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.

Friends Bearing Gifts

When a pleasant surprise is just what it purports to be, it is then that we have both pleasantness and the unexpected of the two joining forces: AKA “Spirituality”

TODAY (in particular)

Very early in my morning;

The economy and the heat of the day, neither of which came as a pleasant surprise, bore nothing less than the most solid of doldrums, to surround us. This proved to be a descriptive as opposed to a forecast of the morning hours, and the day that followed.

Television and newspapers did little to brighten or lighten tired spirits. I have long since given up on attempting to find cheer on the pages of almost all those representing themselves as objective clarions of the gospel.

In other words…if I were to allow it to be, the remaining remnants of the morning would undoubtedly segue into an afternoon of equal listless upheaval. Pleasantly behold!

10:00 AM and Cheryl Rhoads was at our doorstep. Well not exactly a doorstep. We live behind two massive gates, which manage to separate us from reality; our choice of course.
Cheryl and Catherine Kalmenson (my wife, and family’s dominant,) became friends some twenty-six years ago.

I always felt like I was an observer, on the outside looking in at their relationship, not out of envy. Since I cannot consciously tell a lie, I’ll cop to the real truth about being an outsider.

I couldn’t stand listening to the two of them practicing in an effort to enter the “Guinness World Book Of Records” for non stop conversation pertaining to world and local minutia. They could, and would systematically take turns reviewing their lives on this planet; each and every time going back to their beginnings in Chicago’s so called inner city. Actually it was Catherine who began in the inner city; Cheryl on the other hand coming from a much tidier starting point. Both were products of a strong Catholic belief, and fervor for an ungodly like telling of the truth; another of the things I admittedly had some trouble with. Not that I considered myself to be a liar, but rather I felt more comfortable often times not relaying the full story. But all that was the past. Things have changed a great deal, I thought.

I had eaten my breakfast early that morning in order to allow the two friends time alone to catch up. It had been three and a half years since the two of them were in person. Let the talks begin. Then, without warning a strange and unforeseen occurrence I found myself participating in their conversation. You know…this wasn’t half bad. I wondered, "Had they grown since the last time I was privy?" Certainly it couldn’t have been a case of my faculties diminishing.

Without thinking, there I was at the table with a coffee cup in my hand. I was actually listening to what Cheryl was saying. Don’t get me wrong; she was still the Cheryl from the old days; non-stop; a continual exposé of the entire world. Yet, I wondered, "What was different?" I wasn’t alone with my query. Out of the corner of an eye I noticed Cathy looking at the two of us, and enjoying it. I do believe Cathy was also noticing a change. Breaking bread and honest conversation does provide an unforeseen spirituality. Neither the economy, nor the heat of the day prevailed. The predicted doldrums never came to pass.

As Cheryl hugged us and said goodbye, without warning it became clear. I know Cathy and Cheryl recognized the change before I did. They have known each other for twenty-six years, but I have been part of their friendship almost from the start. Whether I knew it or not, I was always a part of it, albeit a distant part for most of the years.

It had been a pleasant morning, and a day later it remains as a pleasant thought. Cheryl was now duly acknowledged, whether I like it or not as “a friend who came bearing a gift” - Herself!

Looking Back

The other day, for whatever the reason, I found myself wondering about years past, as I looked in the mirror during my early morning "get ready" for work routine. It was a good thing. The way it used to be, way back in the fifth or sixth grade.

I’m sure most of you over the age of thirty, from time to time wonder where an old childhood friend might be today. How did he or she turn out? What variety of life’s pitfalls did they overcome? He might have been the best athlete in the school; someone you admired, or competed with. She was the little girl with the big smile who sat directly in front of you; the one who was the smartest kid in the class. I saw faces; remembered attitudes; who was tall; who was sloppy, and who was neat. There were aggressive kids and those so shy the teachers had trouble getting them to participate on anything requiring a verbal presentation up in front of the class. The voices are gone. For whatever the reason, I can recall many of the faces, but what my schoolmates sounded like escapes me.

It was a time in my life when all of us had everything in common. We were boys and girls who lived in the same neighborhood, went to the same school, and shared the label of middle class Americans, not poor, not rich, decidedly middle.

The word love rarely came into a meaningful play; nor was the term hate used in a serious vein. “I love chocolate. I hate chocolate.” That was about the extent of our love/hate expression.

Most of us have delved into self-reflection. It’s ours to experience, usually at our own propelled bidding. Naturally there are the conditioned response memories, times when without warning an event resurfaces, allowing pleasures as a rekindling; Some to our liking, bringing smiles, with endearments, capturing the moments in time which are ours alone to savor. Surely there were the not so pleasant events, none of us wish to relive. But those are the ones we learn and experience growth from by thinking back.

At eleven years of age, it was my first really deep thought experience. Up until that moment, what had existed for this sixth grader were happiness, laughter, and the occasional disappointment over the realization the Dodgers were not going to win the pennant for yet another year.

Robert wasn’t a really close friend of mine. He was one of those quiet introverted types. He wasn’t a klutz, but by the same token he wasn’t a kid who was one of the first to be picked when we were choosing up sides for a sandlot ballgame. Robert did however have the unpleasant distinction of being the first kid in our class to lose a parent. I suppose it was a day or two following his father's funeral that Robert returned to school. He looked different to me. There was something in Robert’s eyes that told the story. Of course his life would never be the same; none of us knew that. What we didn’t know was Robert’s loss was also ours. For the first time in my life I was to say, “I’m sorry about your Dad, Robert.” Robert could barely speak. I don’t recall a sound being made. Robert mustered a token thank you nod. The next day I picked him first to play on my team. To this day I wish I might have picked him before his Dad was gone.

Loss or gain is always an action, which causes change. For an eleven-year-old boy in the sixth grade, a new thought was to be perceived without warning. While I had not yet used the word empathy, I would never the less have it with me for the rest of my life.

***

From time to time I will be writing about some of my friends from the past who have become well known to the world. There names will be changed to protect their privacy.

"I Wrote A Blog"

“I Wrote A Blog”

Entitled:

“From the Heart”; Taking a stand for what you believe and what it means to the actors of Los Angeles and all over the country; perhaps the world.

***

Straight from the shoulder was a way of communication taught to me at such an early age, I doubt if I could even recall when my Father began it all. What I do remember, most of all were his words to the wise; and that would be me. In no uncertain terms my Dad said:

“If you have the courage to take a stand, on your own, on behalf of the next guy, when at first glance it appears to be of little benefit to you personally, then be prepared for the outcome, which in most cases will provide personal loneliness, and disappointment.”

Charlie, aka my Dad, was attesting to his belief, that to take a stand for the next guy, will not bring more than a fleeting fame, or fortune, or acclaim. Rather, he said a thank you would be your welcomed gratuity; not that you were seeking any. But it isn’t my intent to describe personal disappointment as derived from monetary loss. I’m talking about the deep disappointment, which I derive from people in general. Charlie warned me about expecting too much from people. He told me not to let them get to me, yet over and over in my lifetime I’ve kept from heeding his words.

“Do it for the good feeling it gives you, never because of any monetary rewards. “

Charlie was the definitive Good Samaritan. I personally experienced his courage come into play on more than one occasion. Once as a little boy, Charlie and I, as would be the case for many Fathers and sons, were at Ebbetts Field for a ball game. It was about the fourth inning, when these three guys, who had had too much beer to drink, began to make real pests of themselves. A young family that included a Father and his two kids was sitting close by. The drinkers became too rowdy for Charlie’s liking, and as their language disintegrated along with their faculties, so did Charlie’s patience. If I remember correctly, little da harv was about ten years old at the time. I wasn’t the least bit afraid because I was there with my proven champion.

There was an apparent bad call by an umpire, and it had the effect of really setting these three guys off. Now they felt justification to become a mob. The three of them were on their feet and chanting one expletive after another for all to hear. Charlie cupped his hands together, and let go with a marvelously cultivated Brooklyn shriek of his; yelling at the three of them, “Hey guys how about giving it a rest!” Charlie, all five foot five inches of him stood there looking straight at these jerks. He motioned for them to sit down, and that’s exactly what the three noisemakers did. The very next inning they were once again on there feet making every one uncomfortable. This time without hesitation Dad signaled to a near by usher and in very short order the three guys were ejected from the ballpark. I remember it as if it were yesterday. Dad had gently pushed me behind him when he first made eye contact with the three guys. On the way home I received a verbal lesson, which still holds true today.

“Never become violent with anyone in a situation like the one that happened to us today. Take your stand as a man, but don’t be the one to raise your hands combatively unless it’s the only way to protect yourself against the bullies of this world.”

Dad referred to the mob mental cases as bullies. He had four sisters, and five brothers who all shared his mantra. They had never met a bully who didn’t take on a true posture of cowardice when separated from the mob they ran with. While they have long ago passed on, to this day and forever I will take great pride as I think back to the stalwartness of my Kalmenson uncles. Family, friends, home, our country, it’s people; in that order, became their order of importance. They were never part of a gang of hooligans. I guess with that many brothers and sisters in the family they really had a gang of their own. All of them became successful working middle class citizens. Some served in the Second World War. A few of the family members had established a small degree of name recognition. None of them went to college, and probably only half attended high school. Beginning with the third and fourth grade, all of the brothers and sisters worked to bring in what ever they could in order to help support the family. In that era, employees were paid with cash. At the end of each week pay envelopes would be issued. The year was 1941. Social Security had been in place for six years, and was of little consequence at the time. Family medical insurance and welfare was non-existent. My Dad’s two-year-old Chevrolet cost him a whopping nine hundred bucks. The theme each of the immigrant families revered was simple and straight to the point;

Stand up for your near and dear. Take a stand and make sure you’re counted. If help is needed, be the one to be there.

Who knows what the cause may have been. Some said the new arrivals to the United States learned to say please and thank you as their first and most important words in the English language; words they felt would help them to assimilate. They strove for ways to become one with The United States Of America. They easily down played the boorish displays of the three guys at the ball game, in favor of standing, and joining in with great pride in the singing of our national anthem before the start of each game; and being an every guy contributor in the bottom of the seventh inning when it was time for “Take Me Out To The Ball Game”.

And as an aside…in the movie theaters they stood and sang, often before the feature came up on the screen. When the American flag appeared on screen, the audience broke into spontaneous applause. Honestly, I will never have the best words available, for me in order to describe ours, the genuineness of so many moments, so many years ago. Nor can I offer anything more than mere opinion over why a man or woman will stand by a brethren, willing to sacrifice in order to take a stand for no other reason other than it was the right thing to do.

(And back to “From The Heart”)

On June 13, of this year 2011, I shared with you via blog, some of my inner most feelings. I threw caution to the proverbial wind as I chose to ignore some of my Fathers most sacrosanct leanings. To date, I have received two formal references to “From The Heart”, the blog, (mine) in question. And as my Father pointed out with his patented approach, displaying complete certainty, what followed my posting of “From The Heart”, was the revelation; my Father was correct once again. The loneliness he referred to with his assumptions truthfully does not play a part in my life. The aspect of the disappointment however does. I’ve never learned how to resign myself to it. My salve has been an acquired one. Learn to live with it Harvey; that’s the way it is; accept this credo: Disappointment goes with life’s territory. I learned about disappointment long before I entered the world of show business. A person does not have to become bellicose, nor depressed, as the end result of each and every one of life’s disappointments. When I asked people to take a stand, I did so from the deepest place in my heart. The air we breathe and the words we hear today make me fearful of a repeat of one of histories most vile eras.

There Will Be Times To Reflect, "As Time Goes By"

In two large corrugated cartons stored in the corner of my office, there are many stories, which will forever remain, not found, and most likely never again to be read by anyone but me. Scripts that began with a dream, and ended in two nondescript boxes in the corner of an office. It took all of five years to fill the two boxes, probably around forty pounds of paper, eighteen hundred and twenty five days of an immeasurable journey. The worth of the trip is only a selfish value. I’ve talked to other writers who cop the plea allowing how they were only writing for themselves anyway. If they happened to get paid for their labors, it would represent icing on the cake. To them I would offer, “What good is icing when you don’t have a cake to put it on?”

The younger writer brings enthusiasm. The older writer finds his or her enthusiasm turning to cynicism, without willful attempt. The younger writer tells a story with his or her passion for the truth being enthusiasm for the life and times being depicted. The older writer may bring forth a truth cloaked in cynicism regardless of the time period they’ve chosen to write about; happening without a willfulness to be downtrodden.

Many of us have given in to following a heart whose choice for joy is far less indiscriminate than should be allowed; our choices are not without limits. Personally, I admit, not necessarily to poor judgment, but too often to no judgment at all. I doubt if many young people enter into a pursuit of a dream, by first really taking heed of their dreams' limitations. If you’re dreaming about your dream not coming true, the result will be just that. The question becomes, why in the name of good common sense did I fill the two boxes in the corner of my office? My writing was a day and night never-ending pursuit. The words hit the paper with reckless abandon. Days, weeks, months, and finally five years of damage had to be accounted for.

While I was never guilty of deliberately conjuring defeatist’s thoughts, my dreams of success at the heights of the literary world had come to a sour end. Sound the trumpets; reality had set in. What does remain in my minds' eye, and perhaps will stay with me forever, is the stack of rejection letters I received during the course of my travails as a struggling scribe. At first I found the letters shocking, mainly because much of what the reviewers had to say about my work didn’t jive. It often came across as if they had sent the rejection notice to the wrong writer. I actually found myself wondering what in the world they were talking about. But the turn-downs that remained with me were the ones that were just outright cruel. One review was particularly nasty. It came in at the end of my professional writing career.

Note: I had already made my mind up about the futility of my continuing pursuit of a career as a writer.

The reviewer attacked me with a vengeance. Line by line, she pointed out my obvious ineptitude. That became it for me. The time had arrived. The cartons were sealed. However, not all was lost. Her review provided me with two pluses. It improved my vocabulary. Nothing in the review was the least bit conversational. It wasn’t a tutorial. It would be a much better descriptive if I referred to her assessment of my work as a verifiable documentation of my inability to communicate at even an average level of intellectuality. And secondly, after rereading her assertions of my literary clumsiness, I laughed uncontrollably for the balance of the afternoon, most likely a form of temporary insanity.

The amazing part about all of this is how many years ago it all took place. Everyday we hear someone remark about how fast time is flying by. “I can’t believe it’s Christmas, or New Years again. What happened to the summer? Your daughter is how old?” Probably one of the most agreed upon terms in all of humanity: Race, creed, color, religious preference, men, women, friends and enemies. The universal cry for all is agreed on: Time flies by, “As Time Goes By”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7vThuwa5RZU


So, if we all agree about how short life really is, why do so many of us waste it? Why do we usually do just the opposite of what should be done in order to slow things down?

The other day I gave an actor the note, “Romance it a little.” His look wasn’t one of complete understanding, because the script wasn’t calling for any degree of intimacy. I added,
” Read in the present as if you’re relishing the moment, and recognizing the satisfaction you personally are experiencing.” And the key to all this is not merely asking the actor to slow his reading pace, but rather slow because of a pertinent reason to do so. What better reason could there be than creating the romance of what once was commonplace? It may have been a fleeting moment you’re reflecting on, but in the instant it takes to recreate it, your thought process will bring into play the missing romance aspect required.

The boxes in the corner of my office are not painful keepsakes. They have within them some tears, some laughter, and a great many dreams of what could have been. What they don’t have are buttons, switches, portable screens, and games to be played. Nothing in those cartons was ever “Googled”. The five years cannot be recaptured. The content of those boxes however are mine to recall and savor at my will. The five years may have been nothing more than short flashes of light, but the pages will never again be misunderstood. Those are mine forever to recall, “As Time Goes By.”

• Is the vast number of words in our world ever read?
• If every discarded script in our fair city was solicited for a paper drive, would there be enough space in our city o hold them?
• Is there anyone in Los Angeles (Hollywood) who doesn’t have a script in his or her possession that will be the next blockbuster sensation?

A Penny For Your Thoughts

Remembering back a few years ago, when I started on my journey into never-never land, kind of makes me cringe today.

Without the foggiest notion of what acting was truly about and armed in my own personal cape of blissful ignorance, it was high gear all the way, until the money ran out. What I was fortunate enough to have had was a series of teachers with the magic ability to convey a message here or there that managed to make it through my extremely thick cranium.

Each of us has our own special button that is often difficult to uncover, especially at a young age, and even more difficult when the button is part of the male makeup.

There’s an old saying, “a penny for your thoughts.” When I was a young guy that was a common question. I can remember being out on a blind date and having that question asked of me. I happen to be a person who doesn’t have any qualms about sharing what might be going on in my head. In this particular instance it wasn’t a good idea or the correct thing to do under the circumstances. Nevertheless, my (still blind) date asked and I said, “This wasn’t a good idea for either of us, was it?”

What followed was my first real experience with a very uncomfortable extended silence and a distinct change of climate. What she did for the balance of the evening is commonly referred to as “the cold shoulder.”

(Fast forward.)

Years later, as I stood alone, stage center with a group of my workshop colleagues seated as the audience before me, I recaptured that “cold shoulder” moment and relived the question: “A penny for your thoughts.”

Our instructor had called upon me to, without words, portray a man experiencing an uncomfortable two minute period of silence, then upon her command, display a completely comfortable presence, while remaining alone, center stage.

I was able to become comfortable by reflecting upon feeling the relief after dropping my blind date off at home at the end of the evening.

It even included what I felt was a very cool thing that happened during my questioning following the two minutes. One of the students asked me what I was thinking about during the comfortable presence moments that brought the hint of a smile to my face.

Our teacher pointed out that often times reflection can stimulate memories that allow for more than one single attitude. It’s kind of like walking and smiling at the same time. That two-fold display of a cultivated attitude drawn from our memory bank opened up one of the most powerful sourcing tools that an actor must be able to call on.

Reflection upon one single moment can stimulate any number of feelings, either sequentially, or in an untold number of bizarre or surreal sequences. All are slices of life. Almost all happenings may easily be referenced from our vast memory bank. All (usually, that is) with one dominant exception. That exception is our own personal memories of physical pain. Nature has provided the human animal with a turn off that enables us to forget severe physical pain. The condition is an automatic one.

(Certainly there are people who can vividly reflect on physical pain, but they are the exception.)

So now the question comes up, what to do when the scene calls for our actor to show suffering being caused by severe mental or physical pain?

At first, our actor may struggle with his or her memory bank. They easily recall the twisted and broken leg suffered during a high school football game, or gymnastics. While they may recall the circumstances, the scene they are playing lacks the genuine truth that he or she was striving to deliver.

Our actor requests the teacher’s help. The teacher responds with, “We’ll discuss it again tomorrow.” Our teacher then hands out the homework assignment. It requires each of us to view the movie, “Brian’s Song.” The next day our teacher asks that same actor to recount the scene he had struggled with the previous day, but this time to think about the travail that occurred for Brian Piccolo when he discovered, as an athlete at the top of his career, that he was sick with an incurable and life-ending illness.

The result was our actor being able to reflect on Brian’s predicament. What came forth was a beautifully truthful slice of life. Our actor had reflected through the eyes of another.

And finally, that leads us to the question of how do we, as actors, develop the skill of being able to reflect through the eyes of another. My answer to that one is contained in my favorite word: Empathy. Understanding, awareness, being sensitive, and feeling and experiencing the thoughts of others without becoming subjective. And while it is my favorite word, it has become my fervent belief that it is also the most important tool an actor has within his arsenal.

Were it possible to make all the luck in the world happen for each of you, as opposed to it being merely a sincere salutation, then I would choose to say to all of you, “All the luck in your world. The world you have been able to choose and genuinely embrace for yourself!”