Leadership (Or Not)

 Seek the best rulers;

People do know that they exist.

They love and they praise;

Next they fear,

Or, for many, soon to be reviled.

When they do not command the people’s faith,

Some will lose what little faith they had in them forever.

They resort to oaths!

But, of the best when their task is accomplished, their work done,

The people all remark, “We have done it ourselves.”

The people are those who lead the people.

A true leader is heard to say, “There go the people, I must follow.”

        

He made the city no greater than when he took it, the greatest and richest of all cities, and grew to be superior in power to kings and tyrants. Some of these, actually appointed him guardian of their sons – but he did not make his estate a single drachma greater than it was when his Father left it to him.

Does it matter where or when? What matters is socially and politically acceptable as of now, and now only. The value of a drachma or a dollar has no true meaning. What matters to most of us is the so-called level playing field. If it is God’s will, we come on to this earth, planet, hemisphere – what have you – with an unequivocal set of equal rights: breathing in and out -- the two that are obviously the most important.

Joe Disciple, upon entering his neighborhood with a seemingly larger than ordinary set of lungs, set his rights to work immediately. His cries for equal justice began at birth.  At first, the masses applauded his screams, then his first words, and then, within a short period of time, his innate ability to get others to bend to his will by making promises of equal amounts of drachmas for all men, women, and children -- no matter their color or their beliefs. He promised endlessly, have me as your leader and you will have as many drachmas as your neighbor who lived on the hill above you.

        

One day, a group of people from his village asked Joe Disciple a question.

“Where will you get the drachmas to deliver all that you promise? Your Father left you none noticeable by us.”

“I will borrow them,” Joe responded. “If you make me your leader, I will borrow from those who have and give you what I get. It will help level the playing field.”

“But won’t those who have still remain on the higher ground above us?” They asked. 

“Ultimately, they will be seen waving to you as they pass on their way down to a level beneath you.”

“What then will happen to their homes on the hills above us?”

“They will lose them, just as you have lost yours.”

“But sir, if they lose all, as you have planned, and they have no more to give, where then will our drachmas come from; where will we live and what level will our playing field be at?”

“You will all be at ‘C’ level – average -- middleclass. The level will be equal for those of you who continue to follow my beliefs, as opposed to my predecessor. Soon, I will be long gone (in less than four short years) and there will be vast areas for you to move into; places like Detroit, Cleveland, Chicago, Los Angeles -- all empty now, and awaiting the return of the people.”

“But Sir, isn’t that where most of us have come from?”

“You must never question me. Look what happened to the people who used to live up there on the hill.”

“Used to? They still live up there.”

“Not if I have my way. Besides, look how great things have become for all of you during the last four years. You must continue to believe. Everything is shoveled and ready. Forgive me now, but it’s once again time for me to make another speech in the far away land of California.

And, if you like, I’ve left some signed copies of the latest biography spelling out my essence.”

***

In his own mind, the guy was a living-breathing brute.  Way back when in law school, he came down with a terrible case of sore throat. He called upon his unbelievable brain, hand to eye coordination, and pain tolerance in order to remove his own tonsils without an anesthetic of any kind. Only with the aid of Lawrence Welk’s polkas playing in the background as a diversion, the operation was a huge success.

That night, he studied until dawn, slept for twenty minutes, and proceeded to ace his final exam. He went on to graduate Magna Cum Laude while carrying the unbelievable load of being a triple major which explains why, in later life, people referred to him as doctor, doctor, and doctor. Some of the women even managed a breathy sigh after the second doctor reference; rumor had it, there were some who couldn’t help but do doctor, doctor, oh doctor and then a noticeable groan.

But, this guy was so cool. He had his goals and wasn’t about to succumb to the inherent dangers of the flesh. He was, after all, a man on a mission. He was destined to save the world, one country at a time; of course he began with his own.

***

This looks like such a great place for me to begin my life’s journey. I’ll mingle my way into the crowd, wait for someone to say something profound, and then begin getting signatures from all of them.

Now, let’s see -- what will I have them sign an testament to?

I know; I’ve got it!

They’re going to love this: free transportation tickets to be able to ride anywhere around the city and the campus.

Hey everybody, let’s all join arms together!

(The chant begins)

“We want a free ride! We want a free ride! We want a free ride!”

He’s got them going now. It’s frenzy time for one and all.

But then, without warning, another group comes into sight and sound – they are about the same number of people and they’re all chanting: “No more free rides! No more free rides! No more free rides!”

The mold is set. His future is cast. He joins both groups. The noise, and now the smells, are over powering.

Barking Dogs

Before joining in and barking with the rest of the dogs, why not find out if any of them really believe or even know or understand what in the name of hell they're barking about. 

Preemptive Strike

We had a kid at P.S.233 in Brooklyn, New York who was our confirmed hero and leader. His name (for short) was Newtie. Newtie was big for his age and had the courage in his soul to match his God-given size.

When you’re eight, or ten, an eleven year old is for sure one of the confirmed big guys.  Newtie – was definitely a big guy! He was the kind of kid we all looked up to. Although Newtie had graduated from P.S.233, he still hung out at our school playground. That’s not to say he was a buddy of mine, it’s just that we were all aware of each other – who belonged and who didn’t.

We had a great school playground, every inch occupied by our closely-knit clan of kids. We played every second of every day up until dark. We played basketball, softball, touch football, and of course a wide variety of stickball games were played dependent on whether or not there happened to be enough broom handles available.

Note: Today there are special stickball bats manufactured for teams that participate in stickball leagues.

Enter the Bully

Bullies come and go. Ours, the kid who most frequented our home grounds, was cut from a particularly nasty cloth.

Before depicting what transpired on the infamous day the despot bully entered our playground domain, a moment must be taken to talk about one of the great bully beaters of all time – my Father’s younger brother and my Uncle – Jack. 

Jack resembled a well-muscled fireplug; he stood all of five feet three inches tall. Of my Father’s nine brothers and sisters, Jack was the first to be born in the United States. He was the kid in the family who entered this world ready to fight for his family and country. When my uncle Jack was around, everyone felt safe.

While I never was privy to any of his physical tactics, I heard about his heroic feats of accomplishment from my older cousins. In retrospect, there’s the acknowledgement he couldn’t possibly have done all they described him as doing. But, if only a small portion of the stories were true, it would still make him one of the better neighborhood gladiators.

One day, after a ball game I had been playing in, Uncle Jack came by to offer his congratulations on the way I performed in the game. I thanked him and was about to walk away, when Jack took my arm and said he had some really important advice to offer me. I was all ears; my Uncle always talked to me as if I were an adult.

“If ever you’re being challenged by a bully, there’s only one way to handle it. Make sure you get in the first punch. And, if there’s more than one bully with him, you pick out the biggest one in their crowd, and punch the bastard in the mouth before he has a chance to think about it. Then, turn to his closest buddy and move in his direction.”

“What if he comes at me?” I asked.

Without hesitation my Uncle responded, “If you knock the biggest bully down, the rest of them will take off running.”

And, there without warning, he moved across our schoolyard towards us. Marching up to the kid at bat (stick), he grabbed the stick from his hand and announced that he needed it for the game he was going to be starting up the next day. Then, he announced with a variety of four letter words, how he would be using the schoolyard for his own friends. And, if any of us were to show up while his game was going on, he and his friends would beat the piss out of us.

The kid at bat questioned him, “Why don’t you play with guys your own size?”

The bully threw his arm around the kid in a tight headlock. It hurt enough to make him scream in pain. The bully released his hold and again warned all of us not to be there tomorrow or he and his friends would show us what pain was all about.

What the bully didn’t allow for was the fact that one of the kids was brother to our own true blue big guy, Newtie.

The next day, when the Bully and his three teammates showed up to take possession of our schoolyard they found all of us deeply involved in another stickball game. Somehow unnoticed, and waiting in the wings, was our big guy Newtie.

The same kid the Bully had placed in a headlock on the preceding day happened to be up at bat. The Bully instantly relished the sight as he moved towards the batter with grandiose thoughts of applying another headlock to his much smaller prey. With a barrage of taunts, his three teammates vociferously encouraged him.

However, this day was not destined to be the same.

The batter stood his ground not showing any noticeable display of pending danger. There they stood, three big mouth soldiers following our Bully’s lead. They stood motionless for 30 seconds before the Bully moved forward. Effortlessly, Newtie slid between the Bully and his target for the day and without a word, slapped the Bully across the side of his face, making contact at ear level and bringing his open hand down with the full force of his body weight behind the blow.

Newtie, without missing a beat, turned to the Bully’s three teammates and smiled as he slowly stepped forward. The three took off running in opposite directions as their leader sat on the concrete listening to his ears ringing.

Newtie took the bat in his hands and turned to what might formally be referred to as a Bully, and asked him if he’d like to have another try.

The Bully wasn’t able to run; it was more of a scamper, of sorts.

Uncle Jack would have been so proud. I marvel at how closely Newtie’s actions matched Uncle Jack’s rudiments for the successful upheaval of a neighborhood Bully.

When I happily explained to my Father and Uncle what had taken place in the schoolyard, they both cheered for Newtie as if he was on a ball field and they were spectators. They both agreed that Newtie had done the right thing for the right reasons.

“Do you ever try to talk a Bully out beating you up?” I asked.

Uncle Jack was quick to reply. “Talking won’t do anything but provide more enjoyment for the Bully. If he says he’s going to beat you, hurt you, strangle you, or whatever – take it as a guarantee. Bullies rarely stand down, they always get knocked down.”

Through the years I’ve found my Father and his younger brother to always be right on with their aggressive assumptions. Whether on the playground as a student, or as an adult out there in society raising children of your own, bullies seem to find a way of inflicting themselves upon others.

           

The other day, I found myself listening to a man promising to blow up my country with a preemptive strike. His stature was small and his brainpower came across the tube as remedial at best. Yet, there he stood holding court with a band of soldiers around him, hanging on his every word.

They sure did remind me of our schoolyard Bully. Uncle Jack would have eliminated any chance of this little clown-like Bully preempting anything. Newtie would have slapped the little bastard across the face, and then turned on the group of medal-wearing sociopaths to scamper along to other venues more suitable than a country whose only claim to fame would be bullying their own people.

You and Yours

Proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that people are capable, and will ask an almost stranger almost anything – this one is for you, baby.

I was asked, by an inquisitive and incredibly self-needy person of the opposite sex, (I assume) one of the more innocuous questions ever to be heard or to even have an answer considered in this, our western civilization.

“How come you haven’t written about or included me as an important personage in any of your past blog(s)?”

“You’re on my list,” I replied, “just as soon as I run out of folks to ridicule.”

        

She began to laugh uncontrollably, with a wild verve she reserved for herself and used on the rare occasion anyone may have been interested in her welfare, or even what she had to say. The fact I had responded, led to her misconstruing my lack of interest as me succumbing to the wiles of a misguided, and perhaps depraved, actress. As is my constant want, my transparency was forthright and emotionless; sort of like a politician answering an interviewer’s questions. 

“What could I possibly say about you that would be of interest to any of my readers?” I asked.

She responded, “I can’t answer that one because I find your blog uninteresting.”

Suddenly, a new and fresh idea was upon me; she would become the center of interest whenever, if ever, da harv (he’s the guy in charge of thought provocations) ran short, or found himself needy of a person, place, or thing to ridicule – almost an impossibility! 

In case you’re having difficulty understanding what I’m saying, let me bring you up to date.

This woman or man, actress or actor, asks a question when, in actuality, they really couldn’t care less about having their question answered. I guess my assertion applies to men and women in all strata of life, as we know it to exist.

Some of you might even understand my apparent gripe, if I used my wife’s cat (noun) as an example. He will answer or ignore any name you (meaning me) choose to call him. “Simba,” his baptized nom de plume, serves as a supposed recognition-drawing device, but I usually call him “Bert” (“Burt”). In any event, like I said before, he comes when he feels like it. Make no mistake, when he does arrive it’s never because he’s being attentive. There are two reasons “Bert” comes in when you call him: either he’s hungry, or the weather is inclement.

NOTE: In the event “Bert” doesn’t answer to a specified food call, dawn or dusk, it isn’t because he’s sick, or in love (he’s been fixed – sexual meanderings are an impossibility), but it is most likely that a bird has had a heart attack and dropped dead directly in front of him. Unlike his Mother, who was an athletic animal, “Bert” has rarely been seen running.

When a cat calls out (heavy duty meowing), they are for certain listening to or for a response, not necessarily preparing their next – and less than purposeful – question. The meowing will not subside until they get what they want. On the other hand, when an actor or actress keeps up a non-listener type of needy, or needless perfunctory assault on my failing sanity, I have no choice but to take a page from “Bert’s” book. I quickly remedy a thespian’s meowing by simply turning down the sound control pot. I continue looking at them from behind my well-secured double glass enclosure, all the time physically keeping any form of my internal delight disguised by what appears to be attentiveness.

Thank you “Bert.” Without knowing it, I have the benefit of my own mentor within the confines of our “villa on da hilla.”

Meow.

Bruiser's Prayer

Following the completion of my nightly chat with a higher power, and unexpectedly as my eyes began to close – pending sleep was no more than a minute or two away…

Some nights are different. This night was different than most.

Stepping towards me, she displayed a special look always reserved for anguish. It wasn’t her norm; through the many years of our professional acquaintance we had grown to respect one another. Until then, I had never seen this lady with anything other than an uplifting countenance. 

Late in the day, following a pleasant audition, our conversation became a personal one.  In less than a few short moments, she conveyed the troubles of a Mother concerned over the welfare of her child. She anguished over the pending report of the serious medical tests her daughter had recently undergone.

I wonder if there is any word more harrowing than cancer, especially when it is attached to the possibility of invading a family’s solitude. For once the ominous word is spoken, retraction of what may occur will be with you forever, whether cured or not.

But long before incidents came to me with the truest of meanings, I played with a 16 year old’s vicarious portions – of life not yet fostering any wounds deep or severe enough to mar my reckless exuberances.

Some folks hide from any form of stimuli, as they pray for sleep to come quickly using a variety of quirky psychological tricks. I was no more than 16 when our family moved into an older Spanish style home in the Beverly-Wood area of West Los Angeles. I had the wonderment of a full bathroom attached to the room I slept in; for me, it seemed like a hotel suite all to myself. But there was one little problem – the bathroom sink had a slow and relentless dripping faucet.

Under normal circumstances, a constant dripping of water would be tantamount to torture. For me, it became how many drips could I count before falling asleep. My life has always been a game of challenges.         

It was before my nightly prayer ritual was installed, and my first feeling of my own personal mortality was still three years away. I do remember feeling myself smile on many nights just before sleep arrived – always-joyous thoughts of our team winning an important baseball game. Like I said, I had not yet felt my mortality. The names of common human maladies were not a real part or place in my life, as yet. At 16, I listened to the drip and fell fast asleep, not a worry in the world about me or anyone else.

Its nice to be 16, for many of us it was fun and games.

In the Army, without any form of graciousness this 19 year old was unceremoniously introduced to the vacuous graying of human skin brought on by the human assumptions of fear. Mortality became real for me before the subsiding of my 19^th year.

And, as I pronounced my thankfulness on this different evening of my life, thoughts of this Mother – with the gray look she shared as the story of her daughter was told – dominated until another man’s words were recalled.

A soldier friend of mine had just returned from taking communion in a special tent the Chaplain had set up for services of all denominations. Fear has no religious preferences, I guess. 

We called him “Bruiser,” and the name was as apropos as you could get. Jokingly, I said to Bruiser when he returned from his evening Mass, “Yes, as a matter of fact I did.”

He had a very serious expression when he answered me.

Bruiser’s words ended my evening prayer as my thoughts of that afternoon, when this Lady with the vacuous gray look shared her fear for her daughter’s welfare with me, returned.

Bruiser’s words became my wishes for the woman and her daughter as my eyes became heavy, “Lord, may they feel your presence.”

Note: Ultimately, the news was good. 

Tone Deaf* and Stiffs

*Unable to perceive differences of musical pitch accurately.

It’s not a disease, though there are many of us (not me) who have it; some are frightfully impaired while others are merely limited to a small extent – dependent on what you think small means. It’s kind of like explaining what is, is.

I have a younger sister who happens to be completely tone deaf. She cannot carry a tune, albeit singing, whistling, or even her relentless attempts at humming. Playing a musical instrument would be hopeless at best, unless she was to use it as an implement of protection. She once tried to hit me over the head with my trumpet. Fortunately for me there is a nine-year age difference between us, and all it did was create uncontrollable laughter by our Mother and Father. (Yes, Mom and Dad did have a weird sense of humor. We all have to get what we get from a reliable source, don’t we? They were truly a reliable pair when it came to finding a thing or two to laugh at or about.)

By age six, my sister was well into a lifelong love affair with commercials. In her young era of life, there was a preponderance of singing commercials being constantly played day and night on both radio and television. She had the lyrics to all of them memorized. While she may have given up on her feeble attempts at crowning me with my own trumpet, her singing at the most inopportune times, never failed to take over whatever important moment in my life might have been revealing itself.  

As an example, on the rare moments when I thought it important enough to be studying for a school exam, Sis would enter my room on tip toes and then without warning, begin singing about how AJAX – the foaming cleanser – would float the dirt right down the drain. Then, as I began to giggle with pretend annoyance, she’d follow up with her version of the ever popular Doctor Ross Dog Food and, if the situation demanded an encore, there was nothing better to place the nail in my laughter coffin than the Chesterfield Cigarette theme song – how mild can a cigarette be.

Because I was the older brother, this then seven-year-old little girl would hopelessly take part in any theatrical scheme I came up with. She’d put on display a marvelous exuberance whenever I chose to be nice to her. It didn’t take much goading on my part to convince her to get up and entertain at a family get together. There we would be – aunts, uncles, and cousins gathered together, talking and having a great time, when I would call them to attention and announce they were in for a big treat. Sis would come up to center stage and without hesitation, begin singing her own rendering of the most readily heard commercials of the day. Without exception, all in attendance enjoyed having a break from whatever problems they might have. She may not have been able to carry a tune, but for sure my sister wasn’t an on-stage stiff. 

The Stiff

In voice over, I suppose the synonym for not being tone deaf would be having good diction. Both good pitch recognition and good diction are held in similar esteem when making other comparisons. As an example of my theory of working comparisons, I offer you a couple of interesting (at least to me) contradictions and questions to consider…

• What is there about the game of golf that makes it so difficult for most people? 
• What about the condition of stage fright?
• Why do most people desire to be first, but when given the chance to go first invariably turn it down?
• Why does a tone deaf little girl have the courage to step up center stage and perform?
• Why does a person with perfect diction, to go along with a beautiful voice, find it almost impossible to be hired as a professional actor in the field of voice over?

If you’re reading and questioning my premise of a skilled group of people displaying great ineptitude for success, then I presume you are not attending to any form of professional aptitudes requiring a display of creativity within the world of any subjective art forms.

At this point, I’ve lost about 62 percent of my readers. Why 62 percent, you may ask? Because, I say so. Now isn’t that subjective? The man who delivers such a statement regarding more than anything attributable to the mass population of average human beings, should earn their living in only one comparable world – live your life and times in search of success through striving in a creative art form structure. Short, and as sweetly stated as I can make it, only about 30 percent of humanity should ever attempt to “draw a straight line.”

Note: “Draw a straight line” is the Harvey Kalmenson definition of creative ability.

Although my little sister was tone deaf, she nevertheless has creative ability. She could step up onto whatever of life’s platforms it happened to be, and without total inhibitions, she would proceed to be. What you got was truth. Hers. She didn’t pretend to sing, she sang. My sister will never be a stiff.

Stiffs

Real wood has a look and feel to it, which will never be replaced by real plastic. Perhaps it’s because plastic will never be real.

Real Wood:  “See. Spot. Run.” 

Plastic:        “See…spot…run….”

It was during an acting workshop, many years ago…

I was fortunate enough to be in attendance as our guest Greer Garson demonstrated her interpretation of reality.

Miss Garson was aware of an interesting problem, which a lesser actor may not have been aware of; her unbelievable beauty was always a distraction. No audience was able to let it go without notice. 

Center stage, she hesitated for a moment, obviously in a display of truthfully deep thought. She appeared to be holding and petting a small animal in her arms as she began.

“The bandages will soon be off,” flowed from her in a stream of consciousness. She leaned forward and said gently as she appeared to be releasing the animal from her arms, “See spot run.”

Miss Garson had created her before, during, and after scenario in a matter of a moment or two. Yes her beauty remained, but it was no longer a distraction.

We learned from her disarming presence, the power of truth and focus. I heard statements delivered that day about the suppleness of pure thought – how suppleness and stiffness were at the opposite ends of communicating with a live audience. Then, add to the bearing suppleness had, not only having to do with delivery, but also with the understanding the actor is attempting to convey – either by sight, sound, movement, or by lack there of. 

Perceiving the truth is the very first step in order to convey it.

        

“I inwardly prayed for the little girl’s ability to see when the bandages were ultimately removed. I felt her anxiety as I said the words to myself, ‘God help her to see my puppy.’”

Then, one of us asked Miss Garson why she prayed for the little girl to see the puppy and not see her beautiful face as her first glance. Her answer was direct and simple. It brought our giggles to the surface.

“I believe my line was, ‘See spot run,’ not, ‘Look at my beautiful countenance.’”

All during this all too brief learning experience, Greer Garson never seemed to raise her voice. I’ve always wondered if what she taught and believed in was tailored entirely for our very young group of 16 year olds, or whether it would become my own belief through the ensuing years. 

Greer Garson donated millions for the construction of the Greer Garson Theatre at both the Santa Fe University of Art and Design and Southern Methodist University's Meadows School of the Arts.

The theatres were funded on three conditions: 1) the stages be circular, 2) the premiere production be William Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream, and 3) they have large ladies' rooms.

Oh, No! You Can't Say That!

They’ll think you mean something like _____* sex.

That’s what I did mean.

Well, you just can’t say that. People will think you’re thinking about it.

What people are you talking about? You mean the adults out there who are thinking about the same thing or things I happen to be thinking about? Did you ever see a guy walking down the street, and a rather attractive (or not so attractive) gal comes passing by and, because the guy happens to be with his wife, he steals a clandestine look at her – making sure not to be noticed by anyone, especially his wife?

Wake up, Mister! Everyone noticed you and besides, who are you hurting? Looking is good; touching depends on the timing. Mental touching is almost always good – as in “I was touched by a beautiful sentiment.”

To look and to touch are part of being alive.

da harv’s credo: “I don’t want to die until I’m dead!” If I happen to be looking, it’s because I am able to see. What a concept, don’t you think?

I remember once seeing a guy fall flat on his ass as he tried to avoid being noticed as he salaciously admired the human form of a pulchritudinous and delightfully graceful member of the distaff side. Some might say if he weren’t looking, he wouldn’t have taken the header. For me personally, I have learned to do a walk and look simultaneously. I don’t refer to my adroitness as multi-tasking, because enjoying really isn’t a task.

This entire mental wizardry does stir my curiosity.

A hypothetical: Suppose you are in a restaurant and the waiter or waitress comes up to your table and blithely (disregard for the rules of the road) announces, as she shows you her pad or whatever slip of paper she uses in taking an order, “Here’s what you will be having today.”

Alternate scenario: In your own place of business, an employee who you pay handsomely (or entry level, it doesn’t matter) listens to your request (order) and blithely responds with, “I’m not going to do what you ask.”

Your next words, in either case, would be, “Goodbye now.” For some, it would be accompanied by a Rose Queen type wave.

Do you ever wonder, as I do, if our elected officials ever think about how they’re all in the process of screwing us? Aren’t they, our elected officials, doing what the waitress or our employee is attempting to do in the example scenarios presented?

Can I ask that question – or is it similar in connotation to thoughts of any other sex act, or act of sex, to be determined by Congress after proper investigation? I seem to recall a high-ranking politician saying on network television, as he pointed his finger directly at the camera, how he had never had sex with that woman. It was later established how it must have been totally her fault – kind of like she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

        

So what’s the point?

Exactly! I’ve been asking that question almost from the time I experienced my first slide of life. When a person the likes of my favorite man of the day, Greg Guttfeld, rattles away with his own series of abstract deliverances, the likes of which would make Picasso proud to know him – I feel, why not da harv? (Yeah.) Why not, damn it? Why do I have to watch what I say to these folks? Most of which live out there on the other side of my disturbing “blognarios” (there’s no such word, but it’s like a scenario) have little or no concerns over what I’m saying anyway.

Examine these facts of (my) life: with well over 30,000 hits, you’d assume I’d have received a torrential outpouring of encouragement – or discouragement – regarding my creative literary notions.

Oh, contraire! However, what I have done may be deemed quite scientific. My writing style leaves most people speechless. Think about the sheer magnitude of my discovery. Out of the 30,000 “blogaroos”’ (another of my words) only two responded. Two out of 30,000 proves beyond a shadow of a doubt da harv has been successful in finding a way to silence even the most heartiest of blowhards.

This particular missive will go down in history as the beginning of my new professional service. As of this moment a new company exists – taken from a group of our local Valley Girl Association – my new company is known as “Oh, Shut Up.”

Believe it or not, at first it wasn’t apparent to this da harv guy that “shut up” meant, “keep going.” Then came discovery, as my attorney friends would say, and I did discover (a lot, but not really) an almost incoherent way to converse.

But, what a marvelous bottom line to know and understand. Our future is in good hands, or would that be in good thumbs? Our leaders have taught the “youngins” well (they think). Pretend to listen, ignore, and tweet a friend with constant updates.

***

It was at lunch awhile back at the very posh country club of the well known. This day, we were being treated to anything you could possibly think of having for lunch with a group of the very well known. These were all people who took pride in being the founders and charter members of the Los Angeles Bull Shit Brigade.

Note: no cameras were ever allowed within these confines.

With the exception of yours truly, those present for lunch were the people synonymous with power and control. What I noticed immediately was the lack of sound. Aside from a public library, or the quiet room of a spa, this could have only been rivaled by the entrée of a funeral home. Talk about sedate…this was irate sedate. I had never been around people who could eat as quietly as they did. The gentleman, who brought me as his guest, will remain incognito because he is still alive and prominent.

After entering the main dinning room, we were escorted to our table in the furthest end of the room away from the entry and up against the glass window looking out at the golf course. After being seated, my host whispered to me, “It’s not what it seems, they don’t mean what they say. Only a few know and understand what transpires right under the noses of the uninformed.”

If a tort was a tart

And a tart was a tort

How could a heart determine

When or what to abort

If an instant was a feeling

And a feeling prompted an instant

Would guile demand my smile?

Does a sly smile depict guile?

If a thing is cherished

Then only the abstract is the thing

Speaking of and in the abstract

Happens to be my thing

The quiet lunch was revealing. They ordered in ways that said more than could possibly be deemed by me as secretive. It was pointed out by my host, that the maître d’ happens to be an extremely influential and powerful influence peddler. If something of importance is going on in this town, he’ll know and have a handle on it.

The three short paragraphs of prose did have an ulterior message other than what one might think they’ve discerned for themselves. What I was left with was a final and simple statement; whether or not it bears truth within its meaning is yours to decide for yourself.

“What will be is and has always been predetermined.”

Author unknown (not really).

* This was a compromise. I really said something else. 

How to Fail

Guarantee: Don’t practice your craft and you will have failure all wrapped up in a neat little package. 

My surprise is never ending – endless. The novice always comes forth with ignorance constantly enhanced by inactivity of the mind. In other words, if you think you have a chance to hit the ball without the benefit of regular (every day for most) batting practice, then you really have another think coming. You might as well stay at home as you fit perfectly under the marquee verifying your stature within the voice over community – Rank Amateur. Perhaps I am being somewhat harsh; novice could suffice as the proper marquee descriptive.

It must have been five years ago when an actor, suitably described by me as a rude, crude dude, had completed his audition and, when I asked him to please fill out a registration form for our files, he looked at me like I was crazy. You’d think most actors with any brains might want their name and whereabouts firmly ensconced in the database of a reasonably prominent casting director. (I’m being modest, make that prominent. On third thought, make that very prominent!)

The end result was that it only took this guy a few seconds to hand the form back to me. I wondered how he could have completed the form so quickly. When I glanced at the so-called completed registration form, I was taken aback by his lack of interest in having anything to do with complying to another man’s instructions. When I asked him why all that he found necessary was to print his name at the top of the form, he curtly replied with how we already knew who represented him.

“Isn’t that enough information for you?” He asked on his way out.

“Much more than enough,” I replied.

The rude, crude dude is most likely out of whatever business he thought he was in. For certain, his agent dumped him. It is too bad that I can’t say his removal from our craft cuts down some of the competition true journeyman actors experience as their daily requiem, but the only thing this guy could possibly challenge is his couch – the dumb bastard. Oh, did I mention I thought of him as being ignorant?

***

Advice to the Lovelorn*

*Any actor who isn’t getting work.

Complaining vociferously to anyone or no one in particular, or contemplation of opening a vein will, in fact, reduce your chances of success, or even continuing with a mere existence in our subjective world. Damn, that was a long sentence, don’t you think?

I actually have experienced, first hand, a well-known personage who I can’t recall ever stumbling or dropping a word during an audition. This is, of course, almost impossibility. If you’re human, stumbles will occur. But this individual comes across as the Michael Jordan of voice over.

As a reminder, I’ve talked about him many times in the past. Michael Jordan, on many shoots, would ask and have a basketball half court set up in order for him to practice foul shots during downtime. Imagine, the greatest player of his time practicing his craft almost always. And, he never found anything to complain about.

Nothing I’ve ever seen or experienced while working as a professional will ever rival the earliest days of little theater right here in Los Angeles. Yes, it is a bygone era, but memories remain emblazoned.

It was on one of those frequent days, while cutting class, and functioning as a gofer at (I believe it was called “The Players Ring”) a little 40-seat theater on Santa Monica Boulevard that without warning, I found myself side by side with the one and only esteemed character actor, Peter Lorre.

The hunched-over actor on stage was rehearsing a scene where he portrayed a bent-over street peddler, grimacing in pain as he struggled forward inch by inch in his attempt to make a living. When the scene was completed, Mr. Lorre moved forward, extended his hand, and then hugged and personally congratulated the young, 23-year-old Harvard graduate, Jack Lemmon.

Note:  Neither of them was being paid for being there. Neither of them ever stopped practicing their craft. Both men made a lasting imprint on the society around them, giving back and taking part in a never-ending quest for education in and the betterment of themselves and the craft they both adored.

The words rude, crude, or dude could never become part of any narrative describing either of these momentous personalities.