Celebrating the Holidays

We had our office staff, teachers and engineers Christmas, Hannukah, and all purpose seasonal holiday party this Sunday last, December 11, at Firenze Osteria; Lisa Long’s establishment on Lankershim Blvd. In what Lisa calls Toluca Lake.

One very large table in our own separate banquet room, was set up for us with all the frills one might need for the most warm and friendliest crowd to be found anywhere in Los Angeles on this special afternoon / evening event. Counting Cathy and da harv we had twenty-four there to eat and be merry. Only three of our Kalmenson & Kalmenson team was unable to attend.

Our team attendance included:

Cathy Kalmenson, Harvey Kalmenson, Donna Dubain, Michele Jastremski, Debbie Caruso, Lisa McCullough Roark, Leah Swetsky, Scott Holst, Steve Staley, Denise Krueger,

Lynnanne Zager, Kathy Grable, Samantha Robson, Melique Berger, Stephen Tobolowsky, Jill Remez, Doug Gochman, Jacob Cipes, Andrew Racho, Sara Cravens, Ashley Nguyen, Mitch Urban, Ben Lepley, Marie Bagnell.

Our evening's menu:

Each year we have a theme for our celebration. This year it was “A Toast To Our Future Together”, in twenty-five words or less. Surprisingly each and every one in attendance were able to write an appropriate toast staying within the twenty-five-word guideline. All guests showed up on time, prepared, and ready to go. We asked that the clinking of glasses, and the sipping of wine not be done until the end of the final toast. This ended up being a suggestion not adhered to by each of our colleagues. Some managed to actually consume twenty-four sips.

As usual we began with Cathy Kalmenson as our opening presenter (act). She was introduced by Mitch Urban who took on the presence of the “Sergeant At Arms” at a joint session of congress, as he called everyone to attention and saying, “Mr. Chairman, it is my great pleasure, and distinct honor, to introduce the beautiful president of Kalmenson & Kalmenson Cathy Kalmenson.” Cathy with great pleasure accepted the applause graciously, and began her presentment by humorously recapping the past year; highlighting in a most descriptive fashion the joys of our business, and the pleasurable accomplishments of our Kalmenson & Kalmenson teammates.

And once again as is our usual custom I brought up the rear. My comments almost always are spurred on by how taken I am with our team. Our people have a great deal in common with the men and women who are members of our armed services; every one of them is a volunteer. Every one of them takes pride in their professional choice of occupation. Every one of them must be accepted by a leader and then accepted by the people they themselves are paid to lead professionally.

Maybe I should modify my statement about being a volunteer. A person who desires to enter our military; they are the ones who truthfully should be called volunteers. They fill out an application for employment with the service branch of their choice, fill out the forms, take a series of physical, psychological, and aptitude tests, and if they come up to an acceptable standard, they are then officially inducted into that particular branch of the service.

Our requirements at Kalmenson & Kalmenson are a little different than the military, although some would say the Kalmenson’s are tougher to become a part of. Usually we are the ones who offer a prospective teacher or engineer the opportunity to become part of our team, only after we have known them for a considerable length of time. Most of the people, who join us, do so, after one or two things having taken place, either they have been in on numerous occasions as an actor for an audition directed by me, or they are current or past students, studying with us. In any case nothing is done quickly. Each of them has been personally participating in a testing program, long before they are made aware of it. When the right time becomes apparent, they will be asked if they would like to enter into a Kalmenson & Kalmenson training program. It should be pointed out, without variance there is never any salary or payments involved during the training period. These are all hand picked folks with far more natural desire to succeed than the average person out there. All are working actors, who bring with them the desired credentials for success. By accepting our conditions for entering into our demanding training regimen, they are in essence volunteering for a service unlike any other out there.

Many who read this will judge my next statement. Those who interpret, without the benefit of having their own personal years of experiences to forage through, will never have the capabilities, of understanding the true meaning of excellence.

I had before me a homogeneous group of individual intellects, banded by desire; culturally speaking a language driven by integrity and pride of accomplishment. These are the people who agreed to volunteer when they were asked to do so. In that room on our special Christmas and holiday night, Cathy and I were able to beam without the benefit of any artificial light. Our team provided us with the best toast imaginable. They represent our name as if it were their own.

“If they don’t learn, you aren’t teaching.”

John Wooden

Kalmenson & Alone

A Throng of one

Without balance or justification
A stand-alone throng of one
Reviewed daily by way of mirror
As often as one might appear
Look what joy I see in me
No questions allowed
More speed when space need not be shared
Lacking despair, for none was ever there
What was has always been
A one sided building leaning
Towards Kalmenson
At one with being alone.


The Decision Making Process


For sure all family’s are different with regard to the decision making process. What is or isn’t important may have enormous variances from home to home around the country, your own neighborhood, or even the world. The case of vanilla or chocolate sounds so simple, but is it?

Three guys bring home some ice cream to surprise their families at the end of a workday. The scenario will vary.

In house number one the kids are eagerly awaiting Dads entrance; they’re all over him from the moment he comes into the picture. They over-react with yelling and screaming about what Dad has brought home with him. Their display shows how they couldn’t care less about the package he has with him. Believe it or not; the kids are hyped up about seeing their Dad; what a concept!
House number two; Dad shouts out, “I’m home”. No answer; the kids are busy watching Sponge Bob.



Lillian

I would be destined to remember this one morning in November; not that it was morning, or even the month or the year, which gave it an extra specialness, not as an earth-shattering event. Logic provides remembrance of ones own birth as just about an impossibility to forget. And lest I forget, the woman who carried me through to a full time pregnancy, found it her natural duty in life, to remind me whenever it was at all possible, that mine was indeed the most difficult pregnancy ever recorded as such. In her very own words, “You were a painful little infant to carry around for so many months, and an even more painful child to deliver.” She also had an unbelievable story about the number of hours she was in labor. I know my first two words on earth must have been, “I’m sorry.” And of course her response,” You should be!!!” Auspicious, wouldn’t you say?

A day or single moment added to many, through my early years which laid wide open what was mine, always and forever; they say seventy five percent of who we are, and most likely what we will turn out to be, coincides rampantly with what became ours by way of environment. In other more simple terms: It’s mostly about bloodline, baby. When do we allow for the acknowledgment of what is ours alone, and what was given to us unknowingly by a parent, or perhaps both mother and father?

Like so many boys who became men before me, I grew up with a heavy dose of hero worship for my dad. The thought of being anything at all like my mother was beyond my comprehension. In my mind mothers were there to take care of the house, prepare the food, and in general be a family caterer. She couldn’t possibly help me with the important things like playing baseball, or attending baseball games, or listening to baseball games on the radio.

(Yes, I did say radio. When I was a young boy, television had not yet made an appearance. My father and I spent many hours together sitting in front of the family radio listening to a sporting event, or to one or more of the popular radio shows.)


What could I possibly say about Lillian, to capture her nature, as one of the most benevolent people I’d ever meet during my lifetime? Many that met Lillian did not share my feelings and felt the opposite to be true. She was a wildly swinging patriot of the United States. She took this country personally, as if God had given it to her. Her character traits were by no means cultivated. Love, laughter or anger, she shot from the hip. So it came as no surprise that Lilly treated a person’s uncertainty as a gesture of deceit. Extremely quiet people occurred to her as having something up their sleeve. These were the folks she might never trust. The woman didn’t enter a room, she penetrated; without a word she became a focal point. Her words could be sweet or sour, matching a temperament capable of instant change, often times in mid sentence. And At Lillian’s Court, without reverence or resemblances of sweet talk,
The walk she walked was hers.

Lillie’s Convictions

Solar Power

• It never rose and it never flew; there for it was bullshit they blew.
• Politicians
• To every answer you can find a new question. For every question those who understood neither would elect another question, and then you proudly take office without a prayer to succeed, or promises can you fulfill?

Neighbors

• If each one sweeps before his, or her, own private door, the whole street is clean. But what may remain within each mans home, may never be seen.

Marriage

• Don’t change for me, but do allow yourself the ultimate pain and gratification of some degree of alteration. And if not alteration, perhaps making a marriage license cost prohibitive as the solution for half of the pending divorces. If most people couldn’t afford to get married, we would have far fewer divorces.

Divorce

• If the married couple doesn’t have children the divorce would be free of charge. A simple goodbye would do the trick. People who have brought children on to this earth would not be eligible for divorce until the youngest of the children reached age eighteen. Disrespectful children would not be allowed to reach the age of eighteen.

Understanding Love

As in things from childhood, never understood
When a parent gives voice to them
Some children never will or would
They must take what is given
And know all told must be true
When a child listens early on to a parent
Without living experiences
Never understanding
Never understood.

Positive Thinking

There are times when I wonder why I write a blog. Many years ago when I first picked up a pen for profit I was told in no uncertain terms to prepare for criticism. At least then I was being paid, and somehow indecision regarding the validity of my work didn’t seem to get to me quite as much as it does today. There were times when I was working for a newspaper that I wondered if anyone was actually reading what I had to say. It was like I was writing an obituary column for those readers who had already died. No wonder they didn’t make comments.

I can remember early on, about thirty years ago, when I was a guest on a radio talk show, and found myself wondering whether there was anyone listening in to what I was saying. The host smiled and said with a sly wink, “Wait until we open up the phone lines for questions and comments”. It was then I found out the real importance of them having a producer who also functioned as a screener: Some of the callers were really screw loose with what they had to say. One of the kids at the radio station called it pounce time. I found out quickly what he was getting at. There are people out there who devote their energies towards indiscriminate attacks on whomever they can find who isn’t in a position to retaliate. These are the unpaid critics, the "wannabes" that don’t begin to have the talent or the fortitude to make it on their own. (There was a time delay, so luckily most of these nut jobs couldn’t get through.)

Today there exists a new and equally parasitic clutter the creative world must deal with. They are still categorized as critics, and their psychological thrusts are the same as most those other bygone eras produced. But today’s rock-throwers have far greater capabilities than ever before in the history of communications. All a person needs is a computer, a phone, a screen, and an acidic condition in order to render their dissertation to a world in waiting. About one year ago I was cajoled to venture fourth into the wide world of “blogdom”. In doing so I promised myself I would not take to heart any really mean spirited critiques any of my readers might offer. Admittedly, my promise to myself at times is hard to live with.

***

One Hundred Blogs Later

Writings, scribbling(s), statements of what have become lived in facts...receiving things from people, often the reality of tainted distortions of the real truth, or the truth as they perceive it. I try not to let another human beings misgivings about life, as they have lived it, get in the way of my attempts at remaining positive.

The majority of people offering their personal sentiments regarding my opinions, as I continue to scribe, have been positive in nature. Many have thanked me for reminding them of what they themselves know to be true. Most are reflections of little tidbits from my own past, which helped me during my own down times.

I doubt if we can uncover very many folks in the entertainment business that have reached a noteworthy degree of success without experiencing first hand a pitfall or two, or three, or four, or more. My own are numerous.

If I were to ask a person what gave them the right to vote for someone other than who I voted for, I believe I would instantly earn the title of one of the world's most boorish men. But what about an obviously bitter old person, who was never at any point of creative acceptance in their life, questioning why I have the nerve to write a blog, and further going on in asking if I’m seeking out a new career. To this person, I felt duty bound to offer my thank you. I will forever feel indebted to you for offering your boorish direction. You have given me the fortitude to go on with an even greater display of positiveness than ever before. Bless you for taking the time to let some of the vindictiveness seep from the core of uselessness that has centupled as you continue your creative condemnation during the remainder of your senior years.

Gobble, Gobble, Toil and Trobble

What would a turkey say if not gobble, gobble? Does it trouble you as it does me? And do they always go with two gobbles, as opposed to just one, or a series of many gobbles in a row? And, what does gobble, gobble mean? Do you suppose perhaps the turkey has an idea of what intentions surround his or her well-being. I swear to you I heard a turkey say to its handler the other day, in turkey talk, in eight rapid fire gobbles, “keep your f…ing hands away from me, pervert!”

It isn’t as if a turkey is speaking a foreign language. I’ve never met a good-natured turkey. That’s not to say they have any influence on a persons good or well being. As a matter of fact good tidings at Thanksgiving time come to us from all over the world.

To you and yours on land or on the sea;

Swieto Dziekczynienia
(Happy Thanksgiving in Polish)

Good Morning, Here's Your Crutch

What a difference a few years make. I suppose when cultures change, the people who live within them, simultaneously, and automatically modify as well. As a melting pot country, no other place on earth follows this traditionally the way we do.

I grew up in a household where we all worked. Our family followed a pattern, which was set up years before I came along by my mother and father's parents.

The year was 1904 when the boat carrying my dad’s mother and father, my grand parents, entered New York Harbor.

President: Theodore (Teddy) Roosevelt

USA Population: 79,163,000

Brooklyn toymaker Morris Michton names teddy bear after Teddy Roosevelt.

Modify and Invent Only In America!

Morris Michtom arrived in New York from Russia about 1889 as a teenager. He married Rose, also a Russian immigrant, Rose was born Jan. 1863 in Russia and immigrated in 1889. Both became naturalized citizens in Sept. 1892. Together they developed an American icon: the "Teddy Bear".

On December 25, 1902, in a tiny village, some place in Russia, Harvey’s dad, Charles Kalmenson was born into the family of Ethel and Max Kalmenson; two years later they boarded a steamer en route to the United States.

…Concurrently

A cartoon appeared in December 1902 by Clifford K. Berryman showing how President Theodore Roosevelt couldn't shoot and kill a harmless little bear cub during one of his hunting trips. Morris thought to make a stuffed bear similar to the one in the cartoon and put that up for sale, first calling it "Teddy's bear" in February 1903.

Just like Morris Michtom, each of my aunts and uncles on both sides of the family tree were recognizable individuals. There was nothing robotic about them. Yes they all worked; they all quit school far too early; nary a college graduate amongst them, yet never a thought or complaint about living within a societal inflicted servitude; not as slaves to a ruler, but rather good people who played the cards dealt to them with a zeal for life living in what they all recognized as the greatest country in the world. In retrospect, I would have to say they were the strongest willed people I would ever come in contact with during my own lifetime. These were the immigrant grandparents and their immigrant children who are recognized today as the greatest generation ever.

Back Then and There

At family get "togethers” noise prevailed. I mean under the best of circumstances, that many aunts, uncles, and children running around always created the atmosphere of a medium sized commotion at best. It seems appropriate for me to refer to those gatherings as encounters.

What sticks in my mind was the way we were all welcomed by the relatives who arrived at family gatherings before we did. I don’t ever remember a door having to be opened for us. We got there, jumped out of the car and ran up to see which cousins would be there for us to play with. It was a glorious time for the kids. Mom and dad would bring up the rear, carrying a pie or cake mom thought would be suitable for the particular event.

The greetings were enormous smiles on my father's side of the family, as an aunt or uncle would shout out, “It’s Charlie and the kids.” I guess they decided my mother had not yet earned any form of billing. The funny thing was my mother's side of the family did the same thing when we visited them. If you were getting the feeling the families didn’t really care for each other, you’d be correct. My father's attitude towards my mother's side was mostly disdain. I’m sure their feelings were likewise as well. But regardless which side we visited the atmosphere was alive with life’s greatest gifts. Music, conversation, and monstrous amounts of artery clogging food prevailed.

(I never heard the word cholesterol until I was a grown man)

Believe it or not, as a child I never heard an aunt or uncle complain about their own trials and tribulations. That’s not to say they didn’t understand human plight. Conversations showing great pity for the next guy’s problems were ongoing. I guess it was their way of being thankful for what they had. The common belief however was they all practiced keeping any of the bad stuff away from the children. The premise was, “They’ll have plenty of time to grow up and feel the pain.”

As an aside, that’s how we learned to understand the Yiddish language. Anything the adults didn’t want the kids to hear was spoken in Yiddish. And as kids the minute the adults either lowered their voices or continued their conversations in Yiddish we all made it a point to learn. It’s fun thinking back about how my cousins and me would compare notes on what we thought they were gabbing about. As we learned, we also took on the mannerisms of our aunts and uncles as their story telling unfolded.

I learned gambling and flirtatiousness from my mother’s side. They to were the performers; the overly dramatic, drama queens and kings who never were troubled by qualms. They did what they felt like doing. All were merchants. As a child it seemed to me all of their customers were cut from the same cloth. Bargaining and often times flipping a coin; double or nothing in order to settle on the final sale price. Beware if you tried to pull a fast one on them during a business transaction. Those aunts and uncles all came equipped with tempers. That’s not to say they weren’t adverse to conducting a business deal with a questionable scruple or two. On my dad’s side, the practiced façade was intellect. They were the shirt and tie business people crowd. They were nine brothers and sisters who strove for excellence at all costs; eating, drinking, music and in depth political discussions. Eight of the nine children were in business for themselves. One of the brothers, who was categorized as a “lunch pail carrier” rarely offered as much dialogue as the other brothers and sisters did. He was the oldest, and the first to feel the pressure brought on by the need for him to help support the family. During his lifetime, he labored six days a week as a sewing machine operator in a variety of garment factories. As a child I wondered why he didn’t smile as much as everyone else.

Today I can identify. What a burden it must have been. He was the oldest child, in a new country; without friends; and accepting the involuntary removal of his childhood, without explanation, or with even the remotest understanding of his transformation into manhood.

“A man is not old until his regrets take the place of his dreams”

Every one of the new folks in town practiced the precepts of early to bed and early to rise. None of them had any inkling of whether it might make them healthy, wealthy, or wise. It is also doubtful that any of them knew it was our own Benjamin Franklin who coined the phrase. What was happening in actuality was quite simple; everything was a contest with life itself. Don’t get me wrong. None of the old timers went to bed thinking about being the first person in the neighborhood to awake each morning. Just plain good common sense governed just about everything they did. The more hours of daylight they could devote to business, the more chance there was of selling whatever it happened to be they were hawking.

What occurred to me early on as a kid was the warm way they all greeted each other. It was as if the entire community was pulling together, even under the sorriest of conditions. The charm of hearing a person with a strange language saying good morning, and how are you this fine day to an equally traveled neighbor returning the greeting, will always remain with me.

“You know, mine boy…Irving Berlin wrote that”

Talk about “good morning how are you”, giving a lift to ones spirits. Know one ever had a greater display of pride in the United States then those European immigrants. There seemed to be a history lesson instantly available on the tip of every tongue. “Irving Berlin wrote God Bless America in 1918. He doesn’t make a dime from it. Every penny goes to the Boy Scouts of America, and to the Girl Scouts of America." And when they said the word America it was always so special. Even arguments turned somewhat positive, when one of the combatants said to another:

“Don’t tell me what to do. This is a free country we live in. Or haven’t you heard?”

(The response)

“I heard, I heard. I heard long before you heard. I came here to this country three weeks before you did. Did you know his real name from Germany was Baline, Israel Baline?.

(The response)

“Don’t tell me, I heard”

***

“Good Morning, Here’s Your Crutch” may strike many as a strange title for a personal journal. To all of you who might feel that way, cool, I agree with you. A great part of my life is free form; like when a flip card appears, and it’s up to you to say the first thing that pops into your mind. Admittedly, I am often painfully abstract in the assumptions which strike me each time one of life’s flip cards reveals a new question, a new challenge, or a new debacle of any kind. Without hesitation I’m going to wade in. In my defense, I remind you of the people who influenced the earliest part of my life. None of those folks who traveled long and hard by boat in order to get to this country, believed in half way measures of any kind. It was always a robust "Good morning" offered each and every day, to who ever came their way. Their greetings were straight forward, to the point and emanating from the souls of people who felt, being allowed to breathe and pray freely was gifted to them in Gods eminence, these United States. The hours they toiled made them self-sufficient.

One day a peddler who moved from street to street with his horse drawn wagon filled to the brim with used furniture and anything of value he could find in the street, offered this little six-year-old boy a ride in his wagon. I accepted with great joy. It was my first crack at being a cowboy. It was also the first time I received an intellectual message from a stranger. I sat next to the peddler on the flat bench seat that felt like we were three stories off the ground. Between us were his crutches. It was also the first time I had ever seen crutches, and had no idea what he used them for. A block later when our ride came to an end, I found out. As the peddler climbed down from his wagon the crutches came into play. The peddler was unable to walk without their aid. His very strong arms came into play as he easily lifted me down from the wagon. As I thanked him for the ride, the peddler noticed how curious I was about his crutches. “They're called crutches”, he said. “I need them to walk.” And then with the deepest and warmest smile he offered me, “To walk, but not to think. Don’t ever use a crutch in order to succeed. It won’t help you.”

And so it was that a person, who failed to say good morning to me, triggered the writing of this blog. And in my mind there arouses another flip card, with the question: Does it take an immigrant to train this new generation, so consumed by self-centeredness?

Have a great day. It was my pleasure being able to talk to you. And please, if you get a chance, say hello to anyone who knows me.

A Young Actor's Refleciton

Hi, Harvey!
Great seeing you again!
-Ben

I started my voice acting career when I was around six years old, so by the time I was ten, I'd been to pretty much every big casting studio for all sorts of different roles. They say, "Time flies when you're having fun," and to me, voice over is nothing BUT fun! I never really notice the passage of time until I think of all the places I used to audition at that have closed down since. That's why it's always both refreshing and nostalgic at the same time whenever I get to go to places like Kalmenson & Kalmenson that I used to go to over nineteen years ago. It's hard to believe that I was getting direction from Harvey Kalmenson as a ten year old, little boy and am still getting direction from him as a twenty-nine year old, little boy! Whenever I audition there, I can still hear my ten year old voice in my head say, "Gee, I really hope Mr. Kalmenson thinks I'm good enough!"

da Harv's Reply

Not to worry "Big Ben, you were good enough when they first "schlepped" you in to audition for me and you have improved with time.
It never ends, does it? Studying and practicing ones craft is a never ending process.
I do believe remaining a little boy is an important part of this game we play.
Thank you for the kind words.
da harv

Three Parts To My Brain

OK then in response to the thousands upon thousands of requests, (actually one or maybe two people) I’ve decided to acquiesce; to accept, comply, and submit, tacitly, or passively with regard to da harv.

Translation, “This blogs for me baby”.

THE SCENE:

DAY, EARLY IN A TYPICAL AUDITION WEEK, AT THE WORLD FAMOUS STUDIOS (perhaps not but I happen to like the way it sounds) OF KALMENSON & KALMENSON, THE MOST INTEGRITY-RIDDEN, AND DRIVEN (that of course is an understatement) FOLKS IN THE ENTIRE WORLD OF VOICE OVER!

TODAY WAS TO BE ONE OF GREAT SUFFERING; OUR OWN DA HARV WAS SET TO AUDITION SOME TWENTY-FIVE OF THE BRIGHTEST AND MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMEN IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. (I love saying “The United States of America"). THE SUFFERING PART COMES BECAUSE DA HARV IS KEPT BEHIND GLASS, SEALED IN AN ALMOST AIR TIGHT AND SOUND-PROOF THING THEY REFER TO AS A CONTROL ROOM. WHAT EVER MIGHT BE RUNNING THROUGH THE MAN'S MIND AT THE SIGHT OF THIS OVER ABUNDANCE OF EYE CANDY, TURNS OUT TO BE NOTHING MORE THAN HIS OWN PERSONAL REALITY SHOW; JUST PERFECT FOR HBO.

ALL IS SET ON THIS DAY. THE SCRIPTS ARE OUT IN THE RECEPTION AREA, ALONG WITH A PAGE OF SPECIFICATIONS TO ASSIST THE TALENT WHILE REHEARSING FOR THE AUDITION. TODAY’S AUDITION IS KNOWN AS A PSA; PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT. THIS PARTICULAR PSA IS SEEKING DONATIONS FOR A WORLD WIDE GROUP, WHICH HELPS ABANDONED CHILDREN.

THE DIRECTION FOR EACH ACTRESS TO FOLLOW:

”KEEP IT SIMPLE AND DIRECT.

DON’T GET SAPPY.

THE VISUAL IS VERY STRONG AND REQUIRES VERY LITTLE EXPLANATION.

TOTAL HONESTY IS THE NAME OF THE GAME.”

First Person Singular

Let the games begin. The very first actress in to read, in a matter of seconds breaks into tears after delivering a sentence or two. Time out. The game stops. Naturally I ask what the problem was, or is; all the time knowing more or less what it had to be. You see… after thirty plus years of doing this, this director has developed similar emotional tendencies as his players. The magic, but not mysterious word is certainly reflection. Reflection and truth are synonymous.

“What did you recall?" I asked her. She responded with her own question to me; one I’ve heard more often than it would be possible to recall. Thinking of the past is a common occurrence for all of us. Recalling a memory, regardless of its content, is an instant assimilation of the truth.

Her recollections were of her early years as an orphaned child. She had grown and excelled as a good human being. What brought the tears was the visual of those kids who were experiencing a page from what resembled her own.

“How can I avoid this from happening to me again?” she asked. Always a tough question to answer; we seek the truth by conjuring up the past. All I could offer as a solution to excess emotional display is what sometimes works for me.

(Please take note…I said sometimes.) If it’s a script I’m to read, especially if its before a group, I’ll read it out loud over and over again with as many repetitions as time will allow. The other method is to attempt to remove ones self from any form of identification with the subject matter.

Note: If we perceive it as the truth, then that’s what it is.

***

Actress

(Not the same one)

(To da harv with complete seriousness)

You come across as if you have two brains, while the rest of us must live our lives with merely one.

da harv

(To the actress with complete seriousness)

Huh?

Actress

I mean you feel for what we’re doing or attempting to do, as if you were doing it yourself.

da harv

(To the actress with complete seriousness)

Excuse me. I am doing it myself. Think about this; I’m doing three separate things: directing, acting, and being an audience. As the director, I try to speak your language. As the actor I attempt to feel it the way your feeling it. And then as the audience, I’m listening for your truth to emerge.

da harv

(cont.)

It’s not that I have more than one brain…it’s that my brain, the one that I have and use regularly, has three separate compartments: left, right and of course the one I consider as the most important part, the middle, my central chamber.

Actress

(Smirking)

Central chamber? I’m really very serious about my question. I was trying to compliment you. You on the other hand sir, are being facetious.

da harv

Flippant would be a good word as well; you, my lady, are dealing with da harv’s central chamber. It's my practice to treat serious issues with deliberately inappropriate humor, or perhaps even acting a touch. I need to …it helps to keep me sane.

Actress

I was talking about your ability as a director.

da harv

I’m not ever centered on the seriousness of self. I do what I almost always do; I placed your comment right smack in the center. Ergo, my center brain compartment...

Actress

Why?

da harv

It keeps me sane.

Actress

How?

da harv

Knowing it’s there for me to use if I want to; my chamber of ridicule...Right there in the center of my brain, able to go to either side effortlessly...

Actress

You mean you store the crap in the center?

da harv

Now you got it!

Actress

Why would you store crap to reflect on?

da harv

Think about it. Isn’t there a certain amount of crap in everybody’s life? If we remove all the bad things from our reflective repertoire, what roles would there be for us to portray?

Actress

Thank you for that Harvey Kalmenson. I never thought about it that way before.

da harv

You’re very welcome. I got it from Stanislavski.

***

First Person Singular

COMMERCIAL VOICE OVER IS A PART OF LIFE. SO YES IT DOES HAVE SOME CRAP AS PART OF IT. YOU DON’T HAVE TO LIVE WITH IT. YOU MIGHT JUST FIND A PLACE TO STORE IT FOR ANOTHER DAY.

The Things I've Never Done

Things I’ve never done
Some I’m proud I never did,
While wistfully thinking of those I’ve never tried.

There was one time most grim
When a divine force snatched me
As I teetered on a limb
I’ve never helped an old man cross a street

Splendid Ladies weren’t required to be old
Just neat, maybe sweet
Liking when they responded to:
“If I may be so bold.”
Not enough paper could hold
The places I’ve never been
Lists upon lists longing for more years to unfold
Stories yet to be told.

Not in envy of people do I sit
Irritating, they brag of journeys
The Rhine, Danube, and the Tuscan hills
Paris city when lights are lit.
Somehow pictures don’t serve to assuage
As time becomes too realistic a refrain
My lady suggests solace
Believing a way could be found
By train we rode together
And within the Santa Ynez Valley Wine land
We found
A place to visit
Where music, sun, and spirits abound!

***

What I have done, is work; it runs in the family. My Dad began his work life long before people, or our government worried about child labor laws. Growing up with him I don’t ever remember hearing the word career. Survival of the fittest would best describe so many of the immigrants who feverishly fought for family and country during the earliest first one third of the twentieth century. Their concerns weren’t over the places or things they had not been able to do; theirs was the day-by-day combativeness, and competitiveness of life itself.

At age fourteen, my Father and most of his friends worked to bring home some cash. The year was 1916.Effectively, in that era, childhood ended at age fourteen. At least that was the case on the lower east side of New York. You might say birth control wasn’t in vogue as yet. My Moms brothers and sisters totaled eight (kids) who managed to survive. Dad had nine in his family brood. The word welfare was non-existent. To get the proper prospective, here is a short list of what they didn’t have:

Multiple bathrooms (a waiting line)

Two ply toilet paper (many used news papers)

Elevators (multi floor tenements to walk up)

Refrigerators (ice boxes were the thing)

No radio or TV (they actually had to speak to one another)

Electric lights (just being introduced)

No car to drive (wagons, walking, & bikes)

Telephones (party lines for the upper middle class; separate private numbers for the rich)

Washing machines an dryers (forget about it)


And speaking of washers and dryers, the stories of the old timers and what they went through to get the families clothes laundered are to be cherished. The wintertime was especially challenging. Every kid had a pair of long johns; well actually they weren’t a pair. Most of them were one piece, buttoning up the front, with a flap in the back for when nature called. My Dad told me he was always reminded to drop his pants and to drop the flap. I loved the story my Father would tell about the great silent movie escape artist.

“The guy was trapped in a burning log cabin in the middle of a winter storm. There was only one window in the part of the cabin where he was being held captive. His back was pressed up against it. The sweat began to pour down his body. The heat of the fire was becoming too much for him to stand. He banged his head against the window until the glass splattered allowing the freezing chill to rush through the broken panes of glass. In nothing flat his long johns were frozen solid. He flipped down the rear flap and escaped out the back. The frozen underwear was left standing as his ladder to freedom flap.”

At this point all the kids were leaning in, mesmerized by every word my Dad would relate. The more dramatic he became the more they loved it. The way Dad told it, he was now a man sixteen years of age; the year was 1918. He’d tell those kids about the same escape, over and over again. But the absolutely amazing part was the way the kids were hooked on every word he had to say.
I remember a time in the army when I found myself in the predicament of having to wash my combat fatigue uniform in a frozen over Hahn River in South Korea. I hung the two pieces out to dry that evening. When I awoke the next morning I was instantly reminded of my father. The fatigues were frozen solid as if that was my intention to begin with. The arms and legs stretched out in a tee forming a perfect scarecrow. You can guess what my thoughts were in that moment.

Wholesome reflections don’t promote what you haven’t done. I will think of Santa Barbara, and the riches nature provides; the importance of properly decanting a bottle of fine wine, and being there to sample the splendor of another time. I’m free to think of it over and over enjoying the same story each and every time.



















√

Out to Lunch

Store Owner
That’s a nice hat; why didn’t you buy it from me? I carry hats like that.

Customer
Your door was closed.

Store Owner
The sign said out to lunch, didn’t it?

Customer
So that’s why I didn’t buy it from you.

Store Owner
I was going to come right back.

Customer
I was here for a couple of minutes and you weren’t.

Store Owner
You could have waited.

Customer
Down the street I didn’t have to wait. Besides…buyers don’t wait. Sellers wait.

Store Owner
I don’t understand.

Customer
It’s very simple. Don’t go out to lunch. Eat at your own private desk. Be a king in your own country.

Actors should always find a way to eat at their own desks. Being out to lunch is not an option. Your kingdom is waiting to be served. While you may be the king; and it’s good to be king (“Thank you Mr. Brooks”), wiggle room is not a welcomed characteristic for an aspirer to have. You may be a one-person kingdom consisting of just you, still you must constantly and continually aspire: To what, you might ask?

You must always be the king, or queen who is well prepared to serve his or her domain. Yours must be a realm where doors are never closed. Let those who seek you out, find you involved with the day-by-day process of intellectual growth necessary to serve those who find yours to be the “forever” open door.

No need to become a star. Being exalted will be quite enough!

Aspire to become exalted. But be forewarned, it often takes years of exertion before one reaches a state of exaltedness. Actor, director, producer, writer; how many will reach the heights? Your star on a boulevard or the naming of a street is not by itself the only qualification for an exaltation bestowal.

And Then There’s A Thing Called Self Exaltation

I have chosen to use my time on the freeway; twice each day, going and coming, as a time to write and to paint: Not to text. Fact is…I don’t know how to text. I’m not breaking the law. I have those stupid little white things plugged into each ear in the event someone finds a sapient need to reach me. I dislike my cell phone with a great passion. I don’t even like calling it mine. Yet, I find myself in the seldom-revered minority. To stay in touch with someone, anyone at all times, is the acceptable thing to do.

Yesterday at the train station, while awaiting our connection to return from a tour of a beautiful and most tasteful adventure in the Santa Barbara wine country, I was astounded by a group of college students who were returning from somewhere. There had to be at least fifty of them. Almost without exception each of them was armed with an up to date, state of the art cell phone. All were plugged in and talking. Without hesitation the reporter in me took over. Who could these young derelicts be conversing with at 6:PM on a Sunday evening? They were there together that day, or weekend on what had to be a wonderful sojourn, sharing the God like vistas of northern California. They stood together without touching, without looking into each other’s eyes, and certainly unaware of anything transpiring around them. They refer to it as “social networking”. Of course my questions will forever be unanswered. But my mind wanders; now back to more pleasant thoughts. It wasn’t my intention to make this about me. This shouldn’t be about me. …but since it is, what the hell! This is be about what I do with respect to driving the freeway each and every day of the week, in order to meet with people dedicated almost totally to their own glory search. These are the multitudes who strive to remain as breadwinners. Just as the cave people in their respective eras, they wander in order to eat. As is the case today, there is no glory in being a caveman or woman. There is, however a chance to achieve exaltation.

Going to work in the morning definitely differs from the drive I take on the way home each evening. In the morning I am definitely more adventurous than in the afternoon or evening.

Between seven and eight each morning I enter the freeway with the same goal in mind, to get over as far to the left lane as possible, as fast as I can. I treat the on ramp as my launching pad. With my left turn indicator signaling I step on the accelerator and I’m well on my way towards the sixty-five mile an hour lift off , as the wheels of my truck touch the far right lane of the freeway, exaltation! Within seconds I have moved from the far right slow lane across to the far left speed lane. As I glance at my speedometer a hint of a smile crosses my lips; I’ve reached the seventy-mile an hour mark, and I’m on track towards a new record; continued exaltation. This of course won’t qualify for a new record. (Because) It’s Saturday morning. I’m working this Saturday morning. In twelve minutes flat I arrive at my Burbank studios. From Encino to Burbank, a trip, which can take me as much as an hour during a weekday morning excursion. What a difference a day makes. The vast majority of working folks don’t realize what a great day Saturday is.

Long before I became aware of my custom, it had turned into a continuing daily practice. I gave no thought to the enormity of the project. Each morning and evening my changing cast of players performed for a different audience. The players appeared; some more fleeting than others; dependent on the flow of traffic.
They’d be there similarly disturbed, or undisturbed by this writers cause.

Some would call this lengthy maze a road, or a highway, or a freeway. Few would see this as a stage of players. But what if they were just that? What if it was the largest cast ever assembled on any one stage. Could I ever have the skills called for by the producer of this epic in order to stage this play?

There for me with each sight leading to another then being dismissed without cause, instituted by me. It becomes an endless stage with all players within this system hidden by the steel surrounding them on all sides.

***
Note:

• There are exactly 53 Saturdays in this year 2011. Each weekday morning it takes me on average forty minutes to travel from Encino to Burbank.
• On Saturday mornings my average travel time is fifteen minutes; representing a life saving twenty-five minutes for each and every Saturday I work.
• If I work fifty Saturdays this year I would be saving 1, 250 minutes, or a total of close to 21 hours.
• Is it any wonder then how many people like you and me become frustrated as they sit in their cars stopped on any number of local freeways?

A person could do a lot of reading in twenty one hours, or spend some valued part of this life on a cell phone.

"Discovering the Wheel"

(They think-- I think not)

Actually “They Discovered the Sled “

Quiz time:

• What do people do when they can’t find work for an extended period of time?
• What is, or would be considered an extended period of time for the average person
• What denotes the terminology, average person?

Not to worry, it isn’t my intention to return to the beginning of time, to provide the proper documentation in order to answer the questions posed at my lead in.

Lead in; now that’s sounds so familiar to me.

In the event you’re curious, here are some possible answers as provided by the earliest of Cavemen, and translated by me for your convenience.

And yes, I do speak Cavemanish!

In the prehistoric era women had not yet developed a voice of their own. Most women hung out around the cave doing chores until the man of the cave needed something. The woman’s main assignment was carrying things around from place to place. This was not easy work, especially when the carrying took place as the man of the cave was dragging one of his gals by the hair. Most cavemen of substance kept three or four women at his beck and call. Since the language of the day was mostly grunts, groans, screams, and a variety of body sounds; (nothing has really changed) communications with each of the women of the cave was troublesome at best; which would explain why many of the women died as they were being pulled by the hair, from one location to another.

It was during one of these pulling by the hair incidents a great discovery took place. A particularly long woman (people were referred to as either long or not long in those days; since they had no language as yet, stretching ones arms apart would signify how tall or short a female was; arms apart for long, arms together for short) was busily carrying a heavy load of rocks, when her caveman decided he needed her help. As usual she couldn’t figure out what he wanted so he grabbed her by the hair and began to pull her in his desired direction. She lost her balance and was flipped over on her back as he continued to pull. It was then he discovered it was much easier to pull a load from place to place with the carrier flat on her back. Ergo the sled, as we know it today was discovered. This procedure also explains why many of the women expired while being dragged along the ground.

The procedure of human sledding didn’t last very long. In no more than six or seven hundred years the cavemen and cave women learned to communicate by the actual use of some primitive words; Many of those same words are still being used by members of our society today. It was also during this era that the first songbook came along. It happened as one of the cave women was performing the nightly chore of readying her mans bed. She accomplished this by warming the bedrocks she found lying around the cave. While carrying her mans hot rocks from the fire to the bed slab, she inadvertently dropped a few of them to the floor of the cave. As the rocks fell, some began to roll away from her; she tried picking them up, only to have the process continue. The rocks fell and rolled; she picked them up as others hit the ground. It was then that the rest of the family began to sway to the beat of the rocks hitting the ground. And of course, you guessed it; this was the beginning of rock and roll music as we know it today; the words were not discernable, but the beat was overpowering, especially in the larger caves with the high ceilings and long hallways.

“In Those Days”

· People and animals had a great deal in common; they wandered the earth. It was described on the walls of the caves as “wandering, or roaming”.

· A day, a week, and a month, it was all the same to them. Their work was called eating. When they became hungry it always felt like an extended period of time.

· They were all average. Everybody dressed the same; the men all carried clubs, and never shaved. The women didn’t carry clubs; they to didn’t shave. Romance was nonexistent. There was no candlelight; it was dangerous to stay out in the moonlight.

“The first rock group.”

They didn’t tour. They played the same cave every evening.

Circa unknown.

And now after many centuries of man’s development, lo and behold (I love saying “lo and behold”) there exists many curiosity questions for one to ponder. Why have so many things changed, while so many things have stayed the same? Why have most people thrown their clubs away (except for when they play baseball) while others look for folks to hit over the head? Although clubs and hitting has been supposedly banned from public use, hitting still remains a form of communication within certain tribes.

Have you taken notice; today’s cavemen shave less, while the women shave more? (Or do I have that backwards?) Or is that just in San Francisco?

And it appears to me people and animals still have much in common, especially when it comes to being hungry. Just like in the old days; a hungry animal is liable to do anything, depending on how hungry he happens to be. Human beings often react the same way. Some people actually still steal food; mostly from places like 7-11.

There’s a lot of strange stuff going on. The other day this guy was telling about this place he went to where the women are required to remain completely covered from head to toe when out in public. Many of these societal dictates remarkably resemble those of the original cavemen, minus of course the rock and roll music that they have also disallowed. I asked the guy about how a woman goes about getting a passport picture taken. “That’s easy”, he responded. “They’re not allowed to leave the country.” Wow! That is exactly what the cavemen did with their gals. Many of these societal dictates remarkably resemble those of the original cavemen, minus of course the rock and roll music they have also disallowed.

I began with

Quiz time:

· What do people do when they can’t find work for an extended period of time?

· What is, or would be considered an extended period of time for the average person?

· What denotes the terminology, average person?

Do I have answers to any of these questions? Probably not. But for this average person what I can do is bring forward my personal testimony after having been there, and in my minds eye always being able to remember living with the anguish.

· Each day without work is a day of frustration and wonder. How does the man who is working do it? How did he get there? Will I ever work again?

· Without means to satisfy ones obligations, is an extended period of time.

· Being average is an excuse for being average.

A Critique

By some who have read this work,

Feeling duty bound to ridicule and smirk,

Those of intellect so sorely lacking,

This author never the less revels in their attacking.

Truth be told

Ciphering the walls of a cave

Isn’t necessarily that bold.

What was then returns to us now.

Disclosed between these lines

The separation of man and things might be found.

New things have been invented; but man’s sameness will astound.

Wake up da harv. We can’t return to the beginning of time. Rarely can we ever return to anything that once was; except perhaps evil.

Actually no language was required. All they were able to do was draw pictures. It was of course the introduction to what was later known as “French Postal Cards” (Porn).

True they didn’t speak, but they could hum, especially at night when they were putting the cave kids down to sleep.

Today’s women still keep carrying things around for the men. Sleds have been replaced in the better cave garages with things called BMW’s. These gals may be seen scooting around and dropping off the kids like fish, at places called schools.

Some men still keep more than one woman on call. There are even men who pay to have these ladies waiting in different locations around the country. Many athletes and politicians fall into this category. The story of how the sled was invented is at best debatable, since the original translations of the pictures on the cave walls was done by a Middle Eastern scholar who had the women being depicted on the walls completely covered from head to toe with cloth that had not yet been invented. Other anthropologists claim the sled was invented during a heavy snowstorm. The woman merely lost her balance and slid down the snow and icy hill.

The history of rock and roll is exact. Today many folks do the very same things with their rocks; only now they’re plugged in electrically.

“In These Days”

· People still wander the earth, traveling by bus, train, plane and car. Today’s people rarely walk.

· Then and now, eating is eating.

· Today the police, baseball, and hockey players are the ones with the clubs. Many of them also carry guns in order to protect themselves from the average people. Cave women had men to protect them. Today’s women carry pepper spray.

· In the old days the average people all wore sandals. The average people today still all wear sandals. Cavemen didn’t have socks. Today’s men and women have socks, but find little need for them. In the old days feet were ugly; they still are. It was commonplace for a caveman’s butt to be revealed when he bent over; the same applies to a great many men today.

· Romance was non-existent then, and it’s becoming that way today.

· Cavemen didn’t pray. They still don’t.

Social graciousness has never been less average than it is today. Or is it just my imagination?