From The Heart (mine)

What follows has nothing to do with voice over.
Perhaps what follows has everything to do with voice over.
A past memory, what once was, for my family and me, stimulated a familiar and painful need to share my mind. Who better than actors, creative men and women, with the heart capable of understanding a fellow human beings complex emotion?



I favor laughter, the ability to smile, and a firm or soft hand within mine,
the child who brings me unabashed glee as responsiveness to my presence;
The simplicity of a hand written note saying thank you for the help, could never be replaced by an intrinsic value.
I question, is this a time for hope, when hope seems to be the standard for fleeting dreams?
Each day comes with stories being told of what was.
But many of these new stories come to us with tales of what never was, but what the despotic tellers dream and pray for; the total elimination of my people; my brethren; what they, the tellers alone, want it to be.
These tellers seek a recurrence of what was, while denying histories unbiased reports of what took place.
I am here today, writing what follows, courtesy and with a full single line screen credit:

“Existence By The Grace Of God”.
By hk

“I swear to tell you the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth! So help me God”.

I was a little boy of five. Dad was attentive to me and our family's needs. Mom was a twenty-four hour a day leader of the home front. We lived in the small up-state community of Newburg, New York. I spent my entire day playing with my friend Cookie. We looked and acted alike. Cookie's family had emigrated from Ireland, and were practicing Catholics. When I was at Cookie's house, I practiced right along with him. I attended my first wake at Cookie's aunt's home, before reaching the ripe old age of six. Both Cookie's Mom and mine spent many hours reading to us. His Mother's heavy duty Irish brogue was a definite influence on my life. It still is to this day. My Mother's approach to everything was a constant contradiction of thought and practical application. While the Mothers had a great deal in common, they never socialized. The relationship between the two families was entirely the domain of Cookie and me.

By the age of seven or eight, our family had, out of necessity, moved to Brooklyn, New York. It seems a thing they were calling the depression had something to do with it. It was while living in Brooklyn; I found out there was a difference in the beliefs of Catholics and Jews. I really thought a person could be Catholic and Jewish at the same time. I ended up marrying a Catholic girl; so I guess my beliefs remain the same.

In any event what Cookie and I really had in common was, what either religious sect wasn’t espousing. Cookie's Mother and mine could always be heard saying, “Live and let live.” And that’s just what they meant and that’s exactly what they taught their children. Of course, dependent on their mood, an expletive might be heard as a precursor to the statement. Both ladies shared a bent toward the extreme of a blue-collar demeanor. I never heard an anti-Semitic word, or experienced similarly any nasty gesture towards the Jewish people until I was eight years of age.

Exacts are hard to recall. World War II was raging. Every household in the neighborhood was deeply involved, some more than others. It became a far too common occurrence to see a blue star in a friends window replaced by a gold, when word of a husband or son being killed in action was received. All of us dreaded the sight of a Western Union man on a bicycle coming on to our street, making the formal announcement from our government, that the worst fears had been realized.

On one particular day, my Father's words became etched in my mind. “Protect yourself Harvey,” he said to me. “It’s always been this way, and it’s never going to change. There are people out there, all over the world who despise us for being who God made us.” When I asked my Father the reason there are those who hate the Jewish people, he was unable to give me one. At the time I remember thinking about my friend Cookie and his Mothers teachings. The words kill or destroy never entered into any conversations we had. But on this day, for this little boy, the world’s axis had brought an unbelievably heinous reality into my personal life. I was introduced first hand to the name Hitler. It was by way of the smuggled out letters from relatives in Europe, that we learned; the Holocaust was in full functional mode. Adolph Hitler had made a promise to cleanse Germany of all people Jewish, or remnants of Jews, their work, and anything, which could possibly dispel their value to the world, past or present.

Hitler’s official doctrine was to eliminate all Jews, Gypsy’s, and homosexuals from Germany, and any and all territory to fall under his maniacal rule. He was well on his way to fulfilling his promises. His total prisoner extermination came to over eleven million human beings annihilated; six million happened to be Jews. They were murdered because of what God made them to be, Jews, Gypsy’s, and homosexuals.

If Hitler’s plan sounds familiar, it comes without surprise. The Iranian president makes the exact same promises as Adolph did. Iran is close to having nuclear weapons. Can you imagine the outcome if Hitler would have had the same destructive powers? The churches and synagogues that have stood as a symbol of our American democracy would be non-existent. It wasn’t my imagination. I didn’t dream it up. My eyes didn’t betray me. I experienced the transference of the pain in my friends and relatives eyes. I had reached the age when my questions required answers. My Mother cried, and I asked, " Why are you crying Mommy? Why are you crying aunt Rosie?" The stories, the letters, the pictures of as great a degree of human suffering the world has ever seen, were there for us.

My indignation is righteous. It always will be. What did any peoples of the world do to deserve what was inflicted upon them as a result of one man's criminally murderous pursuit? Could Cookie and I have made a difference if we were men at the time this anti human, totalitarian, and tyrant came to life? The dates of Adolph Hitler’s beginnings trouble me. 1933 was the height of the depression in our country. It was also an all time low ebb for the German people. Their German economy low point far exceeded ours because of the monumental inflation they were experiencing. The German economy hit bottom long before ours. In 1924 Adolph Hitler had published his book “Mein Kampf)”. Prices for goods and services were actually increasing on a daily basis. It became impossible for most Germans to support themselves or their families. It was an easy doctrine for Hitler to sell to the German people; the Jews were the reason for the German economic collapse. His words are being echoed today in Iran and all across the Middle East.

The history of my thirty years on the voice over scene can only be described as unique. The uniqueness continues, ever growing in substance. Each day something new is presented to Cathy and da harv as a challenge to the way we have done business in the past. Certainly the longer we stay in business, the more we learn, and the more we increase our abilities to deal with the uniqueness of the changes which come with the territory. Every single day, in our business life, the word truth, and making the viability of it’s meaning, the most integral part and placement in our quest for success as our driving force. In short…we learn, and we benefit by understanding one single premise; the most important building block for a successful business, and life with a partner is our predication, without truth all will fail.

Being happy with our love and with our daily work is a genuine satisfaction. Our bottom line is a beautiful one! We’re being paid for our labors attempting to get work for people, and for providing a professional curriculum for our actor students to follow. If that was all there was to our lives this blog would end right here; a happy guy who expressed his thanks for what he has, and for being allowed to continue his dreams without reservations.

For those of you expecting the remainder of this journal to contain information beneficial to you’re on going voice over career, please be forewarned. I am about to open my heart and mind by sharing with you the fear I feel for the welfare of my Jewish cousins and allies in the democracy known as Israel. As a professional, this will be a first time event for me. Never before have I brought anything really personal into my work place. I pray my truth of expression will not offend any who read what follows.

A Time To Take A Stand

My commentary; Harvey Kalmenson

• I am in complete and total agreement regarding the survival of the people of Israel; including all Israeli inhabitants, regardless of their religious beliefs or practices.
• Jews do not occupy Jerusalem.
• Christians, Jews, and Muslims inhabit Jerusalem.
• Israel is the only true democracy in the Middle East.
• Israel is the only true ally the United States has in the Middle East.
• The foul mad man, who is currently the president of Iran, is as treacherous as Adolph Hitler.
• He claims the Holocaust never happened.
• He calls for the complete annihilation of Israel and the Jewish people.
• Most of the Arab block sides with his doctrine.

What I grew up hearing, as a little boy is no longer an echo. The same words from the past are once again upon us. Now the promises, and that’s just what they are: promises are far more devastating than ever before. Now it’s not just the Israeli flag being stomped upon, and burned, but it’s companion, the United States of America. Now it no longer is the disallowing of the Jewish rights as human beings, but Christianity has become a target in the same Middle East. All over the Middle East churches are being destroyed with equal vigor as synagogues. Now it isn’t a question of who a supposed occupier might be, now the all out attack is on anything remotely Judeo-Christian.

All of the problems, which now exist in the Middle East, are being blamed on the Jews who occupy Israel. Get the Jews out of Israel, they say and the problems will all go away. But watch the nightly news; take note, Arabs are killing Arabs. You have presidents of country’s ordering soldiers to gun down their own protesting citizenry. None of our children, in this unbelievably wondrous country of ours are being taught, in our churches or synagogues, to burn down each others place s of worship. That’s not who we are or what we do. No Christian that I’ve ever come in contact with has threatened to destroy my family or friends, because they found out Harvey Kalmenson is a Jew. No Christian that I’ve ever come in contact with has ever promised to drive the Israelis from their homeland. The terrorist leaders of the Middle East preach hatred for my people. Many years ago I recognized a simple fact, my people consisted of Christians as well as Jews.

Taking A Stand
What Does It Mean?
Who Benefits?

If taking a stand translates to making a commitment as far as your concerned, then I do believe you and I are on the very same page; along with just about every fair minded successful human being in the history of this planet. Take away the luck aspect, now we’re down to the real truth. Believing in what you do is what commitment is all about. I ruled out luck, it’s nice to have, but not anything one can depend on. And along with luck I’m ruling out evil. Those two ingredients aren’t success factors over the long hall. I’d like to talk about who we are; the people of influence within this great industry of ours; those of us who’ve been able to make it mostly on the merits of our talent, our integrity, and our commitment to excellence.

My longevity within my life’s calling enables me to offer more by way of personal experience than the average career professional. Having spent a great amount of time on numerous firing lines has provided direct knowledge of what being under fire feels like. Telling you, or attempting to explain what it feels like to experience game conditions will serve no purpose unless you personally have had like experiences or encounters. Understanding and empathy for me comes easier when you have experienced a similar happening. Think about the first time you walked the boards, or felt the hearts and energy of a live audience, or maybe the sickening sensation of that moment when your next line has somehow left you. I’ve had many actors express their feelings about all of those incidents, and I, of course, have experienced them myself. As a stage manager I have lived through the disaster of a performer vomiting in the wings; then with a mutual wink join in that same performers joy as the audience erupts in tumultuous applause.

I speak to all of you who have lived life following the individuality of the personal experiences I’ve described. You have made a commitment to the dictates of your hearts alignment. I applaud you as I have applauded you all, for my entire life as a professional. As Cathy and I have said on numerous occasions:” Without actors, we have no business.”

Without Actor’s We Have No Business. “Without actors”? What a concept!

For Kalmenson & Kalmenson it’s a "no-brainer." I mean who would come in to audition for us. Cathy and I could go out and get the work, but our company of players would be nil without actors. Yah think!

But now I present the other side of the story. As promised at rise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, without unnecessary embellishment. Succinctly stated, Cathy and Harvey Kalmenson, a married couple are partners in our business of voice casting and education. Both of us are totally and completely apolitical, and share equally in our assertions regarding political correctness. During the course of the last nineteen years of business under the Kalmenson & Kalmenson banner we have never been selective with regard to the religious indulgence of the actors either being chosen to come in for an audition, or for any person wishing to sign up for our workshops. In other words…if we think you’re the right actor for the role you’ll be on our call sheet without hesitation. And of course if you can afford the cost, you can qualify to study with us.

During our best year in casting we brought in twenty thousand actors to read for just about everything you can think of requiring a human voice. I can’t begin to tell you how many that translates into during the last nineteen plus years. We have some twenty two people in our education department, and six permanent in house staff members, none of which was hired on to our team based on their religious preference or whether or not they liked boys or girls. Anyone who has ever had dealings with the Kalmenson & Kalmenson team knows that color of ones skin is also of no consequence.

Millions, upon millions of dollars have been earned by actors, because of our efforts, as a casting company. We treasure the opportunity God has allowed us to have. Like any other business, there have been some rough times thrown in along the way. But at no time did we need to fear for our lives, the way my people of Israel fear for theirs today. As a reminder, a great many people in the Middle East are continuing to call for the ultimate demise of the Jewish people. The same plea, seeking out each and every Jew in order to rid the earth of them; once delivered by Adolph Hitler, and responsible for six million deaths, is again being heralded and supported by thousands of sympathizers.

As an American veteran, I cringe when I see our beautiful flag being stepped on and burned along side the Israeli flag. They say and repeat every day; we are the ones responsible for their economic problems. These are exactly the same oratories given by Hitler, not that very long ago. Think about what would have been the case for German actors who happened to be Jewish. Or what about voice casting folks like Harvey and Cathy. The millions upon millions of dollars earned would not have happened.

Now those same evil people are at it again. This time the churches are being targeted along with the synagogues. The same culprits are making promises of annihilation. Are you listening? If you are, stand up and take a position. Tell anyone and everyone you can how you don’t like what’s going on. It’s not about being Jewish. It’s about being human; the best way. Please let me know you’re taking a stand.

Keeping it Together (as a professional, that is)

Firstly, here comes the disclaimer: Who am I to offer advice on how to keep it together?

Yes, I do have a lot of work experience, the kind you might think would help me to be an expert on the subject of how not to become a sniveler, sappy, crybaby, girlie-man who cries when he sees an event, like a squirrel hiding their nuts in the ground.

Never drink alcohol before making a presentation of any kind (if there is any chance of becoming unwound or losing it, alcohol is guaranteed to bring on a performer's emotional undoing).

Certainly I'm not the first nor will I be the last speaker who worries about keeping it together (not losing it) when the subject of the presentation is one of such heart-rendering emotion. It tests our ability as caring human beings to keep from losing it; a time when we find ourselves unable to continue. I’ve been there on many occasions during the course of my professional appearances.

One would be inclined to think the ability to perform without an overt display of emotion would become easier as one gains in experience. Yes and no. The bottom line, of course, is who we really are as individuals.

Obviously, we’re not all the same. Some of us, by nature are just more emotional than others. An obvious assertion.

For the sake of conversation, I’m limiting what I have to say to those of us who make, or are destined to make presentations to groups in public.

Regardless as to whether or not we have emotional stability in our every day life, we are faced with the task of performing as professionals; reportage, being an event guide, or speaking on behalf of a group of people, either paid, or as an obligation to assist during a time of crisis. The thickest of human skin has suffered through a melt-down at always the most inopportune of times. It could come during an audition for the lowliest of jobs. Environment as well as subject matter, or what may have recently occurred in your (our) own personal life,

Activate the emotional trigger. When pulled, it creates a will of its own.

Holding it together while rendering the voice during a fundraiser commercial for deprived children is one form of public service announcement, which almost always promotes more emotional involvement than the norm. There are many more of similar category.

Have you ever wondered how people who appear to be like you in every way, manage to hold it together, and still show attachment for the subject, or the event they are tending to? This coming at a time when you are inwardly concerned with your own personage.

There are methods, tricks of the trade, supposedly designed to enable one to go on with his or her presentation, while experiencing a lip beginning to quiver or a mouth becoming dry, as a personal sensitivity to the subject matter begins finding it’s way to an uncomfortable place of no return.

I marvel at those who have mastered their own personal method of being able to perform with great passion, while being able to keep from presenting an out-of-control display of emotion. Some very strong men and women have shed a tear during one of these moments.

Many high profile and prominent leaders use the method of reading and rereading a script over and over again, until they supposedly become immune to experiencing an uncontrolled display of emotion. This method carries with it the risk of being perceived as uncaring.

Of course the easiest of all tricks to remember would be an inward feeling or expression of anger, or dismay.

(Even the wrong attitude can serve as something to focus in on in order to break away from what you feel is about to happen.)

What follows is a thumbnail look at some of history's grand men and women, who managed to make it through a variety of trying events.

Franklin Delano Roosevelt addressing congress, and asking for a declaration of war following the December 7, 1941 sneak attack on Pearl Harbor. He was deathly serious, angry, and personally affronted by “a date that will live in infamy,” as he put it.

Our president's visage was grave. Our country had suffered one of the worst indignities; we were hit, and our only alternative was retaliation.

For our president, tears were not an option. Can you imagine if FDR went before congress, and began to sob as he asked them for a declaration of war?

Sir Winston Churchill was in my opinion the best of the very best. Historians have a positive consensus of opinion regarding his ability to rally his country and, many feel, ours as well.

In 1941, as his country experienced the death toll of air raids as a nightly regimen, Sir Winston stepped to the podium in order to address the congress of the United States for the first time.

“[Japan’s leaders] have certainly embarked on a very considerable undertaking [Laughter]…What kind of people do they think we are?”

And for the above, Sir Winston received a standing ovation. Perhaps the most monumentally depressive moment in world history, was never the less treated with the aplomb and dignity only a person of his stature could possibly have effectuated.

"Undertaking" (the word), signifying the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and "undertaking" (the word) as the reference to the corpse at a funeral home, was delivered to congress with complete and total understanding. Hence a moment of laughter, ultimately followed by a standing and thunderous ovation of thanks for the encouragement.

In this situation… there was no time for the shedding of tears. He was a world leader, at work, leading!

The thought of breaking down never entered Winston Churchill’s mind.

Although FDR and Winston Churchill were experiencing a never before crises of overpowering magnitude, the scope of the historical events preceding their speeches far out weighed the grief of any individual's suffering. Their concern was for the survival of their respective countries. It becomes far more difficult to contain one's self when the suffering is individualized.

An athlete making a goodbye or farewell speech at the end of a career, upon retirement, often turns into a tearjerker for all concerned.

I’m always reminded of the movie “Pride Of The Yankees,” when Gary Cooper playing the part of the famous Yankee first baseman Lou Gehrig, steps up to the microphone at a packed Yankee Stadium, and delivers the now immortal line, “Today, I consider myself the luckiest man in the world”; there wasn’t a dry eye in the theater. He touched us as individuals. His loss became ours, and so the tears flowed. In retrospect, much of Lou Gehrig’s departure speech did serve as encouragement for thousands of people who found they too suffering through some form or another of life’s unforeseen trials. Doubtful if this category of speech can ever be properly prepared for.

Margaret Thatcher

At a time in her career when the press as well as the parliament was tossing rocks and boulders at her, she managed from deep within an effervescence, which served as a rallying point for herself and her country at the same time. She stepped up to the microphone on what was to be recorded as one of her most auspicious outings.

It came at a particularly trying time for the prime minister of England, but as opposed to succumbing to human and emotional upheaval, she followed in the sublime footsteps of Sir Winston, as she delivered with:

“Disciplining yourself to do what you know is right and importance, although difficult, is the highroad to pride, self-esteem, and personal satisfaction.”

“I always cheer up immensely if an attack is particularly wounding because I think, well, if they attack one personally, they have not a single political argument left.”

And for me, the most difficult performance assignment is definitely the one where I know in advance of the people who will be in the audience. Those who, along with me, have experienced a loss, or a change of guard, after many years of personal association.

A real life recent example of this would have been delivering the eulogy of the late great basketball announcer, Chick Hearn. (I’m glad I wasn’t the one chosen for this assignment). In this particular case, the high visibility of this very personal individual brings with it the additional pressures of a celebrity-packed audience.

(Note: If you’re ever called on to extol the virtues during the celebration of a person’s life, it’s a necessity to stay focused. Putting names with the faces in the audience can be a terrible distraction. Eye contact is not the key to a good performance in this instance. Seeing a close friend or acquaintance begin to tear up isn’t exactly a stabilizing factor.)

Fans, for the past two weeks you have been reading about the bad break I got. Yet today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth. I have been in ballparks for seventeen years and have never received anything but kindness and encouragement from you fans.

"I Owe It To Them" Attitude

Some events are obviously far more taxing then others. As the master of ceremonies at a local beauty pageant, the danger of me being driven to tears would not normally exist.

(I mean, how bad could it be, surrounded by a group of look good, smell good, bright young women who by nature are seeking approval.)

The Things my Mother Never Did, or Served Us

Can you imagine growing up without the benefit of having tasted peanut butter?

I was one of those guys who fell in love with the great American spread when I entered the United States Army at age nineteen.

It was one morning at breakfast when I first discovered the delight of the sticky, life-perserving substance.

There in the mess hall, in a huge "number ten can" (as they called it), was this marvelous substance, which became a life support system. Wherever I happened to be in the world, if there was a can or jar of peanut butter, I knew da harv was safe from possible starvation.

But aside from the great ability peanut butter had to provide the sustenance for life needed to make it in a combat area, there was also the trading value on the black market, which for a time was beyond belief. I can remember seeing those number ten cans being used as containers after they were empty. A tin or aluminum can was a valuable tool to a homemaker when there weren’t any “Crate & Barrels” or “Williams-Sonoma” stores in the neighborhood.

Some of the less reputable cooks in the service were making sizeable sums of money trading anything extra they had in their mess halls at the end of the day. As an example, a number ten can of peanut butter often brought in as much as fifty dollars on the black market.

Amongst the United Nation troops, the Americans, The Filipinos, and the Brits were the most familiar with peanut butter as a staple in their weekly diet.

Since peanut butter was originally patented circa 1890-1903, immigrants coming to the United States in that era from the European Eastern Bloc countries had no idea of what it was. Maybe that would explain why as a young kid I had never tasted it. With a dad from Russia, and a mom from Romania, one might understand why my mother never served it.

And then there was the artichoke. My mother not only never served one up, I doubt if she had ever even seen one as she was growing up. Well, this one I can’t blame on my mother being an immigrant. It turns out only four out of every seven people over the age of thirteen has ever eaten an artichoke. All seven know it is green in color, it should be eaten preferably warm or hot, and at a reasonably slow pace. Since it’s not a particularly filling course, it falls into one of the more expensive food sources. Artichokes are preferred more by women than men. Children would much rather have a hotdog or a peanut butter sandwich.

(The preceding information was gathered from my own office staff of seven, and should not be considered as an exact science, unless you’re soft in the head.)

There were many more things my mom refused to include in her culinary repertoire. My mom never gave in to looking at a recipe. If she couldn’t memorize the ingredients, or if the meal required too many ingredients, then you had better forget about it. Measuring cups were not things she believed in. It was always a handful of this or a pinch of that; and I guess that would have to be the main reason she was in the “Guinness World Book Of Records”, holding the title of "The World’s Most Inconsistent Cook" (The Guinness part is a fabrication, in order to make my story more endearing).

The inconsistency drove the family to tears, caused by the laughter from behind-her-back-remarks about her cooking.

On one occasion, the family was celebrating the return from service of a young uncle of mine, from my father's side of the family. They were the Russians with the heavy duty say-or-do-whatever-you-like sense of humor. On that night, my mother was making my favorite: Spaghetti and meatballs. My uncle Nat, the returnee, was seated near the head of the table next to my dad. Everything was very festive. The place looked and smelled good. About thirty family members gathered around the table as my mother, assisted by three or four of my young cousins, began bringing in the large platters of salads, meatballs and spaghetti, and all kinds of Italian rolls.

Note: I was eight years of age at the time.

Of further note was the fact no one from my mother's side of the family was in attendance. I can’t ever remember them socializing at any event other than a wedding or a Bah Mitzvah. Oil and water would be a good description.

All was going well as the salad began to disappear. Then I wondered why the room began to get quite as the plates of meatballs and spaghetti were started on. Around the room, the relatives began looking at each other in disbelief. It was then my mother came in from the kitchen to see how everyone was doing. The aunts and uncles tried not to show any radical expressions, up until a couple of them began to giggle. In no time at all it turned into raucous laughter. My mother, displaying one of her ominous getting-ready-to-explode look, shouted out, “Okay, somebody want to tell me what’s so funny?” My uncle Nat, trying to head off the problem, decided on his own form of humor. He picked up a couple of meatballs, one in each hand and proceeded to tell the group: “These things are like rubber balls. I bet they can bounce.” With that, he attempted to bounce one on the dinning room floor. While they were kind of tough, they were still unable to bounce. And then he tossed the other meatball to my dad at the head of the table. My dad reached up and with a display of perfect timing caught the meatball and placed it neatly back on the original serving platter. It was quite a spectacle. Everyone at the table began replacing their uneaten meatballs. My uncle Nat stood up, wine glass in hand, and proposed a toast to my mom. “Here’s to Lill,” he said. "She made the best spaghetti I’ve ever had in my life.” Without exception, all stood and congratulated her. I have no idea what happened to the meatballs. I can’t recall my mother ever serving them to a group again.

Today, let it be known, I still list spaghetti and meatballs at the top of my favorites list, even if the balls are made from turkey. I go for what I call the old-fashioned spaghetti. I don’t like the crazy, disguised girly kind. And meat sauce should look like how meat sauce should look; tomato color is the only acceptable color.

Artichokes have also become a disturbingly appealing form of da harv's sustenance. In the beginning, I was gripped with a most painful forbearance at the very sight of this green misshapen vegetable form. How or why anyone would order an artichoke was beyond me. The name itself makes me think of a person struggling to breathe.

Then one day, because I wasn’t asked what I felt like eating for dinner, there before me, a very large junior form of palm tree was placed proudly on our dinner table for all to see. Lo and behold, I was the recipient of my very own man-sized artichoke. This gentleman was trapped. I hesitated for a moment as I watched our two guests and my wife dive in with reckless abandon. I immediately discovered that artichoke enthusiasts have a great deal in common. Most eat as if they were raised by a barbarian cult, following the edict of eating as fast as you can because some enemy may take your food away from you.

The other obvious characteristic is their lack of feeling in their fingertips. While I had trouble peeling off the leaves from the main body of the choke (as I affectionately called it) these people, my wife included, without any thoughts of burning palates and no longer having discernable fingerprints, proceed to tear into these butter drenched, malformed, distorted, asymmetrical, and obviously selectively addictive gourmandizing delight of the above-the-crust normalcy, allowable to a privileged few.

And all of what I’ve said, now having been said, I would like to say… I have grown to love my wife’s artichokes. I admit without any real consequence or peril of misunderstanding… hers are the best artichokes known to man (actually, to this man).

I Never Met Ruth Suffield

To the best of my knowledge there is no person I’ve ever met by the name of Ruth Suffield. I have no idea where the name came from. There was and is a person I wrote to who by no stretch of the imagination happens to be an extremely well thought of professional writer. I have chosen the name Ruth Suffield as her nom de plume; actually when she writes she does use her real name, and certainly not the pseudonym I’ve chosen for her. It’s just that Ruth is really a very private person who has a tendency to become annoyed easily when her privacy is invaded. Ruth tolerates me because I’ve known her since before she was able to get away with being an impertinent crab-ass. In other words… I knew her when she was a little crab-ass and couldn’t get away with anything resembling her current attitude. I value Ruth’s assessment of things as much as any other person in this world.

*

To: Ruth Suffield
From: da harv
Re: Carmen Belasco request for information regarding her creative writing pursuit.

(Ruth, please excuse the formality of this letter. Nowadays, one never knows who will come in contact with what we might pen.)

Dear Ms. Suffield,

I write to you as one professional to another. Certainly I recognize that the term professional is all in the eyes and ears of the beholder. I find it similar to the subjectivity of an art form of any kind. One person reads a book, or views a painting and can do nothing but gush accolades, while, on the other hand, the very next reader, or viewer of the same work offers that they have never come in contact with a more repressive load of shit. And so you have the tribulations of those of us who have chosen the pursuit of any creative art form as a way of life. I think you would agree, we must all acknowledge the subjectivity of the world we live in.

I have been in receipt of a request submitted to me by one of my many fans, Carmen Belasco, asking if I might take the time to answer some questions regarding her endeavors in the search for an answer to a series of questions first posed to a struggler named William Shakespeare. It appears that our Ms. Belasco finds herself in a similar state of mind that I too experienced many years ago. Her quandary, as you might expect: Who, what, why, when, where, and of course, how, are the total ingredients of her not-yet-all-consuming-conundrum.

I know you must have a few vital inquires of your own, before attempting to answer her five basic questions. Since that would be impossibility, I thought I might offer some of what I have to say to her, or any other individual seeking answers regarding the subjective world in which we exist.

1. When did you begin writing with the intent of becoming a published author?

Answer: I began at age thirty-five.

2. Had you taken writing classes at that time to get focused again, or was writing something you always did throughout your life?

Answer: I was born with an appreciation for everything and anything creative.

I have never taken a writing class.

I have written or expressed my honest emotions for the better part of the last thirty years+.

Spare time has little or nothing to do with my spare time as a writer. (I began making presentations to other students in the second grade. Most of the material that I used in those formal presentments were written by me.)

3. Why did you think your writing was good enough to be published? Did you just start writing about things that interested you and then asked members of your family to give you their feedback?

Answer: Stories that I would relate to friends about my past experiences would often draw laughter and tears, and surprisingly to me, complete attention from those listening to what I had to say.

I began having an idea or two for a TV show. I joined forces with another young guy and between the two of us began knocking out a few treatments for television shows. At the time I was already in the industry as a Stage Manager in a variety of shows around town.

The only relative that had anything to say about my work was my then wife, who also functioned as a rewrite person for me.

I really never gave much thought to how good my writing actually was.

4. How do you know if it’s just the “idea” of writing that makes you think you can write, or if you really can write?

Answer: I write for myself. I don’t expect people to either like or understand where da harv is coming from. In my opinion, the only reason a person may determine if what they write will ever be able to support their lifestyle, is if they are content with their own work.

Each and every day some of my lines are put to paper, and stored away in the deep dark environs of a hard drive, that may some day be either celebrated or serve to corroborate my off-balanced disdain for the average person. I might point out that the average person has served as a welcome target for the spewing of ridicule that so richly enhances my life.

5. (And what follows is Ms. Belasco’s most ardent series of run-on questions, each requiring a degree of supposition, making an answer or even an educated opinion, more arduous a task than my personal sagacity could do justice.) If you get to the point that you want to dedicate time to writing, how do you know if you would be a good freelance writer for a magazine/local newspaper, or a three liner sentimental greeting card writer, an author of a children’s book? (I know I can clearly define things things that I am not interested in writing; like a novel for example, but what are the tools that you use to define yourself, or is that not even something you worry about in the early stages of writing?)

Answer: (At first I prayed for guidance. Then a calm came over me as I realized that I wasn’t God, and that my answers to her questions weren’t required to be God-like. All I could do was honestly recall and forward some of my experiences, in hope that Ms. Belasco might find solace and meaning within da harv’s literary trials.)

Magazines/local newspapers/three line sentimental greeting cards, or the author of a children’s book. How do you know?

You know your work is acceptable (good) after you continuously submit your work to these venues, seeking acceptance.

I could fill drawers with turndowns from all of the above. I would write an unsolicited piece, send it out and continue to write not waiting for any one company to send back anything resembling their appreciation. All I did was write and send; over and over, write and send. I became accustomed to opening the mail being well prepared for the rejection notice that I knew would be there. One day, to my surprise, the full size envelope containing my writing also contained an offer. I had written a celebrity interview with an actor named Mike Connors. They (the editor of the newspaper) required that I rewrite the article with a third party removed format as opposed to first person singular. That same afternoon I completed the rewrite and hand-carried my work to the newspaper office (I really wanted to frame the papers $125 check, but we needed it to eat).

The lines that I wrote for a local greeting card company were as risqué as my mind could create; still a payday.

At this stage of the game my writing has included radio copy as well as a few eulogies. I have written lines for stand-up comics and have registered the lyrics for six songs. I have written letters of complaint, letters of congratulations, and letters of sympathy. And after all this, I have only single certainty to offer Ms. Belasco. This time it isn’t da harv as the scribe. “To thine own self be true,” must be credited to another author of substance. But that phrase all by itself is the most important verbiage I’ve ever become a believer in.

What I have to share with people, succinctly stated is the most important commodity in my possession: It is my truth. Each and every line I write, or say, or give in the way of my direction to people represents da harv’s truth. While some may not appreciate my truth, and may even vehemently disagree with what I’ve brought forward, they nevertheless, in the long run, find something within my attempt at communication.

Place honest words on paper, and then send the paper away from you. Your honest words will ultimately stimulate love in the form of approval. Never put a price on your work as the criteria for determining your skills as a writer. Never, ever, value the input of any person who tells you that you have little or no writing skills. Be a journeyman writer. That is to say… write with your mind and heart simultaneously without thinking which of these two beautiful God-given reservoirs you're drawing your creativity from. If it’s your thought, then at that moment in time you have equaled and achieved the single most important substantive purpose that any of us have in this lifetime. Bequeath that thought, send it out there in whatever form you so desire. This truthfully will be the determining factor as a guide to what you will continue to write.

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And in closing, I’d like to thank you, Ms. Suffield, for taking your time. I look forward to your response. I value the thoughts of any successful person, especially a person who has been a participant in so many of our wonderful life experiences.

Cordially, and with a degree of growing respect, I remain yours truly,

Harvey Kalmenson
AKA: da harv

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Letter from Ruth:

Dear da harv,

Please offer these words to Ms. Belasco:

Stop asking so many questions. What was right for me or for Mr. Misplaced is not necessarily the correct thing or method she should pursue. Tell her to do what I did; take up drinking. Single malt scotch, if she can afford it would be the best advice I might offer. Make sure she doesn’t do something stupid like getting married. No matter how stupid the topic might appear to be, write about it. Save everything you write. Never throw anything away. Just store the shit in a box and every so often come back to it. If and when you come back to the shit you’ve written and you find it to be still a good read; take it from me, you haven’t grown one bit. If you fall in love with your own work, you’re not taking enough chances with the subject matter. When I stopped getting people all riled up, I simultaneously lost favor with the same people who were in love with my work to begin with.

If my words of advice are help, then fine and so be it. If my words don’t mean anything to Belasco, I really don’t care that much anyway.

Stay well,

You know who