Halloween.

Make it ghoulish day.

Election Excess

This is a Tom Meyer political cartoon that appeared in the LA Times today. I did not get permission to rerun this work, but hope the link to his site is sufficient credit and acknowledgement of a brilliant and timely cartoon.

If is is not totally readable, here is the dialogue. Two farmers are talking about the low yield of their crop, which is labeled "likely voters".  

      One farmer asks if the low yield is due to the lack of water. (California is in the midst of a sever drought).  In the distance there is a tractor spreading campaign flyers. The second Farmer says, no, "Too Much Fertilizer."

It came on a day when I continue to purge my email and unsubscribe to several political web sites.  Obviously I agreed with the ideas of the group when I originally signed up for emails or contributed funds to the cause.  However, I quickly tired of the relentless email blasts that were not only ubiquitous but in some cases intimidating and insulting.  I "unsubscribed" quickly to one organization that daily told me how disappointed they were in me for not contributing more.  The emails blatantly said that the fight was lost specifically because I had not responded to the emails.  (read "hadn't sent in any money).  

Then there were the blasts that reminded me that I had ignored several emails sent to me directly from high profile politicos. It was as if I had insulted the various leaders of the cause by dismissing their communication.  As I looked down the list of new emails more than 80 percent were being trashed immediately upon seeing the return address.   I was trashing dozens of emails without even opening them.  That is when I started unsubscribing to the ones that were offensive to me or just over crowding my mail box.  

The most egregious was a group that some how gained the names of some of the people I email with regularly, like my Son.  These familiar names would be clearly visible in the return address rather than the name of the political group responsible for the message.  It worked a few times when I thought the email was from a friend or relative but soon they became instant trash when identified. That .org - I parted company with immediately.  This "invasion of privacy marketing" was ingenious but totally offensive to me.  

I know that these midterm elections are important.  All elections are important and although I expect that my phone will be used to proselytize my vote and the mailbox will be full of political junk this time of year,  I do not want my email to over flow with the same crap as well.  

It is not always easy to unsubscribe from these steamrolling monkey mailers. At the very bottom of the offending email there is usually a  paragraph in very tiny print with a link to "unsubscribe".  Right next tot he link to "unsubscribe" is a link that will take you right to the place to "donate".  In one case it took me three steps to get off their list.  I was given the option to immediately donate and get off the list,  receive "less" emails,  receive "only the important" emails or have them sent as snail mail if I would give them my street address.  None of these options were satisfactory when they had already pissed me off from their contact.  

I know that the attention span of the electorate and population in general is very short.  However,  it computer driven email senders assume that I can not remember from day to day about political choices. They also must assume that we all have the intelligence of mushrooms cause only mushrooms can thrive on a relentless diet of bull shit.

As you were,

Jay  

Halloween:

No more blogs about death and dying.... Let's talk about Halloween a holiday dedicated to the dead.  I know some think October 31st is just an excuse for a masquerade party,  but for me it goes much deeper than costumes.

Halloween has been a favorite subject for me to blog about over the  years. It is difficult to get my mind around the fact that I have been writing a semi daily blog at this address for eight years.  That being the case I will probably repeat myself when talking about Halloween again this time.

My kids are convinced  that I only know seven stories and I repeat them over and over.  They say the reason Sandi and I have been married for so many years is only because she keeps forgetting she's heard them before.

The Evolution of Halloween...

Halloween, for me, is not an excuse to act out a costume fantasy. While I think wardrobe is fine, it is not the essence of Halloween.  I am certainly entertained by the "sexy devil" and "sexy French maid" costumes on attractive women and Elvira mistress of the Dark is a sexy poster girl any time of year. However once that envelope has been stretched you also have to allow bearded, overweight festive men in drag to participate. While the site of a husky man in drag can be horrifying, it is not the right kind of horror for Halloween. Halloween has been co-opted by Hallmark and "costumed fantasy-role-playing" which, for me,  is more suited to masquerade parties than celebrating All Hallowed Evening.

Here is the deal.  Halloween is the night before All Saints Day. For this one evening a year all the ghosts and ghouls who are stuck on this earthly plane are allowed to walk around until dawn.  When dawn arrives on All Saints Day, the Saints drive all the "undead" back to the darkness where they are confined for another year.  

The traditions behind Halloween are tied to the gothic idea of zombies, ghouls and ghosts (not Firemen and Star Wars characters).   We dress like the undead so as not to incur their wrath as we walk among them on Halloween night. Real specters will not be fooled by dressing like Elsa from the Animated Disney Movie "Frozen". 

The way I see it... if a person is dressed in a cutesy costume for Halloween, they have to give ME candy when they come to my door to Trick or Treat.   This idea is not embraced by the Fathers who escort their five year old costumed princesses to my door.  

Although we don't get many Trick or Treaters in this neighborhood, our old neighborhood hosted a carnival atmosphere every Halloween.  We would always run out of candy no matter how much we purchased.  At the time the actor Andy Garcia lived a few doors down. (We both have moved on since.)  I never really got to know my neighbor Andy because the first time we actually connected was on a Halloween night years ago when he escorted his kids to my door.  I did a trick and then gave them some candy.   With the kids out of ear shot Mr. Garcia told me that I had scared his daughter. Although I was more complimented than apologetic I was sorry that he didn't get "into" the spirit. We have not spoken since although I doubt that is the only reason.  

So.... be warned all you Princesses and Marvel character pretenders... Halloween is not Christmas and the Johnson house celebrates Gothic Halloween even if your Dad CAN kick my ass. 

As you were,

Jay

What's Next?

I have been thinking about the passing of my friend René.  The one thing that unites us all is death, and yet it is the least understood journey of all.  Upon the death of the Maestro I heard a person say, "Well, I guess that means we all move up one place in line."  I think he was talking about career but it's also true for life; we all move one position closer to the exit at the death of those who are older.

There was a time when I thought of heaven as some great reunion.  Those whom we have known would be there to greet us and celebrate eternal life for well... eternity.  As I get closer to the actual experience I am not so clear about what is "there".  In fact I can't even conceive of what "there" is.

Teachers and philosophers will say that "knowing" is impossible.  The human mind can not conceive of what spiritual existence is.   Mortals can not quantify immorality. It's a catch 22.  Any human concept about immortality and eternity is incorrect.  This circular thinking does not sit well with my human reason.

It all comes down, not to concept but, to consciousness.  What will my consciousness be when I have "shed this mortal shell".   I assume in this human-less state I would be conscious of the Truth, Love and understand what Principle is but: will I be consciously aware of what I did or did not do while in that shell?  Will the consciousness I know as "me" still be intact or totally irrelevant?

Assuming that my consciousness remains individualized I would "know" other individualized conscious entities on the same plane.  That would be like a marathon celestial party in an esoteric way. I would know everyone in consciousness not necessarily by physical form since there would be no physical form on that plane. But what are we if we are not the sum total of what we have done as a human?

Who are we when we refer to ourselves as I am? What are we when we say I am? Conscious Awareness perhaps? I am aware of my existence. The only thing we can know is this moment. A conscious recognition of our own being. I AM.  The more we identify with this consciousness of I Am, the closer we are to immortality and eternity.  I AM seems to be the only consciousness that continues on after our death, but not the consciousness of I Am in human life but abstract existence.

Since all my earthly pleasures will be unavailable to me, consciousness is all that I will take.  If I am unsure of who I am in the realism of eternity, then I am unsure of eternity.  What I did or what I accomplished (or didn't) in this limited Earthly existence is irrelevant.  If I conceive of myself as the sum total of all the Earthly possessions and achievements, then I will be left without an identity in the next plane of existence.

Christianity believes in a "get out of Jail free" card.  I am not convinced that a ransom paid by an Earth bound deity is enough to give me the sense of I Am.  The belief that one can do anything they wish and at the last minute play the redemption card seems contrary to the way life works. Can we really gain this "heavenly reward" by publicly acknowledging a belief.  With faith in this belief we are saved?.. but saved from what?  Belief is important but it is trumped by knowing. What can I actually know about this divine bargain? We are back once again to what we can know as humans.

If I can't know what tomorrow will bring, how can I know what eternity will bring? To experience what happens in  the future,  I will have to know the I am that is experiencing it.   Otherwise the experience will take place without an observer and as we all know: a tree that falls in the Forrest when no one is there to hear it makes no sound.  

Once again we are back to circular logic.  I am then the observer of I am. I am not the observer of WHO I am but simply the observer of THE I AM.  I am observing the ever renewing eternal nature of life. For me that force is God.  Man, then, is the point at which God knows of his own existence.  Man is that knowledge of individual eternal Mind which is also our Mind. Like a grain of sand which is not the beach but the beach is a collective of individual grains of sand, we are not God but collectively represent God.  

This probably flies in the face of most organized religions. This I AM idea was not taught to me in the fundamental Methodist faith I was raised.  In that philosophy I was taught that there were rules I could follow and concepts I could acknowledge that would get me a line pass to this private club called heaven.  I had no reason to doubt it, but back then I also had no reason to doubt that Santa Claus had elves who made toys in a shop at the North Pole.  I have matured in both concepts enough to question the idea that something is true just because adults tell you it is.  Knowing that there is no North Pole workshop has not ruined the Christmas spirit for me.  Knowing that heaven is  not this "members only" after party in the sky does not ruin spirituality for me.

I am not trying to change anyone Else's idea of what eternity might be. It will always be the great unknown and unverified place we all seem to end up.  In the same way I am not looking for someone to "save" me from these thoughts.  It seems to me that if you are trying to know the I AM of God and that this God is the same to everyone everywhere, so we should all treat one another like we would want to be treated, and truly live that way.... then whatever reward is coming will not be withheld because we did not belong to the proper organization. 

That's just me.  You probably feel differently.  

As you were,

Jay 

René the Artist

This is one of my favorite pictures of René in his "shop". I always preferred to call it his studio. The word shop seemed more appropriate for guys working on automobiles. In this Burbank space artists of varying talents sculpted heads from clay and designed miniature stage wardrobe for a tiny dancers and singers on strings. Other than the occasional reference to René's vintage Jaguar convertible there was never any "garage talk".  It is a studio. It holds a lifetime of memories for me.

"The Way I remember the Maestro."

Over the last 40 years I have lost count of how many hours I have spent sitting on a shop stool listening to René tell stories while we painted, glued but mostly sanded pink neoprene molded body parts. It was right there that I heard tales of the Ed Sullivan Show and days of the Hollywood Palace.  It is impossible to recall all the things I learned from watching René but for sure he taught me how to do "finish sanding".  

Since René painted his puppets with an airbrush finish the sanding had to be perfectly smooth.  Under an artistically applied base coat of lacquer paint, a slight error in sanding would stand out like a lighthouse beacon.  Several times a body part would be sent back to the sanding table for me to "work on" again, after that first coat of paint.  Since he never threw away sandpaper it was always a tough selection finding just the right piece with just the right level of wear to accomplish the task.  I didn't mind because sanding time meant more time for us to swap stories.  Besides I was only at the "shop" because I wanted to be there, not because I was on the clock. 

One of René's Creations

During the early days of my career I used that shop as a hiding place to get away.  In a day before cell phones it was easier to drop off the grid.  If I had a business deal to consider, a script to learn or just needed to vanish from show business for a while, the shop was the perfect Bat cave.  There were plenty of projects at the shop to take one's mind off just about any decision.  The Maestro (a name I gave to René - the lead puppeteer is always called the Master Puppeteer, so he was always the Maestro to me) was a strict gate keeper.  Even my personal manager did not have the number to the shop.  Unless it was Sandi trying to reach me I was "not there".  

Perhaps our best collaboration was for a short lived series called "Mrs Columbo".  The story was written for me and involved  (what else) but a crazy ventriloquist.  My character kills a puppet maker in his workshop.  The ventriloquist makes it look like a robbery but becomes haunted by a puppet who "witnessed" the killing .  It was my first dramatic acting role and I was trying to prepare for an experience I never had before.  

René was contracted to make the puppets for the script and they used a lot of  his work to dress the set.  The actual shooting workshop was very similar to the picture above. 

It was a couple of days before we started shooting the show. It was probably after 10:00 pm and the shop was dark and empty except for me and René. The Maestro was finishing up the puppets for the show, I was a nervous wreck. Since the set was very similar to the actual shop I decided to rehearse the murder scene while the Maestro was painting the final touches on a puppet face.  He was paying absolutely no attention to the words from the script I was yelling trying to make believable.  I tested several moves around the room to see what felt better.  

With the Maestro sitting in almost the same position in the same chair as in the picture above I was totally immersed in my character as a killer.  With all the method I knew to employ I started to picture how this character would kill a puppet maker in his own workshop.  Not thinking how it sounded that evening, I walked up behind the Maestro and calmly said, " Maestro, If I was going to kill you right now, what would I use to do it?"

René did not turn around nor did he pause to think or even divert his attention away from painting eyebrows on a puppet.  He simply grabbed a tool from his desk, and passed it back over his shoulder to me and said, "I'd use this." 

It was a wood worker's awl... a very sharp, heavy duty ice pick of a tool which, indeed, would make a very formidable murder weapon.  Even though I mimed a couple of stabbing motions in the Maestro's direction he neither flinched nor turned in my direction.   Although the director of the episode decided that the murder weapon should be a chisel on the day of shooting,  I still think the Maestro was correct in the selection of the right tool for the right job.  

I never thought of the Maestro as old, just older.  Over the last few years when he would express his frustration over the advancement of age,  I would tease him.  I thought he was teasing back one day when he said that one of his hands was older than the other.  He held out his hands turning them  palms up and palms down.  His left hand was much more wrinkled, worn and aged than his right hand. The difference was startling, his left hand looked like it belonged to another person 20 years older. It seems that the years of holding a puppet in his left hand while airbrushing lacquer based paint with his right hand had taken a toxic toll on his skin.  Clearly his left hand was much older looking than his right.  It was a graphic example of how our art expresses itself on our mortal coil. 

Only a few people knew that René was hospitalized after a stroke a week ago.  Yesterday with his life partner on one side and his business partner on the other, the Maestro took in one last breath and left the world stage.  The Maestro always said you could tell a professional by the way he took his exit bow.  René's final exit bow was humble, quiet, peaceful and he left us wanting more.He was definitely a Pro.  Rest in Peace, Maestro.

As you were,

Jay

Tuesday Factoid

The odds on a piece of buttered bread falling butter side up on a carpet are directly proportional to the cost of the carpet.

A Glock 9mm beats for Aces in a game of Texas Hold 'em.

If a dog is man's best friend, then a cat is an Asian food delicacy.

If two wrongs do not make a right, then two Wrights make an airplane. 

Nine out of ten doctors surveyed say that they would not be surveyed again.  

Out of the 27 side effects of the flu drug Flangelsta 26 of them are the same as having the flu.

Everyone that ate home grown tomatoes in 1832 is dead.  

100 our of 17 people are poor at math.

A comic is someone who says funny things.  A clown is someone who says things funny.  That makes me a... ventriloquist.

Observing the Herd

I am about to get my land legs back after a trip at sea.  Between Newark and Bermuda we encountered high winds and a pretty good chop to the ocean.  For me there is something very relaxing about a ship that is rocking and rolling.  It reminds me of being rocked in a cradle before the "Bough Breaks." 

It never dawns on me that the motion is an issue to some passengers until I see pouches of "vomit bags" placed on the stair well of each deck.  That is when it becomes clear to me that most people do not share my love of the angry sea.  

Now in total honesty, when I am alone on a ship, I become a guiltless people watcher.  I pass the time watching those who are on vacation trying to get along.  I have come to the conclusion that some people save up for a long time to take a cruise so they can  have heated arguments about what to do for fun. While trying to appear that I am uninvolved with anything other than my iPad, I observe body language and study the countless types of people on board.  Since the odds are that I will be able to observe the same people for several days, I imagine what their stories might be.  Grandparents traveling with a grandkid, honeymooners, Old people who can barely make it down the corridor (part of a bucket list I assume), extremely large whale like humans being propelled by sit down scooters, and some of the worst examples of tattoos and  body art that one can imagine, are all fodder for my bored imagination. If they only knew the world they occupy in my sea fairing pastime.   

On day two of the trip I went to the Windjammer Buffet to have lunch. People were having trouble walking on deck due to the pitch and roll of the ship. The Windjammer is on one of the highest decks so the motion is much more pronounced.   I noticed a table occupied by a family with matching neon day glow colored tee shirts that said,  "The Bufano's - Bermuda or Bust".  Those shirts were hard to miss.  One of the little girls was looking quite pale leaning up against her Mom.  She wasn't eating nor did she look like that was even a possibility.  The Mother repositioned the little girl who came to rest on the shoulder of her older siister who was perhaps eight.  The sister did not have the same compassion for little sister's current situation and continued to eat. The Mother left the table to refill a drink. 

A moment or two later I hear the splatter of some viscus liquid hitting the floor of the dining hall.  Before I can quantify what the sound is I hear the scream of an eight year old girl followed immediately by a very loud call to her mother, "MOM.... PUKE!"  The word "puke" ricocheted  around the restaurant full blast. 

Like a herd of Antelope sensing an approaching lion, every head in the Windjammer turned in unison to the table of neon clad Bufano's.  The little girl continued heaving after covering the table, the deck and her sister with rejected breakfast.  

I suppressed a natural gag reflex as did others in the Antelope herd, and following the lead of most, excused myself from the area.  I fled quickly to a more pleasant deck no longer interested in the second act of the Bufano Story.  I assume the day glow shirt was washable. 

So here is my take away from this experience.  Next time I decide to enjoy the rock and roll of the Atlantic Ocean, I will enjoy it with room service, alone in my cabin.

As you were,

Jay

So... You Made it.

It was going to be an easy trip. I had been home for less than 12 hours after a trip from Atlanta, but the trip to Hailfax, Nova Scotia was just another day for a road warrior like myself.  I got my upgrade so I settled into my first class  seat ready for the flight, everything seemed to be AOK. How quicky things change.

I was connecting on my trip to the East coast of Canada via Chicago.  Chicago is a fine town but the airport is the black hole of air travel.  I rarelly change planes in Chicago without a two hour layover; this time it was only an hour but the weather couldn't have been more perfect for the trip. No worries. 

The pilot suddenly made an announcement.  It seems  the galley floor needed to be inspected by the mechanics. The mechanics had been called but the estimation was an hour before they could certify us to fly.  We would be more than an hour late to Chicago.  Any connections less than two hours of lay over time in Chicago were in trouble.  

There are two options given us unfortunate travelers.  One: stay on the plane, and they would try and get us to our destinations via another flight from Chicago. Two: get off  and rebook on another flight.  I called the main office of Royal Caribbean who had booked the flight. She checked her schedule and there were no flights to Nova Scotia that would work out of Chicago.  Even if I spent the night in Chicago, which the airline would pay for, all the flights the next day got me in too late to catch the ship I was contracted to work.  I took my carry-ons and left the comfort of my first class seat.

The customer service desk was swamped with 40 other people who were in the same situation as me.  It was 45 minutes before I got to a talk to a frazzled agent. The mechanics had signed off on the repairs and the Chicago flight was calling for all passengers to return immediately for take off.  

I explained my delimna to the agent.  I said, "Unless we can get my bag off that flight to Chicago there is no reason for me to make this trip."  The checked bag was undeniably connected to my reason for traveling that day.  She excused herself and  headed for the tarmack.  The jet way was being disconnected from the plane. There was no way to get my bag off that plane.

I called the office again and told them my situation.  The reality is... if I was not on the ship by the next day there would be no way to join it because it would be at sea.  I was trying to resign myself to the idea that I would be back home sooner than I thought.

But the United Airlines agent found a way to get me to Halifax before the ship sailed.  In thirty minutes there was a flight to Newark, New Jersey. At 7:00am the next morning there was a flight from Newark to Halifax.  I could make it.  "What about the checked bag?" I said.  

She explained that since it was an international flight to Hailfax from Chicago they would pull my bag after it got to Chicago if I wasn't on the flight. Then they could direct it to where ever I was. In fact there was a Chicago to Newark flight that would arrive before I did... my bag was going to be waiting for me when I landed.  

I ran to the gate to catch the Newark flight.  We took off. I have an app on my iPhone that registers stress.  The reading said, "Stress level very high... close your eyes and take deep breaths."

It was evening when I got to Newark.  I proceeded to baggage claim to get my bag.  Indeed it had not gotten there before I me. 

"The only thing I show on my screen is that the bag was checked in LA to Chicago." Said the agent.  I explained my situation and how I had to be on a ship before it sailed with that bag or... there was no reason from me continue my trip.  I also said that I would not get on a plane out of the country unless I had the bag with me. The options were very limited but she understood I was desparate.  

She dialed Chicago and after several unanswered calls an actual human answered.  We described my bag and the situation. The person said.  "Oh yes the bag is right here. It just arrive at the baggage office. We were wondering what to do with it." The Newark baggage agent said that bag had to be on the plane to Newark leaving Chicago in thirty minutes... it was the last flight that would work.  

The Newark agent said not to worry,  the bag would be delivered to the hotel room when the plane landed at 2:30 am.  Having run this drill before I said, "What is the turn around time to deliver the bag once it arrives?" In Los Angeles it is a minimun of 5 hours.  I said, "I am afraid that it will be delivered after I have checked out of the hotel to make the Hailfax plane tomorrow morning." She agreed that there was a possibliity of me and the bag missing each other at the hotel.  We decided the bag should stay at the airport and I could pick it up in the morning before my flight.  Unfortuantely it would arrive at the domestic terminal and I would be leaving from the Internationa terminal. I would need to pick the bag up no later than 5:30am to make it.  She said, "I will make a note to hold it here for you to pick up."   With that reassurance I proceeded to the Ramada Airport hotel for a very uncomfortable night's sleep.  I was up and out of the room by 5:00am.  I caught the bus to the domestic terminal and by 5:25 I was back at the very baggage desk I had been to only hours earlier.  

The morning shift agent was very nice.  She told me that indeed that bag had arrived on the early morning flight. I began to breath again but stopped when she said, "The truck just left to deliver the bags to the hotel."  I told her that it was supposed to be left here for me to pick up. She typed a little bit on the computer and said... "I don't see that note here."  

I was done.  Foiled by the joys of air travel. It was my last attempt to make it to the ship with my act. I was glad this happened before I left the country but it was of little solice.  The agent said, "What does the bag look like?" I told her and she went into the back storage room of baggage claim.  It took a long time for her to return. I was sure if I used the stress app. it would say.... "Go to the emergency room immediately".   The door to the back room opened and there she was... with my bag. There was a hand written note attached in bold letters.  HOLD FOR MR. JOHNSON TO PICK UP.   I rushed to the International terminal and, against my better senses checked it in again.

I slept like a baby on the flight to Canada.  It seemed I dodged a bullet and would actually be able to fulfill my contract on the Explorer of the Seas, next stop the ship.  But there was one more test of my resolve to entertain the aged passengers already on board.  Canadian immigration. 

The officer said as he looked the computer screen, "You have worked in Canada before?"  

"Yes, 20 years ago I did an American Television series that filmed in Vancouver." 

"Were you asked to leave?"

"No.  The series only went for half a season."

"Have you ever been arrested? Spent time in jail? Convicted of any offense?'

"No"

"Not at all? Ever?" Said the officer implying that it was a total lie.

"I got a speeding ticket 12 years ago on the Ventura Freeway."

"Driving too fast were you, eay?"  I didn't know what to answer to that question.  When I don't know what to say I usually go for the quip.

"I owned a BMW M3 at the time... It would idol at 85 mph."  He looked at me over his half glasses like a high school principle.

"How long will you be working in Canada?"

"I won't be working here."

"How long will you be here in Canada?"

"Long enough to drive to the dock and board the Explorer of the Seas."

"Where is that?"

"Next to the bay I would imagine."

"When will you do your shows?"

"I have no idea.  When ever the Cruise Director has me scheduled in the next week."

"So you will be here a week?"

"No sir... on the ship for a week.  I am on the ship till it gets to Bermuda."

"Do you have a work visa from Bermuda?"

"I'm not working in Bermuda.  I'm not even staying in Bermuda.  I get off the ship and go to the airport." 

He began to type and read the screen. Type some more and read again.  Finally I said very politely, "Can you get word to my driver who is waiting for me in the lobby? He may think I missed my flight again and leave."

"You missed a flight earlier? Why?"

"Faulty Galley floor on a United 747, I think."

"A flight from Newark?"

"No Los Angeles."

"You arrived on a flight from Newark New Jersey."

"Long story but it was the only way to get here before the ship leaves."

"Who paid for your flights?"

"Royal Caribean Cruiselines. And they are expecting me on the ship...If my ride leaves...."

"Well, you are about done here.  I just have to check your arrest record."

"I don't have a fucking arrest record you brainless idiot. I am a ventriloquist just trying to earn a living by getting on a ship, and I made it here by the skin of my teeth. Fuck you Fuck Canada and Fuck the Royal Canadian Mounted Police." 

No, I didn't say that... I was thinking it... but  better judgment took hold at that moment.

He was finally done with me.  I connected with my bag which had been taken off the belt and waiting to be sent to lost luggage. I was the only one left in the terminal. Except for the Customs agents it was completely empty of humans. I could see the exit and prayed there would be someone there with my name on a sign.  

The officer at the exit stopped me and pointed me toward a small room.  It was time for another officer to "check my luggage". Holy Mother of Pearl, it was time to start all over.  

"How long will you be in Canada?"

"Less than half an hour."

"Where will you be working?"  Bla Bla Bla.....take two. 

This lady officer asked me to open the "head box". I told her it was fragile but she gloved up. 

"You have anything sharp inside, any needles or anything that might stick me or hurt me?"

"No..."

With that she took a dive into the case. 

"What is that?"

"A puppet head"

 "What is all this fur?"

"A monkey."

"Is it an indangered species of Monkey?"

"I don't think so. It's a puppet. I use him in my act." 

"What kind of fur is it?"

"Monkey fur...I mean artificial monkey...uh...puppet fur.... it didn't come from an animal it came from a textile factory." 

"Where is that factory located?"

"I don't know. I didn't ask." 

She let me have the head box back to repack. Then she went through every item in my breif case.  She examined the change that had fallen to the bottom of the case and counted it in her hand. She asked me what the medicene was for in a perscription bottle. 

I said, "Anxiety and stress.  As a matter of fact I could used one now... could I get a glass of water?"

"There is no eating or drinking in the inspection area, Sir."  

She even took out my iPad... turned it on and scrolled through all the apps.  She then found the Pages app and scanned some of my essays and writings. She read a paragraph from each page to herself.  I thought it was funny that she moved her lips a little with each word.  Thank God she did not open an art app to see the depressingly dark images I love to draw.   

"You a writer? What do you write?"

"Stories about my travels.  I think I am going to be very busy writing about my last two days." 

And with that she left all my stuff on the counter for me to replace in the breif case and vanished into the back room.  I assummed I was free to go, but was not sure until Jimmy the driver was on the road to the dock and out of the airport property.  

On board ship the officer at the pursers desk said, "How was your trip from California?"

"My bags went to Chicago. I went to Newark. We connected again at 5:30am this morning after a miserable night in an Airport Ramada Inn and the Canadians kept me at immigration for over an hour." 

It was a rhetorical question. He was not listening nor even interested.

"So you made it.  Welcome aboard."  

"Glad to be here",  I said and really,  nothing else mattered.

As you were,

Jay

The Girl in the Scandalously Short Red Dress

Sandi Asbury-Johnson front and center in
"The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas"

I have watched my wife dance in all kinds of productions.  I can pick her out of a line of dancers even if they are wigged and wardrobed exactly the same moving around in frantic artistry.  Instinctively my eye goes right to her no matter where she happens to be dancing at that moment.  It is a skill/habit that I embrace with great pride.

This is a picture from the movie, "The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas".  The beautiful lady in the center in the scandalously short red dress is my wife. Sandi was one of the "whores" in the movie with Dolly Parton and Burt Reynolds.
It is not the only movie Sandi has done in her incredible career, but by nature of the subject matter perhaps the "sexiest" one.  This is the beginning of a dance number where they strip down to g-strings. Before they were finished filming that number I was thrown off the set.   It wasn't personal there were just too many people trying to watch that day and I was absolutely not essential to the production.

Years after the movie was released I was in Atlantic City performing.  A friend came to visit me from New York.  After my show he wanted to see some of the other shows in town and invited me to go with him.  He wanted to see a "drag queen" review that was at a different Hotel.  There was nothing better to do on that night so I went with him.
The star of the drag show was a Dolly Parton impersonator.  He/she was very good and I suppose if you can't see the real Dolly, this illusion works for some.  If you don't have a real Rolex a knock off watch will still tell you the time.
For the finale of Faux Dolly's act several other he/she dancers joined her/him on stage.  They recreated a production number from "Best Little Whorehouse in Texas" down to the original Tony Stevens choreography and costumes.  I have to say after watching that movie countless times they did a very accurate recreation.
As I sipped my cocktail trying to remember I was watching a troupe of men I found myself tracking one particular dancer on stage. My eye went right to the same dancer almost ignoring the rest of the cast.  It was a guy in puffy hair and a scandalously short red dress.  At first I just thought I was drawn to the red color but then it hit me.  This drag queen was performing Sandi's part in the movie down to her costume. I was entranced by a drag queen on stage impersonating my wife.  The number ended to a big ovation, but I was still trying to come to grips with the fact that I had strange feelings of attraction to the boy/girl in the scandalously short red dress.  Life sometimes throws you a curve.  

As you were,
Jay  

To the Moon Alice.

Between reports of ISIS beheadings, Humas rocket attacks and the Syrian uprising the Constant Conflict News (CNN) was able to report on home fed American violence this week.  Ray Rice and sparing partner Janay were all over the news defending their right to practice Cage Boxing in Atlantic City elevators.  

The NFL players who have been in trouble with the law is not news nor is it a short list.  There have been charges of rape, murder, abuse, drug dealing and assault to name only a few.  Some have served jail terms, been released and returned to their "out of proportion salaries" as football players.  Michael Vick comes immediately to mind.  But then he was only violent toward dogs.

Here are a few facts that can not be separated from the "story" of Ray Rice. 1) The NFL is a multi- billion dollar business in America and winning teams make more money. 2) Players are not people, they are the raw material used in the manufacture of this NFL product called sports. 3)  Lastly and most importantly, the NFL is the passive promoter of a very violent business. 

There is a pretense of thinking professional football is a sporting contest but it is only the modern day PC version of gladiators in the Roman Colosseum.  At least we do not kill players on the field anymore.  However, death and disability due to repeated head injuries years after the players are too old to play is just now being considered.  Obviously the difference between us and the Romans is the length of time it takes for a gladiator to die. 

Football players become rich and famous if successful. They become role models valuable to advertisers who want to sell the products that they endorse.  However, they are not hired because they can sing or dance or tell a great joke. They are hired to play in a violent physical game.  

There is little doubt that violence is encouraged in the sport.  In recent years teams have been fined for encouraging injuries to the opposing team with bonus checks.  They never use the actual word "violence", they call it toughness, or hard tackles. 

So in this industry of inflicting injury the players are not taught manners, sensitivity and normal human interactions. They are taught to hit, hurt and immediately react to a quick snap with all the fury they have. Why then are we surprised when some of these players can't turn off that knee jerk violence when not on the field.  

Ray Rice reacted as football groomed him when his wife did something or said something he didn't like in an Atlantic City elevator in February.   Ray saw someone step over the line and he reacted violently to stop them cold in their advance.  This is not to say that men in other professions do not abuse women, but only in this case does it come from on the job training.  

On "The Honeymooners" Ralph Cramden used to threaten Alice with a balled up fist.  He would say "One of these days, Alice. One of these days,  bam zoom... to the moon." Threatened spousal abuse passed for humor back in the late fifties.  But it is now as dated as the flat painted sets of a black and white sitcom.  Today we are horrified to see a grainy black and white video of a man actually carrying out the Cramden bam zoom threat. 

Ray Rice may or may not play football again.  It doesn't matter he is not ground zero for the problem. Until violence is no longer profitable, and playing a game is more important than winning there will be no change.   

Like work horses professional football players will be trained, encouraged and rewarded for going into a blind rage when they hear the word "hike".  The kind of human they become when not on the field is not the concern of the NFL... unless it affects the cash flow.  When no longer able to hit the hardest or run the fastest they will be turned out to pasture.  Or in the case of Ray Rice... fired because he exposed the underbelly of professional sports. 

If a picture is worth a thousand words... a grainy elevator security video must be worth millions of words. But they are not the words of one man's violence toward his wife, it is a cautionary tale about the hypocrisy Americans have toward violence itself.

As you were,

Jay

Thank you Joan Rivers

I guess if I were to script the exit of an 81year old female comic, she would do one last great show at a club, go into a coma and die a week later.  That seems to be the way it was with Joan Rivers, she did it her way and made a quick exit.

When a comic is so much of the moment, so prolific and has no filter on her pointed wit, humor is sometimes eclipsed by their acerbic nature. That is to say, sometimes I think Joan Rivers went too far in her quest for the joke. I often found myself laughing out of embarrassment.  But I did laugh, even if I thought the joke was a little cruel, there is no doubt it was funny.  There is no line in the sand, funny is funny even if to laugh is sometime against polite society or political correctness. 

Joan influenced so many comics, blazing the trail for female comedians to become accepted in a male dominated profession.  But she was so much more than a female stand up. She was a quick draw with a perfect one liner and never stopped working on new stuff in front of a club crowd.  

Waylon Flowers said that his original routine with Madame was a monologue too blue for Joan to perform. However, Waylon felt It was just right for the unfiltered horny old lady puppet that became Madame. 

I knew Joan Rivers in a professional way. I did a week of $20,000 Pyramid with her, was on her talk show, her radio show and she came to see my solo show "Jay Johnson:The Two and Only" off Broadway at the Atlantic Theatre.  After she saw Jay Johnson:The Two and Only, she had me back on her radio program in New York to promo the show.  She was really wonderful to me. 

I knew Joan Rivers as a staple of the Tonight Show and even the Ed  Sullivan show. She was a headliner when I was fighting acne.  In fact she is responsible for one of my characters.  It is a story I got to tell her personally the week we did Pyramid together.

I was looking for a new character and it seemed all the great ideas had been done.  I really needed to reach for something different.  It was the mid 70's when the love generation had turned drinking age.  People were communing with nature and the popular notion of the time was to converse with your house plants. New research at the time suggested that talking to your house plants and even playing music for them improved their health.  It became a popular notion.

Joan Rivers was on the Tonight Show with Johnny Carson one evening. I tried never to miss Johnny. In that perfect conversational style of comedy that Johnny mastered, talking to plants came into the moment. Johnny said to Joan, "Do you ever talk to your house plants?"

Joan said, "Yes, and the other day they said to me... For God's sake shut up Joan."

It is difficult to remember the actual moment of inspiration when you are creating a character, but not this time. This was it, the lightning flash; it was what I was looking for.

House plants that had experienced enough conversation and were speaking up in their own defense. Phil O'Dendren was born at the second Joan Rivers' line settled into my brain. 

It took weeks to make the puppet, and more time to come up with the routine, but Phil and I went on to do most of the major talk shows of the day. Joan Rivers is Phil's muse, and always will be. 

I have been looking for a picture of Joan, Bob and me taken backstage at the Atlantic.  It must be in a box marked Broadway stuff in my office storage, but I can't seem to find it.  Joan made a joke at the time that Bob's face was more flexible than hers.  Her sessions with the plastic surgeon were not above her own acerbic wit. We laughed, but that is too be expected when in the company of a great comedian. 

A lot of people miss you Joan. 

As you were,

Jay

Can Ventriloquism Be Recorded?

Artist Title: Flying Coach to Coast.
©Jaysons Imagination, Inc. 2014

It is a line from my show Jay Johnson:The Two and Only.

(the Perfect Christmas Gift on DVD)

Can Ventriloquism Be Recorded? 

It was a legitimate question asked by a reputable sound man on the set of SOAP.  A very efficient, audio professional, he was aware of acoustic anomalies. He had certainly not ruled out that possibility for why he was in the studio and not in the booth. He knew the physics of why a duck quack will not echo. He was here to solve the audio problem. 

I was clueless. It was the first time I had ever been on a sit com  studio stage,  I thought a quack did echo.

But it was also the first time anybody on a sit com studio stage had ever worked with ventriloquism, which was the one thing I did know about. 

The audio man seriously wanted to know:

Could ventriloquism be a sound anomaly?
Because with all the 1970's state of the art audio equipment ABC owns , there is a problem recording my voice. 

Actually not my voice, my speaking voice was recording fine. It was my ventriloqual voice. 

Specifically Bob's voice. My ventriloquated falsetto is not the an easy sound. It falls higher than my voice so it is difficult to equalize. During my first week, I become aware that the sound of Bob's voice was not recording properly.  The note I got from the sound booth was "We can't understand Bob." Since I am the newest recruit to network television I don't know what they are talking about.  

I tried to sort it out in my mind.  Actors struggle with parts all the time. I must find a better way to deliver my performance.  They can't understand Bob's diction? Is it not loud enough, too high of a register?  I kept trying different timing and different inflections. I hoped this might help the sound guru's hear it more clearly.  Nothing was working. The sound anomaly was still there,

During the first taping, in front of a live audience, the stage manager watched the boom guy move the microphone from me to Bob when Bob spoke a line and back to me when I spoke.  Obviously, Bob's voice was always off mic.  Anomaly discredited as fiction.  Next on to the qualities of a quack. 

I get to act that story in full stage during "The Two and Only". It is even more fun to tell it live. 

Once again the drawing illustrating this blog post has nothing to do with it's content.  That is very unusual in this personalized Internet of everything. Google can actually scan the words in this post in milliseconds.  With the same speed Google can place an advertisement to the side of the page that conforms to some algorithmic interpretation of what this post was about. 

The drawing above is one of my sketches chosen at random. Random is a computer's best friend and it's worst enemy.
I drew the Ghost of "Flying Coach to Coast"  while in flight flying home from the last trip I made. 

As you were,

Jay

Before anyone goes crazy I think the Myth Busters proved that ducks do echo. 

Comments and opinions...

The two posts that I wrote about Robin Williams death got more hits than any of the other 1729 I have composed.  In one I mentioned Robin's self acknowledged bipolar condition. In another I talked bout depression and the disrespect of misunderstanding it is sometimes given.  Other than writing about depression from the informed position of my own struggles, I really wasn't discussing the state of mental health care.

Today I get a comment with links and quotes touting the complete nonsense of psychiatry and psychotropic drugs. I immediately deleted the post for several reasons.  It is a long comment that could have been written by a Scientoloigist  as zealous as Tom Cruise, but it was written anonymously. If the comment or statement was a rebuttal in a court of law it would not be allowed because of here say and relevance. Adding to the irrelevancy of the comment, it was attached to a blog post I wrote about the Emmy's.  Not sure what the intent of the comment was, but irrelevant, rambling, roiling comments are not allowed to remain on TWIAS especially if they are signed anonymously.

And...

I got a lot of comments on Facebook when I published this photo of my dog Boo. Some were quick to point out the "wooden children" in the background.  To be honest I had not taken notice of anything but my cute dog's face. Although no one used the words creepy, the implication was there.  It was as if the picture below was the one posted. The main character is related to Bob, the yellow shirt belongs to John Henry and that is an Alligator from a Punch and Judy cast on his shoulder.

Unless I am making them talk, Boo pays no more attention to these wooden Americans than she does to the chair. Thank you to everyone who expressed concern that I might be frightening a cute dog with the tools of my trade, but no worries she is fine. There are only two things that vex Boo and neither is a vent puppet. Squirrels and lizards are the only things that occupy her attention  beside treats .   And as you know I rescued Boo from Weird Al Yankovich so the only thing that traumatizes her is accordion music, not puppets.

I hope everyone has a wonderful Labor Day weekend.  Since there is not MD Telethon this year, it seems to be a perfect weekend to watch.  "Jay Johnson: The Two and Only."  And for all your difficult people on your Christmas list.... my Friend GFlash reminds us all that there are only 18 Friday's until Christmas.  

As you were,

Jay

Spread the Emmy's Around

Once again the Emmy's were awarded to the television elite last night, and once again I came up empty handed.  That is not to say that I was nominated, nor that I did anything that would qualify this year but the ego of an actor can not be over estimated.  Perhaps the best example of how the Hollywood ego works can be viewed in the Christopher Guest movie "For Your Consideration"

To vet myself with full disclosure, I don't know anyone who has ever delivered a line on a television stage who does not also secretly prepare an Emmy acceptance speech just in case.  I certainly have one ready.  I got to use a version of it when I won the Tony® Award but just in case the Emmy gods are reading this I'm still ready to receive that golden angel for my mantel.

So under the category of "Who really cares outside of Los Angeles county"  I think the Emmy qualifications need to be changed. In the history of the Emmy's you will find that the same show and the same actors win consecutive Emmy's for the same work year after year.  Not that they don't deserve to be honored for continuing to produce good work,  but it is the only major award where that is even possible.  And frankly it is boring. 

SOAP was nominated for Emmy's year after year but always lost to M*A*S*H*. At the time M*A*S*H* was the juggernaut that could not be stopped.  M*A*S*H* was on for 11 years and won 14 Emmy's.  For the years 1971 through 1982 the bet was alway on M*A*S*H* to win and it usually did.  

In contrast "Phantom of the Opera" has been running for 22 years on Broadway.  It opened on January 26, 1988 and that year won 8 Tony's.  Unless it closes and is one day brought back as a revival it will not be eligible for that award again.  And rightly so. The American Theatre Wing has already honored this production with it's highest award.  

The same is true of the Academy Awards Oscar.  A movie, actor, producer, director or any other job on a movie is only eligible for consideration the year it opens.  

The Emmy can be awarded to the same actor or the same show, every year the show continues to run.  To me this is not fair to newcomers who may require more than a year to establish a character or show.  So if you are listening  "Academy of Television Arts and Sciences" here is how I would change the Emmy's.

First of all a show or actor can be nominated every year the show and that character run on television.  Do the work and reap the benefits I say... but here is the difference. If a show/actor wins an Emmy for work during a season... they are not eligible to be nominated for the next two years.  To keep giving out the same Emmy for the same role to the same person is boring.  The next two years that Emmy is available to someone else.  Then after two years if an Emmy award winning show/actor is still doing the same high quality work they can be nominated again.  If that show or person were to win again, the second Emmy would not be for the same work you did last season, but would honor the fact that for the last two years a person continued to do great work.

I have been on this band wagon before and don't know of anyone else who is a champion for the same change. Try to convince Alan Alda how much better it would be if he only had three Emmy's for M*A*S*H* under a new rule instead of the 6 he received under this existing system.  I doubt it will change and the rule will always be "Them that's got seem to get more".

As you were,

Jay

Brought to you by: "Jay Johnson: The Two and Only"  for your Consideration.....

Please download, watch, purchase, rent or just send cash.  

Show Business....

I went to the OnDemand section of my Time Warner Cable Television provider and under Special Events.... there it was:

"Jay Johnson: The Two and Only."  This is the first time I have seen my show on my television.  All I had to do was click on the "purchase" button and Bingo.   

I was very excited until I remembered... I have seen the show. The fact that I can find it is a moot point.  I hope that all you Time Warner subscribers will find it and watch.  

I feel like I am preaching to the choir since most of the readers of this blog have seen the show live and already ordered it.  

This blog is mostly steam of consciousness for me, and since mostly all I can think about is how the show is selling, this narrative gets boring even for me.

I once saw a guy playing saxophone on a New York Subway train.  A few people gave him money.  He said, "The deal is I keep playing until I get enough money to move on."  He looked into the collection hat and said, "This is not enough." and kept playing.  Someone threw in a twenty and he immediately stopped playing and moved on. 

Here is the point of that story.  I have to keep promoting my show until it at least breaks even. Only then can the "Home for Wooden Children" benefit from the bounty.  So there you are... I am a broken record and a loop tape about it until I can afford to move on.

More later from most of these same Internet channels.

As you were,

Jay

Continuing on...

Here I am back into promo mode... Jay Johnson the Two and Only continuously available for your purchase, rent, download or streaming....Pleasure.  As you know this is my least favorite job in show business.  I am a performer. My job is to entertain an audience once they are in the theater or in this case your living room.  How to get people into the theatre or motivated enough to find the show and watch it is still as baffling as ever.

Over the weekend I attended the Portland wedding of my cousin's daughter.  It was a beautiful occasion.  I met Paul, one of the bride's childhood friends, now in his 30's.  He gave me a wonderful compliment about Jay Johnson:The Two and Only. First of all he said that he had watched the PPV several times already.  He told me the show was important to him on many levels, and he is also purchasing the DVD for "social reasons".  He said it would be his "third date test".  If he dated a girl more than two times the third date would be to watch this show together.  He said, "If she doesn't get the show the way I got the show then she is not the girl for me." 
I am not sure any relationship should be judged solely on how a person likes a story about a guy who plays with dolls. That may be too much pressure for any show to live up to. However, I know the principle behind it.

In the comedy club days of the 80's a night at the local Funny Bone, Laff Stop, or Improv was primo date material. You can tell a lot about a person by what they find funny or not.  For more basic reasons a happy date is also a more willing date. I hope it works out for Paul, he was a nice guy and deserves an equally nice companion. 

The two blogs I wrote about Robin Williams last week got more "hits" more "shares" and more "reads" than any other post I have written in 7 years of blogging and by a large margin. Robin's exit still vexes me more than I thought it would.  Being a person who struggles with depression myself it is a wake up call to everyone who shares my ailment. I think we could all be one bad day away from that ultimate solution. Like a member of a mental 12 step program we have to struggle and affirm, "today is not that day." 

I am bothered that many people have said in FB posts they are glad Robin is "finally free." They must be confusing Robin the man with the blue Genie cartoon he voiced in Aladdin.  Suicide is not a "solution" or a vehicle for any sort of freedom. It is not selfish and it is not the cowards way out, it is just the absence of a solution. No matter how dark the room there is a light switch that we must find. When you find that switch the darkness is not just replaced with the light... darkness proves itself to be nothing but the absence of light. Depression is a lot like that.  This black atmosphere does not recoil into a mass in the corner...it vanishes completely.  I have been told that depression is just a place holder for some other unresolved emotion.  Whatever the lesson is we are supposed to learn in this living class room, you can not graduate if you drop the course. One does not beat the storm by giving into the wind, but by fighting that wind to stand tall. 

I write this for my own benefit. While in the dungeon of my own darkness the statements above do not ring true. In fact that Pollyanna attitude merely makes the situation even more desperate. It simplifies a major chemical imbalance in the brain to a line from a Hallmark card. If it were so easy to find that light why wouldn't I gladly turn it on? I am hoping that in one of those moods I will find this blog and know that when I was thinking clearly... I knew it to be so.

As you were,

Jay

Memory in Third Person

There was nothing more intimidating than the corporate offices of ABC Network at Century City in the late 70's.  I was there for final network approval to play Chuck and Bob on a new ABC sitcom called "SOAP". It all boiled down to this final audition. I had passed all the other audition tests but this was the final network test, the only one that mattered.

When I checked in at the ABC receptionist desk a striking woman, beautiful but emotionless, checked off my name and told me to have a seat on the couch.  The lobby entrance to the network office was three stories high.  I looked up at the endless ceiling as I sank to the bottom of a leather couch. The soft cushions engulfed me. I sat eye level with the arm rest. At that moment I could neither feel smaller nor more insignificant.
The producers arrived and were whisk into an office without even acknowledging I was on the couch. Then the director arrived and finally the SOAP Casting agents arrived.  All were escorted to the office. My heart was racing with fear/excitement. It seemed I spent hours alone on that couch until the two casting ladies came and talked to me.

They explained the delay was due to the fact that Pam Dixon, the head of ABC casting was late.   As soon as she arrived we would begin, but no one knew where she was.  They noticed my nerves were on edge so they attempted small talk for awhile but eventually there was only the silence of anticipation.

After a while one of the casting people said, "Let me go see if they know anything yet," and walked to the office where everyone was waiting.  She was gone for awhile and returned with an up date of information.

"Well, they found Pam... she is stuck in the elevator between the 16 and 17th floor of this building.  They are trying to get the elevator fixed. They don't know how long it will take."

"Geez," said the other casting person, "Pam hates confined spaces. She must be going crazy in there.  Will she still feel like doing this reading when they get her out?"

"Don't know.  If they can get her out in the next 30 minutes they will still do the reading."

Again there was silence between the three of us. It must have been no more than 30 minutes but it seemed like days to me.

Finally Pam's secretary came out to us.  She said, "They almost have Pam out of the elevator and she still wants to finish this reading today.  Is that good with everyone?"  We all nodded.

One of the casting people said, "How is she doing?"

The answer, "Don't know but I am sure she is frazzled. She has a phobia for that sort of thing." And with that the secretary walked away.

Both casting directors looked at me and one said,

"Wow, you better be really funny." And with that they went back to the office. What little confidence I had left was gone.

It was finally time for me to "do my thing".  

All my fears were gone when I saw Pam Dixon was laughing and happy as I walked into the room. She had seen my act at a night club in town and knew my work. A tremendous weight lifted off my consciousness. She asked me to do a specific bit she liked, I didn't have to read the script and I got the job.

But wait for it, here is the real story.

Months later I found out why Pam was in such a good mood after the terrifying elevator experience. It seems she was stuck  for an hour and a half inside that elevator with a comedian who kept her laughing the entire time. I wanted to thank that guy, he saved my audition and didn't even know it, but no one was sure who he was.  After years of sharing this story with ABC executives I learned the young comic's name. It now makes total sense how he would have been able to riff on a terrifying real life situation and calm down even the most anxious elevator passenger. He was a comic/actor coming to ABC for an pilot meeting on a show called Mork and Mindy. A year later everyone knew the name Robin Williams.

I never got to thank him personally. It is now, humanly,  too late, but I suspect he is now aware of my gratitude. 

As you were,

Jay 

The Demon of Clowns

There are certain performers who walk into a spot light alone. They are not part of a group, they do not play music. They do not sing and they do not dance. Some use props or costumes, others enter with nothing more than their own quick wit.  Stand up comics, magicians, clowns, ventriloquists, mimes and jugglers face a crowd of strangers alone. The ability or talent to over come this basic human fear of facing a crowd often comes in a bipolar package. 

Robin Williams was such a performer. Driven into the spotlight to escape the demons of the darkness. A San Francisco street mime/comic who became an Academy Award Winning Actor. A man who worked best alone because he was too fast for anyone else to keep up. 

I once watched a sign language interpreter try and sign Robin Williams' stand up routine at a Comedy Store Benefit.  It became a manic improv of concepts and words that would stump the interpreter. They both received a rare mid-set standing ovation from the audience.  Robin, should we have laughed harder, clapped louder, stood up quicker, done more as an audience to make you think one second longer about the joy you can bring before ending your life?

Only a few seconds after I heard the news of Robin Williams death my phone rang. It was my best friend. He too is a solo performer. I was actually attempting to dial his number at that very moment. The news had reached us at the same moment.  

My friend began his career as a San Francisco street performer and had known Robin since those days.  I did not know Robin well but we both had the same reactive feelings. A heavy loss that seemed to out weigh the amount of time either of us had spent in his company. But, he was our our age, our generation,  a fellow solo performer. We were all bond together in that loneliness of the spotlight; and suddenly he is not only dead but dead by his own hand.  There is a demon that stalks the clown. 

We had a moment of recollection on the last time we saw Robin and the best story we had about him. We came around to this conclusion.  Of the famous solo performers we could think of from our generation,  Robin was the most likely to die by his own hand.  We both assumed it would be by overdose. He was a candle burning at both ends, but he made a lovely light. He fought the bipolar demon for a long time but finally lost Monday, August 11, 2014.

The psychiatrist says to the man on his couch. "You are very lonely and depressed. I suggest you go to the comedy club here in town tonight and laugh. There is a comic performing there that will make you forget all your troubles."

The man on the couch says,  "I am that comic."

As it was before, 

Jay