"Fire Ant" rhymes with "Face Plant"

Or so I learned last Sunday at the improv comedy class I’ve been taking with Hartford’s own Sea Tea Improv.

My preferred method of drowning, sinking quietly like a 5′ 2 3/4″ long stone, doesn’t heighten the scene.

I’d signed up for the improv class because I’m woefully short of a sense of humor and this fact had been causing problems in my social life. For example, I’d learned only recently that most people don’t run to answer the door when someone says “knock knock.”

It was a relief to learn, actually, because I could stop calling the neighbor kid’s parents about her pranks. I don’t like talking to those people.

On the first day of class I jumped to the front of the line when our teacher, the wiry, baggy-jeaned, hyper, funny-talking Joe Leonardo, asked for two people to sit down, face each other, and just have a talk. I figured I’d better be first because otherwise I’d be hiding in the back of the class for the remaining seven weeks wishing I was very, very small.

Someone threw out a prompt to get our discussion started – the word “tofu.” That was perfect because I’d recently had an incident with a package of tofu that had exploded in my refrigerator. I’d forgotten it was there and it was far beyond its expiration date. I think it created a little tofu liqueur, which I would have tried if I wasn’t a teetotaler. (I’m a tea totaler, actually. Tea. Totally.)

I learned that improv comedy is basically a series of games with rules. One of the rules is “always make your partner look good,” which would have come in handy when I pointed out to a senior manager that he had used the word “it’s” incorrectly while giving a speech.

Another rule is “yes and.” Basically what that means is that after one of your game partners makes a statement, you don’t contradict them. Instead you say “yes, and…”

For example, my partner might say “My, my, Percival, you surely do look lovely in your striped satin pajamas” and instead of saying “I’m not Percival and my pajamas aren’t satin!” I would say “Yes, and my name isn’t Percival and these are floral flannels.”

We play some games that I don’t think are very inspired. Like in one game we have to offend someone so much that they won’t sit next to us anymore. I don’t think I should have to pay to do something that comes naturally.

In another game four of us are each given a way to die. A “normal” way to die. An “epic” way to die. An “unnatural” way to die. A “Biblical” way to die. And we have to die by the end of the game.

And that’s how I found myself drowning in an alligator-infested lake while one daughter fell into a nest of fire ants, our picnic guest was beset upon by the lake-dwelling alligators, and my other daughter was smote (smited? smitten?) by God.

God peeps through a hole in Heaven to target someone for a smiting.

Sea Tea Improv offers all kinds of classes. An eight-weeker coming up soon is “The Game.” A single-day workshop yet to be scheduled is on the fascinating improv musical theater.

I’ll be taking that class, and here’s my debut. The heart-wrenching opener to “Julie, the Musical.”

Hey there! I'm singing! And I'm funny too!

Sea Tea Improv is having a Longform Comedy Showcase this coming Friday, February 24, at the Studio at Billings Forge. I saw the January show. It caused me to laugh.

Henning Ohlenbusch plays at Flywheel in Easthampton MA in November 2011. Photo by Julie Beman.

I needn’t have worried. These songs aren’t straight-from-the-dorm-room recitations of Monty Python movies set to music. They’re gorgeous. I was mesmerized. Henning’s songs are honest, wistful, melancholic, intimate. To me, other than the titles, they don’t have anything to do with movies at all. Rather, they’re about shared human experiences – heartbreak, alienation, bringing love to others – and so many other familiar pains and joys.

And the lyrics – charming, fascinating, funny, full of beautiful imagery. That’s where music gets me – the way it interacts with words.

After Henning helped me record a song for a Christmas gift (Wait. What? Helped? Yeesh, he did everything but write and sing it!), I thought the least I could do was find him a gig in Hartford. And I found it. Rather, I made it. He’ll be performing a house concert on March 3, 2012 at 7:30.

You really have to check him out.

In the city bus system, the most mysterious and the most mundane incidents and people are observed by an elite squad of tweeters.

These are their stories.

30 Aug

Dear Fellow Bus Passenger, Please remove your forearm from my knee. Kthxbai.

31 Aug

On the Type A bus. Amazing how traffic slows at the merge of Elizabeth & Asylum. When I look I see that each car is filled with *1* person.

Lady on bus playing game. It makes bubble-pop sounds. She bobs her head when the sound is made. Or is the sound made when she bobs her head?

Just rode the Go to Work at the Mall bus.

1 Sep

In our continuing series of bus observations, I’d like to note that sitting on the aisle to block off the seat next to you is not cool.

OH: The giraffe has to get surgery now. I dropped him and a couple parts fell off.

OH: Chris, if you don’t shut up I’ll punch you in the mouth. (Adult to child.)

2 Sep

Back on the bus. Population of riders is completely different today than yesterday. It’s very hushed. People are reading, talking quietly.

6 Sep

Type A bus. Conversation about Ann Taylor, proximity to the mall, where to find a good tailor, and “older” peeps…in their 40s.

Type A bus: They prefer bars in West Hartford and Glastonbury, because downtown Hartford has “older, like, foreign people.” Wow.

On the To the Mall! bus. It’s very crowded and there’s a lot of perfume and cologne action. A woman is holding a rail, swaying.

The swaying woman is telling a little boy that it’s rude to tell his sister that she can’t talk. If he can talk, she can talk.

7 Sep

People on the bus are quiet. Everyone is looking straight ahead. No one is animated. I’ll give the rain credit for that.

On Type A bus heading home. Seems like there are two business meetings taking place…one at the front, one at the back.

Just saw a Wallace Stevens “blackbird” stone. “A man and a woman are one. A man and a woman and a blackbird are one.”

There’s a VERY cute guy on the bus.

9 Sep

I now know the sound of the bus from a block away. It inspires me to run.

Tisane, Clemens Place, Mark Twain House, Harriet Beecher Stowe Center, the old Comet, Green Apple, St. Joseph Cathedral, Aetna.

“Mira! Mira!”

12 Sep

On the Type A bus. It’s stopping at different places today, and new people are boarding. There’s luggage in the luggage rack.

Bus drivers & potential riders have a language. A slight nod means “please stop.” A slight shake of the head: “thanks but not now.”

About to sit down when Blackberry- & Briefcase dude in windowpane check shirt & slacks turns around, blocks me, & takes my seat

The sparkly gold ray halo on the Giant Jesus at St. Joseph Cathedral is actually to keep pigeons off.

Yeah. There are sparkly spikes embedded in the concrete halo. They caught my eye because they’re sparkly. And then I realized.

13 Sep

Read the news and blogs on Twitter rather than observing the bus today.

Ooh! Sitting on the Half Upper Level of the bus! I can pretend I’m in Half Dublin!

15 Sep

On the Type A bus going Somewhere Else. It’s funny how getting off the bus at a new stop always makes me feel a little nervous.

A big ol’ SUV nearly drove into the side of the bus. I don’t think I’d take a right on red in front of a bus

Wow. Almost happened again. The formula seems to be “wait for the bus to accelerate and then take a right on red.

16 Sep

Beauty. Hartford has it.

Most pleasant bus driver ever.

I wish I was on the Fern bus rather than the Farmington bus because I’m tired and I don’t want to walk that far in these (fabulous) shoes.

A rather large lady who smells of cigarette smoke just landed on my lap when she sat down. That was uncomfortable.

19 Sep

Happy Monday! Waiting for the Type A bus. A little cold. Don’t have a “not freezing, not warm” coat. Should prolly get one.

Sometimes I watch the cars with one person in them and wonder why they don’t collect people along the way as they go downtown.

It is freaking freezing on this bus.

20 Sep

Ooh…city bus nearly rear-ended a school bus. Brakes were slammed & flinging forward occurred & now my recently healed back hurts.

I am grateful that I have legs because a lady who does not, and who has only one arm, is getting on the bus

21 Sep

Long conversation with a kid at the bus stop. He was telling me about Drake, who apparently doesn’t use a ghost writer.

Drake is the full package apparently. Writes his own rap and even writes for others. The kid said Drake doesn’t hate on anyone.

The kid and his friend rapped for me a little bit. It was a little dodgy, I thought, but I told them I’d check out Drake.

The kids know my brother who teaches at Hartford Public. They’ve offered to make sure no one gives me problems in the ‘hood.

We talked about what matters most to us, music or lyrics. We both fall on the lyrics side of things. We need the story.

As soon as we got on the bus we stopped talking. I don’t want to undermine his coolness. I get that, & it’s fine by me.

On the Type A bus, heading home. I’m so tired that I let a number of Farmington Ave buses pass. I can’t walk the extra block.

Smells bad.

Smells better.

22 Sep

A friend said “Of course you can write a song!” So I believed him, and I wrote one, and recorded it on my phone at the bus stop.

Smartphone City on the Type A bus today. Heads bent toward devices. Silence. Fingers tapping away. Little smiles

Ooh…Corning Fountain! My favorite! The Barenaked Ladies rapped about its “very tricky deer” once upon a time.

Two long-time girlfriends catching up on the bus. One is babbling and giggling and carrying on like a teenager. Oh, that’s me.

23 hours ago

Type A bus. Today is Reading Actual Physical Books Day, as well as Puzzle Day. Also, young women in the back are all like “Like.”

There are some kind of magical indicators that cause a speaker to switch on and tell us where we are. We just passed Grurtaghaftik.

15 hours ago

It would be totally rude to take a pic, but Super Sparkle Lady is on the bus. Over-the-knee sequin boots. Rhinestone sweatshirt.

Fashion Day! Very thin man wearing tight teal t-shirt appliqueed with white vinyl sneakers plus real laces and real velcro straps.

Follow @liveinhartford on twitter if you’d like.

I was at work the other day and we were talking about how the bridges on I-84 were being inspected after the earthquake. During the discussion, one of my co-workers said, “Hartford is a dump.”

I figured I had to be missing something…something that connected I-84 and earthquakes to Hartford. I did a little research and took out my trusty calculator.

I-84 runs about 380 miles from Scranton, Pennsylvania to the Mass Pike. My very crude measurement of the length of I-84 through Hartford is 4.4 miles.

View Larger Map

The equation is startlingly elegant!

Aftershock * aging infrastructure + (157 miles of I-84 in CT – 4.4 miles in Hartford)/gobshite = Hartford is a Dump.

This changes everything we’ve ever known about Hartford. Everything.

It’s called “Wedding Song,” and is from Mitchell’s project, Hadestown, a “folk opera” based on the myth of Orpheus, one of the Greek myths that captured my imagination as a child.

Mitchell has set the story in a post-apocalyptic America where hardship rules the day and the division between the Haves in Hades and the Have-Nots everywhere else is stark and cruel.

The libretto, by Mitchell, is fabulous. The score, written by Michael Chorney, suits the story perfectly. The opera is quirky and profound as it explores the question “how far will we go in order to survive?”

Hadestown is coming to Hartford on November 19. It’s being presented for free by the Bushnell Performing Arts Center.

While the event is free, tickets are required. You can reserve them by calling the box office at 860-987-5900 or by going to the box office at 166 Capitol Avenue. They are not available online.

To hear some of the music from the studio recording, including “Wedding Song” performed by Anaïs Mitchell and Justin Vernon (Bon Iver),visit the Hadestown music page.

Maybe it’s because when she’s in Hartford, Auntie Julie gets to dance with you and Kyle in a hula hoop.

Megan, Kyle and Auntie Julie are dancing together.

Maybe it’s because when she’s in Hartford, Auntie Julie gets to watch Kyle play with a hula hoop!

Kyle is almost as big as that hula hoop!

Maybe it’s because when she’s in Hartford, Auntie Julie gets to watch you play with a hula hoop!

You go girl! Awesome job!

Maybe it’s because when she’s in Hartford, Auntie Julie gets to see you cover the plaza with hula hoops and run through them!

Pretty cool game, Megan.

Maybe because when she’s in Hartford, Auntie Julie’s knows that you’re nearby, and that makes her very, very happy!

Auntie Julie's favorite Megan ever.

I love you, Megan!

On Wednesday I took the afternoon off from work to participate in a discussion of ways to use empty space in downtown Hartford. A group of 10 interested people met at JoJos.

As the discussion warmed up, one of the participants gestured out toward Pratt Street and said something like “As a woman, I’d be afraid to walk on that street alone at night.” I twitched a little and locked eyes with my companion at the table. “Empty storefronts don’t make me feel safe,” the woman went on to explain.

Uhhh…um…uhh…

Fair enough?

Yes. Fair enough. It has to be.

Are you afraid of spiders?

Once upon a time my hackles would’ve gone up and I would’ve jumped at the opportunity to argue about perception versus reality, the role of the media in perpetuating negative stereotypes, our culture of fear.

Today, I can’t do that. Who am I to tell someone what they should and shouldn’t be afraid of? Who am I to believe that everyone should feel as I do?

What changed?

Simply this: I lived in a place where I felt very, very afraid.

It wasn’t in Hartford. It doesn’t matter where it was, actually. The fact is, I felt afraid. For the first time, after living in cities for 26 years, I felt afraid.

And I also found myself getting angry when someone told me I shouldn’t be afraid. And angrier still when someone told me I was simply unfamiliar with living in an urban setting.

Are you afraid of clowns?

Excuse me?

OK. You believe that if it makes you feel better.

Truth of the matter is, once upon a time there was a drive-by shooting in my neighborhood. Was it scary? Sure, at the time. But guess what? The next day I was sitting on my front porch as if it had never happened.

And my house was broken into a couple of times. Was it scary? Actually, not for me. I’d been out of town. But the fact that the kid who was watching my cats was in the house with two criminals, one of whom had a history of violence, was scary as hell. But again, guess what? Soon I was hanging at home as if it had never happened. And the kid was happy to look after the cats again the next time I went away.

Are you afraid of honey badgers?

I’ve wandered around Barry Square, Downtown, the West End, Asylum Hill and Frog Hollow. All by myself. At night. Holding a backpack full of tech. Wearing really expensive jewelry. Strapped into shoes that weren’t made for running. Carrying $1200 in my wallet.

I’ve done this at high alert, for sure. Confident, bold, spine erect, footsteps purposeful and strong. Those are some of the rules. Others include at the very least making eye contact with the people I pass. Ideally I have an opportunity to greet them.

I never felt stupid or like I was taking unreasonable risks for doing any of those things. I was doing what I want to do or have to do in the place where I live. (Or don’t live, like New York or Boston, Athens or Dublin. All potentially scary places when you’re alone at night.)

Are you afraid of empty streets?

I say I never felt stupid. Part of that is because I wouldn’t do anything stupid. Not on purpose anyway.

For example I was in a new place wondering where I might find tennis courts with a practice wall. A couple of guys told me there was a court with a practice wall down on Whatever Street. Near the highway overpass.

Whir. Click. Tick tick tick. (The sound of me thinking.)

“I wouldn’t go down there by myself,” I said.

“What are you talking about?” one of them responded in a tone I used to use. “Everyone thinks this place is more dangerous than it is. It’s just perception.”

Are you afraid to be under the highway?

Yup. Correct.

I perceive that it would be stupid of me to go to a place I know to be sparsely populated, peppered with abandoned buildings, in the shadows of a highway, armed with only a tennis racquet, by myself.

I’m not afraid of cities but I’m not stupid.

But let me tell you about the time I was afraid.

Really, really afraid.

I had just left my apartment with Gracie, my dog. We were going to take our mile-long early evening walk. There was a group of young men coming up the street behind me. I went on alert – straightening my posture, putting intention behind every footstep. I felt uneasy and gripped Gracie’s leash like a security blanket.

The young men quickened their pace and started talking, ostensibly to each other, but in reality to me. They talked about what they were going to do to me. To Gracie. They said they were going to take her away from me. They said they were going to tie me up. They described what they were going to do with each of my arms, each of my legs. They described exactly how they were going to rape me. What I would say. What they would say. What it would sound like. How it would tear me in half.

Are you afraid of what men say to you on the street?

I wasn’t even ten steps from my apartment door. In other words, I was home.

Recounting this incident later I was astounded by the reactions. Very few people were sympathetic. I was told I had overreacted. I was told that I just didn’t know what it was like to live in the city. I was told that they were “just trying to scare me.”

Just trying to scare me.

Apparently being violently verbally harassed wouldn’t have scared my critics. Just as walking down Pratt Street alone at night wouldn’t scare me.

Which is why I say today, I’m sorry that we live in a world that scares us. I’m sorry that we live in a world that threatens women and girls particularly, such that we have to have rules for walking down the street.

And I’m truly sorry if I ever jumped down your throat for expressing your fear.

You shouldn’t be afraid to do that.

But even more interesting this year is Cedar Hill’s venture into some less traditional opportunities for visitors. The expansion of Cedar Hill’s offerings is due to grants from the Greater Hartford Arts Council and the City of Hartford that allowed Cedar Hill to hire a new Community Outreach Coordinator, Mellissa Craig and allowed Cedar Hill to expand its season of events through December 3, when Cedar Hill will host a Walk of Candlelight.

Cedar Hill's event poster

One of those new events, “Music Among the Memorials,” happens tomorrow at 6pm. Yes, a jazz concert at a cemetery. If you haven’t been to Cedar Hill before, this likely sounds weird, but the place was designed by landscape architect Jacob Weidenmann, who also designed Bushnell Park. It feels like a park. The concert will take place on the hill and lawn next to the community mausoleum. Bring your own food, blankets, chairs, etc — but Cedar Hill sadly does not welcome dogs. The artists include The Alvin Carter Project and Congo Square Ramblers. I confess that although these groups are billed as “well-known Hartford bands,” I’ve never had the opportunity to see them perform. It looks like I’ve been missing out, so I’ll try to fix that tomorrow night. Tickets are $8 if you purchase them by the end of the day, or $15 tomorrow. Rain date is Saturday. Call (860) 956-3311 to purchase tickets today.

I’m also excited about an upcoming event in September. Cedar Hill will host its first movie night on Saturday, September 17 at 8pm. The movie? “The Philadelphia Story,” starring Cedar Hill resident Katharine Hepburn, Jimmy Stewart and my favorite actor of all time, Cary Grant. I’m looking forward to settling back in my chair with some popcorn and a glass of wine and throroughly annoying the people around me by repeating every line. I freely admit that I’m a sucker for old movies, particularly those starring Cary Grant, but if you haven’t seen this movie, you’re missing out on something special. Tickets are $8, or $5 if you’re a Let’s Go Arts member. Rain date is the following Saturday.

Pretty much whenever I go to La Paloma I see someone I know. Today I walked in, and lo! At a table next to the window sat my charming friend Kerri. Before I had a chance to ask if I could join her, she’d pulled her laptop out of the way and made some space for me.

We talked about stuff. Some secret stuff that I’ll never tell you because you’re not my  girlfriend. Then fashion blogs. Then her bicycle dress. Finally I introduced Kerri to a character I fervently believe should Guide her Every Fashion Decision: Emma Pillsbury.

What would Real Hartford wear?

Am I right? Huh? You totally know I am.

The sandwich eaten, the Orange Dry drained, I mentioned my need for a piece of furniture with drawers in which I could place my checkbook. And thus began a Serendipitous Thrift Store Odyssey. We started at the Salvation Army and ended at Savers.

Kerri gravitated naturally to Emma Pillsbury-ish things. (And sometimes I gravitated them toward her.) Tweed skirts. A windowpane check dress. A kilt. Something yellow.

Come this fall she’ll be stylin’. Just like Emma Pillsbury. Just like always.

I don’t think I’ve ever written a formal bio for our little blog here. If I did, it would include a few sentences about how I have always loved writing, I have a journalism degree (print journalism track) from Boston University and I planned to become the best damn political writer The New York Times had ever seen. (Hey, I was young then.) Right about the time I graduated from college, following internships for publications including our formerly illustrious Hartford Courant, though, two things were becoming clear: (1) I wanted to stay in Boston for a few years and be able to afford both an apartment and food, so a journalism salary wasn’t likely to cut it; and (2) print journalism was in serious trouble. Fast forward 10 years: I worked a few years as a science/technical editor for a small company, I went to law school while working as a part-time copyeditor at the Norwich Bulletin, I did some freelance writing for a very small little weekly paper down in southeastern CT, I became a lawyer and eventually, I ended up here at Live in Hartford.Blogging is great way for me to pretend I’m still in the news business while not freaking out about the always-impending demise of newspapers and the paltry salary. I also get to editorialize my little heart out, which used to be a big no-no for serious reporters. Now, no one seems to care so much about journalists being impartial and fair. Ten years ago, people still pretended to care, at least. I tell you all this now because I’m about to severely criticize some journalists and media outlets and I want to make sure people know that I actually have at least some minimal idea of what it means — or at least, what it should mean — to be a reporter. Here’s a short list of what I expect from a reporter at a political convention in our state’s capital city.

Talk to people, including nominated candidates, candidates who didn’t get nominated, supporters of candidates, incumbents, the general public, Hartford Democratic Town Committee members. Take note of the quiet (and not so quiet) chats going on in the hallway, in the lobby, in the back of the room, in the corners of the room, in the row next to you. Walk up to the front of the room to check out the sad little Excel spreadsheet tally and the even sadder little chalkboard tally. Ask about the process. Figure out the patterns in the HDTC voting. Are districts voting together? Are there slates of candidates being named again and again? Know the names of the people running for office. Go up and talk to the people running the three different tally sheets. Question the numbers, question the system. GET OUT OF YOUR DAMN SEAT.

Here’s what happened:

One Hartford Courant reporter showed up. Said reporter at first sat in a corner of the room with phone out and head down, tweeting about some of the goings-on before things started. Said reporter later moved to the center of the room when we were all told to give up our seats for the HDTC members who didn’t seem to care about actually sitting where they could hear and be heard. Out came the computer to join the phone. Said reporter didn’t seem to move from that seat the entire night, except to stand up a few times. Segarra and Vargas came to said reporter to be interviewed. Said reporter’s article repeated the tired, unverified claim that Wooden was Segarra’s strongest opponent.* Also? Said reporter openly used a copy of The Hartford News to check out information on City Council candidates for use in that little article. That’s because The Hartford News ran a fantastic edition a few weeks ago that contained photos and short blurbs on nearly all of the candidates. In other words, The Hartford News did what the Courant refuses to do — covered actual news and performed a public service by keeping the public informed.

Meanwhile, Jeff Cohen from WNPR’s Capital Region Report showed up. He walked the room several times, talking to HDTC members, talking to candidates, talking to some of us peons in the general public. He had a limited block of air time, so his story focused on the difference between this year’s convention and past conventions, which all involved the pre-determined Eddie Perez. I miss him on Cityline. I have no doubt that he would have done a great job covering the ins and outs of last night. Also spotted:

• Two reporters from The Hartford News, who walked the room, talked to HDTC members, talked to candidates, talked to some of us peons in the general public, and took notes on actual paper.
• One reporter from The Hartford Guardian, who walked the room, talked to HDTC members, talked to candidates, talked to some of us peons in the general public, and took notes on actual paper.

I continue to be amazed at the shoddy, spotty coverage of Hartford by the HARTFORD Courant. And to be fair, this is not one reporter’s fault. It’s obviously a management-level decision that real, thoughtful, consistent coverage of our city doesn’t pay. Which I have to say I don’t understand. We’re just a little blog, but we get our most hits on days when we cover local political events. I’m guessing it’s the same story over at Real Hartford. We also gain followers every time we live tweet a local political event. That’s not a coincidence. It’s because people are actually interested in this type of coverage and they can’t get it elsewhere. Imagine if we had thorough, serious coverage of events like this. Imagine if the Courant actually ran a series of short articles — or blog posts, even — about each candidate. Imagine if some of these politicians and wanna be politicians were actually held accountable by the media. Maybe those HDTC members wouldn’t feel quite as comfortable openly joking about their own ineptness. Maybe they’d feel appropriate shame. Maybe we’d even get the best candidates for the job on the ballot. Maybe the press would actually once again serve as that fourth branch of government that I learned so much about once upon a time. Maybe. * This has become a pet peeve of mine, and I think also of Kerri’s over at Real Hartford. There is NO support for that claim. No poll, no other survey, nothing. What that statement actually means is that Wooden was Segarra’s best-financed opponent. Which admittedly, can equate to the strongest opponent — but not always. It’s one of those statements that gets repeated so much, people start to think it’s a fact. It’s not.