It’s All The Rage: Don’t Act Your Age

“This is the lesson: Never give in... Never, never, never, never, …in nothing great or small, large or petty-never give in except to convictions of honor or good taste.”

Winston S. Churchill

Not then, as a child,
Or as manhood took over,
Physically following nature's
predictable course of events
Happening to find myself experiencing,
Never quitting, though provoking,
Or as is so aptly put in the world
of pugilism, throwing in the towel.


Regardless of personal mindset.
Each day of my manly humanization
Fortunately learning the curative value
a good night of sleep might bring...
And the next day with God once again
turning on the brightness of a new early morning
Looking forward whatever the reason
Was then my implacable direction?

Though his discernable direction
Far in the future
Never to be disclosed!

And the above
Truth be said
For all who knows the man
Or knew of him when living
If only by letters read

All agreed, some ferociously
No man ever more stubborn
Before, or in his stead.



Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “We are all shaped and fashioned by what we love.”

One person who had read his quote, instantly allowed complete agreement, expounding on how their total lifestyle was joyous and giving.

While another person, formed and covered by a different cloth, disregarded the author's substance while observing dispassionately, “How could a guy named Waldo know anything about real life or love?”

Is serving a form of elegance?
Is giving a form of graciousness?
Is turning the other cheek a loving thing to do?
Where do I travel at this seemingly late date to get the answers to my penetrable questions?

Questions most likely not answerable: a homeless man asleep on the street, obviously without any noticeable wealth after being mugged, knowing no other alternatives rivaling his survival, when asked by a reporter, “What were you thinking?” replied, "I felt I was about to die, and you know what…I didn’t give a damn until I realized I was far too young for a final breath."

It kind of shoots the shit out of what our friend Ralph Waldo Emerson had to say. Maybe the question about whether a guy named Waldo had credibility turns out to be a good one? I’d never be guilty of trying to explain to either of my children how the person who was stealing from the homeless man did so from a position of love. And, if the man were a loving guy, he would have informed the crook he had missed the real hiding place.

Mom and Dad were loving people, I guess, but they dispensed love on a family first quota. Simple people with a simple regimen; family first, followed by friends, if you happened to have any. Stay where you belonged in your own neighborhood. Don’t go looking for trouble. Stay in good shape so you could blossom tomorrow when God decides to turn the lights on for another day.

***

SURVEYING THE POLITICO

Have you ever given blood?
Been mugged?
Been in our country’s military service?
Been insulted because of your race or religious preference?
Been frightened to the point of vomiting, or losing control of normal bodily functions?

No? Then how the hell do you know what it might feel like to do so? But... you do qualify to become an elected official and, most likely, you already are one.

As I become older and older it becomes easier and easier to act my age. Often the thought of curtailing my emotional outbursts doesn’t remotely enter a psyche, which has endured a parade of dishonest and self-centered politicos hell bent on being a feature player on any power-driven stage that might have them.

A singer who can’t carry a tune, a comedian who isn’t the least bit funny, the pretty or handsome face that isn’t capable of any form of an honest portrayal, all joining forces with a ventriloquist whose lips move uncontrollably during a performance all manage to join hands and take a bow together, knowing it will be their last.

It is, after all, a paid election.
No audience will pay to see them ever again.

The actor, however, is forced by the nature of the beast that governs his life or death the constant necessity to audition for his future sustenance. His past and present will dictate the future. Unlike the elected official, who revels in being elected one term after another although his performances have been shoddy at best, he nevertheless is able to blame his ineptitude on the actors who trod the boards before him as the culprits, who should be the ones blamed for his deceit and malfeasance of performance. An actor who performs poorly usually experiences a short-lived career.

Shouldn’t that be the case for our civil servants?

As actors, we have in common an honesty that cannot be taken from us. We strive to perform well. We all seek the applause and standing ovations accompanying our fine performances. But what about our civil servants who lie and cheat? What about those who promise to serve my brethren--service men and women, who served those same civil servants that now without care make our heroes wait in endless lines?

My name is Harvey Kalmenson. I’m too old to concern myself with anything but the truth. We have men and women in line waiting to be helped. They paid for their tickets to get in, and now the people who own the theatres are not living up to the promises made to them.

"America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves."

Abraham Lincoln

Veterans Day Parade

My truth be told, from age nineteen on, I've never missed the observance of Veterans Day, nor inwardly enjoyed my pride over being one. It’s a big and special club. I became a member way back in my nineteenth year. What can you say about the inner workings of a nineteen-year-old boy… who was about to become a man?

Although it may have taken awhile for me, today I clearly understand. Becoming a man was what my newly joined club was all about. It was known as the United States Army.

Many today speak of patriotism and heroism, and just about every kind of “ism” known to man. However, most who speak the words have little to reflect upon. When I became an official club member, without knowing it, I was taking my first steps towards walking the walk. It’s a very private thing, requiring many years of cultivating. Today, admittedly my pride in having served this country of ours is a vital part of who I am.

Yes I was in the army, and yes I am proud to say I'm a veteran. As I write and reflect, capsules of my transition to manhood’s beginning moments return with an immediacy, which only the purest of truths could stimulate.

***

In the beginning we were referred to as recruits. And God were we an ugly-looking bunch of guys. The military set out on a goal of having us all look and act the same. Mainly it was the shaved heads, which was the most distressing. Except for the boots, none of us had anything that fit well. We were one hundred and twenty bedraggled what-is-its. Cold, wet, sick, and on the verge of hallucination due to sleep deprivation, another unpleasant ingredient was added to the mix: they began yelling at us. When I asked why I was being yelled (make that screamed) at, the man doing the screaming looked at me with more disdain than I could ever direct an actor to do, and without skipping a beat moved directly in front of me, his nose literally touching mine and shouted, "Give me ten!" I had no idea what in the name of hell he wanted; certainly I didn’t have that much money on my person. “Are you a deaf, 'cruit?” (short for recruit) he bellowed. I began to respond to him about my excellent hearing, when without warning he demanded, “Make that twenty.” Fortunately for me, one of my buddies in the back yelled out, "He wants push-ups." I complied. That was my erstwhile entrance to the infantry / combat engineers basic training indoctrination.

NOTE: I lived.

After four weeks we were a different group of guys. Our physical condition was superb. We were learning the real meaning of teamwork as taught by the military. As they repeated over and over again, “There is a right way, a wrong way, and the army way.”

***

Fort Lewis, Washington; it was a typical February day, chilly and wet. Our company of men had completed the first few weeks of basic training and had been assembled, along with four other companies, as part of our first battalion size (about twenty five hundred) parade. There we were, a group of mostly southern California guys; cold, wet, and experiencing being more miserable than any of us could have imagined. Without exception, all of us had colds.

Nothing mattered to them (our leaders). It was parade day, and we were going to parade regardless of the weather, or how sick we thought we were. Of course the premise was a simple one to understand: War knows no standstill. Sick or not, sleep deprived or well rested, hungry and thirsty, bone weary, lonely and missing your mom, your dad, girlfriend or wife and children, the war as presented by an enemy will go on as scheduled. It’s a show with performances continuing until, and when finally some form of fade comes to pass. Then and only then will the vigilant be permitted to rest, seeking recovery. For many, recovery will never be their option.

There we stood, waiting in a cold mist for the next earth-moving command to be given. Like so many before us, as American soldiers we always found ways to laugh and clown under the worst of circumstances. Most of the time it was nothing more than poking fun at each other. Someone grabbing a guy's rifle and passing it around from one soldier to another. As children we used to call it "keep away." It was nothing more than pure adolescence.

And then my moment of transition arrived; without warning, the unexpected.

The booming voice of our sergeant major brought our meaningless mass together in no more than an instant. We became a solid block. Twenty-five hundred men became an imposing figure. We were at attention. The battalion commander appeared and marched to the center of the parade grounds, standing at attention before the sergeant major, who still remained facing us.

The commander was himself an overpowering figure. He was taller than any of us, and carried himself the way his West Point credentials required. He was a full bird colonel. The emblems glittered on his shoulders as he viewed us as if inspecting the most powerful group of warriors ever seen on this planet. We were taken by our leader's presence.

Our sergeant turned a sharp about face and reported to the colonel, “All present and accounted for as ordered sir,” he bellowed and saluted simultaneously. The colonel returned his salute, and the sergeant moved to a side position, taking his place and becoming one of us. Again the colonel did his review. His eyes inspected all of us with an amazing display of pride, which I had never before experienced. At a seemingly precise moment the sergeant was once again in front of our body. He shouted, "Parade rest!" and as one unit we snapped into position. The sergeant again moved aside and our colonel took charge. The man’s presence was nothing short of inspiring. All was still as the colonel prepared to speak. Then it came: “Men, you are about to experience what only a very select group have ever had the privilege of experiencing.”

At that moment the battalion color guard appeared. To the beat of a single drum they marched into position on the parade grounds. If you can visualize the configuration of a football field; place the color guard at one end of the field. The colonel would be directly behind the guard. Next to enter was the Fort Lewis Army marching band. They took their position directly behind the color guard and in front of the colonel, and our twenty-five hundred man battalion. (What you had was a football field shape, taking up about five times the area.)

“Today you will be representing your country, the United States of America. Are you ready?"

As one we responded with, “Sir, yes sir!”

“Then give them hell, men!” he shouted.

The chills came in waves. What might seem cornball was anything but. The band struck up with John Philip Sousa's Washington Post March, and at the precise moment the colonel bellowed again, "Give them hell, men!" He turned and signaled as if he was conducting a cavalry charge. We marched as one.

And then the final emotional wave, which has remained with me all of my life. I caught sight of our American flag leading our way. To date my chest has never expanded as much as it did on that very chilly day. The chill was gone, along with the young boy. We had exchanged a variety of mild indifference into unabashed pride in one's self, and one's country.

An interesting thing happened on our way back to the barracks following our parade experience. We weren’t the same group of young boys messing around as we did before the parade. That’s not to say our sense of humor had left us. The very next day we all returned to kidding around and still playing our schoolboy tricks on one another. But as this day wore down there were conversations about some unexpected feelings. For me personally, I never totally shared up until now what a life changing experience it was.

For those of you who have visited with me on Sparks St. in Burbank, you will recall our flag flying proudly in front of our door. It’s there every day that I am there.

This coming Wednesday, November 11, we pay tribute to our veterans. I pray you share my pride.