Lance Legault: Not To Be Forgotten

Twenty years of a relationship free from anything disparaging.

An audition requiring the presence of the one and only “Double L” always brought with it a smile in anticipation of his sharing a story or two. Lance Legault was a bright, boisterous, and gregarious human being.

Lance will be missed, but never forgotten. 

Our relationship with Lance was almost always professional. It would be impossible to calculate the number of times his name would rise to the top of our list on a casting call. When he’d come into our studio for an audition, it was always a fun experience; some might refer to it as an event. There was never a time when Lance kept from inquiring about my well-being or that of Cathy’s.

This last Saturday, September 22, Cathy and I attended a formal celebration of the life and times of an actor and our dear friend, Lance Legault. Each time a notable speaker took their turn at the speaker’s rostrum, we were reminded of our in-house casting director profile for the one and only, original issue of friend, and consummate actor: Lance Legault.

Lance Legault

Male, 40s, 50s, 60s, STAR, southern, western, cowboy, folksy, Johnny Cash, Texas, Jack Palance, Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson, Tommy Lee Jones, Charles Bronson, Robert Conrad, macho, man’s man, trucker, blue collar, Drill Sergeant, military, confidential, sly, Robert Mitchum, slight western twang, rodeo, Hal Riney, gruff, masculine, coach, real, guy’s guy, bold, authoritative, somewhat dramatic, rugged, slight drawl, used car dealer, Cal Worthington, cranky, crusty, Burgess Meredith, offbeat, ominously reflective, Christopher Walken, Sam Elliott, strong, commanding respect, gravelly, tough, cowboy, younger Jack Palance, confident, cool, Official NBC NASCAR promo voice.

And, the real deal patriotic American we could all be proud of.

He will always remain our first casting idea when any of the specs above are requested. And then, we’ll smile… and reluctantly search for the next best idea, knowing there'll never be another "Double L."

Ventilation

da Harv has come to vent

His rage by sharing despair.

Often to laugh hysterically,

Being a free man, without care.

Your turn has come

Try it on for size

With no consequences

No punishment for lamenting.

Comes now this chance

For the fearful amongst you

To express dissents.

The best way possible, venting!

Ah fresh air, there’s nothing like it. Breathe it in and enjoy the simplest gift of all.

Think about it, we’re so much better off than most fish. Think again, what if you don’t gravitate towards water… it’s the salt in the sea, you find nauseating. If not for surfing, you might never go near the liquid; although there are times I suppose drinking the stuff is required. Personally, da Harv prefers single malt scotch. But, as any half-ass politician may have said, “I digress.”

Let’s see… we were discussing ventilation. Actually it’s the first syllable of the word, which offers me a form of salvation, an oblique promise of resuscitation. To vent!

To Vent: Giving free expression to strong emotion. 

Morning

The air is clear and fresh

I had not yet allowed my mind to wander down any roads

Previously having formed an almost daily rebuff

Unready to surrender my quiet

On our balcony

Alone with thoughts

Relishing the insights of an untroubled mind.

Stillness, still as a cherished possession.

Mid Day

Early day possessions have long gone

No cherishing

No stillness

Privacy,

Was there ever any?

Morning forgotten

Thirty of them seeking

Have come and gone

Professing to know me

Self-serving interests on display

A form of relief

Now they are gone.

Evening

Were there rewards to share?

Any likely conquests to declare?

All I could recall

Came void, no shining light

No swords had been brandished

Just my search for peaceful convocation

A table for one

Epilogue

Perhaps tomorrow

When from the night

A new stillness returns

And the air is again clear and fresh

Before I surrender my quiet

There will come a new zeal

Different from all the rest.

***

Come one, come all; welcome. It’s a big bad bandwagon. Get on without fear of verbal retaliations.

Dying to put your two cents in writing? This is the time. Total truths, or even the vaguest of distillations. You send it to me for my blog, and the next thing you know the whole world gets a chance to see what the average, or above average “Venter” has to say.

As an example:

•         Offer your disgust, or affirmation and likes over our latest political convention attendees;

•         What a dipstick you know your boss happens to be;

•         Girlfriend, boyfriend, partner, current mistress or mister,

•         People you hate,

•         People you love,

•         Children (yours or his, or the product of an accident of unknown origin).

Pick a target, and let it fly. Don’t concern yourself with even the most modest of reprisals. You’re safe. It’s not like da Harv putting his name to his continuous sequels of abrogation spins. If you get the idea that I seek to remove a variety of our government’s untidy laws, doctrines, and methods for siphoning off the little extra remaining oxygen for our survival, then you have read me correctly.

I proudly attach my signature to almost all I independently scribe. I neither send fourth my observations without secondary meaning nor cloaked behind the screen of another man’s worthy whims.

But what if I ask you to let loose from whatever it is creating the inward fear that keeps you from expressing your own principled mindset? Venting far exceeds the joy of surfing. No fish in water provided another with the courageous release of letting the air out without fear of recrimination. What if you took out a pad this very moment and wrote out two simple statements: one stating a clear dislike and the other letting us all become aware of a particular person, place, or thing that provides any form of emotional redemption.

***

And… my latest big vent of this day:

The “they people,” of their respective days on earth, who all find the time to become annoyed by those who fight for the rights enjoyed by Americans.

A common statement not reserved for any particular time period:

“‘Who cares?’ Can be an extremely suitable statement as a commentary describing the average person’s degree of involvement with our world today.”

The year was…

          Pre-Civil War, circa 1860.

          World War One, circa 1914.

          World War Two, circa 1941.

          The Korean War, circa 1950.

And now today, as we live and breathe, here we are and here we go again. Vicious people, who despise all we stand for as Americans, are once again taking advantage of our average man’s attitude.

“‘Who cares?’ Can be an extremely suitable statement as a commentary describing the average persons degree of involvement with our world today.”

Each and every time we slept, others – totally awake and aware of our lack of interest – took advantage of our historical stupidity.

During these days, when we grieve over our losses from our last full-fledged raping, those who hate us once again have proclaimed their hatred, in no uncertain terms.

What a wonderful time for all of us Americans to reunite with one singular goal: to preserve and continue as the most productive nation in the history of the world.

END OF VENT

As Seen at the Kalmenson's

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Yes sir folks, our very own voice over plumber.

I’m sure you’ve all heard about singing waiters, part time bartenders, and even off-duty cops who pick up a doubloon or two out there as a location guard. But today, comes a very special arbiter – a prince amongst the common and ordinary of our voice over world of renowned artists – David Prince to the rescue!

Question: What to do, or what do you do when you are the owner of a sprinkler system configured with controls fit for a lunar landing sequence? All water was flowing and not an English-speaking Man of Tools was to be found. Then, with the miraculous depth of any person with a gifted mind, the thought of royalty entered!  And, the rarity of mutual agreement quelled the discord that without dignity had embellished our Kalmenson & Kalmenson high decibel vociferousness.

David Prince, on call as a voice over maven going on thirty years, makes no secret about his prowess as a Master Patriarch of the Pipe. Yes, our very own David Prince is the proud owner of a well-oiled plumbing contracting business. David Prince to the rescue! On time and smelling as good as “Mike Diamond” could ever dream of.

With hands on his hips and teeth clinched in support of his firm jaw, “How can I help you ma’am?” David asked.

“David, it’s me,” Cathy replied.

 “I know that. I just like the way it sounds,” said David.

And so, the day was won.

The Encino Tsunami came to an abrupt end as our artistic white knight prepared to take leave. With a smile David packed up his tools and placed his beautifully embossed business card on the entry table.

Cathy fought back a tear as she read…

David Prince, Voice Over & Plumbing

Whatever your Needs, I’ve got the pipes.

The Courage to Laugh

The Courage It Takes to Make People Laugh!

DISCLAIMER:

My words are an inexact science (like I really needed to tell you that) and much of what I have to say is being brought forth free of any remotely humble display; an exposition, or if you will, an exposé of this guy’s years of gathering, things, feelings, and perhaps people as well.

Whatever the reason for being quick on the draw, somewhere along each individual’s journey comes a time when quizzicality falls by the way side. In other words, who gives a s-—t? (Charming use of verbiage, don’t you think? Can’t help it, I’ve been influenced by Stephen King.)

A century ago, as a little boy (it seems that long ago) attending P.S. 64 – not the least bit private of schools in Brownsville Brooklyn, New York – I abruptly discovered the process of labeling or being labeled. If you made the kids laugh you, of course, had to be the class clown.

In the beginning I was far too young to care. A person living in our neighborhood who managed to find things to laugh about, in my opinion, was being fueled for success. At age seven, I exited P.S. 64 and entered P.S. 233 – the big time. We’re talking about East Flatbush, home of the then “Brooklyn Dodgers.” The neighborhood was segregated by choice of the residents. To the best of my knowledge, the term “politically correct” had not yet been invented.

We all visited everyone else’s neighborhood for the best cooking the world had to offer. The difference between Brownsville and Flatbush at the time was pronounced, though both communities were in the borough of Brooklyn. Flatbush was genteel by comparison to Brownsville. There weren’t as many guns available to the public as there are today, yet people were still able to murder one another. Murder wasn’t a laughing matter. But after the fact, we kids were able to laugh at its cause.

“That bum should have paid up. He got what was coming to him. He was a squealer.”

The language of the street was easy to come by. We all spoke it fluently. Usually talk was cheap, but there were times when mouthing off could be the most expensive event of a lifetime. The old cliché, “kids will be kids” didn’t apply to the entire populous.

About Environment

There was a neighborhood ice cream parlor named “Mike and Harvey’s.” I never made it into the place without being escorted by my Father or one of my friend’s Dads.  At this wondrous time of life, I was eight years of age.  My Father had warned me to keep my well-cultivated sense of humor to myself. You see, “Mike and Harvey’s” was a hangout for the Jewish Mafia -- aka “Murder Incorporated.” The year was 1941.

You had to watch out when entering “Mike and Harvey’s.” Any number of big time mobsters might be sitting at the fountain having their favorite ice cream soda – a “Black and White” (quite primitive by today’s standards: seltzer, chocolate fox’s U-Bet Syrup, and a big scoop of vanilla ice cream). The “Black and White” became the drink of the day. As kids, we wanted to emulate the big shots so we’d all take turns ordering the same.

On one of these marvelous spring afternoons, a group of us somehow found ourselves in “Mike and Harvey’s” unescorted by my Dad or any other adult. There, sitting at the counter minding his own business, was one of the more notorious figures of the day – Abe Reles – a kingpin to say the least. There was also his entourage of five men at various locations around the ice cream parlor. Abe never traveled without visible protection. Quite a contrast when you stop to think about it, gangsters and eight year old little boys. The fact is, children don’t become frightened when they don’t have anything to be frightened of. Abe and his boys may have had a dastardly record of violence and mayhem, but around the neighborhood children, it didn’t apply. Besides, it was a different era. I doubt if anyone today would allow his or her children to wonder too far from the homestead. We had our bicycles and so, each and every morning, we were off to the races free of fear.

One of Abe’s guys was fumbling as he attempted to get the perfect knot in his tie. One of my buddies jumped in with, “Harvey can help you!”

The Guy looked right at me and said, “You think so?” He pulled the tie from around his neck and handed it to me.

In a matter of seconds, I had tied a perfect Windsor knot and handed it back for him to place around his neck. My friends and I began to laugh.

The Guy turned to me and asked, “You think that’s funny?”

I shook my head in the affirmative. With this response he and his friends joined in laughing. I remember it well…

“It takes courage to laugh,” he said.

That evening after my Father had returned home from work, I told him about my eventful day. He grew very quiet, unusual for him when he was talking to me. By the end, the color had drained from his face.

“I don’t want you to ever go to ‘Mike and Harvey’s’ by yourself ever again,” he advised sternly.

I had seen that look on my Father’s face many times in the past. My travels never took me in that direction again. A year or so later, the newspapers carried the story of how Abe Reles was thrown from a Coney Island hotel window while the police stood guard outside his door.

Then, another strange coincidence – it turned out Abe’s son Buddy was a schoolmate of mine at P.S. 233. I never even knew he was the son of the head mobster who had been frequenting “Mike and Harvey’s” ice cream parlor. Buddy and I never met. I believe he was a year ahead of me at school. What I do remember were the bodyguards who accompanied him to and from school every day. If the apple was truly not to fall far from the tree, it never prevailed at P.S. 233.

As far as I know, Buddy was a well-behaved kid.

NOTE: Nobody was ever able to pin much on Abe Reles. Fat, pomaded, and bejeweled little Abe ran the loan shark rackets in Brownsville and East Brooklyn, New York and he'd been crippling people for years. Everybody knew this. He led a charmed life – you'd pinch him and he'd just laugh at you and, sure enough, he'd walk out of court for lack of evidence.

"Some detective will put a bullet in you," a livid judge promised him once.

"I'll take my chances with any cop," Abe sneered back.

By the end of the 1930s, Abe had been arrested 42 times but was still running Brownsville and East New York.

But what of the courage to laugh?

Is it better to go through life daring people to stimulate your laughter, or to envy those who freely guffaw with the best of them? The gangster thought I displayed courage by not being afraid to laugh. Truth be told, I can’t recall my emotions as a boy of eight. What I remember was the environment of my home and neighborhood.

Our jobs as kids was to get up early each and every day and then go out and play until we fell. We appeared to the entire world as a group of young people without a middle gear. Everything was full scale and all out, including having a good time. We all laughed and we all compared notes. What did your Dad say? What did your Mom think? I bet that really frosted your brother and sister when they found out! All were notes on our daily scorecard.

It wasn’t as if we were writing things down, there just seemed to be a real interest we all had in one another. These were not brothers and sisters, although under the skin there may have been a similar bloodline. I wish I could look back at our school and the way we greeted each day and each other. My quest is far more than simple curiosity. There is a moment lost in time that had been critical (without any of us being aware.)

We were about to understand the courage it sometimes takes to laugh and how our laughter stimulates the joy in others. Perhaps there is more meaning than bargained for in my search.

Making others laugh – the challenge of the ages (whether looking back or forward in anticipation of the unknown) – will always be the joy and challenge accepted by some and feared by most. Making people laugh isn’t always just for adults and is always stimulated by the eight year old in us.

Little da Harv is seen here with P.S. 233's 6th grade class. He is in the top row, far left.

There were 60 eight year olds in our P.S. 233’s 6^th grade class. The tipping point was upon us. We all became nine years old in conjunction with Pearl Harbor. Gray skies dampened the spirits. Somehow, our daily rituals were never the same again.

It did then, and still does, require courage to make people laugh.

Hooray for Harley Davidson

A while back, you could have bet the ranch that Harvey Kalmenson couldn’t be found holding court and singing the praises of the folks who are part of the Harley Davidson Family. Make no mistake folks, I found out that they do much more for society than any of us give them credit for doing. 

The two days of work with the Harley Davidson Family has been especially pleasurable for me as a director, and as an everyday man being visited by everyday people. It’s doubtful if most consider motorcyclists as everyday people. Most motorcyclists don’t remotely resemble the average man on the street; whatever that happens to be. The fact of the matter is that they not only don’t visually represent the average man, but that they are also not average when it comes to pride. 

Kalmenson & Kalmenson was given the assignment to cast a pair of radio commercials for the “Harley Davidson Company.” We were instructed to only audition authentic Harley owners – people from all walks of life, countries, ethnicities, men and women – all races of human beings able to speak English, albeit with heavy or slight accents. If they drove a Harley they became eligible to come in and read for us. 

It was an unusually large call because of the writer and producer’s premise. Their goal was to have a different actor for each line in the commercials. They planned on using a wide cross-section of the voices reading the same copy and then stitch together a line – word – sentence –all individually becoming a wide concert of human instrumentation; a panoply of spirit constituting the theme for the two spots. 

These days I rarely enjoy the experience of an audition enough to say, “This was really fun.” 

This time, it was.

Harley Davidson is an All-American company. Their freedom theme was an inspiration for all of us and should be for you, too.

P.S. I cannot wait for you to hear the spots on the radio.

About Feet: Your Feet, My Feet, Our Feet, Everybody’s Feet

In general, most feet aren’t particularly attractive. Don’t you think so, especially as one grows older? Some of the oldest and wisest of us human beings happen to have the ugliest feet on the planet. As a matter of fact, the more special the owner of the feet, the more likely it is that those special feet will be the worst lookers of all.

Who has special feet, you might ask? Athletes of almost all gender and kinds have bad feet. Bad feet hurt in addition to being unattractive. Dancers – male and female – have bad and lousy looking feet with ballet dancers leading the way because they begin cultivating the ugliness very early on.

Note: It used to be the Chinese women of the aristocracy leading the Bad Foot Parade. Of Course, they weren’t the least bit athletic and most of them didn’t dance because they actually had trouble standing. They were also unable to go grocery shopping, which may explain why all they ate was Chinese food.

There are probably those of you out there who are deeply concerned over da Harv having lost his faculties at this point. Not to worry, there was a legitimate stimulus for this essay on feet. Day in and day out, the number of men and women who come in to audition while not wearing shoes takes me aback. Flip-flops have become the norm. While it may be the norm today, it wasn’t always the case.

Up until the end of World War II, almost everyone considered shoes as part of their regular, everyday apparel. Somewhere between the end of World War II and the Korean War, our Soldiers, Sailors, and Marines began the love affair with shoes, or the lack thereof, being attired in the Far East Theatre of Operations. In short order, both men and women discovered how inexpensive flip-flops were in comparison to regular footwear.

The deed had been done.

In a way, it forces people to look up. I mean, who of you out there desires to be in a restaurant looking down at almost nothing but an abundance of ugly feet?

Please, not while I’m eating.

The last time I witnessed a large group of good-looking feet assembled in one location was in a hospital nursery full of infants. They are the remaining bastions of hope for human feet. Regardless of race, creed, or color infants have nice feet, don’t they?

If you happen to be the exception to the rule, and have beautiful feet, and would like to have them put on display, just send me a picture of your nude feet and I’ll see to it that they receive the proper attention.

This is an equal opportunity offer. Democrats and Republicans are welcome to join in. There will be no prizes awarded.