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

Giving Away Some Secrets

I feel I know everyone reading my work well enough for me to be just a little bit presumptuous. I mean presumptuous about what I might ask you, as if you and I were sitting here face-to-face.

I never know how people are going to digest what I write, or if they even bother to chew on it at all. It amazes me how subjective writing is. It goes right along rivaling the rest of the arts.

One person loves what you say,
One person hates what you say,
One person couldn’t care less
And some don’t understand
And won’t get it anyway.

Some will read a line or two and comment:
“What the hell is he talking about, and who does he think he is, saying things like that?”

At my stage of the big game, I have no qualms about what I might or might not share with those individuals I care to share with. I used to deliberate about every word and sentence I set in ink. Then, one day I realized the idea of me thinking my deliberations would make it easier on me was sheer folly and totally presumptuous. Some may be capable of reading minds; I am not one of them.

Is what I do merely the result of “having a big mouth?”

I often carry on as if I was back in school, acting up, and out as the class clown.

And it isn’t just me.

Many of my colleagues were similarly labeled early on during their formal education experience.

“Class Clown”; recognize that one?
But, what about the rest of the story;
What did we look like?
What was our background?
Were we really happy kids, or merely troublemakers?
Were we already aware of what our career pursuits would be?
How come most of the kids who worked the room as class clowns were boys?

NOTE: Class clowns come in all colors, sizes, shapes, ages, and ethnic origins. The punishments inflicted on class clowns does vary, dependent on an assortment of factors: Affluence of clown, region, country, neighborhood, type of school, and most importantly, how much of a tight ass their teacher is (was). In many countries, the teacher is armed with sticks or paddles and are permitted to inflict corporal punishment.

The predominance of class clownery takes place during the school years between kindergarten and twelfth grade. Most college class clowns restrict their work to after school hours. Clowning during a college class may become dangerous to the clowns well-being.

I chose not to refer to myself as a class clown. I considered myself, early on, to be a humorist.

Somewhere along the way, at the movies during a double feature, a short (that’s what they were called) between films featured a lecture by Robert Benchley. His sneer and disdain for generalities, or for the general public, caught my fancy. Benchley was known as one of the great humorists of his era.

The term "humorist" captured me. I adopted Benchley's disdain as I would share my thoughts with my class and teachers. For some reason, my teachers didn’t appreciate me talking down to them. In later years I found out I was guilty of role reversal; teachers are the ones who are supposed to talk down to kids; or so they thought.

One teacher in particular used the term "ridicule" as she described how I spoke to her, while I was once again summoned to our school principal's office. I stood in disbelief before him.

When he motioned, it was my turn to speak. I felt it to mean it was my turn to defend myself, and so I did. I pointed out, with a display of angelic demeanor, that it wasn’t my intention to show any disrespect. It was just that I determined our teacher had misused a variety of words during one of her many lengthy dissertations. The principle dismissed me from the meeting, along with his allowance of how he would deal with my situation later on. The teacher wasn’t very happy. I, on the other hand, found the whole adventure quite humorous. As I explained to my buddies, who gathered around as I held court, “Hey, I’m in the third grade. What are they going to do to me?” My fellow humorists agreed.

As I get older, I find myself recalling periods of my life as opposed to a single event, although I recall those as well. As an example, the trials and tribulations during grammar school brought back recollections of growth as a humorist during the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth grades. It was during this most elastic of times, what was to be my future began to evolve. If there was a school happening which might require a student being in front of a group, I was their man.

Public School #233 was housed in a four-story building, and like most Brooklyn, New York schools had a large basement boiler room, equipped with a series of small vacuum machines used to clean the chalk build-up on the classroom erasers. Being selected as the boy in charge of cleaning erasers was a position of honor. When I walked down the halls with chalk dust on my face and clothing, I was the envy of every kid in the school. It was during that period when I first made use of a thing I referred to as the “Nicholas Brothers” strut. (They were a well known song and dance team, who usually performed wearing tuxedos.) My strut came long before John Travolta’s.

The eraser position only lasted for a short period of time probably one year. I recall it must have been the third grade. The gig was a good one, but it didn’t have any lines for me to deliver. It was my first real experience with improvisation. I created my own stuff as I went along. Even then, all of us wanted speaking parts. Come to think of it, there weren’t any audiences down there in the school boiler room. It was my introduction to playing to a bad crowd; talk about a lack or responsiveness!

Then came the real start of the big time; I was appointed the “Captain of the “Clean Up Guards,” and it was still only the fourth grade. I was in charge of twenty students. We each had an appropriate school armband. Damn, I looked good! Each and every afternoon, I would move my team of twenty from one end of the school to the other. My job was to instruct them in the correct procedure to follow. In actuality, I would order them around the school; barking out commands similar to what I had heard “Charles Laughton” deliver in the movie “Mutiny On The Bounty” as he ridiculed his seamen, including Mr. Christian, as portrayed by Clark Gable.

I was on a roll. Just one short year and then the biggest part of my young life: “Captain of the Public School 233 Safety Guards."

Each morning, I was the first to arrive at school. I entered through my personally assigned private entrance, and checked in with the school custodian. I then proceeded to the school entrance and raised our American flag. Each and every day, regardless of the weather, I was there by 6:20 every morning.

And then, the piece d’resistance, I would lead the entire student body in the pledge of allegiance. It was my very first voice over and will remain, to this day, the best one I have ever done. With the flag positioned down stage right, with the students all on their feet and at attention, I stood there center stage facing the flag, and then the students all as one placed their right arm across their hearts as I began to say the words: “I pledge allegiance to the flag." They all joined me. I mean to tell you, this little guy became a giant.

Sometimes, the best and most creative work is done without a monetary reward. In my case, if it came down to it, I would have paid them for the privilege and fun I was having. Not bad for a twelve year old humorist, wouldn’t you say?

So… which sort of clown were you? If you have a tidbit you might like to pass on to the rest of us, please be my guest.

The carrying on by yours truly began early on and has continued relentlessly. Thank God. It has been my salvation.

The ability to laugh and share my amusement with those around me is a heavenly gift.

Those without the ability to find life’s humor are destined to live with far less zest.

Directors Note: "Zest" is a great word for giving direction to anyone, especially yourself when involved with self-direction.

Zest: An enjoyably exciting quality

PIQUANCY *adds zest to the performance*

Keen enjoyment: RELISH, GUSTO.

Your character: “Has a zest for all they may do or attempt to do.”

It beats the hell out of directing an actress to be "perkier" or for an actor to merely add something to his performance.

Love and laughter is a blazing combo to experience at least once; to live and play your life with total honesty.

A true love, and an honest laugh; as powerful a duo as any scientist has ever discovered.

“To cheat oneself out of love is the most terrible deception; it is an eternal loss for which there is no reparation, either in time or in eternity”
-Kierkegaard

Let the secrets begin.

Not to worry or concern yourselves with what I might say. Nothing I scribe would justify criminal indictment. What I intend revealing will be nothing more than the firsthand experiences and words adapted to my life’s ambitious endeavors. I’ve taken from some of the best minds, as recognized by some of the best minds.

Entitlement, as understood by Harvey Kalmenson, was discouraging at best. That is to say, for the particular time period I existed in. The year was 1972, a little more than thirty-eight years before this current day. Being in charge of things had disappeared from my life. School captaincies were long a thing of the past. I could begin listing everything which had come to an end, but it wouldn’t add to your repertoire of mentally worthwhile storage. It was my turn at getting introduced to what so many before me had weathered: The disillusionment of a marriage and simultaneous career revulsion.

Synopsis: An end to my marriage and an end to my job.

It’s not my intention to offer any stories about what I was going through. I’m going to share what got me out of a desperation mode and into the position of entitlement that I have remained in for the past thirty plus years.

“If you don’t feel entitled to win; you’re correct; you’re not entitled to win!”

My strengths were my sense of humor and the integrity instilled in me by my father. It never deserted me, not even for a minute.

“Without integrity, nothing matters.”

“With integrity, nothing matters.”

An actor with integrity will never be limited to predetermined heights. If the truth were told, it will unearth worldwide ovations.

I was searching for my truth; nothing more or less. The problem for me was I had little or no idea at all about what I was searching for. It was like playing a card game for the first time. Unless you’re unconsciously lucky, you won’t have a prayer of winning.

It wasn’t that I was sitting back. I continued to make the rounds; not just show biz venues, but rather anyplace that looked like it could provide a few bucks for my survival. I was beginning to feel like the consummate outsider. Time was passing with dizzying speed. The financial pressure was building as the search entered its third year.

… And then; Give me an AMEN my BROTHER!

The laureates reentered my life. The men of letters who always manage to break through even the greatest of human stupors, with the survival abstractions only they could supply.

Each of us has our own individual buttons. For me it was rediscovering some verse which years before had little or no meaning in my life.

Late one evening as I began packing my belongings in order to move to an even smaller apartment, I came across a package of books. One of them I had previously discarded as not being for me. I was to quickly change my mind as the reading of it changed my life. The book was simply titled “Love,” written by Leo Buscaglia. Leo became my companion and my spiritual enabler.

That evening when I opened the book, it was with no intent of reading it. A biz friend who thought it would help me to get a handle on what was going on had given "Love" to me. It was three years since the book came into my possession. I randomly opened the book to page one hundred and forty eight, and read:

“… And we ourselves shall be loved for a while and forgotten. But the love will have been enough; all those impulses of love return to the love that made them. Even memory is not necessary for love. There is a land of the living and a land of the dead, and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.”
-Thornton Wilder

For whatever the reason, Thornton Wilder got to me in that moment. Exactly what I understood his words to mean was of no consequence.

But before I go on, permit me to tell you about my friend and mentor, “Leo Buscaglia.” Nowadays all you have to do is Google him. You’ll find many essential facts describing this world-renowned philosopher. He has written more than a dozen best sellers. His book “LOVE” was the first. The back cover best sums up this wonderful human being's handle on life. I feel it will be a creative lift for anyone searching life’s subjective form. It reads:

“If you feel something, let people know that you feel.
Love is like a mirror. When you love others you become their mirror and they become yours.
Real love always creates, it never destroys.”

“Live now. When you are eating, eat. When you love, love.
When you are talking with someone, talk.
When you are looking at a flower, look. Catch the beauty of the moment!
One does not fall “in” or “out” of love. One grows in love."

"Love is open arms. If you close your arms about love, you will find that you are left holding only yourself.”

While my friend, Leo Buscaglia, is no longer with us, his words remain forever. Of the many who have accepted my recommendation, none have come back with anything less than accolades over the simplicity and value of Leo’s message.

Without feeling entitled, one can never be so blessed.

I doubt if any profession more exemplifies human need than ours. I was at the top of my professional skill level while simultaneously being at the lowest financial corridor a man could possibly fit his body through.

Each evening I read and reread what Leo Buscaglia had to say. And each night I wrote about what I had read, and attempted to tie it into what I presumed had placed me so low on life’s Totem Pole. The process of self-analysis went painfully on for six months. And then I found myself continuing to read everything Leo had written.

I guess, as they say, "Timing is everything.” What I ultimately found myself doing was merely going with the flow. I stopped objecting and began earnestly allowing the words to sink in, delivering a form of true meaning.

And as I said earlier on, I was going to give up some secrets. In essence, all I thought a long time ago, as my secret to be stored away, for no one else’s eyes to see, was nothing more than a visit to another of life’s subterfuges.

As I continued to look around me, I felt new beginnings as many of my former foibles were being cast away.

I recommend Leo Buscaglia’s book to all who may search, and continue to search, as I did.

If you’ve forgotten, the name of the book is, “LOVE.”

"And by the way, say hello to anyone who knows me."
-HK, 2010

“Poetry, God & Shakespeare” (PG&S)

Broad statements are so much fun to make. It’s probably impossible to make a broad statement without causing some form of human reaction. As a matter of fact, causing reaction is what I do for a living; I either cause a reaction or stimulate an attitude in order to convey the meaning of what the writer may have had in mind (if at the time of writing their mind was still functioning).

There are some I’ve met (too often for my liking) who use the term "boring" as a comment. Many of these folks are as unaware as nature might allow. “Like you know, da harv, I never could get into poetry. It always seemed so sissy to me."

Usually a remark such as this crowds our stadium - filled with those who claim to be merely the average man or woman. In truth, the classification “average” would also be at the bottom of my intellectual barrel.

“The best laid plans of mice and men/oft go awry.”

Robert Burns

Many who recognize his poem (and song) “Auld Lang Syne” hardly considered it a sissy way to bring in a new year. By the way… you dare not refer to him as sissy, this famous man, "The Bard of Scotland," while visiting his homeland, or especially not if you’re hoisting a pint or two at a local pub.

I can’t imagine referring to Robert Burns as a sissy. Besides… I have long since forgotten the dolt who referenced this renowned man of letters in such an unbefitting manner.

And speaking of Laureates, Shakespeare is another of the masters many ask questions about. Most folks who respond negatively to this particular Bard do so out of a position of fear and ignorance (not necessarily in that order). They don’t understand what he was saying, nor why he chose to say it the way he did. And I also offer today’s world of great impatience as the possible cause of misinterpretation, or no interpretation at all.

Those of you busy and enraptured by the speed of your thumbs;
Now sending thoughts worldwide to chums

No worries over penmanship
No spelling, or serious dwelling

No knowledge of wells
For a quill, you know as a pen

No need to dip, and spread the ink
Of course it did allow him
This greatest of scribes
Time to think.
hk

And then we have my old friend God. He really doesn’t care if you understand him or not. All he’s saying is: “Trust me. Have some faith, will you.”

NOTE: God's statement is italicized, because I know it to be true!

DISCLAIMER: The following may not be suitable for anyone other than Harvey Kalmenson.

What follows will usually not apply to the very young; either chronologically or by their lack of maturity, managed during the better part of their life on this planet.

Dealing with pleasure may become equally as disconcerting as coping with some of the seemingly poorest hands a guy could be dealt.

“The problems of victory are more agreeable than the problems of defeat, but they are no less difficult.”
-Sir Winston Churchill

Both pleasure and pain have one important thing in common (or maybe, more than one thing): Both will not and cannot exceed one's lifetime. Stretching a point, both pain and elation are relative to the individual who’s experiencing either at the time.

"You know what… that’s too damn deep for me." Perhaps this will help to explain:

It’s All Relative

A) She said:

“I had the best breakfast this morning. You can’t imagine.”

Perhaps an out of work actor who just got paid an unexpected residual. Who amongst us can identify?

B) He said:

“That croissant was real shit. It actually ruined my day”.

The complainant;
He’s probably a politician who hasn’t had to audition for work in twenty years. He demands they give him his money back even though your tax bucks paid for his croissant, in the first place.

(So) Relatively Speaking

Loss or gain
Elation or pain
Ease or strain
Loose and cool
Blowhard or fool
Hanukkah or Yule
Preemptive or exempt (ive) - no such word
Tiger or lamb
At peace or you’d better scram
Don’t bother me
I already gave
I’ll take a look
I think I can
That other guy, he laughs all the time
Does he ever cry?
His wife is such a beauty
No wonder he never cries.
But he’s not very attractive
I get why they talk about her lies.

(And perhaps this might be a good time to summon, by way of quotes, the help of an old mentor, Sir Winston Churchill.)

“If you are going to go through hell, keep going.”

“A lie gets half way around the world before the truth has a chance to get its pants on.”

“You have enemies? Good. That means you’ve stood up for something, sometime in your life.”

“It is a good thing for an uneducated man to read books of quotations.”

+

“Laugh though your heart is breaking.”

When you feel your heart is about to burst, and you wake up the next morning and find the sheets aren’t covered with the blood caused by a massive heart explosion, consider what da harv does next:

(Once in a while you will stumble upon the truth. Most of us manage to pick ourselves up and hurry along as if nothing has happened.)

Choose to hunt for the inevitable spark
In the most dismal of times, when least expected
When a body seems too tired for the hunt
From your helpers with no form of derision,
Glean from life’s losses, betrayals, and victories,
All scribed earnestly,
With only your betterment at heart,
Your chin to once again be lifted skyward
By more than family;
These three:
“Poetry, God & Shakespeare”

For within these three
All being sought
Are rightfully found
An abstract meaning of sight and sound
When your needs be
Questioning of questions
Allowing allowances
In search of; to be in search of
When not knowing;
Within itself brings strife

Thoughts become subsequent to your day
Stretching unrestricted
The faith you seek lifted from pages
Stimulating its way
From all what was the past
As life presents to you; at last

The proper, improper, and the unseen
The songs, the prayers, and the abstractions,
Clearly, the kindness and the mean

Without prescription
False remembrances become true
From ones self
Faith begins to stir
Friends will meet again
Reintroduced
By Poetry, God, and Shakespeare
The past, your present, and future
Today and from within all the ages,
Permit me to remind:
It is yours, truly to glean, if it be your will.
The spark is there
You’re free to astound!

hk, January 2010

“The farther backward you can look, the farther forward you are likely to see."
-Sir Winston Churchill

While most of what I write about is stimulated by the times we live in today, almost everything I offer an opinion on is done so as the result of experiences gleaned from everyone I have ever met or read about. That, of course, has nothing at all to do with whether or not I liked or disliked the people or the books of my past.

Many people read only what those they admire or agree with write. I salve my need to know with what transcends my love or displeasure for an individual’s life concepts. In simpler terms, the biography of a former or current dictator, along with someone whose political bent is
vastly different from mine may often be found on the nightstand adjoining my bed. I get a kick out of justifying why I dislike someone; just about any depiction of a historical event provides me with an enormous growth potential.

Through the years, the variety of world and local personalities I have read about have provided a divergence of information I would never have been able to find within the confines of my formal education. That isn’t to say I believe going to school is a waste of time. I think the combination of both a formal education, and a good, wholesome sprinkling of life’s experiences are the ideal menu for expansive learning. If I did have to choose between the formal worlds of academia and that of practical learning and application, I would hands down go for the practical land of experience. But if you have the formal schooling, your own reading initiative, and the real life experience of seeing it come to life there before your own eyes, you will find yourself in “hog heaven” - as we say down home in Brooklyn, New York.

Early on, I found many of the people I was reading about were becoming my most intimate of heroes and heroines. Their escapades took me along for the ride. Some of the biographies were written by people who had devoted a good part of their life doing research on the characters I was becoming aware of. It was an endless quest. Some of the famous names of yesteryear had numerous literary recollections of their lives.

When the movies began doing the same life stories I was reading about, I became doubly interested. (It was at this moment in time I became aware of literary license. Much of what was being depicted on the silver screen wasn’t remotely accurate.) Often they made nice guys out of the socially unacceptable, and turned a variety of average everyday kind of folks into heroes of unbelievable magnitude. It was early on when I discovered how few people were sharing my verve for reading. Many folks actually believed what they were seeing on the screen. I.e., they felt Ronald Reagan was a perfect George Gipp. In actuality, Gipp was a guy who played football for Knute Rockne while not really attending Notre Dame. He was a big time drinker and gambler. Rockne epitomized 'winning at all costs.' The movies didn’t tell it that way at all.

Mickey Rooney was a far more likeable guy in real life than the real life Thomas Edison, the genius he portrayed on the screen. While Edison may have been one of the great inventors of his day, in real life he was also one of the great anti-Semites of the era. This fact of life was what enabled some Jewish refugees to get a foot in the door and become the giants of the film industry. It's all documented, if you choose to read about it. Mr. Edison was horribly short of funds when he was in the process of developing his version of the movie camera. Since he refused to deal with Jews as his hard money source, the immigrants did it themselves. The movies did little to spell out Edison's true private life. What the producers did was typical of the times; they told the best American adaptation of heroism they could mold. Their goals were to produce moneymaking films. Telling it like it is was often placed on the back burner. Apple pie and a glass of milk was how Edison took nourishment, according to the movie adaptation.

By the way, another point of fact, which never made the big screen, was any mention of Edison's close friend Henry Ford. In the thirties as Ford developed his vast automobile manufacturing empire, he was not bashful about his open display of hatred for the Jewish people. It became so blatant, it began to affect his company's success. In order to sooth the national complaints Ford was regularly receiving, he took out full-page ads, apologizing for his anti-Semitic statements. The published statements of his apologies had little effect on his lifestyle or the friends he kept; including high-ranking members of the now powerful Third Reich.

In general, it was an era when the reportage was weak at best. The movies were what served as our documentation of the wars, the discoveries, and the wonderment of the American people.

The early World War II films helped to bolster the determination of the young and the old. Without reservation, all of us displayed a degree of pride, being constantly cultivated by the power of our American film makers. Truth be told, the Hollywood set had a patriotic job to do, as requested by the then president of the United States; number thirty two, Franklin Delano Roosevelt. History reports, the president had sealed all information from being reported to the American people by the press. In the beginning of the war the news of our defeats would have severely damaged the will of the people on the home front. Across the board, each and every studio head answered the President’s call. Every movie made heroes of every man and woman serving our country's war effort. I wonder if that will ever be the case again? In those days, defamation of our country’s character was out of the question. Each movie theater began their shows with a film clip of the American flag rippling in the breeze, full screen. The audiences, without exception all cheered and applauded. What a far cry from today. Even as a child of seven, I stood at attention and saluted. I still do!

Guidance: Sound Design and Demo Production

“For professionals only. Should not be attempted at home (alone)!"

When producing your voice over DEMO, precautions must be taken.

• Hopefully you’re working with folks who have been doing sound editing and direction for enough years to become proficient at their craft. Ask about their credentials. Who have they worked for? This isn’t a time to have someone conducting experiments with you as the guinea pig.
  
  
• Years and experience go hand in hand. During the course of my career as a sound editor, designer, and director, one word prevails, as the single most important factor in producing anything of value: “Preparation.”
  
  
• Your demo is your calling card.
  
  
• It could turn out to be the single most important commercial project of your professional life. (Or not.)
  
  
• Music and sound effects should never be the star of your demo presentation.
  
  
• The intent is to provide a showcase for your work, not an entertainment provided by production values.
  

(Here’s where it often becomes confusing.)

• The purpose and importance of music and/or sound effects, whether they are natural or manufactured, is for those enhancements to push your voice forward. By push, I mean showcase.
  
  
• Music or effects must never detract from an actor’s message.
  
  
• While the creative sound designer’s goals are established before the actual recording of your demo, they must never be etched in stone.
  

NOTE: I doubt if anything ever comes out exactly the way you thought it would before you began. Changes are a very natural and vital occurrence.

• During PREPARATION, nothing must be taken for granted.
  
  
• While the sound designer must be free to create, he must also have a complete understanding of what you intend to accomplish.

Questions must be asked and answered:

• Are you comedic, dramatic, the kid or neighbor next door, a parent or grandparent?

• Who are you? In other words… what is your signature??

• What is (are) your strengths (attitudes, roles, styles, pacing, monologue, dialogue, etc.)?

• What will they hire you to convey? Are you against doing announcements of certain products?

• Silence can be a marvelous background for an important message.

• Where a message is placed in order of appearance on your demo is of equal importance.

• Your first sound byte should represent the truth of who you are.

And so it behooves you to understand:

Sound editing is a subjective art form!

Studio Ambience
Each spot should be given a slightly different studio ambience. We do this to avoid a built-in sameness, and to avoid alerting the listener to the fact that yours are not real commercials.

Music Selection
Music can help a mood, signal change, create a helpful regional quality, add suspense, while at the same time not detracting from your voice or the meaning of the commercial message. Vary the music tempo.

Sound Effects
Whether mechanical or human, sound effects provide an assist in getting the message across, and can provide a degree of humor without detracting from the actors’ intent.

Your Choice of Material (Scripts)

Don’t select dated material. If the year happens to be 2010, you wouldn’t want to do an advertisement which ran in 1990. Good judgment is the key.

Don’t choose a commercial which is currently running and has a recognizable actor as its spokesperson.

NOTE: The celebrities you hear on current campaigns are specifically selected because of their name value, and the demographics of the consumers the sponsor is endeavoring to influence.

i.e.: There is only one Michael Jordan. There is only one Hannah Montana. Professionals will all instantly know you borrowed from them.

The same cautions would apply to your background music selections. Unless he was your uncle, George Gershwin did not write “Rhapsody In Blue” as background for your demo. Many kids today refer to it as the “United Airlines song.”

And down the road a piece, as you become a true professional, and have a stronger command of your personal signature and truth, you will discover a need to modify, and sometimes even find cause to completely change your demo. One of the essential ingredients for a new demo would be the use of actual commercials, and or dramatic pieces you actually were paid to do. The number one choice in my opinion for a new demo would be to include spots which are currently running on air. Nothing is better than to have someone out there recognize your work.