Emulate, it can be great...

EMULATE: It can be great (or become great),

or in a bad environment cause you to incinerate.

 

Making room on your plate

room for more good stuff

show some patience, we used to say

Study well,

Real winners don’t have to bluff

Kids were taught to know

“Patience is a virtue”

Or maybe not

Today we call it “forbearance”

(It may prove well)

If that’s all you got!

 

In the very early days of my schooling, I can remember being told in no uncertain terms, during a class session: “Patience is a virtue!” To that, I, little eight-year-old da harv, bounced up with my hand raised. Why of course, I was about to challenge my teacher; I was duty-bound to do so. My teacher knew what was coming; her previous exposure to me should have served her well, but it didn’t.

 My teachers didn’t usually appreciate my responses for a few good reasons; being shown up by an eight-year-old, secondly, taking the center stage away from them, and thirdly, they weren’t asking for an opinion—especially from little da harv. I wasn’t being a wise-ass kid; I was merely repeating something my Dad had offhandedly said to me: “Be careful, there’s two sides to every story.” The teacher then proceeded to make a classic mistake by doing exactly what she admonished me for doing, taking the stage away from her. “Nobody asked you for your opinion, and you obviously don’t understand what I’m trying to explain to my class!”

(Her class? Can you imagine how un-"team player-ish” she came across? It was our class. After all, I heard my Mother talking to my Dad about how they, the taxpayers, were the people paying her salary and if the men were back from serving in the army she probably wouldn’t have a job.)

What happened next was a triumph for me. The class became gleeful, especially a couple of the little maidens who I enjoyed entertaining. It’s like when you’re on stage and you know the audience is yours. You feel the breathing while enjoying their complete attention. I rapidly raised my hand. The teacher called on me. “What is it now, Kalmenson”, she asked in her own special demeaning manner. (For some reason she rarely called me by my first name.)

Without hesitation I arose and responded directly to her, with my Dad's quote, “Patience isn’t a virtue if the house is on fire, make sure to get the hell out of there as soon as your feet can move. The only thing that should ever stop you is make sure to take a quick look around to see if your family or friends are moving along with you!”

Note: I’m deliberately keeping from mentioning the teacher's name because there may remain some of her relatives, alive and sucking the oxygen from whatever room they happen to be in.

What had occurred in that classroom, on that particular day was to remain as a moment that stayed with me forever, or at least up until now. Certainly, at the moment I wasn’t thinking about upstaging my teacher (even though I was) or attempting to make her look bad in front of my classmates (even though I did). In an indirect way, I was, at age eight, doing what psychologists often refer to as building self-concept through mirroring. 

The act of mirroring is not always bad, and not always good. I was emulating my Dad when I pointed out to our teacher my Dad's allowance, "patience is not always a virtue.” On the other hand, emulating one of my Dad's hot-headed brothers, could, or would most likely get you in a whole lot of trouble—one of my favorite uncles in particular (who will remain anonymous).

I know for a fact many of my cousins have inherited a strong, long-life gene. Punching a prospective enemy first before they punch you, was this uncle's mantra during his entire lifetime. He was the brother who lived by his own credo of “You must hit them before they have a chance to hit you.” While my Dad pointed out to me, “Try to never hit anyone you don’t want to kill! Any form of violence can carry a heavy penalty along with it." Most little kids believe in the mantra, “sticks and stones can break my bones, but names will never harm me”, or something like that. But the most used statement for eight-year-old Brooklyn kids in my era was: “I can say whatever I want. This is a free country we live in!”

 

Emulation By Way Of Focus 

Like so many kids today, and even long before me, kids had their idols. Whether it was baseball, football, basketball, or whatever the season, we played our games. Our schoolyard was always alive with the sounds of kids acting out their dreams. If baseball was your pleasure, it was always the last of the ninth inning, with bases loaded. There, you were the announcer calling the game, and being the ballplayer about to become today’s hero.

We were focused and caught up in acting out our dreams. In essence, we were emulating the very best athletes of the period. The practice of emulation is what I’d like to discuss. First some clarity, I am talking about emulating a hero, not becoming an impersonator or mimic. Emulation in its truest sense, as I see it, is equaling or approaching the degree of excellence as displayed or enacted by our idol, hero, and, of course, our heroines. The secret word is admiration. We, without equivocation, admire our heroes and heroines. In addition, they certainly come in all sorts of packages. They don’t have to be athletes. Authors, musicians, dancers, artists, close and afar, aunts, uncles, brothers, and sisters. The list is endless. If they excelled, we oftentimes made them idols.

So far, I have probably cited a variety of truths—many you’re aware of—however, I do have a thought or two often overlooked. While we kids were in the throes of recognizing our latest idols, we were, in actuality, involved in a deep and personal study, focusing on the limits of what our young years would permit. How often a Mother was heard to say, "if only he did his arithmetic homework the way he studies those damn batting averages.” In many cases, study and focus results in emulation. Example: A batter knocks the imaginary dirt from his spiked shoes, takes a deep breath, hitches up his pants, and is ready to cast his beady eyes upon the poor pitcher who is about to be dismantled by the schoolyard idol of the future.

My favorite musician, the one I idolized the most—yes, there were quite a few—was Harry James. I listened to anything and everything he performed. I got to the point where I could recognize his trumpet-playing after hearing just a note or two. Without realizing what I had been up to, I was deeply engaged in the most important process: the ability to focus.

My point is not for a young person to become someone else. It is, however, to emphasize the value of learning. And how focusing on the specific emulation of a great one's skills, could help provide a way for a young artist to hone their own skills as well.

            Years ago, when I was in the beginning throes of creating the Kalmenson & Kalmenson Method, I found myself as focused than I had ever been in my life. As a director, teacher, and sound editor, I was enthralled with and by the continual successes by a rather small group of actors who were able to accomplish their goals in the field of voiceover. By listening to these actors over and over again, I began to recognize a similarity. While none of them were in the same category, vocally (meaning they didn’t sound alike), their commonality, besides earning a great deal of money, can be described by a single word: focus. They all brought an intensity with them. They came to play, no matter how meaningful an audition may ultimately become. To them, it was always conducted with respect for the situation and (most of the time) for me, their director. Usually, they didn’t have to be reminded about professionalism.

(Well, maybe a couple of times a reminder became necessary and I was duty-bound and had to call it to someone’s attention. They would read like voiceover performance is one of the most important things in this world. Not so; I told them like I was back in a classroom with a teacher who reminded everyone, “patience is a virtue”. Not if you’re suffering from some chest pains. I’ll have to call 911, quickly (unless a person is not showing me the professional respect having been earned).)

 

Now, just a little name dropping; for me, some of the greatest people in the world were cut from the great Harry James cloth. I saw, firsthand, Orson Welles emulating Harry James. Hans Conried, Burgess Meredith along with the likes of Brock Peters, Stella Adler, Cloris Leachman...those were the folks who helped me become Harvey along the way. These people can never be replaced, but each may be emulated. 

Louis Armstrong rehearsing alongside Ella Fitzgerald is a moment only a few were fortunate enough to experience, and what an outlandish experience for this kid to have witnessed. And, better than the mere experience, have the ability in my lifetime to spiritually begin to understand. Those two together were comparable to Sandy Koufax's focus en route to pitching four no-hit games. It’s a time when the world stops, and only one word describes an individual’s intensity during the moment.

Try it, you may like it. The lesson here is a simple one. Pick out those whose work you admire. Invest in the art of focus. Each move and sound brings a message of action. Nothing should be wasted. Whether it helps you to prepare, deliver a line, or relax when it’s an absolute must, make it your study. I will never advise an actor to hang their professional hat on impersonating another actor. What I am attempting to convey has only to do with emulating habits and patterns suitable for you, as an individual. Emulation doesn’t mean sacrificing your truth for that of another.

Often times the truth can hurt and when it does hurt—and it will—make use of it. This won’t be the time to express how “patience is a virtue”. Let your action drive your expression conveyed with words in lines moving forward with your truth, yours to give another, a listen-to, and perhaps even deciding to emulate.

Somewhere out there, there are many of my mentors who are aware of my writing and enjoy the healthy fact I choose to share what they have shared with me along the way; without being indemnified, truth be told, “People do not live by bread alone.” Some way, somehow, Cathy and I have managed to survive on less than half a loaf. There are many out there who are doing the same. Emulation in this case is not a good thing, but by the same token, it beats the hell out of many alternatives. Even my third-grade teacher would agree, “half a loaf is better than none at all”.

HK

 

P.S. Take a look at our website. It might be fun for you to view a partial list of those emulators I’ve had the pleasure (in most cases) of directing. 

(link)

If you’d like to appear on my list as another of those folks I’ve directed, just send me a note saying how much you love me and include a nickel, preferably an Indian Head, minted in the mid to late eighteen hundreds.

Too early to recall, but remembered as some time between late night and dawn in a geographic location, the furthest easternmost area of these United States of ours...

A very young boy was experiencing an unsolicited version of what life could dish out. While remembering exacts (which most of us are frequently unable to retain during one's lifetime), what follows is drawn from former happenings, recaptured from a restoration of a likely truth. By no means is our story about a little boy lost.

Boy to Man; From a Kid Next Door

At first, no more than lackluster transient thoughts
Life’s lines of which I cannot cipher, or at this point in my young life, read between

Winds, dispensed grudgingly, no longer a storm
To push me forward, despite indifferences shown
Unwilling to move, my determination of unknown consequence

Though resisting, forced to join the throng
Explanations from feckless masses always deceive
They manage to stifle, paying no heed to my bidding

Perhaps awkwardly, within the day and the night
My eighth year had gone
With bright eyes, joyous thoughts, smiles that were forever

It was then that I first sought direction,
those of apparent substance mused
It would never be, they so informed

Learn this, these learned teachers postured,
Only the most ordinary of people will belong
A driving force, longing to belong

Observing and studying
Mimicking what seemed to be a road to take

Always, as always
A breeze, a wind, a storm
Yet carrying me forward

Fostering me to lead them
Then hoisted upon uncomfortable shoulders
Above them, I was unceremoniously told I belonged

Without warning
In protest, I remained there
In tandem, their complaints resounded
“How come, him? He just got here!”

Strange when it first occurred
What was asked of me became done
All questions, research, inquires, labors of their loves
Became mine to reason, quench, resolve

They left me space following accomplishment
Only resentment was ever received
While they desired my help
They hated their need

They had become my unsolicited suppliants
Never finding merits within the masses
Time, like many sonnets, is forgotten

Helping fellows does bear an inward reward
With tears dried, and happiness stored
Never enough time allowed to sustain my reward
What I discovered was earned, not endowed

A breeze, even the wind will not suffice
It has been better for me to stand alone
Though raised to shoulder height
Welcoming each challenge, I will offer help
Accepting resentment as continual

Within the beginning of each day
Carrying forth, and becoming a blissful ending
Each evening

Dreams assuring a new breeze will come
Years have become many
More plentiful than a young man might have imagined

People by the thousands
Each experience added to my well
Now, seemingly too deep to ever go dry

No breath will be wasted
It will be lived as if never before
Each breeze will become a wind

And then a storm
Those helped, now assist with turmoils in store
No strangers come my way
I’ve seen them all yesterday

Turn life around then
Ready to begin again
Long since forgotten the adulation

How late in the game it may be
I’ll plan on getting through this one more storm
And remain a winning disciple
Of all the winners along my way

To those I’ve mentored
The number inestimable
Many enjoying the heights

They seem to smile during storms
Knowing a friendly breeze will return

Understanding a simple truth
No matter what you are told
Nor by whom
It may have been, to a little boy of eight

We’re all born to be strong
We all belong.

Smile today
Don’t wait for a vaccine in order to do so


da harv

“Our VoiceOver World”

The Voice Actor

Listen closely, or from a distance

Like, love, or disapprove my tone if you will

Be in agreement, or tune out my theories

Be moved into a mirthful state

Dissolve passionless from my efforts to create

Your choice in listening to me be only yours

I well may be a deceiver

Not nurturing any humans bigoted ways

Not helping, or encouraging to cipher

Who I am, or what regions were the origins

Which cultivated my ways, these remaining days

For when you are in a listening mode

And I’ve found your ear

Perhaps then betraying fear

I am a voice bearing no skin color with my sound

My frame is both short and tall

My gender reflects all

And age becomes ageless as my messages abound

I grow stronger within the populace

No body nor will, may govern who I’ve become

Free from those who may choose by my nature or color

I am race-less in all I profess or say

I am a voice-actor, among many

The world would be a better place if they did it my way!

 

 January 2000

da harv

The Roots Are There

     Rarely does a week or so go by without someone asking me about a celebrity I knew, or had worked with, from my vast past history file. Often the question alone will bring a smile, considering I would have to be well over one hundred years old to have known or worked with the personality the inquirer was asking about. I will admit to the fact my Dad began taking me to the movies when I had attained the ripe old age of three. The same fact applies to baseball games. My Mother didn’t have a love affair with either of those outings. Unless Mom was the main entry, forget about it.

     And then there were the early days of baseball in the life and times of yours truly--at, or before, age three. My Dad told me how he would take me to see baseball games in Brooklyn, during the summertime. Some of what Dad had to say was a little hard to believe; he described not having to pay for my ticket because I would be sitting on his lap for most of the game. It was also a very meaningful outing for me, along with my Father. I watched history being made when Jackie Robinson stepped on to the playing field, for the then Brooklyn Dodgers, as the very first black man in the major leagues. We, kids, took to Jackie Robinson with total glee! Overnight, all us kids became Jackie Robinson emulators. We walked like the man, swung our bats the same way, and even slid into bases the same way he did, with complete and reckless abandonment.

On Tuesday, April 15, 1947, Jackie Robinson made his 

MLB debut in front of 26,623 fans at Ebbets Field.

"The Roots Are There"

     Time and again I come to you with another: da harv's “smile and think” self-indulgence drill. Some of you out there might be going, “ha-ha, da harv has to think about an incident, and then smile about his thoughts”. (Well, I said it was my drill, my game--I get to play it my way.)
     Knowing how the game is going to turn out is my allowing factor; allowing me, da harv in charge, to do it my way. My premise, you see, is a simple one: I do know in advance, my game will only involve remembrances which bring me a smile, or oftentimes the most hearty (and hardy) belly laugh. Even when I retrace a beleaguering incident from the past history of this marvelous country we’re all privileged to live in, I find myself taking great pride in our ability as Americans to overcome some of the world’s most daunting events.
     How often does a parent turn to a young child and asks the question, “Why did you do that?” If what the parent is asking about is a bad thing and the child should know better, you might bet the kid is going to respond by placing the blame on someone else; like "it was my brother, Charlie, who did it", or "made me do it". But in retrospect, thinking back to an incident when the parent walks into a room and finds his child busily pouring water on to the back of his dog, “Bonkers”, and laughing hysterically at the outcome of “Bonkers” shaking the water all over the room in an effort to dry himself off...then doing it over and over again. Looking back at the two of them, boy and dog, seemingly laughing together, out of control, with outright pleasure, makes this a remembrance which just might be the stimulus of a well-needed belly laugh; it was for me! After all, it’s my game. You may want to make it yours.

(So,) Virus, Smirus! It's date night!

Or, the other day, many of my fellow travelers on the 134 freeway who happened to get a glimpse of me as I, laughing with some tears rolling down my cheeks, drove by figuring I was a five PM, late afternoon, normal, everyday nut case. I was heading back from Pasadena after picking up one of our repaired computers. The traffic was wall-to-wall despite the virus.

Let the games begin!

   

     What caused my laughing brain into the afternoon's uproarious laughing jag was THE ONE and ONLY, Buddy Hackett. Back in time remembrance: thinking of Buddy always brings a smile, and/or my complete loss of control!

And as the years rolled by…

     Those who really knew and understood Buddy, are always quick to say what a nice man he was. Buddy had the ability to do and say things with one single driving force: to make people laugh out loud. That’s not to say he didn’t care for money. At one time, he was the hottest ticket on the Vegas Strip.

     For those of you out there who were never treated to Buddy telling one of his many stories, you might not understand how funny a man he really was. So many ingredients went into his revelations, it wasn’t unusual for an entire room (night club) to become hysterical with laughter; his voice and simultaneous facial contortions were completely disarming. No one in the audience was immune from Buddy’s contagious effects; he looked and sounded funny.

      Often it didn’t take much for Buddy to have an entire group roll with laughter just after giving out an unexpected answer. He was standing at an outside swimming pool at a noted Beverly Hills hotel, speaking to a young group of our American Women's Olympic skiing team, when Johnny Carson comes walking by and asks Buddy what he was up to. Buddy with a perfectly indignant smile, looks at Johnny and says, “I’m teaching them how to Schuss!” At that, Johnny completely loses it with laughter, to which Buddy seals it with, “They’re skiers, aren’t they?” At that, Johnny was out of it!

Note: "In alpine skiing, a schuss is a straight downhill run at high speed."

"You must remember this."

     The year was 1960. The movie, “The Joker Is Wild”, starring Frank Sinatra, Mitzie Gaynor, Jeanie Crane, premiered in Las Vegas. The storyline for the film was the life of the then well-known singer Joey Lewis, played by Frank Sinatra, and how Joey became a comic, after having his throat cut by a gangster. (All true.)
     In the days following the star-studded premiere of the movie, Joey Lewis was headlining at the “Silver Slipper”. A good size group of us got word, unknown to Joey, that there was going to be a surprise guest singer named Frank Sinatra; only my all-time favorite! We couldn’t wait for the 11:00 PM show to begin. The smallish club was packed. We were given the house seats right up front, just about dead center. The table adjoining ours was manned by Buddy Hackett, who came in right before showtime. He waited until the last minute because he was finishing his own gig right down the strip from us at “The Desert Inn”. (By then, he had eight solid years of unbelievable success as a Vegas headliner under his belt.)
     That evening, at the “Silver Slipper” in Las Vegas, had to be one of the best evenings a club could possibly present. In that era, it wasn’t at all unusual to be in the same room as many of the biggest names in Hollywood.

Note: Just Google the movie title “The Joker Is Wild”, premier in Las Vegas, 1960, and you’ll get a birds-eye view of what I’m talking about.

 

     Joey was well into his act when in comes Mr. Frank Sinatra. Joey stops abruptly and without hesitation Frank chimes in with, “If you don’t mind, pal?" Joey smiles with a total display of humility as Frank takes the stage. Joey comes down and sits at Buddy’s table. The music is playing while Frank is talking to the audience with a manner of sincerity, second to none. I do remember Frank saying how he was a saloon singer. There were smiles around the room. 

     Then the highlight of the evening--I remember it almost as if it were yesterday. The forty-five-year-old Frank Sinatra was at the top of his game. Men and women around the room became one. The lights came down as Frank lit his famous cigarette smoking delivery and moved down, stage right, directly to the front, and singled out a young couple in the front-row position as the song “I’ve Got A Crush On You”, began. The group became even more cohesive than I could have imagined it possible to become. Frank sang for twenty minutes, bowed deeply to the mesmerized audience, shook the hand of Joey Lewis, bowed again, threw a thank-you kiss towards Buddy, and took leave. Buddy Hackett looked up at Frank, and with his palms together, bowed in homage. Buddy then turned to leave, and with all eyes upon him, he squeezed the tip of his nose and gestured in disgust for the way Sinatra had stunk up the room with his performance. The audience, without exception, took Buddy’s antic for what it really was--humor at it’s highest level. Obviously Buddy and Frank had great respect for each other.
     Forty years later, Buddy and I worked together, intimately, as actor and director. I’ll bet you a dollar to a dime, wherever Buddy and Frank happen to be, someone or many are being spectacularly entertained.

Find the time

Binge a little

a song or rhyme

when will you smile again

there’s still time

Recapture the uncapturable

If life causes a fall

Fall down laughing

Schuss down a hill

When you can’t ski

And if you’re to take a knee

Sing "I’ve Got A Crush On You"

Maybe to a puppy

Or looking at yourself in a mirror

This will be a happy charmed

"Silver Slipper" kind of day

Like Buddy and Frank

Good stuff remains forever

Your remembrances

Keep them stored forever

Don’t let them get away

And then tomorrow

When the Virus is gone

We’ll have a driving life force

We’ll all group together

We’ll all carry on

We’ll take the time

To thank one another

Remembrances of help

Our little drill

How to laugh and carry on!

hk

Getting Our Lives Back

     I know, I know. I, too, am not immune from the damn pain in the butt this virus thing has put us in. It’s like every day is mostly like “Groundhog Day”, the movie.  The days seem to be all flying by. Every day feels the same. Wearing a mask isn’t natural for most of us. Kissing a friend on the cheek just isn’t the right thing to do when each of you is wearing a mask.

     What to do, maybe outlandish metaphors will be our survival mechanism? For me, and maybe you as well, place yourself in a subjective quandary. It’s kind of like being an actor without being paid for it. Justification will set in favorably by the rewards of self-tokenism; like creating a character from your past. I don’t mean necessarily a real character, but one who takes you away from today. Takes away the facial condoms we’re forced to live with…

     That is—unless you happen to be “Batman and Robin”, masks are not normalcy of life. Even the Lone Ranger only covered his eyes. Why Tonto referred to his pal as the masked man didn’t make sense; the Lone Ranger only had his eyes covered. Only his horse, Silver, was fooled by the Ranger. Each time Silver was mounted by him, he would raise up on his hind legs in an attempt to buck this strange guy from his back. Silver finally calmed down one day when Tonto, who was also the village medicine man, explained to Silver: he could recognize it was the Lone Ranger by the smell of the bad breath he had, which was caused by a neighborhood breakout of a pandemic spread of Native American Halitosis.  It turns out the Lone Ranger had a deep-seated grudge against the Chinese and refused to buy anything made by them. The fact was, the Chinese had invented the toothbrush eight hundred years before the Lone Ranger and Tonto arrived from Europe. Another uncommonly known fact was, neither of these pioneer saviors was an American hero in the first place. The Lone Ranger escaped from a prison gang in Canada (maybe it be true), and Kemosabe came here to the States and was actually a Hungarian nonspeaking immigrant; which might explain the later-year Disney movie which points out at the end:

"The Lone Ranger," Johnny Depp's Tonto and Armie Hammer's John Reid aka the Lone Ranger aka Kemosabe have quite the love-hate relationship, often sparring with clever insults and digs."

""Do you know what Tonto means in Spanish?" Well, just in case you don't know the answer, "tonto" is a term reserved in Spanish-speaking cultures for the village idiot. It is literally translated to "fool.""

Here’s the truth, (I swear, I wasn’t born yet): 

"It was written for radio in 1933, intended to brand the Native American sidekick, legend has it Tonto was named after a Potawatomi Indian who would get drunk around campfires and received the nickname, which in his language translated to "wild one.""

Three stars, 1951: Jay Silverheels (39), Aboriginal Canadian Mohawk,

Silver (age unknown), the horse in the middle, and Clayton Moore (37).

 

Note: In the earliest days of American western movies, many of the Native American characters were being portrayed by Hungarians and Hungarian immigrants. Who produced them, according to the immigrants, thought their accent sounded like a Native American's. As a matter of fact, one of the earliest and perhaps best-known immigrants was cast as “Count Dracula”, an actor named Bela Lugosi! Bela’s bio differed depending on who was doing the interview. Lugosi’s accent was caused by his extremely poor English. Whether his homeland was Hungary, Romania, or wherever it might have been, that was the language he was thinking in. In other words, his dragged-out diction was caused by the delay of his personal problems in cyphering English pronunciation. Everyone, men who attended any of the Bela Lugosi films, enjoyed taking a crack at impersonating him: 

“Permit me to introduce myself. I am Count Dracula.”

"His Kiss Was Death Yet No Woman Could Resist"

from the Charleston Daily Mail, April 5, 1931, page 39

     We, kids, had so many important things to ponder when we arrived back home; never bad swords slashing without reason. Just wonderfully, marvelous adventures to recapture. We streamed out of our Saturday adventure with the Count, coming home and trying to find a cape to throw around myself. So when my Father and I joined forces later in the day, I could entertain the family by greeting them with: “Hello. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Count Dracula. I’m here to suck the blood from your neck.” I was particularly sinister with my Mother. Somehow, there was a feeling she was resenting me being the on-stage performer. And then, of course, I enjoyed every second of it, as I’m enjoying it at this moment.

     Bye, bye, “Groundhog Day”. A brand new tomorrow awaits us all. Excuse me, please: “Hi-ho, Silver, away! Return with us now to those thrilling days of yesteryear, THE LONE RANGER RIDES AGAIN!" And so will we all. The next episode will be without masks.

HK

This Sunday, as is my wont, a fond remembrance

 This Sunday, as is my wont, a fond remembrance:

Many years ago, two folks were sharing an evening at the Hollywood Bowl; The musical play was “The Music Man”. However, that won’t be the point of this story, nor was this particular couple's advanced age. The night was a package of goodies to behold this warm summer evening. The Hollywood Bowl, “The Music Man”, and an all-American Iowa story, dressed up in all its theatrical finery, revived with the music for yet another generation to enjoy. It was pure gold, thanks to Meredith Wilson, a lasting musical genius.

Most of us go to the Bowl for a slice of life, the way it’s supposed to be. A Los Angeles night on display, along with the music of the masters being performed by the cream of our cities most elite musicians. As a kid growing up in Los Angeles, there is always a good chance the Hollywood Bowl becomes a part of one’s lifestyle. That’s not to say it’s the part that gets to sit way up front like we do now. Then, my friends, and yours truly, were more than happy to sit up at the top in what was effectually referred to as the nosebleed section.

            When the first swell of music comes up, the bowl fills with the poetic sounds which will last for a lifetime of memories. One day when magically you’re in a box seat at the Bowl, with good friends, the love of your life, and food that depicts sin, it’s tough not to have a grin a yard wide. Summing up this particular evening is a simple remembrance for me: from the street to a box at the Hollywood Bowl; who would have “thunk” it could happen.

 

“Glad To Be Alive Time”

 

It was "glad to be alive time" for me. I must have had my feelings written all over my face. People were smiling back at me. Unsolicited. Glancing around at the crowd is an enjoyment for me, especially in the pond, where anyone who has been in our business as long as we have is almost for sure going to run into a recognizable face or two.

            Above the aisle and directly behind our box, an older, distinguished-looking couple, who were just finishing dinner were raising their wine glasses in an obvious toast to one another. Their joy was compelling. I marvel at the sight of two older people who have obviously been together forever. These two were special; glamorous, genuine, and some may think them a rarity. Hey, for me, they were cool. And as we prepared to see the show, my eye caught his. We both nodded and left it at that. The only other obvious commonality was that the man and I were both wearing a little pin of American flags attached to our jackets.

            The show's first half concluded to a thunderous ovation. All of us were on our feet, time to get some coffee. I turned, and as I moved out of our box and across the aisle behind us, I waved an approval thumbs up at the man, and he did a likewise move. I figured what the hell, I’m going to say something to the couple; just a word or two about what a great show we were being treated to and then be off quickly, down the ramp to get some coffee. 

            Approaching their box, I took notice the man was wearing an air force wings pinned to his chest above the American flag. “Were you in the Air Force?” I asked. He proudly proclaimed with his distinctly British accent he was a flyer in the American Air Force during World War II. “Were you a flyer?” he asked. I responded that I had served in the army, a few years after him, during the Korean Conflict. With that he stood up, straight and erect facing me, extending his hand into mine. Without another word we acknowledged mutual respect, bringing forth a knowing nod from his wife. Though we were separated by a few years in age, our handshake was that of fellow club members greeting one another. Without further conversation, we moved physically apart . As the second half commenced. I felt a single warm teardrop make its way slowly down the side of my cheek.

         In retrospect, that man and I both knew it was a flip of a coin which allowed us to be members of the same club. To survive and be there at the Hollywood Bowl, for one more evening, enchanted by a time, a place, love, and the superlative music of the night. Two strangers from different places joined together by a bond of a mutual appreciation over how precious life is.

            Somehow, the Music Man's love songs had more meaning for me that evening. The hand of my own life’s partner was held closer to my heart than ever before. I wonder how many of my fellow club members allow the joy of similar feelings.

And lest we serve

What values will we embrace

For within our club

Guidelines, self-realized

Of a man’s hand extended to another

A day for fear, shared and lived, and removed

With age which too quickly comes

A moments reprieve of a dream

For this beauty

We all must find

As we enjoy the music of this night!

HK, Monday, 5 August 2002

Give Us Our Words Back

     This morning, I was taken by this wonderful piece about twin girls that were born with a serious medical condition. The article told of a successful, twenty-two-hour surgery. One of these tiny, incredibly human, little dolls was rushed back in for a second surgery. That surgery was also successful. The reporter, while describing her condition, said that she was valiantly holding on.

     Valiant --what a wonderfully dramatic and descriptive word. I would venture a guess that we would be hard-pressed to find anyone who hears that word, that doesn't instantly have a good thought about some good deed, fact, or fiction, from their past. Valiant is one of those great "Knights of the Round Table" words. Heroes and heroines, all in living color.

     In the very moment that I read the word, I was instantly transported way back to another and better time. A time when prior to each movie, the theater's projectionist would run a film clip of our American flag unfurling in a hefty breeze. The audience response was always the same. Without exception, all of us applauded and cheered. In that era, we were all patriots. World War II was responsible for pulling us all together.

     None of us need or want another world war. What I would like is to have some of my words back. Words that make me think of other words, that make me think of other words, that make me think. In other words, just to be a child for a moment of cheerful nice-ness. Chivalrous, courageous, reliable, romantic, Batman, Superman, Captain Marvel, even the Lone Ranger, and Tonto. Strange how those are the people and the things that carry me to a better place. Maybe if it is only for a few minutes, it still serves to invigorate and provide hopefulness for better things to come. 

     After all, there has to be many more people out there to gain from these words. People who are also reminded of a time when being socially gracious wasn't a downer. So, if you can find a moment or two, write down a word. A word that takes you to another time. See it in living color the way I did. Let your smile endow you with a new charge of well-being. If you can think it,  it will be there. Imagination was given to us as a tool to be used and enjoyed. Perhaps the next time you feel a little down, recall the word: valiant. Then what happens? I can't tell you the outcome. I can only imagine.

Uplifting, insightful, loving, humorous, desirable, 

courageous, ingratiating, reliable, and, of course...

Valiant!

HK

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