It’s been a year and a half since the publication of the first novel in the Son of Ravage series. Some of you have expressed an interest in when the next book will arrive, and I can only address your question with a noncommittal soon. The good news is, the first draft has been completed. The birth was painful, coming in at a hefty 100,000 words and now needs to go through the process of careful editing and preparation for its presentation into this troubled world. In the meantime, here’s a little taste, a literary hors d'oeuvre of what our merry little band of adventurers have been up to since we’ve last seen them.  Barry Lives!
 
J.P. Linde, June 6, 2020.
 

                                                                        Sequel of Ravage
 
                                                                            The Chunnel
 
                                                                                    1989

     Deep beneath the English Channel, surrounded on all sides by ancient limestone, history is being made. An underground tunnel, linking two great European countries is being chiseled out of billion-year-old rock. When completed, it will rank amongst mankind’s greatest engineering achievements, born out of blood, sweat, and brilliance. It will be the largest tunnel of its kind, 32 miles in length and will hasten the dawning of a new economic reality in Europe. A cynical press has nicknamed the herculean project, the Chunnel and right now, the future of the entire project is in peril.
     “Mister Barry Ravage sends his regrets but is extremely confident you will find his colleagues, and the mechanism, more than up to the task.” 
      The pale, spectacled man, dressed entirely in black, stood by an invention that he and his colleagues had designed less than six months before. Construction of the prototype had just been completed in Canada and this was to be its first true, working trial. The machine was one of a kind; fast, portable and capable of tunneling through solid rock in a matter of seconds. The mechanical marvel was only the size of a small refrigerator and, at first glance, appeared bulky and unwieldy. But first looks can also be deceiving. The mechanical mole could burrow through any density of rock, extract ore or minerals and record the whole process via remote control video. 
     The initial purpose of the machine was to assist a primitive tribe of Guna Indians in extracting gold from the mountaintop mines located in remote mountains of Panama. For generations, the thankless task had been accomplished with nothing but hard work and sweat. The uncomplaining natives had not yet laid eyes on the contraption as the inventors had taken it for a last-minute trip across the Atlantic Ocean. These sudden circumstances were indeed dire, the sophisticated technology required for a rescue mission of the highest priority.
     Doc lit a cigarette and drew deeply from a blend of Turkish and Virginia tobacco. “No worries,” the portly co-inventor boasted. “We’ll have your people back in no time. This machine won’t stop until it finds them.” The prematurely balding chemist was attired in his signature lab coat. He turned to his pale colleague and glanced at his watch. “How long have they been down there?” he asked with more than a tinge of concern in his voice.
     “They’re overdue.” Brain returned quietly in his customarily droning monotone. “I don’t think we can stall these people much longer.”
      Doc turned back to the assembled and stroked the smooth metallic surface of the H.O.R.D.A. “We named this device after a creature from Star Trek,” he explained. Stalling seemed to be the only option for the small audience of anxious executives. 
     “Devil in the Dark,” Brain added. “First season, aired on March 9, 1967.”
     “Episode 26.”
     “Forget about that,” one particularly surly engineer interrupted in a heavy, almost comical French accent. The man was obviously no fan of science fiction, literary or televised. “We have men missing down there and we were told that this Barry Ravage was the only one who could get the job done. Obviously, he was too busy for us and his comments are nothing more than a boast. It seems we have been taken in by a charlatan and are owed our substantial monetary deposit back.”
     The crowd was turning ugly very quickly. 
     “Hmmm,” Brain offered. He caressed the handle of his sheathed sword cane and wondered secretly if he might be needing it soon. He was becoming convinced that Engineering executives became unhinged far too easily.
     “As soon as we hear back from our colleagues,” Doc said. “We’ll launch it.”
     “No offense,” another Engineer, this one Scottish, interjected. This man had spent most of his adult life in some sort of mine and his abrupt, negative demeanor reflected the mood of someone who had spent too much of his adult life underground. “But I believe you fellows don’t know what the bloody hell you’re doing.”
     “No offense taken,” Brain lied, fingering the small button that released the blade from its wooden sheath.
     “Not knowing what we’re doing has never stopped us before,” Doc blustered. He reached for his pocket and felt the reassuring comfort of the hard pack of Camel Wide cigarettes.  He hoped he had enough the deadly, addictive cylinders to get him through the rest of this extremely trying day.
     Doc and Brain were relatively new to the hero game, drafted into service by an even more unlikely candidate, their friend Barry Levitt. Barry began this new vocation under the insistence of a deceased birth father, Rock Ravage, most commonly known by criminals as the Ravager. The son of the deceased hero had drafted his closest colleagues into a career of adventuring, and the sophomore team remained woefully inexperienced when it came to interacting with an often times cynical public. Never-the-less, Barry’s four friends muddled through the best they could, having already learned the most important rule to being a hero; that pretending was often times just as important as actually knowing.
 
     “What the was that?” The handsome blonde actor reached up and wiped the unexplainable warm drop of liquid from his forehead. Anything dripping this far underground should be cold, he reasoned. Whatever landed on the top of his head was unmistakably warm and also slimy. Unexplained droppings were not the only thing on his mind. The man called Face was growing more anxious with every step in the dark, dank underground. At any second, the actor thought the entire southern portion of the North Sea could drop down on top of him. 
     Beast aimed his flashlight into an adjoining rocky alcove. Doc and Brain, had sent their two colleagues ahead to scout for clues and to find the best location to launch the H.O.R.D.A. The plan was to radio back in one hour. Ninety full minutes had passed and the two had made one miscalculation after another. Now, Face and the hulking man-child nicknamed Beast were hopelessly lost.
     “None of this is on the map,” Face announced belligerently, thumping his finger onto the unfolded map that his colleague held in his huge, paws. “And I think some giant cave bird just shit on me.”
     “No birds,” Beast growled back. “Probably a bat. It’s Ebola you have to worry about.”
     This news resulted in several minutes of animated antics before Face finally calmed down. He jumped, he shouted, he screamed, pointing a threatening finger at his hulking, Neanderthal-looking friend. “I’m going back,” he announced, turning abruptly and realizing he had no clue as to which direction offered a safe retreat. “Any second my entire body may bleed-out from some deadly and mysterious virus.”
     “Calm down.”
     “Why would I want to do that?”
     “No. I mean we’re not lost,” Beast answered. “There’s a way out just beyond that turn.” The big man tapped the unfolded map with a brutish finger. “There.”
     “What are we even doing here?” Face whined. “Are we looking for the missing men or a place to launch that infernal machine? And why doesn’t anyone tell me anything?”
     “Because you never listen.”
     The two adventurers found themselves in familiar territory, smack dab in the middle of the vast transportation hub. From here, engineers and excavators, travelled via electric shuttles, that moved 24 hours to and from the work site. Powerful work lights blazed overhead, and despite the cold and dampness, provided a feeling of relative safety below the earth’s surface. The vast and usually busy cavern was completely empty and eerily quiet.
     All work on the Chunnel had halted and there remained only a half a mile of rock separating the English workers from their French brothers. Under normal circumstances, the engineers would have completed the task. But these were not normal circumstances. Seven British engineers were missing, and that number did not account for the 13 French who disappeared shortly after construction began. All of the victims had vanished into thin air and both governments had long since exhausted their security resources searching for them. The British and the French officials had nowhere else to turn. And, in the last year at least, when individuals, or governments, had nowhere else to turn, the new protocol was to contact Barry Ravage.
     “Serious Sally sells seashells on the salty seashore.” Face stood dead center in the middle of the cavern with his arms outstretched. “I’ve sounded better,” he announced. “This cold and damp’s affecting my sinuses and psoriasis.”
     Another drop of liquid spattered atop the center of the actor’s head. Face ran a hand through his blonde hair and felt the consistency of the deposit.
     “That’s not a bat shit,” Face shrieked.
     “What are you yammering about?” Beast asked.
     Face was focused on his finger. “This isn’t from a bird or a bat or anything else,” he said holding out his finger for an examination by his colleague. “Look!”
     “Uh-uh,” Beast grunted his refusal. “You ain’t getting me to pull your finger.”
     “Here!” A third of his index finger was covered in thick, crimson.
     “You cut yourself,” the big man declared. The brutish man had never been particularly good at deductive reasoning. He pursued his options much like his ancient forebears; by instinct.
     I didn’t cut myself,” Face said. “It’s coming from up there!”
     Beast was already on the walkie-talkie. “Doc, Brain,” he said. “You copy?”
      Face ripped the walkie-talkie out of his friend’s hands. “Shut off the overhead lights.”
     “What’s going on?” Doc’s response from the other end was comprised of mostly static.
     “Now!” Face rubbed the dark liquid off on his jeans. 
     A brief click followed a total, pitch-black darkness.
     “Flashlights on,” Face said, pointing the beam of his flashlight at the rock above the lights.
     Beast complied, once again unsnapping the retractable flashlight from his belt.  “Whoa,” he managed. The big man, never at a loss for words, was speechless. Wide brown eyes attempted to make sense at the horror he was witnessing.  
     Face raised the walkie-talkie once more. “Guys,” he said, his baritone voice cracking. “I think we found your men.”
     “What are you talking about? Where? Over.”
     “We’re going to need a very long ladder,” he said. “Over.”
 
     Another full hour had passed and the H.O.R.D.A. performed to expectations, slicing through the solid rock like a hot knife through butter. The drill spun effortlessly through the sandstone strata while the side lasers made short work the residual debris. For a bulky machine, it was quite nimble, adjusting to changes in the rock and taking the corners deftly. 
     Brain kept his eyes on the Sony monitors, his pale, steady hands operating the controls with a cool, professional assuredness. Doc, walkie-talkie clenched in one hand stood, huddled over his friend’s shoulder and followed the action on the screen. The portly chemist watched the grainy green blip on screen and nervously pondered the appropriate time for his next cigarette. They were now searching the last known location of his two friends and something kept gnawing at him that they were too late. The blinking dot that signaled their friend’s location had ceased. The machine was on its way to their last known direction.
     The two yanks were surrounded by the skeptical engineers who had been overseeing the underground construction. So far, no one on the team was much impressed by the actions of the Americans. It was becoming obvious that the Ravage crew had no clue of what they were doing and had lost two more of their own men in the rescue operation.
     “Anything,” Brain asked as he commandeered the H.O.R.D.A toward the blinking light that represented their friend’s last location.
     “I don’t see a thing,” Doc answered. “How much time?”
     “Less than a minute.”
     The lights overhead flickered and the instrument panel blinked. The surrounding audience hurried away in search of the back-up generator.  With no lights in the entire Chunnel, things had unexpectedly just gone from bad to worse. The monitors blinked and Brain felt control of the H.O.R.D.A. slip away.
     “That’s it,” Brain announced in his customary monotone. “I can no longer control it. I’m going to have to shut it down.”
     “We did the best we could,” Doc mumbled. He put down the Walkie-talkie and his hand reached into his pocket for the pack of cigarettes. “It’s out of our hands now.”
     “Out of your hands?” one agitated executive announced. “That’s it? There’s no one else?”
     “One chance remains,” Brain commented in his signature monotone. “Our best chance.”
 
Next Week: The Conclusion

​First off, Christopher Guest happens to be one of my favorite directors of all time. And it’s no coincidence that 4 of the 5 movies below are in my list of my 100 top-rated films. As we move into the month of June, let’s take just a few minutes to consider the comedic brilliance of Mr. Christopher Guest. 

​“Now I know what it feels like to stare down into the Grand Canyon.”
 
“In every actor there lives a tiger, a pig, an ass, and a nightingale.”
 
Despite the two excellent quotes listed above, it is my humble opinion that this film does not rise to the level of any of Guest’s films listed below. To me, the emotional balance of For Your Consideration is a bit off and some of the characters come off a little more tragic than they need to. Never-the-less, there are some terrific sequences, gags and improvisations, the highlight for me the send up of the Entertainment Tonight type show hosted by none other than the late Fred Willard and the always stellar Jane Lynch.
 
 

​4. The Big Picture (1989)
 
“I don't know you. I don't know your work. But I think you are a genius. And I am never wrong about that.”
 
“If you decide to sign with me, you're gonna get more than an agent. You're gonna get three people. 
(Holds up four fingers) You're gonna get an agent, a mother, a father, a shoulder to cry on, someone who knows this business inside and out. And if anyone ever tries to cross you, I'll grab them by the balls and squeeze 'til they're dead.”
 
The Big Picture is an unpolished jewel of a movie. Ask anyone in Hollywood how accurate it is and you will most likely get one of two responses. Anyone who has taken a meeting a meeting with a Hollywood executive will recognize the razor-sharp parody right off. Ask 9 out of 10 film producers and you may get an entirely different response. I once asked a producer if he had seen The Big Picture and he returned the question with nothing but a cold, icy stare. Most executives            I have asked just shake their heads, bemoaning the use of such prejudicial stereotypes. And that’s exactly why I love this film. For me, the satire works on so many levels, but one particular scene sums it all up quite nicely

​A Mighty Wind (2003)
 
“There was abuse in my family, but it was mostly musical in nature.”
 
“In 1971, after the breakup of the Main Street Singers, Chuck Wiseman moved up to San Francisco where she started a retail business with his brothers Howard and Dell, the Three Wisemen's Sex Emporium. It was very successful for a year until they were sued over something having to do with a box of ben wah balls.”
 
This is a real peach of a movie, following the lives of several folk groups and singers on their way to a televised reunion. Once again, it is Guest’s glorious ensemble that makes this a stand-out. The repertory of actors are all represented and don’t disappoint. The big televised concert, and the closing title musical number at the end are the icing on the delectable cake. Performances by Levy and Ohara are amongst the best in the entire series and manage to be as emotionally moving as they are hilarious. 
 

​And a tie for #1 “Best in Show” and “Waiting for Guffman.”
 
“We consider ourselves bi-costal if you consider the Mississippi River one of the coasts.” 
 
“Here's the Remains of the Day lunchbox. Kids don't like eating at school, but if they have a Remains of the Day lunchbox they're a lot happier.”
 
Waiting for Guffman (1996)
 
This is a brilliant community theatre Waiting for Godot. And for the record, I have never used the words brilliant and community theatre in the same sentence. But if ever a film deserved that honor, this is the picture. The storyline is small town epic, the improvisation from the major players to the townspeople are all incredible (check out Bryan Doyle Murray if you don’t believe me). It just couldn’t get any better than this and I considered this to be Guest’s comedic masterpiece until this happened.
 
“I went to one of those obedience places once... it was all going well until they spilled hot candle wax on my private parts.”
 
“If you're ever buying a shampoo sink go right to the Dutch. The French know nothing about shampooing.”
 
 
Best in Show (2000). 
 
Again, never has a comedic ensemble delivered a story with so much humor, love and pathos than in the fictional but impressively and realistically rendered Mayflower Dog Show. The textures of each of the major players is deliciously hilarious, yet poignant and sweet. The performances by Catherine O’Hara and Eugene Levy are nothing short of Oscar worthy and the rest of the cast delivers the goods repeatedly, scene after scene after scene. For Guest’s very particular brand of movie making this is considered a break-out success. I cannot praise it enough.  

And now, we interrupt this blog post with an important announcement

Attention all Ravagers: 

​Next week, June 6th and the following Saturday, June 13th, I will be posting the entire first chapter to my newest comedy and adventure novel, Sequel of Ravage.  If you’re a fan of the first book and wondered what happens to Barry Ravage and his merry band of adventurers, now’s your chance! This is a one-time, two-part event, so by all means, I hope to see you there!

It's Memorial Day Weekend and what better way to celebrate the shut-in holiday than dragging out the old Traeger Smoker and skinning some smoke wagons. Two immediately come to mind and I thought it would be fun to guess which one is my favorite.

In 1993 and 94 two separate films about legendary lawman Wyatt Earp were released. Tombstone was the first, followed shortly after by the three-hour epic Wyatt Earp. One picture was plagued with problems, the other featured a star so cocksure of himself that he offered to buy the entire town of Tombstone Arizona, reverting it back to the spitting image of what it was during the historic Gunfight at the OK Corral. Both of these films have merit. One is as fun as the other is mired in historical detail. One has an Academy Award nominated writer director/the other has (drum roll) George P Cosmatos. One is overlong, while one sizzles as hot as the Arizona heat. Today, we saunter into the virtual saloon of our imagination and discuss two films, and why one movie eventually came out on top.
 
Modern Wyatt Earp movies for a thousand, Alex.
 
It was none other than Sly Stallone that recommended that George P Cosmatos direct. But it was eventually revealed that Cosmatos was a ghost director, Kurt Russell the real man calling the shots.
 
Kevin Costner was originally involved with the film Tombstone, the film originally intended to be a six-hour miniseries.
 
Both movies were produced at the same time and Costner used his considerable clout to convince most of the major studios to refuse to distribute the competing film. 
 
Wyatt Earp was nominated for 5 Razzie Awards. Coincidentally, Tombstone was nominated for none.
 
Running time for Earp: 190 minutes
Running time for Tombstone: 130 minutes

Okay, let’s talk. While Wyatt Earp does deserve most of the criticism it gets, including an overlong running time and a general lack of focus, it does have some strengths. Dennis Quaid as Doc is very much worth sticking around for. His emaciated presence relays a realism that simply is not found in the other picture. The score for Earp is epically impressive and soars to heights that the film itself can’t hope to achieve. Costner’s performance is all over the place, and in playing the young Earp, he successfully manages to throw out any sense of realism that the film so desperately seeks to achieve. All of the sets appear to be accurate and the performances of the supporting cast, including Gene Hackman, are great. In conclusion, the film never manages to rise up to its potential and, in my humble opinion, the buck stops with Costner.

You tell ‘em I’m coming and hell’s coming with me.”

Tombstone didn’t try to be a classic. It simply is one. Top-notch writing that is quoted to this day is something rare in cinema. Kevin Jarre’s screenplay crackles with authenticity and it’s a pity we did not see his complete version. The performances throughout never try too and let the characters do all the talking. Kilmer is electric and Kurt Russell gives the performance of his life. The supporting cast of Elliot, Paxton, Delaney, Boothe, Biehn all deliver some of their best work and seem to be having the time of their lives. Oh, and all the glorious mustaches. Let’s not forget those. The bushel of collective hair on the actor’s upper lips is almost as fun as the picture itself. If there is a weakness in the movie, it’s the number of pages pulled out of the script when the entire project went over budget and behind schedule. Rumor has it that Russell himself was forced to choose what was shot and what wasn’t. Because of this, the buildup to the finale seems rushed and could have benefited more from real scenes as opposed to a montage of scenes of Wyatt and friends on horseback.  But when all said and done, the above flaw does not take away from this film being considered a superior entry in the canon of Wyatt Earp.​

Have a great, eh, holiday weekend.
 

If you have only one book to read this pandemic…and have already devoured by book, Son of Ravage (El Dorado Press and available to order at all independent bookstores), I’d humbly suggest the mysteries of the incomparable and rumpled television detective Columbo by Dame Agatha Christie. Okay, I am lying about the Agatha Christie part. But there are books, and they are mysteries. As an added bonus, they are all about actual events such as the Manson Murders, the J Edgar Hoover Files and even the Kennedy assassination. Rumor has it that on less than Oliver Stone himself used Columbo: The Grassy Knoll as source material for his epic film JFK. So, without further ado, Pacia Linde, reviews the first in the series, Columbo: The Grassy Knoll. 

I read Columbo: The Grassy Knoll so you don’t have to. Just kidding. I read Columbo: The Grassy Knoll because I am a Columbo fanatic and because I genuinely love the Kennedys and any half-baked conspiracy that involves them. But, the novel was not at all what I expected. For whatever reason, I expected, or at least hoped, that the novel would be set in the aftermath of the Kennedy assassination and that Columbo, a rookie cop who has found himself at the parade in Dallas, becomes embroiled in the mystery of who killed John F. Kennedy. It could be Columbo’s origin story. Sounds like a great novel, right? Well, this is not that novel. This novel, set in 1993, is the story of a television news man who is murdered after promising to reveal newly discovered information on the thirty year anniversary of the assassination.
     The novel follows the basic formula of a Columbo episode. It starts with a murder. The audience knows who did it but not why. That, of course, is where Columbo comes in. The book follows the formula perfectly. But what it lacks are the elements that make an episode of Columbo so memorable, including a combination of Columbo’s idiosyncrasies and a compelling villain. This book has no compelling villain. The murderers in this story are vain (as an antagonist in the Columbo universe should be), but not particularly intelligent. They are vaguely but not compellingly drawn to Columbo, also a necessary element. The best Columbo episodes, such as Try and Catch Me starring the incomparable Ruth Gordon, work so well because Columbo and his adversary actually come to respect and admire one another. It makes the inevitable denouement all the more powerful. There is nothing of that here. There is just annoyance and boredom from the audience at all of the characters (except Columbo, of course).
     Also crucial to a great Columbo episode is the revelation of a new Columbo mannerism. Of course, anything added to the character in a book would seem like heresy, but a recitation of all of his previously mentioned behaviors seems like just a greatest hits meant to manipulate the audience into complacency in regards to a lackluster plot. There are scores of “just one more thing”s, mentions of Mrs. Columbo and her hobbies, Columbo’s rumpled appearance and raincoat, his cigars, and the song “This Old Man”, which makes an appearance in many later episodes. All of these things are mentioned so numerously that they begin to feel like a chore. There is no sense of balance between the mannerisms and the character himself. The character of Columbo is rendered flat by the relentless use of these characteristics. They don’t endear us to the Columbo of the book as they have to the Columbo of television. 
     But, if there is one recurring theme operating within the novel it is the state of women’s décolletage. The author managed to hone in on women’s chests in a way that he was not able to hone in on much else. But that makes sense. I mean, aren’t breasts the key descriptor, nay the only relevant descriptor, of any woman. Take this quote, for example: “she was just a very pretty girl, with a friendly face and dark-brown hair. She was wearing a man’s vest undershirt and a pair of blue denim shorts. He pretended he didn’t notice she was wearing nothing under the shirt. He was not a man to ogle, but he was not blind nor was he indifferent to a woman’s charms…” (122-123). Oh, come on. I mean, what’s the deal? There are no boobs in Columbo. That is definitely not canon. 
     I guess all this is to say that I didn’t really enjoy the book. I enjoyed the idea of the book. I enjoyed my imagined version of the book. But I didn’t enjoy this book. There was something a little too bombastic, a little too presumptuous, a little too contrived for me to enjoy it as much as, say, an episode of Columbo. But there was something in this book that I loved and that was the reappearance of Dog. This book takes place, as I have noted before, in 1993 and, inexplicably, after 20 years, Dog is still alive, enjoying lazy drives with Columbo as he always has. I think, if there is any one thing we can all agree on, it is that Dog should live forever. 
  

You can enjoy more of Pacia Linde at:

A "You Kids Get Off My Lawn" Editorial

So, I just finished the first draft of another script, forever cementing my place in the Guinness Book of World Record as the screenwriter with most un-produced spec screenplays in the history of all documented time. I know, quite a record, right? You are most likely asking yourself, how do you know this to be an actual fact? Well, the Guinness fact-checkers have been to my garage in Windsor countless times, pouring over the contents of file cabinets, accordion files and Manila folders just to make sure that my record remains factual and intact. And, I am quite confident I will be seeing them again in the next few weeks as I put the finishing touches to my latest shelter in place masterpiece.
 
But the preceding paragraph begs the question, why, if you have so many unproduced masterpieces do you bother to continue? It’s not like you can make fancy macramé covers and sell them at the nearby Farmer’s Market. Well, first off you can, and just saying, it is far more lucrative than selling my novels on Amazon. Secondly, the types of stories I write tend to tell me when and where they need to be written and it turns out that I, the mere vessel of these temperamental musae, have very little choice in the matter.
 
And while I believe the venues for completed films remains in doubt, the need for original stories is only going to grow. Maybe this is just what nature intended to get away from the bloated movie making of the past and a return to more original and a lower cost of storytelling. If there is a positive spin to all of this CoVid 19 nonsense, it maybe that the movie world will become far less inclusive and welcome more talented storytelling and storytellers into its ranks. Like clearing skies and less crowded 405, lets hope we see some pandemic sized benefits.
 
With any luck, producers are using this time to reevaluate the stories they want to tell. Maybe we’ll get back to more enlightened approach to storytelling, one that is entertaining, throws in a lesson about our fickle natures along the way and does not break the bank. It’s not exactly a novel approach but would be quite welcome none the less.
​

And on completely different note, so grateful to be included in The Who’s Who In New Pulp compiled by AirShip  27’s Ron Fortier and Rob Davis. The book will be available to order in the Fall and I will keep you posted.

Next week: the long awaited "There are no boobs in Columbo" a review of William Harrington's Columbo novel, "The Grassy Knoll," by Pacia Marie Linde. And while your at it, check out Pacia's  blog. 

Intro by Mr. Brutt Dale

Brutt Dale's dire warnings are beacon of truth in world, shining the everlasting light of freedom onto a dark and troubled world. His video blog is posted weekly and he would be much obliged if you subscribed to his youtube channel.

COMING SOON to jplinde.com: "There Are No Boobs in Columbo" a serious discussion of the Columbo TOR series of books reviewed by Pacia M Linde. 

​(Writer’s Notebook 4/20/2020) So, let me share a brief note of what my life would have been if this pandemic had never happened. To start things off, at this very second, I’d have been patiently meandering in line at TSA in SFO for a flight to Philadelphia (City of Brotherly Love) and home of the Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, the famed Rocky Balboa Steps and host to show business icon, crooner and television host, Mike Douglas. I know those are a hell of a lot of reasons, but why Philadelphia? Well, I’d have travelled halfway across the country not to triumphantly ascend the Rocky Steps, or co-host with Mike D. After several hours of laying over, My wife would have been catching the late afternoon flight to Charles De Gaulle Airport and Paris France!
 
Now, I know everyone and their brother, up to including my wife, my daughter and my cat (see Chuck Jones’ Gay Pur-ee), have visited the City of Light. Alas, I have not, and I was sort of looking forward to it. We would’ve arrived on the 21st, taken the train to the city, checked-in to our small but overpriced hotel, taken a leisurely stroll down the Left Bank, insulted several Parisians for not pronouncing something correctly and maybe even started an International incident. But, all of that is not to be and we remain here, sequestered at home in Northern CA, witnessing morons all across the country dust off their Confederate Flags and protest their right to infect others with a very lethal disease. Go US of A. 
 
So, with that in mind, I have decided to tour France the best way, and maybe the only way I can, through my imagination. I will share it all with you, just as it happens in my mind’s eye.
 
Day 1 (April 21)
 
My wife, bless her heart, agreed to share a taxi with a nice, young gentlemen who also happened to memorize the address to our hotel. Before we had even unpacked our bags, several thugs arrived, dragged both of us out from under the bed and sold us into white slavery. Both my wife’s and my father have passed away and, so, well we are kind of shit out of luck. But, on the bright side, as a side trip, it looks like we may get to see Turkey and, if we play our cards right, the Middle East.
 
Day 2 (April 22) Lourve
 
We later escaped the slavers and decided to tour the Louvre. Geez, there is a lot to see here. And, did you know the Mona Lisa’s portrait is only as big as a postage stamp? I sure didn’t. Bumped into a chap that called himself Jason. Bad memory but seems like a nice enough guy. We decided to make him our tour guide for the day. Boy, was that a mistake. The guy seems to get in a hell of a lot of altercations. Seriously. But he is a great driver, so there is that.

​Day 3 (April 23) The War Museum and Napoleon’s Tomb
 
Boy, the days are passing quickly here. Luckily, I have plenty of You Tube videos to remind me my glorious days on the Continent. Picked a bad day to visit Napoleon. As it turned out, it was exactly the same day that the President and his cabinet had decided to visit. I did catch a quick glimpse of 45 which I took using my Nikon 3100. I apologize for the blurriness of the photo, but I refuse to use it in smart mode. I used the photo app to turn it into black and white. Still, you can clearly see the reverence on the face of our President. What a guy. 
 

​Day 4 (the Eiffel Tower and River Cruise)
 
Ever parachuted from the Eiffel Tower? Neither had I and there is no time like the present to live my dream. First, you have to dress the part. I decided on a outfit made entirely in black (it’s so slimming). I skipped paying the admission, jumped the turnstile and proceeded up the steps, pursued by a very old wine steward in a tuxedo. He was persistent for his advanced age but, with the aid of a stunt man, pursued me all the way to the top. Everyone is right. The view is fabulous. I did manage to get off without being caught and had a glorious view of the Seine and the surrounding city. Also managed to catch the River Cruise back to the hotel. 
 

​Day 5 Normandy – One of the true disappointments about the trip cancellation was not meeting up with my good friend Jerry Lambert. Little known fact about us, we are both avid World War 2 reenactors and were looking forward to getting on Omaha Beach and advancing our passion with a few fellow enthusiasts. A special thanks to Lori for holding the camera. Thank goodness she got the entire scene in one take. But that’s just Lori. She’s a real pro.

Day 6 – The Left Bank
​
Stumbled upon a delightful collection of street urchins who expressed an interest in my ability to sing George Gershwin, tap dance while wearing a kerchief.
 
Seems like it was all over too quickly. Ah, imagination, we'll always have Paris.

​We have another very special guest next week. 
 
Social Scientist, documentarian and Conspiracy Activist Brutt Dale will be joining us to share some of his important work on whatever the hell people like him work on. You owe it to yourself to take a long, discerning look at his important work.

​Music is vital to keeping us sane and connecting us all to something far greater. I wanted to dedicate this week’s post to celebrating some of the music and various artists that have meant so much to me over the decades. Buckle up as we are going to cover a lot of years, the choices diverse as the times when they were recorded. So, kick back and enjoy a snapshot of some of the artists and songs that bring back such great memories and inspire me during this little thing we call the great pandemic of 2020. 

​Photograph (Ringo Starr, written by George Harrison and Ringo Starr) 1973
 
An anthem for the true romantic and no one could bring it to life with more enthusiastic and joyous melancholy than none other than Ringo Starr. This song seems to bridge a transition in my life of no Fab Four to decades of great songwriting and performances from the remaining members.

​I remember to waking up to Birdland by Weather Report virtually every morning for the entire year of 1977. It seemed to be the song of choice for shaking off the cobwebs and getting your day started. The appeal also happened to be universal. Moving to CA and transitioning to a new relationship, the catchy tune became a kind of musical Groundhog Day. To this day I am not able to shake the band’s jazzy influence.

​September (Earth, Wind & Fire) 1978
 
There is a reason this tune is in every geriatric buddy comedy movie over the last decade. How can you not hear it and not remember a day when all you really cared about was the next great party? 
 

​All Over the World (Electric Light Orchestra) 1980
 
In the late seventies, I was introduced to a simple little band that happened to call itself The Electric Light Orchestra. The infusion of strings in rock and roll has always been there but in the case of Jeff Lynne, it was joyously blatant. I was gifted ELO along with a series of other albums and portable stereo by my girlfriend upon moving to Los Angeles. Being in a long-distance relationship, I tended to play the hell out of Telephone Line but the band’s influence in my life never 

​We Got the Beat (Go-Gos) 1980
 
I owned a Mercury Lynx, Seattle Seahawk Edition and purchased it new with absolutely no frills. My friend built me a cassette player that was made from a cardboard box and that sat in the passenger seat. In the rare time that I had a guest passenger, it was relegated to the back seat. That was okay as I never had to change the tape. Beauty and the Beat was on the extended playlist

Putting Out Fire (David Bowie) 1982
 
Well, something had to replace the Beauty and the Beat cassette for top play. This theme from “Cat People” is one of the best title tracks of all time. And nobody could perform something as hauntingly beautiful as this master of rock and roll.

​Neutron Dance (Pointer Sisters) 1983
 
Shelled out over 50 dollars to see the Pointer Sisters in the very early nineties. They blew through their headlining set in in just over 45 minutes, making the ghost of Elvis Presley green with envy. Geez. I miss cocaine.

​Raspberry Beret (Prince and the Revolution) 1985
 
Who knew that Raspberry was spelled with a p? Well, I just did. Anyway, we are now in the smack dab in the glorious. Prince had scored a mega-hit with the movie Purple Rain and was now free to make the top forty charts his bitch. Here was an artist at the top of his game and this song only solidifies this appeal. 

Sleepy Joe’s Café (Bruce Springsteen) 2019
 
I know we’ve jumped several decades but this artist seems to transcend time itself. I have listened to him for over 40 years. I have seen him live and there is not a concert like it. He’s a genius and Sleepy Joe’s Café is just one in hundreds of his songs that I listen to over and over and over. I can think of no better artist than to celebrate the end of my little list then with the troubadour for the common man. Thank you, Bruce!
 
And thank all of you for making this blog one of the highlights of my writing career. Stay safe and remember, we got this! 

COMING SOON: A review of the book that blew the Kennedy Assassination Conspiracy wide open. Don't miss a review of the book that Oliver Stone referred to as his bible while researching JFK .
​

​First and foremost, Happy Passover and upcoming Easter. In the Linde household, we have forgone the early morning search for Easter Eggs and will be looking for rolls of toilet paper instead. Before we get started, another heartfelt thank you to the delightful Angela McKennie for her brilliant guest blog last week. Excellent work and before she gets famous, I hope that she visits us again.
 
And now, without further ado, a good ol’ fashioned Cog fight.
 
John Wayne, Warren Oates and Jeff Bridges have all shared the distinct privilege of playing the western scalawag, outlaw and lawman Rooster Cogburn. Today we’ll take a look at the performances of each and what special talents they brought to their depiction of the one-eyed fat man.
 

​True Grit: A Further Adventure (1978). While Oates, a great actor, does his best to live up to the bigger than life character, the decidedly television material doesn’t deserve more than a quick look. Even the title fails to make sense. As one reviewer noted, “Grit is something you either have or do not. It can’t really go on a “further adventure.””
 
The real story here is distinctly different acting approaches of Jeff Bridges and John Wayne. While Wayne brings a bravado bigger than life performance to his Oscar winning performance, Bridges’ portrayal is rooted closer to the source material and has an authenticity that simply can’t be matched. The Rocky Mountains is no Arkansas and as much as I adore all things Elmer Bernstein, the haunting gospel themes of Carter Burwell capture the true darkness and feel of a real American frontier.

​It’s a pity that Hal B Wallis thought a sequel to True Grit was needed. The western remake of The African Queen was not really necessary, and the overall story and direction were nothing more than a spirited swing and a miss. While the chemistry between Hepburn and Wayne was memorable, it is simply not enough to elevate the film to the character’s former glory.
 
A quick note about the supporting characters in both films. First, Glen Campbell, while thoroughly unprepared for such a role, he is not all that bad. What he lacks in talent, he makes up for in rosy-faced sincerity. Kim Darby is wonderful and Jeff Corey, Robert Duvall, Dennis Hopper are all top-notch. In the Coen’s classic, Hailee Steinfeld is a revelation as Mattie Ross and Matt Damon brings considerably more focus to his interpretation of the character of Texas Ranger LaBouef.

​“It's partly a question of point-of-view. The book is entirely in the voice of the 14-year-old girl. That sort of tips the feeling of it over a certain way. I think [the book is] much funnier than the movie was so I think, unfortunately, they lost a lot of humor in both the situations and in her voice. It also ends differently than the movie did. You see the main character – the little girl – 25 years later when she's an adult. Another way in which it's a little bit different from the movie – and maybe this is just because of the time when each movie was made – is that it's a lot tougher and more violent than the movie reflects. Which is part of what's interesting about it.” – Ethan Coen
 
While Wayne won the Academy Award for his performance, it is important to remember that Jeff Bridges was also nominated for the same role. Coen’s version of the film was also nominated for Best Picture, Best Director and Best Adapted Screenplay. 
 
Food for thought and both films are definitely worth visiting while shuttered in place.
 

Well, that about wraps this little blog for this week. Oh, and before I forget, if you are a fan of pop culture and Hollywood icons throughout the decades, check this out:

Perhaps I should have mentioned that this most excellent blogger happens to be my daughter. Oh well, maybe I will remember next week.

(It’s hard to believe, but I have known Angela McKennie for 10 years. She was the first name that came up when we were looking for a director for Wild Space A Go Go. For whatever reason, she turned us down and I will always regret not having the opportunity to work with her. She’s intelligent, funny and possesses a knowledge of pop culture that is second to none. And when you are smack dab in the middle of a potentially lethal pandemic, I can think of no one better suited to entertain us.)

​It is a blessing in disguise that the current global pandemic has required us to cancel our spring break travel plans. Sure, we had a full agenda of nonstop family fun on the horizon: seeing “Hamilton” in San Francisco, touring the Winchester Mystery House, and visiting Alcatraz for the first time in our lives. What could be more thrilling? But sometimes life unfolds in mysterious ways. When we booked the trip in December, we had no way of knowing that - only a short three months later - world events would lead us to spend our vacation in a prison of a totally different kind.

Nevertheless, we are exceedingly grateful for this opportunity. Being housebound, we now have a rare chance to spend quality time with our children, and our kitchen contractor Phil. We will use this precious time to make lots of memories. After all, it seems like only yesterday that Phil was doing the cabinet demolition. Before we knew it, he had graduated to building the stove surround. We are afraid to blink, as we know it is inevitable that he will soon finish installing the molding and then it will be time for him to leave the nest and go off into the world to experience his own adventures. While he might not even realize it yet, I think Phil is grateful for this time, too.

​Every day he is with us, we find new ways to treasure this time.  For example, on Monday we tried to get our two teenage daughters to come out of their rooms to spend time with us.  Perhaps to play a game, look at family photos, or just talk to us about their lives.  For the pushback we got, you would think we had asked them to donate a kidney.  Phil, on the other hand, eagerly regaled us with tales of his visits to Lowe’s and the difference between copper and plastic tubing.  What a riot!
 
Not only does he enthusiastically share his knowledge with us, but he continually delights us with surprises!  On Wednesday, after returning home from a rare outing to find a roll of toilet paper, I went into the guest room to find an array of large holes dotting the ceiling and all of my belongings piled onto the bed.  It was pure whimsey.  Who knew that the best way to get to the electrical system in the kitchen would be to tear apart my one and only sanctuary? Phil, that’s who!
 
Lessons we have learned from Phil include “How to Properly use Masking Tape,” “Why the Electrician Doesn’t Know What He’s Talking About,” and “Hey, Did You Know There’s a Rat in Your Garage?”  Ha!  How perfect.  What worldwide plague would be complete without some adorable vermin?  Not only did Phil not hold back on drawing our attention to this good fortune, but he explained to us in colorful detail how to make the BEST rat trap using only a 5-gallon bucket and a soda can.  This is the kind of education we just can’t get from books; it can only come from Phil.  Or possibly YouTube.
 
While the future is uncertain, one thing is sure:  we feel extremely lucky that this project has gone a full seven days over schedule and required nonstop work every single day including weekends.  It’s not done yet, either!  Like the COVID-19 outbreak, it feels like it might go on forever!  After all, he hasn’t even gotten to the backsplash or the flooring. It is likely that he will spend many more lunch hours curled up downstairs on our loveseat taking his daily nap.  He looks like an angel when he is sleeping; I wish you could see it.
 
When that fateful day comes and he does bid us farewell, his bill for time-and-materials-over-budget will be the only thing we have left to serve as a sweet memento of our time together.  That, and our kitchen.  For now, we will continue to cherish these days, and gather our rosebuds while we may; life is short, and moments with Phil are fleeting.