The Bullshit Brigade

Membership is free just about anywhere in the free, or not so free, world.

There they be, gathered together: nonsectarian, sectarian, agrarian, religious, persuasions of every imaginable ilk; cut evenly or torn in unmistakably boorish fashion; clear-skinned yet unmercifully pocked by every imaginable disease of deceitful presentation devised by their fellow man.

The colors of the rainbow outdone by an equally assertive arbiter of life unexplained.

In no predetermined order: black, not really black, brown, not really brown, white, well not really white unless you’re a house (like in Washington D.C.). Of course, all the devised colors of the rainbow actually do nothing as a helping hand when trying to glean the inspirational depth of a man’s heart or mind. Like all the vast majority of words relayed to us through the centuries, describing a man’s intellectual worth by the mere use of a color exemplifies the true meaning of non sequitur.

Men and women, boys and girls, aunts and uncles, mothers and fathers, grandparents, and those without parents, assembled by their own free will. Friends and enemies blended together worldwide in what has become known to all. Injected uncommonly by buttons, so soft and soundless but still unconsciously able to notify the world by the simple use of the ugliest of fingers. Without the benefit of Herald Angels singing, our society has become accustomed to a new form of athleticism: Dexterous Thumbs. Dexterous Thumbs are the odorless conductor of our latest blemish: the text or texting.

Thusly, comes a new art form of continuous bullshit.

From thumbs to keyboard, to sight or sound, it comes without the necessity of formal research.

Allowable Dictums of Today’s Society

• No real education required

• None desired



• Music of this day

• Lacking candlelight

• Dancing without touching



• Electricity is profound



• No reading, just sound

• Who’s Hemingway anyway?

• Thank goodness he’s not around!



• I love my thumbs

• But give me a break (I don’t mean my thumbs)



• When there’s need to pick up leaves

• Reach for a rake (texting won’t help you!)


Please attempt to understand my salient position points:

• I hate my cell phone.

• I hate my fax machine.

• People in general annoy me.

• Did I mention how I dislike politicians? (Sorry about the redundancy; I do suppose most politicians fall into the people category.)

“In individuals, insanity is rare; but in groups, parties, nations and epochs, it is the rule.”
Friedrich Nietzsche

So you will please take pity on me, and try to excuse my biased abstract. In other words, “What in the name of hell is da harv ranting about now?” If you think I’m truly ranting, I resent your assertions.

Here’s my point, in a proverbial nutshell…. By the way, too bad they don’t sell proverbial nuts at the local grocers; we’d all be better off. Right now, our lives would be better served if we used terms more succinctly stated. What if everyone in your day-to-day carryings managed total candidness? Supposing you asked an important, or not so important, question of another human being (as opposed to talking to your pet, especially an arrogant cat) and said other human being responded with total truth.

What a concept! No ciphering; no delays. You are able to listen, unencumbered and not distraught over realigns of what you might have had planned for your day, or week, or month, or perhaps even the rest of your life. Now, extrapolate the condition you find yourself in. Permit me to explain the scene I’ve concocted for you. When I speak of people annoying me, my feelings could be translated by me saying, “People waste my time by not being candid and by not listening or showing any degree of concentration concerning what I have to say.”

(Especially where actors are concerned) The non-listener and confirmed fibber is usually a charter member in any number of local, regional, and or national “Bullshit Brigades.”

“What it boils down to is chain pulling. Pulling a person’s chain causes pain.”
HK

During a five-minute brief confab with a supposed close friend or neighbor, that neighbor proceeds to tell you a variety of little white lies. Let’s say you’re loss is no more than five minutes. But here’s what we know for sure: those five minutes are gone forever.

But it’s much more serious than that. What about the neighbor? He or she has also been lost to the world for an equal amount of time. Make that a total of ten minutes between the two of you. Multiply it out. How many folks do you come in contact with each and every day who infringe on your life cycle?

NOTE: The older you become the more credence you will give to the little slice of life I have depicted.

“Boy I wish I could have that to do all over again.”

(You and a lot of other people.)

Backpacks & Kazoos

Often, the sheer brilliance of my staff of colleagues is mind-boggling or, if nothing else, at least hard to fathom. Believing the premise that timing is everything, then consider an office where its players launch into a seemingly obtuse conversation regarding the origin and merits of backpacks and kazoos.

The fact that last night, some 50 million folks were officially glued to their television sets in an earnest attempt to hear and understand every word being uttered by Barack Obama, the President of the United States, and his adversary Governor Mitt Romney, didn’t dissuade an early morning launching of our staff’s latest query…

When did so many people begin donning backpacks and where did the kazoo come from?

Some less than understanding people might think of us as softheaded; others might merely contort their facial expression in a visual display of contempt.  Still others might choose to ignore our research with the ultimate label of foolhardy bestowed as their offering of stipulated contempt.

I would like to point out in defense of my office, my colleagues, and myself, ours is a vital endeavor. Think for a moment what the result would have been last evening if either of the presidential candidates had asked the other about the origin of the kazoo or, how a fad spread from country to country, around the world, became the most recognizable accoutrement since the advent of the black leather jacket or bobby socks.

Of course, I refer to the backpack. Every sniveling little monster on their way to or from school travels with the infamous backpack seemingly loaded with nothing but the best in research and necessary schoolbooks.

Perhaps for those who eventually match up to the scholarly demeanor of my Kalmenson & Kalmenson colleagues, there will be buried at the bottom of each of their backpacks… their very own, personal kazoo.

Pretzel

Noted people reference their Fathers as they answer the question: “What would your Father have said?”

My Father would have at least asked me what I meant by that. Dad always gave me a chance to explain.  He always felt he had so much more in life to learn, and not enough allotted time to soak it all up. The shame that I carry on my shoulders forever is a simple fact of most men’s lives: we often don’t recognize or acknowledge the gems in our possession until a much later time than those gems were ours to make use of.

***

The era was that of the twisted pretzel.

I mean the really, really twisted pretzel. And boy, oh boy were they large. In those days, a true pretzel had to be authenticated by a connoisseur. Us kids were all connoisseurs. The size of the pretzel was for sure of great significance, as was the correct amount of coarse salt sprinkled on top of it. While I don’t have the exact measurements of the earliest of pretzels, I do remember having a single pretzel as my lunch or dinner on any given day.

In my area of Brooklyn, New York, there were pretzel vendors all over the place. They pushed their two-wheel wagons into busy neighborhoods; some would hawk their wares by shouting out to people as they passed them on the street, while others were content to merely find a spot on a corner and wait for their trade to come by. The strange part about all this was their lack of formal identity. They were the Pretzel Guys. No names, just the Pretzel Guy.

“What does your husband do?”

Her response:

”Oh, he’s the Pretzel Guy,

A dignified man,”

Answering with a sigh.

Catering to his neighborhood’s needs,

Providing for the betterment of society.

His product twisted, so curiously designed;

Taste buds celebrating,

Though shape maligned.

Offering each, a child’s delight

For one thin and single dime.

Epicurean splendor,

Without candlelight, yet sublime.

Our Pretzel Guy was no more unique I guess than the average Pretzel Guy of his time. But he was ours; you heard me right, he was ours. We didn’t have anything handheld like calculators, radios, cell phones; digital things of any kind were non-existent. At night, we all came home and looked at the radio as we listened. I hate to admit to this, but our family didn’t have a refrigerator, a washer or dryer, or vacuum cleaner. 

When we finally made it big time, we celebrated our success as one of the first in the neighborhood to have a telephone. It was a thing called a party line. In most cases, there were three or four families who shared the same line. Each family had their own separate phone number, but if one of the other families happened to be on the line at the time someone was calling us, the person calling in would get a busy signal. 

You might imagine the confrontations that would arise when one of the folks on your party line was making a phone hog of themselves and refused to cut their call short when requested to do so. We all developed our own dialogue used to get the hog off the phone. It got to the point where everyone on a party line knew everyone else, and had a nasty retort or two as a comeback to almost anything being claimed. 

As an example, my older sister, impatient over waiting to make her own call to a friend, picked up the phone and in an impassioned tone pleaded with the party on the line: "My Father is having a seizure. Please get off the line so I can call for help.” 

You had to see the priceless expression on my sister's face when she heard the woman on the other end of the line yell out the tenement window, "Charlie you better run home! You’re having a seizure!” 

What a shame nothing like that can happen today. It’s what I refer to as a “lived-in experience.” Our possessions were our very own treasures, forever to be treasured. They came in many shapes, and forms, people and things not withstanding.

             

Aside from the similarity of one Pretzel Guy to another, there did exist some degree of showmanship and competition amongst these peddlers. There was one guy who played a harmonica and another who entertained the passersby with violin playing. Later on and way after the fact, it was explained to me that many of these street people were accomplished musicians who became Pretzel Guys because it was the only way they could make a living. It opened my eyes to many things that were the way of the world for immigrants of the era.

These men and women had a life’s assignment. They came to our country to prosper. Wow! How simple a phrase -- to prosper, to make it, to become a good American citizen. Family, country, and beliefs in a higher level of spirit were the universal credo of those who selected the United States of America as the destination that would provide an environment in which they could prosper. 

And though he pushed a pretzel wagon, he exuded a prideful nature. This to some may not have been considered a calling, but to our Guy his offerings weren’t merely a twisted piece of dough. He placed your pretzel carefully on a single piece of wax paper and handed it to each customer with a “denk you.”

Somehow, a feeling of mutual respect was on display. At the time, I was too young to understand what I was feeling about these people, human beings who shared my culture, who in their own way deeply influenced my life.

 

Our Guy wore an apron, and dependent on the time of year, followed the dictates of the whether regarding his selection of clothing. You might imagine a similarity of dress between all of the street vendors. One didn’t have to take a trip to Europe in order to get the flavor of their style. By and large, most of the street peddlers had a clean appearance. 

Many of the vendors, with all the different goodies we grew to love, operated their respective businesses on the east side on a street named Belmont Avenue. To this day, in my mind's eye, I can easily conjure a visualization recapturing the sights, sounds, and distinct smells of the place, especially in the summertime. Nothing expressly overpowering, but make no mistake…while it wasn’t a rose garden, it remains mine to treasure.

***

One day, close to the end of a well-played summer, my friends and I had vacated the local schoolyards and our ferocious schedule of having fun, in order to trek along with our Mothers to secure our clothing and school supplies for the upcoming, beginning of a new term of torture. In other words, back to school time was arriving far too quickly than any of us liked. 

 

As my Mom and I returned to our neighborhood after a long day of bargain hunting, I looked forward to having my favorite pretzel presented to me by my favorite Pretzel Guy. (It still remains hard to believe I never learned his name.) When we arrived at our Pretzel Guy's usual location, there was his pushcart but not our regular Pretzel Guy. When we asked about our Pretzel Guy’s whereabouts, we were told the new guy was only going to be there for a day or two and that our regular Pretzel Guy was away doing something for his family.

While the pretzel was the same, not having my friends alongside and not having my regular Pretzel Guy there, coupled with never enjoying my Mom’s company during meals, added to my less than normal ecstatic nature. Nevertheless, we ate and unceremoniously made our way home.

During this period of time, our family had taken up residence in our own home located on 94th Street, between Avenue A and B, in an area known as East Flatbush, Brooklyn. The houses were all built very close to one another, and all looked exactly the same. Each home was a two story duplex with an additional basement apartment. A narrow, single car width driveway between them separated the homes. My Mother was able to easily hold a conversation with our next-door neighbor across the driveway from us. 

So, there we were back at home, my Mom was preparing dinner for the family. My Father was about a half hour away from returning from work. I was on the front porch aimlessly looking down the street in an effort to drum up an early evening game of stickball before darkness set in. There wasn’t a friend in sight. As a matter of fact, it was unusually quiet for our street. 

I heard the strains of a violin playing in the distance. As I strained to see where the music was coming from, the familiar outline of a figure came towards our house. As he came closer, I began to recognize the man playing the violin. 

I ran into the house shouting,  “Ma, it’s the Pretzel Guy. Our Pretzel Guy is almost here!” 

My Mom yelled back at me, “It’ll ruin your dinner.” 

“You don’t get it Ma,” I said. “It’s our Pretzel Guy playing the violin!” 

With this, my Mother came quickly to the front of the house. By now, the Pretzel Guy was in the driveway between the two houses. Our Pretzel Guy was dressed in a suit and tie. In a minute or two, many of our neighbors had gathered around him in addition to those who stuck their heads out of the windows on our second floor. The piece he was playing came to an end and everyone applauded; some tossed change down into his outstretched cap. In a moment, he began playing another tune, but this time as he played he moved back down the driveway towards the street and ultimately to the next house in line.

When my Dad came home, I couldn’t wait to relate the story of our violin playing Pretzel Guy. My Father wasn’t the least bit surprised. He explained to me how the violin playing was our Pretzel Guy’s nighttime and weekend job. 

I was surprised and taken aback by this new revelation. But, it wasn’t the end of our Pretzel Guy’s surprises. I found out much later on that he was part of a group of men, each with their own special talents carried from the old country, which found an inability to support themselves and their families while in pursuit of their true, lifelong passions. The prideful lessons received by all who came in contact with them were never anything short of inspiring and, to many of us, empowering as well.

In the ensuing months and years, and up until the end of the world at war, many of these people indirectly became part of my life. From musicians to craftsmen in every imaginable field of endeavor, these immigrant men and women performed the services used and recommended by my family...

And, one day I came to understand what my Father meant when he allowed, “Charity begins at home.” I wonder if that was the reason he always insisted on buying American products. 

What would your Father have said?

Lance Legault: Not To Be Forgotten

Twenty years of a relationship free from anything disparaging.

An audition requiring the presence of the one and only “Double L” always brought with it a smile in anticipation of his sharing a story or two. Lance Legault was a bright, boisterous, and gregarious human being.

Lance will be missed, but never forgotten. 

Our relationship with Lance was almost always professional. It would be impossible to calculate the number of times his name would rise to the top of our list on a casting call. When he’d come into our studio for an audition, it was always a fun experience; some might refer to it as an event. There was never a time when Lance kept from inquiring about my well-being or that of Cathy’s.

This last Saturday, September 22, Cathy and I attended a formal celebration of the life and times of an actor and our dear friend, Lance Legault. Each time a notable speaker took their turn at the speaker’s rostrum, we were reminded of our in-house casting director profile for the one and only, original issue of friend, and consummate actor: Lance Legault.

Lance Legault

Male, 40s, 50s, 60s, STAR, southern, western, cowboy, folksy, Johnny Cash, Texas, Jack Palance, Willie Nelson, Kris Kristofferson, Tommy Lee Jones, Charles Bronson, Robert Conrad, macho, man’s man, trucker, blue collar, Drill Sergeant, military, confidential, sly, Robert Mitchum, slight western twang, rodeo, Hal Riney, gruff, masculine, coach, real, guy’s guy, bold, authoritative, somewhat dramatic, rugged, slight drawl, used car dealer, Cal Worthington, cranky, crusty, Burgess Meredith, offbeat, ominously reflective, Christopher Walken, Sam Elliott, strong, commanding respect, gravelly, tough, cowboy, younger Jack Palance, confident, cool, Official NBC NASCAR promo voice.

And, the real deal patriotic American we could all be proud of.

He will always remain our first casting idea when any of the specs above are requested. And then, we’ll smile… and reluctantly search for the next best idea, knowing there'll never be another "Double L."

Ventilation

da Harv has come to vent

His rage by sharing despair.

Often to laugh hysterically,

Being a free man, without care.

Your turn has come

Try it on for size

With no consequences

No punishment for lamenting.

Comes now this chance

For the fearful amongst you

To express dissents.

The best way possible, venting!

Ah fresh air, there’s nothing like it. Breathe it in and enjoy the simplest gift of all.

Think about it, we’re so much better off than most fish. Think again, what if you don’t gravitate towards water… it’s the salt in the sea, you find nauseating. If not for surfing, you might never go near the liquid; although there are times I suppose drinking the stuff is required. Personally, da Harv prefers single malt scotch. But, as any half-ass politician may have said, “I digress.”

Let’s see… we were discussing ventilation. Actually it’s the first syllable of the word, which offers me a form of salvation, an oblique promise of resuscitation. To vent!

To Vent: Giving free expression to strong emotion. 

Morning

The air is clear and fresh

I had not yet allowed my mind to wander down any roads

Previously having formed an almost daily rebuff

Unready to surrender my quiet

On our balcony

Alone with thoughts

Relishing the insights of an untroubled mind.

Stillness, still as a cherished possession.

Mid Day

Early day possessions have long gone

No cherishing

No stillness

Privacy,

Was there ever any?

Morning forgotten

Thirty of them seeking

Have come and gone

Professing to know me

Self-serving interests on display

A form of relief

Now they are gone.

Evening

Were there rewards to share?

Any likely conquests to declare?

All I could recall

Came void, no shining light

No swords had been brandished

Just my search for peaceful convocation

A table for one

Epilogue

Perhaps tomorrow

When from the night

A new stillness returns

And the air is again clear and fresh

Before I surrender my quiet

There will come a new zeal

Different from all the rest.

***

Come one, come all; welcome. It’s a big bad bandwagon. Get on without fear of verbal retaliations.

Dying to put your two cents in writing? This is the time. Total truths, or even the vaguest of distillations. You send it to me for my blog, and the next thing you know the whole world gets a chance to see what the average, or above average “Venter” has to say.

As an example:

•         Offer your disgust, or affirmation and likes over our latest political convention attendees;

•         What a dipstick you know your boss happens to be;

•         Girlfriend, boyfriend, partner, current mistress or mister,

•         People you hate,

•         People you love,

•         Children (yours or his, or the product of an accident of unknown origin).

Pick a target, and let it fly. Don’t concern yourself with even the most modest of reprisals. You’re safe. It’s not like da Harv putting his name to his continuous sequels of abrogation spins. If you get the idea that I seek to remove a variety of our government’s untidy laws, doctrines, and methods for siphoning off the little extra remaining oxygen for our survival, then you have read me correctly.

I proudly attach my signature to almost all I independently scribe. I neither send fourth my observations without secondary meaning nor cloaked behind the screen of another man’s worthy whims.

But what if I ask you to let loose from whatever it is creating the inward fear that keeps you from expressing your own principled mindset? Venting far exceeds the joy of surfing. No fish in water provided another with the courageous release of letting the air out without fear of recrimination. What if you took out a pad this very moment and wrote out two simple statements: one stating a clear dislike and the other letting us all become aware of a particular person, place, or thing that provides any form of emotional redemption.

***

And… my latest big vent of this day:

The “they people,” of their respective days on earth, who all find the time to become annoyed by those who fight for the rights enjoyed by Americans.

A common statement not reserved for any particular time period:

“‘Who cares?’ Can be an extremely suitable statement as a commentary describing the average person’s degree of involvement with our world today.”

The year was…

          Pre-Civil War, circa 1860.

          World War One, circa 1914.

          World War Two, circa 1941.

          The Korean War, circa 1950.

And now today, as we live and breathe, here we are and here we go again. Vicious people, who despise all we stand for as Americans, are once again taking advantage of our average man’s attitude.

“‘Who cares?’ Can be an extremely suitable statement as a commentary describing the average persons degree of involvement with our world today.”

Each and every time we slept, others – totally awake and aware of our lack of interest – took advantage of our historical stupidity.

During these days, when we grieve over our losses from our last full-fledged raping, those who hate us once again have proclaimed their hatred, in no uncertain terms.

What a wonderful time for all of us Americans to reunite with one singular goal: to preserve and continue as the most productive nation in the history of the world.

END OF VENT

As Seen at the Kalmenson's

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Yes sir folks, our very own voice over plumber.

I’m sure you’ve all heard about singing waiters, part time bartenders, and even off-duty cops who pick up a doubloon or two out there as a location guard. But today, comes a very special arbiter – a prince amongst the common and ordinary of our voice over world of renowned artists – David Prince to the rescue!

Question: What to do, or what do you do when you are the owner of a sprinkler system configured with controls fit for a lunar landing sequence? All water was flowing and not an English-speaking Man of Tools was to be found. Then, with the miraculous depth of any person with a gifted mind, the thought of royalty entered!  And, the rarity of mutual agreement quelled the discord that without dignity had embellished our Kalmenson & Kalmenson high decibel vociferousness.

David Prince, on call as a voice over maven going on thirty years, makes no secret about his prowess as a Master Patriarch of the Pipe. Yes, our very own David Prince is the proud owner of a well-oiled plumbing contracting business. David Prince to the rescue! On time and smelling as good as “Mike Diamond” could ever dream of.

With hands on his hips and teeth clinched in support of his firm jaw, “How can I help you ma’am?” David asked.

“David, it’s me,” Cathy replied.

 “I know that. I just like the way it sounds,” said David.

And so, the day was won.

The Encino Tsunami came to an abrupt end as our artistic white knight prepared to take leave. With a smile David packed up his tools and placed his beautifully embossed business card on the entry table.

Cathy fought back a tear as she read…

David Prince, Voice Over & Plumbing

Whatever your Needs, I’ve got the pipes.