Another day of improv intensive at The Magnet Theater. The class and Armando affectionately (or so I hope) refer to me as sugar tits since I wore a tight polo revealing my larger than average mammories. It's not that I'm particularly huge, it's just that everyone in the improv community is particularly puny.
I'm coming along nicely in my improv development, though I still feel awkward and tend to play it safe in my scenes. I signed up for this three week class to get more comfortable on stage and ignite the creative juices within. I needed to get unstuck, and I also needed the structure during a stint of unemployment. It's been nothing but watch and perform improv, day in and day out. I have an inordinate amount of respect for the theater's regular improvisers. They're mini-celebrities to me these days, and it seems they all live in Clinton Hill. It feels rather fateful running into them on the train rides back to Brooklyn, especially when I'm drunk.
Tonight was another episode of awkward film mixers. I used it as an opportunity to catch up with pals Matt and Aaron from GreeneStreet. We chatted with a girl named Courtney. The four of us together crashed the premiere party for The Disappearance of Alice Creed at the posh Crosby Hotel in SoHo. We passed Gemma Arterton on the way in. She inquired if I was single. I politely declined to comment being that her husband was present.
I swore I wasn't going to drink tonight since I had McDonalds on Monday and Tuesday and haven't exercised in over a week. That plan went out the window as the clock ticked past 11 and there was fancy free wine to be had. Servers paraded around with gourmet appetizers: fancy sliders, bacon-wrapped dates stuffed with blue cheese, mushroom pastries, and other delectable goodies.
I felt like a somebody again, for a moment.