Quote of the Day
Get up early and go to the local produce markets. In Latin America and Asia, those are usually great places to find delicious food stalls serving cheap, authentic and fresh specialties.
Race horses are like golfers, you're never sure how they're going to come out of the stalls. It's just - hopefully the horses come out of the race all right, just fit and ready to go again in the near future, but 3rd was good. It's paid for its hay.
I'm terribly taken by the countryside, so I love things like shadows cast by deep woods. I love the autumn. I love Soho. I love villages or crowded corners of Edinburgh. I love markets, stalls, jumble, jumbly people. Not frightening people, not horrible people pouring out of football matches, screaming, not that, but darling jumble, you know?
I've lived out many of the dreams I had as a little girl, back when I was riding my pony, mucking stalls, feeding cows, aspiring to finally become a professional jockey and racing in stakes races on a worldwide stage.
When I was on the swim team as a kid, I used to hide out from my coach by going into the bathroom and hiding out in one of the stalls. And I would literally wrap myself in toilet paper so as not to get hypothermia.
My mom grew up with horses, and when I turned 14, 15, she's like, 'Do you want to take a riding lesson?' I thought, 'Oh, gross, dirty.' She was like, 'Okay.' And then I did, and now I'm the one cleaning those damn stalls out. You can't get me away from the barn now. It shocks even me.
A song must move the story ahead. A song must take the place of dialogue. If a song halts the show, pushes it back, stalls it, the audience won't buy it; they'll be unhappy.
In his enigmatic and cunning story 'The Crown of Feathers,' Isaac Bashevis Singer refuses to produce uncontradictory evidence of God's will but rather mixes all signals, jams the evidence, stalls every conclusion.
I don't care how good a song is - if it holds back the storyline, stalls the plot, your audience will reject it.
In the glory days of Orioles, when I was a newbie baseball writer for the Post, the roster of talkers was as good as the everyday lineup. Singy - Ken Singleton - Flanny, and Cakes - the underwear spokesman Jim Palmer - were my go-to guys, occupying stalls along one wall of the shabby chic clubhouse.
They were, I doubt not, happy enough in their dark stalls, because they were horses, and had plenty to eat; and I was at times quite happy enough in the dark loft, because I was a man, and could think and imagine.
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