I Beg Your Pardon

        Good, bad, or indifferent, towards my efforts as a communicator during my past forty-seven years of endurance within what many of you wrongly refer to as “show business”. In 1951, I stumbled on a book by Al Hirschfeld entitled “Show Business is No Business”. Admittedly, I didn’t grasp what the well-traveled Mr. Hirschfeld was getting at.

        It was seventy-one years ago. A much younger man about town named Harvey Kalmenson was eighteen and had recently graduated from high school here in Los Angeles. I had two goals—I was going to either become a professional baseball player or become a big-time operator in the magical world of entertainment, or the "attainment" industry.

        Three years passed, and I returned from Korea and the army; “Let the banging of one's head into this new world of "No Business" begin”. And so, now at the magnificent age of nineteen and void of any near great mental eruptions taking place, an uneventful— sometimes successful—lifetime adventure began taking shape. Or so I thought! Age twenty-one. Love, luck, or skill?

da harv, 2021

In testament to transformation

All was right

At age eighty-nine, how divine!

Once more

Too many to recall

I’ve been asked

How I might describe

My pursuits

Those I’ve dared taking

During my life’s travels

Banging my head against the proverbial wall

As a rabid dog might

In search of whatever

Vainly travailing, consistently in wants

Even the smallest morsel

Considered to be success

Even if remotely stumbling upon it

Many are told

Be careful what you ask for

Many don’t ever ask

In fear they might be a receiver

“Sex burns calories, but you gotta move. But that shouldn’t be your only reason for gleaning from the experience! Luck rules the world!”

HK

Crazy Times

These Are Crazy Times...

We’re Living In Today

        Our conversation had begun with two ordinary guys thanking each other for their service to the country. He was an ex-marine, and I was an equally proud ex-army man. We could tell by the monogrammed hats we were wearing, we had both served in Korea. We spoke to each other as if we were past members of the same social club.

        As he spoke I found myself in agreement with almost all he had to say. We found ourselves in a condition of mutual wonderment. “Has it always been this way?” he asked. These are some of the craziest of times neither da harv nor the stranger had ever lived in.

        While not yet at wit's end, it became a chance for a pair of old guys to commiserate. It had started out with the two of us overhearing this gal talking about the drug problems being suffered by many families today… It wasn’t to be a joyful conversation to kick off my day. It seems like, with a little practice, a guy can jam a lot of anguish into just a few minutes.

        “What weird times these are, what with inflation, and crime running rampant in our cities, the war in Ukraine, Covid-19, and so many other things for us to be thinking about. And lest we forget China, Russia, Iran, and our borders being violated on a daily day and night basis.”

        All that came from the minds of total strangers, as part of nothing more than a casual conversation at our neighborhood Costco. If I were to direct a play, about a family living in some very tough times, I might describe what these actors were portraying as they all were living within their daily lives.

—

Director: To the actors at their first table reading
Time: 2022
Scene: Costco, Westlake Village

Two Blue Collar Strangers In Conversation:
Up and Back Comparing Notes

Setting:

        A common laundry list: a family member with a severe drug problem, years of political tumult, turmoil, confusion, disorder, unemployment, neighborhoods in a state of fear caused by crime in their community... Often, too much to think about. Though those who are made to think, find ways to learn from those men and women who write books.

“I cannot teach anybody anything. I can only make them think.”

– Socrates

        Socrates was the guy who taught Plato how to educate himself and a pretty big group of Greek guys who through the years would get together and do a lot of thinking. Rumor has it they invented whatever they happened to need at the time.

        One of the guys, who was really good at math, helped out a buddy of his by discovering angles and how to use them… He was the guy who established the right angle. They called him Pythagoras. He was really good with numbers! (Yah think?)

        But, guess what… your thoughts would be as good or even better than mine. What if it had been decided to call it a “wrong angle” instead? What differences, if any, would have changed the world we know today? Perhaps the famous leaning tower of Pisa would be leaning in a different direction?

"All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts"

- From “As You Like It” by William Shakespeare

        But if life is a stage—all the world cast with its players, our portrayal taking place within these United States of America, da harv aptly appointed to direct the show—well, then, I would council our cast of actors and we will begin with some fruitful nostalgia. I’ll embark by encouraging all to return to the year 1965.

• In January of 1965, one of the greatest leaders and heroes of perhaps all recorded time died. As encouragement and inspiration to all, I recommend reading the speeches Sir Winston Churchill delivered to his people in 1940. The United States had not yet entered WW2.
• The Watts riots of 1965, Los Angeles — a city afire.
• Immigration Act of 1965
• Martin Luther King Jr.’s 1965 UCLA Speech: On April 27, 1965, in what would come to be known as his “Segregation Must Die” speech, Dr. King acknowledged that it was a fact that some progress had been made.

        The above is nothing more than a scratch to the surface of the unimpregnable skin that Americans have learned that will, and can, ultimately block out the evil vermin who seek to destroy what we have built into the greatest country of all generations to share forever.

        But, in order to justify one's beliefs, each individual must discover for themselves. I've discovered the more I read, the more truth comes to bear as a deterrent to evil. Few writers can manage more than a modicum of exaggeration in what they scribe. Politicians appear to have the most ability to deceive. However deceit doesn’t last forever; in most cases, the falsehoods begin to appear as soon as they’re elected—or defeated, for that matter.

Then in America

Our people were up,

down,

in and out

all around town

known to the world we lived in

Momentary delays

They came with the territory

Life’s ordinary pebbles

To be shaken

loose from the roads

we, the thinking people,

decided on our destiny

Pebbles, always to be swept away

There was far more to 1965 than this missive will reveal!

Many years passed

Then came da harv

No time to cipher

For his theories

To be cast

So he borrowed

From the others

Swiftly he could read and write

His only plight

Paper hadn’t been invented

Tablets of sand notwithstanding

Soon disappeared

Each day when the rains came

Almost any

Who might scribble

Dabble in

Or dribble on

Applauded

His written lyrics

Neither right nor wrong

Straight nor tilted

Leaning or centered

Both sides elated

Much of his dribble

Scorned by some

Receiving many ducats

From princes and lords

The common folk

Never did partake

They had not yet learned to read

Nor were they allowed to vote

For all the commoners

All was at stake

        And two men completed their conversation. Both showing smiles of a time well spent… a partial day in their lives… to be recalled if they choose for as long as they remain on life’s stage.

HK

Gotta Be This Or That

With great aplomb,

And all the satire I can muster at this late date in life,

Just as if he, or she,

Whatever this slanted society decides upon

Which comfort station

Thinking they know is correct

For a person of their supposed gender

May or may not

Contrive

Offering God-given dexterity to make the proper use of!

        ...Somewhere, somehow, it was uttered in the believed year of 652 BC. And yes, yes, yes, they did have some form of a given structure in the year 652 BC. (They had a king, and while it may not have anything to do with a politico movement, they had an established theatre…)
        "The theatre of Ancient Greece flourished between 550 BC and 220 BC. A festival honoring the god Dionysus was held in Athens, out of which three dramatic genres emerged: tragedy, comedy, and the satyr play. Western theatre has its roots in the theatre of Ancient Greece and the plays that originated there."

“Keep Pushing, You Bastards, Keep Pushing”

Note: Some bastards would rather pull than push. And so it was claimed to be the start of the two-party system of government.

        And somewhere, while habituating within the depths of their ignorance, some elected to pull – although it was a strange notion for the times at hand. These, the self-indulgent folks, were from then and ever on identifying themselves as politicians.
        To the general public, this group was also known as "shleppers", the Yiddish word for always just coming along for the ride! They represented forty percent of the population.
        Then arose the other forty percent, who upon considering the desperate plight of the “shleppers” were living quite well on many of our largest big cities' streets.

        When nature bids you the relief of a healthy bodily function, the bidding does not require a politician's approval or consent – regardless of which side you happen to vote for – or even if you happen to be the kind of individual who always must find a way to vote against the person, man or woman, regardless of skin color, whom you happen to hate the most.
        If you happen to be a forty percent member of our United States voting population, you won’t agree with most of what I have to say anyway. So with complete deference to your feelings (not to worry, I promise not to be concerned with your feelings), it’s my way of presenting a lukewarm gesture commonly presented by a more than the vast array of today's politicly elected breed.

        And now time for hip, hip, hurrah – here comes the remaining twenty percent of the public at large; half of whom, ten percent, will cast their ballots at election time in order to select the politicians they feel to be the most honest, or at least those who have existed as public servants up and until they are ridden with old age. These adoringly wonderful individuals have labeled themselves to be forever known as: “Independents”. I have met many during the course of my life who have claimed to be “Independent”. None of them ever became president of the United States during my lifetime.

        There was a song entitled “Gotta Be This Or That”, written way back in 1945. I guess it was a time period, like many others in this great country of ours where people were having some degree of problems with “self-direction”. My God, that was seventy-seven years ago.
        Almost everything we, Americans, were dreaming of was hopefully being prayed for. For many of us, during this year of indecision and misleading decisions simultaneously being heaped upon us, the song lyrics of band leader Benny Goodman’s “Gotta Be This Or That” tolled true by way of his big band jazz musical rendition.

The song Gotta Be This or That was written by Sunny Skylar.

Lyrics by Benny Goodman and His Orchestra in 1945.

Dwindling Breeze

Maybe more rave than there is to go around

Moving more slowly

Laden deep, these swelling waters

Older flags having ragged edges

Yet, humor still displayed

Nature vehemently ever

In charge

We, passengers, deny goals

While seeking mere survival

New horizons no longer being sought

Yet, somehow,

With eyes sparkling

Freshness from a small breeze billowing

Sails struggling

Still willing to move us forward

Have we a momentary reprieve at hand

What manner they be

These passengers of mine

Again, no matter

Nature will decide

Those viewing our ship will never understand

Colleagues, Troopers, Lovers

All past have been mine

All actors, we

Manage to sail forward

Though desperation be our band

One single light remains downstage

As if waiting for an audience

Who will finally understand!

HK, 1983

...It was today.
Awakening from a sleep
I had dreamed of yesteryear
A young lad on his long Saturday morning walk
Hand in hand with a father's protection
Without notice, we arrived
Lincoln Terrace Park, Brooklyn, New York
1944, a war's magnitude still permeating all lives
Dad was a man of forty-two, I, a boy of eleven
Suddenly, as dreams often do, it came to its end…
One man spoke to a group of others: “Did you hear?” he said to no one in particular, “Charlie caught a ball for his kid. It was the other day, the Dodgers were playing the Giants. I think it was off the bat of Pee Wee Reese”.
I smiled, it became reality. It was time to begin my day; this day in 2022, as da harv, now a man of eighty-eight…

So, my friends, “What’s new with almost all of you?”

Part II: Let The Games Continue

ENTERING A NEW SPORT: THEATER

        Many of us, including yours truly, were required to try the same drill the first two students experienced that very first day. Our teacher moved around the room randomly choosing who would have their turn on stage. For no discernible reason, I was last to get up to perform. There I was, center stage. I took a comfortable breath and began to talk to them as if they were a crowd sitting in the stands, watching me pitch.

        “This feels like I’m on a pitching mound, looking in at my catcher, just the way my dad showed me how to do it.” The students began to laugh. I shook off their laughter without anger. “No. He really did teach me. He taught me a lot of things.”

        “I can remember a long time ago. It was one of those Saturday summer days. My dad and I were at Ebbets Field, together, taking in a Dodger game, together. They played their games in Brooklyn in those days. I’m smiling now because that day with my father is one I will remember for the rest of my life.” The students became quiet, they seemed to lean in a little closer. “Tell us the rest of what happened next”, the teacher called out to me.

        I began again: “The Dodgers were up at bat. The game was on the line. My dad told me to stay awake. We were sitting pretty close to where many of the foul balls were often hit. Up to the plate came my favorite Dodger of all time: Pee Wee Reese. “Stay awake”, my dad said again.

        Then, Pee Wee hits one up in the air and it came quickly our way. We all instantly stood up. My dad raised up to his full height of five foot five inches, stuck his left arm up in the air, and lo and behold, made a bare-handed catch of that foul ball off the bat of my favorite dodger, Pee Wee Reese. God, I loved that guy, but I loved my father more.” The students applauded.

        During the course of the semester, our wonderful teacher often repeated the same drill as we all became aware she had, herself, learned as a working actress and student of the great Stanislavski.

INGREDIENTS: STUDY and DISCOVERY

        The word study may not occur to those in the earliest stages of discovery itself. "Study" is imperative as a driving force for anyone and everyone who is held captive by even a modicum of flowing creative juices so presented by nature's indelible will. An absolute necessity in the cultivation of lasting and prominent skills.

        Study and discovery are essentially the same providers, bringing forth both conscience and subconscious enlightenment; without which these two ingredients, creativity becomes nothing more than a burdensome and unrewarding task. That was then, and this is now. I never go a single day without both of those marvelous ingredients entering, and reentering, my treasury.

        When I returned home from Korea, neither study nor any human pertinence allowing for who I really was (at that moment in time) was anything I intended to share from my private thoughts. In other words, looking back, I was quite introspective. Two short years later, what I considered a fixation became a fact of life.

        I take a personal moment to acknowledge a few persons before me. Those who taught me the "how" and "why" systems work, for all or any who fall to the long and often fickle deceptions of creativity.

        Note: My acknowledgments are now complete. I chose to make them introspectively; often it's what I do as I prepare to write my next piece, or am in the process of delivering a verbal discourse in a most intimate flow of words.
        Often, during trying times—the likes of what we are now experiencing during this plague—I can easily conjure at my will the very image of my dad reaching up, catching that ball, then instantly handing it off to his adoring young son as the crowd cheered him on to new heights!

“Dear God, let the games continue!”

HK

Part I: Let The Games Continue

Meeting Stanislavski

        Dorsey High School, here in Los Angeles: At the time, my prime interest was playing baseball, and one day, signing a contract to play for a professional team. Studying and becoming a renowned scholar never entered my mind, at least not initially. My drive consisted of play, play, and more play.

        In the beginning, thoughts about anything other than baseball were nonexistent. I don’t recall ever using the word 'discovery' during those formative early high school years. I doubt if I ever opened a book during my first year of high school.

        So much of what they were teaching here, in the state of California, I had already learned during my grammar school days in New York City. Growing up in my family was a guarantee that we were all going to be good in math, or as my dad referred to it, arithmetic.

        Like many immigrant parents, both my mother and father had very little formal education, but it didn’t keep them from excelling at almost everything they attempted to accomplish. They craved learning, it was their driving force, along with making a living and providing for the upbringing of three children: two sisters and da harv.

        One sister is six years older, and the other is nine years younger than me. Not exactly a well-planned household. The big separation of years between us created an enormous family upheaval on many occasions, mainly between me and my older sister. I never thought about my gift with words. Vocabulary and writing skills just happened to be there. Years later, one of the actresses explained to me – in a past life I probably knew how to speak Latin. My mother claimed my vocabulary skills were derived because she began reading to me from the time she first became pregnant with me.

        Year two brought with it: discovery. I actually began planning what I intended to study. By the end of that year, I began to understand what our California teachers really had going for them, especially the women. Many of the female teachers had come to Los Angeles as aspiring actresses. The one I was lucky enough to have, this teacher, came equipped with degrees having to do with theater. Many of the production skills she picked up were derived from some of the most renowned fine-art-related universities in the country.

The song called out to me:

“Whatever will be, will be

The future’s not ours, to see

Que Sera, Sera”

Jay Livingston/Ray Evans

Note: My favorite version is sung by one of my most favorite ladies, Doris Day.

DRAMA 1

        Day number one, on my first day ever in a legitimately-taught drama (acting) class: Our teacher had been an aspiring actress who ventured out from the small town environment she had grown up in into the movie mecca of the world. At the time, Los Angeles had many young, beautiful, and extremely-gifted teenage girls, discovering (along with their moms) how overpoweringly competitive becoming a working actor would be.

        Her mother had enrolled her talented daughter at Los Angeles High, at age fourteen. She graduated at age seventeen and went on to earn her graduate and post-graduate master's degree, supporting herself by waiting on tables at a very well-known Beverly Hills restaurant. Her skills as an exponent of the great Stanislavski were far more than scholarly—this lady wasn’t pedestrian in any sense of the word. Concurrently, I was entering a period of my young life when my capacity and aptitude as a receptor began to show itself.

THE FIRST DRILL

Location: Alone on our high school stage, our very first beginning drill.

        Two students were picked randomly — the teacher had assigned us, each in our own way, to free form the recollection of an actual personal (true) experience encountered from any time period we chose from our past.

        The first two students had, in common, an incident they each chose to remember and bring forward during a drill in our first week's drama class. Their story could have been funny, but it wasn’t. It could have been deeply dramatic, but none of us got their gist.

Note: Without exception, none of the students had heard the name “Stanislavski”.

        Not many high school teachers had past exposure to the teaching of the most prominent exponent of the great Stanislavski's method, or system. Not until I began cutting classes and making it over to one of the many little neighborhood theaters, did I have any knowledge of who Stanislavski was. I was about to find out.

To be continued...

HK

Our Field of Dreams

Our Field of Dreams

        The USA has always been my "field of dreams". Yes, they made a great movie with that title, but for me, it’s a very personal thing. I’m not embarrassed to share that fact of my life with any and all who care to hear, see, and perhaps read details of our country’s glorious past.

        It was many years ago when this very active kid (me) thought it was a great deal of fun to be out there with his dad shoveling snow. The year was 1943, and the main New York airport of the time was LaGuardia Airport.

        For this guy (me), my recall of pleasant nostalgia serves far more beneficially than the recall of peoples' complaints about the ineptitudes of deceitful politicians. I have zero memory of my mom or dad discussing politics. My mother was a flag-waving patriotic zealot, while we never heard my father let on which party he favored.

        At age twenty-one, when I returned from military service, I became aware my dad was a lifelong Republican. The kid (me) had not yet decided regarding the road I would be taking during the course of my lifetime. The “no complaints department” was the driving non-political force in our family.

        At that time, it had been twenty-two years since my dad and I had shoveled snow together for our neighbors, who couldn’t handle the chore themselves. Now we talked, man to man, and I still remember what dad had said with a smile of accomplishment on his face: “Did you get anything out of the army experience, Harv?” he asked.

        “The unbelievable accomplishment of knowing I was part of this great team of young guys who were busting their asses together, helping people to regain their dignity”, I replied. And not since the day my dad had taken me to the train station on my way to basic training, had I seen my father become emotional. We agreed there was much more accomplishment in shoveling snow than complaining about it, regardless of what political party you voted for.

        I write this as a thank you to all the men and women who serve the people who have placed their confidence in those committed to the accomplishment of providing for the building and survival of each other’s dignity.

        And thank you, all, for the marvelous reviews you’ve been sending me about my song, “Vote Them Out. It’s what America's All About”! In the event you haven’t heard it as of yet, just give what follows a click, give a listen, and don’t be afraid to let me know what you think.

Harvey Kalmenson