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.