Tales from the Tunnel

On Sunday night, I watched the Off-Broadway play, Tales from the Tunnel written and directed by Troy Diana and James Valletti. The title is self-explanatory.

Tales ranged from poignant to hilarious in the same breath.

The actors were outstanding; Vayu O’Donnell embodied every single role he took on – brilliant actor – I know he will go far.

The stage lit up every time Geri Brown took the stage with her MTA attendant stories; I looked forward to her appearance.

Carla Corvo’s accents were absolutely phenomenal – especially the Eastern European woman who kept telling Farah Bala’s character “she should kyck hur ahss.”

Wilson Jermaine Heredia’s take on the Dominican family man who plays an accordion and trumpet, trying to make extra money on the side, was entertaining and colorful. Every time the character was on stage, I wanted to learn more about his character and of course, more of him.

Farah Bala’s portrayal of the Indian woman who was a victim of racism was incredible; the performance was more emotional filled than when I saw the play as a part of The New York International Fringe Festival last year. Absolutely excellent.

And the new edition of Brandon Jones to the cast added a new level of authenticity to the cast.

The ensemble cast work well together; their chemistry was seamless.

For some good entertainment, watch Tales From the Tunnel. It’s a fine way to spend your Saturday afternoon or Sunday evening after a long week of traveling on the subway. It’s a tale you won’t forget.

My Love Affair with Writing

I read incessantly as a youngster and couldn’t think of anything better to do than read (well, I can’t front, I watched a lot of movies too). I discovered words and played “Teacher” whenever I had the opportunity. I found interesting and familiar vocabulary words, wrote them down, and the definition next to it. What can I say, I loved words. But I never crafted my own stories.

By the time eighth grade rolled around, my home room and Social Studies teacher, Mr. Chianese, had us keep a journal for class. We even received extra credit for a certain amount of entries. He didn’t read them, just counted the entries when he checked them at the end of each week. Writing for extra credit? Too easy.

At the same time, my English teacher, Mr. Whitaker, had us learning the basics of storytelling, personification, similes, metaphors, and all that jazz. I remember one particular assignment was to write a story.

During junior high school, I was reading anything written by Christopher Pike and R.L. Stine. But mostly Christopher Pike by then.

In one of his stories, the book was Remember Me 2: The Return or The Starlight Crystal, I never remember, there was a story about a muse who wanted recognition for helping a writer. I took this story and made it my own. I had it end sadly for the writer than in Christopher Pike’s story.

Even though the muse story wasn’t my idea, I expounded upon it and kept writing my own original stories. I wrote two stories about witchcraft, voodoo, and vampirism that were absolutely ridiculous. Chockfull of clichés, bad grammar, tense changes, and crazy plot twists, these stories were unintelligible. But they were my unintelligible stories. I was proud of them. I could never do anything with them now but I’m glad I created those tales.

If I never would have written those stories, I wonder, where would I be now?