The Silver Screen

If I’m not mistaken, this is my first attempt at a “Reblog.” I hope it works because you really should read this. Great stuff.

The Riparian Times

The elusive first step to fame begins with a lonely gentle breeze down Hollywood Boulevard. I am on my third audition today and my head is slightly giddy like a teenage girl on passion-pops. I cannot remember the last time I ate, maybe yesterday, yesterday feels like a nosebleed but that audition, I smashed it, I was amazing.

Yes, it is upon us again like a summer romance, ‘Pilot Season.’

The two words that sends fear and excitement into the bones of actors all around the globe. The Los Angeles freeways become a sea of hope as the actors are magnetized into the bosom of the beast.

Do you remember that film Pulp Fiction, yes that’s right the one where Uma Thurman stars in a Pilot called Fox Force 5?

Here, watch Samuel L. Jackson (not Laurence Fishburne) watch Samuel tell you how Pilot Season works, well not exactly but…

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How I Roll at 4 AM, Kitties 2, and a little Talking Heads

How I Roll at 4 AM

Too tired and too brain dead to write in my Java-Fueled Journal. Everything I wrote about sleep, or the lack of, still holds true. Once again I’ve been awake all night. The pic is how I roll at 4 AM when I can’t sleep. Cozy, comfortable and warm. I took liberties to fool around with the photo, though. I think it looks good, but what do I know.

This is a great tune to rock out to at five in the morning when you can’t get you no sleep. If you’ve never heard it, the entire CD is fabulous. IMHO, a real classic for TH fans.

How The Cats Roll at 4AM

The pic to the left is how the kitties roll at 4. Loki is on top. He’s rather chunky. Tia is on the bottom. They were introduced in this post. Read it if you like.

More writing to follow, I hope, later on today or this evening, after I get a little sleep.

I Don’t Write Poetry

Rich Writing PoemI don’t write poetry John

to pass away the time,

to purge the demons in my head,

nor make up silly rhymes.

I don’t write poetry John

to make a million bucks

to see my name in big bright lights,

no John, no such luck.

I don’t write poetry John

because the words flow through my blood

to spill bright red upon this page

a frenzied, raging flood.

I don’t write poetry John

to court a fair Irish lady,

to romance her on a warm spring eve

the bonny lass, young Beth O’Grady.

No John, sometimes I write poetry

cause I want to need to have to,

and when I must and can’t resist,

I reach for pad and pen!

For in the words, John, don’t you see

I find some long lost friends.