tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-327344532024-03-10T00:36:19.413-08:00 THE WORLD IS A STAGEBY JAY K. JOHNSON -
Journalized rants and ramblings from a fragmented ventriloqual mind.
©Copyright and common sense apply to all the material contained in this blog.JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.comBlogger2034125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-91940182329535234272021-09-10T11:25:00.001-07:002021-09-10T11:27:24.886-07:00Mel Tormé - Sky Marshall or (How the "velvet fog" saved an American Airlines flight)<h1 style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b>Mel Tormé - Sky Marshall</b></h1><div style="text-align: center;"><b>By Jay K. Johnson</b></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p></p><h1 style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin5-QVGrN0bkChoHI0oxNxdIemCoW2Ih0tWCsiNDxNri4lAB2QDhf5CBjtJUcRnuUTC9o2qObeTOxHJYAIIzKnkJH4rmx2UDsLeaadrVXwOp2_PqfyaaAit2imn7RGqrD7pXkC/s735/Screen+Shot+2021-09-10+at+9.31.58+AM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="735" data-original-width="448" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin5-QVGrN0bkChoHI0oxNxdIemCoW2Ih0tWCsiNDxNri4lAB2QDhf5CBjtJUcRnuUTC9o2qObeTOxHJYAIIzKnkJH4rmx2UDsLeaadrVXwOp2_PqfyaaAit2imn7RGqrD7pXkC/s320/Screen+Shot+2021-09-10+at+9.31.58+AM.png" width="195" /></a><span style="font-family: helvetica; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">As a modern day foot-note: If you do not know who Mel Tormé is - Google him. He was an incredible talent, nice guy, ultimate 50's hipster and known by all the crooners of the day as a "Singer's Singer". </span></span> </h1></blockquote><p>In 1984 Mel Tormé was in the golden days of his career. The music industry had changed and male crooners were seen as "of an era". He was still well known in Japan because of their almost cultural love of American Jazz. Then Rinehold Wiggie wrote "Night Court" and things changed. </p><p>Since my best friend was cast in the roll of Harry Stone on Night Court, I was in on some of the unpublished moments of that series. In the pilot Wiggie wrote a line for Judge Stone that spoke to his off beat character. A court clerk comes into Stone's office and the Judge is listening to a walk-man with head phones. He notices the clerk, takes the earphones off and says, "I have every album that Mel Tormé ever recorded." It was meant as a laugh line... the off beat judge was a fan of an obscure crooner. After the pilot aired Mel called Rinehold Wiggie and Harry to thank them for the shout out. Harry was, in reality, a big fan of Mel Tormé and the two became fast friends. For the next decade Mel Tormé became the mascot of Night Court making several guest appearances to an entirely new generation. </p><p>But this it a story about a passenger disruption on an American Airlines flight. </p><p>I was on my way from LA to Chicago to do a show sitting in the fourth row of first class. We made it to Chicago on time but the airport was socked in. Rain and snow flurries kept us from landing so we circled. The captain was giving us the updates and said that we had enough fuel to circle for a while until we could land. The circling continued for the next two and a half hours. </p><p>Emotions were running high with frustration as the captain came back on the intercom and said, "Well, we have exhausted all of our excess fuel and we are still not able to land in Chicago. We need to refuel so... we are headed to the St. Louis Airport to gas up. After that we will head back to Chicago and hopefully the weather will give us a break."</p><p>It took us 40 minutes to fly to St. Louis and we landed. However, air traffic held us at the edge of the airport because there were no gates available. Captain said we would have to get to a gate when it became available to refuel. We waited. </p><p>That wait continued for another 2 hours and frustration gave way to grumbling. St. Louis was no ones destination on this flight and we could not even get off the plane. There is suddenly a commotion coming from the back of the plane. I hear a flight attendant yelling, "Sir... sir, sit down... keep your seat. We are on an active taxi way... Sir.... Sir." An Asian man flew past me running toward the cockpit, yelling he had to get off the plane. NOW. He seemed to be in a classic claustrophobia panic attack, and determined to get into the cock pit. </p><p>He was stopped at the galley by two other attendants who struggled with the man ordering him to sit down. He had adrenline fueled strength and was really a hand full for the crew. I was craning my neck to watch and it seemed to be at the point of no control. Just then a man sitting in the first row bulkhead seat stood up. With out touching the man, and with a calm beautiful voice said, "Hey, Babe, why don't you go back and sit down, they are doing the best they can," </p><p>The man turned on his heels like he was going to punch the guy when he recognized who was speaking. It was Mel Tormé. The man stopped immediately and melted like a fan boy with eyes wide open in amazement. He blurted out, "It's Mel Tormé...Mel Tormé... that is Mel Tormé." Mel sat back down. The man turned into a puppy. As if he had seen divinity he calmly walked to the back of the plane repeating... "That was Mel Tormé... Mel Tormé" and took his seat.</p><p>In less than half an hour we were at the gate getting fueled up. We all got to get up and stretch our legs. I had met Mel on several occasions with Harry so I made my way up to the front and said to Mel, "Thanks for saving the flight from being taken over." After what was then 8 hours locked on this plane Mel says,</p><p>"Jay, Babe are you on this flight?" </p><p>Today when every new cycle has a story about violence on various airplanes, it is a shame we don't have more legendary iconic crooners to defuse the situation. Hope you and Harry are having a good time, up there together, Mel. I'll see ya both some day.</p><p><br /></p><p>As you were,</p><p>Jay</p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p style="text-align: left;"> </p>JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-37128546462908354062021-05-03T12:39:00.001-07:002021-05-03T13:34:33.381-07:00Saved by Instict<div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_f8a6_d79e_3029_a2ad" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/3qMHNecZ15t8OOE6KJgl9_9abCwnnutz0lnDmzB8OjujIssMM96wDxExJ-d_MELPNKg" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 373px; height: auto;"></div><br>A company has a problem if you remember the commercial very well, but not the product being advertised. Such is the case with an ad going around television now days. The premise of this commercial is the narrative of a spoof seminar/life coach who is teaching people how NOT to act like their aged parents. If I say “The waiter does not need to know your name” it might spark a recollection of that ad for you. It is similar to a real life ongoing conversation I occasionally have with my youngest son. <div>When I walk Harry the Wonder Dog I have a habit of saying “Hi” to people I pass in the neighborhood. Some will wave back or say hello, some will ignore me and others have headphones on and never know that I said anything. I admit it is more of a habit than a real interest in a friendly encounter. The times my son has walked with me he will say, “That is not necessary, Pops, they do not care and they don’t want the intrusion, so why do you even bother?” </div><div>He is right. Rarely do people in the neighborhood say hello to me first, so why do I bother? Like I said it is mostly an involuntary habit. </div><div><br></div><div>While walking this morning I suddenly had an epiphany. I might have come to the realization of why I have a habitual instinct to say hello to strangers. </div><div><br></div><div>If Mr. Peabody will set the “way back” machine to sometime during the fall of 1974, we’ll start there. Back then, Sandi and I worked for a supper club called Charlie’s Place. Charlies Place was a club located in the basement of the Texas Hotel in Downtown Fort Worth, Texas. It featured a variety show with dinner a couple of times a night, and if there was anyone left to watch, a “Good Night Show” which was a short choreographed medley of songs containing the words Good Night. Of course we had to wait around till the beginning of that show before we were dismissed for the evening. I would say it was a 70 percent chance we wouldn’t do a Good Night show on the week nights. </div><div><br></div><div>The show changed every couple of months or so and for this particular show I did my guitar act, which involves my wrist watch and the guitar coming to life an taking over a song I was trying to sing. Squeaky, my main partner before Bob, was featured in the goodnight show. It was my habit to take the guitar out to my car before the Goodnight Show so I didn’t have a double load at the end of the night. </div><div>Downtown Fort Worth was at the time not a bustling metropolis after hours so it was usually very dead when I went to the car. To save a dollar and a half we sometimes parked in a deserted alley a block away from the hotel which was the case this night. </div><div><br></div><div>I remember my thoughts were a million miles away that night. I had no sense of my surroundings as I walked the dark streets to the alley, I was remembering the show that particular night and doing a critique in my mind of the performance. As I crossed the street to the spot I parked I suddenly became aware of something. It might have been the acrid smell or the weird gutter mumblings of the person sitting on a curb between me and my car that hooked my attention. I made a halting step which caught the eye of the man on the curb. He was dressed in clothes that had clearly been worn for too long in too many dirty places. His hair was tangled and ratted and the incoherent mumbling stopped abruptly as his reddened blurry eyes locked on mine. I continued walking past him thinking that if I didn’t act completely at ease it might be seen as a threat. His eyes narrowed as I got closer, and in a nervous reflex I said, “Hi. How you doin’” like we were old friends. That seemed to work. He went back to his guttural mumblings and strange forward and backward rocking in his position on the curb. </div><div><br></div><div>Trying not to stare but taking in every detail I could, I saw that as he was rocking back and forth he was brushing a very large hunting knife up and down on the outside of his bent leg. There was very little light on the street but the chrome blade of the knife flashed at the apex of each upward brush. I was relieved to get past him and to my car twenty yards behind him in the dark alley. I took out my keys and opened the trunk of my 2 door Plymouth Scamp. As I placed the guitar into the trunk I heard the sound of shoes scraping the concrete behind me and got a whiff of that acrid smell again. I felt the man behind me and shut my trunk before turning around. </div><div><br></div><div>He was 6 feet away from me in an aggressive posture with the knife pointed at my upper torso. I was frozen with indecision. I had never been in a situation like this before nor felt this threatened. I do not know exactly how long this stand off lasted. His blurry reddened eyes narrowed. It felt like this was the moment something was about to happen. A strange glaze took over his eyes and he said, “No. NO. You are a good dude.”</div><div><br></div><div>His posture changed. The arm with the knife dropped to his side and he turned his back to me and shuffled away. I carefully retraced my steps back to Charlies Place. Safe in the bowels of the Texas Hotel I sat down in the green room. One of my performing friends looked at me and said, </div><div>“Oh my God are you okay? you are white as a ghost”. </div><div>The color had drained from my face as reality set in. I told the story to my wide eyed performing mates. It was decided at that moment that a dollar fifty was not too much to pay for a safe place to park.</div><div><br></div><div>I don’t know much about what makes the human mind work, but I do know this. I saw this would be mugger and thief make a decision standing in front of me. Was he going to mug me, cut me, stab me, steal my car and the guitar or not? I saw the indecision in his eyes as he contemplated his next move in that alley way. He sized me up and the only thing he knew about me was that I said, Hello to him on the street just moments earlier. I didn’t back away, I didn’t look at him in disgust or disapproval I just said hello and continued on my way. He decided that I was a “Good Dude” based solely on a three second interaction. Never mind that for me it was an instinctive knee jerk reaction to being suddenly startled, what came out was not threatening to him. I will believe to this day that had my instincts been anything other than to say hello to a stranger on the street, this story would not have a positive ending. </div><div><br></div><div>So why do I bother saying hi to people on the street? I can make a case that at one time 40-odd years ago it could have potentially saved my life. </div><div><br></div><div>As you were,</div><div>Jay</div>JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-192402541332740992021-04-29T10:46:00.001-07:002021-04-29T10:58:51.740-07:00Harry the Wonder Dog<div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_41fc_c8a9_e665_f517" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/1TEC4BFmCe-Stj8xV4foKxmBToKwoN8abXyL-AGnc-5MYxXNkWp5JqybJIgRdhobTdE" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 387px; height: auto;"></div><br>Ultimately this is a story about judgement. Sometimes based on our experiences both real and imagined we draw a conclusions about people not based truth but assumptions. Unless those assumptions are corrected or proved wrong we carry them around in our mind like it was empirical fact. <div><br></div><div>It has been a long time since I felt like I could write again. I lost my writing partner, then there was a Pandemic, I wasn’t doing any shows and soon the news was nothing but the saga of a failed attempt to overthrow an election, by sedition. All very happy subjects to deal with. And since the Pandemic has us all circling our own nest in continually smaller concentric circles, there has been nothing much that I thought worthy to write about. My one real obligation, during the shut down, has been to take Harry the Wonder Dog out for long walks. He is a tiny dog but loves to walk and our average is three miles a day. There is only one distraction to these lovely dog walks through the Encino/Sherman Oaks area, and that is Harry’s agitation toward other dogs. It used to be aggression but through a lot of patience, treats and training he is doing much better. <div> <div>Sandi and I are fully vaccinated as are most all of our friends, so yesterday was the first time since last April that Harry and I took our walk and I did not wear a face mask. When that is your thrill of the day, you know you have been away from a stage and an audience for too long. Over the past year Harry and I have bonded on our walks and his distrust of other dogs is now “semi” under control. For the longest time I thought there was some pattern to his barking out. I thought it was only big dogs he barked at, then he would go crazy when a very tiny dog would walk on the other side of the street and he would dash my scientific theory. I still do not know what will occasionally cause Harry to turn from Chihuahua mix to Chupa Cabra but I am always on guard when we are approaching other dogs. </div><div>One thing for certain: if the “other dog” shows any sort of aggression or barks at Harry, Harry the Wonder dog immediately turns into Joe Pesci.(thank you Donna Marie for that image) If all other disciplinary actions and treats fail, he is small enough to lift off the ground and into my arms by way of his leash and harness. When approached by aggressive dogs who are not on leash this method becomes very effective.</div><div><br></div><div>Needless to say sometimes my walks with Harry could be less stressful if he was less “energetic” but we pick times when there are less dogs on the street. I would say that most of the time I am on DEFCON 3 when walking Harry. I scan the horizon for any person with a dog on a leash. We will usually cross the street if they are are approaching us. There are tense moments as we pass and I feel like I am walking a tightrope for a few minutes. I pretend I am a member of the Secret Service guarding a President, ready to react at a moments notice. Harry seems to know when my guard is down and turns into the Tasmanian Devil so.... even thought I like the walks I am always watching out for other dogs. </div><div><br></div><div>There needs to be a side bar at this point in my story. Since the Pandemic I have become hooked on the Judge Judy Show which airs every afternoon here on a local station. I know that your opinion of me has suffered just a little bit because of this attraction but I am drawn to Judge Judy like a curious fly is drawn to fresh shit..(which is a perfect metaphor). I know she is a judge but she is so judgmental, so condescending and so sure that she knows exactly who is a loser, I am baffled that anyone could be so much like the second grade teacher I loathed when I was a kid. She is combative, outspoken, unflinching and opinionated. </div><div><br></div><div>Here is the connection. I would say that a large percentage of cases she hears involve dogs. The big dog hurts or kills the small dog, the little dog bites a person and there is a dispute on who pays the doctor or vet bills. Judy herself is an avid dog owner of Shitzus. It is always easy to predict who will win a case when one of the dogs is a Pitbull. The Pitbull always loses. She hates Pitbulls and makes a point to say that home owners must pay extra for insurance if they have such a breed of dog. Judy will berate the owner for being careless with a vicious breed of dog, but will also point out that in her opinion no one should have this kind of dog, period. I believe it is mostly the fault of the dog owner not controlling these big dogs which are bred to fight, but it appears that Pitbulls like many big dogs can suddenly turn for no reason into a very dangerous animal. </div><div><br></div><div> We return you now to the story about Harry the Wonder Dog. </div><div><br></div><div>Yesterday when I was enjoying my first “unmasked” walk, Harry and I were strolling though the neighborhood. I know most of the dogs along this path. I anticipate the dogs that are likely to bark even from behind a fence which might release the Chupa Cabra I am tending. We are on a street where I have never noticed any dogs to be cautious about before. I would not say my guard was down but I would say I was at DEFCON 1 at this particular moment. Half a block away I spot a large, very well groomed, very muscular, ominous Pitbull ahead of us on the opposite of the street. I tighten Harry’s leash and began my routine intervention.. Harry notices the dog before I do. I then realized the dog is not on a leash. He is standing by a tree near the curb at the edge of the yard. Harry hesitated but continued walking and began to huff and puff which I know as a precursor to an outburst. I am thinking that if this dog even looks this way, Harry is going to go crazy. </div><div><br></div><div>I did not see the owner of this dog as it looked our way. I became ready to haul Harry in by his leash. The Pitbull’s gaze does not linger toward us long enough to light Harry’s fuse. Instead, the Pitbull turns to look at something else: from my angle now I can see a man with salt and pepper short hair, of medium build standing a few yards from the dog. He is standing, in my opinion, too far away to be of much help if the dog charges our way. I am relieved to see him and assume he will take control of this potential killer now that he knows we are across the street. He does not. </div><div><br></div><div>Harry and I are now across the street and even with the Pitbull. I am holding a ticking Chihuahua who is ready to explode at any moment. The dog looks in our direction again. I am disturbed that the owner has made no preemptive actions to keep this heavy weight from charging Harry and me. He has not even said the name of the dog nor make any sound. We keep walking carefully, never taking our eyes off the big dog. I immediately think of the story I will tell Judge Judy. “The owner of the dog did nothing to restrain the Pitbull who was not on a leash at the time...your Honor.. he is a very irresponsible dog owner.” </div><div>“Judgement for the plaintiff ... and you sir, are a negligent dog owner who probably should not even own a dog of any breed.” That is what I was thinking.... Judging this dog owner and giving him the worst thoughts I could muster.</div><div><br></div><div>That is when the man turned to me and I saw his face clearly. It was <a href="https://www.cesarsway.com" id="id_5ce2_173a_fd3f_ebf2">Caesar Millian</a> zen master of dog training and television celebrity. I was aware he lived somewhere near but didn’t know where. If you click on his name link you can see a picture of the Pitbull. Harry and I could not have been safer at that moment from the attack of a Pitbull. I was so ready to judge the dog and the man assuming he was a careless dog owner. The facts about this dog and this owner could not be more uninformed. </div><div><br></div><div>Never judge a situation by the worst thoughts you can muster. Never judge a person until you really know who they are. The evangelicals keep talking about judgement day coming... since we all seem to be judging each other not based on truth, I would say judgement day might just have arrived.</div><div><br></div><div>As you were,</div><div>Jay</div><div><br></div></div></div>JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-416394428852176962020-09-25T11:31:00.002-07:002021-05-03T16:20:50.287-07:00The Toxic Tik Tok Primer. (For seniors)<div style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" id="id_f637_bd22_eb6c_2dcb" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/oJR09UGuI1GQi5szmmhEjzYwEez-5d-B8dU9lVojtt6K3Ush0PvdJ3-CPaaHH9g" style="height: auto; width: 253px;" title="" tooltip="" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I don’t know if any of my readers are Tik Tok users. Demographics might indicate a low probability. As a geezer representative I downloaded the APP when it was getting trolled by the President. I figured if he was against it... it might be something that I liked. If you do not know what Tic Toc is, and don’t want to spend the time to find out, here is a brief indoctrination. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Tik Tok is a content driven platform for short videos that loop for up to a minute. You can follow a particular account or just scroll through a feed called “just for you”. An algorithm based on the type of videos one watches to conclusion, sends more of that genre to your feed. From my observation there are only a few types of TikToks The one thing they all have in common is the desire, yes even the oft repeated request, to “like and follow” their videos. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">There are a lot of “karen videos” and other “live to tic toc”, camera in your face when you are behaving badly, sagas. There are women who are trying to get attention with sexy stories and garments, but with the Tic Toc sheriff taking lots of videos down.... it is mostly PG for language content. There are plenty of jokesters, daredevils and Amazing event observers offering their videos. With filters and editing buttons to click on, that would make a scrapbooking Granny salivate, it can be a very creative endeavor. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">One of my favorites, therefore, one I get fed a lot, is “story time”. A selfie, usually taken in the front seat of a car, featuring the “self” telling a story. It can be a joke, anecdote or God forbid a “Karen” story. If watching a video of a person acting badly is not disgusting enough, hearing the victim recount it is one step below. But there is a pattern to no matter what type of “Story Time” you are fed. For those who have never Tic-ed nor Toc-ed nor do they plan to... here is my take on the average Tik Tok“Storytime” video. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Imagine me reciting this in bad lighting sitting in the front seat of my JCW. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So.... (90% of the people start with So) So, this is Storytime. So (sometimes it is So, Tik Tok).... no more interruptions.</div><div style="text-align: left;">So I was just waiting in line at this Whole Foods here behind me. I bought a few things to cook but it was not a full shopping cart. This Karen is in line behind me wearing a mask that did not cover her nose. I am trying not to turn her way and certainly did not want to engage her in conversation. She said, “You don’t look like you are in a hurry.” </div><div style="text-align: left;">I said, “Not much to hurry about with this Covid madness,”. She said something in her mask and under her breath that I did not understand. I went back to minding my own business which seemed to upset her.</div><div style="text-align: left;">“Are you in a hurry or not?” There was an edge to her tone suddenly.</div><div style="text-align: left;">“No more than anyone, I guess? We all want to get back to the safety of our own home.”</div><div style="text-align: left;">She said, “Well since you don’t seem to care. You should let me go and check out ahead of you.” I looked in her basket and it was over flowing with lots of groceries. Now we all have been in line at the store and the person behind us has two items to our basket full and we invite them to go ahead. It is only courtesy. But, Since she offered no reason for her impatience I made the call that it was not necessary to Let her go ahead of me. I did not reply hoping this would end the conversation. She muffled another comment. </div><div style="text-align: left;">The new protocol is to wait on the 6 foot marker until the cashier say something like “next”. I was watching the person ahead of me pay and wrangle paper sacks out the door. There was a moment as the cashier readied herself for the next customer. I could feel the Karen’s shopping cart start to move.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The cashier said, “Next”. And before I could even start to push my cart, Karen has pushed around me and gone into the check stand. </div><div style="text-align: left;">“Excuse me... Mam I think I was next in line.” </div><div style="text-align: left;">She quickly said loudly, “Oh no you weren’t”. The cashier looked at her. And I said,</div><div style="text-align: left;">“Yes I was.” Upon hearing the exchange the guy who was behind her who was now behind me said,</div><div style="text-align: left;">“He was definitely ahead of you Lady,”</div><div style="text-align: left;">“No he wasn’t”, she blasted, Others chimed in with several affirmations that it was indeed my turn.</div><div style="text-align: left;">“Well, since he doesn’t care, my time is valuable” as she began to move to the credit card scanner, a rebellion started to brew. People were saying this it wasn’t right, who does she think she is, and such.</div><div style="text-align: left;">“What is this a dem-wit liberal convention of Trump haters...” </div><div style="text-align: left;">The cashier who was Latina said, “I think he was ahead of you Mam and he doesn’t have that much stuff...”</div><div style="text-align: left;">Karen cut her off with “Of course support the libertards. And you are not even a citizen. Go back to where you came from...” Which caused a stir and people started defending the cashier. At that she picked up a can of tuna held it up like it was a baseball and she......</div><div style="text-align: left;">Oops out of time.... Like for part two.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As you were,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Jay</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div> JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-32396631951295620302020-08-05T15:27:00.000-07:002020-08-05T15:27:57.360-07:00Not Politics and Not the News<br><br><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_ce4a_b3a8_f08b_a0f1" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/ZK_YO-lOhQhQI1uZ50_rEsdFXMe0UbVjYIsquMdiVo1aF1t5Wio6bF_1fJBaSRA" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 341px; height: auto;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">This is a story, not an editorial, not a political riff and certainly not a pundit rambling. There will be no mention of Covid-19 nor an opinion on any Current event. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">I suppose this could be a Tik Tok video. Tik Tok videos seem to fall into only a few limited categories: People caught on camera behaving very badly. People on camera talking about people behaving badly. Women on camera trying to convince viewers they behave badly. AND people telling stories....usually badly. All video presented in episodic click bait to get you to follow them. There seems to be a belief among social media addicts that entrance through the Pearly Gates of Heaven will be determined by how many “followers” And “likes” you have. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">When we moved into this house there was a vacant lot catty corner to us. Directly across the street was a three bedroom mid-century ranch style house set back from the street. The garage was in the back and the driveway was secured with an electric gate made of wrought iron bars matching the rest of the fence across the front of the house. To me it had the appearance of a cage. An old couple had lived there since the house was built. Mostly staying to themselves I would see the wife leave in her cute red BMW often but never saw her in the front yard. The old man would walk out to the driveway gate, hold the bars and stare out for a while. He had the look of a lifer in San Quinten wondering what the real world was doing. He would soon shuffle back to the house, only to repeat this process several times a day. I would wave when I was outside and saw him, he would wave back... sort of. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">One day after I thought he had made the connection that I was the new neighbor across the street I saw him holding on to his bars, so I crossed the street to actually meet him. He smiled and was friendly but it was obvious after a few seconds of conversation, he was either in a latter stage of Alzheimer’s or simple age related dementia. From then on I would alway wave and say hi when I saw him at the gate, but he would just look at me with a vacant smile wondering who I was. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">Eventually his son Tim, who lived in the guest house behind, told me that his father had to be institutionalized. Tim’s advice to me was.... “Just don’t get old”. I saw Maxine in her red BMW often after that, but never saw the old man again nor did I ever know his name. After a time we didn’t see Maxine out and about. Tim and his wife/girlfriend became caretakers to Maxine who was bed ridden. Never saw her again either. Tim lived there for five more years or so. I would take the time to chat when our paths crossed. One day he rang the bell on my gate to tell me he had sold the house and was moving. By this time the vacant lot had become a “maxed out property line” two story MacMansion with 5 bedrooms and 6 bathrooms. It was the style of house that was slowly taking over the single story ranch house neighborhood. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">Soon there was work going on at Tim’s house across the street. I assumed It was being upgraded for sale. I was wrong. It was being salvaged in preparation for demolition. Rising out of the noise and dust came a MacMansion half again as big as the new one on the vacant lot next door. The new house boasted a plan for 6 bedrooms, 7 and half bathrooms, new pool/pool house, wine cellar, media room, gym and screening theater. As the house was finishing up on the inside the outside was being landscaped and hard scraped with what seemed like an unlimited budget. I watched as they brought in 300 or so ficus trees and planted them around the property line. In front of the new Wall/fence there were three different beds of beautiful shrubs and plants. Against the white of the wall they looked quite stunning. I was pleased to see that my front view was going to improve greatly when the noise and the dust settled. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">There came a time when I heard a different noise coming from the construction site across the street. I came out to see a 60 foot crane lifting a 30 foot olive tree into a deep pit the other side of the 8 foot wall. I thought the pit was going to be a coy pond or fountain, but it was the hole for the tree. I watched and wondered “what can’t you do with a lot of money?” Do you want an old thirty foot grown Olive tree in your yard without planting a small one and letting it grow? Well, this is how it’s done: you just have to buy an huge very expensive tree and hire a huge truck and a gigantic crane to lift it over a huge wall. I counted a dozen workers like ants swarming the yard. A sod truck pulled up and soon the ground around the new tree was green with grass. The tree looked like it had been there for the 20 years it would take to grow that tall. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">Eventually the house sold for 3.7 million. I saw a Tesla come and go for a month or so before there was any actual activity at the house. A family moved in but mainly stayed to themselves. I became accustomed to Harry the Wonder dog taking his first pee in the beautiful flower bed of the new neighborhood mansion early on our morning walks. I rescued Harry three years ago and we walk every day. This pee spot had become ritualized by now. It was one of those mornings recently that Harry the Wonder Dog and I saw 5 trucks and a gang of Gardner’s pull up to the house. Once again there was an ant hill of activity. I couldn’t really tell what they were about to do, but during my random checks from my driveway, I saw they were digging up the front yard flower beds. They are digging up these expensive plants and throwing them in a cargo dumpster. They placed black tar paper on the freshly dug up ground and begin to cut and fit artificial grass in the empty space. I think maybe they will be putting pots with different plants on the glorified AstroTurf , but that is not the case. Gone are the beautiful plants and in their place plastic grass. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">Each time I come out to my drive way gate to look at the work, a man with a bandana handkerchief covering his face nods my way in a friendly gesture. It seemed like they were winding down so I went back into the house. Not long after that I hear the distinctive sounds of a chain saw. I come again out to the gate, nod at the bandana, and see a guy with a chain saw high in the beautiful Olive tree. I love trees and take special care of the ones on my property. For this reason I know that it is not the right time of year to prune Olive trees, and to me that beautiful tree was not in need of a trim. I went back inside.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">After the time when a normal tree trimming should be completed, I still here the annoying motor sound of the chain saw. Here I go back out to take a look. To my horror they are cutting down the Olive tree. It is terrible to watch. Since there is no place to actually drop the whole tree, they are taking it down one section at a time. I go back into the house because I can not bare to see that beautiful tree be killed. There came a time when I realized the chain saw had been silent for some time. It was all quiet. I didn’t want to see what next door looked like with out that grand Olive, and actually couldn’t see across the street from my window because my big Tipituana tree blocks the view. So I walked out side to take a look. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">The yard across the street was no longer in a cooling shade. It was bright, sun shining on things that didn’t used to reflect back. The scrubs out front were gone and the tree that stood watch was gone. There was nothing but the Astro turf and blank white walls. I thought of the money and man hours it took to get that grand tree placed in that perfect spot, and now it was being hauled off in chunks. What a waste. I was thinking about how the neighborhood where my boys grew up was changing. No less than a dozen of the houses that were here when I bought have been leveled, over built and now tower over the single story homes that remain. I was thinking about time, how it had passed so quickly once. But now with the pandemic it seems like time has ground to a halt. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">I guess I was really thinking about age as my mind wondered. As if he had suddenly just appeared, there was the man in the bandana waving to me. With the muffled voice of a cloth covered mouth he said something like “How are you doing neighbor”. It took me a moment to realize that the guy I thought was just one of the workers was the new home owner. In the time it took me to process it all, my new neighbor is on hold waiting for me to respond. The neighbor is an Asian man probably the age I was when I bought my house or maybe younger. He is standing there in a frozen wave wondering about me. Before I say hi back I think I know what he is thinking. All day long he has seen me shuffle out to my drive way gate, grab the bars of the wrought iron gate with my hands and peer out with a blank stare, and go back inside, only to return and do the same thing over and over. It was an awkward pause, but I finally waved and yelled back, “What ever you do... don’t get old.” </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">I didn’t. I wanted to, but I didn’t. I should’ve but I didn’t. Maybe some day I will get to tell him this story.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">As you were,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Jay</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><br>JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-44684187902092771152020-07-20T09:53:00.001-07:002020-07-20T09:57:19.813-07:00The Great 2020 Quarantine<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/fs81ATPGnKU2y_Ep-ia9gSKiZGe8s0HVSThCZD_BqntOl-XFbXMsnctqfFMdNPg" imageanchor="1"><img alt="" border="0" height="640" id="id_5c82_808e_c4f2_316c" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/fs81ATPGnKU2y_Ep-ia9gSKiZGe8s0HVSThCZD_BqntOl-XFbXMsnctqfFMdNPg" style="height: auto; width: 273px;" title="" tooltip="" width="480" /></a>First of all this is not a political rant. If you are looking for that.... look almost anywhere else on any platform and you will find something that will get your “dander up” as they say in Texas. I have not written a blog since February, before Sandi and I traveled to Berlin and returned to a United States and world that was shutting down and staying at home. With what seemed like the twilight zone going on and chaos surrounding our leadership, there has been nothing to write about. Nothing that seemed positive as least.<br />
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I don’t have any known co-morbidities except for being in *that* certain age group, but I wear a mask anytime I go outside. I am not making any political statements by wearing a mask, nor do I understand why wearing one, especially in an enclosed space like a store, is in any way an infringement on my rights. I wear a mask in public the same way I wear pants in public. No doubt I could make a case that my freedom to go bare-ass naked any where I want to, and it might be “more comfortable”, but I don’t.<br />
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In the early days of the Pandemic I fired up my mom’s old sewing machine and made masks for friends and family. I felt like a male Rosy the Riveter doing my part for a national crisis since masks were at that time in short supply. Eventually, as I knew the capitalist would, manufacturers ramped up the production of all kinds of masks and they became ubiquitous. I now have an entire wardrobe of masks that get washed, revamped and put back in rotation. I have several that reside under the sun visor of my JCW (my red mini) just in case I forgot to get one leaving the house. </div>
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I got the mask in the picture above from an on line site. It is actually the mouth of Jerry Mahoney especially made for me. I also have a black one that simply has the words “Instant Ventriloquism”. Just trying to keep my career alive. Upon seeing me in the Jerry Mahoney mask my wife said, </div>
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I said, “Perhaps....” She indicated that in the case that I did wear it in public, she would maintain a double the 6’ recommendation of social distancing from me. </div>
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Now one of the rituals that I have followed during this time of forced retirement, is to take Harry the Wonder Dog on long walks. He loves to walk and never gets tired. We average 3- 5 miles a day and I have seen more of my extended neighborhood than ever before. Most importantly I never walk the dog with out a mask on. However, if you wear a mask most every day, like underwear, you run out of clean ones and eventually get to that pair of underwear that is at the bottom of the heap. So there are times when the only mask I have to wear is the “Mahoney”. </div>
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The other thing that is important to this discussion is: Harry the Wonder Dog is a chihuahua/ pug mix and an alpha male. He is the greatest, sweetest most loving dog until he sees another dog on a leash and he turns into Napoleon the dog, bearing his teeth in a spontaneous assault. We have worked with great trainers and slowly he is getting better. It is not every dog that sets him off now, but it is like playing Russian Dog roulette. One of the things we have found it helps if I am able to wave and say hi to the other dog owner before they can pass us. If Harry thinks it is a friend, then he is more likely not to turn into the Tasmanian devil. So I become the masked welcome wagon with a friendly wave and “good morning “ to everyone I meet on our long walks. In pre-pandemic days I would just smile, but with a mask when my smile is hidden, I find that a friendly voice is necessary to convey the spirit. Some are friendly back to me, some are dismissive, some are talking on the phone and some have ear buds and never even know that we have passed by. I would say that about half of the people I see on the street wear a face covering. There have been mask-less neighbors who pass by and apologetically say “I forgot my mask... sorry”. Some pass by without a mask much closer to me and Harry than acceptable and seem to want a conflict as if the mask is some sort of political protest they don’t agree with. </div>
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Sometimes I get a laugh when I toss out a friendly good morning on our walks. It is then that I realize I am wearing the “Mahoney” and a friendly good morning from me, a guy with a plastic painted on smile, is just what LA needs right now. I run into neighbors who say,“That is really creepy” but others (usually younger) say “Great mask where did you get it.”</div>
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Yesterday, Sandi and our other dog Boo decided to do a short part of the walk with us. We were several blocks from the house when I saw a lady approaching with her dog on the other side of the street. I immediately went into “Harry fooling” mode. I held up my hand with a long armed wave and said, in a very proud voice only slightly muffled by the mask, “Hello, It’s a great morning...”. She burst out laughing and yelled back ... “Yes it is...Ha Ha” . The trick worked because Harry did not flinch or try and charge. Sandi said, “What was she laughing about?” At first I just assumed it was the Mahoney, but I had a simple grey mask on with nothing printed on it because I was out in public with the woman I love. I purposefully did not wear that mask. </div>
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I thought back on this event wondering what I had done that amused the passerby. Then I understood it from her point of view. The hand I held up to wave at the neighbor was holding a green poop bag abundantly filled with dog shit. I held up a bag if shit exclaiming what a great morning it was, like a father excited over successfully toilet training his two year old. </div>
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“Hello, It”s a great morning for shit.” It’s my new neighborhood pandemic greeting, Works of me on so many levels.</div>
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As you were,</div>
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Jay</div>
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JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-220535424897951372020-02-02T07:09:00.001-08:002020-02-02T07:09:14.509-08:00Happy Birthday up There... <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">It was with great sadness that I heard my friend Bob Mandan had passed away. I don’t have the words to fully express yet another loss of a good friend, so I will just repost a birthday blog I wrote six years ago. Rest peacefully, Mandan. </span><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-486529527778663063" itemprop="description articleBody" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; width: 536px; position: relative; line-height: 1.4;"><div dir="ltr" trbidi="on"><div style="border-top-width: 1px; border-top-style: solid; border-top-color: rgb(238, 238, 238); padding-top: 8px;"><br></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP0RLNA7SeNcUDNYdimNrtjhytmx-C_Bq9c8MX8Njwu0UqyjwCRO93Nk7DF3AguSHKLifozck_JXbBhfpwVBlrXYMso2deXcEU7jedXs6b1hFc3MJRc_mGtaXXePHbhKIcer8z/s1600/Mandan+1950's.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="text-decoration: none; clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><font color="#000000"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP0RLNA7SeNcUDNYdimNrtjhytmx-C_Bq9c8MX8Njwu0UqyjwCRO93Nk7DF3AguSHKLifozck_JXbBhfpwVBlrXYMso2deXcEU7jedXs6b1hFc3MJRc_mGtaXXePHbhKIcer8z/s1600/Mandan+1950's.jpg" width="255" id="id_b943_9e97_560b_23c9" style="border: 1px solid transparent; position: relative; padding: 8px; -webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 0px; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 0px; border-top-left-radius: 0px; border-top-right-radius: 0px; border-bottom-right-radius: 0px; border-bottom-left-radius: 0px; width: 255px; height: auto;"></span></font></a><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br>I repost this article I wrote about my friend from his birthday in 2012, preceded by this editors note written today.<br><br>There are friends, there are people you have worked with and then there is a person like Bob who is both. I recall so many fun times together when we roamed with a group of actor/publicists/writers called the "Terrible 10". We got that name because we were a terrible table of ten if you were sitting next to us at a restaurant. We laughed the entire time and were not quiet about it. If you were looking for a quiet evening's meal we were not the table you wanted to sit close to.<br>Happy Birthday Mr. Mandan. I cherish your friendship.<br>Nothing has changed in the way I feel about you since I wrote the blog below.</span></div><div class="date-posts" style="margin: 0px -15px; padding: 0px 15px; clear: both;"><div class="post-outer" style="border-top-style: none; margin: 0px -15px; padding: 0px 15px 10px; border-bottom-style: none;"><div class="post hentry" itemprop="blogPost" itemscope="itemscope" itemtype="http://schema.org/BlogPosting" style="position: relative; min-height: 0px; margin: 0px 0px 1.5em; padding-bottom: 1.5em;"><div class="post-header" style="line-height: 1.3em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"><div class="post-header-line-1" style="line-height: 1.3em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"></div></div><div class="post-body entry-content" id="post-body-4088197847878032510" itemprop="description articleBody" style="width: 536px; position: relative; line-height: 1.3em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"><div style="line-height: 1.3em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.3em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em; text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b></b></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.3em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"><b style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It's GroundHog Day</b></div><div style="line-height: 1.3em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">On my top ten list of movies "GroundHog" day is near the top. And here it is in real life, Groundhog day 2012. But I think the <i>Punxsutawney</i> rodent gets too much attention today. It is a special day for other reasons.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.3em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" id="id_e8e3_e80e_9389_3959" style="padding: 4px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; position: relative; border: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6gIaK_V5aGMIc8iYlUY2-W_2xBBkCUh2JI-6qgcXBFAW9t5EUkw4-qPFDUQk2Nnxom5R46RfQ6GGJBmm8EADP_hHKggfXEgliUmemd0VeULkGoCiLDJFw_tRR428Vfe7p0Yfzg/s1600/53205-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="text-decoration: none; clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><font color="#000000"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk6gIaK_V5aGMIc8iYlUY2-W_2xBBkCUh2JI-6qgcXBFAW9t5EUkw4-qPFDUQk2Nnxom5R46RfQ6GGJBmm8EADP_hHKggfXEgliUmemd0VeULkGoCiLDJFw_tRR428Vfe7p0Yfzg/s320/53205-1.jpg" width="320" id="id_50cf_e921_8605_f4ed" style="border: none; position: relative; padding: 0px; -webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 0px; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 0px; border-top-left-radius: 0px; border-top-right-radius: 0px; border-bottom-right-radius: 0px; border-bottom-left-radius: 0px; width: 320px; height: auto;"></font></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption"><b><i style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Robert Mandan, Bob Campbell, Jay Johnson, Jay Sandrich<br>Opening night of "Jay Johnson: The Two and Only"</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="line-height: 1.3em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It is also the birthday of my friend Robert Mandan: "Better Dressed!" </span></div><div style="line-height: 1.3em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Only a true SOAPY will get that reference, but it is how I know my friend Mandan. He is better known to some as Chester Tate on SOAP. </span></div><div style="line-height: 1.3em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" id="id_1606_9977_c1be_d99c" style="padding: 4px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; position: relative; border: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); float: right; text-align: justify;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQktfgRAbb6aGVjLIxKiOfTXk4VE5KlBSRBSz1PV6KZJT8Qa2jP0jrT34RQbUPzo_OD-6Kf8bp-0YCwRQss5roPfd4lRv040FWPZBBkjpTVWYmb4p8IhtSbaj_AitJQBeL-woM1w/s1600/images-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="text-decoration: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><font color="#000000"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQktfgRAbb6aGVjLIxKiOfTXk4VE5KlBSRBSz1PV6KZJT8Qa2jP0jrT34RQbUPzo_OD-6Kf8bp-0YCwRQss5roPfd4lRv040FWPZBBkjpTVWYmb4p8IhtSbaj_AitJQBeL-woM1w/s1600/images-5.jpg" id="id_e618_1afb_311b_c2a4" style="border: none; position: relative; padding: 0px; -webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 0px; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 0px; border-top-left-radius: 0px; border-top-right-radius: 0px; border-bottom-right-radius: 0px; border-bottom-left-radius: 0px; width: 201px; height: auto;"></font></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Robert Mandan</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="line-height: 1.3em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I remember when I moved to Los Angeles I was with my vacationing folks having dinner at the Toulca Lake Marie Callendars. Although I didn't know his name at the time Robert Mandan was also waiting for a table. Mandan is one of those actors I had seen in many staring roles. Bob was my first "celebrity siting" in my new home town. Bob received the ultimate compliment my Father had for working actors when he whispered to me, "That guy has been in a gillion films." Indeed my friend has been in a "gillion" things. Take a look at his <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0541610/" style="text-decoration: none;">IMDB - Robert Mandan</a>. That impressive list is only the film and television roles. There is an even more impressive list of stage productions that Bob has done, including an Ovation Award for "The CareTaker" and a critically acclaimed portrail of "King Lear", not to mention three Broadway shows. </span></div><div style="line-height: 1.3em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> I had no clue that soon I would be working with that "guy who has done a gillion films". We became friends almost immediately. For a time we had the same personal manager, the same publicist and hung out with the same group of television actors. We were known as the "terrible ten" because of <i>fun</i> we used to have at various Los Angeles restaurants. The members of the social group changed but Bob and I have remained friends all this time. </span></div><div style="line-height: 1.3em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Bob and his wife Sherry have been impromptu godparents to both my sons. My oldest son will say, "How is Mandan?" even today.</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" id="id_f6c9_ad4f_8170_d6f3" style="padding: 4px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; position: relative; border: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhyphenhyphen4x4mFSi5fzr6Lruky4eXL_SKjPf0gTKkU_F_EgQAj2he9c4p5CjN6Xcx9UmelBwuZJTqL1N7IJqfkS5560w5jgO5pvjZveFxM5Y0xWKqYzHLnW8P44V4doYyJ7zUCwlRZ0wMw/s1600/images-3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="text-decoration: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><font color="#000000"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhyphenhyphen4x4mFSi5fzr6Lruky4eXL_SKjPf0gTKkU_F_EgQAj2he9c4p5CjN6Xcx9UmelBwuZJTqL1N7IJqfkS5560w5jgO5pvjZveFxM5Y0xWKqYzHLnW8P44V4doYyJ7zUCwlRZ0wMw/s1600/images-3.jpg" id="id_1094_b0a9_9c01_1139" style="border: none; position: relative; padding: 0px; -webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 0px; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 0px; border-top-left-radius: 0px; border-top-right-radius: 0px; border-bottom-right-radius: 0px; border-bottom-left-radius: 0px; width: 265px; height: auto;"></font></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption"><b><i style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Robert Mandan in "Barney Miller"</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" id="id_ef21_fc80_a73d_4632" style="padding: 4px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; position: relative; border: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); float: left; text-align: justify;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: start;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIOFTxWjki2_wzibD-y3UTDIk8mH4_FdpBCX2NaSxmsKq6zkXVFIKqQ0_pHHUdE0BSD4TYyUvczz3jMEj5EBoNGE98NB9iiEzvDiEA-hjEh53R2lKMuSdTnc8KtUENrousO5DxLQ/s1600/images-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="text-decoration: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><font color="#000000"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIOFTxWjki2_wzibD-y3UTDIk8mH4_FdpBCX2NaSxmsKq6zkXVFIKqQ0_pHHUdE0BSD4TYyUvczz3jMEj5EBoNGE98NB9iiEzvDiEA-hjEh53R2lKMuSdTnc8KtUENrousO5DxLQ/s1600/images-1.jpg" id="id_f7ed_5903_8c14_86be" style="border: none; position: relative; padding: 0px; -webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 0px; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 0px; border-top-left-radius: 0px; border-top-right-radius: 0px; border-bottom-right-radius: 0px; border-bottom-left-radius: 0px; width: 144px; height: auto;"></font></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: start;"><b><i style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Chester Tate and Benson</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="line-height: 1.3em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Bob is an actors actor. He never stops studying and learning how to better deliver his gift. He is funny and smart and yes, as piss elegant as Chester Tate sometimes. If you're lucky a working relationship turns into a real friendship in this town of huge openings and quiet closings. I am grateful to have friends like Bob and Sherry in my life. On a day like GroundHogs day when the talk is about the weather, I will be thinking about my friend Bob Mandan, certainly not a "fair weather friend". </span></div><div style="line-height: 1.3em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Note to Mandan: You are not getting older, like wine you are getting more valuable.</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.3em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Happy Birthday, Mr. Mandan. We shall celebrate with a bottle of "HOOP DE HAH".</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.3em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.3em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">As you were,</span></div><div style="line-height: 1.3em; margin: 0px 0px 0.75em;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Jay</span></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" id="id_9b_90da_3260_94b8" style="padding: 4px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; position: relative; border: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); float: left; margin-right: 1em;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj77re1D1WYifoORz5JV8DLqsh6zVcXhTZxOa6Fokt4NA2hUvnLNxinYpjhByGbNiHq78C2AV2m5b_lqx8jGluHeD0mfnQIH8HkU08Olylr1pAT4_g2HBWqueEBUokonxrYwRfpDQ/s1600/images-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="text-decoration: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><font color="#000000"><img border="0" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj77re1D1WYifoORz5JV8DLqsh6zVcXhTZxOa6Fokt4NA2hUvnLNxinYpjhByGbNiHq78C2AV2m5b_lqx8jGluHeD0mfnQIH8HkU08Olylr1pAT4_g2HBWqueEBUokonxrYwRfpDQ/s320/images-2.jpg" width="320" id="id_ef86_af4a_1961_6c38" style="border: none; position: relative; padding: 0px; -webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 0px; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 0px; border-top-left-radius: 0px; border-top-right-radius: 0px; border-bottom-right-radius: 0px; border-bottom-left-radius: 0px; width: 320px; height: auto;"></font></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><i style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Bob Mandan on "Three's a Crowd"</i></b></td></tr></tbody></table><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" id="id_eb5a_66a6_9cc4_d270" style="padding: 4px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; position: relative; border: 1px solid rgb(204, 204, 204); float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: start;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmiJ4Xw3F4I0aew7o8gxsOlgZi_Q_oZOdLTrLj25ahHqqucbijCO0jyJo424kJZofSUZV6ccIRXr0kEaV0pd2_rOoZ-mEeNzxAAD7GbFp-KU9oVoeVGfbQZMrOQapfyyLJ22wB-A/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="text-decoration: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><font color="#000000"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmiJ4Xw3F4I0aew7o8gxsOlgZi_Q_oZOdLTrLj25ahHqqucbijCO0jyJo424kJZofSUZV6ccIRXr0kEaV0pd2_rOoZ-mEeNzxAAD7GbFp-KU9oVoeVGfbQZMrOQapfyyLJ22wB-A/s320/images.jpg" width="264" id="id_3cb_aa2a_b44b_8484" style="border: none; position: relative; padding: 0px; -webkit-box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 0px; box-shadow: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.2) 0px 0px 0px; border-top-left-radius: 0px; border-top-right-radius: 0px; border-bottom-right-radius: 0px; border-bottom-left-radius: 0px; width: 264px; height: auto;"></font></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: start;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><b><i>Bob Mandan on "Star Trek,The Next </i></b>Generation"</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div></div></div></div></div><div style="clear: both;"></div></div><div class="post-footer" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; line-height: 1.6; margin: 1.5em 0px 0px;"><div class="post-footer-line post-footer-line-1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: none;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span class="post-author vcard" style="margin-right: 1em; margin-left: 0px;">Written by <span class="fn" itemprop="author" itemscope="itemscope" itemtype="http://schema.org/Person"><a class="g-profile" href="https://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278" rel="author" title="author profile" data-gapiscan="true" data-onload="true" data-gapiattached="true" style="text-decoration: none;"><span itemprop="name">JAY JOHNSON</span> </a></span></span><span class="post-timestamp" style="margin-right: 1em; margin-left: -1em;">at <a class="timestamp-link" href="https://hellandhayes.blogspot.com/2017/02/ground-hog-day-2017.html" rel="bookmark" title="permanent link" style="text-decoration: none;"><abbr class="published" itemprop="datePublished" title="2017-02-02T15:00:00-08:00" style="border: none;">3:00 PM</abbr></a> </span><span class="post-comment-link" style="margin-right: 1em;"></span><span class="post-icons" style="margin-right: 1em;"><span class="item-action"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/email-post.g?blogID=32734453&postID=486529527778663063" title="Email Post" style="text-decoration: none;"><img alt="" class="icon-action" height="13" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/icon18_email.gif" width="18" id="id_1ec2_d209_dd87_45b5" style="border: none; position: relative; vertical-align: middle; width: 18px; height: auto; margin: 0px 0px 0px 0.5em !important;"> </a></span><span class="item-control blog-admin pid-999651065" style="display: inline;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=32734453&postID=486529527778663063&from=pencil" title="Edit Post" style="text-decoration: none;"><img alt="" class="icon-action" height="18" src="https://resources.blogblog.com/img/icon18_edit_allbkg.gif" width="18" id="id_8423_5a76_38a9_8760" style="border: none; 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padding-left: 0.3em; position: relative; display: inline-block;"><div id="___plusone_0" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; border-style: none; float: none; line-height: normal; vertical-align: baseline; display: inline-block; width: 32px; height: 20px;"><iframe ng-non-bindable="" frameborder="0" hspace="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" tabindex="0" vspace="0" width="100%" id="I0_1527954904816" name="I0_1527954904816" src="https://apis.google.com/u/0/se/0/_/+1/fastbutton?usegapi=1&source=blogger%3Ablog%3Aplusone&size=medium&width=300&annotation=inline&origin=https%3A%2F%2Fhellandhayes.blogspot.com&url=http%3A%2F%2Fhellandhayes.blogspot.com%2F2017%2F02%2Fground-hog-day-2017.html&gsrc=3p&ic=1&jsh=m%3B%2F_%2Fscs%2Fapps-static%2F_%2Fjs%2Fk%3Doz.gapi.en.eWKtFEKYdfw.O%2Fm%3D__features__%2Fam%3DQQE%2Frt%3Dj%2Fd%3D1%2Frs%3DAGLTcCPx2P2223oQqo0S5XtEKpm7fnFojg#_methods=onPlusOne%2C_ready%2C_close%2C_open%2C_resizeMe%2C_renderstart%2Concircled%2Cdrefresh%2Cerefresh&id=I0_1527954904816&_gfid=I0_1527954904816&parent=https%3A%2F%2Fhellandhayes.blogspot.com&pfname=&rpctoken=99075767" data-gapiattached="true" title="G+" style="border-style: none; position: static; top: 0px; width: 32px; margin: 0px; left: 0px; visibility: visible; height: 20px;"></iframe></div></div></div></span></div></div><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"> JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-85568433103878812902019-12-07T13:25:00.001-08:002019-12-07T21:28:21.280-08:00Harry Anderson- Fan Picture<div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_27d1_d6c8_df86_bdac" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/Sa9vUsN98afFYQ2MQCr3R5FGW303Hum6GBHzcxJV5LZZbF_uU6rdj8_6B_I" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 446px; height: auto;"></div>This ten day creative challenge where you have to post a picture with no explanation had me digging into some old photos last week. I am so glad I found this one. It is one of my favorites. The story is short and the explanation is necessary. <div><br></div><div>Livestock Productions, my company with Harry Anderson, did some work for the Disney Studio. Because Harry was the star of the project Disney gave him a perk. They flew him to DisneyWorld in Orlando for a week of vacation. Harry took the Johnson family along with his own family so we could all have a vacation. That is the kind of inclusive guy my friend Harry was. It is a wonderful memory. </div><div><br><div>At the MGM - Disney is a replica of the Chinese Theater in Hollywood. You know the one with all the stars signatures and hand prints in the concrete? Well the replica in Orlando got modern celebrities to immortalize their hands and signature in concrete at that location. Years before this family trip they asked Harry to accept that honor, which he did. While the families were there we decided to visit the site. Harry’s slab is next to Robin Williams hand prints. Robin wrote “Carpe Per Diem” - a phrase I have used ever since.</div><div><br></div><div>I am setting up this picture and it is taking some time to get everyone in the frame with Harry and the sidewalk. The park is open and there are a lot of people milling around looking down and reading the signatures. The shot is framed and I hear a mother chatting with her two little girls, strolling through. She says to them “Oh look Robin Williams... Mork and Mindy” a pause a couple of steps and “ Oh...Hal Linden...he’s from Barney Miller.” </div><div>Just as I am ready to snap this picture the mother and her kids step right in front of my camera. She looks at Harry, looks at the kids, reads the concrete block, has no interest in the fact that I am trying to take a picture. After a short “Stage wait” she pulls her kids along and says, “Oh...Harry....and the Hendersons” and walks away. </div><div><br></div><div>I held my laughter long enough to take this picture then burst out laughing.</div><div>As you were,</div><div>Jay</div><div><br></div><div>PS.... Harry and the Hendersons was a television show that ran for two seasons in 1987 based on the movie of the same name. It involved a normal family who adopts Big Foot and brings him back to suburbia. </div></div>JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-43784656495394744612019-12-02T11:04:00.001-08:002019-12-02T16:18:53.371-08:00My “connection” to the Irishman<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Real Russell Bufalino</td></tr>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">I have told this story many times over dinner conversation. My friends know it as my “Mafia Story”. I never thought I would write about it, but if Scorsese can make a movie about it... I figure I am safe to tell my tale because most of the principals of the story have died. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">It is not the whole saga. Strange things associated with this event in my life continued to play out for months in ways I only realized later were connected. There are just too many twists and turns to cover it all in an average blog. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">For the sake of a time line here are some events that seem unrelated but connect:</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">Jimmy Hoffa disappears on July 30, 1975</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">Jay Johnson moves to Los Angeles on September 1, 1975</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">Show for the Italian American Civil Rights League at the Ballroom of the Gus Giancona Motor Lodge in Wilkesbury, Pesnsylvania October 1977</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"> Starring: Andy Griffith, Frankie Avalon, Glen Ashe and Jay Johnson</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">Jay Johnson’s first Soap episode as Chuck and Bob airs November 1977</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">Russell Bufalino goes to jail in 1978 for extortion - served three years</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">Russell Bufalino goes back to jail in 1984 for attempted murder of the guy he extorted.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">Russell Bufalino dies in 1994 at the age of 90. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">I moved to Los Angeles to be represented by personal manager Richard O’ Linke. He was a mover and shaker in television and represented, among others, Andy Griffith, Frankie Avalon, Ken Berry, Jim Nabors and Glen Ashe. I was his newest client in a decade. The way the office worked: if you wanted to have Andy Griffith on your talk show you had to have Jay Johnson as well. Andy was very gracious to me and seemed proud to introduce me as his “new discovery”. We became friends and I got to travel as his opening act for a time. Everything was new to me at this level of the show biz pecking order. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">I remember when Mr. Linke (I never called him Dick or Richard always Mister Linke) called and said he had booked me on a show in October with Andy, Glen and Frankie. None of us were being paid, but all expenses would be taken care of and I would be well treated. It was In the Limo while we were driving to the airport that Dick Linke gave us the low down. It was an admonition not only to me but seemingly for Andy as well, we were both in the dark about this show. He said, </span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">“The show is an old standing obligation, mainly for Frankie, but we are all doing this show as a favor. It’s for the mob.... you know what I mean. This is the real thing so no jokes or smart ass remarks about what you see and hear. Keep your head down, your mouths shut and it will be great. As long as we are doing them a favor we are not in danger..... you just never want to be in a position where you owe them a favor.. Get it?”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">The minute our plane landed I knew I was not in Kansas anymore. Several large necked men met us at the end of the jetway and insisted they take whatever luggage we carried on. A guy named Louie tried to take my case. This is where Bob’s head travels and I don’t let anyone ever carry that case. I said it was okay, I would take this one myself. Louie backed off and said, “So that’s the goods, huh.”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">“Absolutely the goods.” I joked back. Louie did not think it was a joke, every time a new guy would try to “help” me with that case Louie would jump in and say, “No, NO. That’s the goods.” And everyone would stand down.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"> Frankie Avalon arranged his schedule to do this show every year, and had been doing so for a long time. Everyone we met greeted Frankie like a long lost brother. Our show was not until Friday night but we arrived on Wednesday because we would be guests at a dinner on Thursday night. All Andy and I knew was what they said, “Russell is Cooking”. Russell liked to cook and we were having a special recipe of roasted goat. Russell was Russell Bufalino top of this organization. Frankie said, “When Marlon Brando signed on to play The Godfather in the movie of the same name... he wanted to meet Russell Bufalino, because he was considered one of the bosses of bosses and the typical soft spoken Godfather.” Some of Brando’s mannerisms in the movie were some what like Russells.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">At the Thursday dinner, a few women greeted us and brought out the wine and food. Then all of them disappeared. When we got to the business of eating it was only men. At the dinner Frankie sat between Andy and me and across the table from Russell. Occasionally Frankie would give us a brief history the players at the table in a soto voce way. Frankie whispered to me, “Did you notice Russell’s right hand?” </span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">I had not noticed until then, but he was smoking a cigar held between the third and fourth fingers of that right hand. Three quarters of his thumb and more than half of his right index finger was missing. Frankie said, “I’ll tell you later...”. Good to his word as we were driving back to the hotel Frankie began to tell Andy and me some incredible stories about the people we just met. One was the under boss, another guy was a body guard, another a driver, a soldier, an enforcer and Russell Bufalino was the top of the top. Andy said, “One of the guys gave me a bear hug and I think I felt a gun under his jacket.” </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">Frankie said, “He wasn’t the only one, probably everyone was carrying at this party.” Then he said, “Russell’s finger and thumb? Well during a power struggle in the mid 50’s someone held his hand to a wall and shot his fingers off with a shot gun.” Frankie said it as normally as one might say, Grandma has dentures. He tagged the statement with... those guys were not around long after that. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">Eventually the dinner was over and Frankie had plans. Andy and me were driven to Russells house. When dinner is involved I tell this part of the story. For now all I will say, the back wall of Russells bedroom closet was a large bank vault door. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">The show went very well. Everyone paid respect to Russell and looked to see if he was laughing before they enjoyed the joke. After the show most of the audience mobbed Frankie. Andy and I were a little like fish out of the water so, we decided to hit the hotel bar. We ordered drinks and began to compare notes about what we saw, almost giggling at stereo types from old gangster movies. The Andy said, (in the North Carolina accent that made him famous), “Did you see how everyone was coming up to Russell to say good bye? I mean everyone... and some even kissed his ring. It was like he was the Pope or something ‘ ” At that moment both of us had a moment of clarity. Andy said, “Did you say goodnight to Russell?” I admitted that I didn’t. Andy said, “Neither did I.”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">We both knew that was a big mistake and we immediately paid the check and decided we should go back to the banquet room and make amends. As we got up from the table in walks Russell Bufalino with three big guys shadowing. He said, “What happened to you guys.... you didn’t say good bye. You don’t just entertain us and leave like that.” Andy quickly made a gracious apology for both of us and said we were just heading back to find him. Russell said, “Come with us.... we are going out for Pizza. It’s a little place Louie owns.” With that we were flanked and escorted with Russell out to a waiting Limo. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">Waiting at the curb for the limo while Andy and I flanked Russell Bufalino there was a man who jumped out of a crowd of people and said, “Mr. Griffith, Mr. Bufalino, Mr Johnson.... a quick photo over here.” By the time we looked he had snapped the picture and literally disappeared into the crowd again. Frankie was standing on the other side of Andy. As we are climbing into the limo, Frankie said quietly...” did you smile, that was your FBI photo.” I wasn’t sure if he was joking so I said, “Not really.”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">“Really..” he said, then continued, “Did that seem like a fan photo op to you? They didn’t call out my name. They have many pictures of me and Russell together. This is the first time you and Andy have been seen with him.” The more I thought about it.... SOAP had not aired yet... there really was no reason that this “fan” would know my name. And he took just one photo not several and he was in a hurry. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">The pizza joint was a 20 minute drive from the hotel. Russell was a big fan of Andy Griffith and the conversation on the way was mainly about Andy Stories of Mayberry. We finally got to the Pizza place. It was very low key and not outstanding nor remarkable in any way. It was crammed full of people but, like the Red Sea, the mob parted and a table for Andy and me was suddenly available. Russell talked with us for a while, then he was called away. Andy and I didn’t say much..1) Because Dick Linke had told us to keep our mouths shut and 2) It was very loud and hard to converse. Russell returned after about an hour with a big guy in tow. He said, “I have to go to bed... besides it’s too noisy in here. You guys stay as long as you want to as my guest. I’m leaving the limo for you....”. He turns to the big guy and says, “Stay with them and when they are ready take them anywhere they want to go.” The big guy nodded. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">Andy and I stayed for another half hour before deciding it was time for us to go back to the hotel. We were like two kids at our first prom as we settled into the back of the limo. The big guy lowers the privacy window and says, “Where to Gentlemen?” Again in that very recognizable accent Andy said... mostly as a routine for my benefit. “Well, Jay. Russell said to take us anywhere we want to go...Well....I know this little place in New York City, 5th and 55th... it’s open all night. How about there.” </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">I played along with the joke and said. “Sounds lovely.” The privacy window went back up the driver drove and Andy and I started to quietly relive our evening. At the time Andy was like a mentor to me and I was in heaven talking to a guy I had been watching on TV all my life. Time got away from both of us. We realized we had been driving for a very long time and it was farm land all around us, no sign of a city. We had been in the car much longer than it took to get to the pizza place from the hotel. </span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">I have seen enough mob movies to know something was not right. </span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">Andy finally lowered the privacy window to the driver and said, “Have we missed the hotel? Where are we going.?”</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">There was a pause before the big guy answered... then he said, “We’re heading to 5th and 55th, New York City.” </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">Andy, said... “Oh that was just a joke, we wanted to go back to the hotel” Without saying a word, the driver makes a difficult 3 point U turn in a limo on a two lane country road and we drive back to the hotel. The big guy took his orders very seriously and had Andy not spoken up we would have arrived in NYC later that day. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">I never saw Russell Bufalino again, but occasionally I would get a “message” from him. People I didn’t know would come to me and simply say, “Russell says thanks again for the show.” I followed the news about Russell Bufalino through the years. Everyone who knew Russell said, when Jimmy Hoffa disappeared the FBI knocked on Russell’s door the next morning. Until I saw “The Irishman” last weekend, I never knew his story. I could not see Russell Bufalino in Pesci’s portrayal on screen. The man I met was much more low key, much more soft spoken, and with a little more of a middle age grandfather body type. In the movie I kept trying to see if Pesci had all his fingers but there was never a really good angle to see.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">There is much more to this story, but the full version has been my meal ticket for a long time. I plan to stamp that ticket again.</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">As you were,</span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">Jay</span></div>
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JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-74514401768915577782019-10-03T15:07:00.001-07:002019-10-07T07:41:33.168-07:00Hi.. I’m Jay....depressive...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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These are tough times for depressives. The struggle to see the glass half full is needed now more that ever, but it has also never been more difficult. Even when things are great, depressives have a difficult time converting that energy into happiness. That is the disorder. Like a diabetic who can not physically process sugar, a depressive can not physically process happiness. If we could process happiness like others do, we would not be depressives. It is a struggle when times are good,When times are rough... it is almost impossible for a depressive to be “happy” or even neutral. In this emotionally divided country, no matter what side of the political divide you inhabit, these are not normal times. The tone of the news is divisive and upsetting. Those who do not have such issues with depression don’t understand, These are tough times for depressives. </div>
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Unfortunately most people don’t know how to interact with a depressive. With other disorders there is some sort of a protocol. When some one sneezes you say “God Bless you”. When faced with the specter of depression most do not know how to act or what to say.</div>
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“Just be happy”, “Get over it”, or my favorite phrase proclaimed by the uninformed, “What do you have to be sad about.... look at your life.” </div>
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Yes, look at my life. There is nothing I have to be sad about. There is no disagreement that I am extremely blessed. A list of my credits and experiences should be the penultimate of a persons life and career. Unfortunately these wonderful experiences are very much like a Snickers bar to a diabetic; I do not process it in the same way as a “normal” depressive neutral person would. Pointing out the abnormality of a person’s depressed emotion is not helpful. To exasperate the problem, in theTrump era normally happy people are stressing out. These are tough times for depressives. </div>
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It is not a perfect synonym but happiness and hopefulness are connected in the depressive mind. A depressive can feel unhappiness for any reason because of their mental disorder, but if there is a way to hang on to hope, there is a chance of happiness. Hopeful times are helpful times to depressives. But, because we have an Executive branch of government composed of lawlessness, lying, corrupt individuals who seem to defy convention and law, there is no hope for the depressive. Equality, morality and ethics do not seem to be part of the Trump administration. There is no accountability to the truth, the law or even human courtesy and decency. We are being told that what we see and know is not the truth, and because they seem to be getting away with it, truth becomes irrelevant. There is no hope that wrong will be unsuccessful nor punished. To the depressive we are being shown that there is in reality no way out of our unhappiness. There is no hope. </div>
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The unfortunate thing is, I have no solution. I know of no way that depressives like myself can find peace and harmony in this “era”. Politically I would love to see Trump brought down and humbled for his complete lack of humanity, lawlessness and selfishness. My depression tells me that this event might bring me happiness and a relief of depression.</div>
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These are tough times for depressives,</div>
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As you were, </div>
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JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-74013151709891210682019-09-24T20:54:00.001-07:002019-09-25T08:05:09.155-07:00 Jimmy Nelson - Dean of American Ventriloquists<img id="id_2e52_f768_3743_87ca" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/CrmUBMX9wApIhLQR2ShdIsETk9mBewGO20pKVdCibGne4rmYrMGjN8yeqSA" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 398px; height: auto;"><br><br>Even if you are not a ventriloquist and don’t know the name Jimmy Nelson, If you hear the jingle “N-e-s-t-l-e-s, Nestles makes the very best...Choc-Late” (from the Nestles Quik commercials of the mid fifties through 60’s) you know Jimmy Nelson. Jimmy and his ventriloquist figure Danny O’day performed the Quik commercials that ended with that song/jingle. Farfel (a vent puppet dog) took the last line “Chocolate” and snapped his mouth closed at the end. Jimmy’s performance on those commercials were better than any of the shows they sponsored. They were delightful. Jimmy parlayed a recurring role as a ventriloquist pitch-man on the Texaco Star Theater in the 1950’s to become an icon of American Variety performers. His brash side kick Danny O’Day and long-eared dog, Farfel, performed in every entertainment medium from 33 RPM records to Carnegie Hall. He became a pillar of what is now referred to as the Golden Age of Television. He was a regular on the Ed Sullivan Show, did the Nestles commercials, pitched toys, did record albums and performed in supper clubs with the “Who’s Who” of entertainment. <div>I became addicted to Nestles Quik because of Jimmy Nelson. I became a ventriloquist because of Jimmy Nelson. Truth be told I didn’t want to be just a ventriloquist... I wanted to become Jimmy Nelson. <br><div>Edgar Bergen was too formal. Some of the other ventriloquist of the day were too corny, Jimmy was the Goldielocks of ventriloquism, just right. He did not get lost in the relationship with his characters. Danny was precocious but not rude, Farfel was deadpan but not a push over, master of the understatement, and Jimmy’s personality was so engaging he could negotiate peace between the two.</div></div><div>Jimmy never retired, because his phone kept ringing, even after he left the winters of Chicago and moved to Florida. Because he always had time to encourage other ventriloquist, he was ultimately given the title of “Dean of American Ventriloquists”. To me he was my Ventriloquist GodFather. It wasn’t that he just showed us how to be ventriloquist, he showed us how to be gentlemen. I never heard him say a bad word about anybody and no one who knew Jimmy had a bad word to say about him. Everybody called Jimmy Nelson their friend and I was no exception. His devotion to God, family and ventriloquism (in that order) was as influential as his instructional album teaching ventriloquism called “Instant Ventriloquism”. Over the years our paths crossed many times. I even became friends with his son Larry Nelson for the short time we both lived in Los Angeles. My times with Jimmy were never often enough nor long enough and I never got over being a “fan boy” to my hero Jimmy Nelson. I suppose my greatest thrill was to be called a “half-Nelson”. Betty Nelson gave me that title during a dinner at the Mirage Hotel in Las Vegas. We had just seen Terry Fator’s show. </div><div><br></div><img id="id_a113_7cf9_b6fa_5565" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/oHZK4z7Cyv9JCk8WlSr3L3jUwp32f_KzExOa0XMNppZPOjWAaLlmLtqi4lk" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 417px; height: auto;"><br><br><div><br></div><div>Jimmy passed away this morning after a short illness from a stroke. </div><div>There is no way to prepare for this news. There is no way to calculate his loss to the art of ventriloquism nor fill the void that his departure has left in my heart. I know so many people, peers, entertainers and especially ventriloquists feel the same. My eyes glisten, keeping me from more joyous memories of my friend, Jimmy. My thoughts are with Betty and Jimmy’s wonderful family. Like Danny O’Day I have no more words right now.</div><div><br></div><div>Never the same,</div><div>Jay</div><div><br></div>JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-12024851230560625572019-09-10T08:41:00.000-07:002019-09-11T07:14:36.063-07:0018 Years Later.....<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-weight: normal;">In the years since 9/11 I have watched both my sons graduate from College, was joyful when Sandi got hired on a television show that is now premiering its 9th season in a couple of weeks; I won a Tony for a one man show I wrote and performed on Broadway. Somewhere along the way I started writing this blog. </span></h2>
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<span style="font-weight: normal;">9/11/01 seems so long ago, until I start to recall that specific day in my life. It then becomes altogether too fresh like it only happened months ago. In this time of memorial to all that did not see 9/12/01, I reprint what I have written before. During this unpleasant anniversary, I find it easier to cut and paste the past rather than relive it to write about it. </span></h2>
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Thursday, September 11, 2014</h2>
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<i>So much has happened since then. So much has changed... but my raw emotions never seem to change. Here is the way I will always remember it.</i><br />
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Wednesday, September 11, 2013</h2>
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<a href="http://hellandhayes.blogspot.com/2013/09/september-11-remembered.html" style="color: #333333; text-decoration: none;">September 11 Remembered...</a></h3>
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Those of us who did live past this day in 2001 we will never forget those who didn't. They were all of us. There were no blogs, no tweets, no texts, no smart phones connected to social media back then, but it was seared into my consciousness nonetheless. It was seven years before I thought I could write about it here.</div>
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<span style="line-height: 1.3em;">September 11, 2001 was a Tuesday. No one of this generation will forget where they were when they heard the news about a plane hitting the World Trade Center that morning. Most of us were watching CNN by the time the second plane hit. I was in Boston, which immediately became part of the crime scene.</span><a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=32734453" name="8796213783359687517" style="color: #336699;"></a><br />
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I was performing for an Insurance company. A week earlier they called and asked if I could move my performance/presentation to Tuesday morning instead of Monday afternoon. They had a scheduling problem and that would help. I had no problem with coming in and leaving a day later. I didn't think much about it until after the events of 9/11. My manager at the time just switched my flights around and adjusted everything by 24 hours. That change in schedule saved my life.<br />
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My traveling MO is to catch the first nonstop home to Los Angeles the morning after my performance. In most major cities American Airlines is my carrier of choice. I am a two and and a half million mile American Airlines AAvantage member and in 2001 had Executive Platinum status. It was of no help when all air travel stopped for a week after the towers fell.<br />
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Until the company delayed my performance by 24 hours I was booked on the first non stop home after my Monday afternoon show. I was booked in seat 4E non stop from Boston to Los Angeles, Tuesday, September 11, 2001, American Airlines #11. I remember at the time thinking that flight #11 on the 11th of the month seemed lucky. That plane hit the north Tower of the World Trade Center at 8:45 am. Because the show date changed I wasn't on that plane. I was waiting to go on stage.<br />
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Even with that graphic life changing example, I sometimes forget that everything happens for a reason. One small decision is sometimes the one that changes your life. Only with perspective do we understand it as either good or bad, and ultimately even good and bad are human judgments.<br />
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It would seem natural to thank God for saving my life, but doesn't that make him responsible for the 3000 souls he didn't save that day? There were people on flight #11 much more "deserving" to live than me, or at the least equally deserving. They prayed for protection and deliverance that morning.<br />
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I would have been sitting on the plane next to David Angel who was the very talented writer/creator of the television show "Frazier" had my show date remained as contracted. He was deserving to have another day in his life, but he rode the plane into the tower. Who did God love more, me or him? It is a stupid question.<br />
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That event does not define me. I do not count the days since I was saved. I have not used it as a testimony in Church. I don't think I was given a celestial "do over". I rarely even remember it unless prompted by some event. All I know is I am here to write briefly about it and David Angel is not. I wrestle with the name Angel trying to make it some sort of metaphor. It is as fruitless as thinking flight #11 on the 11th was lucky. It was what it was. Those who have moved on are not looking back, but here's to all of us who are left behind to try and figure it out.<br />
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We will never quite be as we were,<br />
Jay</div>
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JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-333789133676139572019-08-28T14:50:00.000-07:002019-08-29T10:02:58.352-07:00Michael of Inis Oirr<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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In June of 2015, Harry, Elizabeth, Sandi and I engaged the services of this buggy driver to show us around the Aran island of Inis Oirr/Inisheer. It was a vintage buggy, pulled by a horse named Bob with a driver named Michael. <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Of the four or five other buggy drivers waiting at the dock that day, Michael just looked the part. Michael looked like he had been sent by Central Casting to be the perfect Gallic/Irish guide. He had the round face of an Apple doll that hadn’t completely dried out yet. </span>Michael <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">was born, raised a family and lived his entire life on this Galway Bay island of 250 residents. He retired from his career as a fisherman and was now literally a welcome wagon for visitors to his home. </span>His lyrical accent made it sound like he was singing the words when he spoke. In fact at one point he actually did sing to us. As we traveled up a small hill Bob, the horse, released a loud and lengthy fart. As the smell of digested hay reached our nostrils Michael began singing, “ Oh...The answer my friend is blowin’ in the wind”. </div>
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Michael and Bob took us to <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">the eastern shore of the island to </span>the ghostly site of the Plassey Ship wreck. G<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">rounded 100 yards inland lay the rusting hull of the merchant ship Plassey. </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> Michael recalled a very bad storm as a child in the early 60’s that stranded the Plassey at that spot. </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">To say that Michael made an impression on us that day is an understatement. This day would forever be etched into our memory. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">None of us would have thought, four years later we would make a trip back to this very island to scatter Harry’s ashes. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Harry’s death was sudden and unexpected. In his will he requested that his ashes be taken to Ireland and scattered by a couple of his close friends, and immediate family. This Ireland A</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">shes party of 9 included: </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> Elizabeth, Harry’s kids, Turk and Christy (Harry’s close friends) and my family. We met in Dublin, took the train to Galway and the ferry to Inisheer. We repeated stories of Harry along the way and observed signs pointing out the reason we were in Ireland. Things would happen that seemed to have Harry’s celestial input. Case in point: while all of us were trying to find the bus station, to get to the ferry, we were led to this Galway mortuary. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The busker who danced in front of Harry’s favorite pub wore black instead of her signature red outfit, </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">and from an overcast day that threatened rain, the sun came shining through at the moment we set Harry’s ashes free on the rocky Inisheer beach. None of it was coincidental to those who knew Harry. </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Eventually we just accepted everything as an occult “sign” .</span></div>
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<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Harry had specified his ashes be spread in Ireland but “where” in Ireland seemed to be up to Elizabeth, who was doing everything the way Harry would have wanted. The Plassey ship wreck on Inisheer seemed a perfect place, because we had such a vivid memory of being there with Harry. It is also a very distinctive local landmark. Elizabeth made plans to make that happen. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">On the ferry ride over, Elizabeth, Sandi and I discussed how perfect it would be if we could hire Michael to take us one final time to the Plassey ship wreck. We docked and quickly scoured the buggy drivers to see if we could find Michael. There were half a dozen buggy’s and drivers but no sign of Michael nor Bob the horse. We had to settle for two other buggies to transport us to the shipwreck. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Normally the buggy tour allows for a 10 minute stop at the ship wreck for photos. We asked our drivers if they could stay for an hour while we said goodbye to our husband, father, godfather and best friend. When they realized the reason for this trip, the drivers were very reverent. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">It was a tougher job than any of us thought it would be. Because the rocks were unstable, just getting to the waters edge was a challenge. It was also more emotional than we thought it would be. All of us had been to the previous four memorial services for Harry. We erroneously thought this would just be one more, but we soon realized, it was the last one. It is an indescribable scene watching Harry’s ashes linger in the water for a moment, and then to be swept forever away into Galway Bay. With not a dry eye in the party, the sun came busting through the over cast sky to project theatrical lighting on the occasion. It was an exit Harry would have been proud of. </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">The buggy ride back to the dock took some time, and our driver was very respectful of our silence and our questions. I was thinking back to the time it was just me, Harry, Elizabeth and Sandi traveling this very road. I thought of Michael and Bob “blowing in the wind”. After a moment or two I said to our driver, “You must know a buggy driver named Michael. His horse is named Bob.” </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">I explained that Michael had been our tour guide the last time I was on this island with Harry... the person we had just put to rest. I also said Elizabeth, Sandi and I looked for him at the dock but he wasn’t there. We didn’t see him. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">“Everybody knows- him.. very nice man.” Said the driver.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">“Does he still drive the buggy?” I asked. Then the driver said:</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">“Michael... just passed.” </span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">It was yet one more “coincidence” to Harry’s death. The </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">street dancer dressed in black- the mortuary - the sunshine for the ashes ceremony - And now one more “sign” our</span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"> driver Michael also died. </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I responded with some sad remark about losing friends. There was a moment of disconnect in the conversation. </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">The young buggy driver realized - for some reason- we were not on the same page, </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">He said, “No. No. He just passed us....” as he pointed to another buggy which had just passed by. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Sometimes it’s not a sign..</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div>
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<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">My Friend.</span></div>
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JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-52399657980809047182019-08-27T11:53:00.001-07:002019-08-27T11:53:04.149-07:00Stupid is not Ignorant<div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_89d3_65ed_5498_5106" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/eUTL5NHSLRI12jxgr-p0dmeVBlJ8mJJTvR52r8oTSwsYdHBCNuioEdHGv94" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 746px; height: auto;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">The Amazon Rain Forrest is burning out of control. <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Smoke from the Amazon fires is turning day to night in cities 1000 miles away. </span>Most of the fires were set deliberately to clear pastures for cattle. <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> The easiest way to clear a Forrest to make a pasture is to set it on fire.</span> <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> For the last 30 years the Amazon has lost an average of 31,000 square miles a year from deforestation for ranch land, to raise beef. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;">The tropical Forrest that supplies 20% of the worlds oxygen is now producing Co2 , the gas that causes climate change. <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> But why would you want to set the lungs of the world on fire? Money. Money can be made from beef and no money can be made from the oxygen the Rain Forrest produces. The current president of Brazil, Jair Bolsonaro, is a climate change denier who says he will not preserve nor protect a centimeter of Rain Forrest. He says that Brazilians have the right to make all the money they want from their own land, and now refused the offer of money from the G7 to help battle the out of control fire. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">When I think about Bolsonaro’s policy toward this Global problem I say to myself, “How Stupid.” When I see climate denier, Trump rolling back EPA rules and relaxing mining and drilling standards on protected lands in this country, I think the same thing... “Stupid.” After much more thought I do not believe these men are Stupid. They are much more dangerous than just being stupid.... they are IGNORANT. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Being a wordsmith, adjectives and labels are very important, especially describing people of power. Stupid is </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">having or showing a great lack of intelligence or common sense. Intelligence is not the issue. In fact our President is a self proclaimed genius. Trump supporters believe, arguably, that he is a rich man because of “some sort of” intelligence. This is not an essay on the IQ of Trump or Bolsonaro nor a question of either man’s sanity. I believe both to be much more dangerous because they are Ignorant. The word "ignorant" is an adjective that describes a person in the state of being <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Awareness" title="Awareness" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px; border: 0px; font-stretch: inherit; line-height: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; background-image: none; text-decoration: none;">unaware</a>, and can describe individuals who <b><i>deliberately ignore or disregard important information or facts. </i></b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Ignorance and Ignorant come from the root word “ignore”. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Ignorance then is not so much a description of knowledge or intelligence but a quality of awareness and acceptance. Facts are facts, and scientific facts are things that can be proven true time after time. You take water and heat it up enough it will turn to steam and eventually disappear. Fact... you can prove it at home on your own stove. The fact that humans are contributing to the climate change of our planet by dumping poison into the atmosphere is scientific fact. These studies and facts are all almost general knowledge. An uneducated person may not be aware of these facts, as would be the case if one was stupid. However, to know the facts, and dismiss them or IGNORE them is IGNORANCE. Both Trump and Bolsonaro know the facts, but they ignore the facts that are not good for them. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">I would suspect that Bolsonaro is very much like Trump. He was supported and endorsed by Steve Bannon. I do not know the depth of his ignorance, but it runs very deep in the orange clad brain of Donald Trump. Trump is ignorant to any truth, that he is not the best-ever, the brightest and most successful.Trump ignores his oath as president. Trump ignores any compassion for those not “loyal” and praising him and those who do not agree with him. Trump ignores climate change. Trump ignores the fact that his words have any affect on the rest of the country while claiming all good comes from what he is doing. Trump ignores and rejects any fact that the world is not the oyster of rich white men. Trump simply ignores the truth about anything that does not support his selfishness. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Trump supporters are not stupid either. They know Trump is a liar, a cheater and a vulgar racist but they IGNORE those facts because the economy is good? They are like the Brazilian cattle ranchers, as long as I make money... the hell with the world’s oxygen supply. IGNORANCE. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">So let’s be fair. Donald Trump is not the Stupidest President we have ever had.... He IS however the most IGNORANT President we have ever had and that is so much more dangerous. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">As you were,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">Jay</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;"><br></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div> JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-56188378251709852052019-05-06T09:34:00.001-07:002019-05-06T11:08:11.240-07:00God said, “No Collusion” <div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_3c6c_3a6e_a901_d20e" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/vSyd3lWXunGUPX-ZOYOJeyhP7ppn4f_rgHz-fNMj5myGX9JEMM_yptnJJmk" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 401px; height: auto;"></div><br><div>It baffles me how anyone who claims to know or and believe the tennents of Christianity can support Donald J. Trump. It has bothered me for the entire time this poser has been seeking the presidency. Here is a man who has broken every one of the Ten Commandments except “thou shalt not kill” but even jokes that if he DID kill somebody on 5th Avenue he wouldn’t lose his base of supporters. </div><div>And it’s not just the fact they support him, they deify him claiming he is chosen by God to be the President. Apparently, however, God does not participate in ALL presidential elections just this one. </div><div><br></div><div>In an opinion piece from the Carroll County Times, a guy named Sparkle (yes Sparkle), claims God stepped in this time because: </div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><i>We needed someone who could pick up the pieces after eight years of Barack Obama and his program to “fundamentally change America.” </i></span><a href="https://www.carrollcountytimes.com/opinion/columnists/cc-op-other-voices-041019-story.html">https://www.carrollcountytimes.com/opinion/columnists/cc-op-other-voices-041019-story.html</a></div><div>Hey Sparkle, the only fundamental change Barack Obama made to America was to break the color wall of the Presidency. But I get your point. God obviously did not help elect a black man to the Presidency. But let’s leave the racism out of this discussion. </div><div><br></div><div>How can Christian people support a leader who is so unlike Jesus and so much like their concept of the Devil? For several years now it has vexed me as I try to see the appeal of Trump to these otherwise pious people. Trump’s obvious lying, cheating, disloyal, insulting, bullying, name calling, ignorant vanity is in direct opposition to anything that Jesus lived for or taught. In fact to quote the Bible itself, it seems like John was making a statement on Trump.</div><div><b>John 8:44 </b></div><span style="text-align: justify;"><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); text-align: start;"><i>“Ye are of your father the devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do. He was a murderer from the beginning, and abode not in the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he speaketh a lie, he speaketh of his own: for he is a liar, and the father of it.” </i></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); text-align: start;"><i><br></i></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); text-align: start;">I have even entertained the idea that Trump is a demon who has used his evil power to hypnotize the faithful into believing in his own anointing. That line of reasoning falls apart when I realize that even a demon would be more intelligent than Trump. So what is it? It seems that no matter what he does his evangelical support seems to be steady if not increasing. </div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); text-align: start;"><i><br></i></div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); text-align: start;">Today as I was searching the news, two items came together in a way that turned a light on for me. As Oprah would say it was an “Ah Ha” moment.</div><div style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0); text-align: start;">Here is the first article that caught my eye: </div><div style="text-align: start;"><font color="#000000" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><a href="https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/us-politics/trump-2020-election-vote-twitter-mueller-investigation-jerry-falwell-a8901256.html" id="id_f333_4d_6527_bbd7" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/americas/us-politics/trump-2020-election-vote-twitter-mueller-investigation-jerry-falwell-a8901256.html</a> </font></div><div style="text-align: start;"><font color="#000000" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Mr. Trump retweeted a statement by Jerry Falwell, Jr. that because of the “witch hunt” that has been going on for two years, Trump should get a two year extension on his term. It dawned on me how similar Falwell, Jr. and Trump are. Two sons who inherited a large fortune from their Dads, who grew up with privilege and power taking over their Dads business. </font></div><div style="text-align: start;"><font color="#000000" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></font></div><div style="text-align: start;"><font color="#000000" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Now, If you do not see televangelism as a very lucrative business, then read no further. We will never see eye to eye. I will not argue that these ministries don’t do some good. Some more than others. However, the lucrative business of pharmaceuticals also does some “good” while bringing in billions of dollars. </font></div><div style="text-align: start;"><font color="#000000" style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">On the heels of that article I also came across this one. </font></div></span><div><a href="https://www.insideedition.com/investigation-shows-televangelists-living-lavish-lifestyles-52662" id="id_a009_3062_7d9c_ad44">https://www.insideedition.com/investigation-shows-televangelists-living-lavish-lifestyles-52662</a> <div>It is an Inside Edition piece on the lucrative life style of some high profile televangelists, <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Jesse Duplantis and Kenneth Copeland on their </span>multi-million dollar love of private aircraft. In one instance Duplantis actually said, “God told me he wanted me to have this airplane.” (God evidently prefers $85 million dollar luxury jets). Copeland is quoted as saying, he couldn’t fly commercial air because “it is a long metal tube filled with demons.” Along with Joel Olsteen these mega preachers hold rallies in arenas and live in mansions spread out all over the country. They are not shy about their wealth but flaunt it as proof that God loves them,maybe just a little bit more than you. All the time preaching that money given to their tax free cause will bring ten fold blessings to the “flock” in return. Give me my private jet so I can flaunt my wealth to masses all over the world, in the name of Jesus. </div><div><br></div><div>I finally realize why so many evangelicals blindly support Trump. The Trump lifestyle is exactly like that of the televangelist they listen to on television. He is wealthy. He has expensive multiple homes, flys on his own private jet, and holds rally’s in arenas. He touts his own accomplishments but is lining his own pocket first. Trump is the poster boy for what the self righteous “Duplantis’s” of this world spout as the rewards of Christianity. Add to this similarity in style and opulence, an aberrant election that seemed to be impossible (in fact even losing the popular vote by millions) to win. It was such an anomalous political election that surely God intervened, certainly not the Godless Russians. So there you have it, Trump is Rich, Famous and now President.... all the “things to come” promised by Jesus. After all aren’t the streets of heaven paved in Gold? Just like Trump Tower toilets. </div><div><br></div><div>Trump is the result of many years of riches and greed taking over high profile religions. <b>Luke 20:24</b>: When asked about wealth and paying taxes Jesus wanted to see a coin and asked who’s picture was on the coin. The disciple said, “Caesar’s”. Jesus answer is forgotten by some of the wealthiest, <i>“Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God what is God’s</i>”. If it was not clear from that statement that Jesus separated wealth from spirituality he also said in <b>Luke 18:25</b>.<i> “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of God.” </i>Fortunately for the Luxury Jet Salesmen the televangelists pay nothing to Caesar because they are tax exempt. </div><div><br></div><div>I certainly have no solution to this ethical, moral and spiritual detour of Evangelicals. However there is an admonition in the Bible <b>Mark 13:6</b> <i>“See to it that no one deceives you. Many will come in my name, claiming, ‘I am He” and will deceive many.” </i></div><div><br></div><div>I’m spinning my wheels here because there are Bible scholars who can quote scripture that will contradict my research and thesis. I’m not trying to convert anyone nor discredit faithfulness. However, for what it is worth, I spoke with God this morning. He and Jesus said they had no collusion with the Trump campaign. I believe them. Unlike this President, God doesn’t lie.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div></div></div>JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-34019939433522949782019-04-19T10:40:00.001-07:002019-04-19T12:51:17.740-07:00Why Come to a Live Performance? <div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4471_93f8_4c2c_c4f0" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/G29-6tma9Iva0-sQ3DLjk4IKtuQryWPZy3r9HJ4VppegIPdPCdwYAlgORkU" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 575px; height: auto;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">I have great respect and admiration for my friends who specialize in children’s shows. I can’t do it. I love kids, but I am not comfortable performing for them. It could be that I am much to ADD to make it work. To me an audience full of kids is like performing for a can of worms... worms that occationally yell out nonsense. Doing my act and my one man show requires way too much concentration to be distracted by little Johnny who has yet to learn proper social filters. It becomes so easy for me to become distracted that my entire concentration suffers.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">Here is my theory about performing live. A live performance is a very special moment in time when a group of people and a performer(s) come together and meet in the “now moment” of a specially rehearsed event. My attention is obviously on the material being presented but it is filtered by an analytical consciousness of the audience. The audience becomes an emotional mirror to what I am doing on stage. If their emotion mimics the intended stage reaction then all is good. If something other than that is happening, a conscious shift is necessary to get everyone back on the path of the performance. Most audiences do not realize that performers are adjusting at almost every moment on stage to make the “story” clearer. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">There is a relevant story about Lena Horn when she was doing her one woman show on Broadway. Being a consummate performer, her attention was always laser focused on the audience. On one evening after the intermission, she came out singing and immediately noticed that the attention of the audience, particularly down front, was different. Her audience mirror was not reflecting the right emotion. Her instinct, as an artist, was to move closer to the audience to see if she could wrangle them back to paying attention to her performance. As she did a large lighting instrument fell and hit the stage where she would have normally been standing. The audience was observing what <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">was happening behind </span>Lena Horn, something she could not see nor was she aware of it. The opera curtain became intangled with the grid, dislodging the lighting instrument which fell to the stage. The attention to her audience and her instinct to move toward them for more focus saved her from injury or worse. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">I recently got to perform “Jay Johnson: The Two and Only” at the North Coast Rep in Solana Beach. It is a nice intimate theater, perfect for my intimate show. Because I am a ventriloquist, my ears are always aware of the sound around me. I listen to the ventriloquial voices to monitor their effect and clarity. This awareness of sounds include, laughs or sighs or whatever noise comes from the audience as well as from the sound track and me. It is the equivalent of a race car driver monitoring the RPM, Speed and vitals of the race car. There is so much to monitor on stage that anything less than full concentration doesn’t work. In the case of a live performance you only get one time to get it right, no retakes, no do overs, the only chance you get is the one happening now; so the stakes are high.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">The focus for a theatrical presentation is much more intense than that of a nightclub performance. When liquor is involved you need to have more of a guard up since the likely hood of a heckler yelling out is increased by the number of beverages ingested. But a club performance does not require as many ideas to juggle at once so this “heckler guard” can occupy some idle brain space. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">While I was doing 8 shows a week on Broadway there were times that I could put the cruise control on and relax a little while doing the show. However, it has been a while since I have done that and at the North Coast Rep I had to concentrate on so many things I could not even find the cruise control for the show. It was going well and to a point in the Tuesday night show, we were on course. That’s when I heard a noice from the audience. Stage time slows way down when your mind has to multi-task. First comes the evaluation phase. What is the sound? Is is threatening? Is it directed toward me? Does it require a reaction from me, or do I need to completely ignore it? While continuing with the show, I determined that the sound was someone talking loudly followed by several people “shushing”. My decision was to continue as if the fourth wall was soundproof. There was another outburst this time attached to an angry tone, followed by another loud voice, then a young girl pushed her way through one of the center rows to get to the exit. I did not know what happened but it seemed that the cause of the noise left the audience. Just as I was about to devote my entire attention back to the script of the show, there was more loud talking and two more women walked out. At this point my instincts told me to briefly stop and make sure there was no issue or continuing distraction. I stepped out of character and script and said to the Usher who was closing the door behind the last woman to leave, “Do we need to stop the show.... Is everything okay?” The Usher said, “Everything is Okay now.” Indicating the cause of the commotion was gone. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">Even if this performance was recorded, rather than a live show, some sort of re-cue needs to occur to the get back to the place where the show left off. I tend to think in text blocks for my hour and fifty-minute show, and the block of text I was doing suddenly left my brain. There is a trick I learned years ago to get back on track when a distraction like this occurs in an audience. I said, “Geez where were we I’m lost..... I guess we have to start over from the beginning.” I moved to my starting position for the show and a quick laugh gave me time to re-rack, re-cue and begin where we left off. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">It wasn’t till the end of the show that I found out what happened and I am glad I didn’t know during the performance. A young lady in the middle of the house was texting on her phone which was very bright in the darkened theater, blinding the lady behind her in the next row. The lady behind asked, if she would please turn the phone off. The theater director was sitting close enough to hear the exchange. He said the lady was polite when she asked the offender to go dark. The texting 20 something said in response, “Are you reading my texts, you cunt?” It caused an immediate conflict which escalated to the young lady inviting the older lady outside saying , “I’ll Kick your ass”. The two girls sitting with the “texter” tried to defend her but were told to leave by the usher. All three left the show. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">Never mind that I have an announcement at the top of the show asking that all cell phones be turned off and silenced for the enjoyment of every one else, why come to a show to text? Why spend the money to watch a show only to ingnore it and text on your phone? And when a person realizes they might be unintentionally ruining the show for someone else, expletives and attitude from the offender is the result? I am glad that young lady was not around after the show. There is nothing civil that I could have said to her.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">The light from a cell phone in the darkness of an audience is distracting enough to actors on the stage, but to ignore manners and disrupt the rest of the audience when asked to put it out... is unforgivable. If we are going to live in a society that accepts social media and ubiquitous cell phones, we need to establish some manners to go along with that “society” of texting. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><div style="text-align: left;">So to the young lady who disrupted the only chance I had to tell my story to that particular audience that particular night at NCT, please don’t ever come back to any of my shows. And on behalf of every performer who is trying to communicate art, just stay at home and text with your friends till you go blind. Instagram and twitter, Facebook and IM your life away, as is your right to do, just never, ever, ever do it within 400 yards of a theater. </div><div style="text-align: left;">As you were,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Jay</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br></div><br><br><br> JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-42001428642503584532019-03-30T10:50:00.001-07:002019-03-30T10:50:32.099-07:00The Continually Amazing Mr. MarshallOnce again it is the birthday of Peter Marshall. (It happens every year about this same time). I am a big fan of Mr. Marshall and wrote this essay for his birthday a couple of years ago. It has only become more relevant and true. I republish it again now in honor of the occasion. Happy Birthday, Peter. <div><br><div><div data-blogger-escaped-style="text-align: justify;" style="text-align: justify;"><p style="text-align: start; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Often one has to stop and take a big deep breath, otherwise you forget how great it is to be able to breath. Mostly breathing happens when we pay the least attention to it. The same holds true with gratitude. Sometimes one has to stop and take inventory of the things for which you are grateful lest you take them for granted.</span></p></div><div><div data-blogger-escaped-style="text-align: justify;" style="text-align: justify;"><p style="text-align: start; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">At the top of my list of gratitude is friendship. I hope my epitaph says, "He had wonderful Friends." I hope those friends know how blessed I am to be considered their friend. I don't have a ranking order of friends because they are all unique and all crowd the top because of their own special and wonderful qualities. However...</span></p></div></div><div><div data-blogger-escaped-style="text-align: justify;" style="text-align: justify;"><p style="text-align: start; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Last night was a wonderful reminder of how blessed I am. It was an evening at the Paley Center for the Media honoring Peter Marshall. It was also his 90th birthday. The audience was filled with 300 or so invited guests, family and friends. What struck me most about the crowd was the depth of performers from every field of entertainment. There is no type of show business Peter Marshall has not excelled in. From first banana in a comedy duo, to big band singer, to stage star, to movie and television actor, recording star, to pitch man, night club performer, game show host, variety show host and guru expert on the music of Big Band Swing, Peter has done it all, extremely well. He is the happiest, nicest most engaging person who commands a steel trap mind and memory with twice the energy of people half his age. His singing voice is as strong and beautiful as ever and he remembers every detail of every moment of his life. Treasures like Peter defy what age is supposed to act like. </span></p></div></div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" data-blogger-escaped-style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;" style="padding: 6px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; float: left; margin-right: 1em;"><tbody><tr><td data-blogger-escaped-style="text-align: center;" style="text-align: center;"><p style="text-align: start; margin: 0px;"><a data-blogger-escaped-style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: justify;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiLijcvbYZ9HQbCvULGnrXc99zXxGHR7ecswXjavF8Owcsyl_f5cbI4ru94bFuaRB1ODscEQYiIuLLP-fReQ-HDaWPq_Cv36huFhw3s0Zhp5mNqkBvt6iuCf9CDDHmYyGJ1_M4/s1600/Fred+Willard+and+Peter+Marshall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: justify; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><font color="#000000"><img border="0" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiLijcvbYZ9HQbCvULGnrXc99zXxGHR7ecswXjavF8Owcsyl_f5cbI4ru94bFuaRB1ODscEQYiIuLLP-fReQ-HDaWPq_Cv36huFhw3s0Zhp5mNqkBvt6iuCf9CDDHmYyGJ1_M4/s320/Fred+Willard+and+Peter+Marshall.jpg" width="320" style="cursor: move;"></font></a></p></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" data-blogger-escaped-style="text-align: center;" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><p style="text-align: start; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Fred Willard and Peter Marshall</span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></p><div data-blogger-escaped-style="text-align: justify;" style="text-align: justify;"><p style="text-align: start; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">First came a 40 minute video tribute to Peter gathered and edited by Jim Pierson. It started with film clips of Peter singing from 1949 Television shows and included cherries picked from the best moments of his 16 years as host of Hollywood Squares. After that, Peter Marshall himself took the stage. </span></p></div></div><div><div data-blogger-escaped-style="text-align: justify;" style="text-align: justify;"><p style="text-align: start; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Leading Peter in an informal conversation about his life and career was his friend Fred Willard. Fred, one of the great comedy minds of all time and Peter one of the great comedy team straight men of all time, made for very easy listening. It was not an interview nor even a chat. It was like eaves dropping on two amazing minds having a dinner conversation. The Paley Center was filming the entire event, but to be there "live" as it was happening is a moment that can not be captured by any media. </span></p></div><div data-blogger-escaped-style="text-align: justify;" style="text-align: justify;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" data-blogger-escaped-style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;" style="text-align: start; padding: 6px; margin-bottom: 0.5em; float: right; margin-left: 1em;"><tbody><tr><td data-blogger-escaped-style="text-align: center;" style="text-align: center;"><p style="text-align: start; margin: 0px;"><a data-blogger-escaped-style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDiiz_ituf-j9FUl3vBWkDW-VDTjAhpFjuyOxIwFmX7_xeMMKFf-QkzG-rXU4cp5nHkY8xYbShV_QqZT7kUesCCvPX9XC8yBcSJlp8aBKWOksT4yl6J-rtBywc-7c53F_U4f1Z/s1600/Jay%252C+Jim+Pierson%252C+Peter+Marshall.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><font color="#000000"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDiiz_ituf-j9FUl3vBWkDW-VDTjAhpFjuyOxIwFmX7_xeMMKFf-QkzG-rXU4cp5nHkY8xYbShV_QqZT7kUesCCvPX9XC8yBcSJlp8aBKWOksT4yl6J-rtBywc-7c53F_U4f1Z/s320/Jay%252C+Jim+Pierson%252C+Peter+Marshall.tiff" width="320" style="cursor: move;"></font></a></p></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" data-blogger-escaped-style="text-align: center;" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;"><p style="text-align: start; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Jay Johnson - Jim Pierson - Peter Marshall</span></p><p style="text-align: start; margin: 0px;"><font data-blogger-escaped-style="font-size: xx-small;" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Photo by Steve Cox</font></p></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: start; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I marveled at what a large brush this artist named Peter Marshall has used to paint his life. The best game show hosts, the best game show producers, best actors, best comics, best writers, best dancers, singers and musicians (not to mention a ventriloquist) were there to honor the 90th anniversary of the birth of their friend Peter. We have all been touched by the charm of his personality and the joy of his talents. The very same can be said of Peter's beautiful wife Laurie who was the force behind the event. To meet Peter and Laurie is to love them.</span></p></div><div data-blogger-escaped-style="text-align: justify;" style="text-align: justify;"><p style="text-align: start; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Peter is my hero. At 90 years old his is not the guy who screams "kids get off my lawn", he is the guy who says, "hey kids, come over to my lawn so we can play together." The world would be a better place if there were more humans like the Amazing Mr. Marshall.</span></p></div><div data-blogger-escaped-style="text-align: justify;" style="text-align: justify;"><p style="text-align: start; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">As you were,</span></p></div><div data-blogger-escaped-style="text-align: justify;" style="text-align: justify;"><p style="text-align: start; margin: 0px;"><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Jay</span></p></div><div data-blogger-escaped-style="text-align: justify;" style="text-align: justify;"><p style="margin: 0px;"><br></p></div><div data-blogger-escaped-style="text-align: justify;" style="text-align: justify;"></div></div></div></div>JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-79849750005532703052019-02-18T11:53:00.001-08:002019-02-18T12:01:30.387-08:00Trying to Face It.<div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_247c_80c5_2b1a_433" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFYZsESEAZJYiGRYSPXdkH6EVd-5OQEL92i6V7ewmi6z-nOspAJvtj8sqpFS34OoL05sGo5LTzo4vMcBI6ZrO9JQRpvQUgaNjaiCAdiiucAbKxTbXhZSrkvg2r5qH20OPeXXz_/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 271px; height: auto;"></div><br><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I haven’t been writing much for the last couple months. I have been drawing more than usual. I think Art is a way I can emote while keeping my actual feelings to myself. Unlike writing, visual art leans to the obscure and symbolic, rather that’s the clear and precise. A picture is worth a thousand words, but they are up to the interpretation of the viewer. </span><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">My writing comes from my story telling ability. To communicate a story you must be as clear as possible so the reader can understand what you are saying experiencing or feeling. Honestly, I have not been eager to share what I have been feeling for the last few months. Every time I would start to hide my emotions in the tale of a personal experience for laughs, it would fall short. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Since Valentines Day last year I have lost seven people who were special friends. Any one of them would have been shock enough to throw off my thinking, but when one experiences that loss more than half a dozen times 12 months, it is overwhelming. That fact is exponentially true regarding this blog for each one of those friends was an itinerant reader of this blog. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Recently I posted one of my newer drawings on Facebook. My stability was thin over the weekend. It took an almost insignificant event to trigger a major emotional fall. The picture was not a cry for an intervention but was a little more revealing than I ever wanted to be on Facebook. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I was touched by the many comments and messages of support I got from my friends still here. In clearer moments of my life I might be able to understand that the number of friends still here, is greater than the ones who have gone. Depression, however, does not look at the long odds it looks at the short term loss. I understand intellectually that is my struggle, to rise above the short term downward spiral of depression. It used to be easier. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This week marks the one year anniversary of the first of our friends to pass. She is significant because Dr. Joyce Ducas was not only a beloved sister-in-law, she was also one of the smartest psychologists I have ever known. One of her specialties was multiple personality disorder. As a ventriloquist making a living musing about that disorder we had some “delicious” conversations. She would have been the first person I would turn to in a time like this. She knew me and what made my depression tick on a level of love that is impossible to find in real therapy. She was the first to leave so every other loss became heavier because her insight was not there.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This anniversary blind sided me. However, understanding the reason it might be a dark time for me does not define the cure. As much as I try to imagine what Joyce might say to me at this moment, I can’t really. For a depressive that very process becomes a down spiral. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">So here is the point. No intervention is necessary. Thank you to all who have reached out, that very act is healing to me. Fortunately I am working the next few nights in a theater variety show on the Gulf Coast of Alabama. Dr. Greasepaint does come to the rescue and lighten my mood when I am on stage. Manipulating strangers into my own idea of reality is what I do best. I am grateful for this gig at this particular moment. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">So, thank you to all who reached out in thought, message, emoji and love. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">As you were,</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Jay</span></div></div> JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-37946433390067421732019-02-04T13:37:00.001-08:002019-02-04T17:25:39.545-08:00Do you believe in Ghosts?<div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_4de2_be1_ef04_717c" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvsm0gm-Jj9OvMZZMz84vzESbEPX3Hdd-WHUVStaE_L0ysKUQvNOBDUFZuP9wHC6XDbAf6EQtXAkeBbzOjsn6AF3mvkPBiWA1w5HxrH91PVNANWbDp5gFFCrvv8942aINJE2xq/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 475px; height: auto;"></div><div>I will tell this exactly the way it happened. Since it happened only moments ago this could be considered contemporaneous memorializing. </div><div>I was sitting at the dining table with my iPad looking over lots of social media well wishes for my friend David Wylie who passed away yesterday. The sky was grey as waves of rain passed through the area. I admit to feeling sad considering what seems to be an unusual number of friends who have passed away in the last year. </div><div>Suddenly the French door to the patio flew open with such force I was afraid the glass had broken. As I checked it out I was hit by the gust of wind that had blown the door open. It felt like some unseen intruder was attempting to force their way in. The first person who comes to mind when I am experiencing something strange is Harry Anderson. Without even thinking I said out loud, “Come on in Harry.” The wind continued to push against me.</div><div>Since David Wylie had just passed I said, “Oh, and you too Roomie Goober Wylie. Come on in.” </div><div>I then remembered all the people in my life who were on that ethereal side of existence and I began to invite them all in. “The door is open, Mom, Dad, Bob, Paul, Bradley, Mary, Joyce, Gerry come on in.” </div><div>It seemed like an endless list of friends as I remembered those who had passed on recently. The wind continued to gust through the door until the last name had been spoken. And as blustery as the wind was, it stopped. The wind chimes slowed and the smell of new rain filled the void and I shut the door. I tried to remember if I had left the door ajar the last time the dogs went out... but couldn’t remember, it blew open very hard. </div><div>I sat back down and woke my iPad from its sleep to see a picture of David “Roomie Goober” smiling back at me. I looked away toward the den with an unfocused glaze thinking of all the departed friends and family I had called by name just the moment before. There was suddenly a very loud buzzing sound as all the lights in the house dimmed. The dogs began to bark in fear. Before I could even wonder what it was there was a flash and a boom that knocked all the electricity off leaving a very eerie silence. The only sound was a quick beep to let me know the security system had gone to battery power. </div><div>I immediately thought that lightning struck the house so I ran outside to see if I could confirm it. I saw my neighbors running out of their houses as well. They confirmed they had experienced the same thing. The entire block was silent without electricity. One neighbor said she would call the LADWP to report it. In the middle of the wet street I walked to a neighbor a few houses the other direction. He said he had been looking out the window and before the loud boom he saw a transformer spark with a blinding blue light. I asked which transformer, and he pointed to the one at the corner of my property... the one I was standing under at that moment. I jumped off the wet street into my yard for safety but also to call the LADWP. I had my cell phone in my pocket, dialed the number but my phone was dead. </div><div>I went back into the house to make sure the computers were unplugged so they would not be damaged by a surge when the power went back on. To my surprise it was already back on. My son and his girlfriend, visiting from out of town, were bolted out of their room and were wondering what had happened as well. My youngest son also showed up after working a shift and heading back to his house. We told him our version of what happened and I set about checking the wifi. I thought it had been knocked out but after a brief investigation was working fine. It didn’t even have to reboot. </div><div>I still could not make a call on my cell phone, so I used my land line to call LADWP. After a couple of long waits on hold the girl said, there had not been any outages reported nor calls about service interruptions in my area. All was normal, but she said if the power goes out or if I spotted a fire to call the fire department, have a nice day. </div><div>The rain stopped and the clouds thinned to lighten up the mood. Everything was back to normal except my cell phone service. Perhaps our nearest cell tower had been affected. Comparing my phone to the boys cell phones, iPhones on the same service contract, theirs seemed to be functioning normally. Only my phone was not able to make or receive a call. </div><div>I did everything I know to do, to a non working cell phone, the apps and the wifi were working, but there was no cell service... at all. The bars would show full strength I would try to make a call and it would not ring. I watched the top menu of the phone flicker from full bars to “no service”. I tried to call my cell number from another phone, land line and cellular, I was able to leave a voice message but nothing went through to my phone. </div><div>By this time I had cancelled my lunch plans and decided to take a trip to the Verizon store to see if they knew what was wrong with my phone. As I was getting ready to leave my phone pinged, then pinged again. I saw that I had two voice messages. They were the ones I had left as a test a hour before. The phone was suddenly in perfect working order. </div><div>It rained hard for a minute, the sun came out and puffy white clouds framed a crystal blue sky. Our latest rescue dog immediately wanted to go outside and sit in a ray of the sun that was shining on the step of the door that flew open. He stayed there for quite some time, oh and the name we gave him is Harry.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_245a_d4ea_647b_129a" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLR-VnVlt1a2_3VfYPbzfPFi6_6c3mbHNTcXerZXaU-PQMsX4QroVAD2DLyP1Uz_3bbvC906obEyY2Mq5FNo9k0MK96s-Mep011pDEaXqpE18QU9BIoHg98NETv-xQOiPVhq-p/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 362px; height: auto;"></div><br><div><br></div><div>Now I know that none of these things by themselves are particularly spooky, unusual nor or they a sign of anything. Things happen and a case could be made that they are all generally related. It’s just that they happened when my mind was on my friends who have made a transition to the other side. </div><div>But... </div><div>I have seen the movie “Poltergeist” way too many times. I’ve seen what happens in that movie when they invited the other side into their house.</div><div>I am drawing no conclusions.... it is just the timing of everything that is “odd”. Or as the little blonde girl said...”They’re here...”</div><div>As you were,</div><div>Jay</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><br><br><div><br></div>JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-2726790355314197322019-01-21T10:20:00.001-08:002019-01-21T11:13:00.747-08:00Blood Moon Sunday - Blue Monday<img id="id_9c1_9171_3458_1b78" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq01awSxl81peHV-77u35xkQUhtG17fSJezmtCW8QS6uK90F0MxeI_KLfCX5OLUzn1XYDct66RWP1GAg5uMIbJevGsBQvR6DLdp__0FTvCmg4t4CD3HzkQEnyisI9s8fVqqYtL/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 236px; height: auto;"><img id="id_bc5c_7f0f_5827_d0fe" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyjUPEU59XFei7m1MKUg1U_30RfIHQkJFSG5H9O6f6Y6M6CB1mco2s4Pn3ioOWBaPZwhem0EZyvhJYo9ZgPx0SQ4sAf4QjFmHsHsOxm3Obq6ZY2zvSOYvP6vMLKdgf9mIeGrtq/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 182px; height: auto;"><br><br><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">I have never particularly tried to hide the fact that I suffer from depression. It runs in my family, particularly on my Mom’s side. In those early days it was virtually dismissed and ignored by most of them, even the sever depressives. At least I have become aware of the potential of the problem and have tools available, chemical and therapeutical, that can help me manage. I accomplish it fairly well and have learned methods to cope with it, but that submarine is cruising so close to the surface I can always see the periscope. This comes as a shock to some friends with whom I have contact only when my moods are under control. I rarely let my guard down in public or any social situation. But that is enough of telling tales out of school. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">Because I was born between June 22 and July 22, I am a moon child by astrological birth. Even before I knew what depression was I associated my moods with the phases of the moon. I knew just enough astrology to erroneously think that the moon was to blame for my shifting feelings. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">So last night when there was to be a lunar eclipse, I associated it with my recent bout of anxiety. To make the event even more spectacular it was to be a “Wolf Blood Moon”. I am not sure where the Wolf name originated but the blood comes from the color the moon takes on during the time the sun’s light reflecting off the surface is being shadowed by the Earth. That color is red, which is the slowest moving wave of the spectrum. Partly out of curiosity and mostly out of distraction from my depressed mood, I decided to turn this eclipse into a ritual of observance.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">When I turned to my StarWalk app last night to observe the position of the moon I realized the “Wolf Blood Moon” was occurring in the middle of my zodiacal sun sign, Cancer. The symbolism was all there: my happiness, the fullness of the moon, was being diminished and turned to blood by the darkness, my depression, by the shadow Earth. And all of this was happening inside the very crab shell of my birth. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">Several years ago my sister gave me some Tarot cards of Lunar design, patterned after all things of the moon. Last night, during the period of lunar redness, I took the deck outside and spread them face up on a flat rock in the front yard to be bathed in the mystic orange of the moon. (Note: I am almost sure that in one of my lives I was a Druid. Elemental ritual comes almost instinctive to me). The ritual helped, it is always good to be pro-active during times of depression, anything to stay out of the squirrel cage of the downward spiral. Ritual or not, what is wonderful about and eclipse is this: three hours after the moon starts to radically change its shape and color, it is back in full radiance. I went to sleep looking forward to the daytime when I could cast the Lunar cards and see what influence the Wolf Blood had on my Tarot reading.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">As I woke I breathed a sigh of relief because I had made it through a cosmically symbolic depression and I was still here. No sooner than I had turned on the radio to get the weather the DJ said,</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">“Well it is January 21, 2019, the third Monday in January known as Blue Monday. Psychologist say that the third Monday in January is traditionally a depressing day for most people. They sight the full onset of winter weather, the length of time from the holidays and the seeming endless days til Spring.” It seems that today is the day that everything catches up on North Americans to push their moods to the max. </span><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">With that in mind I’m sure I need to wait at least another day before I do that ritualized Tarot reading for myself. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">All of this is to say, if you are feeling the least bit down about anything today... blame it on the moon, blame it on the calendar, blame it on your team losing, blame it on the cycle of the universe... just know one thing: (it is what I am telling myself today). This too shall pass. As the moon begins to bleed and grow smaller we know that it will come back, it will be bright again. The night will become the day and sadness will become happiness. In other words: </span></div><img id="id_ac9_43a2_8fe9_a9e3" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj78Rtu0h1bSEMaxk5idj1M3uSVTGXghlzEwovb_xSE9H9AvIdVOpI9AUCpPyzY3nnyoMarLT98kh-Zj2w-1Og190nAkXn_OP4LaZ2WNLCcrRNr0KA4WgvJi5o1rNuX53G22IhU/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 344px; height: auto;"><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">As you were,</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);">Jay<br></span><br><div><span style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);"><br></span></div><div><br><br><br> </div></div>JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-10816062719558071282019-01-09T12:32:00.001-08:002019-01-09T14:38:00.903-08:00On Death<div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_ba69_75a5_cb79_ab6" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz13RvLu65MVtjRqkEtKg09vn3STz15q0PPJD1HDOpstaTpJoPsFvZr8VaYgoKUf79C5Pm8zyne5YeWGhpFWOqCH8qSEblyikipJ3ooyEXxvjgEjF6_cHuRFgMDFGxbSGAYTOP/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 514px; height: auto;"></div>Let me say at the beginning, this narrative is not for everyone. It was pointed out to me yesterday that one should write as if writing to one person. I have taken this to heart and here it is. The personal audience for this missive will know who they are and why I am writing it. To anyone else who is squeamish reading about death, dying and religion; maybe you should check out another blog. I suggest <a href="http://bmpr.com/chip_martin/" id="id_a420_b100_b405_d864">Chip Martins - Chip off the block </a> and you can thank The Dale Brown for making it available.<div>That said, you have been notified and metaphorically clicked the box that agrees with TWIAS “terms of agreement”. </div><div><br></div><div>Rather than watch television speeches last night I went to Happy Hour at Larsens (my favorited neighborhood hang) with some dear friends. The conversation wandered around every topic except politics. It eventually settled on “Death and Dying”. One of my friends admitted to being afraid of the process and ultimate results of their own death. In an effort to belay the fears of my friend I found myself expressing my own inner thoughts about the subject. <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">The one thing that I am NOT afraid of is my own death. </span>I wanted to re-express my feelings in “hard copy” to remind not only my friend but myself. </div><div>It is hard to even mention death without touching on religion. It is, however, the third rail in any discussion. Death has been around a lot longer than any religion. People have been dying and seeing things die around them much longer than there have been savior surrogates. Death has been a reality long before there were philosophies to even attempt an explanation. To my thinking religion was created mainly to deal with the idea and result of death. </div><div>My friend was raised Catholic. I was raised Methodist, so most of what we know about the “afterlife” is a concept embraced and drilled into us by the practitioners of these philosophies. And none of the people telling us how to get to heaven have ever experienced it before. So what we have been taught about life after death is no more valid than what we know about Santa’s North Pole headquarters. For my thinking, none of the Judo-Christian stories about heaven, hell and how you get there, make any logical sense. If there is only one thing I believe regarding Omniscience, it would be this: it operates absolutely.</div><div>To contemplate what happens after death you have to think about what we are when we’re alive. I do not believe like the “right to life people” that life is created at conception. If life is created when a human sperm and a human egg come together... then we should worship the sperm and the egg since they are capable of creating a human soul that lives forever. Logic and science tell us that energy can be neither created nor destroyed it simply changes form. I believe that is absolutely true of human life as well. We “were” before this body and we “are” after this body has worn out. The body is a vehicle used by our consciousness to explore the a physical universe. It is the same as driving a car we use to get around. A car is controlled by a human, but it is not the human. Same idea with a physical body. </div><div>Rather than a soul, I like to think of my identity as “consciousness”. I believe my consciousness was around before I took over this body, and it will be around after this body wears out. When my consciousness no longer embraces a physical body or relative universe it exists in a state of Absolute constant. In the state of Absolute, consciousness (man) and Omniscience (God) are codependent. One can not exist without the other. Omniscience is all knowledge (God) and consciousness (man) is the acknowledgement of all knowledge. Knowledge can not exist without the “knowing” of its own existence. Therefore God is always knowing and Man is always acknowledging, eternally. </div><div>Why we need to be here on this level of human existence will not be dealt with in this blog. I have my own theory but I have only a short time on this soap box. With this writing I am only trying to explain to a friend that death is neither the beginning nor end of life. As a caterpillar changes (dies) in one form the Butterfly appears (is born) in another form. They are the same and they are completely different they are one but unrecognizable to each other. I do not believe that a caterpillar can only change into a butterfly because a butterfly who lived 2000 years ago died “for” all other caterpillars. </div><div>That is “mystory” you may feel differently... someday we will all know the truth. </div><div>As you were,</div><div>Jay</div>JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-71288411325408966702019-01-08T09:23:00.001-08:002019-01-08T10:49:27.162-08:00Looking Back<div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_b0a7_a6bc_76d2_df06" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8WEuIPufdER47qeZwl4UW4KrEYooweeb5AzjYMUbCJi__N7bhn4JjYINpwBnIyLr_G3IyGRDV0C4dyC9p615TPN4aSRCTQPFIuzqx4B0rNidXp8ahqchMxxnaMVCJQ4ssDp-Y/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 271px; height: auto;"></div>I have been writing this blog since 2006. It was a daily contribution for several of those years. It started out as a memorialization of my adventure with “Jay Johnson: The Two and Only” as it ambled its way to the Helen Hayes Theater. <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">For a while it seemed like so much was happening surrounding me and the show that it was impossible to write about it all. </span>That New York adventure culminated in a Tony Award and I received positive confirmation on the “writing” of the show book. <div>Thirteen years later, after a year defined by the number of good friends I’ve lost, I have developed a weird kind of writers block. I realized after almost a life time of introspection that I am at heart a story teller. In fact we are all story tellers and even describe our past as History (to be gender neutral Thestory). We look around us and take possession of the thoughts, dreams and ambitions with which we want to be aligned. Some are better at expressing “thestory” than others, but we all have a tale to tell. <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I have tried to figure out what is causing the block and I have come to the conclusion that it is not a problem with writing.... it is a problem of inspiration.</span></div><div>Ultimately it is not ones ability to structure a story that causes a writers block it is a failure to see the story unfolding in your life. Over the past year I have unconsciously overlooked so many things to write about it would fill a blog for the next 13 years. It is that block. It’s as if my grief has calcified into an obstacle that obsures my reason for writing. I was telling my story to the very people who are now gone. I still have things to write about but no one to tell the story to. It is like preparing to do a show in a theater that is empty. </div><div>Knowing this does not help. In fact giving reason to a problem makes the problem real. I have been told I should just think of those who have departed as still reading the blog. However, since they are no longer on this plain of existence, they already know what I would be saying, so why go to the trouble? (Note: I have a similar problem with prayer. How can I presume to tell Omniscience something it does not know, nor can I suggest a solution Eternal Knowledge would not do without coaxing. Who is man that he would attempt to inform Infinite Knowledge of anything?)</div><div>A story teller needs a listener, a show needs an audience and an artist needs patrons. Although art is created for its own sake it only transcends when it is acknowleged. I have a garage full of personal journals and old sketch pads which will all be junk to recycle when I leave this plain. The question of whether any of it is art or just the raw material to make something else is moot. </div><div>This is a new year and my resolution is to get back on the writers horse and try to ride it again. I have no idea where the ride is taking me nor even if this horse is truly trained. I’m just tired of being afraid to get out of the barn and see what is out there.</div><div>Here is a parable that seems appropriate. </div><div>There is a man who builds a house on a hill to have a 180 degree view of the ocean. He loves this view of God’s handy work and finds peace and happiness each time he looks out his window. One night there is a huge earthquake. The house is built on a rock and other than some minor breaking of fragile glass items the house remains sound and intact. As day breaks the man looks out his window to see that a large mountain has pushed its way out of the ground and towers above the standing hills. It totally obscures the ocean view he once had. The peaceful and beautiful view of the ocean he once enjoyed standing at that window is now gone. </div><div>The man was religious and looked to his Bible for help. He finds this verse which seems to be perfect, Mark 11:23 “<span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><span style="text-align: justify;">…</span><span class="reftext" style="font-weight: 700; line-height: 15px; margin-left: 1px; margin-right: 2px; vertical-align: text-top; text-align: justify;">22</span><span style="text-align: justify;">“Have faith in God,” Jesus said to them. </span><span class="reftext" style="font-weight: 700; line-height: 15px; margin-left: 1px; margin-right: 2px; vertical-align: text-top; text-align: justify;">23</span><span class="highl" style="text-align: justify;"><a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/281.htm" title="281: amen (Heb) -- Of Hebrew origin; properly, firm, i.e. trustworthy; adverbially, surely." style="text-decoration: none;">“Truly</a><a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/3004.htm" title="3004: lego (V-PIA-1S) -- (a) I say, speak; I mean, mention, tell, (b) I call, name, especially in the pass., (c) I tell, command. " style="text-decoration: none;">I tell</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/4771.htm" title="4771: hymin (PPro-D2P) -- You. The person pronoun of the second person singular; thou." style="text-decoration: none;">you</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/3754.htm" title="3754: hoti (Conj) -- Neuter of hostis as conjunction; demonstrative, that; causative, because." style="text-decoration: none;">that</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/3739.htm" title="3739: hos (RelPro-NMS) -- Who, which, what, that. " style="text-decoration: none;">if anyone</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/2036.htm" title="2036: eipe (V-ASA-3S) -- Answer, bid, bring word, command. A primary verb; to speak or say." style="text-decoration: none;">says</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/3778.htm" title="3778: touto (DPro-DNS) -- This; he, she, it. " style="text-decoration: none;">to this</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/3735.htm" title="3735: orei (N-DNS) -- A mountain, hill. Probably from an obsolete oro; a mountain: -hill, mount(-ain)." style="text-decoration: none;">mountain,</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/142.htm" title="142: Artheti (V-AMP-2S) -- To raise, lift up, take away, remove. " style="text-decoration: none;">‘Be lifted up</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/2532.htm" title="2532: kai (Conj) -- And, even, also, namely. " style="text-decoration: none;">and</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/906.htm" title="906: bletheti (V-AMP-2S) -- (a) I cast, throw, rush, (b) often, in the weaker sense: I place, put, drop. A primary verb; to throw." style="text-decoration: none;">thrown</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/1519.htm" title="1519: eis (Prep) -- A primary preposition; to or into, of place, time, or purpose; also in adverbial phrases." style="text-decoration: none;">into</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/3588.htm" title="3588: ten (Art-AFS) -- The, the definite article. Including the feminine he, and the neuter to in all their inflections; the definite article; the." style="text-decoration: none;">the</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/2281.htm" title="2281: thalassan (N-AFS) -- Probably prolonged from hals; the sea." style="text-decoration: none;">sea,’</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/2532.htm" title="2532: kai (Conj) -- And, even, also, namely. " style="text-decoration: none;">and</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/1252.htm" title="1252: diakrithe (V-ASP-3S) -- From dia and krino; to separate thoroughly, i.e. to withdraw from, or oppose; figuratively, to discriminate, or hesitate." style="text-decoration: none;">has no doubt</a><a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/1722.htm" title="1722: en (Prep) -- In, on, among. A primary preposition denoting position, and instrumentality, i.e. A relation of rest; 'in, ' at, on, by, etc." style="text-decoration: none;">in</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/846.htm" title="846: autou (PPro-GM3S) -- He, she, it, they, them, same. From the particle au; the reflexive pronoun self, used of the third person, and of the other persons." style="text-decoration: none;">his</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/2588.htm" title="2588: kardia (N-DFS) -- Prolonged from a primary kar; the heart, i.e. the thoughts or feelings; also the middle." style="text-decoration: none;">heart</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/235.htm" title="235: alla (Conj) -- But, except, however. Neuter plural of allos; properly, other things, i.e. contrariwise." style="text-decoration: none;">but</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/4100.htm" title="4100: pisteue (V-PSA-3S) -- From pistis; to have faith, i.e. Credit; by implication, to entrust." style="text-decoration: none;">believes</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/3754.htm" title="3754: hoti (Conj) -- Neuter of hostis as conjunction; demonstrative, that; causative, because." style="text-decoration: none;">that</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/2980.htm" title="2980: lalei (V-PIA-3S) -- A prolonged form of an otherwise obsolete verb; to talk, i.e. Utter words." style="text-decoration: none;">it</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/1096.htm" title="1096: ginetai (V-PIM/P-3S) -- A prolongation and middle voice form of a primary verb; to cause to be, i.e. to become, used with great latitude." style="text-decoration: none;">will happen,</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/1510.htm" title="1510: estai (V-FIM-3S) -- I am, exist. The first person singular present indicative; a prolonged form of a primary and defective verb; I exist." style="text-decoration: none;">it will be done</a> <a href="https://biblehub.com/greek/846.htm" title="846: auto (PPro-DM3S) -- He, she, it, they, them, same. From the particle au; the reflexive pronoun self, used of the third person, and of the other persons." style="text-decoration: none;">for him.</a> </span><span style="text-align: justify;"></span><span class="reftext" style="font-weight: 700; line-height: 15px; margin-left: 1px; margin-right: 2px; vertical-align: text-top; text-align: justify;">24</span><span style="text-align: justify;">Therefore I tell you, whatever you ask in prayer, believe that you have received it, and it will be yours.”</span></span></div><div>The man begins to pray that this mountain obstruction to his happiness be ‘lifted up and thrown into the sea’. He prays this way every night and every day when he wakes up the Mountain is still there. He believes, he asks, he prays but the mountain stays in place but every day the man expects his prayer to be answered. </div><div>One day as he wakes to look out the window he sees that the mountain is still there. He notices how the sun casts a shadow of ultraviolet blue on the side which seems to move and make room for the beautiful glow of the morning sun to burst on the lovely green grass. The mountain is so majestic and strong while at the same time soft and engaging. The man felt happiness and peace in this beautiful view. It was the answer to his prayer.</div><div>As you were,</div><div>Jay </div>JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-73292335550895659332018-11-10T13:33:00.001-08:002018-11-20T10:37:40.909-08:00What is the Truth?<img id="id_a171_c649_74f9_a2f9" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH5fxf9hjvlNR98TKzie14wgOpKr97ms7ScA0eTO3NUYDVK9In3n0LIFG27YhLzl25K_VLLAubUvksEDA187Ipu2JLc2pqfPa-5czP8VqJGm8s7FeHGZpu_XS16VIx2O7pTioC/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 344px; height: auto;"><br><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Knowing that we humans only see part of the light spectrum, it is logical that other vibrations bombard us as well. Feelings are sometimes stimulated by frequencies or vibrations that do not register consciously. I think there must be a frequency for the Truth that humans can feel, vibrating somewhere near their hearts. I have always assumed this metaphysical pulse vibrated and stimulated everyone in the same way but that assumption is under scrutiny.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto;">As a matter of clarity and openness I will admit </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I believe TRUTH is a quality/synonym for God, but I wish to avoid any discussion of religion. Religion is the great divider of the Human spirit, especially today. Although the world could probably come together with a concept of Spirituality, Religion materializes the abstract with human rules that have nothing to do with Spirituality. I have never believed an Omnipotent, Omniscient Being would require anything of a material nature to be acknowledged. But as stated earlier, this is not to be a discussion of Religion. I am just </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">word smithing the absolute Spiritual concept we call Truth. </span></div><div><br></div><div>The search for “TRUTH” in the name of Truth itself is the only thing that separates man from animal. The journey for Truth is a spiritual quest to find that constant, recognizable, accepted frequency felt by consciousness that is True (Absolute). <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> Our language is filled with images connecting frequency and Truth. Metaphors like “felt right” or it “rings true” and “clear as a bell” suggest a vibration or frequency for Truth.</span> Unfortunately we have only words to explain the Truth and words, at best, are inadequate. </div><div><br></div><div>I think the average person can distinguish Truth from Falsehood if they feel rather than think. The problem is these feelings are subtle and can not be felt when bombarded with stronger negative vibrations. It is akin to trying to hear someone talk in a loud room, the mass of negative vibrations drowns out the tempo of Truth. Today more than ever ideas that pose as the Truth circulate the globe with electronic wireless speed. It is easy to miss that frequency of the Truth in the pollution of erroneous vibrations. It would be like trying to hear Brahms Lullaby played at the same moment and volume as gangster rap. Loud and threatening always trumps quiet and safe. (Symbolic verb choice acknowledged) </div><div><br></div><div>No one is trying to feel the Truth nor are we even listening. We engage in dialogue only to state our own opinion, prove ourselves right or just to counter punch. There is no way to distinguish the Truth if you see the messenger as Liberal or Right Wing, Black or White, Rich or Poor or just see them as “other”. Truth is quiet and strong, Lies are loud, big and empty. Truth is absolute, Lies are temporary. I am continually baffled by people who, for the most part, are dedicated to living the Truth but support a leader who can be proven over and over again to be a liar. </div><div><br></div><div>Thanksgiving is in two days. The Truth is, I am benefactor of so many wonderful blessings I will forget to be thankful for the simple things I take for granted, even the freedom to write this essay. If the continuing fearful rhetoric has drowned out our ability to “feel” the Truth then we need to change our receiver to find the frequency of Truth. </div><div>Happy Thanksgiving.</div><div>As you were,</div><div>Jay</div><div><br></div><div><div><br></div><div><br><div><br><div><br></div><div><br><div><div><div><br><div><br></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-81128709158758633182018-10-11T16:30:00.001-07:002018-11-13T10:49:02.992-08:00Life is NOT like the Movies<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><img id="id_4603_9a41_e260_9adb" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc3tNdjcGpgAR95X7geCn2AIYV9DS8YpfoBJvLiZBbunhKqCwf3NjYtj52EOB13lhhtk8tCo99BnmL2ZZBoAnicimP9IW0WCRQW12kK2-wUAWd4uREVMHGXWgPw9bbrxOiU5rW/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 466px; height: auto;"></div><br></div>There was a behaviorial experiment that involved mice. An ordinary group of mice that were getting along very well together, were bombarded with constant irritating stimuli. Select frequencies of sound, unpleasant to rodents, played loudly in the lab. The bottom of the cage where the mice lived was electrified and the mice would receive a non lethal shock at various times. There was no change in their feeding schedules, they were well nourished in a common cage.<div>The constant irritation and unpleasant stimulation took a toll on the mice over time. They became aggressive and fought with each other but not over territory nor food which was plentiful and accessible. With constant agitation and no let-up the mice were driven to kill each other. Think about that for a moment. </div><div><br></div><div>Because most of our culture and morés come from the mythology of our stories, we are accustomed to having problems solved in a reasonable time. Not real problems... story problems. A half hour comedy is about the average time we will stay focused to resolve a story. We want to see Heroes redeemed and villains punished quickly. It’s a happy feeling when the universe balances itself even though the universe is imaginary. That’s what a happy ending IS.</div><div><br></div><div>But life is not like the movies. Or is it. Unfortunately today that line is being blurred as our modern day life is being covered like it was a movie. Technology is everywhere. <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Everyone has a camera with sound and video filming life happening and it is being broadcast to millions instantly. </span>Most of our day is spent being recorded either privately or publicly Today Sheakspear would probably write, “The world is a MOVIE and all are mere players.” </div><div><br></div><div>So we have a reality show star as a President. It would appear that his sole purpose is to create drama with himself at the center. There are villains and heroes in his drama but there is no end. The 24/7 wall to wall political coverage is unrelenting. It is constant irritation with no hope of slowing down or stopping. Like the mice in the experiment, this constant state of stress causes chemical and psychological changes in our physiology as well.</div><div><br></div><div>The mice had no way to control the stimulation that made them aggressive. We humans do have the control and we are intelligent enough to understand that the stimulation is adversely affecting us in the same way as the helpless experimental mice. Science has informed us that we must cut down on the consumption of irritating stimuli. However, the same group that denies humans play a part in climate change will also deny the viability of any science they disagree with including this one. </div><div><br></div><div>Here is what I propose. A DAY WITHOUT POLITICS...especially any story, punchline or outrage that involves the ringmaster of incompetence, Donald J. Trump. Admittedly a single day will not do much. A week, a month or, please God, a year would be enough to show a definite correlation between Trumps manic desire for attention, and violence. Let’s shun and ignore Trump. As a classic narcissist Trump, does not care about being President, he only craves the attention he gets as President. Not giving him any publicity much less the attention he lives for will upset him “biggly”, and while we are accomplishing that good deed we will absolutely be healthier for it. </div><div><br></div><div>It is a pipe dream that the US press would or could ever ignore Trump and members of his Reich for a day much less any longer. But I can ignore him for as long as I want to. The television also has an off switch, and I can set my iPhone to ignore “notifications”. I can forego Facebook for at least a day, and recover a portion of my sanity. </div><div><br></div><div>I choose November 22, as the “DAY WITH OUT TRUMP”. That happens to be the anniversary of the assassination of John Kennedy. Nothing symbolic about the day, it is just a date that I will never forget. I can think of no day in my lifetime that changed politics more than that single day in history, so it is relevant. </div><div><br></div><div>I am not starting a #daywithoutTrump and have no real desire to go viral with this idea. Trump has become, to those who hate him and love him, an addictive habit as hard to quit as any drug. There is no way the country will go cold turkey to quit him. As for me, I’m going to give it a try. I might lose some of my manufactured hate and be able to think of good things for a change. </div><div>As you were, </div><div>Jay</div>JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32734453.post-43483300629516367072018-09-30T20:52:00.001-07:002018-09-30T23:15:24.293-07:00Halloween ZEN<div><div style="text-align: center;"><img id="id_e27_3f29_82dd_bbae" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjE4-ors3MQH57j92rfg5ukzdPBrrUHODji1Ao9GBsRgq-t5FhyHEv4DX-Eyo4q0RdEHHYYCyHNDWcq8tpJWTxONqffZwYYkncvvMRRnO-2QzIHbqkfYX9dmB2vNE1uvFF1mji/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 423px; height: auto;"></div><br><br></div>It is officially Halloween season, although I saw Christmas decorations for sale at Macy’s today, can we please celebrate my favorite holiday before we have to think about Christmas. Halloween is exactly one month away. Perhaps with all the division in our country right now, we can forget our differences and all come together for Halloween. <div><br></div><div>Halloween is a great holiday. Perhaps it is not so much an official holiday as it is more of a custom or cultural tradition. Whatever Halloween is, it always occurs at my favorited time of year. I have done more than my share of thinking about Halloween. Ventriloquism and Halloween are forever linked in my mind and life as a performer. (If you own a Theremin , you should play it now. It would fit the mood. ) </div><div><br><div>With a lot of study and several decades of Halloweens in my past, I have come to a steadfast principle for humanity. </div><div><br></div><div><b><font face="Copperplate">There are only two kinds of people in the world, Those people who love Halloween, and those people you shouldn’t associate with.</font></b> </div><div><br><div>Who doesn’t like some aspect of Halloween? They hook you as a child. You dress up... and strangers give you candy just for repeating a simple chant. My traditions for Halloween are particular and well ingrained in my habits. </div><div><br></div><div>Halloween (for me) is gothic horror and dark magic, not Casper the Friendly Ghost- Halmark card-cute. My apologies to all you who like to dress up like fairies and princesses. I prefer sensual vampires and mystic sorcerers. But this darker slant on Halloween does not mean that everyone must celebrate the season my way. That is the best thing about Halloween, every person is free to celebrate in any way as much or as little as they wish. <span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> There are no religious requirements nor family togetherings required. Just candy.</span></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">There have been some ugly things going around all media's particularly social, lately. But it seems we can’t agree on what is ugly and inappropriate. It depends which side you are on. I have contributed to this cesspool of negativity, so here is a picture to celebrate Halloween season. </span></div><img id="id_a33f_859b_e2a5_d65" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl28Y50YAqi73NgX032oP5jcq6xKkg5dqxoKxyDt_jQnhjGtctyHE8izq4qhUhObH0Chxom4kTtvoYW0IYiNdbPNOgIMkHWUkf_n0L-76xCxK8xGs1JLx53yuhlhIWZqyF_zf2/s5000/%255BUNSET%255D" alt="" title="" tooltip="" style="width: 468px; height: auto;"><br><br></div></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">As you were,</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Jay</span></div>JAY JOHNSONhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04209913484299156278noreply@blogger.com1