I get asked sometimes if I miss stand-up. The short answer? Not really. There were—and still are—so many comedians who were simply better. Years later, I can look back and truly admire what they do: the discipline, the grind, the sheer nerve it takes to keep getting up there night after night.
As for me, I’m exactly where I want to be. These days, I get to write stories, create worlds, and still make people feel something—sometimes even laugh. Folks read the books, visit the site, and check in just to see what I’m up to. That’s more than enough spotlight for me.
If my website were a small comedy club, we’d be doing just fine.
Most nights, about sixty people wander in — some regulars, some curious first-timers. The lights are dim, the mic’s a little dented, and the jokes are equal parts pulp and punchline.
Real laughs don’t come cheap. But the crowd sticks around, orders another round, and lets me try out new material — whether it’s a fresh story, a wild idea, or a screenplay that just might land.
Some nights, the room’s packed. Other nights, it’s a quiet set for the diehards who’ve heard every bit but still laugh in the right places. I like those nights too.
Every so often, someone important drops by — a producer, an agent, a reader with the right sense of humor. They sit in the back, watch the set, and maybe, just maybe, something connects.
So if you’re one of the sixty — thanks for coming back. If you’re new, grab a drink, find a seat, and stick around. The next set starts any minute now.
Headlining soon: The Last Argonaut, Stay Tuned

Pictured: J.P. Linde has envisioned by legendary producers Hanna-Barbera

At the stroke of midnight, the paperback edition of Tales from the Chair officially comes to life on Amazon. Click the picture—yes, it’s got a link, I made sure—and it’ll take you straight to the goods. We’re all very excited about this horror/comedy anthology. Who knows, maybe I’ve accidentally invented an entirely new genre: “screamlaughs”? “Chuckleterror”? We’ll workshop the name later.
Meanwhile, in the glamorous world of Hollywood, my agent recently reached out to a producer who agreed to read one of my screenplays--if she’d read one of his. Apparently, this kind of quid-pro-quo reading club is becoming more common these days as agents cut loose writers and producers cut back on, well, everything. It’s not exactly heartwarming, but hey, it’s honest. The odds that were once astronomical now feel… intergalactic.
Still, there are bright spots. Vertical dramas are having their moment (until the next shiny trend shows up), and some writers are wisely—or desperately—swerving into that lane. Just be cautious of anyone charging you a “special fee” to teach you how to format your words vertically. Spoiler: gravity does that for free.
The truth is, there are always creative paths open to you: plays, novels, sketches, iPhone movies shot in your garage. The tools are in your hands. Use them. Create something. Anything. Especially now.

​And now some inspriing words!

Things are definitely picking up around here.
Two screenplays--Paris Without Her and Free Santa—are officially out making the rounds. Fingers crossed they find good homes soon. Currently J.P. Linde has a total of 14 screenplays making the rounds to various producers. We are currently putting the finishing touches on a television pilot titled Tent City and…
Meanwhile, my pulp adventure The Last Argonaut is gearing up for its official release on November 11, following hot on the heels of my Halloween Kindle launch, Tales from the Chair. Paperback of the spooky title begin on November 7th.
If you’ve been keeping an eye on the site lately, you may have noticed things getting a little busier around here—and I couldn’t be happier about it.
Over the past couple of weeks, jplinde.com has seen its strongest traffic numbers ever, climbing from a modest hundred views a day to nearly 200 page views and 175 unique visitors in a single stretch. Not bad for a scrappy little site built on pulp dreams and coffee.
The spike began with pre-sales for Tales from the Chair (launching Halloween on Kindle) and kept growing thanks to Tent City outreach. It just goes to show that a good story—and maybe a few monsters—still travel fast.
To everyone who’s visited, shared, clicked, or even just peeked at a page, thank you. You’re helping turn this site into a real creative hub for my books, screenplays, and whatever strange worlds come next.
Stay tuned. From horror to heroics, it’s been a wild creative ride—and it’s just getting started.

"This never happened to the other fellow."

First things first—welcome to all the new visitors to the site! A heartfelt thank you. Viewership has more than doubled, and I owe it all to great word of mouth from people like you.
A lot has happened since I returned from Paris, so let’s get right to it.
First up: my horror anthology Tales from the Chair is officially open for business. Presales began yesterday, with Kindle sales launching on Halloween. As Count Floyd was fond of saying--“Spooky!”
Also coming soon from Reese Unlimited: The Last Argonaut. Publishing date is set for November, and I’ll keep you posted.
There’s been plenty of screenplay movement, too. Nothing definite yet, but my agent currently has fifteen scripts out to various producers. Fingers crossed.
Another exciting development is a television pilot I’ve written called Tent City. Set in a crumbling Southern California city, the story follows a street-paper reporter and a battle-scarred vet as they pull a thread on a missing girl—and uncover a covert campaign to erase the unhoused.
Tagline: “They came to erase the forgotten. Two came to uncover the truth.”

Tent City Pitch Deck

I’ve been working on this one for quite a while, and I’m thrilled to see where it leads. There’s even a pitch deck available—if you’re curious, you can check it out [right here]. (Hint: it’s on Vimeo, so you’ll need to pause the presentation to read the slides.) Let me know what you think!
Okay, I’ve chatted long enough. As I get settled back in, I’m excited to see where the rest of the year’s journey takes us.

We all have childhood crushes. Before the age of twelve, I’d already racked up hundreds — Bond women, Samantha Stevens, Emma Peel, April Dancer — and plenty more I’m too embarrassed to list. But the crushes that really stay with you aren’t the ones from Saturday morning TV. They’re your first adult ones.
Mine was Diane Keaton.
The reasons for falling so hard for her probably equal the number of celebrity infatuations I’d had before. I was twenty-three, single, and fresh off a relationship with a brunette singer I met doing Hair. She never actually said “la-de-da,” but she came awfully close.
Then, while living in Los Angeles, I saw two movies that changed everything — Annie Hall (for obvious reasons) and Looking for Mr. Goodbar. I was instantly smitten. So smitten, in fact, that I decided to let her know.
The Letter
First things first: I crossed the intersection of Glen Oaks and Olive, made my way to the Burbank Library, and checked out a paperback biography of my new love. I devoured it in a couple of hours, and by nightfall, I was writing a heartfelt letter to my adult crush.
Cut to fifty years later — and alas, I never heard back. Maybe I was too forward. More likely, the letter never reached her. In hindsight, that’s probably for the best. Even then, a handwritten note asking someone out might’ve come off as, well… a little creepy. Never mind that I didn’t have a literal pot to piss in. Perspective is everything.
What I Really Meant
What I’m really trying to say is this:
Diane Keaton, I already miss you.
I’m glad you never got my letter. I’m glad I didn’t creep you out.
You were born on January 5, 1946.
You left us on October 11, 2025.
Thank you for the hats, the wit, the grace — and for showing an entire generation that smart, funny, and slightly odd could be beautiful.
Rest in peace, Diane.
​

​Well, here we are — the final entry of An Idiot Abroad.
Hard to believe this series stretched over five months, considering the actual trip clocked in at less than two weeks. Talk about inflation. Still, it’s been a good run, and this installment covers the grand finale: a cruise down the Seine, a visit to Napoleon’s tomb, and finally, my reluctant return to the New World.
The Seine Cruise
The day had been warm, the kind of early evening where Paris glows like it’s lit from within. The sun was just beginning to set as we boarded near the Eiffel Tower. The route was simple enough — down to Notre Dame, turn around, and glide back — but the magic was in the details. Every bridge we passed was lined with people waving like we were long-lost friends, and before long, I was waving back like a fool. It’s impossible not to. The city from the river is stunning — spires, domes, and glowing façades drifting past in the gold light of the hour photographers dream about. By the time we returned, night had fallen and the Eiffel Tower began its nightly shimmer. A perfect Paris moment.
To celebrate, I cracked open a bottle of cheap champagne and downed as much as possible before anyone in uniform noticed. Vive la France.
Napoleon’s Tomb
Sunday brought my last stop: the final resting place of the little corporal himself. Napoleon’s tomb sits near the War Museum (a separate ticket, naturally), and every euro is worth it. When Hitler marched into Paris, this was his first stop — standing on the balcony, staring down at the sarcophagus of the man who rewrote Europe. And standing there myself, I could see why. Everything about the place exudes grandeur — the dome, the marble, the sense of engineered immortality.
Fun fact: the chapel also holds the coffins of Napoleon’s two sons, Lyle and Erik Napoleon. Most people don’t know that because, well, I made it up. But you were listening, weren’t you?
The Exit
Just outside the tomb’s entrance sits a modest souvenir stand hawking books, postcards, and — for the kids — tiny bicorne hats. I’ll admit, I thought about buying one. After all, who wouldn’t want to march out of Paris looking like a pocket-sized emperor?
And that’s that — from champagne on the Seine to the shadow of Napoleon. Not bad for an idiot abroad.

​Okay, I hope everyone did their homework last week and tuned in to Professor G. Carlin. If so, gold star. Now let’s shuffle down the Left Bank to our next stop: the Musée d’Orsay.
Quick Background
Once a railway station, now a temple to French art from 1814 onward. Inside: paintings, sculptures, furniture, and photography. But the big brag is this—no one on Earth has a bigger Impressionist and Post-Impressionist stash. If you’re after Monet and his pals, second floor. Trust me.
What Hits You First
The space is enormous. Like, “is this a museum or a Costco with better lighting?” Enormous… and crowded. Just like the Louvre, you’re shoulder-to-shoulder with every tourist from every time zone. So, don’t dawdle.
Things You Can’t Miss

• The Clock. Fifth floor, giant, Art Nouveau, originally part of the 1900 train station. Peer through it for a perfectly framed Paris postcard: Louvre, Sacré-Cœur, the works. It’s Instagram without the filter.
• Daumier. Painter, sculptor, draughtsman, and the godfather of caricature. First Paris retrospective since 1934. Over 300 works. You’ll leave feeling like the class clown never got enough credit.
• The Heavy Hitters. Monet, Renoir, Degas, Manet, Cézanne, Pissarro, Sisley, Morisot, Bazille, Cassatt, Caillebotte. Basically the Beatles of brushwork.
• The Post-Impressionist Posse. Van Gogh, Gauguin, Seurat, Toulouse-Lautrec. If you had their posters in your dorm room, this is where the originals live.

Final Word
The Musée d’Orsay is like the Louvre’s cooler, younger sibling—the one who ditched law school to start a band. The art is iconic, the building is a show-stopper, and the clock alone is worth the price of admission. Just remember: keep moving, keep looking up, and don’t block the view. Someone behind you is already annoyed.
 
Next week’s lineup: the “box-checking” cruise, Napoleon’s final resting place, and a heartfelt au revoir to Paris.

Some of you did not get your permission slips signed and turned in on time. Because of this, we are postponing our trip to the Musee d’Orsay for one week. Please talk to your parents and get these turned in as soon as possible. And no forgeries! (I know the signatures of each and every one of you). Lunch will not be provided, so please bring money or a brown-bag lunch.
Thank you.
The Management of jplinde.com

In the meantime, some of you did not do your homework and have forgotten  how censorship on television works. Here is guest lecturer George Carlin to explain it for you.

No place screams “Paris has a tourist problem” louder than its museums. To cope, they’ve slapped on a one-and-a-half-hour time limit, enforced by how long you get to keep the little audio gizmo. In, out, merci beaucoup. And once you’re inside, you see why.
The Louvre and its elegant sister, the Musée d’Orsay, are wall-to-wall humans. Elbow-to-elbow with your global brothers and sisters. Any trip to Paris should include both, but brace yourself—you’ll be jostled like a sock in a dryer.
Exhibit A: the Louvre.
I was cruising down a gorgeous hallway toward the queen’s bedroom when I heard this showdown:
Guide: “What do you think you’re doing? Get your feet off that marble.”
Tourist Wife: “Huh?”
Guide: “This is a renovated wing and you’re putting dirty shoes on brand-new marble.”
(Enter husband, stage left, scowling.)
Tourist Husband: “If you have a problem, you talk to me.”
Guide: “This is not your living room.”
It was about to be David vs. Goliath—rail-thin guide vs. hulking tourist—until a museum guard broke it up. And that’s the Louvre: art, beauty, and the occasional near-brawl.
Most tours start at the inverted pyramid and lead down into the original stone foundations. Each block has the mason’s mark—basically their paycheck stub carved in rock. Up the steps and boom: palace opulence. Chandeliers, arches, ceilings so high you need binoculars. Remember the old saying: “When the people take over, the palace becomes a museum”? Voilà, the Louvre.
From Winged Victory to Venus de Milo, it’s greatest hits on repeat. You could spend a week here and miss half of it. And of course, the must-do: fight through a mob for a blurry selfie with the Mona Lisa. Think Disneyland’s newest Star Wars ride—minus the churros.
Me? I’ll take The Coronation of Napoleon. A painting so massive it feels like Napoleon himself commissioned it just to flex. Worth the crowds. Worth the ticket.
Next week: the Musée d’Orsay.

There are so many King Louis that after a while they all start to blur together — wigs, thrones, and a whole lot of questionable decision-making. But to my way of thinking, the greatest achievement since Crab Louis first hooked up with Thousand Island has to be courtesy of Louis IX, better known as Saint Louis, who gave us Sainte-Chapelle.
Originally built as his private chapel, the place now finds itself awkwardly pressed into service as part of the judicial courts. So yes, you enter through a courtyard surrounded by stern stone buildings, past a few scattered office windows, and up spiral staircases so narrow you half expect to bump into Quasimodo. (This is Paris, after all.) Then, just when you’re wondering if you’ve made a wrong turn, the stairs spit you out into one of the most dazzling displays of Gothic architecture ever conceived.
And talk about timing. The very moment I arrived, the clouds outside broke open and the sun streamed through those windows as if on cue. What happened next is hard to describe without sounding like I’ve been hitting the absinthe: the entire chapel lit up in a dizzying display of color, a kaleidoscope of jewel tones that left everyone — myself included — gawking like wide-eyed kids.
The upper chapel has fifteen towering stained-glass windows, each more than fifty feet high, each crammed with biblical scenes that tell the story of the world from Creation all the way to the Apocalypse. That’s more than a thousand individual panels of painstaking detail, stitched together in fire and sand by craftsmen whose names have long been forgotten but whose work still steals the show seven centuries later. And hovering above it all is the Rose Window, the so-called Rose of the Apocalypse, which looks less like a window and more like a cosmic fireworks display captured in glass.
Now, Louis IX didn’t build all this just to show off his taste in windows. Sainte-Chapelle was meant to house Christianity’s most sacred relics, chief among them the Crown of Thorns. Yes, the real thing. Not the one worn by some guy from the second national tour of Jesus Christ Superstar. The relic is still kept there, I’m told, though I didn’t lay eyes on it myself. I was too busy standing in the middle of the chapel with my mouth hanging open, hypnotized by those windows, and trying not to look like too much of a tourist.