Tuesday, August 27, 2013

This Just In: “Our New Starbucks”


Just opened on our corner
It used to be a nickel
Then what was, became a dime
Some even gave it away
Praying for customers to sit there and dine
Apple pie along with a la mode
No thoughts of calories
Deceptive advertising was always told
There was no “Starbucks”
No “Coffee Tea & Me”
A dollar seventy five was a dinner out
We never sipped while being plugged in
Meeting another for a drink
Was a time for conversation?
Perhaps even gin


 
They descend upon us relentlessly,

as would farts in a blizzard;

two by two,
      one by one,
      rarely in threes,
      never as a simple crowd at a ballgame;
ours                                                                                                                         forever;
coffee zombies;
Many,                                                 distraught                                                             wannabes!
Enjoying            overpaying for what used to be one of the       simpler things in life;
black                         coffee, an             important             part                         of             our
life
On             less             than a                         notable             lark             I             ventured
across                                                 our                                                                         street.
I      was      taken       by       the       cleanliness;      a
different                                                                                                             surrealism,
a             room                         filled             with                         people             not            talking
to                                                 one                                                                         another
A             series                        of                         lines             of                         apparent             human
beings             moving                         the                        same                         direction,
towards             very                   young                stewards             of            one            look
and                                                                                                                         meter
One step and stop,
one step and stop,
then                with        a         postal        service         style
deliverance,
each             ended                         their                         march                         with                         a             similar
cup in hand.
Most             not                         tasting             their                         brew                         until
outside                         and             in             the                         confines             of
dissimilar                                                                                                 transportation.
The             men,             not             a             tried                        and            true                         athletic
group.
The             women,             none                         baring                         the             look                         of             a
home wrecker.




1947 Trefner’s, 619 Lexington at 53rd, NYC, a moderately priced restaurant with long-time patrons: “First there is fruit juice, then a choice of two soups. The main courses are fried chicken, steaks or some kind of fish. The chicken, which is $1, is one of the specialties of the house. Another is Hungarian goulash for 95 cents.”
Your choice of coffee, tea, or soft drink – free with meal.



Coffee Drinking Statistics
Total percentage of Americans over the age of 18 that drink coffee everyday = 54%
Average size of coffee cup = 9 ounces
Average price of an espresso-based drink = $2.45
Average price for cup of brewed coffee = $1.38
Total percentage of coffee drinkers who prefer their coffee black = 35%
Total percentage of coffee consumption that takes place during breakfast hours = 65%
Total amount of money spent by importing coffee to U.S. each year = $4 billion
Total percentage of coffee Brazil produces of entire worlds output = 30%
Total amount of cups of coffee (9 ounces) a coffee drinker consumes daily = 3.1
Total average of money spent on coffee each year by coffee drinker = $164.71
Total number of U.S. daily coffee drinkers = 100 million
Total number of U.S. daily coffee drinkers who drink specialty beverages (lattes, cappuccinos, mochas, etc.) = 30 million
Total percentage of coffee drinkers who drink 13 or more cups of coffee each week = 24%
Total percentage of coffee drinkers who go to premium places (Starbucks, Coffee Bean, etc.) when they get coffee out = 34%
Total percentage of people who go to lower-price outlets (McDonald’s, Dunkin Donuts, etc.) when out = 29%
Total percentage of coffee consumed between meals = 30%
Total percentage of coffee drinkers who add cream and/or sugar = 65%
Total amount of U.S. coffee drinkers who claim to need a cup of coffee to start their day = 60%
Total percentage of coffee drinkers who say coffee makes them feel more like their self = 54%
Total percentage of coffee drinkers who have a cup within the first hour of waking up = 68%
Total amount of yearly money spent on specialty coffee in the U.S. = 18 billion



There was a time period long before the likes of Starbucks, when folks ventured out with only a few coins in their pockets in search of anything that might make do as their dinner. One little guy, the story is told, entered a restaurant, looked at the menu, and decided he could get one single meatball with the fifteen cents he had left to his name. The disgruntled waiter took his order, and as he turned away the little man asked if he might get some bread. The waiter responded with a bellow for all the diners to hear:

“One meat ball. One meat ball! Well, you gets no bread with one meat ball.”



Believe it or not, the song “One Meat Ball” actually became a hit in the forties.

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

My Words

My words are my words
They are not etched in stone
Still, they are mine

Some would have said:

“His words are harsh
Too strong in order to be digested
Too weak to bet on, or pray upon.”

But for better or worse, they remain mine.


My brief respite, caused by a satiation attributed to the driving forces of our ignoramus-impaled elected officials and their executive appointees, has come to an end.  I will once again find the time required to blog you, although it will be a short allotment at best when one considers the limits of the human life’s expectancy, and the enormity of material available that stipulates the grievous ineptitude of our public officials. Though those in the so-called Hollywood community rarely read what I write, it makes no never mind to me, for I am a full service talker.


“Full Service Talker”


When a person arrives on this planet as a “full service talker,” by the dictates of his or her normal breathing requirements to sustain life, said talker (in this case scenario me) becomes quiet only as a necessary form of relief. Even a full service talker must take the time to breathe.
        
Truth be told, I just had to stop for a moment -- not necessarily to rest, or catch my breath -- to keep from saying something I might regret in later years. The power of the quill can be an awesome thing. (I love saying the word “quill.” It’s so damn romantic.)
As my Father so vehemently professed to his young son, “Be careful what you write or say Harv, there just may be a few who are listening in -- some even without you knowing it.”

I find myself with some extra time on my hands. I was planning on attending a meeting at the White House this last week, but somehow Valerie Jarrett neglected to send me an invite. Don’t get the idea that I’m the least bit offended. She doesn’t actually know me; if she did know me, I’m certain she’d have an instant dislike for my political principles and myself in general.

An aside: I love romance. Please don’t get nervous (you dolt), I’m not going to talk about lovemaking, though I am an expert at and on the subject of making.

I believe it was the 2000-year-old man who said, “Making is wonderful, especially when you use it in association with a person you like or respect.”

Politicians make laws. I don’t care for politicians.

People who make time to read are my favorites. In actuality, these people are taking as opposed to making. It doesn’t mean I like takers. It means I like the kind of people who take from themselves and give freely to others. In this case, taking from our limited well of allotted time on this earth, is unquestionably the most valuable commodity any human being has to give. Imagine if our elected officials took the time to read what they were signing -- how much would it help to make ours a better society to live in? It would definitely be a trend back to the rewards of romanticism.

Like I said earlier, I don’t like politicians. Politicians all seem to be void of romance. I doubt if there is anything one might construe regarding the purchase of a hooker’s time as a romantic event. Of course, it would be considered as a romantic event if the politicians had to fight their way in or out of the brothel in order to gain satisfaction. (Boy, did I clean that one up.)

Don’t you find it interesting how much stranger truth is than fiction? Imagine that, as a businessman, I have decided to hire people and allow them to set their own rules and regulations concerning their employ. Wages, time off for vacation or sick leave, and cost of living increases based on cost of living guides they set -- and threw in as an extra every kind of medical insurance and retirement plan known to man. In the event that you have plans regarding replacing said employee -- forget about it. Their contract calls for them to be on the job for at least eight years. Recognize the story? It’s true. We call them Congressmen. If I were running a law firm in such a manner, our company name would have to be “Ludicrous & Laughable.”

So, forget the romance. It’s gone. It was another time. Another era. It was the Roman Empire that I’m really talking about. For the sake of conversation let’s call it Detroit.

NOTE: For those of you who spend your days plugged in to nothing but music, this just in: The great industrial empire city of Detroit has officially filed for bankruptcy. Detroit is the largest city in the United States to have declared for bankruptcy in the history of our country. Dependent on the source, Detroit’s elected officials state that they are eighteen billion dollars in the red. All have agreed it is an impossible amount of indebtedness to overcome.
        
The question is how could the once Industrial Automobile capital of the world go down the tubes like it has now? Who’s responsible? Who could we point a finger at, and what good would it do?

Promises, Promises

The affluent upper and general middle class -- once the strength and breath of Detroit -- reached its peak in 1950 at 1,849,568 million people. Today, Detroit is left with 701,475 people who are ill equipped to take care of themselves, let alone bear the burden of supporting a bankrupt municipality that is 18 billion dollars in debt.

        
“The First Great Problem Solver”

On a dreary morning, long before recorded time, it was decided by the powers that be, (in actuality, the powers that were) that a necessity demanded a new form of being to rise to the helm of life as they understood it. The people of the time to which I refer, were known as Carolers. Each of them was known to have a beautiful singing voice. At the time, musical instruments were not yet being manufactured. The singers were accompanied by the sounds of breezes gently wafting through the trees, creating a lovely, soothing sound.

The problem was the lack of dependability on the part of the breezes. There were periods when the villagers would stand around for hours --often days -- waiting for even the smallest murmur of a breeze to come up. One day Slick, the town crier, came upon a group standing around in the village square.

“Why don’t you sing a capella?” He asked.

Since there weren’t instruments as of yet, they had no thought of singing without them. As their leader pointed out to Slick, it would be like telling people to warm up food before they had a fire.

Slick made it a point to explain the village singing conundrum to the Village Leader. Normally, this would have represented a problem since the elected leader was usually not to be found anywhere near the village square during working hours. The leader’s absences understandably made good sense; his reasoning was that it was much easier to get a tee off time during the week than on the weekends.

Slick ultimately caught up with their leader as he completed the first nine holes of his round. In no more than an instant or two, the inconsistency of the breezes problem was solved. By executive order a capella singing groups were banned. The task of informing the constituency of said order was assigned to Slick, the town crier.

That night, when the Village Leader returned from his round of golf, he found the village deserted; not even a note was left for him.

Years later, a new leader was placed in charge of the deserted villagers by a private company in the business of manufacturing the first horse-drawn golf carts. This ultimately came to an end because the build up of horse manure made putting an impossible skill to master. Once again, the village people moved to a new location, leaving behind the city forever to be known as: Dreckville.


We move to a wonderful era, circa 1947. Dreckville has turned in to the wonderful community of Los Angeles, California. Descendants of the original inhabitants of Dreckville heavily populate the city. The mayor, Pasquell Lombardo Cohen, is a fourteenth removed grandson of the original Slick -- the town crier who disappeared from the employ of the original Dreckville leader.

At Schwab’s Drug Store on Hollywood Boulevard, it’s early afternoon and the place is packed with wannabes. Each person at the counter is equipped with a newspaper, a Hollywood Reporter, and a script for a film they’re trying to sell. 
        
NOTE: I was far too young to be one of them, but in spirit I was already one of the clan that Otto Preminger described as being “stupid.”

Two guys were having a good solid (and may I add) healthy conversation. At times voices could be considered raised. At times, a better than normal degree of passion was shown by each of them. If you’re curious, in the beginning, these two were in a hot discussion concerning the strength of our current Los Angeles Dodgers’ pitching staff. Their dialogue flip-flops to a point where it’s unlikely that a listener can tell one from the other. They appear to have everything in common, except skin color. They were strange fellows to share camaraderie -- neighbors, friends, classmates, and now two of the thousands chasing their dreams in a far more romantic Los Angeles than what exists today.

I agree.
I disagree.
I really think your evaluation is a dopey one.
Why, because it differs from yours?
No, because I happen to be right.

These two stalwarts went on and on up until hunger got in their way.

Lets grab something to eat.
Sounds good to me.
I changed my mind.
What do you mean?
Who do you think you are, Belafonte?
I don’t get it.
I’m kind of kidding you.
Kind of?
Yeah. Kidding. Making a joke.
How can you joke about Harry?
Just like Steve Allen does.
You’re not Steve Allen.
And you’re not Belafonte.
But I’m black.
I hadn’t noticed until you pointed it out.
You’re being insensitive.
You do realize you just called your supposed closest friend insensitive?
Okay you dopey bastard, you got me now.
Let’s go eat.
Agreed.
Where do you want to go?
Anywhere where color has nothing to do with the food.
You have something against colorful food?
You just don’t get it, do you?
I almost never understand where you’re coming from!
That’s why we get along so well.
How come you don’t get it when I’m the one whose kidding?
I do, but I don’t want to hurt your feelings.
Like how?
By pointing out how insensitive a person you happen to be.
Because I’m black?
No, because you happen to be a dopey bastard.
How did you figure that out?
I have many friends who also happen to be dopey bastards, just like you.
Now you’re finally beginning to make some sense.
Mexican?
Not funny; quit with the name-calling.
Mexican food, not people!
Oh.

It was a much more romantic time.

The first Tonight Show aired in September 1954. Steve Allen started it all. Steve was a great human being to have known by one and all.

Tuesday, August 6, 2013

Before the Mustache


It was nothing more than a plain old upper lip. Day in and day out, across this country and to another continent, I traveled with a few thousand of my army buddies. Many of them brought with them lips equal to mine, but many with far more hair.

The upper lip is a part of the body that rarely, if ever, gets enough credit. Many of the world’s biggest names found the necessity to give credit where credit was due. Take, for example: Martin and Lewis, Lewis and Clarke, Burns and Allen, Abbott and Costello, Rowan and Martin, none of the Beatles, along with a historical list exceeding one’s wildest imagination. Only Elvis came forth with an elaborate smirk to end all smirks; yet even Elvis never found the time to pay tribute to his upper lip as would befit a wiggler of his imperious stature. 

President William H. Taft

We haven’t had a President of these United States, with hair on his upper lip since William Howard Taft, our 27th President way back to 1909. That would make it 104 years since one of our guys showed some hair on his upper lip. That’s not to say that hair on an upper lip makes the man. Political things appear to go in cycles. The last 18 Presidents have been hairless. Most likely, we’re destined to continue playing the waiting game. Who knows -- the next mustachioed President might also be our first woman to hold the office.

Note: Harvey Kalmenson has successfully worn his own mustache for the past 45 years. It became part of his mystique following his service in The United States Army.

During my review of the former and current Presidents of the United States, I found that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, I am more qualified for the office of President than most who have preceded me. Not since Theodore Roosevelt has any other man equaled my dual qualifications of mustache and military. 

President Theodore Roosevelt

The record speaks for itself. If I were to run for office my slogan would be:

“Mustache / Military
And No Internal Revenue Service”
Put a man with hair on his upper lip into the Oval Office!

In conclusion, it should be apparent that the next candidate for President of the United States who darns a mustache would be an odds-on favorite to win, the exception, of course, being that female candidate.  



Thursday, August 1, 2013

Talent or Experience?

As in the case of life as we know it to be, all answers are dependent on both experience and talent. Unless that is, you fall into one of the many cases of those too young to understand either or both terminologies. 
In the world of the subjective art form, early on talent -- which is seemingly derived by some heavenly force often described as “God given” -- it is often taken for granted by those who have it, and envied by those who don’t.

For the sake of what I have to say, I beg you to please leave out computer games, Linked In, Linked Out, Facebook, Disgracebook, hallucinatory people, tweeting (except the sounds made by birds), or the sounds attributable to excessive flatulence, human or otherwise.

PLEASE, TAKE IT FROM ME: LUCK WILL ALWAYS BE AN OVERRIDING FACTOR IN ALMOST EVERYTHING WE ATTEMPT IN LIFE!!!

My Mom and Dad used to have heated arguments regarding the subject of luck as opposed to developed skills. Dad believed in developed skill, while my Mother, who was an ardent gambler throughout her lifetime, was a great proponent of heavy-duty luck. Both Mom and Dad were extremely courageous people; she loved any form of chance taking, and he would remind her that he took his chances by being in business. Anyone who happens to be in the business world today would have to agree with my Father. Experience has made me a great believer in my Father’s doctrines.
        
Dad: “Study hard, work hard, you gotta make it”.

Mom: “Bullshit Charlie, I’ll take luck anytime, anyplace, anywhere!”

I grew up in a strange environment. Both Mom and Dad were very talented people. Mom was a gifted dancer. She had all the moves. When she moved her hips it put Elvis to shame. It was a God-given gift, but she and her sisters (there were eight brothers and sisters in their household) never stopped practicing.

Needless to say, young immigrant girls were greatly influenced by the likes of Mom’s favorite, Ginger Rogers. Dad was a numbers whiz. Math was his thing. It was a God given attribute. Couple that with an amazing ability to retain just about anything he saw, and you have quite a guy.

As an example of his skill, I’m reminded of a first hand experience I had as an adult. Dad and I were out on some sort of business meeting at a prospect’s home. We waited in the entryway of the house and, without saying a word Dad walked over to the grand piano -- a mainstay of the room -- and began to run his fingers beautifully over the keys.

I was absolutely blown away as I watched and listened. I was aware my Dad could carry a tune -- he was always singing something to me as a kid -- but I had never seen him play any instrument before. After the meeting, I couldn’t wait to question him about his ability to play the piano.
Dad pointed out to me that with nine brothers and sisters there was always a musical instrument being played. His Mother had some strict requirements for all of them.

All nine of her children spoke at least two languages. Grandma was a true and gifted linguist. There were no dialects allowed in their household. English was a must as the first language. There were pages upon pages of piano sheet music on top of the family piano at all times. The brothers and sisters learned a great deal of the English language by singing together around the piano. It was at these sing-alongs that my Father learned a thing or two about playing the piano by watching my uncle Sidney as he practiced. To this day, it’s hard for me to fathom -- a guy teaches himself to play the piano by watching his younger brother practice.
        
So, with the family heritage I disclosed to you, you now have a thumbnail inkling of how da harv’s life’s direction may have taken shape. Whether or not my direction was a correct one for me to have taken; it beats the hell out of merely standing there physically waiting, and mentally praying.
        
I believe both my Mother and Father were correct in their assumptions. Skillfulness is required, luck is cool; the two of them together most likely bordered on euphoria.


“The Battle of the Young and Almost Never Mighty”

The premise that follows is one I devoutly believe in. The doctrines which I assumed as an educator, combine all I have to offer based on what I have experienced and now know to be true regarding the human condition of any (and all) who take a subjective art form as their life’s direction.

If your easel is setup on a railroad track to glean a stupendous sight line, and you hear the rumbling of an oncoming train, it becomes a time to make an important decision.
        
Do you remain on the track in order to finish your life’s work? Or do you change direction and remove yourself from the track?
        
Because you are very young and live by yourself, with no family to concern you, the decision-making process is singular. What you do is what you do


My Personal Experience

I quickly reasoned that the train wasn’t going to stop or change direction, unless I became lucky. I wasn’t going to follow my Mother’s doctrine.

Did I tell you I was a married man with two children not yet in their teens? I got off the tracks and watched as the train roared by crushing my easel to tiny bits. As my Dad had told me I could always buy another easel.


Enter The Masters

What did all the others before me have in common? Most had stood transfixed on tracks, some leading to the highest precipice known to us common men and women. We seek to go in a constant upward direction. It’s the right desire to have. Those who think and know their’s is a destiny as a loser, will definitely succeed with that determination.

My choice was to become as skillful at my craft as I possibly could. All the masters, each and every one of them, agreed with my Father and with my choice for a life’s direction.

I discovered from my mentors that teaching and learning is a process -- never the same, as it is never ending. Learning must be a forever direction. A subjective form is one we may see and hear as an individual. Few writers, directors, or actors ever fully master a subjective art form, for the form they seek to master is one of constant change.


Constant Change is the Process

If a person found out that they were the only person inhabiting this earth, then what they discover could be called a new and modern process. Not withstanding this never-to-happen hypothetical, the Masters all agree that advancements in any of the subjective art forms comes at a price -- time. The time that is yours and only yours will ever bear the responsibility for your success.


Her look was priceless
So was his
He was tall and mighty
She also tall of stature
Together moving sprightly
A very small world cheered them
They sold all sponsors whims
From beer and wine
And lingerie with a secret
Rarely speaking
Neither could talk or sing
Then one day
The time it did pass
This mighty man and statured lass
They had remained on a track
With features that didn’t last


As an aside, I might offer this tidbit of inside dope: I have to admit to you, one and all, that I get a particular pleasure in having a piece of information or two that only I and the teller will ever know.

Wouldn’t you love to know who the person with a single line writing credit on a major network show really is? You’re not going to get it from me. But, I will give you this much… A long time ago, this writer was told (he or she, or she or he) they were too old to understand the working of the today’s younger minds. One day, a very long time after, a show was purchased from and by an individual not capable of letter assemblage. In other words, the person presumed to be a writer was, in fact, a moronic dolt. (So, it certainly isn’t me I’m talking about.)

What I will tell you for sure, is that those who study the Masters will always be the ones who have the ability to get on track and then change direction when the need arises ensuring that they will always have the innate ability to rise to whatever the so-called pundits determine as the “needs and entertainment vehicles” of this modern generation.

A generation arises from the ashes or the remains of a previous generation. What modernity often forgets is the most salient point of all: it rises, not falls. As Stanislavski so beautifully pointed out to the modern folks of his time, “My Method is a process.” Spoken circa 1911 and still going strong!

I will also bring to your attention that folks like Richard Boleslavsky, Vsevolod Meyerhold, Michael Chekhov, Lee Strasberg, Stella Adler, Harold Clurman, Robert Lewis, Sanford Meisner, Uta Hagen, Ion Cojar and Ivana Chubbuck all trace their pedigrees to Stanislavski.

I take great pleasure in stating a fact of life: I discovered the great Stanslavski way back as a seventeen year old in high school. It thrilled me to hear about the great names of the time all talking about the method, and about method acting as experienced by the likes of Marlon Brando, James Dean and all those marching their way to unbelievable success after studying in and continuing to study at “The Actors Studio.”

Our promise remains that Kalmenson & Kalmenson will continue to stay young, informed, and will continue to provide the most current and up-to-date curriculum available for the working, as well as the unemployed actor.

Stay young by studying the masters with the masters.