Vinny has been doing improv for a long time. Probably too long. He's thinking of quitting. But he would miss the camaraderie, he would miss the adulation. Maybe he won't quit. Perhaps a long drive down a Canadian highway would soothe his troubled soul, the trees endlessly rolling by, the slate blue sky bruising to a dusky indigo. That might help. He'd come back invigorated, ready for improv! No stage too large, no crowd too demanding. Throaty lust or meekly endearing or silky villain or that quiet rage that brings a room to silence, hanging on his every whisper. He'd tear it up, night after soul-baring night, leaving it all on the floor to vanish when the lights go down. Vinny could-- Vinny would do that for improv. BACK   HOME