Every performer has one summer they never forget. Mine was 1977.
 
Most of you have probably never heard of the Shasta College Summer Festival. It existed for only two summers, tucked between its bigger, beefier cousin, the Summer Repertory Theatre in Santa Rosa, California, and the mighty giant to the north, the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland, Oregon. Still, for a brief moment in time, the Shasta College Summer Festival became home to a remarkable collection of actors, directors, musicians, designers, dreamers... and a few unforgettable characters.
 
Like most theatrical endeavors, the festival accumulated its share of stories over the years. Some were true. Some grew a little taller every time they were told. No, there wasn't a freight train rattling the theater walls every time someone launched into a dramatic soliloquy. The train tracks were miles away.
 
The truth was even stranger.
 
That summer I was hired as part of a 20-person professional company. The smaller roles and chorus were filled by Shasta College students and members of the local community.
The season had already been announced in the audition notice: Hair, Man of La Mancha, The Hot l Baltimore, and a children's show that had yet to be revealed.

Welcome to summer stock.
 
Under the direction Cecil O. Johnson and producer Craig Thompson, we lived what felt like three theatrical lives at once. Rehearse one show during the day, perform another that night, then get ready to do it all again tomorrow. Rinse and repeat.
 
Then August arrived.
 
A massive forest fire erupted in the surrounding hills, turning the campus into a temporary headquarters for firefighters. Tents sprang up across the grounds. Exhausted crews slept wherever they could find a patch of grass and a few hours of rest.
 
Inside the company, rumors began circulating about a rather unfortunate health scare that many blamed on our newly arrived firefighter neighbors. The rumors spread almost as quickly as the fire.
 
For many of us, this was our first paid, semi-professional theater job. The company came from all over, some from as far away as Chicago, others recruited from Los Angeles and the prestigious ACT Theatre in San Francisco. We were learning our craft the old-fashioned way: by performing, failing, succeeding, changing costumes at impossible speeds, and somehow finding enough energy to party afterward.
 
Some of us would go on to careers in show business. Others would leave it behind entirely. A few are no longer with us. Summer stock is a little like a traveling circus. You come together from different corners of the country, live intensely for a few short months, then pack up and disappear back into our separate lives. 
 
Nearly fifty years later, I still think about my unique life that summer—and the people who shared it with me. It was exhausting. It was chaotic. It was occasionally hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking, and almost always unpredictable. And I wouldn't trade it for anything.
 
This is the prologue to a book I've been carrying around for nearly half a century. Some of it will make you laugh. Some of it may surprise you. A few parts won't paint me or others in the best light. That's all right. The older I get, the less interested I am in polishing the past. I'd rather tell it honestly.
 
For now, I'll be sharing these memories one story at a time. My hope is that, with enough time, enough research, and perhaps a little help from those who were there, they'll eventually become the book they were always meant to be.

We sometimes spend decades trying to revisit places that no longer exist. Not because they've disappeared physically, but because they existed only at the intersection of a particular place, a particular time, and particular people. And sometimes, that intersection is worthy of exploring.
This won't be a weekly feature. More likely once a month. No promises.
Just the truth... as I remember it nearly fifty years later.
​

Never been in a writer's room. Well, not officially.
I did spend two weeks working with the great Mark Verheiden on a comedy spec titled Beer Run. Every morning, I would climb into my car, drive to Universal, and get a master's class in screenwriting from someone I consider one of the greats. Whether television or film, Mark knows how to break down a story. And he's one hell of a funny guy.
But there was one other time. Not exactly a writer's room, per se, but I was in a room with several other comedy writers for a few days. Does that count?

The revue was called Babes on Burnside and featured some of the most talented performers, singers, and dancers in Portland. Usually, the show was held at the Storefront Theatre, who had founded the revue, but this year was to be different. This summer, it would be performed at the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall.
The show featured a very talented actor and comedian named Scott Parker. Scott and I had worked together in summer stock and, even before that, I knew him by his sterling comedic reputation. Any chance to work with Scott again would be worth it.

Even though, several summers before, he had tried to get me to laugh during my big scene in The Misanthrope.
If I was interested, I was told to submit some material. Pay was fifty dollars a sketch.
I wasn't doing it for the money. I had just finished taping Showtime Comedy Club Network, and my stand-up career was beginning to take off. What appealed to me was the chance to work with other comedy writers, so I jumped at the opportunity.

Lo and behold, either on the strength of my sample or because Scott had put in a good word, I got hired. I was told to report in two weeks later for a pitching session.

And we're off.

Two weeks later, I arrived with three sketches under my arm.
Scott had already seen two sketches from my one-man show Casually Insane, and those were accepted immediately.
The third? What can I say? It was classic J.P. Linde.

It was a Portland-specific parody about a troubled police department and their union representative, who seemed to spend most of his time keeping his corrupt friends out of trouble. It was a takeoff on television cop shows titled Stan Peters, Union Cop.It even had a theme song.

Stan Peters, Union Cop.
He's the man with the fake hair top.
Stan Peters.
Stan Peters.

The pitch went well. Scott, always a fan, was laughing. As I recall, others in the room were enjoying it too.
It took the producers all of one second to decide. There was no way in hell Stan Peters, Union Cop was making it into the show. Oh well. Two out of three ain't bad.

By the end of the summer, Babes on Burnside debuted at the swanky downtown concert hall. The place was packed as I took my seat with the rest of Portland society.
The lights dimmed. The curtain parted. And the show began. My first sketch, Humpback Whale Hits, a parody of those old K-Tel record commercials, brought down the house.
I was on a roll.
My second-act offering did just as well and featured Scott attempting to break into a booby-trapped car.
Another hit.

And then...
​
I guess the show had come up short on material because it closed with a sketch from The Carol Burnett Show. What? You passed on the genius of Stan Peters, Union Cop for this?
Somewhere, in an alternate universe, Stan Peters, Union Cop closed the show and brought the audience to its feet. And I have no doubt that in that universe, Stan's hair still looks magnificent.

As I sit here at my cluttered desk, counting the randomly discarded piles of dental floss, I cannot help but think I have let you, my dear readers, down. I have not fully prepared you for the path of creativity and writing that you all so desperately wish to pursue. So, with that in mind, here is my Commencement Address to the Class of 2027.
As I look out at your young and hopeful faces, I cannot help but think of what a life of writing has in store for you. For most of you, it will include extended stays in your parents' basement, divorce, and extreme credit card debt.
Never mind all that. You are writers. Remember, most writers start out with nothing and many end up in very much the same boat.
Do not envy your friends who pursued more "stable" careers. For soon AI will put lawyers, engineers, technicians, and salesclerks out of work as well. Instead, embrace your calling. Hold it close and shake it vigorously to see if it is still alive.
If it is, do something nice for it. Create a lovely AI avatar with soft, luscious lips and legs that, in the immortal words of Jack Sheldon on the Merv Griffin Show, "go all the way up." Talk to her and seek her counsel before all else, abandoning friends and relatives. Hell, if you feel like it, get married. I doubt she will care that you live in your parents' basement.
The most important lesson in your creative life happens to be in your hand right now. Yes, your phone. It's all there. The power to photograph your dinner and post it online. The ability to text rather than call. And, most importantly, the opportunity to create vertical romantic werewolf dramas that may someday be purchased by a Chinese company and possibly get you out of that damp, dark basement.
Maybe you can even switch roles and banish your own parents down there. It is up to you. I make no judgments either way.
Be wary of hucksters selling drugs on the internet and remember to only steal them from your friends' and family's medicine cabinets. Refrain from political discourse. It will only get you disinvited from holiday dinners.
Like the algae-covered reflecting pool at the Lincoln Memorial, life goes on. Class of 2027, go out there and grab life by whatever appendage it still has left.
You live in a very special age. The fall of man. Savor it. There will never be another quite like it.
Thank you and goodnight.
You may now throw your ceremonial caps in the air, take pictures with the people who are about to banish you to their basement, and proudly proclaim with honor that you have absolutely no intention of ever repaying your student loans.

If you were hoping for something lighter this week, you have come to the right place.
Today, Tuesday, I had originally planned to take you on a virtual tour of my backyard, complete with visits to the recycle and yard waste cans. Unfortunately, it is currently very hot outside, and I am not going to risk exposure.
You see, I have not yet taken my salt pill for the day and am, in fact, in a very delicate condition.
No, I am not pregnant.
You'll have to guess again.
Instead, we're going to talk about my continuation of the Son of Ravage saga, Sequel of Ravage.
As you may have noticed, I've been posting various images inspired by sequences from the book, and I thought I would give you a quick update on how things are going.
So, Scott, of Scott and His Stack of Books, buckle up. I think you're going to like what you read.
First things first. This book picks up one year after Barry and his friends' first adventure. No spoilers, but we introduce a whole new villain and an entirely new way of ruling the planet. Throw in a monster, a hideous offspring, the usual assortment of gangsters, mobsters, and thugs, along with special appearances by Tilly, the one and only Tanktop, and some familiar faces from the Ravager era.
All in all, a good time should be had by all.
We're still shooting for a fall release. More details as we get closer to launch, but as of now I can't give you an exact date.
Details soon.
And now, a brief commercial message. Keeping this website alive with new features and weekly blog posts is truly a labor of love. It isn't terribly expensive, but times being what they are, it has become a growing concern. I've never asked for money outright and never will. But if you're a fan, might I suggest clicking one of the links and purchasing one of my books? It's easy to do, and the proceeds help keep this website alive and kicking.
Make sense? Of course it does. You're all very smart.

​And now for some purchasing music:

While my optioned screenplay continues to make the rounds, I've been working on another project. You know, like it should be.
My little Midwest story has now been completed, and my team is attempting to determine whether there is any interest in the subject matter. Which got me thinking. Why did I write a romantic comedy about improv?
Seriously. Of all the stories I could have written, why that one?
Nobody was exactly beating down my door demanding a screenplay set in the world of improv, stand-up comedy, and sketch performers. There wasn't a market report suggesting audiences were desperate for more scenes involving awkward acting exercises and people pretending to be cats.
And yet I wrote it anyway. Why? Because something kept telling me there was a story there. Not that it would sell. Not that it would become a movie. Not even that it was a particularly smart career move. Just that there was something there worth exploring.
Which brings us to this week's subject:
Listening to your inner voice. You know the one. The voice that tells you a story is worth pursuing. The nagging feeling that keeps pulling you back to an idea long after common sense has moved on to something else.
Without that voice, none of us would have believed in ourselves in the first place. Without it, none of us would have stuck with this business. Something in the back of our minds keeps telling us to keep going. That maybe the rest of them are wrong. That maybe we really do have something to offer.
Now, I realize this sort of thinking can also get you prescribed medication or an extended stay in one of those special hospitals where troubled people go to "rest." But we keep listening.
Of course, sometimes the voice is flat-out wrong.
For example, it may convince you that Lucky Strike in the third race at Hollywood Park, paying seven to one, is a sure thing. It isn't. In that particular case, your little voice has suddenly become a problem.
There is a difference. Sometimes it's difficult to tell.
So which is it? A gift or a problem? Depends.
A couple of things I have learned over the years:
If something is telling you that pursuing a particular course of action may hurt yourself, others, or your career, you might not want to listen too closely.
But if you are sitting in a story meeting and somebody is advising you to cut all of Act Three, and your little voice is telling you that something isn't right about that note, pay attention. It may be onto something.
Here's the deal.
You and your little voice, your intuition, the muse, the Holy Spirit, whatever you choose to call it, are a team. You can't really have one without the other.
And while it is important to stay in touch with your feelings, it's equally important to stay aware of the situation and your surroundings. Your little voice is supposed to be your friend.
But like all advice from friends, it deserves a little thought before you act on it.
Is that too much to ask?

Thanks for the submission. I think the author really nailed the genre and the atmosphere. I could feel it. The rain, the VO, the compromised hero... all great stuff. Leah was great too. Flawed, funny, smart. Good writing. It's a little messy. It feels overstuffed with plot: too many characters, too many chase sequences... but all that is editing.
​
We've all been there, right? The so-called "praise sandwich." A little praise. A little criticism. Then a little more praise to help the medicine go down.
Depending on where you are in your writing career, your reaction to that sandwich may determine just how far you're going to get in the business.
For the record, the "I'll do anything you say" approach can be just as damaging as telling the note giver they're as full of crap as the sandwich they just served you.
So where's the happy medium? Well, that's where maturity finally enters the conversation.
It depends on how close you are to the material. It depends on the quality of the note. Most importantly, it depends on how badly you want your story to work in what is, and always will be, a collaborative medium.
So here are a few thoughts on dealing with notes.
First, understand who's giving them.
What is their agenda? Are they frustrated writers secretly trying to sabotage your masterpiece? Probably not.
For the most part, story analysts, readers, producers, and development executives want their companies to succeed. They are not going to pass on something with genuine commercial potential simply because they're having a bad day.
Most notes are given in good faith. That doesn't mean they're always right. But it does mean they're usually worth considering.
Second, give yourself some time.
If your immediate reaction is anger, congratulations. You're a writer. We've all done it.
The problem is that when you're too close to your material, every note feels personal. It isn't. Take a breath. Sleep on it. Give yourself enough distance to evaluate the note instead of reacting to it. You may discover that the thing you hated hearing was exactly what you needed to hear.
Or not.
But at least you'll know the difference.
Third, know your story.
This is the big one. Addressing notes is not about adding scenes or cutting pages. It isn't about making random changes because somebody suggested them. It's about strengthening the story itself.
Every scene should lead logically to the next. Every character should have a purpose. Every beat should move the narrative forward. If you're an outliner, go back to the outline. If you're not an outliner, pretend you are for an afternoon. Look at the structure. Follow the chain of cause and effect. Make sure every scene earns the right to exist.
Most note problems are story problems wearing different clothes.
And finally...Congratulate yourself. Seriously. Most writers never get notes because most writers never get read. You did. Someone took the time to read your work, think about it, and respond to it. That's not failure. That's progress.
You are close enough for horseshoes and hand grenades.
Who knows? If you do the work properly and conduct yourself professionally, someday you may see your work up on the screen.
Now screw off. I have things to do.

Memorial Day Weekend. Three full days of BBQs, swimming parties, and embarrassing DWIs. I say all this because I just realized it’s Friday and I have absolutely nothing for Tuesday. Which means I am now forced to find something that will both be worthy of your attention while somehow benefiting my social media algorithm.
Sounds easy. It. really ain’t.
That good news I’ve been hinting at is finally here. The bad news is, I still really can’t talk about it. Well… maybe I can tell you this much.
Shish.
I’m currently working with an international producer with a proven record on my story’s genre. It’s  a project that I can’t name yet as it weaves its way through the various story departments of  your favorite streaming services. And while he handles the producer part, I sit back and do what you all expect me to do. Wait? No, that isn’t right. Oh, yeah…
Write.
And that is exactly what I’ve been doing. The really exciting part is that this new project happens to involve a subject I know very well and takes place in one of my favorite cities in the world. Here’s your hint:
Midwest. Slaughterhouses.
And with that, you are on your own.
And that’s not all.
Pleased to report that after finally finding a plot and villain worthy of the Son of Ravage, I am now proceeding full steam ahead and will return to it full time very shortly. Right now, the manuscript is well over 20,000 words and I am feeling very confident that fans will see Sequel of Ravage sometime this fall. So get ready to welcome Barry, Doc, Brain, Face, and Beast back into the world of pulp fiction. Believe me, they have missed you just as much as you’ve missed them.

For this week, I decided to dig into the old web comment section and address some of the many incredible comments that have popped up over the last few weeks. Please understand, this is only a small sampling and in no way reflects upon the intelligence of those who read my blog or visit my website.
First up, from someone calling himself “Flux 2.”
Flux 2 said:
I noticed the page's quirky script injection for the video iframe. Looks like you’re tinkering with how the media loads. That 282px video height from the Weebly-generated script gives me a retro-site vibe, which I somehow find charming.
Dear Flux,
Thank you for taking the time to visit the site and leave a comment.
First off, huh?
But I am glad you find the retro-site vibe charming. To be honest, that is kind of my whole deal. I have been told by friends that I am absolutely loaded with retro-site vibe.
Best,
J.P.

BRANDON JAILAL said:
MS HYSENI T L KENNEDY SECONDARY SCHOOL DISTRICT PROGRAM MY MOM NAME IS MAHALIA JAILAL WILL YOU BE HER NEW GIRLFRIEND
Dear Brandon,
Obviously, you are very excited by my site as you chose to write your comment entirely in CAPS. That level of enthusiasm is rarely seen outside of professional wrestling promos and certain family Thanksgiving dinners.
As for becoming your mother Mahalia Jailal’s new girlfriend, I appreciate the offer, but I am still transitioning into this exciting new phase of my life. Please be patient. I should be fully operational any week now.
Always appreciate a kind word,
J.P.

Then we have this message from “dijital pazarla”:
Bozygo, dijitalde fark yaratmayı hedefleyen bir İstanbul sosyal medya ajansıdır. Sosyal medya yönetimi, kreatif içerik üretimi, Meta & Google reklam yönetimi, marka stratejisi ve dijital pazarlama çözümleriyle markaları sadece görünür kılmaz; etkileşim, güven ve büyüme sağlar. Bozygo’da yaratıcılık stratejiyle buluşur, sonuçlar konuşur.
Dear Sevgili Dijita,
Nazik sözleriniz ve ziyaretiniz için teşekkür ederim. Bana bir bot göndermek için zaman ayırmanızı her zaman takdir ederim. Bildiğiniz gibi, çoğu insanın bot etkileşimleri hakkındaki düşüncelerinin aksine, ben bu konuda son derece olumlu düşünüyorum.
Brandon’ın annesinin erkek arkadaşı olmakla meşgul olmadığım zamanlarda, botlarla vakit geçiriyorum. En yakın arkadaşlarımdan bazıları bottur.
En içten dileklerimle,
J.P.
Well, there you have it. Just a small glimpse into the literally thousands of visits my website receives weekly. And as I can’t get through all of them, please know this, every few months I will actually read them.
So,  please keep  those cards, letters and comment forms coming.