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.

Books Are My Friends

Books are my friends, my true friends. They give, and give, and continue to give.

When I only want to concern myself with my needs, and wants, and joys, and perhaps even fantasies or dreams, books are there just for me; selfish da harv. My books are old and new. They are my stewards. These are the friends offering help and guidance when I so often seem to need it. I have long since given up newspapers, except on Sundays when they provide more of a local atlas than anything else. Newspapers just can’t provide me with the same trustworthiness I get from my books. Newspapers pile up and make a mess. Books never look messy. Good books are left out for people to enjoy. I would never think of lining a birdcage with one of my books.

Books cater selfishly to what I need to have them cater to. Wow! It’s all about me. That isn’t to say there is a predetermined mindset. Certainly I know what I like to read, but that doesn’t mean at a very young age I knew or even understood the psychology behind what I was up to. I would describe myself as a freewheeler. I mean, much of what I read as a kid, was determined by what I could afford or get my hands on. My older sister, six years my senior, was a veracious reader. Don’t get the idea I ever wanted to be like my older sister. The truth is I wanted to be better at anything and everything she was attempting to be or do. Everything, that is, with the exception of school. My sister broke her butt studying. I, on the other hand, rarely showed any interest in schoolbooks, especially in the early grades. I think it stemmed from me hanging out with my Dad so much. Early on, I resented teachers telling me what to do by way of controlled reading assignments.

Between the ages of nine and thirteen; still unaware of the impact books would ultimately have.

In actuality, a pretty strong troika had been put in place for me. Books, radio, and the movies fostered who I was, and definitely influenced what direction I might take in life. Altogether, the three formed as the strongest culprit responsible for feeding the flames of my already vivid imagination.

While I had a vast array of early heroes, none could ever match the exploits of my own special guy, the one and only “Frank Merriwell.”

Frank Merriwell is a fictional character appearing in a series of novels and short stories by Gilbert Patten. Merriwell excelled at football, baseball, basketball, crew and track at Yale while solving mysteries and righting wrongs. He played with great strength and received traumatic blows without injury.

Merriwell originally appeared in a series of magazine stories starting April 18, 1896 ("Frank Merriwell: or, First Days at Fardale") in Tip Top Weekly, continuing through 1912, and later in dime novels and comic books.

The Frank Merriwell comic strip began in 1928, continuing until 1936. Daily strips from 1934 provided illustrations for

the 1937 Big Little Book.

Radio

The Adventures of Frank Merriwell first ran on NBC radio from March 26 to June 22, 1934 as a 15-minute serial airing three times a week at 5:30pm.

After a 12-year gap, the series returned October 5, 1946 as a 30-minute Saturday morning show on NBC, continuing until June 4, 1949.

Film

A film serial entitled The Adventures of Frank Merriwell was created by Universal Studios in 1936.

Note: Radio was an everyday event, seven days a week. The heroes were endless. I listened to their stories on the radio, watched their film exploits in the movies, and read about them in short stories and comic books. And today I find myself recalling the era of my heroes and writing about them.

I don’t remember ever having a library card in my preteen years. My interests moved in indiscernible waves. Suddenly, I was a teenager at the helm. My reading became extremely sports oriented. It was then that I first began to question the veracity of the author’s pen.

I was there for the Jackie Robinson introduction to the Dodgers. I witnessed the variety of reactions, and then wondered if what I saw and heard was as real as I thought it was. It was my wake up call. I abruptly discovered not all writers see things the same. This wasn’t a “Frank Merriwell” short story. This was supposed to be the truth. How could what I experienced first hand myself be so inexplicably different when being described by someone with his or her own agenda. Ah, the naiveté of youth. It was there for me to see and read about. From that moment on, intellectually, my life has never been the same.

From age twenty-one, and for at least the next ten years, this young man's only books were in a non-fiction genre. Specifically, I found myself in a full ten-year cycle of reading nothing but biographies, auto, authorized and unauthorized. It was long before the days of computer research at one's fingertips. A person had to actually read and take notes with regard to their next selection.

Today, while online doing research, it’s an easy task to click on a person's name and see an array of encyclopedic information.

Here’s an example of what I had to do during my formative years. Let's say I was reading the life and times of Stanislavski. In this particular book, the author was dealing with the depiction of a specific time period. I would make note of certain persons mentioned in the book, and then look for biographies of their life and times. What developed for me was a historical conversation between people of the past who ultimately became part of my own life and lifestyle. I can’t recall how I fell into a biographical scheme, but I do remember one of the first was the life of Albert Einstein. What amazed me was how lucky we were as Americans to have the man become a member in good standing in our American way of life. My God, I thought this man was like so many others who were fortunate enough to immigrate to our shores. George Gershwin and Albert Einstein could have been ships passing in the night, or they could have been taken from us by one of this world’s most despotic narcissists, Adolph Hitler.

The books continued. It was commonplace for my wife to return from our Encino library with two shopping bags filled with my reading requests. I was traveling to all corners of the world and learning about my favorite topic: People. I marveled at and was totally conscious of what I was learning. These were the opinions being shared by the very same people who one way or another would be an influence on my life. The people I read about, especially the leaders, had sweeping similarities. Of most pertinence to me at the time (becoming privy to their personal revelations) was what they shared as human beings. Most of these leaders believed in some form of divine power. While many of them had unbelievable confidence in themselves, they nevertheless shared in the belief of a higher power. They never felt above all others in the world. The stories of George Washington refusing the title of king exemplify his nature as one of the greatest leaders of all time. Reading the biographies of his cohorts spells out who George Washington was as a human being. Saying Washington was being tested as few before him had would be as much of an understatement as I could possibly conjure up. Hamilton, Franklin, Adams, Jefferson, John Hancock and Patrick Henry, to name a few; all in testament to another man's greatness as a leader. All of this and so much more in the books I have read as my own form of attesting to man's sanctification.

And then there are the lifestyles of the rich and famous. Long before anyone dreamed of doing a TV show with them as the subject matter, people were writing about these folks at great length. I found myself reading about the silent movie era, and then the really big stars of the silver screen, and then back again to the biographies of Hollywood’s founders; the immigrants who became the movie moguls. Admittedly, these were the stories which titillated and stimulated my vivid imagination. Again, I found myself identifying with the names of big wigs that immigrated to this country just as my family did.

Without exception, someone of immigrant stock founded every major movie studio. What amused me the most was their courage or what some would call unequalled “chutzpah.”

chutzpah |_ho_tsp_; _ kh o_tsp_; -spä| (also chutzpa or hutzpah or hutzpa)

Shameless audacity; impudence.

ORIGIN late 19th cent.: Yiddish, from Aramaic

"Truth is stranger than fiction" goes right along with another fact of life in the early days of Hollywood: Truth is also a great deal funnier as well. The biographies of these immigrant movie moguls bore a marvelous resemblance to one another. Besides the Goldwyns, and the Cohens, and Louie B. Mayer’s they’re also existed a parade of unknown soldiers responsible for the unbelievable transformation of California and, in many respects, the character of the United States. The exploits of these stalwart new Americans became legends to be shared with the world by way of millions upon millions of words printed in every language known to man.

◊◊◊

It was of great interest to me that one of the first portrayals of a character in a movie serial was that of my earliest favorite, the one and only “Frank Merriwell.” The story was picked up by a B-movie producer from a comic book being read by one of his kids. These serial depictions were usually shown as Saturday morning fare for the hordes of children who treated the outing as a religious ritualistic social event (this was, of course, before we had the ability to text). If you’re interested, the cost of a double feature and a short, as they were called, was ten cents. One dime got a kid almost a full day of entertainment.

One episode I loved the most involved Frank Merriwell rescuing a damsel in distress. While out running in a local forest, Frank catches sight of this rather voluptuous, scantily clad young woman fifty yards from shore in a canoe without a paddle. Of course the canoe is racing its way towards a waterfall. The kids can be heard all over the theater questioning each other in extremely emotional terms, “What’s Frank going to do?” I mean, we were all seriously concerned for the girl’s welfare. Not to worry. Frank quickly looks around and finds this long piece of rope along side the path he’s on. Frank ascertains he will need about fifty yards of rope: “That’s half the distance of a football field,” he says loud enough for all to hear. Frank ties one end of the rope to his trusty football; he never goes anywhere without it. And then, with the preciseness of the best punter in the history of the game, kicks the ball fifty yards in the air, landing perfectly in the canoe. The girl takes hold of the ball and Frank heroically pulls her to shore. She thanks him profusely as he jogs off without so much as asking for her phone number. Many of us guys in the audience discussed his antics when we were alone in the schoolyard. Us guys agreed we would have treated the end of the adventure a little differently than Frank Merriwell did (if you get my drift).

Frank Merriwell’s name, according to the writer, meant honest, happy, and healthy.

"If you'd like to thank a veteran, vote!" - hk

The Experienced Actor

Most experienced actors; the successful ones, that is, enjoy being given performance notes by a director. Make no mistake... giving an actor performance notes is a distinct craft within itself. Some consider it to be the art of psychology at its highest state. Some actors have been known to be a little touchy, considering any suggestion to be a personal criticism. If an actor feels that way, the chance of improving his or her performance diminishes dramatically.

Each of us is equipped with a great listening device. It's called a brain. (Well, actually the ears come first. Even actors have them.) Albeit, not all actors use what they were endowed with: The ability to listen. While the brain allows us to listen to and cipher information, some human beings have a habit of turning off their receptors before the message is complete. As a director, my strongest virtue must be patience. When an actor interrupts to say they get it, and I haven't had the time to complete my notes to them, I almost always doubt their ability to win the job. I'm rarely surprised; most likely the next take will be a waste of my time. Not that I feel my words or advice are the end all in assuring an actor's success, but many actors have the malady I refer to as "premature election." They're willing to move on to what they feel is a new read, when in fact they've secured and mollified themselves with the old.

Few actors have any real understanding of how commercial voice casting works. There is much more to it than putting out a casting call in an attempt to find a certain sound. Oftentimes our casting team is involved in a multi-person casting meeting with the powers that be. I'm referring to the possibility of a writer, producer, creative of some type, and even the sponsor's representative; all offering a malaise of information. These are a group of supposedly intelligent personalities attempting to set forth information, which will solve all of our directional and casting needs. They think! Following the conference call, we begin putting together a statement in writing which we intend using as the substance of our casting call to go out to the variety of voice agents we deal with.

(As an aside... many of the voice agents are also guilty of "premature election." They often fall into the "we know what they're saying" before we say it category. And then there is the problem of the agents submitting what they have in their stable even if the actors being submitted aren't remotely right for our call.)

Professionally, we have been practicing our trade for thirty years. That alone should guarantee the actors would be tuned in to what we have to say to them.

Improvisation

Answering a question I’ve been asked over and over again is worthwhile for me to do, when I determine the number of actors my answer may be helping.

One question comes at me more often than any of the others.

“What can I do to keep myself up to date and in the game?”

Basically what all of us want to know is what can we do in order to improve our chances of wining. The most common answer most actors get has to do with practicing one's craft. Some refer to it as keeping our chops up. Certainly in the voice over field, it is absolutely essential an actor be a good reader. If you can’t get through the script without bobbles, or dropping words, it makes sense you’re not going to have much chance of having a successful audition. And as we all know, the audition is the voice over actor's work. So, obviously the vo actor must make it a point to stay tuned by reading every day. Some call it "practicing the scales." Being a good reader will allow you to be creative during the audition. But what is not ever mentioned vigorously enough is the importance of the adlib or improvisation during the audition. This way of life happens to apply to just about every theatrical audition today.

In discussions with a variety of the better-known actors in our community of players, I find a noticeable consensus of opinion; almost all agree: Improvisation is an absolute necessity in order to be successful at almost all auditions, regardless of the venue.

Stephen Tobolowsky, who is perhaps one of the most notable teachers in the improvisation field, as well as an extremely sought after acting talent, agrees. Stephen allows, he can’t remember when he wasn’t required to improvise during an audition or the actual gig itself. And we’re not merely talking about making people smile or laugh; we’re talking about an art form: "Comedy as well as Drama for the serious actor." Today, it’s a must do for the actor. Whether its voice over, or film; improvisation has become the lifeblood of the successful thespian.

I'm proud to say that Stephen Tobolowsky teaches Improvisation at Kalmenson & Kalmenson, and we see the results in our auditions every day. If you have a serious interest in the world of improvisation, we have much more we can tell you here: kalmenson.com/improv.htm

“To adlib or not to adlib; ah that is the question!”

“To adlib or not to adlib; ah that is the question!”

Whether it is nobler or not nobler in the minds of most men, is definitely not the question; it’s the challenge that counts!

(Besides… we’re talking about actors and actresses.)

The search for the answer to the actor's commercial voice over performance decision making process: How and when to adlib when we don’t have the benefit of a formal direction. In other words, as is often the case, during an audition, especially when you’re in your own home studio, and flying blind. A wrong choice could be the difference between not only winning or losing, but perhaps being remembered by the person on the receiving end of you’re work: The buyer.

So the script is in your hands, you read every word, including the directions for the role you’re auditioning for, as well as any other roles being described. It's antagonist / protagonist time. You must know who you’re talking to, why you’re talking to them, what your frame of mind is at the time of your speech, and where are you in proximity to the person or thing you’re talking to. In short, the code is an old and simple one to follow: who, what, why, when, where, and how.

You’ve studied the script and have decided that an adlib here or there would be just what the doctor ordered.

Okay then, I’ll go along with that, if you have recognized that, almost always, the commercial message is meant to be the star, not the actor performing the lines.

An adlib and a deletion are two different things. Try to avoid removing anything, which might be deemed to be a salient sales point. The sponsors usually originate important sales points.

Writers, and producers are almost always sensitive about changes, especially when they view their creative writing skills as biblical.

Always attempt to enhance the writer's message. An adlib of any type, regardless of its inherent nature, (meaning a word or sound effect, human or otherwise) must be used as a method of enhancing the writer’s intent.

I.e., if the writer has created a scenario, which he or she feels is a form of humor, then the humor attempt should not be altered. The adlib in all situations should be delivered as an enhancement.

Enhancement as opposed to deletion:

A cough or sputter in a dead space is an example of an enhancement.

Think about the wide variety of sounds we all make as commentary during our day-to-day trials and tribulations. These are enhancements (or could be) as opposed to deletions.

A radio scenario has two characters in a telephone conversation. We have a somewhat blowhard politician calling in and asking a somewhat meek individual for an impossible service to be performed: He’s attempting to return a sandwich he doesn’t care for, by way of his cell phone.

The script calls for the meek guy to turn the politician down, saying he can’t pass a sandwich through the phone line.

The politician says in a blustery fashion, “Well I just did.” That’s where the commercial ends with the politician asking, “Are you going to answer me?” Our actor, following the rule of enhancement, adds the button, “As soon as I can clean the tuna fish off of my phone, sir.”

The sponsor loved the tag we added, and ergo our actor got the job.

Note: On our second take during the audition we replaced the tuna with peanut butter, and had the meek guy trying to clean the mess from his glasses.

Our friend Stanislavski might have referred to it as slapstick.

And now for my favorite: da harv's cardinal rules for adlibs and improvisation:

* Never ever make the sponsor the bad guy. They’re the ones paying the bills. Rule of thumb: One doesn’t poke fun at the boss, does one!

* Unless it’s a written part of the script, never adlib with any form of profanity, regardless of how mild it might be.

* Dialects which are not requested by the advertising agency should not be used as an adlib.

* Adlibs with any form of religious and / or political overtone or connotation should not be used.

* If an underage actor (minor) is part of the presentation, using any form of suggestive double entendre will be considered not in good taste.

In general, what we do is attempt to enhance. Blatantly trying for the joke will usually fall flat.

Focus

No man is lonely while he’s eating spaghetti; it takes so much attention. (Think about it.)

But perhaps we should call it "focus." If one doesn’t focus when he or she consumes any form of life’s sustenance, then he or she, a.k.a. “the consumer”, is destined to be forever known as the consummate slob.

A contradiction of this fact would be the allowance that an enormous number of our brethren, actors, are forever slobs; albeit in truth, they are capable of great focus. This condition is known in some states of being as “a contradictive conundrum.”

And so our at-large question remains, after many centuries, the same: can a person focus and simultaneously be a slob? Is it possible to be an actor, with great focus, and also be a slob?

My favorite meal is spaghetti and meatballs. I love everything about it; the look, the smell, the taste. Thinking about spaghetti and meatballs has always been easy for me to focus in on; even in the worst of times, without the means for multiple meatballs, I still called it “spaghetti and meatballs.” It just didn’t seem right to call it “spaghetti and meatball.”

When I was a newly divorced bachelor, it was spaghetti which comforted me. It was spaghetti that helped me forget my ex-wife. There was a particular time period, when I ate spaghetti for dinner every night, seven nights each week. Beginning with Sunday evening, I would make a huge pot of pasta. Since I wasn’t what anyone might describe as a cook, (meatballs was something of an epicurean procedure not allied with my attained skills), I was forced to focus in on other delights to mix in with my pasta.

Commencing with a large jar of tomato sauce, containing clams or meat, the week progressed favorably. (I managed not to kill myself.) Each night I would mix in (to my one large pot) whatever leftovers I had stored in the refrigerator from either that or the previous days lunch. For fear of blowing what little intellectual credibility I remain with, I’ve decided not to include naming each of the variety of foods which ultimately made it into my dinner pot.

"Perspicacious," as I am so often described, would not have been the word of choice if the person choosing the descriptive word for me was privy to a picture of me throwing a variety of food stuffs into a pot of three day old spaghetti.

"Perspicacious." Adjective. His perspicacious advisers recommended caution discerning, shrewd, perceptive, astute, penetrating, observant, percipient, sharp-witted, sharp, smart, alert, clear-sighted, farsighted, acute, clever, canny, intelligent, insightful, wise, sage, sensitive, intuitive, understanding, aware, discriminating; informal on the ball, heads-up, with it. Keen. (Antonym: Stupid.)

In my travels, there have been times when I overheard an actor who was having trouble focusing being referred to as "stupid." I can’t remember his name, because I’ve always had a problem remembering bad actors. What I do as a casting director is make a notation next to their name in our computer file in order to avoid bringing them back for an audition. Some people refuse to try improving their focus. Some have the temerity of expressing the lack of a true need to focus. Temerity implies exposing oneself needlessly to danger while failing to estimate one's chances of success!!

The line that divides boldness from foolishness or stupidity is often a fine one.

An actor without the ability to focus; now that’s a concept for the gods. I am not a god, and I don’t conduct my auditions as such. I can remember being asked by a colleague how a particular actor did at an audition. As is often the case, the actor in question happened to be a current student of ours. It only took a few minutes in the booth with this guy in order for me to decide I wouldn’t want to be at the same table with him eating spaghetti. While the spaghetti might disappear, great remnants of tomato paste would definitely remain on his chest. The end result: No spaghetti, no focus, and no actor. Some would say, we could have tented him. But if the part he was playing called for him to be wearing something other than a tent, our actor might be short on focus.

I remember back to my dad and I competing for the great “Spaghetti Championship” of Brooklyn, New York.

(As an aside…just about everything the two of us did turned out to be a game. We had rules and regulations for everything. Believe it or not, it was serious stuff for the two of us.)

Our rules did not allow for women to compete. My older sister was a certified klutz anyway. My younger sister was more of a cheerleader. She rooted for me to beat my father. Let the games begin. Our focus was intense. Here's how the game was played:

The amount of spaghetti on each of our plates had to be exactly the same. (My mother would get heavy duty pissed off about this one, when she was told she had deliberately favored one of us over the other.)

Who was able to consume his spaghetti in the least amount of time, making use of one single fork? (No fingers allowed.)

And finally, the highlight of the competition, who could slurp up the remaining strands of spaghetti in a straw like fashion, without getting any tomato paste stains splattered on them?

There were many games my dad and I played together. As I got older, I became cognizant of the fact that we no longer would play a game once it became clear my father could no longer beat me at it. He would manage to discontinue liking the game at precisely the moment he was no longer the dominant winner.

I’ve never met a kid who didn’t love spaghetti. But, I’d venture to say, it is doubtful if there are many kids out there whose father was using a slurp the spaghetti game as a way to teach a young child a thing or two about focus through the introduction of spaghetti as a training device.

And so as a reiteration, I remind you to practice your focus. Before each audition, remember the spaghetti game, and the picture of a child slurping up the last morsel, all without a hint of spaghetti sauce ruining what he or she is wearing.

Of course, there are many ways one may train to focus. The obvious point is the importance of the act itself. Without focus, the game is over. But I must take this opportunity to clarify an important fact. Being a good reader by itself doesn’t guarantee an actor will improve their ability to focus. Certainly a professional voice over talent must be extremely adept at reading; it goes without saying.

The surprising part is the number of actors who are not adept at focusing and staying focused. These are also the ones with the excuses for not being able to read through a comparatively simple piece of copy.

An actor excusing himself because it’s too early in the morning for him to be awake and able to read, denoting a specific timetable necessary for his success. To that actor I will usually offer my guarantee, he or she will never have to worry about coming in to audition for us in the morning (or maybe even the evening).

(Can you imagine an actor meeting a casting director for the first time and saying how they are just not a morning person? Even if that happens to be the case, I would whole-heartedly advise not telling that to any casting director. Especially to this one.)

What I offer you is the same fatherly advice given to me. And often the advice given to me wasn’t solicited. It was inflicted.

Charles Kalmenson as told to Harvey Kalmenson, age unknown.

“All you have to do Harv, is two things; look and listen. Do the one that happens first. It will always be the same, either sight or sound. The more you look and listen to anything and everything, the easier it will be for you to excel.”

What those words translate to is the simple forerunner of anyone’s ability to focus. Most early-in-life lessons are the simplest to learn, and can be the most difficult to adhere to if not practiced. Telling a child what a great listener they are, and then finding a way to reward them for their attentiveness, or conversely explaining the penalties of not paying attention is the manifesto for the professional actor, age not withstanding.

Back to the audition:
The following is an actual case (not supposition) to prove a point. The scenario transpired and continues to be repeated regularly by a small number of those being auditioned at Kalmenson & Kalmenson.

All scripts to be auditioned are retyped at our offices in order to secure the most desirable format, best suited to an actor’s performance during the in house auditions.

We take great pains to ensure against any and all possible and or misleading information being presented as the actor’s interpretive directions.

Each and every script is clearly and painstakingly marked in an effort to eliminate confusion.

Well, guess what; the best laid plans often go down the toilet; so much so, there are, on occasion, incidents when I lose it to uncontrollable laughter.

An actor enters the booth and immediately begins reading. When she (yes it was a she, and that’s all you’re going to get) finishes reading through the script she asks me if I got it. I advise her I haven’t even turned the equipment on. From that point on it gets worse.

An actor enters the booth and before even so much as saying hello, he asks if there are any directions for him before he begins reading.

Keep in mind: The directions he was seeking are always up at the top of all of our scripts and clearly marked and highlighted.

Another actor comes in and, after slating his name, proceeds to read words that I don’t recognize. When I ask him what in the name of hell he’s reading, (keep in mind his script has been highlighted in advance of him entering the recording booth) he replies by telling me about the words next to the role he’s playing. When I explain to him he was in actuality reading the directions for the portrayal, he allows how he will need more time to study the script, as he hadn’t studied that part as yet. He wasn’t the least bit embarrassed.

And the beat goes on with one story after another. I’m not going to belabor the point. These actors all have a similarity to contend with. They refuse to focus. They don’t look, and they don’t listen.

So forget about it. They haven’t a chance in hell of making it in our professional world.

And if ever you happen to notice some tomato sauce on an otherwise well put together shirt or blouse, you might want to walk the other way.

NOTE: Many of these folks are the same people who can’t sit down at a table without bumping into or kicking one of the legs.

Be the Judge

“While I am still alive, I plan on living forever.”

“Don’t die, until you’re dead.”

- HK / 2010

You Be The Judge

“Will You Be Living Forever”

So many of us would have quit if we made the mistake of listening to or taking advice from someone deemed by society to be in a supposedly high place. We may even contemplate quitting after listening to some unqualified simpleton who society holds in the lowest tier of life’s pecking order.

Many giving the advice are fools who are paid to do so. They read books, and plays, and scripts of every nature; attend the theatre, going to dramas, comedy musicals, and watch every movie in distribution. Ballet, the opera, modern dance, and every area of music that exists; they never do any of the performing skills, because in fact they have no creative skills of their own. While they crave an audience’s applause, none will ever come, until they breathe their last earthly breath. These are the paid assassins known as "critics." Try to remember: Assassins are not your friends.

Much of what were the earliest of Hollywood talent appraisals have remained the same. So many get to a high place in “No Biz” because they were in the right place at another’s perfectly situated time of need. Those early days still exist and flourish in almost the exact same manner.

“He can’t act. He can’t sing. He’s bald. He can dance a little.”
- Movie Executive, about Fred Astaire’s Screen Test; 1929

“No one can really like an actor.”
- Alfred Hitchcock

“All actors are stupid.”
Otto Preminger; circa 1960

That 1929 movie executive became dust, while Fred’s career advanced to unbelievable heights.

Regarding what that fat little guy, Alfred, had to say: What the hell did he know anyway.

Otto was a piece of work beyond description.

Most likely it will be one of the most difficult procedures you will ever have to follow. “You Be The Judge” is the only correct critical allowance anyone toiling in the arts should ever make. Since your condition is a condition of the heart, it is an absolute impossibility for a critic of any stature to expound on what is right or wrong for you. There have been many giants deemed to be lacking sufficient talent to make it.

But giants come in all sizes; not conventionally measured by inches or feet, but rather by degree of personal determination to excel. Personal determination is what I’m speaking of. A man or woman’s desire can’t be measured by a stranger’s critical assessment.

Don’t confuse what I say about being your own judge. I’m not speaking of God-given skills. Judge your conviction to the task. Judge your desire. How badly do you want it? Are you self inclined enough to give up the niceties of life for the most meager of existences, and not seeing or caring about what your missing out on? Those are the real judgment calls. While it is nice to receive another’s appraisal of your work, each will be a fleeting moment. It is the body of your work that will ultimately be the yardstick for measuring the degree of merit, or criticism in appraisal of your skills as a talent; whatever the field.

Those who go all out are always remembered. Complete and total effort is the only critical measure of success; because it is the only true judgments that will be made; not by a paid assassin, but from the very purest of truths which only you will ever know.

(Make the call.)

“Will You Be Living Forever”

Once again… it’s your call.

For some, living forever is entirely possible, if you can make it your work.

“I’m living, as in being alive, when I’m working.
I will never stop working; it is my passion.
I will therefore live forever!”
- HK / 2010

Since the beginning of time, man has sought out not only the meaning of life, but also how to prolong it.

Can you possibly imagine how far along we would be if women were equally as interested in the same pursuits? It’s always man this and man that.

Think about it: When Ponce de León hunted for the “Fountain Of Youth,” there wasn’t one woman in his party. Sure it was the queen who financed his trip, but she didn’t have any interest in traveling along with him on a ship that didn’t offer shuffleboard or a fully stocked bar.

Let’s face it: The queen gave Ponce the money in order to get rid of him. It was really his reputation, which preceded him that got him the financing. It seemed Ponce was doing a little extra curricular activity with a few of the queen's ladies in waiting. The trouble for Ponce began when he returned from his voyage with Columbus in 1493.

FYI: It was one year after Columbus, who was himself a party animal, returned from his second trip to the new world, which he claimed to have discovered the previous year (1492). The women in the queen’s realm found Ponce to be comparable to today’s star athletes. It wasn’t really his fault; every place Ponce would go, the gals were there to meet him.

The queen had no choice but get him out of town. There were just too many little kids trying to emulate his training procedures.

The press reported his antics incorrectly. He wasn’t really out to find the fountain. The guy was a typical politician. He explored Puerto Rico and was made governor; until he shot his mouth off and, for political reasons, they kicked his ass out. Anyway, the queen figured there could never be a man who could outlive any woman.

To date, our “Queenliest” has been accurate in her presumption; women do have a greater life expectancy than men. Year in and year out for centuries, we men keep on looking for ways to improve our longevity.

Today, we accept old age as eighty, ninety, or even one hundred. Science has confounded the world by increasing life expectancy by leaps and bounds; still the gals outlive us. Some like to say it's because we (the guys) do all the chasing.

The shorter life span, in years past caused marriage, childbirth and a lot of other things to occur much sooner when measured chronologically; certainly much sooner than today.

In my own lifetime I’ve personally witnessed major sociological changes. As an example:

* I was married at age twenty-one.
* My wife was eighteen.
* By age twenty-three I had twice become a father.
* In those days (mine), it was a given; by age thirty or so, women were no longer interested in becoming pregnant.
* And retirement for men, believe it or not, was around age fifty-five.

What a difference a lifetime makes. Staying together until death do us part seems like an invention that worked during our country’s revolution.

With the revolution gone, as well as some major world wars, a Civil War, and a variety of destructive forces, the beat still manages to go on. We have learned to live with it all; well almost all. Marriage lingers on, and in it’s own way possibly hampering the chances of living forever; although scientists attest to the institution of marriage as providing longer life expectancy. Many believe, living with a pet would accomplish the same trick. (Of course, that wouldn’t be me. I’m a happily married man.)

We’ve conquered many deadly diseases and persevered through disastrous epidemics. But we still hunt for the magic serum, which will provide total invincibility. Certain occult groups believe “Budweiser” is a major restorative, providing the consumer isn’t driving and consuming simultaneously.

Others believe in the more innocuous; perhaps a substance which has been staring us in the face for centuries.

It might even be on my desk as I write this. Maybe I should look in all the drawers one more time? Or as Woody Allen pointed out,” Wait until they find out that nicotine is good for you.”

FYI: I stopped smoking about ten years ago. If they’re going to find cigarette smoking is beneficial for human health, I wish they would hurry up. I haven’t had a smoke break in years.

I remember the good old days, when I’d spend half of my waking hours sitting at a typewriter with one burning cigarette in my mouth and another I’d forgotten about in the ashtray. Those were the days. I didn’t know I was shortening my life, and I had no idea my home always smelled from stale smoke. I sit here today at this beautiful and clean computer. The house has a variety of smells; none of which are stale.

The only person of renown I know who still smokes is the current president of these United States. I wonder if the “White House” smells of stale cigarettes? Rumor has it even Laura Bush puffed away from time to time. Perhaps neither Laura Bush nor Barack Obama devote much of their time to thinking about living forever. Come to think of it, I know for sure one of them does. (I can’t prove it. I’ll just have to wait and see.)

I just completed having a major medical exam done. It’s been six years since I had the last one, and I had forgotten how many openings there are in the human body. Yesterday the doctor called me (himself) to say I have the most perfect body he had ever examined. My hearing isn’t as good as it once was, so I might not have heard it exactly the way he said it to me. In any event, the bottom line is I’m good to go, as long as I keep the same workload. I plan on doing so.

Passion is a good thing, especially when it happens to be your work.

Kidding, the doctor said, “Keep going like you are and you might live forever.”

I told you about my hearing. I never heard him say the word "might." To me it sounded like "will."

Some Special Days In May

It’s a very old and over worked cliché - you know, the one about how time keeps flying by. I would guess everybody has said it at one time or another.

Only the very young little kids, awaiting something great like Christmas morning, or summer vacation to begin, measure time as if it were at a turtle's pace.

My elders always advised me not to rush things. “You’re going to come to a time in life when you’d like things to last a little longer.” And man, were they correct with that assumption. Like everyone else I know, we all find ourselves commenting on how the pace keeps picking up as we grow older.

But, like children, when we’re waiting for something good to occur it still takes an eternity, like when I found myself waiting for my army tour of duty to come to an end. I even prayed for the days to move a little faster. Like many of my buddies I had built my feelings for family and country to an unrealistic height, not that my feelings were a bad thing. It was more like what a young man of twenty years old would do. It’s what we did. We’d all talk about home, sharing pictures and stories. The family I refer to has long since gone. But my country not only remains - rather it has managed to surpass my boyhood expectancies.

Being able to look back at things the way they were can be a positive, when you’re attempting to evaluate a current ideological crisis.

When I say evaluate a crisis, please don’t get the idea I’m one of those people dedicated to solving our country's - or the world's problems. I am, however, like many Americans worried about the present circumstances we all live with. You know what I mean; the cost of things, the taxes we pay, and of course the work we do, and whether or not there will be enough of it to take care of my family, and in my case, support the needs of the many colleagues in our employ.

When I decided to write a blog, after a more than strenuous behest of some folks who I am closely involved with, I did so with the understanding it would be as if I was sharing some thoughts on paper, as if it was a personal thing; that under no circumstance would I be telling people what I thought they should be doing with their lives. I certainly will not offer advice about who to vote for. By the same token, I will not hesitate to share my honest feelings about my love affair for The United States Of America.

“What brighter light could burn, then that which has been nurtured by those who have understood and appreciated the gifts that endow any and all, who may venture within the boundaries of this country's great heart.”
- HK - 12/01

It’s hard to break the habits you grow up with. The practices of a mom and dad have a way of staying with a guy for a lifetime. The years may go by, and the environment appears a little newer and a little shinier. But somehow, my favorite flag colors have remained red, white, and blue. The patriotic holidays we celebrate during the month of May, were the very same events my mom and dad made sure our family all took part in.

Most Jewish families of my era were in one way or another touched by World War II. My family was one of them. It was a very natural thing for us all to observe V-E Day.

Victory in Europe Day (V-E Day or VE Day) was on 8 May 1945, the date when the World War II Allies formally accepted the unconditional surrender of the armed forces of Nazi Germany. (May 8th falls on a Saturday this year.)

Armed Forces Day became significant in our family as more and more members of the clan returned from doing their part. From service in the Second World War and to the present, our unbroken stream of bloodline continues to take part in the official duty of carrying the flag and being a member in a branch of the service. My oldest daughter was recently discharged from the army, all in one piece; thank God!

In the United States, Armed Forces Day is celebrated on the third Saturday in May. (This year it’s the 15th.) The day was created in 1949, in order to honor all branches of the service.

The first Armed Forces Day was celebrated by parades, open houses, receptions and air shows. The United States' longest running city-sponsored Armed Forces Day Parade is held in Bremerton, WA. In 2009, Bremerton celebrated the 61sth Armed Forces Day Parade.

Seeing the thousands of American Flags designating the graves of fallen servicemen and woman will always remain the most moving emotional experience of my life.

I was age fourteen, when quite by accident I found myself on the grounds of the veterans’ cemetery in West Los Angeles. It was Memorial Day. I honestly can’t recall how or why I was there, or what the weather was like. While I was a typical adolescent, there was nothing typical about that day’s experience. The grave markers were a depiction of my earliest days in Brooklyn, New York. Every immigrant group was represented equally. It was the most dignified assemblage of humanity I had ever experienced. Oddly, for me it was a feeling of life; life that had been sacrificed. The magnitude of the visual remains an overpowering image in my mind's eye.

Memorial Day is observed on the last Monday of May (May 31st in 2010). It commemorates U.S. men and women who died while in the military service. (First enacted to honor Union soldiers of the American Civil War.)

And so I have shared my history of May with you all. Hopefully it will provide a degree of well-being. Each time I think about all the folks before me, who so ardently believed that what we have in this country is worthwhile enough to sacrifice for, I gain strength.

And oh yes, I might as well include you in a little more of my not so private privacy. I love marching music. (Call me a square.) There are mornings, now and then, when I find myself facing a day without enthusiasm. My lack of zeal is almost never over concern about some pain in the ass I might be directing that day; often it is the banality of the commercial script which will get to me. Since I don’t have my friend Max to commiserate with, I’ll listen to a CD of John Philp Sousa's famous marches as I prepare for the daily onslaught of actors.

It was a personal thing, but marching band music was a mutuality I shared with my friend Max until his time on earth came up on us.

Max and I, at first glance, did not appear to have much in common. He was from a different era; considerably older than me, but yet he displayed a youthful verve for life and especially for his United States of America. Maybe, someday, I’ll be emotionally strong enough to tell you more about Max Stones. For now, all I will say is that Max was an intellectual with a blue-collar mentality; never shying away from physical labor or getting his hands dirty. He came to the United States as a young man, after losing his family prior to the beginning of World War II. Max was my daily companion for a very long period of time.

“There’s just nothing like a parade, when you’re all marching to the same tune!"
- HK

Bittersweet

On any given day it will occur. When a moment is just for me, not to be shared.

Not because I object to sharing, but rather sometimes I find it better to keep a feeling and the emotions which were brought on by a moment, unannounced and, without warning, to myself.

I don’t know, it's just a letdown to share a moment I might have found endearing, and then to see and hear an unequaled responsiveness from the person I happen to be sharing with. It’s like finding a joke or a situation funny to me, and then right as I’m telling it to someone else, I begin getting uncomfortable because the person I’m sharing with isn’t remotely interested or amused. I always find myself wondering how I could have misread the person to begin with. I keep warning myself: Just because I find it a certain way, it doesn’t mean anyone else does.

All that put aside, and despite the fact there are many of you who may be adverse to my sentiments, I will forge ahead with an occasional moment or two in my career, by the sake of the circumstances by which they present themselves, created a bittersweet endearment which shall remain with me, intact and personal for the rest of my life.

"I’ve been called an actor’s director.
The label suits me to a tee.
If I am there for the actor
They are there for me
If I give out all I have within
The actor in turn presents
Equally from as deep
Often without words
We two glean what we seek."
- Hk/2010

This room, with all its bittersweet memories is mine forever. Take notice… I work here with all the diligence one might muster when the driving force has been cultivated by a life long passion to create from the substance, or lack of substance; God-given, or not.

I entered this room as a child, far too long ago for even me to perceive a true date of entry. But I do remember a single day, which could be responsible for my first knowing reaction to the creative efforts I had before me on a stage with real live people on it.

There was a big band on the stage, and a large group of singers they referred to as a choir. Our third grade class was on a field trip to experience a radio show at NBC studios in New York City. The name of the radio program was “Fred Waring and the Pennsylvanians” - really nothing more than a big band and a group of singers. But it happened to me that day. The show came to an end, yet I remained in my seat, transfixed on the stage, and in a state of complete captivation over what I had just experienced.

The other students had filed out, and there stood my teacher at my side asking what was wrong. I couldn’t find any words; that in itself was extremely curious for usually talkative little da harv. Add to it the fact the tears were rolling down my cheeks and one would understand my teacher's concern over my welfare. Nothing was wrong with me, but it was never-the-less a first in my lifetime experience. I was overpowered by emotion caused by this ensemble of people performing creatively as one. The moment was lasting and bittersweet. It remains with me.

I don’t think being a creative soul ever leaves a person. There might be a time or a series of events which manage to stand in a person’s way, bringing to a stop individual effort of pursuit. Sure you might find an overwhelming obligation, as I did, which by the nature of circumstances demands things like food, money, clothing, cars, insurance, mortgage payments, braces on your children’s teeth; and the nagging remembrances of how you grew up, being taught about accepting responsibility. It can get so damn hard to recall “Fred Waring & The Pennsylvanians” when somehow you find yourself trapped with all that goes with the day in, day out pitfalls of normal life. Inside you are saying, “Don’t they understand I am a creative soul?” No. They don’t understand.

The fact is… who the hell cares besides you anyway?

So, there you have it, the bitter and the sweet. You decide which is which.

Moving right along; let’s get back to where I belong. We’re back in, as Gary Owens labeled it, “Beautiful downtown Burbank.” I’m about to relay another bittersweet moment. This particular moment took a lifetime to create. I won’t embellish; I don’t have to. The lady's story is a stand-alone adventure. The term bittersweet applies more often than most will experience in a (normal) lifetime. I have not shared this lady's name with anyone. It is not my intent to do so now or ever.

Age: Unknown
Married: Often
Awards: Many
Glamour: Abundant
Intellect: Superior
Humor: Always

It was another of those busy days at Kalmenson & Kalmenson. Our studio would be packed with a cross-section of exciting and talented people. I found myself smiling as I glanced at our call sheet of who was coming into our studio that day. Being honest with you, when I saw the breakdown of what the ad agency was looking for, I found myself hoping she would be on the call. Low and behold, I got my wish. Unfortunately this was a spot where she would be reading with a partner. It turned out to be an older woman giving advice to a much younger guy. He was to be a blue collar type, and she would be a lady of substance who comes into his place of business; in this case, a mechanic's garage. As an aside, I don’t think in real life she had ever been in a mechanic's garage (the French Riviera is another story).

I knew for sure she would be in on time for her call time. The younger guy was another story. In any event, she arrived and was greeted by our talent coordinator, and in short order, I was there to personally say hello and get my desired hug and kiss on the cheek.

By the way, I also got the slightest of slight little winks, made just for me a very long time ago. The warmth of her wink would be difficult to describe. If I were to try to get another actress to emulate the feeling which transpired without words in the shortness of that moment, it would be a difficult task. It was the shear history of friendship built during the years, conveyed with a wink almost too minuscule to discern.

It began with me rehearsing the two of them. In short order, without the younger actor having any idea of what excellence and professionalism he was experiencing, he found himself becoming a touch cocky about his performance. I looked through the glass and gave her the "take over" look I have reserved for talent of her magnitude. At times like this, my enjoyment makes it all worthwhile. She brought the conversational notes around to herself by asking me what she should do in reaction to his more internal and soft-spoken approach. I saw the light go on in his eyes, and I knew the two of us had succeeded with our very own misdirection play. The next take could have gone on the air. It was letter perfect. The two of them shook hands. She waved goodbye to me. That part was sweet. As they were leaving he said to her, "Have you appeared in anything I would know?" That part was bitter. “Doubtful,” she replied without emotion.

The visit was over with another wink.

The bitter and the sweet, are they what we sign on for in our life?

Can anyone at inception - in that very first moment when, for whatever reason, they find themselves motionless, and transfixed, have any idea of what their creative future will hold?

The other day, one of the oldest of actors coming in to audition for me, took my hand before he left the building, and with a marvelous sixth sense on display, catered to what I needed at that moment. “It’s because we love it, Harv,” he said. “We would do it again, wouldn’t we,” he added.

How bittersweet.

Kaplan, Solovey, O’Shea, and of course the Pulchritudinous Mrs. Glassberg

Not a sports team; they influenced my life, although I can’t attest to whether or not they did so on purpose. They could be anybody, but today they belong to me. They were my teachers at Public School 233, from the second through the fifth grade. In retrospect, I don’t think they cared for me. (Actually, I’m positive they didn’t like me.)

I remember many more, but these are the ones I choose to share with you, because these are the teachers who, each in their own way, managed to carve their permanence into my life.

All of them are deceased, so I have no qualms about what I will or won’t say. All I guarantee is I won’t embellish on the truth. I don’t have to.

It was Brooklyn, New York, and the Second World War was ablaze. The only men around in those days were a little too young or old for the draft, and those who were classified as 4F (physically unfit).

At the time there was a very popular song, which lamented the fact, "They're Either Too Young or Too Old.” A gal who had no one to date usually sang it. It simply meant: Guys too young or too old for the army were left out of the military service.

Mrs. Kaplan’s pet class was called “Choral Reading.” She had a severe affection for herself. “Lady Kaplan," as I labeled her, stood all of four foot eleven inches tall, but never the less to us little kids she came across as an imposing figure of a woman. “Mirror, Mirror on the wall who’s the most beautiful teacher of them all,” was perfect for her. Mrs. Kaplan never passed a mirror she judged unsuitable to admire herself in. Mrs. Kaplan seemed to be in a constant pose. Her class consisted of having us (third grade) kids memorize the same poem. She, of course, picked the material. Our input wasn’t remotely an option. This didn’t go down well for little da harv. When I submitted an original piece for the class to read, I got a flat turn down without her even giving me the courtesy of reading it. We would then rehearse it as if we were a concert orchestra, and present a performance to the student body. Of course, Mrs. Kaplan was our conductor. After we were all assembled on stage, she would be introduced by the school principle, to a very organized student body response. She was indeed a Brooklyn diva. I do believe I still have a couple of her mannerisms as I direct today’s actors.

One day before class began, I decided to try out my skills on the class before Mrs. Kaplan made her entry. I didn’t realize she was there behind me. As I called the class to attention while emulating the Kaplan baton technique, it suddenly became deathly still. I turned to see Lady Kaplan standing there in a complete over-reactionary mode. She dabbed at a supposed tear as she informed me of how deeply hurt and embarrassed I made her feel. I relay this information about Mrs. Kaplan because it was my first exposure to a serious actress. She had me going. I knew this was going to be my final fling as a school humorist; instead it was a first-hand experience with a real honest-to-goodness actress. It was also my first exposure to a woman who couldn’t turn off. Mrs. Kaplan was always in a portrayal of someone or other. Lucky for me, our school principal had long since become aware of the Kaplan over-reaction-to-everything approach.

During the same year, I went from Kaplan, to O’Shea; from drama queen, to the schoolmistress of music.

O’Shea had her own sadistic little sense of humor. She got off on making the parents upset with her. It wasn’t the era of the broad-minded parent.

At first my mother and father were pleased to hear about how accomplished our school music teacher was and how we were all going to learn harmony.

I doubt seriously if Miss O’Shea cared for any of the parents. I think she resented having to deal with any of them, especially at the Parent Teachers Association meetings. What O’Shea did was pretend to listen to the parents and then do her own thing. Her favorite songs were hymns, of any kind, and "Negro Spirituals." The first time my dad questioned what we had learned that day, he immediately thought my answer was very funny. My mother, on the other hand, didn’t care for her little Harvey learning “Carry Me Back to Old Virginny," "Swing Low Sweet Chariot," "Abide With Me," and "Onward Christian Soldiers,” as our earliest musical assignments. To this day, I still remember most of the words. I have to hand it to O’Shea -- I mean, P.S. 233 was ninety percent Jewish kids. She must have been laughing her ass off every time an eastern European Jewish immigrant parent was subjected to "Onward Christian Soldiers." I still smile every time I think about it. As a matter of fact, I’m smiling right now as I recall those marvelous images from my past.

Not all of my recollections provide a tickle. Mr. Solovey was a returned war hero. He was a decorated veteran who had two ships sunk under him. He definitely displayed shakiness attributable to combat exposure.

We learned discipline from him, and how to conduct ourselves as professionals. Solovey was a basic mathematics teacher. When he gave a student a work assignment, he expected it to be done. We all learned right away, there would be no forgiveness. If a kid didn’t do what was asked of him, Solovey gave them a fail for the assignment. He’d say, “If any one of you doesn’t do their part, the whole team suffers. Ships are lost when a single sailor doesn’t do his required assignment.” I remembered he would get this gray look on his face whenever he spoke of a sailor not doing his duty correctly. Rumor had it he never could forget his loss of comrades.

It was during my third grade that I had as a teacher the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my life. When Mrs. Glassberg spoke, I listened. I was married to her every move. She didn’t look like my mother, or any other of my relatives. Mrs. Glassberg was a movie star. How she walked and talked made a lasting impression on every kid in the class. The girls would emulate how she walked and talked and the boys seemingly overnight developed unbelievably good manners.

Kaplan, Solovey, O’Shea, and Glassberg, without knowing it, cast a lasting influence on a third grader's future. Kaplans’ drama, O’Sheas whimsy, Soloveys’ professionalism, and Mrs.Glassberg putting on display what a woman should be. Some might say it was my first class in “Woman Appreciation.” Yes. Some might say that.

Amazing Contacts

Of all the amazing changes I’ve seen and experienced first hand in my lifetime, nothing compares with the internet, and with the far-reaching effect of writing a blog.

I can remember a few moons ago, hearing from an actor friend of mine, who was calling me from the other side of this planet to tell me he had heard his voice on a commercial I had directed no more than a few days prior to his call. My amazement has been layered with many years of incredulousness. The spot he was referring to was no more than a few days in the can. Secondly, he was some place in Ireland working on a film when he made the call, and I wasn’t even aware it would be played outside the United States; a big time rarity in those days. In a matter of one week, the actor had auditioned, recorded the voice over, traveled to Ireland and heard his work firsthand. We thought it truly amazing. Many of us talked about the incident for a long time afterwards. Of course, that was a minor event compared to what we consider to be commonplace in today’s marketplace.

Our office receives calls from all over the world on a regular basis. It’s no big deal, but it is twenty-four seven, twelve months a year. Cell phones, emails, and the internet are all critical tools.

In the past, every actor had to have an answering service. There was always the danger of missing an important call. Today, every actor is reachable instantly by cell phone, email, or texting.

One of the aspects of all this speed and gadgetry is, I find much of it an invasion of my privacy. Mainly, it’s our constant companion the cell phone that annoys me the most.

I try not to give my cell phone number out to a wide variety of people. I may be wrong, but I get the feeling people who have my cell phone, or anyone else’s cell phone number for that matter, are under the impression we’re fair game to be called whenever they deem it necessary. Since most people annoy me anyway, you might understand my consternation when I’m busily involved with an important task of my choosing, and my cell phone rings.

Note: I consider the following grouping to be important tasks:
* Reading a book
* Sleeping
* Eating
* Going to the bathroom
* Breathing
* Driving
* Drinking single malt scotch
* And just about any forced abbreviation of anything of a personal nature

All of the aforementioned take constant precedence over cell phone communications with me.

Of all the most modern and time saving devices, nothing has touched my heart so readily as the internet. The ability to research almost anything instantly does boggle the mind. I can’t imagine what school would have been like if we all had the ability to do instant research.

Because I so intently value letters, the great importance of the scribed provenance from men of letters from around the world is my daily equivalent of one cherished moment after another.

While I consider the cell phone to be a necessary intrusion, the opposite evaluation applies to my internet contact with people around the world. The speed of which my letters fly is of such a nature, it astounds my comprehension. Light and time are known to have set equivalents for speed of travel. Figuring the speed of one's internet communication to an individual in another corner of our earthly planet far exceeds this guy’s skill. But what I do know and understand is my constant amazement over the process; a blog (my journal) is posted, and in what seems like an instant, travels to people who I never thought might be recipients of my philosophical meanderings.

For what it's worth… my journal has been read in thirteen countries. Of course, you would expect it to be read in these United States, but the following list grabs me every time I look at it; in no particular order theses countries are: United States, United Kingdom, Canada, Russia, India, Philippines, Australia, Spain, Germany, Norway, France, Colombia, and Iran.

Can you imagine? For those of you who are considered to be locked away in a country where freedom to communicate is not accepted as the norm, I send you my most heart-warming greetings from Los Angeles, California. Many of us around the world have a great many things in common, one of which is our dislike having a so-called leader telling us what to do. I promise not to post any comments being made from outside the United States without receiving your written permission. You, on the other hand, have my permission to download my blogs and post them at your will. Living in the United States gives me the marvelous extravagance of freedom of speech.

What I’m really getting from all this is one simple fact: People are people. Take away the names of the country of origin and we appear to have much more in common than we might have imagined before the advent of the internet.

FYI: My retinal specialist happens to be from Iran. I can’t wait to tell him I heard from people in his homeland.