Reading Coleman Hughes’s tweets about Candace Owens. I like his podcast very much. Says what he thinks all the while not sounding like a sermon. I liked his rap songs as well, especially the one called Blasphemy. Good title. Blasphemy is just honesty with bad timing. He tweeted Candace Owens is schizophrenic. Maybe he’s right, maybe he’s wrong, but he writes about it in a way that’s both sharp and kind. I think that’s harder than it looks. He was the first of six people I interviewed for the Improv Journal who weren’t technically “improvisers.” Which was exactly why I approached them. The ones who don’t think they’re improvising usually are. And the ones who say they are improvising usually have a five-year plan and a helmet. You can tell who can’t improvise. You can see who panics at surprise, sprints for safety, calls security, throws blankets over dissonance. Chickenshits, all of them. I like it when both Bernie Sanders or Trump don’t run away. Not because I like them as much as because they deal with it. They stumble, stammer, punch back, but they stay in the ring. Improvisers. They have that nerve which is lacking profoundly in the Mark Carneys of politics. Total Juno award for best human resembling a cardboard cut-out. get interrupted. Smile, deflect, dodge the music.