Outtakes & Intakes

I have never saved an outtake. I may have recorded them during a session or an audition, but by the end of the day, that same day, they were erased and discarded forever. Going one step further, I have never shared a recorded outtake with anyone other than the actor who had delivered the blooper in the first place. What I do admit to is retelling an incident, and making sure not to name the party I was relating the story about (not even to my own wife).

There just aren’t many things from my past any funnier, or for that matter, more poignant, and sometimes even sad than an outtake. Day in, day out, there’s thirty-plus years of them. Each time I think I might have seen or heard them all, a new situation occurs, creating a new outtake. And so the beat goes on. I’m not looking for outtakes; they present themselves, almost as often as the newbies who come to me in search of the "Actor's Holy Grail."

Often the nature of the scripts we will be reading forewarns of the mishaps I may be experiencing along the way. A good example of what may be an extra display of emotional upheaval are a variety of public service announcements where the subject matter hits a little too close to home.

We were conducting auditions for a family abuse center. The script had to do with child abuse. After slating her name, the actress in the booth began reading the script. It only took about ten seconds before she stopped reading and began to cry and apologize to me simultaneously. Needless to say, I was affected by her honesty. As I listened to her reasons for the display of emotion, it became my turn to mirror her feelings. Yes it was an outtake, but it was also a pure and truthful slice of life.

NOTE: She was able to complete the audition, and when the sponsor made the selection, lo and behold the lady got the job, or as we say: "And the winner was..."

When you do anything enough times, especially when it’s a repeat of the same language, over and over again, the law of averages is working against you. There will be a mistake (outtake).

The person to be auditioned enters my recording booth and awaits instructions. As the director, I almost always say the same thing to them: “Slate your name and try one.”

For whatever the reason, after saying the same thing a few thousand times, this time I changed it: “Slate my name and try one,” I said. And the actor, with a straight face and deadly seriousness said: “My name is Harvey Kalmenson.” After a split second of silence, we both lost it to raucous laughter.

Then there was the total klutz.

She entered the booth with her hand wrapped in a bandage. When I asked about it, the answer was like “nothing of great importance.” “Slate your name and try one,” I requested. She said nothing, but affirmed by nodding her head. I had the pot open to record the first take, as she nodded and hit the end of the microphone with her forehead; the sound startled her, and she moved even closer in an abrupt fashion which knocked over the music stand which held the script. As she bent down to pick up the script, she attempted to also straighten the stand into an up right position. By now I was trying to hold back my giggling from turning into full-fledged laughter. It didn’t work. Each of her sounds was being recorded inadvertently. I hadn’t stopped the recording process. Finally she pulled it all together; I had stopped laughing and we were once again ready to roll. “Slate your name and try one.” It worked. She slated just as her cell phone went off to the sound of “Beethoven’s Fifth.”

After she left the booth, I listened back to what I had recorded. It was one of those perfect real life moments I would never be able to stage or recreate. Her self-inflicted sound effects were hilarious.

"Intakes"

Then we have what I have coined as “Intakes.” These are the occurrences happening around and to me personally.

NOTE: Some of the happenings, which I take personally, are perhaps uniquely mine. In other words, there are many who might choose to ignore what had transpired, as not being worth reacting to or even committing to memory.

I admit to taking almost everything personally.

I’ve never been able to figure out the advisement: “Oh, don’t take it personally. He (she) talks to everyone that way.” Excuse me… I don’t happen to be everyone. I’m the only other party in the room, and the offensive one is speaking directly to me. Explain to me how or why it isn’t a personal thing. For me, it’s an “Intake.” I always react to “Intakes.”

But reacting to an intake doesn’t necessarily mean I’m going to say anything to the party I refer to as a "supplier." I call them suppliers as opposed to using a descriptive expletive as a character identification. That’s not to say, I’m not guilty of thinking about an appropriate name for the supplier; I merely have found enough self-control in order to keep from verbalizing how I really felt at the moment a supplier was doing their thing. I’m sure the same would apply to each of you at one time or another. I believe its called "biting your tongue."

DISCLAIMER: There have been, on a few occasions, incidents when da harv was not able to control himself, and presented a particular supplier (or a few suppliers - or quite a few suppliers, on a number of incidents - actually on a large number of incidents) a variety of sweeping assertions regarding the mental acuity of the supplier, be it male or female doing the supplying.

Suppliers come in all sizes, shapes, colors, and of course may include family, friends, strangers and enemies. The selection of suppliers is definitely endless. Please note, I have not included professions on my list of suppliers. But in the event I had chosen to include work categories, on the very top of my list would be two occupations; critics and politicians - not necessarily in that order.

(It is far too difficult for me to ascertain which group of these less than stalwart human beings is guilty of insulting the intelligence of the greatest number of us folks, at any one period in time.)

My great aunt Molly was one of them. She was considered an all pro for her era. The woman found it necessary to keep talking, whatever the circumstances.

She was definitely a full-blown “Yenta.”

(A woman who is a gossip, or busybody.
ORIGIN 1920s: Yiddish, originally a given name.)

I was with my dad on a visit to a relative’s home when Great Aunt Molly appeared. She greeted my father and ignored me. Her first words to Dad: “What’s a matter with him, Charlie? Da boy don’t look so good.”

Wasn’t that a nice thing to say within earshot of an eight year old kid?

It must have made an impact on my young mind, when you realize I’ve carried it with me all these years.

Summing it all up, my experience with actors in general has been an uplifting experience. Our work is the auditioning process, and without hesitation I can attest to a bottom-line absolute personal evaluation: The vast number of voice over actors are a professional joy to work with. Sure, I’m able to think back and recollect incidents that weren’t a fun-time experience. But who among us can possibly give testimony to a life with day-to-day total laugh-a-minute perfection.

My advice is simple: Only remember the intakes and outtakes that make you smile.

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.

Travel Fare

I’m in my eighteenth year of going up and back every workday from my home in Encino to Burbank. A conservative estimate makes it thirty five hundred round trips, to date. While I love my work… there have been a few times when I really didn’t feel like going to Burbank, for one reason or another. Only once did being ill keep me from the starting gate. In actuality, I did make it to the starting gate. I just couldn’t move when I got there. It was one of those twenty-four hour flu things that take no prisoners. You’re hit, and down you go. Missing one day out of eighteen years isn’t too bad an attendance record. “Ya’ think.”

Psychologists say seventy-five percent of who you are is attributable to the environment you were raised in. I’m inclined to agree with that premise. I often heard my father expound:

“If you’re the owner, being sick isn’t a consideration. There are a great many people depending on you to be there; letting them down isn’t an option. Not when you are the entertainment committee.”

My father believed in team play, at every level. He felt every employee was helping to put bread on his family's table. If he wasn’t there, and the factory had to stay shut because of his absence, the financial burden to others would have been unconscionable. Dad’s responsibility was to family and team. Everything else was of little or no consequence to him. My mom was somewhat jealous over the relationship my Dad had with his employees. While I was only a little boy at the time, I never the less had a handle on my father's methods. I described him as “Good King Charlie.” He definitely lead. His factory wasn’t a democracy. The plus side of the way he ran everything was that there never seemed to be any confusion about what assignments were to be conducted by what employee.

In the 1920s, there was no such thing as medical insurance, or in many cases, paid vacations. People were glad to find work.

It kind of sounds like the workers of that time period could all identify with what we go through in our industry. You get a job, you complete the job, and you’re out there looking for work again. And even if the bosses love your work, there’s never a guarantee you’ll be called back to work for them again.

My father's realm began in 1920. At the time, he was an energetic eighteen year old. He had been in the United States some sixteen years and working since the third grade. In that era, there weren’t any laws concerning child labor. Everyone, without exception, worked together to support the family. At the end of each week, his family members, boys and girls, would report in to their mother, presenting their pay envelope. In those days, there was no such thing as a paycheck. Workers were paid in cash. Grandma would count the money and then give back to each of her kids enough money to cover them for the next week. Most of dad’s schooling was a product of his curiosity as a gifted self-taught scholar.

Even as I write a descriptive of my own father, I find it almost impossible to understand what he and his family were subjected to in the early part of the twentieth century. To get an idea of how it was, go around the house or apartment you’re currently living in and disconnect all of the electric appliances, perhaps with the exception of a single electric cord, which would most likely be hanging down from the center of each room. In the early 1920s, even a radio was an extravagance.

I personally find life to be so ass-backwards at times. So often I’ve day dreamed about having my dad around today, for me to conduct an in-depth interview. I’m sure many of you share the same feelings. What a joy it would be to have the guy in this world that you most admired, respected, and trusted right with you at a time of deep need. Think about the relaxation of knowing the person you are sharing thoughts with is completely, one hundred percent on your side; you’d be playing in life’s game with much less tension and anxiety. My only disclaimer would have to be: Little chance would my father understand my pursuits within the entertainment industry. I know he would have felt life to be tough enough without making it any more difficult by attempting to survive in the art world.

Scenarios like these are part of my thought processes, simply because I have a need to do so. I have a need to gather some extra strength from time to time in order to help cope with some of life’s indignities.

Just about every aspect of this “No Business” comes with a guarantee of highs and lows. Sometimes they come only a few seconds apart. It’s like the love of your life tells you in the afternoon how much they care for you. That same evening you find your clothing out on the street. Don’t try to figure it out. There’s a big sign which reads: “No Comprehension Allowed.” Love is like our subjective art form; I mean it’s for sure "No Business." Humiliating, ain’t it?

As a writer I would receive rejection notices, which should have come with a warning: This notice should not be read directly after eating.

I remember seeing my ex-wife standing there with the tears rolling down her cheeks as she read what some punk had to say about a book I had submitted to their publisher. The review was the worst one I had ever received. I don’t think anyone could actually write as poorly as how that woman described my work. Her words were cutting and cruel. It took five full years of trying before I gave in to the acknowledgement of failure as a professional writer. In my mind, I had failed myself, and my family.

Once again, my father's words echoed:

“Kids don’t ask to be born. It was your idea to bring them into this world. It’s your responsibility to provide for them.”

It was the personal credo he followed for his entire life. In my father's eyes, your children, family, and your employees, were part and parcel of an accepted obligation that went with life’s territory.

An old experienced and rather famous actor told me I was going through a first hand condition of the heart. He was the one who assured me it was a personal thing. Many others had counseled me not to take the rejection personally. I never could understand how to do that. In each and every one of the many positions or just plain jobs I’ve had in this “No Business,” I’ve always taken everything personally. I don’t mean to tell you that any form of rejection cast me into an uncontrollable state of depression. It was mainly a buildup of things which caused the greatest damage. Pounding the pavement in search of work can be hazardous to one's mental health.

There were times, after a turn down, that I would question my inner being as to whether I would ever work again. How could it not be personal? Actor, writer, director, editor, it’s all personal. Transfusing life into a subjective art form is a very personal endeavor. When the folks say they love your work, the sounds of their voices don’t seem to hold on long enough; it’s so fleeting.

They dislike your work and it’s etched there forever.

Admittedly, some may take it harder than others! Failure isn’t a dignified thing to be tolerated.

“Most men shrouded in a cloth of indignity will rarely experience true happiness or success. Although success is one of life’s fleeting indulgences, the shame of losing one’s dignity may last for a lifetime.”
Hk/2010

Each of us has a God-given right to stay in pursuit of our dreams, or leave them in whatever gulch we inhabit at the end of the race. If a human being keeps trying, they earn the respect of all those who have themselves experienced the turmoil of their creative fight for survival. Those who have never experienced combat should never be allowed to sit in judgment of those of us who have. Having a family to support while striving for survival in our “No Business” is as personal an adventure as any man may encounter. In my opinion, not taking rejection seriously will only add to and increase one's chances for continued failure.

“There’s nothing dignified about failure. But providing for another fellow's welfare, or attempting to ease another man’s pain by offering a moment of entertainment, is for me the most dignified human attribute anyone can muster. And so, those of us who remain in search of what ever is to ultimately be our God given calling, within our “No Biz,” carrying on might even be considered our obligation.”
- Carrying on,
(I’m) “At A Party”

Imagine this scenario: You’re at a party with a group of friends and acquaintances. While you do know many of them personally, quite a few are being introduced for the very first time. Those who are recognizable figures within our industry will hands down become the most sought after people to be introduced to. “No Biz” people are really liked by those of the so-called normalcy group. (You see, it’s a given that none of us are normal.)

Now that I have set the scene for you, I’ll get down to the nitty-gritty. The fact is… da harv loves statistics. I love doing my own homemade question and answer survey.

Here’s a sample of what I’m talking about. I’ll ask a group of partygoers what would be their least favorite occupation. Of course the answers will vary a great deal, dependent on the makeup of the people in the group.

Recently, I found myself sharing my time with a group of folks who all were members of the same industry, our business: "No Biz." It was a forty-plus crowd. All of us had in common the early days of struggle in one aspect of entertainment or another; some were extremely recognizable performers, while the vast majority were behind the scenes industry notables.

NOTE: A notable is anyone who makes a living.

For least favorite, there was a variety of expected answers. Creative people across the board disliked the idea of working a prescribed nine-to-five job. Attorneys and undertakers were mentioned. Some said doctors because they couldn’t stand the sight of blood. Many of the answers were predictable, until a very well known female personality literally opened a dam when she called out:

“I wouldn’t work for the f---ing IRS if they paid me a million dollars a minute.”

Let the games begin. The around the room agreement was beyond belief. People took turns recounting stories of actual experiences they encountered while being audited that were almost hard to believe. It was an evening of one-upsmanship. I listened intently to each and every word. The stories being told were not exaggerations of the truth. It was as if the IRS was a separate country, at war with us, and we were paying by way of our tax dollars, in order to keep them solvent enough to win the war against us.

Many of us at that party had undergone or were currently going through an IRS audit. A number of people telling the stories had experienced the ultimate indignity of having been forced into bankruptcy. Without exception, each of us had a track record of paying large sums of money to the tax collector, and our history of charitable contributions is enormous. Without exception all of us had given of our time and energy in support of our country's needy. The problem is, by and large, what you may have done in the past is meaningless to our IRS. They audit us, and we pay to defend ourselves from them.

Try this one on for size: Internal Revenue reports in a February 2010 issue of The Wall Street Journal: "Americans spend 6.6 billion hours each year on tax preparation; at an annual cost of $194 billion."

The party consensus: Internal Revenue was considered to be nothing more than a heartless entity of faceless, humorless, parasitic vultures, which derive enjoyment over the suffering of others.

Not one of us at that party would ever choose to be an IRS agent. All of us at that party took what our government was doing to us, by way of IRS, as a very personal affront.

Here’s the most interesting point of fact derived by listening to people recount their IRS audits and aftermaths:

Believe it or not, most of the people at the party who underwent an IRS audit had a similar outcome. I was surprised to hear, across the board, they found it monetarily to their advantage to pay the amount the government was asking for. All of them had high powered tax attorneys and or CPAs advising them of not only the costs of defending themselves, but also counseling them regarding the deliberately disruptive nature of the IRS agents themselves.

I take what our government is attempting to do to us as one of the most personal affronts in my lifetime.

“A fighter in the ring with hands tied tightly behind his back, will undergo far less punishment by rolling over and allowing them to count him out.”
-Hk/2010