My improv class is funny. I mean, funny like interesting. I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time, but that doesn’t much matter, because no one really does. There are about ten of us who show up on any given week. Half the people have recently moved here from Ohio. We have our class in the South Nap Room of a private elementary school, so we spend a lot of time sitting cross-legged on plushy carpet.
Our instructor is a freelance journalist, unassuming and average-looking, who from what I gather was a lot more shy and reserved before he started doing improv two years ago. He has a really calm, authoritative, Zen-ish way of explaining things. Part guru, part baseball coach. “So, let’s look at this scene again. When your partner said he had that cell phone with the smart bomb, how did that make you feel?”
Anyways, for the time being, it’s more fun than yoga. (I’m not very flexy.) Here is a megaphone about pancakes, puppies and fearlessly looking like an ass.