless you have good reason, resist. I don’t mean say ‘yes’ to every scumbag that asks if you want to go bang in the back of his mom’s Altima (though you could tell me yes every once in awhile, ladies); and I don’t mean to put yourself in harm’s way. I mean when someone asks you to do something you don’t want to do, say yes.
Most of the unhappy people I know are unhappy because they are prejudiced. One is very convinced that anything that isn’t rich in story and execution is a waste of time, for example. When he watches anything that doesn’t meet his high criteria, he views it as a social chore, something he has to do because someone has pressured him to do it. He is miserable. If he would just watch movies or read books without waiting to hear everyone’s opinion, he would waste less time on each piece he eventually rejects (he could just stop if it truly sucked), and he would find more things that interest him.
If you drop your prejudice long enough to enjoy something for the virtue of its own being, you can learn to love it, even if you thought you would hate it. I can’t count the times this has proven true for me. I hated high school theater; I ended up going to an improv show, just to see what it was about, and it’s now my obsession. As a kid, I was an incredibly weak reader; then I read some Kurt Vonnegut, and I got hooked on writing and reading. Say yes to suggestions; say yes in scenes; say yes in life, and see where it takes you. See what friends it will make you. Do something you never thought you would do as often as you can. And happy MLK Day.
The Armando is a form that goes by many names and faces. It is light on structure and somewhat heavy on style in that it uses monologues as inspiration. Terminology before we go on:
Monologue (improvised): The improvised monologue is like any other (i.e., a single speaker speaking to the audience) with the stipulation that the monologist is telling true stories from their life. They are not playing a character.
Blackout: Literally, the lights go out, signifying the end of the whole show. If lighting changes are used during the show (for example, in the Bat, or Harold in the Dark), music serves as the blackout.
Analogous: In improv, it sort of means swapped out for something similar. An analogous second beat (discussed in the Harold) is where the game of a scene is kept, but the situation and characters are totally different. More on this later.
Back to The Armando.
The Armando, named for Armando Diaz, follows this basic structure:
Each scene is inspired by the monologue before it. As previously mentioned, light on structure. The heavy influence of style comes from good improvised monologues and good use of a monologue as scene inspiration.
A good monologue for an Armando does not seek to tell jokes or even to find the humor of the story; that’s the improvisers’ job. Instead, it aims to add information that the improvisers may draw games, situations, and various other choices from. Ideally, it runs for 2-3 minutes and recounts a time that something unusual happened. Dan Diggles suggests the four part monologue in his book Improv for Actors: “Every day, I…. Then, one day…. Since then…. It changed the way I….” Going through those four chronological stages can help teach a beginner monologist how to go through a monologue without stuttering or searching for a story. It is, however, just a crutch, and if the monologist doesn’t need it then they shouldn’t use it. The focus, to reiterate, is on telling the truth, talking about an unusual experience, and adding information.
A properly utilized monologue also has a general style to it. It’s fairly boring to watch improvisers reenact a monologist’s stories for thirty minutes. As an improviser, it’s important to take note of the possible games and details that are put out as the monologist is going on. Listen for funny moments; if it stand out to you, then you should use it in your improv. It might be a particular phrasing, or a funny reaction. Never falter to go analogous with game (we’ll go over game soon, no worries). Just try not to reenact.
The Armando structure shows up in different iterations all over the place. ASSSSCAT 3000 is a modified Armando, using two longer monologues and a series of scenes instead of monologue/scene/monologue/scene. The form that UCB teaches for its level 101 graduation show is actually the same as the ASSSSCAT. It’s a fun form because it allows both monologues, which are always crowd pleasers, and deconstruction work, which shows off the improvisers’ chops.
Before launching into forms, some basic terminology should be covered. Reject these definitions if you’d like; it’s simply how I understand the terms, and I am, after all, just a student myself.
Form: A form is a predetermined structure and/or stylized choice for a longform improvised show. All forms are some marriage of structure and style. Forms like the Harold only really suggest structure (which is why the Harold is so versatile; it’s a very successful structure and doesn’t suppose a particular feel, allowing the performers to add their own spin). Others are heavier on style; the monoscene, for example, has an incredibly simple structure (the show has one scene) that requires extensive application of style: make grounded choices up top, play slowly, layer games, and more complexities.
Structure: The literal make up of the show. How many scenes there will be, how long they will last, how many people are in each scene. The order of scenes. Essentially, what goes where. Most forms are not rigid on their structures, but some are.
Style: Both the feel of the piece and the style of play. The theme of the form, occasionally.
Edit: The process of transitioning scenes. Sometimes it ends them, leading from one to the other, other times jumping somewhere else momentarily. Generally, edits end scenes. I’ll make a list of specific edits later.
Opener: A stylized, usually abstract activity aimed at turning the suggestion into a bulk of material from which the show may be inspired. There are a million different openers, and you can always think of your own if you’d like. I’ll list a few favorites at some point as well.
Okay, then. The montage.
The montage is the simplest longform structure around. It is literally a collection of unrelated scenes performed one after another. The opener is optional, i.e. a montage may start straight away or pause to play an opener. The focus is on good scenework as opposed to other forms that might honor the suggestion or present a more theatrical product. There are no recursions or narrative strands in a montage.
And that’s really it. Not terribly exciting. On the structure/style scale, a montage might be represented by 0/0. Nothing implied for structure beyond ‘there will be scenes’ and nothing implied for style.
That doesn’t mean a montage is worthless. Quite the opposite. Pretty much any show said to be ‘free-form’ can be cited as a montage, and many forms are really just stylized montages. Montages are totally free from the restrictions of structure-centric forms like the Harold and La Ronde, as well as from style-centric forms like Monoscene or Evente.
Hubris developed its own brand of montage to use for improv jams (which are our primary fodder at the moment). I’ve lovingly titled it the Dim Mak, though we never really settled on a name. Our opener is derivative of the pattern game; we stand in a horseshoe, and one-by-one A to C, starting with the suggestion and then going off of the last thing said; it takes about 15 seconds. Then we launch into it, drawing inspiration by putting words from the opener together in strange ways (football-bathroom-slip-fired produced a scene in which a boss was firing an employee for touching people in the bathroom). The m.o. for Dim Mak is to follow the fun and to move quickly. Scenes may return; new scenes may be inspired by unpacking themes or situations mentioned previously. The result is high-octane fun that burns out in about ten minutes, which is just long enough for most improv jams.
These are just some basic scenework exercises. Nothing complicated. I ran into them primarily in beginner’s classes in Philly and at the UCB.
Morphing Clay: Circle up. No talking. Give a suggestion (or don’t, it doesn’t really matter); then, the first person reveals that they have magic, morphing clay. It can be stretched to any size or shape. Have them mold the little ball of magic clay into whatever object comes to mind; then, have them use it. They then turn to their left and hand it to a second person; the second person uses it to show that they understand what it is. The second person then takes a little bit of clay off of it and hands it back, repeating the process of molding an object and sharing it. Go around the circle. Depending on how nuts you want to be, you can then have everyone pass their objects (in the style of Red Ball) to see how well the group remembers them; or you can put all the objects in a room and play, “How Shall We Fuck with the Baby?” (more on that exercise later). Be inventive. Have fun.
Fast Food Stanislavsky: Some people shy away from this one (myself included), but it can be constructive. Sit in a horseshoe. Go around the circle and talk about your characters for a moment: how they know each other, some of their background, likes, dislikes, etc. Then, after a good bit of time, perform a montage as these characters. It’s good for giving beginners a grounded world with grounded characters, since they don’t have to worry about discovering it all as they go. Personally, I like to discover character organically, so I never much liked this one, but it can help. If your group struggles with just talking, try doing character monologues instead.
High/Low: Status is a weird little guy. Any improviser worth his salt understands its importance, but in all my studies I’ve rarely heard it even discussed outside of beginner courses. That’s plainly weird. Maybe that’s just my experience. At any rate, it’s a powerful technique and it should be used, especially if your scene feels flat. For high/low, have two people up for a scene. Choose one person to be high status and another to be low status; have them go through the scene. Then, have them switch status positions but keep the same situation. Now the waiter who kept getting snubbed by the snobbish businessman is giving that businessman flak for being indecisive in choosing his food. It’s great to experience an unlikely status choice and see how that affects the scene.
The key to being successful in the arts is to continue to produce at a consistent rate and quality. Easier said than done. To keep creating and creating well is difficult in the face of rejection and distractions; it follows that to be successful in the arts takes courage and commitment.
Successful artists are courageous. It is impossible, in the modern day, to become successful without hitting a few walls; this is simply from the shear mass of talent out there. It’s math. There are more talented people than are demanded. If you judge success as getting published or performing professionally, you’re going to have to keep at it until you break in. It takes a lot of time and effort, and it won’t pay off immediately. It takes courage to keep at something without getting that final reward; not the kind of courage you need in a fight, or the courage you need to face your fears, but the courage to carry on. It’s not quite faith; there is no guarantee that you’ll ever live to see your work become successful (Consider the classic tale of Emily Dickinson, who was harshly rejected and never again attempted publication until her poems were found posthumously). Insofar as the artist works without promise of reward, he is courageous. The artist draws his courage not from blind faith but from love of his craft, which is commitment.
Successful artists are committed. This cannot be feigned. Sometimes this commitment is temperamental; the artist is frustrated with his work, perhaps. But he will come back to it, no matter how unlikely it seems, if he is truly in love with it. Any seasoned writer can tell you how many times they tried to give up, and how many times they came back to it despite themselves. This commitment is essentially an attachment, one rooted deeply in the artist himself. He can never leave his work. Without this love, art would be absolutely impossible. There would be no point. There’s no easy glory in the arts; the illusion of the mightiness of the “greats” is merely a product of our ignorance of their toil. The only way to make it through producing good work is an undeniable love of both the process and the final product.
That said, even if the artist is courageous and committed, that doesn’t guarantee greatness. To be frank, nothing guarantees greatness. Nothing ever could. Good prose doesn’t make a work good. Bad prose doesn’t condemn it (Philip K. Dick is an amazing author who’s work is almost unreadable because his prose is so weak). There are elements that generally make a work good; if it hits on something in the zeitgeist, for example, or strong, relatable characters. But the unspoken heroes of a great work are the author’s courage and commitment. Without them, the work wouldn’t even exist. So, the next time you get a rejection letter, or tell a joke that falls flat, or commit to a character that makes the audience more uncomfortable than amused, brush it off. Pick your head up. Keep at it. If you’re in it for the glory, get out of it. If you’re in it because you love it, try as hard as you can. You’ll face rejection; it’s just math. But you’ll earn success as well. That’s math too.
I’m sure most of you don’t give a damn, but this relic of a site contains footage of Kurt Braunohler’s one man Harold at a UCB cagematch from 2001. I’ve been fascinated with it since I heard of it, and through incessant internet digging, I’ve found footage of it. Truly ridiculous. One guy putting on a 25-minute, improvised show by himself…and doing a form that’s meant for a whole cast of people…I am humbled.
A lot of beginning improvisers tend to focus too much on the verbal components of scenework and never really get to playing with emotion and point of view. These exercises are aimed at reducing the verbal impetus and focusing on what makes scenes really flourish.
Replay: Have two people up for a scene. Give them a situation. They must perform a two-minute scene silently (don’t cheat by mouthing words). Then, give them a completely unrelated situation; they must perform the same actions and motions, but they may speak. See how strong, unusual choices pull a scene in a new and exciting direction; and see how weak maneuvers produce predictable work.
3-Line Scene: Two people up. Have them do a scene with the stipulation that they may only have three lines within the scene. It’s usually a good idea to set a minimum time so that they don’t just rush through all of their lines in 30 seconds. This will show how good acting takes the pressure off of the constant need to be witty. It also helps in practicing slower, more measured play.
Foreign Film Dub: This is a classic old short-form game. Two up and two off to the side. The performers within the scene must talk in gibberish, non-words. The performers off to the side ‘dub’ their lines after they speak, i.e. translate for the audience. Focus on making each other right: if something is said a certain way, with a certain amount of emotion, reflect that in the ‘translation.’ Similarly, follow what the translators say.
I should add that in just doing these exercises as written, you’ll probably find your group doing boring or confusing work. Make sure to focus on drawing out a point of view and/or emotion for your character as you go. You don’t need much, you just need some—and it needs to be specific and deliberate. Then these exercises will work.
Today’s focus will be on group mind, the ability to think as one unit. It’s a powerful phenomenon that can up the play of any group.
Before getting into the exercises, I should like to say that these only help your group develop group mind so much. If you want your group to work at its peak, you need to be friends; you need to be invested in one another; you need to know one another; you need to go through difficult experiences together; and most importantly, you need to have the same goal. That said:
Count to 20: I’m sure you’ve seen this outside the improv arena. Stand in a circle. Then get close, shoulders to shoulders. Now, close your eyes. As a group, you have to count to 20; however, no other communication of any sort is allowed, and if at any point two people say something at the same time, you have to start over. If you find that this is easy, well, good, but try some variations. Do it with your eyes open. Do it with all of your backs to the center of the circle. Only say multiples of seven and go to 140.
A to C: Circle up (a lot of improv exercises go in circles, eh?). The first person turns to their left and says a word; this is ‘A.’ The person on their left then mentally goes ‘A to C,’ meaning that they think in a chain (A reminds me of B, which reminds me of C), and they then say ‘C’ aloud to a third person on their left. This third person must guess the B. If they’re right, hooray. If they’re not, tell them what the B actually was. Then start again, continuing around the circle. This is a good way of glimpsing how people think and what sorts of associations they make.
2x4: Have four people get up to do a scene. Couple them (so you have two couples). Each couple represents one person within the scene. They cannot move unless both performers move, and cannot speak unless both performers say the same thing at the same time. This is really good for teaching a group to reconcile with one another; this is vital in group mind, because the group needs to think as one. Having everyone pull in different directions prohibits it, and forcing the group to do literally the same thing at the same time focuses their decisions. I should mention that this doesn’t produce good scenes, so if your group is conscious of being unfunny, warn them of it beforehand.
Doubt is the enemy of creation. It causes you to judge yourself and to stop producing, whatever your medium. You can always tell which improviser doubts them self in a scene. Doubtful writers tend to not finish their work. Students who doubt their own abilities tend to do poorly. So, it seems, it might be good to try and eliminate doubt altogether. That is by no means easy—and surprisingly, it’s not entirely true.
If we want to eliminate doubt, we have to consider what it is precisely. Essentially, it is a feeling of uncertainty. But that feeling comes from some place deeper; it comes from fear. Doubt is an expression of fear, fear that what we are creating is in some way wrong, sub par, or misunderstood. These are valid fears, but we tend to doubt before we have even created our work. As much as we might imagine that something will be wrong when we finish it, it will never get the chance if we condemn it preemptively. The first step in conquering doubt, then, is the realization that our fears are have no base until we have a finished product. Then what happens when we have a finished copy, and it’s shit? Edit. Writers never truly finish their stories. They would tweak them ad infinitum if they lacked deadlines. In the same fashion, if you spot a mistake, fix it. Keep reconsidering elements in your work and decide if they help you attain your end goal or if they distract or inhibit it. Sooner than later, you’ll end up with an end product that, despite your initial doubt, is at least pretty good. It’s all in the effort you put into it.
That said, doubt is not to be totally ignored. When you have doubt, think about where it really comes from. Sometimes it escapes the simple fears of inadequacy of the work and latches on to fears of inadequacy in our abilities. Speaking for myself, the majority of my doubt comes from this place: being afraid of being incapable. Reason with this kind of fear, because it can mean any number of things. If you are afraid because you have never attempted something, attempt it. The worst that can happen is failure, which is forgotten in time. If you are afraid because you have tried and failed, try again with a new approach or stop. Sometimes, rarely, this latter fear is a sign that you aren’t meant to be doing your art; but if you feel that it is what you are meant to be doing, then persevere. No one can overcome your failure but you, ultimately. Some people may help—reach out to them. But if you consistently fail yet know that you’re in the right field, you have got to keep trying until you get it right. It will happen.
Thought today’s selection should be some of my favorite warm-ups. We do these in Hubris at the start of pretty much every practice.
Red Ball: Begin by standing in a circle. Someone creates a red ball, then sends it to someone by saying, “[name], red ball!” The receiver catches it and responds, “Red ball, thank you.” This continues until someone adds another ball of a different color, passed in the same fashion. Then experiment with different objects; make a ‘sad stick,’ which makes the holder sad, etc. Keep throwing things around and see how many objects you can get going at once. Good fun for warming up object work, communication, and attention.
Definitions: Circle up. Take two one-word suggestions, unrelated. The person who starts must define the nonsense phrase made by those two suggestions (something like “Kentucky duck” or “Jewish ectoplasm”). The person on their left then claims that they are wrong, and redefines it. It continues along the circle in this way until it gets back to the original person. He then thinks of another nonsense, two-word phrase that could fit the last definition given (so if the last person says a Kentucky duck is a gourmet redneck foodstuff, the original person might say, No, that’s a Typhoid baby). The next person then redefines the new phrase, it goes around the circle, and when it gets back to the first person to define Typhoid baby, repeat the process of starting a new nonsense phrase. Continue for about 4-6 phrases. Good for stretching your brain, and usually good fun too.
Ba-da-da: Circle up. Start a simple beat. The first person turns to their left and says any word (for example, fish). The second person adds a word (we’ll say ram), after which the entire group goes ‘fish-ram, ba-da-da.’ The second person turns to their left and continues the pattern. After a few rounds, switch it up by saying the second word first (ram-fish, ba-da-da). Don’t worry about repeating or being funny or making sense. Just focus on saying something on the beat. Good for clearing up your head space and getting you ready to work together.
Since I pitter around the creative arts a lot, I run into criticism pretty often. I think that it’s a very helpful and constructive action, actually; I also think a lot of criticism is done in malice. What makes criticism good or bad? I thought I’d blab on about that today.
Everyone is critic. That’s no surprise. If you aren’t filtering your everyday life through your experiences and beliefs, there’s a very good chance that you’re no longer alive. Check on that. Everyone has their particular tastes in music, clothing, lifestyle choices and so on. A reckoning for you, and a reckoning for me. But what if we discuss our differences of opinion? This is critique, the meeting of your take and my take, hers, his, and theirs. And what does that earn us?
In the field of the creative arts, critique is where the opinion of the audience meets the opinion of the author. The author can go through all sorts of shenanigans to view his art from the perspective of the audience, but it will never equate to the unadulterated (and hopefully informed) opinion of an audience member. Audiences matter because they experience art; what they take from art is a product of their experiencing it, and so if an artist wishes to relay the emotion and meaning that she intends, the audience’s criticism is worth her time. Of course, if the author doesn’t give a shit what the audience takes from his work, he shouldn’t bother listening to their opinions.
Assuming that the author cares to hear the audience’s criticism, what makes their critique good or bad?
A good critique is foremost constructive. The criticism of a good critique is not aimed to inject the artist with the audience’s point of view and essentially have him make the work they would if they had the skill to do so. Instead, good criticism declares its viewpoint and establishes how it is arrived at it; more simply put, the criticism states its informed opinion. Good criticism highlights both strong and weak points and speaks to why those points are strong or weak. It isn’t inappropriate for the criticism to suggest possible solutions to the weaker points, so long as it makes clear that it is making suggestions, not demands. Most important to good critique is the rebuttal of the author. This is what separates critique and criticism, in my opinion. Critique is a forum; criticism is a single opinion. A good rebuttal does not aim to disprove the audience’s viewpoints, but to clarify it; further, it does not seek to show the criticism’s inaccuracies (unless they are simple misunderstandings or misreadings). A good critique, unlike most argumentative discussions, hopes to build and repair ideas instead of proving one thought better than another. The product of a good critique is a collection of ideas that the author can then consider when revising her work, choosing whichever opinions she finds most helpful.
Bad critique, on the other hand, misinterprets the purpose of discussing opinions as an occasion to lambaste or indoctrinate the author (or both). The criticism in a bad critique starts off as being close-minded and/or oversimplified; it might worry more about the environment of the work more than the work itself, for example. The opinion could be based on basic reading or emotional interaction as opposed to thoughtful response. Bad criticism also supposes that the author is wrong and needs help. Further, bad criticism is selfish; it doesn’t hope to give the author constructive ideas, but to force the critic’s viewpoint on the critiqued. Alternately, a bad rebuttal from the author also makes for bad critique. In general, the author will probably take critique personally—it’s hard not to. But if the author shows his anger and discontent at the criticism instead of taking his time to rebut and clarify his criticisms, there’s no hope for the critique. When the author goes back to the drawing board, so to speak, any ideas raised in the critique (both the bad and good) are likely to be tossed aside as drivel. The product of the critique, in this instance, is nothing but unhappiness and doubt.
And that’s my take. I would like to clarify, quickly, that ‘bad’ and ‘good’ apply only in relativistic terms; what’s labeled as ‘bad criticism’ absolutely has a place in other forms of creative consideration, just not in healthy critique.
I thought it’d be fun to post some of my favorite improv exercises, partly because I feel like sharing them, and partly because I tend to forget everything that has ever happened (so I’ll have a record of them by posting them).
Here are three of my favorites to do between practices, when you’re by yourself but you want to keep sharp:
Dadaist Monologue: Open your eyes. Say the first thing you lay eyes on, and from there launch into a 2 minute long monologue. The monologue must not make logical sense, but it must be grammatically correct. So, for example, “The speakers ate red watches while dancing vertically on the spheres” would be correct. “Dog apple basket fudge” would be wrong (ungrammatical), as would “gnomes are these creepy statue things” (logical thought). This one seems easy in concept, but it can really screw you up. Also, you usually sound like rain man when you do it, which is always fun.
Character Hurricane: Give yourself an empty room, a single chair, and a stop watch. Every thirty seconds, you have to start a character monologue as a new character; no repeats. Continue for at least 15 minutes. This one is great because it forces you to stop thinking and start doing, and it stretches your mind. It also makes facing silence comfortable; a lot of improvisers panic when they don’t hear laughter, which just sends the show to hell, but silence is the sound of the audience paying attention.
Reach: Give yourself an empty room. Now, no suggestions, just reach for an object. Don’t preconceive it; just reach out and grab it, and as you bring it back to yourself, realize what it is. Now, reach for another object, and another. As you go on, you may start to realize what sort of a room you’re in. If you pick up a broom, then a flashlight, then a bucket, you might realize you’re in a supply closet. Once you’ve realized the room, continue you picking up objects in the room (you can start to preconceive them at this point) until you’ve got 10 objects scattered about. Then, see if you can come back to all of them. This is great for practicing object, environment, and memory work.
My name is Matt. I love improv, sketch, stand-up, gadgetry and Kurt Vonnegut, among other things (I also like food). I am well-meaning and I like people. I can be a bit of a dick. Sorry.
I study comedy at the Upright Citizen’s Brigade Training Center and creative writing at Hofstra University. I will blather on incoherently on any related topics if you ask me about them.
Currently, I direct/perform with Hubris, a long-form improv group I started on campus with some friends. We’re still in our baby stage. We will jump on any performance opportunity, so if you’re interested and in the NYC area, contact hubrisimprov at gmail.com for booking info. We’re also looking for a coach, but we won’t be able to get into the city for rehearsal for another month or so. So it goes.
I imagine I’ll be posting silly, tangential things. Most of them will be related to improv because, well, that’s pretty much all I think about in my free time. It’s a bit sad, really. I’ll also post anything that tickles my fancy. And I’ll post phrases like ‘tickles my fancy.’ I’ve got a book full of them.