He Was "Grrrreat!"

For close to 25 years, Lee Marshall has been a part of our lives here at Kalmenson & Kalmenson. As an acting student, VO actor, and forever a friend, we will affectionately remember him always as the voice of "Tony the Tiger.”

Lee passed away Saturday, April 26, 2014.

We had the honor of casting the voice of this animated American icon, "Tony.” And then, we had the joy of learning that Lee, a Kalmenson graduate, was the choice.

Rest in peace, Lee.

Cathy & Harvey
On Behalf of Everyone Here in Our K&K Family

Looking Forward to the New Good Old Days

The New Good Old Days;

Don’t give up yet;
Looking Forward MIGHT STILL BE POSSIBLE;
Maybe; if all goes well;
So it shouldn’t be a total loss,
And in order to help our digestion;
GOD decided to “throw us a bone.”
So to speak.

Urban Dictionary: throw me a bone: "give me a break"/ "give me a hint," Give me a chance.

MULTI TASKING

One day, while I was attentively listening and observing what God was up to at that particular moment in time, there came upon me a new and even more intensive reckoning to deal with than I had ever experienced (while endeavoring to reckon with what was then currently on my plate at this unbelievable moment of life’s urgencies).

If all this is a touch confusing to you, well then, I have succeeded in conveying what it was like for me as I turned off the evening news and sat there alone in deep thought (no longer multi tasking) wondering what in the name of hell were our elected officials talking about.

After Many Centuries

 

Finally, God decided to correct our years of dialect corruptions. Many of us, usually the ones who have inhabited one of our larger cities, developed their own peculiar way of talking. For whatever the reason, and I am sure there must be an explanation for it, often very good words – nice ones with intellect, manners, and substantial couth, bearing, and, of course, above average stature – along with correct pronunciation have been discarded. Think about my plight – what a shame it is to look for a word definition and discover no such word exists – words like “freakin’,” or “friggin’” like my Mother used to say.

When I was about eight years old, there wasn’t a kid in my Brooklyn neighborhood not using today’s common place derivations of slang as a daily ritual. "Freakin’,” and “friggin’” were comfortable words that our parents allowed around the house, but never in the classrooms. A good example of the typical immigrant usage of these famous American slang words could often be heard as a useful add-on during a heated or semi-heated discussion amongst friends where two folks engaged in a vigorous bartering exchange. One asks how much money the other would take for a particular item. The guy thinks for a second, and then says it’s too much money. The seller becomes indignant and tells the prospective buyer to “Go s--t in your friggin’ hat,” as he walks and sulks away. (So very American, don’t you think?)

For a moment, please enlist yourselves in a personal pleasure of mine: re-creation, remembering, or for want of the more precise, reflections of my past – something I have, and you don’t. Please consider me, in this case, a smug “rememberer.” At this point, if you happen to get it, understanding where I’m coming from you’re most likely in a state of (as the immigrants would put it to whomever) “eating your heart(s) out.”

(Humorous definition)
Something you say that means you or someone you know can do something better than a person who is famous for doing that very thing;
“I'm taking singing lessons. Sammie Davis, eat your heart out.”

So, what am I getting at, alluding to, bragging about, or really and truly philosophizing? Perhaps rhapsodizing over this is the cause of my often smiling and joking at the “eat your heart out” syndrome that allows me to celebrate a form of relief from the daily rigors of my incessant observations of the untidy lives so many folks are forced to live. (I choose to use the term “untidy” as opposed to “cruel” as a descriptive for what the newspapers and television happens to be spewing forth in a regular dosage for us, the common man; bullshit to place in our own personal hats?


Decades of listening and reading have fostered my ability to self indulge. If reflections of the past relaxes and brings with it a heartier laugh than younger people would understand, then my celebration by the mere conjuring of the past could also validate the statement: “I'm taking singing lessons. Sammie Davis, eat your heart out.”

I (almost) love when a loved one, family member, or friend asks a favor of me. While not usually looking for a helping hand, I never the less adore those people who freely come forward with the pleasantness of their smiling face asking for nothing more than my reflective countenance.

QUESTION: “So, damn it – what’s the point, Harv?”

As I prepare to answer your question regarding what my point is, or what the hell is he writing about now, the question reminds me of a time in the fifth grade when a teacher of mine was asking the same thing of my Mother.

“What the hell is your kid talking about now?” was the question.

My Mother responded with, “If you figure it out let me know.”

At that point of her life, Mom thought an abstraction was something done by a dentist.

By age eleven, I was firmly convinced almost anything could be considered funny, or at worst, a reliable source of humor. Honestly, I knew nothing about abstract art in any shape or form. It was the great humorist Robert Benchley who helped to set me on a course that I’ve never successfully veered from – and good God I’ve tried earnestly to do so.

Please don’t get the idea that, as a little kid in grammar school, I was being personally enlightened by the likes of the crowd, which held daily lunchtime meetings at the now international landmark the Algonquin Hotel in New York City.

 

It was, however, the early days of film; the famed Robert Benchley, a charter member of the “Algonquin Round Table,” aside from his adeptness as a syndicated writer, was being recognized for his disjointed humor presented as short films in movie theaters countrywide.

Week by week, Benchley witticisms were creeping into the American vernacular. It was becoming an in thing for young adults to be able to quote lines from a short Robert Benchley film. As an adept copyist I was prone to repeating many of the things I heard, regardless of being able to understand their meanings.

But, it was actually a line delivered by Dorothy Parker to her cronies at a roundtable luncheon that got da Harv well on his way towards constant trouble with his grade school teachers.

The Algonquin Round Table

The group was playing one of their many word games when Dorothy floored them with her latest and perhaps greatest quip, “You can lead a horticulture, but you can’t make her drink.”

**Obviously, it's a play on words of the familiar, “You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink,” and is spoken as, “You can lead a whore to culture, but you can't make her think.”

Now, if you’re able to imagine a ten-year-old kid saying this in a classroom, one might also imagine the indignant response of my teacher. In any event, I was labeled as an intentional teacher’s foil; whatever that means. Compare all of this to today’s culture, and I’d come across as a choirboy. What a difference a few decades can make.

What hasn’t changed for da Harv, regardless of the extensive lapse of time, is that I still find myself spending a great many hours up in front of a classroom filled with students – still playing with words – still reflecting on the words of Dorothy Parker, Robert Benchley, and a proverbial laundry list of Americans from the past.

Back then, what we considered raunchy would not raise an eyebrow today.

Raise (a few) eyebrows:
To shock or surprise people

Imagine the effect it would have had if I were a rapper? Talk about raising an eyebrow; I’m laughing as I get a mind’s eye picture of me as a ten year old, up in front of my class, dressed in jeans down around my butt with my underwear covering what would have been a visible slit in an inappropriate area of a plumber’s calling card.

The thing I find sad about today’s supposed great communicators is that most of them can’t be trusted with the real meaning, or truth of the matter they’re attempting to communicate.

Is it really so difficult for any of us to look the other guy straight and forwardly into his or her eyes and say, “You voted for me, and I screwed up.” Can you just imagine the effect a statement like that would have? Almost, without exception, all of us Americans would agree – we had just heard a politician being honest. How very uplifting for all of us, don’t you think?

But, they don’t seem to get it, for now. But, we all do. Without reservation, deceit will be reckoned with – it always is.

Sure hope that it applies to will, without hesitation, “Put that in your (their) pipe and smoke it!”

A Price To Pay

And as I flew through the air enjoying the crowd’s

appreciation of my reckless abandonment

Bearing no concern for life or limb,

in the then present

With zero regard for what the future had in store;

This, a young man, exiting his twenties;

As a personal prologue

His

Too deeply etched, never forgotten

The many shades, which at times diminish the pain

Never fully does it disappear

Each an alternating segment of life

Bringing with it future memories to be lived

As new shades dissolve revealing its currency,

or a summons to be paid

Recalling a collision, be it mind or body, doesn’t require any

special skills;

Pain will always be pain,

Mental or physical;

Hurting like hell for a split second, then following the momentary

relief brought on by a pill or subsequent unconsciousness,

It all too soon returns without glory or fanfare.

But return it ultimately will,

Dosage? Perhaps of a lifetime, its duration.

Hello, my future has arrived.

It came in ten-year gulps

Too speedily to comprehend

Both shoulders ache; thanks to God they are mine

While my left knee groans out the same song.

They too are mine

The penalties endured by this older man

brazen disregard bringing forward

Punishments received

Once a youthful mind and body

Years upon me without discrimination

Unrelenting, without warning, or the extent of suffering to

be revealed

Always disregarding the time or importance of my day.

At work, at play, during the confines of sleep

A young man enquires of my wisdom…

“How do you endure, and to what end?” He asks.

“If you can, examine my alternatives,” I respond.

“If the hurt remains, with justification, so too will I remain.

Without this life to live, there will be no pain.”

The young man’s eyes grow more quizzical...

“Each day I laugh at all things being offered me...

and yes, I sometimes cry as well.”

“What do you laugh and cry about?” Another question.

“Giving and taking, mostly,” is my response.

As was expected the young man didn’t get it.

People leave and they return.

I may smile and I may cry.

Never thinking about it

It just happens, no certain way

But always in a certain way

***

Boys and men, from the time this great country of ours was formed, strode out to war, some returning, and some remaining as fallen heroes on battlefields to be forever deplored. All damaged to the man. Without exception, being in the ungodly position of harm’s way will never provide for the memories to ever be cleansed from any soldier’s soul – the sights, the sounds, and the total disbelief over what will eternally be etched within our human mind’s eye.

Many years ago as a high school drama student I came across a poem written by Robert W. Service.

The poem was recited in class, and then repeated over again on a few separate occasions during the remainder of the semester. With all that transpires repeatedly on our globe, as we have come to expect it to happen, it occurred to me perhaps the relevance of a young sergeant in the Canadian Army might ring a pertinent bell with those of you who may have experienced some of the doctrine of loss.

Fleurette

By Robert W. Service

The Wounded Canadian Speaks

My leg? It's off at the knee.

Do I miss it? Well, some. You see

I've had it since I was born;

And lately a devilish corn.

(I rather chuckle with glee

To think how I've fooled that corn.)

But I'll hobble around all right.

It isn't that, it's my face.

Oh, I know I'm a hideous sight,

Hardly a thing in place.

Sort of gargoyle, you'd say.

Nurse won't give me a glass,

But I see the folks as they pass

Shudder and turn away;

Turn away in distress...

Mirror enough, I guess.

I'm gay! You bet I am gay,

But I wasn't a while ago.

If you'd seen me even to-day,

The darnedest picture of woe,

With this Caliban mug of mine,

So ravaged and raw and red,

Turned to the wall -- in fine

Wishing that I was dead....

What has happened since then,

Since I lay with my face to the wall,

The most despairing of men!

Listen! I'll tell you all.

That poilu across the way,

With the shrapnel wound on his head,

Has a sister: she came to-day

To sit awhile by his bed.

All morning I heard him fret:

"Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?"

Then sudden, a joyous cry;

The tripping of little feet;

The softest, tenderest sigh;

A voice so fresh and sweet;

Clear as a silver bell,

Fresh as the morning dews:

"C'est toi, cest toi, Marcel!

Mon frère, comme je suis heureuse!"

So over the blanket's rim

I raised my terrible face,

And I saw -- how I envied him!

A girl of such delicate grace;

Sixteen, all laughter and love;

As gay as a linnet, and yet

As tenderly sweet as a dove;

Half woman, half child -- Fleurette.

Then I turned to the wall again.

(I was awfully blue, you see,)

And I thought with a bitter pain:

"Such visions are not for me."

So there like a log I lay,

All hidden, I thought, from view,

When sudden I heard her say,

"Ah! Who is that malheureux?"

Then briefly I heard him tell

(However he came to know)

How I'd smothered a bomb that fell

Into the trench, and so

None of my men were hit,

Though it busted me up a bit.

Well, I didn't quiver an eye,

And he chattered and there she sat;

And I fancied I heard her sigh --

But I wouldn't just swear that.

And maybe she wasn't so bright,

Though she talked in a merry strain,

And I closed my eyes ever so tight,

Yet I saw her ever so plain:

Her dear little tilted nose,

Her delicate, dimpled chin,

Her mouth like a budding rose,

And the glistening pearls within;

Her eyes like the violet:

Such a rare little queen -- Fleurette.

And at last when she rose to go,

The light was a little dim,

And I ventured to peep, and so

I saw her, graceful and slim,

And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh

How I envied and envied him!

So when she was gone I said

In rather a dreary voice

To him of the opposite bed:

"Ah, friend, how you must rejoice!

But me, I'm a thing of dread.

For me nevermore the bliss

The thrill of a woman's kiss."

Then I stopped, for lo! she was there,

And a great light shone in her eyes.

And me! I could only stare,

I was taken so by surprise,

When gently she bent her head:

"May I kiss you, sergeant?" she said.

Then she kissed my burning lips,

With her mouth like a scented flower,

And I thrilled to the finger-tips,

And I hadn't even the power

To say: "God bless you, dear!"

And I felt such a precious tear

Fall on my withered cheek,

And darn it, I couldn't speak.

And so she went sadly away,

And I know that my eyes were wet.

Ah, not to my dying day

Will I forget, forget!

Can you wonder now I am gay?

God bless her, that little Fleurette!

This Just In: “Our New Starbucks”

Just opened on our corner

It used to be a nickel

Then what was, became a dime

Some even gave it away

Praying for customers to sit there and dine

Apple pie along with a la mode

No thoughts of calories

Deceptive advertising was always told

There was no “Starbucks”

No “Coffee Tea & Me”

A dollar seventy five was a dinner out

We never sipped while being plugged in

Meeting another for a drink

Was a time for conversation?

Perhaps even gin

 

They descend upon us relentlessly,

as would farts in a blizzard;

two by two,

      one by one,

      rarely in threes,

      never as a simple crowd at a ballgame;

ours                                                                                                                         forever;

coffee zombies;

Many,                                                 distraught                                                             wannabes!

Enjoying            overpaying for what used to be one of the       simpler things in life;

black                         coffee, an             important             part                         of             our

life

On             less             than a                         notable             lark             I             ventured

across                                                 our                                                                         street.

I      was      taken       by       the       cleanliness;      a

different                                                                                                             surrealism,

a             room                         filled             with                         people             not            talking

to                                                 one                                                                         another

A             series                        of                         lines             of                         apparent             human

beings             moving                         the                        same                         direction,

towards             very                   young                stewards             of            one            look

and                                                                                                                         meter

One step and stop,

one step and stop,

then                with        a         postal        service         style

deliverance,

each             ended                         their                         march                         with                         a             similar

cup in hand.

Most             not                         tasting             their                         brew                         until

outside                         and             in             the                         confines             of

dissimilar                                                                                                 transportation.

The             men,             not             a             tried                        and            true                         athletic

group.

The             women,             none                         baring                         the             look                         of             a

home wrecker.

1947 Trefner’s, 619 Lexington at 53rd, NYC, a moderately priced restaurant with long-time patrons: “First there is fruit juice, then a choice of two soups. The main courses are fried chicken, steaks or some kind of fish. The chicken, which is $1, is one of the specialties of the house. Another is Hungarian goulash for 95 cents.”

Your choice of coffee, tea, or soft drink – free with meal.

Coffee Drinking Statistics

Total percentage of Americans over the age of 18 that drink coffee everyday = 54%

Average size of coffee cup = 9 ounces

Average price of an espresso-based drink = $2.45

Average price for cup of brewed coffee = $1.38

Total percentage of coffee drinkers who prefer their coffee black = 35%

Total percentage of coffee consumption that takes place during breakfast hours = 65%

Total amount of money spent by importing coffee to U.S. each year = $4 billion

Total percentage of coffee Brazil produces of entire worlds output = 30%

Total amount of cups of coffee (9 ounces) a coffee drinker consumes daily = 3.1

Total average of money spent on coffee each year by coffee drinker = $164.71

Total number of U.S. daily coffee drinkers = 100 million

Total number of U.S. daily coffee drinkers who drink specialty beverages (lattes, cappuccinos, mochas, etc.) = 30 million

Total percentage of coffee drinkers who drink 13 or more cups of coffee each week = 24%

Total percentage of coffee drinkers who go to premium places (Starbucks, Coffee Bean, etc.) when they get coffee out = 34%

Total percentage of people who go to lower-price outlets (McDonald’s, Dunkin Donuts, etc.) when out = 29%

Total percentage of coffee consumed between meals = 30%

Total percentage of coffee drinkers who add cream and/or sugar = 65%

Total amount of U.S. coffee drinkers who claim to need a cup of coffee to start their day = 60%

Total percentage of coffee drinkers who say coffee makes them feel more like their self = 54%

Total percentage of coffee drinkers who have a cup within the first hour of waking up = 68%

Total amount of yearly money spent on specialty coffee in the U.S. = 18 billion

There was a time period long before the likes of Starbucks, when folks ventured out with only a few coins in their pockets in search of anything that might make do as their dinner. One little guy, the story is told, entered a restaurant, looked at the menu, and decided he could get one single meatball with the fifteen cents he had left to his name. The disgruntled waiter took his order, and as he turned away the little man asked if he might get some bread. The waiter responded with a bellow for all the diners to hear:

“One meat ball. One meat ball! Well, you gets no bread with one meat ball.”

Believe it or not, the song “One Meat Ball” actually became a hit in the forties.

My Words

My words are my words

They are not etched in stone

Still, they are mine

Some would have said:

“His words are harsh

Too strong in order to be digested

Too weak to bet on, or pray upon.”

But for better or worse, they remain mine.

My brief respite, caused by a satiation attributed to the driving forces of our ignoramus-impaled elected officials and their executive appointees, has come to an end.  I will once again find the time required to blog you, although it will be a short allotment at best when one considers the limits of the human life’s expectancy, and the enormity of material available that stipulates the grievous ineptitude of our public officials. Though those in the so-called Hollywood community rarely read what I write, it makes no never mind to me, for I am a full service talker.

“Full Service Talker”

When a person arrives on this planet as a “full service talker,” by the dictates of his or her normal breathing requirements to sustain life, said talker (in this case scenario me) becomes quiet only as a necessary form of relief. Even a full service talker must take the time to breathe.

        

Truth be told, I just had to stop for a moment -- not necessarily to rest, or catch my breath -- to keep from saying something I might regret in later years. The power of the quill can be an awesome thing. (I love saying the word “quill.” It’s so damn romantic.)

As my Father so vehemently professed to his young son, “Be careful what you write or say Harv, there just may be a few who are listening in -- some even without you knowing it.”

I find myself with some extra time on my hands. I was planning on attending a meeting at the White House this last week, but somehow Valerie Jarrett neglected to send me an invite. Don’t get the idea that I’m the least bit offended. She doesn’t actually know me; if she did know me, I’m certain she’d have an instant dislike for my political principles and myself in general.

An aside: I love romance. Please don’t get nervous (you dolt), I’m not going to talk about lovemaking, though I am an expert at and on the subject of making.

I believe it was the 2000-year-old man who said, “Making is wonderful, especially when you use it in association with a person you like or respect.”

Politicians make laws. I don’t care for politicians.

People who make time to read are my favorites. In actuality, these people are taking as opposed to making. It doesn’t mean I like takers. It means I like the kind of people who take from themselves and give freely to others. In this case, taking from our limited well of allotted time on this earth, is unquestionably the most valuable commodity any human being has to give. Imagine if our elected officials took the time to read what they were signing -- how much would it help to make ours a better society to live in? It would definitely be a trend back to the rewards of romanticism.

Like I said earlier, I don’t like politicians. Politicians all seem to be void of romance. I doubt if there is anything one might construe regarding the purchase of a hooker’s time as a romantic event. Of course, it would be considered as a romantic event if the politicians had to fight their way in or out of the brothel in order to gain satisfaction. (Boy, did I clean that one up.)

Don’t you find it interesting how much stranger truth is than fiction? Imagine that, as a businessman, I have decided to hire people and allow them to set their own rules and regulations concerning their employ. Wages, time off for vacation or sick leave, and cost of living increases based on cost of living guides they set -- and threw in as an extra every kind of medical insurance and retirement plan known to man. In the event that you have plans regarding replacing said employee -- forget about it. Their contract calls for them to be on the job for at least eight years. Recognize the story? It’s true. We call them Congressmen. If I were running a law firm in such a manner, our company name would have to be “Ludicrous & Laughable.”

So, forget the romance. It’s gone. It was another time. Another era. It was the Roman Empire that I’m really talking about. For the sake of conversation let’s call it Detroit.

NOTE: For those of you who spend your days plugged in to nothing but music, this just in: The great industrial empire city of Detroit has officially filed for bankruptcy. Detroit is the largest city in the United States to have declared for bankruptcy in the history of our country. Dependent on the source, Detroit’s elected officials state that they are eighteen billion dollars in the red. All have agreed it is an impossible amount of indebtedness to overcome.

        

The question is how could the once Industrial Automobile capital of the world go down the tubes like it has now? Who’s responsible? Who could we point a finger at, and what good would it do?

Promises, Promises

The affluent upper and general middle class -- once the strength and breath of Detroit -- reached its peak in 1950 at 1,849,568 million people. Today, Detroit is left with 701,475 people who are ill equipped to take care of themselves, let alone bear the burden of supporting a bankrupt municipality that is 18 billion dollars in debt.

        

“The First Great Problem Solver”

On a dreary morning, long before recorded time, it was decided by the powers that be, (in actuality, the powers that were) that a necessity demanded a new form of being to rise to the helm of life as they understood it. The people of the time to which I refer, were known as Carolers. Each of them was known to have a beautiful singing voice. At the time, musical instruments were not yet being manufactured. The singers were accompanied by the sounds of breezes gently wafting through the trees, creating a lovely, soothing sound.

The problem was the lack of dependability on the part of the breezes. There were periods when the villagers would stand around for hours --often days -- waiting for even the smallest murmur of a breeze to come up. One day Slick, the town crier, came upon a group standing around in the village square.

“Why don’t you sing a capella?” He asked.

Since there weren’t instruments as of yet, they had no thought of singing without them. As their leader pointed out to Slick, it would be like telling people to warm up food before they had a fire.

Slick made it a point to explain the village singing conundrum to the Village Leader. Normally, this would have represented a problem since the elected leader was usually not to be found anywhere near the village square during working hours. The leader’s absences understandably made good sense; his reasoning was that it was much easier to get a tee off time during the week than on the weekends.

Slick ultimately caught up with their leader as he completed the first nine holes of his round. In no more than an instant or two, the inconsistency of the breezes problem was solved. By executive order a capella singing groups were banned. The task of informing the constituency of said order was assigned to Slick, the town crier.

That night, when the Village Leader returned from his round of golf, he found the village deserted; not even a note was left for him.

Years later, a new leader was placed in charge of the deserted villagers by a private company in the business of manufacturing the first horse-drawn golf carts. This ultimately came to an end because the build up of horse manure made putting an impossible skill to master. Once again, the village people moved to a new location, leaving behind the city forever to be known as: Dreckville.

We move to a wonderful era, circa 1947. Dreckville has turned in to the wonderful community of Los Angeles, California. Descendants of the original inhabitants of Dreckville heavily populate the city. The mayor, Pasquell Lombardo Cohen, is a fourteenth removed grandson of the original Slick -- the town crier who disappeared from the employ of the original Dreckville leader.

At Schwab’s Drug Store on Hollywood Boulevard, it’s early afternoon and the place is packed with wannabes. Each person at the counter is equipped with a newspaper, a Hollywood Reporter, and a script for a film they’re trying to sell. 

        

NOTE: I was far too young to be one of them, but in spirit I was already one of the clan that Otto Preminger described as being “stupid.”

Two guys were having a good solid (and may I add) healthy conversation. At times voices could be considered raised. At times, a better than normal degree of passion was shown by each of them. If you’re curious, in the beginning, these two were in a hot discussion concerning the strength of our current Los Angeles Dodgers’ pitching staff. Their dialogue flip-flops to a point where it’s unlikely that a listener can tell one from the other. They appear to have everything in common, except skin color. They were strange fellows to share camaraderie -- neighbors, friends, classmates, and now two of the thousands chasing their dreams in a far more romantic Los Angeles than what exists today.

I agree.

I disagree.

I really think your evaluation is a dopey one.

Why, because it differs from yours?

No, because I happen to be right.

These two stalwarts went on and on up until hunger got in their way.

Lets grab something to eat.

Sounds good to me.

I changed my mind.

What do you mean?

Who do you think you are, Belafonte?

I don’t get it.

I’m kind of kidding you.

Kind of?

Yeah. Kidding. Making a joke.

How can you joke about Harry?

Just like Steve Allen does.

You’re not Steve Allen.

And you’re not Belafonte.

But I’m black.

I hadn’t noticed until you pointed it out.

You’re being insensitive.

You do realize you just called your supposed closest friend insensitive?

Okay you dopey bastard, you got me now.

Let’s go eat.

Agreed.

Where do you want to go?

Anywhere where color has nothing to do with the food.

You have something against colorful food?

You just don’t get it, do you?

I almost never understand where you’re coming from!

That’s why we get along so well.

How come you don’t get it when I’m the one whose kidding?

I do, but I don’t want to hurt your feelings.

Like how?

By pointing out how insensitive a person you happen to be.

Because I’m black?

No, because you happen to be a dopey bastard.

How did you figure that out?

I have many friends who also happen to be dopey bastards, just like you.

Now you’re finally beginning to make some sense.

Mexican?

Not funny; quit with the name-calling.

Mexican food, not people!

Oh.

It was a much more romantic time.

The first Tonight Show aired in September 1954. Steve Allen started it all. Steve was a great human being to have known by one and all.

Before the Mustache

It was nothing more than a plain old upper lip. Day in and day out, across this country and to another continent, I traveled with a few thousand of my army buddies. Many of them brought with them lips equal to mine, but many with far more hair.

The upper lip is a part of the body that rarely, if ever, gets enough credit. Many of the world’s biggest names found the necessity to give credit where credit was due. Take, for example: Martin and Lewis, Lewis and Clarke, Burns and Allen, Abbott and Costello, Rowan and Martin, none of the Beatles, along with a historical list exceeding one’s wildest imagination. Only Elvis came forth with an elaborate smirk to end all smirks; yet even Elvis never found the time to pay tribute to his upper lip as would befit a wiggler of his imperious stature. 

President William H. Taft

We haven’t had a President of these United States, with hair on his upper lip since William Howard Taft, our 27^th President way back to 1909. That would make it 104 years since one of our guys showed some hair on his upper lip. That’s not to say that hair on an upper lip makes the man. Political things appear to go in cycles. The last 18 Presidents have been hairless. Most likely, we’re destined to continue playing the waiting game. Who knows -- the next mustachioed President might also be our first woman to hold the office.

Note: Harvey Kalmenson has successfully worn his own mustache for the past 45 years. It became part of his mystique following his service in The United States Army.

During my review of the former and current Presidents of the United States, I found that, beyond a shadow of a doubt, I am more qualified for the office of President than most who have preceded me. Not since Theodore Roosevelt has any other man equaled my dual qualifications of mustache and military. 

President Theodore Roosevelt

The record speaks for itself. If I were to run for office my slogan would be:

“Mustache / Military

And No Internal Revenue Service”

Put a man with hair on his upper lip into the Oval Office!

In conclusion, it should be apparent that the next candidate for President of the United States who darns a mustache would be an odds-on favorite to win, the exception, of course, being that female candidate.