Waiting for the Frame

My sister gave me a picture of an arctic hare, back when I had an apartment in the city. Well, it was Jersey City, but I was closer to midtown than most places in NYC. The rabbit was photographed by some naturalist or conservationist or something. It was a beautiful image of a snow white hare surrounded by... well, by snow. There are these very subtle shades of purple and blue which prevent it from looking like a blank white canvas. (As an high school art teacher used to say, snow is blue.) I loved it.

At the time, I had the picture mounted in a white frame, since it was to hang over the stackable washer/dryer in the kitchen. Which was white. The washer/dryer, not the kitchen. The kitchen was earth tones. For anyone who has not lived in an apartment in the city, having a stackable washer/dryer in the kitchen is not as strange as it sounds. It was a practical luxury.

When I moved, I packed the picture in bubble wrap, with little cardboard triangles protecting the corners. It survived the year in storage and the trek out to LA, and there was the perfect spot for it in my new bedroom. No washer/dryer in there, though. In fact, the washer/dryer is outside in a little shed. For anyone who has not lived in LA, having a washer/dryer outside in a shed is not as strange as it sounds. It is also, in it’s own way, a practical luxury.

In my bedroom, on the wall over my bed, was the ideal space for the picture of this arctic hare. Just above the only painting of mine I’ve ever displayed. It’s also the only oil painting I’ve ever done. Funny how I used to imagine I preferred acrylic, and yet have either never finished or never liked a single one of those. This oil does not look like something I would have painted, which is an odd but often true thing about art. It is not at all uncommon for the painter to be surprised by the painting.

This sole oil is abstract, which I am not. What I love about it is the color palette. Shades of purple and blue, which would look nice beneath an image of an arctic hare which would be all white if it were not for the more subtle shades of those same colors. Except for the white frame, which now no longer fits. The size is the same, of course, it’s the absence of the stackable washer/dryer which makes the white frame unfitting. So, I set the picture aside on a shelf in the garage. I’d have to change the frame before I hang the picture.

That was seven years ago. All this time, while the events of my life have unfolded here in LA, there has been a blank space on the wall above the painting over my bed. Sitting on shelves in the garage are bubble wrapped pictures and boxes of things I never unpacked. Putting together a yard sale a couple of weeks ago prompted me to go through these things. Unpack these boxes, unwrap these frames. There were things I’d forgotten I had. Beautiful things from my travels to other places. Gifts I’d been given that I loved and then put back in the presented box. Empty picture frames from people who mean something to me. Boxes full of photos that were meant to be organized at some point in time.

It has taken me until this point in my life to learn that when someone you love gives you a picture frame as a gift, the thing to do is put a photo of that person in that frame and display it on a dresser or a book shelf or hang it on a wall. Why do I have empty frames?

In the past couple of weeks, I have sorted through my unhidden things. Putting objects I love in places where they can be seen. Surrounding my space with things I have picked up on my journey so far, and things which remind me of the people I love back home.

My arctic hare now looks very happy above the only oil painting I’ve ever done. The frame is the same. The perspective has changed.

Borat Non Borat

Another Russian.

That's what I am called in to play lately. Russians and Eastern Europeans. Back in New York, I was often mistaken for some other nationality. Other than American. Mediterranean, Jordanian, something. When I first came to Los Angeles, it was clear that they only wanted the real thing. French from France. Italian from Italy. Must speak Farsi. I was caucasian. Just caucasian. Nothing else.

Things have changed. Now I go out for European or Slavic or something. Today it was for Borat. The call came in last night at six. The script was funny. Two lines in Russian (or faux Russian) which they did not provide. In the script. They only provided the translation. In English. The joke was that the Borat guy would speak in Russian (or faux Russian) and the translator would say the funny line, in English.

Naturally, I felt I was better suited for the translator, since I do not speak Russian, and there are sure to be guys at the call who do. Also, the two funny lines would work with a deadpan, and I have a pretty good deadpan.

So I am up until four in the morning, preparing a list of Russian words which sound funny when spoken next to each other. I choose sounds which suggest the English translation, but also sounds which work with the comic gestures the Borat guy is supposed to make. I watch a bunch of videos of the real Borat on youtube. I study him. I practice the faux Russian. I also go over the translator's lines, hoping they will let me read for that role, too. I go to bed feeling happy about this audition.

In the morning, I put on a purple and green paisley rayon shirt with a pair of light green linen pants. Gold chain. Hair like Borat. I look like one of those Israeli guys who sell electronics. When I get to the audition, the monitor comes into the lobby and says they have decided not to go with Borat. So, do something else.

Perfect. I race into the men's room to put my hair back to normal, but I have not brought a change of clothes. Make a strong choice they always say, and I did. Now what? As my agent said, go big or go home. I'm already there, and I'm not going home.

So I return to the lobby and try to rework the faux Russian so it does not sound like Borat. I listen to the other guys. Some of them ask the monitor if they can also read for the translator. They are told no. Some of the ones who were called in to read for the English speaking translator are actual Russians. They speak Russian and are wondering why they have been called in for the part which does not require them to speak Russian. They are matched up with guys who aren't and can't, but who were called in for the suddenly Non-Borat faux Russian speaking role.

Another monitor comes into the lobby and tells us we are to tell a brief improvised story before we begin. Presumably, this is to weed out the non Russian speaking actors who have stayed up until four in the morning studying Borat and preparing a list of faux Russian sounding words. Why then, have they not specified in advance that all actors reading for Non-Borat must speak Russian? Why then, have they called in actual Russians to read for the English speaking translator? Why then, do they not let us switch roles now? Switching characters at the last minute is easier than re-working what we have already prepared. Especially if the switch would allow the Russians to speak Russian and the non Russians to speak English.

Here I am dressed for Borat but am not reading for Borat. I am not allowed to read for the English speaking character, but must quickly put together an improvised story in faux Russian. I consult my list of Russian sounding words. I laugh at the whole thing, and do the best I can.

What is that line from Out of Africa? The Gods are happy. They play with us.

Circus Audition

Sometimes a story will sound made up no matter how it's told. The audition call came about a week after I submitted for the movie under two categories: clown and stilt walker. Basically, they are seeking featured background, and are paying SAG rates. They need all sorts of specialty performers. Jugglers, magicians, fire eaters, unicyclists, the works. Just the sort of gig I always look for, hoping to put my experience as a party entertainer to good use.

It's for a casting company I have not worked with before. The guy who called scheduled me for a meeting with the director on Thursday of the following week. Details would follow. Then another guy called and said disregard what the first fellow said, the meeting will be on Friday, and here is a number to call for details the day before, between certain hours. There was no mention of what would be expected at this meeting with the director. It was just background work, so I did not think about it at all. They already had my professional clown photos, and if they were calling me in for stilts (which they did not specify) I could always finish the ones I was building. My unicycle is in NY, along with the stilts I use while working there. If I were to book this gig, I could figure out how to get them here, or look for something inexpensive online.

Thursday came and when I called, there was an outgoing message saying to call back within a later time frame. Which I did, and was told the same again. Then two more times. Each outgoing message was by a rather frantic girl who was not either of the guys who first called. This frantic girl was referring to the meeting with the director as an audition. Really? For a day of background work? An audition? With the director of the picture? That doesn't sound right.

Curious, I look up the movie on IMDB. Turns out the entire plot is set in the circus. The main character runs away to join the circus and falls in love with one of the performers, who is the wife of the circus owner. So, this director is really seeking regular background players who will be the circus company throughout the entire picture!

Okay, that's a different story entirely. Added to this new information was the fact that the two main players are big Hollywood names. Now it makes sense why the director would involve himself in choosing the background. It also means a lot more money, as it will be far more than just one day of union work.

Finally, the outgoing message on the information line says to call back in an hour and all the details will be revealed. The frantic girl is speaking in a state of near hysteria. She apologizes every six sentences and seems to be of the belief that she is emotionally incapable of handling the top secret information she promises soon to deliver. Which perhaps she is. While giving the details, she speaks very quickly, and never for a moment drops the high-octane emotional urgency. She yells at us not to be late. She repeats this several times during the course of the message. She yells at us about where we should park. She yells at us to be prepared to show the director everything we have. We must bring all our props and show up in costume and we will have very little time in front of the director. She speaks, this frantic girl, like those people who write email in giant capital letters, punctuating each sentence with rows of exclamation marks.

In order to get the address, which she rattles off as if it is all one word, I have to replay this outgoing message three times, and each time feel as if I am being assaulted.

This meeting with the director has turned into an audition during which I must perform on stilts and unicycle and do a brief clown routine. In costume. The movie is set in the depression era, and none of my clown costumes are from that period. It is after 8:30 at night by the time this becomes clear, and I somehow have to materialize a pair of stilts and a unicycle, and put together a new costume. By the next day.

If either of the two guys who called a week earlier had told me this, it would be no problem. Even if the frantic girl had said this on the first outgoing message, I still would have had an entire afternoon to come up with something. Now, everything was closed, and I had very little money anyway. How was I to get all this done by tomorrow?

It's what an actor does to find work. Whatever it takes. I make a few phone calls to people who might have wooden stilts to lend. No luck. There were none for sale on craigslist or ebay. My only option was to get up early and try to build the stilts I have been designing for months. The materials were in the garage, and the concept was there, it was just a question of the doing. Then the experimenting, and the revising, and the trying again...

A unicycle was easier to find, surprisingly. There was a company on ebay which had three versions of one model for only $37, which is a fantastic deal. The cycle is most likely not a professional grade one, but for that price it's hard to argue. The shipping was another $15, but I didn't need shipping. I needed to pick it up myself. When I ran a zip code search, it turns out the vendor is in LA. That was a bit of luck.

In my note to the seller, I asked if I could simply stop by in the morning and buy one in person. The reply came from what appeared to be China, judging from the email address. The wholesaler is in fact in LA and yes I could pick it up. Great news. The pick-up price is $43.

What? Why are they charging me to go pick it up myself? If the price is listed as $37, and there is no shipping, then that is what I should pay. Isn't it? Besides, I only had $42 in my bank account. I could probably come up with another two or three dollars in change, but that wouldn't cover the tax. I wrote back and forth with the person from China, arguing the price. Each response was about an hour in coming, so it was now after one in the morning. In between volleys, I was doing research on clown costumes from the 1930s, but did not come across anything I could put together overnight.

In the morning I continued the negotiations with China, but decided to focus on the stilts, as there really would not be enough time for me to build those and also drive to pick up the unicycle. Besides, I would need to practice on both the new unicycle and the experimental homemade stilts, and to go through my costumes to see which might best suggest the time period. All this for an audition. Not for work. Just for the chance of work.

By the time I was supposed to be out the door, the stilts were built and I had given them a hasty test run, but had not yet gone through the closets nor my clown props. After a crazy half hour in what I call my jack rabbit mode, I was in the car and driving to what I thought was a nearby location.

Naturally, that was wrong. It was not so close as imagined, and at the height of rush hour. Every back road was jammed with people trying to avoid traffic. The call times given were 4:00 and 4:30. The first for clowns, the second for stilt walkers. In my head, all I could hear was the frantic emotional girl yelling at me not to be late. So, believing I had missed the first call, I changed out of my clown gear while driving (a habit I picked up while racing from one gig to another back in NY) and into the stilt costume, hoping to make it for the second call. It might work out fine that way, since there were sure to be lots of clowns, but only a few stilt walkers.

The parking lot charged a fee, which I absolutely refused to pay. Instead, I drove down a neighborhood street, found a space, and sprinted back carrying the stilts.

The auditions were held in an office building. One of a complex of buildings separated by a maze of narrow paths, and it took me a few wrong turns before I stumbled upon the cattle call of circus performers. Everything was running way behind schedule. They had not gotten to the clowns yet. I could have stayed as I was. Not only that, but it seems they called in about ten people in each category. Which means there were only ten clowns, much fewer than I had thought. There were also ten stilt walkers, much more than I had expected. My chances of being hired now seemed far greater as a clown, and that part of my act was left in the car.

(By the way, there were only two guys with unicycles! If only I had a little more time and a few more dollars...)

The guy signing people in was not friendly. Drunk with the power his list of names provided, he said everything in a mumble and with the annoyed attitude of someone being pestered by constant requests that he repeat whatever it was he just mumbled. Waiting in line, I found myself having to fend off the sort of lame jokes every clown hears from every drunken partygoer at every gig he does.

A mime is a terrible thing to waste. Ha ha. Yes, that was funny. How clever of you to think of it. No one has ever made that joke before.

What was strange about having to fend off lame jokes from drunken partygoers at this audition was that they were coming from other clowns! People who should know better. I did my best to be polite, all the while wondering why my I'm-from-New-York-leave-me-alone vibe was not functioning properly.

There was nothing to be done about the clown audition. I would just have to put on my stilts and use the time to become familiar with them.

Getting on them proved problematic. I had built the foot holds at four feet, which is higher than the ones I've worked on in the past. It is also too high to get up on from a sitting position on a table or counter top. Looking up and down the narrow maze of paths between the office buildings, I could see no option. Low cement benches surrounded by shrubs. The trees were not next to anything horizontal. The entrances had wheel chair accessible ramps. The surfaces were either pebbled concrete or slippery brick tile.

After walking along one of the mazes, I found a pony wall and put on the stilts, then crawled through a door and used the staircase to get up on my feet. To say I was not confident in these too-high homemade stilts which I built only hours before would be an understatement.

Now, I have always been the type of performer with a wide range of skills, but none of them at an expert level. It seems I adopted the philosophy early on that the more things I can do, the better the chance of being hired. So, I have filled my bag of tricks with a little of this and a little of that. Learning what I can from the talented performers I meet. Benefitting from their more solid training, or more expansive background, or more legitimate credentials.

It works most of the time. When I throw a back handspring while dressed as Spiderman at Timmy's birthday party, people are impressed. However, when I am in a room full of professional acrobats, they can tell at a glance that I am not one of them. Just some actor who picked up a few tricks along the way.

So here I stand surrounded by nine other stilt walkers, and at least three are of Cirque de Soleil caliber. I am the only one on homemade stilts, and am reminded of the time I was called in to audition for a Broadway musical, standing barefoot on a Broadway stage in front of the panel of important people sitting way out in the theatre. Way over my head.

The singing did not go well. I was thinking how wonderful the acoustics were and promptly forgot the words. The dancing did not go well either, as the other guys auditioning were real dancers who knew the names of the moves the choreographer was calling out. I had to look to both sides of me and copy whatever the other guys were doing. Roller Skate Rag, anyone?

It was the gymnastics that make the story worth telling. They wanted to see a layout, which is a back flip in an iron cross position. It is a beautiful move, one I was too timid to try when I was on the team back in school. At meets, the crowd would laugh watching me walk up to do my routine, so small and skinny. No problem, I knew I would win them over (I was extremely flexible) and would be content with my modest score, which reflected the lack of difficulty. No big moves.

Confronted years later with performing a big move in front of the panel of important people, I examined the raked stage, and figured to build momentum and cheat a little height, which is exactly what happened. It was the most fantastic feeling, hitting that position and flying for a few thrilling seconds in a perfect layout.

It was no surprise that I was not called back, but I was grateful for the chance to go back in time and succeed at a big move I was once too scared to try.

Here now, on my too-high homemade stilts, I was not feeling so sure of myself. Perhaps I should have just gone in as a clown, even if my costume was not period. Instead, I made the wrong call and now will be competing for work against guys who will be throwing back flips while on their stilts.

After almost two hours, we were told the director was coming out to see the stilt walkers and then the fire eaters. Neither group would be expected to perform indoors with a low ceiling and flammable materials everywhere.

He emerged surrounded by his own panel of important people. Someone bellowed at the nearest stilt walker to begin. It is usually my preference to go last, so while that first guy was busy auditioning, I wandered away to find a spot in the parking lot where I can get myself focused to go on. As I glanced behind me, I saw the rest of the stilt walkers, the ones not performing in front of the director and the panel of important people, had followed me. They were now standing in a line, with me at the start.

Just then I heard the someone who was bellowing instructions call me to go next. Huh? What? How did that happen? I was just coming over here to prepare and nobody suggested these others should follow me. I should have taken a breath, reminding myself that if I was not ready I should say so, but instead I walked forward and began to talk.

Talk. I began to talk. Not perform. Not show them anything more than the costume I was wearing and the too-high homemade stilts upon which I was not confident. I babbled something about how I was also a clown. How my stilts and unicycle were in NY, and oh I made these this morning. Also, I'm a mime, and I walk high wire, which of course I couldn't bring.

While I was just standing there speaking, I told myself to do something with the Poi I was holding in each hand. Poi is something I'm pretty good at, but not when I am wearing a top hat, which is what I am wearing right now. Better keep it simple. Wow the acoustics are really great in here. Just then the Poi hits the top hat, at the same moment the someone bellowing instructions has commented that my stilts look homemade. I turn toward him and lose my balance for a half a second and the bellowing someone is now yelling "Whoa!" He's convinced I cannot even stand on these too-high homemade stilts I built just this morning and chose to audition with instead of the clown material I have been developing since I was fourteen and the smallest kid on the gymnastics team.

No, I do not fall, but it does not matter. The next guy approaches the famous Hollywood director surrounded by the panel of important people and begins to perform a dazzling series of big moves. Each more brilliant than the one before. They are impressed. They applaud. So do I. He is really good, and is followed by another, equally as good.

There we have the madness of acting. Read the book, study the accent, scour the thrift shops for a period costume, hunt down a unicycle, build a pair of stilts. All that preparation doesn't mean a thing unless you shine on cue. Twenty four hours of crazy effort gets reduced to a few seconds in front of the panel of important people who have no way of knowing that you had a high wire in your backyard when you were a kid.

Still, there is something of value in every experience. It's liberating to see other performers who are better than you are at a certain skill. It shows what can be done, and even if you never reach the same level, you will be further along than you would have been otherwise.

As it turns out, my stilt design is pretty good after all. Having done more research, I've discovered that with a few modifications, they will work just fine. So will I.

Kermit & Friends

The frogs are vanishing. Apparently in large numbers. Entire species of amphibians are being wiped out, and this is having a disturbing impact on the health of the planet. We’ve all heard about honey bees mysteriously disappearing, and lord knows there is a long list of endangered creatures, both animal and plant. Endangered by pollution, urban sprawl, and the impact of multi-billion dollar corporations running roughshod over environmental matters.

A fascinating documentary about these vanishing frogs aired tonight on one of the PBS stations. The position frogs hold at the center of the food chain makes their absence somewhat more noticeable. The creatures which feed upon them are being affected as much as the ones upon which they feed. The burgeoning insect population in some areas is harming the plant life. By now, we all know full well the importance each factor plays in the overall health of an eco-system. Take away any one element, and the whole system is thrown off.

A child may ask why there must be mosquitoes, or poison ivy, or snakes, or spiders. It doesn’t take long to figure out that every being on the planet is somehow connected to the overall design of nature, and that there are creatures who depend on the role being played by even the tiniest participants.

There were three primary reasons for the dying frogs explored in this documentary. One was a mysterious plague which is spreading around the globe. Although very little is known about the origin of this plague, it would not be surprising if it turns out to have been caused in some way by pollution. The second and third reasons can be more directly attributed to mankind.

The medications which many people have come to regard as necessary find their way into the water supply through septic systems. Some of these drugs are synthetic and are affecting the creatures living in the water.

More obvious is the runoff from huge farming industries. Pesticides and chemicals are poured into the streams and rivers surrounding the acres and acres of farmland. These chemicals are causing death and deformity, and are also producing a disproportionate amount of algae in the water. Just one look at any of these unhealthy streams and it is clear that something is not right.

What makes this picture so upsetting is how little it seems can be done about it, other than to insist on buying organic produce. If enough people start demanding fruits and vegetables which are not tainted by the toxic potions conjured up in industrial chemistry labs, perhaps organic farming will be taken more seriously by the mass production machines.

What of the even more profitable pharmaceutical industry? Can they be encouraged to adopt more natural methods? How many people are truly willing to re-examine the drugs they are taking? To find healthier alternatives? How many times must we hear and read about the damage to our planet being done by the monster global corporations, who are only interested in the largest profit possible?

We do hear about smaller companies which are carving out new templates. The success of Whole Foods cannot be disputed, and there are businesses which incorporate Green philosophies as well as practices into their mission statements. Buy a pair of Toms and a kid in an impoverished nation gets a new pair of shoes. Like that.

Green technology does seem to be the wave of the future, which many people have known for some time now. Still, it will take an enormous shift in consciousness for our society to care less about earning a profit at any cost whatsoever, and to care more about the overall health of our planet, evident in the lives of the tiniest creatures. Like frogs.

Plastic Bag

"Paper or plastic?"

"Neither, thank you."

For years, I have been bringing canvas bags into the supermarket. They are strong, durable, can be put into the wash along with the laundry, and usually have an Earth friendly image of a wolf or a tree or something printed on the front. It has made sense to me all along. Why chop down trees for paper bags, or crowd the landfills with plastic ones which will be there for thousands of years? Canvas bags can be kept in the car so they are always handy when there is a need to pop into the store for groceries, or supplies, or whatever. (Even better, I stash one or two in my knapsack when I am on the bicycle.)

Try it for a few weeks, and you will discover for yourself how easy it is to do without the ubiquitous plastic bags. Some people keep them somewhere in the house, for lining trash bins or for walking the dog. Certainly they can be put to good use more than once, although many people throw them away without even thinking about it. What's even more mindless is the way so many cashiers double the bags and then fill them with only two or three items. It's alarming to stand and watch the employees at the register go through an endless supply of plastic. More often than not, the customers leave the store with several times as many bags than they need.

As a teenager, I worked at the A&P and learned how to bag groceries efficiently. (Forming a rectangle at the base with cans or sturdy boxes, then filling the center with odd shaped items. Heaviest on the bottom, lightest on top.) The idea was to save the store money by using fewer bags. Now there is a much bigger idea, and the responsibility is shared by the costumer.

Some stores (like Trader Joe's) still use paper bags. That's better in some ways, but not ideal. Those bags can be brought back to the store and reused, although most people don't know that and toss them into the recycling without a second thought. Like paper plates. Why wash a dish when paper can be recycled? The answer is simple. Not creating waste in the first place is preferable to recycling.

Same is true for plastic. Sure, it's better to reuse a bag several times, but best not to need it at all. That small trash bin by your desk, for example. If you refrain from tossing out liquids (which makes no sense anyway, as long as there is a sink in the house,) that bin does not need to be lined. If it should get dirty in time, well then it can easily be cleaned.

Technology may one day bring us to the point where we can live in a way that is completely harmless to the planet. Until then, an environmental awareness is not a difficult thing to achieve. We are, each one of us, already making small decisions in the course of the day which have a cumulative effect on the health of the planet. It might not be possible to live in this world at this time without doing some harm to the environment, but that is no reason not to try to minimize the damage. Simply by being more aware.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YDBtCb61Sd4

Since You've Been Gone

After spending three months in New York, I returned to LA to find things have changed. Three things, principally. First, my bank was bought by a larger bank and nothing is the same. Second, the sales tax in California has jumped to 9.75%. Third, all the trees on one side of a street near my home have vanished.

It took me years of bouncing from one bank to another before I found Washington Mutual. It seems that every time I was happy with a bank, they would be bought by a larger bank and suddenly I would be hit with all kinds of fees I never had to pay before. The new owners would change all the things I liked about my bank and so I would leave to find another. I’ve never liked bullies and don’t enjoy seeing proof that the most successful corporations are, in fact, bullies.

Washington Mutual was a big bank, but felt like a small one. They were friendly. They did not charge me to access my own money. I liked them. Now they are gone, and almost immediately I’ve noticed less costumer friendly policies being instituted. The most interesting change, however, appeared as a red sign. Several red signs, to be exact.

While standing in line at the newly remodeled branch near my house, complete with what appears to be bullet proof glass separating teller from costumer, I noticed a red sign in the window of each vacant station. It read:

I apologize
Next window please

Strange. Why apologize for the window being closed? Why not just say “Window Closed”? Or maybe just the part about using the next window? Even more strange, who is I? Shouldn’t it be we? We apologize, we are sorry for the inconvenience, we’ll be right back?

When I worked as a cashier at the A&P as a teenager, we had a sign that was attached to the counter on an arm which would come down like at a railroad crossing. The sign was a picture of a cash register with a red circle around it and a red diagonal line slashing across like on a road sign. No crossing zone. I loved those closed signs, and when they stopped using them, I took one home to hang on the wall over my bed. I used to dream every night about being at work, and thought perhaps that sign would indicate a “no work while sleeping zone.”

Anyway, it was a clear sign. No ambiguity. Register closed. The customers could figure out the rest. Why does this bank need to apologize to me, and in the first person? Time will tell, but perhaps it already knows it’s about to start screwing me with fees and penalties. “I’m sorry, but I no longer view you as a valuable customer. Can’t say I’ll miss you when you leave to find a smaller and weaker bank, one more suitable for a pauper such as yourself. Have a nice day.”

Standing at the cash register at Big Lots, I was momentarily confused. The wonderful Dearfoam slippers I was buying were marked down from $32 to $12. (They really are incredible. Picture one of those high tech space foam mattresses, in miniature, inside a sheepskin lined suede cloud. As you lift each foot, it puffs back up so that each step is cushioned. Perfect for rainy nights in front of the fireplace. My old slippers were falling apart from wear, and I discarded them before leaving for New York in October.) Why was the cashier asking for thirteen dollars and change? When I looked at the receipt as I left the store, it was the 9.75% which rose off the slip of paper and laughed out loud maniacally, before floating away down Daigon Alley.

All those tea baggers who are up at arms over the income tax have misplaced their ire. Are we to have a VAT and an income tax in the state of California? The income tax laws may be complicated, and may be designed to allow people to take advantage of the system, but they are no more unfair than what amounts to a tithe with every purchase. The guy making several hundred thousand a year (and paying lower income taxes than the average middle class shmoe) does not feel the extra dollar out of ten. It’s the struggling middle class shmoe that feels it. The starving actors who can barely pay their rent. We feel it.

Why not charge every one the same income tax rate, getting rid of the loopholes and deductions, and lower the sales tax? An income tax based on a flat percentage would guarantee that the dollar amount paid would be more for those who have more, and less for those who have less. Pretty simple, no? A sales tax is like a toll which everyone pays, no matter how much more expensive it is to those who are already stretching the dollar just to get by.

When I lived in New Jersey, the sales tax was only three percent, and non existent on clothing. Very smart. People from New York would flock across the Hudson in droves to take advantage of the lower tax, bringing business into the state and helping the economy. What river do I have to cross in LA to do the same?

As I was wading across the ford which was Hazeltine before the rains began this past week, I noticed something strange along one stretch of sidewalk. Something was missing. Some things. Trees. All the beautiful flowering shade trees which lined the street were gone. Now the horrible 1960s apartment complexes were fully exposed. Now the unfortunate occupants of those ugly buildings were robbed of what little privacy and sound insulation they had. Now all the people who parked their cars in the shade of those beautiful flowering trees will be forced to return to their metallic ovens after they have been baking in the merciless sun for hours.

This is something I have noticed happening in my neighborhood since I first moved here. One by one, street after street, the trees are being chopped down. Property values are sure to fall as quickly. Who doesn’t want to live on a tree lined street? Who actually prefers a desolate corridor of cement?

It is something I cannot understand. Trees provide beautification (to quote LadyBird.) They grant the inhabitants of the nearby houses shade, privacy, sound insulation, lower heating costs in the winter and lower cooling costs in the summer. Yet, year after year, I notice more trees vanishing.

One moron at the end of my block removed a row of Cyprus trees which towered over fifty feet tall. Those trees must have been a hundred years old. They were replaced with a white plastic fence. Now I can see the Bloomingdale’s sign from my driveway. Charming. A year later, this short sighted murderer sold his house and moved away, probably to destroy nature someplace else.

While performing at a party in Sherman Oaks, I commented to the homeowner about the spectacular Sherman Oak soaring high above his house. He complained that he wanted to chop it down, but it was protected by law. After glaring at this idiot for a full minute, I smiled politely and walked away, knowing at least one magnificent being was safe from the mindlessness of humans.

Why aren’t all trees protected? Why are people allowed to kill whatever trees they like and then flip their houses, leaving the new owners with a barren canvas, pounding sun and pervasive traffic noise? Maybe M, Night Shyamalan had it right. Maybe the trees should fight back.

Three unpleasant changes made in my absence. Welcome back to LA. I apologize, but screw you.

No Parking

It used to be that I knew all the best places to park in New York City. Having a car was an advantage I had over other actors who did not. I could travel into Jersey and find work that would require four wheels to transport me to rehearsals. In fact, other actors would often ride with me, which would help cover the fuel costs, and save them the train fare.

Having a car also gave me a way of doing kind things for those other actors who did not. I could drive people home at night, not at all bothered by crossing boroughs. It was a nice thing, knowing I could do something with so little effort, something which was always appreciated by actors who viewed a ride home as a rare treat.

Parking in the city was a game of strategy. Getting into the right neighborhood just before the signs changed. I took pride in my parallel parking skills, which are first rate. I also took pride in never paying for parking, except perhaps at a meter when it was absolutely unavoidable. It was knowledge those of us with cars accumulated over years and guarded carefully. If too many people found out all the secret places to park for free, then they would be even more scarce than they already were. However, they were. They existed. Parking in New York City could in fact be done for free.

Well, no more. Not well. Just no more. I was performing at Le Bernadin over the weekend, on the day the snow was due to arrive. Tough part of town to find a space, but I knew where I could get a spot not too far away. Or more accurately, I knew where I used to get a spot not far away. Not anymore. In the handful of years since I move to Los Angeles, everything has changed. All the signs have been re-written. The meters have been re-set. Parking has become a scam. A major source of income for the city, as well as for the vultures and sharks who prey on the people who drive their cars into Manhattan, hoping for the once possible. A free place to park.

Where the signs used to say no parking Monday through Friday from 8am to 6pm, they now say no parking any day any time at all. Where meters used to be in use until 7pm except on Sundays, they are now in use until 10pm, including on Sundays. What's more, the meter system itself has changed. Instead of putting coins in a meter, you now pay at a meter station in the middle of the block, and leave the receipt in your car window.

Sounds efficient? Think again. It's crooked. As in devised by crooks. It used to be that you could pull up at a meter and find there was still time on it. Or, you could pull away and leave time on it for someone else. Not anymore. Now, no matter how much time you have left, the city charges the next person as if from scratch. So, in essence, they are charging twice for the same space at the same time! Crooks, criminals, thieves.

Knowing it would be tough to find a space near Le Bernadin, I got into the area a full hour early and began snaking my way between 11th and 8th avenue, from 52nd to 81st street, before finding a space! It took me an hour and fifteen minutes, and I was now forced to take the subway back down so I would not be late.

The last time I rode a subway, the fare was $1.50, which I already viewed as outrageous. Imagine my surprise when I found that a single ride now costs $2.25! How is this possible? It took a hundred years to go from a nickel to a buck fifty, how can anyone explain the huge increase in just six years? When you think about the millions of people who ride the subway, a raise of a single cent will produce an enormous boost in revenue. Why then do they jump to such obscene percentages? Where the heck does all this money go?

The same can be said for the tolls. When I lived in Jersey, the Holland Tunnel cost four dollars. That was six years ago. Now it costs double that! Double! Not a dollar more. Not two dollars more. Double! This is just plain outrageous. It is not at all fair to struggling actors who do mot make the same salary as high powered business executives who continue to commute at the higher cost without feeling a thing. Struggling actors who have cars with which they can find work in Jersey and help out others who do not cannot say the same. We feel it. The higher tolls, the inflated fares, the crooked parking fees come out of our already meager income. Percentages work against us. More of our pay goes into the greedy hands of the corrupt city officials who decide to raise whatever fees to whatever heights they choose.

Do you know it costs eleven dollars to cross the Verazzano Narrows bridge? It's a spectacular bridge, for sure, but eleven dollars? You can see a movie in a theatre for less!

After my gig, I walked the thirty blocks back to my car. The snow had begun falling, and I was grateful the city looked so pretty. It took my mind off the crooks who are running it.