Secret Stashes of Circus Peanuts

On July 13, 2015 my mother passed away. Now, don't worry, this isn't going to be one of those kind of posts. Yes, it was hard. Excruciating. Fortunately for me, I really had no unfinished business with my mom. We were good. But the grieving process got me thinking about a whole raft of things. Some linked to her directly and others just far away thoughts that would come rushing into the vacuum created by the loss. Some I had predicted would show up, others were little surprises. Still others -- earthquakes.

But life is like that, right? Sometimes in the middle of a perfectly perfect Southern California day there's an earthquake followed by some aftershocks. Then, all better, back to perfectly perfect.

After my mom's death, my brothers and I set about "getting her affairs in order." And while I remember little about what transpired over the course of those few days, I do remember one thing in particular -- and vividly. In what my mom referred to as her "computer room" was a desk. It had four drawers. As I opened the bottom most of those drawers I was shocked to discover...her secret candy stash. My 87 year old mom had candy hidden away. My audible laughter turned into sobbing. So much so that one of my brothers came rushing in to check on my state of being. This drawer contained two boxes of Dots, a bag of Cinnamon Bears, and two large unopened bags of possibly one of the most inexplicable candies in the world of confections -- Circus Peanuts. The fact that she squirreled them away like a teenager's porn collection just struck me as profound.

I cannot for the life of me figure these things out. They look like peanuts, but are made of some kind of strange marshmallow only not really marshmallow. And, if we are to believe Wikipedia, they are banana flavored. Right. Okay. Who thought that shit up?  Who makes a banana flavored marshmallow peanut? That's craaaazeeee! I love 'em!

Forrest Gump was wrong. Life is nothing like a box of chocolates. Life is like a bag of Circus Peanuts. Looks like one thing, tastes like another and is made out of something not quite what it should be. Our stroll through this life is littered with these bizarre little candies. People and events that make no sense in any way except the one way that matters most. The heart way.

We all have certain friends that continually disappoint or drive us insane. Family that embarrasses us or angers us with their small mindedness or opinions. But if we ever really needed someone to help us fix a flat in the middle of the Mojave Desert, they'd drive half way across the country with a brand new jack and a spare tire. We may hide them from the world like my mom's candy bags, but they'll always be right there if we need them.

Long lost friends, forgotten lovers, distant relatives, former classmates. People passing through your life that you may not have heard from in years. Memories that have been effectively sunken at the bottom of our muddy brain seem to bubble up out of nowhere (how they find our cell number is still a mystery) and we laugh through the whole hour long catch-up session like we had never been apart. Opening yet another bag of familiar sweetness and pushing the silly thing into our mouth like an orca eating a seal.

Every once in awhile, on an inexplicable whim, I'll buy a bag of Circus Peanuts. (They're only a couple bucks at Target.) Not because they are delicious. Not because of the health benefits of Yellow 5 and Red 40. Certainly not because they are gluten free. (Which they are, BTW.) My motivation for supporting this ridiculous treat is purely because that first bite releases a flood of memories. All of them good. It's hard to remember sad things when you're eating a Circus Peanut.

No one should live in the past. But it's totally okay, to taste it now and again. If for no other reason than to remember how delicious things can be if you only open the bag. Thanks, Mom.

"To Kill A Mockingbird" & Me

Last week, Harper Lee died. She was 89. I have been pondering her much this last week. (Maybe more so even than the passing of David Bowie and Glenn Frey though equal to my musings on my friend, Natalie Cole.) Until 2015, Lee had published only one book. One. One of the very few Great American Novels.

After my stint studying to be an actor at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts, I was hungry, no, starving, to continue gobbling up every bit of great acting wherever I could find it. I sought out every important movie I could find (VHS days), every play I could afford (waiter's salary), and listened to the spoken word recordings of the likes of Richard Burton and John Gielgud (perfect for LA traffic). Many of my contemporaries were dressing like Dustin Hoffman and combing their hair like Al Pacino. They were delving deep into the psycho babble of Strasberg. Making meals of cigarettes, cheap bourbon, and Cup Noodle. I was being drawn to a different kind of actor and, ultimately for me, a different kind of career. I found myself gravitating to the class and style of William Powell and William Warren. I still love the Pre-Code films of the early '30s and the deftly acted and directed screwball comedies of the 30s and 40s. I will stop whatever I am doing to dance with Fred & Ginger, light up a smoke with Bogart & Bacall, or muscle my way through a Gene Kelly number. (So, yes, I'm a fan of TCM.) I didn't want the mumbling anti-hero of James Dean. I didn't care all that much about the frantic intensity of the constantly-New-York-accented Pacino. I was looking for quiet power. Controlled technique. Acting choices based on writer's words not just personal reactions to internal, lizard brain desires.

Then I saw Gregory Peck in "To Kill A Mockingbird."

Everything changed. My search was over.

The story itself is a roller coaster of humor and drama, innocence and racism. Peck's portrayal of Atticus Finch won him an Oscar - as it certainly should have done. He is, simply put, perfect in the role. To this day, this is mandatory viewing for my acting students.

The character of Atticus is a towering figure. From height to humility, he is the very definition of a hero. But he is also a father of deep compassion and strength. A lawyer of thoughtful consideration and weighted intelligence. In 2003, AFI named Atticus Finch the greatest movie hero of the 20th century. Not Rocky Balboa or Iron Man. Not Indiana Jones or James Bond. Atticus Finch. A small town lawyer in Alabama. A widower with two kids.

I left the theatre that day wanting to live my life like Atticus Finch, the character. Of course, that didn't last long. Youth and Hollywood soon dashed all hopes of me ever having that kind of courage or conviction -- or morality. But what did last, was my great desire to try to be as accomplished an actor as Gregory Peck. And if not as talented or skillful as he, then certainly as utterly believable as he was in that one role at least once in my fledgling career. Gregory Peck in "To Kill A Mockingbird" was my benchmark for acting perfection.

For some reason, my teachers always picked other things to make us write term papers on, so I didn't read Harper Lee's book in school. In watching this film for the first time, I had no frame of reference. Just the movie. It wasn't until years later when I finally got around to reading the novel, that I realized how gracefully Horton Foote's screenplay captured the book and, indeed, the character of Atticus Finch. But even Foote's tremendously gentle screenplay would have been empty without Peck's Atticus. Maybe not empty, but certainly, less perfect.

As I have gotten older I have gotten noticeably more liberal about my intake of art. (I'll even enjoy me some Pacino and Brando now! (Except "Scarface." Still, no. It's the accent.)  I am much more accepting of imperfection in films and plays. A musician blows a sour note - what of it? A painting may not speak to me, but I'm sure there will be someone who appreciates it. Don't get me wrong, I still point out errors and poor execution. I still cringe at poor diction during a Shakespearean monologue and I have little patience for over-gesticulation buy a fresh-faced leading man. My wife and I still make good sport about how we could have fixed a certain line reading. But "To Kill a Mocking Bird" may just be the perfect film. I honestly cannot find a single thing that I would change. Boo Radley, Dill Harris, Bob Ewell. Wouldn't alter a line or gesture. Tom Robinson, Calpurnia, Judge Taylor. Wouldn't vary an expression or camera angle.

Similarly, I can say the same thing about the book. Scout, Jem, Atticus. Wouldn't replace a single verb or tweek one little noun. Harper Lee's long life yet all-too-short career left us with so much heart and wisdom, it's no wonder that we feel that we actually knew her. We certainly knew and loved her characters. Certainly, the impact that one book and that one  movie had on one young actor, changed him for the better -- and forever. Thank you, Harper Lee. Thank you, Gregory Peck. Thanks, Atticus.

“You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view... Until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.”-- Atticus Finch

On Ian McKellen and Acting.

In an age of meaningless Kim Kardashian celebrity and Charlie Sheen media antics; in a Hollywood littered with the inexplicable behavior (intentional or other otherwise) of the Shia LaBeoufs, Mel Gibsons, and Amanda Bynes of the world; in a era fraught with fractious politics and insane ideologies; indeed, in a world of continuing violence and endless bigotry, it is nice to occasionally find refuge in...something. Something sane. Something hopeful. Something inspiring.

For me that refuge has always been the arts. Primarily the performing ones. Mostly with actors. I love being with actors. Working with them. Talking to them. Hearing them discuss their craft. War stories and backstage dalliances. Flubs and faux pas. Victories and conquests. Shakespeare, Shaw, Henley, Mamet, Simon, Wasserstein.

I get energized by the way actors analyze characters and peel back the emotional layers of humanity. I wonder with them as they dissect the world. I like the jokes many of them make at their own expense and the honesty with which most of them approach their very lives.

Recently, I was fortunate enough (along with a small crowd of others at a very exclusive little event) to find such refuge in the company of one of the world's finest (dare I say greatest) actors, Sir Ian McKellen. He is at once serious yet very approachable. He is funny and thoughtful. He is wise and witty and knowledgeable and well-read and deep of thought and emotion. To wit, he is an actor's actor. I would say the very definition.

I was first exposed to Ian McKellen when he was 44 year old. He was touring his one man show, "Acting Shakespeare." A couple actor friends and I pooled our bartender and waiter tips and cobbled together the cash to sit in the Westwood Playhouse (now the Geffen Playhouse) and watch a relatively unknown British actor (at least to Americans) perform scenes and monologues from Shakespeare. Dressed in a light blue, long sleeved shirt and what I remember to be grey trousers, he began, "All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players."

I was 25 and fresh out of the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. I had entered drama school after college in hopes of becoming a movie star or, at the very least, a regular on a TV show. That night, McKellen, alone on stage with no props or costumes, made me want to become an actor instead. Within about an hour and a half I had seen what an actor really is. What an actor really does. What an actor is capable of doing to an audience. I was changed.

There is an interesting thing that happens when you are in the company of real actors. "Real actors" as opposed to "movie stars." I make this distinction with all due respect to movie stars. They work hard in a difficult profession. I love Tom Hanks. He is a very good actor as far as movie stars go. I've never been disappointed with a Tom Hanks movie. But Hanks (and Clooney and others in the rarefied air of movie-stardom) will never play the massive variety of roles afforded to actors like Sir Ian. Sir Ian. Sir John. Sir Alec. Sir Ralph.

In listening to Sir Ian talk quite candidly about his actor life was personally reassuring and artistically comforting. There are no rules, he can give no advice, he has no process, hard work is important once you have the job, and luck ultimately gets you the job. Even for the most successful actors in the world, it is a hard career that must be tempered and nurtured daily. No, it is not fair. Yes, you are probably better than the people you see on TV and in the movies. Stick to your guns, remain committed, be fearless, work hard, study other actors, live in the world. Have a career not just a job. Love what you do. Be an Ian, not a Kim.

Here's the interview.

What You Don't Know About Actors - But Should.

Now that Halloween is over, I can safely wade back into this topic without be called a curmudgeon -- or an asshole. But right now I'm going to lay a little truth smackdown on you.

Every year for the past...well, let's say since college, I have been asked what I'm "going as" for Halloween. "You're an actor, you must LOVE Halloween!" Obviously, everyone thinks that actors must just LOVE Halloween because of the dressing up. Not so, Grasshopper. Not all actors like to play dress up for this night of spooky shenanigans. Some do, yes. I know some of these people and they are nice humans and good actors and I like them. They usually do an amazing job of building costumes, too. They have fun doing it. Great. But for some of us, the idea of putting on a costume when NOT in show of some kind makes our skin crawl. I am one of those. I have nothing against All Hallows Eve or those who like to squeeze into a Naughty Viking Girl outfit or smear bloody zombie goo all over their Walking Dead ensemble. Fine. Just not for me. I can't tell you how many parties we have passed on because they were "costume required" affairs. Please understand, this is nothing personal. We do like parties and we love to have fun with our friends. But, no thank you under these conditions.

Do we decorate our house? Yes. Do we have the best candy in the neighborhood? Uhm, yeah. We also make sure to compliment (sometimes by acting terrified) of each and every little kiddo that comes trick or treating. I like Halloween. I'm just not dressing up.

Does this surprise you? Probably. Here are some other surprising things you may not know about us actors.

• Not every actor was "the class clown." No knock on class clowns out there, past or present. Many class clowns are very bright and often downright gifted verbally and socially, but that doesn't necessarily make for a good actors nor does it indicate the class clown will become an actor. There is a difference between an extrovert and a class clown. Actors have a tendency to be extroverted, but even that is a bit of a stereotype. Lots of very fine actors are contemplative, thoughtful, and quiet -- until they step on the stage where they turn it on.

• No, we cannot do impersonations. Some of us can, most of us can't. Nor do we care to. That is a very specialized skill reserved for ventriloquists, voice over artists, and celebrity impersonators. Oh, and my pal Chuck Sigars who is both a gifted actor and a very fine mimic. But this is rare. Don't push it with the rest of us.

• Not all of us have been on TV. So, when you ask us, "What have I seen you in?" the answer may be, "Well, were you at the Shaw Festival last year? I played Major Petkoff in "Arms and the Man." Some of us choose (that's right, I said choose) to do theatre instead of TV or film. Not because we don't want fame and stardom, but rather because so few of us actually get hired for those jobs, the theater provides us more opportunities and creative freedom.

• We do not want to be the master of ceremonies at the PTA mixer. We do not want to volunteer to lead the company retreat. We do not want to do the recordings for the company voice mail. And we do not want to do accents just for your enjoyment whenever you think it would be fun to hear us talk like Bert from Mary Poppins.

• No, we have never met Brad Pitt or Leonardo DiCaprio. Maybe we had an "under five" on "Leverage" with Timothy Hutton or did a guest starring role on "Grey's Anatomy," but, no to Brad and Leo.

• Not all high school and college actors are gay. Not all gay students are in "drama club." Not all female stage managers are lesbians and not all lesbians in the theatre are techies. This is the 21st century, please grow up about these things. 

• And finally, no, we do not have closets full of costumes from all our years of making theatre. So, the the answer is, no, you cannot borrow my ears and tail from my national tour of "Cats." (Besides, I think my granddaughter is gonna want to be a ballerina kitty again next year and you never returned the drum major costume from when I was in "The Music Man.")

Stereotypes. I hate 'em.

"You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means." -- Inigo Montoya

I gotta get better at creating headlines. This one seems a little long. As an entrepreneur, I've gotta get out of my comfort zone and find a mentor or a marketing pundit to help me solidify my personal brand and really get more concise.

Sometimes I get tired. Words, phrases, terms, vocabulary, jargon, slang. Sheesh. It's just too much. I used to get a little peeved. Okay, pissed. I had a high school teacher, Mr. Cooke, who was a stickler for this stuff. That's when it started. We had to stand in front of the class and conjugate verbs and do diction exercises.  I've never thought about it this way before, but he had a pencil thin mustache and wore bow ties. I also have similar facial hair and often sport a dicky bow. Hum, maybe more influence on me than I had originally thought. Anyway, he was the epitome of class. Always dressed to the nines, deep baritone voice and perfect diction. I do not recall him EVER dangling a single participle or misplacing a single eensy, weensy modifier. He also knew what words meant and how to use them.

Now, I'm nowhere near the master of wordplay that was my dear Cookie, but I do, on occasion, loose my shit. Usually, it's over stuff that just kinda gets my goat. Through no fault of the words themselves, we often take perfectly good ones and make them into things they are not. Worse, we make them meaningless. Here are a few examples of humans doing bad things to perfectly good words. Well, at least these are the ones that are pissing me off at the moment.

Entrepreneur. 

My Grandpa Atkin, if he were alive today, would probably call himself an entrepreneur. If you believe my mom, he'd also probably be in jail. He was a gold prospector, a cowboy,  an inventor, a peddler of snake oil and sewing machines. He was either stone broke or peeling off hundies to help a neighbor fix their Buick. It was a different world in the 40s and 50s of the Greatest Generation. People had to do a lot of different jobs in their life. That didn't make them entrepreneurial, it just made them work hard.

Apparently, everyone is a freaking entrepreneur these days. If you are between jobs, looking for a new job, in business for yourself, or just a perpetually under-employed actor in Hollywood, you probably call yourself an entrepreneur. You're not. You might be a businessperson. You're probably a hustler. That's cool. By calling yourself an "entrepreneur" you are implying that you possess qualities of leadership, true innovation, and risk-oriented initiative. If you have to call yourself that, you're probably not.  You also think too highly of yourself. Just get to work. Doing something.

Serial Entrepreneur.

No, really, that's a thing. Back in my grand-dad's day this guy would be called a "huckster." They'd be quacks, charlatans, swindlers, mountebanks. (Mountebank? Too much? Yeah, okay.) Unless your name is Leonardo da Vinci, Thomas Edison, Benjamin Franklin, or Richard Branson you are probably not working hard enough to be even remotely referred to as a serial entrepreneur. You'd also have so much money you would need to worry about what people called you. When you finally can pry yourself away from your own genius, read Elmer Gantry by Sinclair Lewis. Or, if you are too busy re-inventing the banana slicer, just watch the movie version with Burt Lancaster. Now shut up and get over yourself.

Mentor. 

You know the etymology of the word, right? No? Okay, it goes like this: In Greek mythology, Mentor is a friend of Odysseus and a tutor of Telemachus. On several occasions in Homer's Odyssey, Athena assumes Mentor's form to give advice to Telemachus or Odysseus. See that part? Athena assumes Mentor's identity. She disguises herself as Mentor. Telemachus and Odysseus don't know that the person giving them advice is really Athena and NOT their mentor Mentor. They don't know. It is hidden from them. Disguised. See where I'm going here?Athena didn't want them to know that she was the one helping them.

Please don't call yourself mentor. It's supposed to be kind of a secret. You are supposed to teach people because it will help them. Let other people decide if you are their mentor. Believe me, it'll be better for you, too. Hearing someone refer to you as their mentor is way more meaningful than just crowning yourself one.

Pundit. 

A pundit used to be someone who was an expert in something. It hails from the Sankrit term "pandit," meaning "knowledge owner." An actual expert. With knowledge of and mastery in a particular subject. Nowadays anyone who speaks into a microphone is called a pundit. No one is required to have any real knowledge, they just have to have an opinion. There's a big difference. No, really, there is. Limbaugh, Beck, Hannity, O'Reilly. Really want to be up there with those guys? Didn't think so.

Product.

Everything is a product. A football game is a product. A credit card is a product. A restaurant is a product. Yeah, okay, maybe marketers smarter than me can make a case for the use of the word in these contexts but it just sounds ridiculous. Maybe I'm just jealous I wasn't the first guy to think of this. Face it, though, it's kinda pretentious. No one would say the Chicago Cubs are a terrible product. But they are a shitty team.

Personal Brand.

I hate this one. I understand, the world is changing and society is more dynamic and social media has changed the way we blahdy, blahdy, blah. I am not a brand. I'm a person. You are not a brand, either. No. You're not. You may have a reputation or you may have a certain style.  You may be known for a particular talent or expertise. You may even have a blog or some YouTube videos. You are a person and that is way more complicated than a brand.

Out of My Comfort Zone.

Here's the thing: Shouldn't we always try to do this? Shouldn't we always be pushing ourselves to experience, to grow, to explore, to discover? Those are big and challenging things. But for most people "being out of my comfort zone" has been reduced to trying a new vegetable or wearing sneakers with a tux. That's not right. That's not a big deal.

Transparency.

Okay, last one I promise. This one started out good and just went south fast. We all know what transparency means in a literal sense. Something transparent is something that is clear. We can see through it. What it has come to mean, thanks is large part to Wall Street, is "honesty." Whenever people start talking transparency in an office, for example, what they are really saying is "we want everyone to be honest and we are gonna make sure we are all up in your grill so we KNOW you are honest.

I'm done. Rant over.  Now, to write a better headline for my next post.

One Click.

I cannot tell you how many emails I delete everyday. Scores of them. On some days, even hundreds. 80% of them I never even read. I just look at the subject line and the sender and make an immediate determination whether or not that person or company or criminal is worth my time. Or, worse yet, worth the risk of a virus that with one click will send me careening through the office with my hair on fire.

Three years ago, sometime around Thursday, May 17, 2012, 8:04PM (not that I really keep track of these things), I received an email whose subject line was merely, “Hi Wayne...” Okay. Fine. Could easily be generated from a database. Hey, this ain’t my first rodeo. The sender was not a name with which I was familiar. Well, that is not necessarily a red flag. Yellow, maybe. It did, at least, look like someone’s real name. In fact, it was a very nice name. Not remotely suspect. (I can tell a fake name and email address when I see ‘em.) No attachments or pictures or links, that’s good. Looked relatively short. Well, at least not massively long. Should be able to breeze through it quickly. Okay, one click and I’m going in.

“Hi there. Hope you are well. I don't mean for this to come as a shock, but…” Uh oh.

I got nervous. But only for a few seconds. Maybe, like, let’s say five. Just long enough to finish the first little paragraph. The message was at once a surprise and a revelation. Yet, it read as strangely familiar. Almost as if I had written it to myself. The turn of phrase, the tempo. Very familiar. It was equal parts humor, courtesy, sensitivity, intelligence, and thoughtfulness. It was also earthshaking. (Okay, so maybe “momentous” is a more appropriate.) For both the reader and, no doubt, the writer.

The next 322 words (not that I counted) would be my introduction to my daughter. A daughter I had never met. Okay, wait, nervous again. Zoinks! WTF? Did I read that right? Visions of Maury Povich and Jerry Springer racing through my head. Oh. My. God. Am I one of those guys now? “Hello? Mr. Watkins? I have Dr. Phil on the line for you. Please hold.”

Okay, one more time from the beginning.

“Hi there. Hope you are well. I don't mean for this to come as a shock, but…”

Wow. My heart was racing a little slower now. I did as the email instructed: "Pause. Breathe. Wig out a little." Second time through, however, the words were less shocking. After the third read I was fine. Heart rate normal. I turned to my wife (and best friend and companion for the last 30 years) and said, “Liz, you are not going to believe this.” I then proceeded to read her the email, word for word, with as calm and unaffected voice as I could muster. (Thanks, in no small part, to my drama school vocal training.)

The letter (because the word “email” somehow diminishes it) was surely a huge undertaking for this young woman. Both emotionally and technically. How do you write a letter to a man you know nothing about? How to tell a total stranger that you are his daughter? No really, how do you do that? How do you break the news in a way that won’t cause an immediate mental short-circuit? What if he has a family? How will this news impact that? Will any of this matter to him? The letter mentioned she was married, so her husband had to play into this, too. With one click she set herself, and her husband, on a completely unfathomable and risky adventure into the unknown. That’s a brave woman, right there.

Before she could grapple with all that insanity, of course, she had to find the right guy. No doubt with some help from her mother, but with a name like mine there must have been some degree of detective work to locate the correct contact info. I am pretty ubiquitous on social media, but finding the right email address can be tricky. Let’s face it, there’s a ton of people called Wayne Watkins out there. Most of them are standing in front of a police line up wall and holding a number under their chin, but still…can you imagine? She must have been freaking out to think that her father might be the guy with the mullet and the Fu Manchu. Or worse yet, the shaved-head guy with the prison tats on his neck!

Obviously, she was persistent enough to find the right me. The one whose outward appearance seemed pretty normal. The one without the prison record. The one who looked enough like her to risk the thought of making first contact. Apparently, the dimples gave me away. She has them, too.

Now the next phase had to kick in. I imagine her brain just rolling through a randomly surreal checklist of questions followed by her own hopeful answers. Then again, maybe not so random. Maybe she had been compiling this list for a while now. Maybe years.

• Is he crazy? What if he’s in an asylum or something?
• Is he funny? Not corny or stupid but really witty. That would be great!
• I hope he’s nice. He looks nice. Hey, he has dimples, too.
• Is he married? Wonder what his wife is like?
• Does he have a family? Kids? That could be awkward.
• Where does he live? Wouldn’t that be weird if he lived close by?
• What does he do? Mom said he was an actor. Dimple-guy kinda looks like an actor.
• What does he sound like? Will he have a nice voice or some crazy accent? 
• Suits or board shorts? 
• What does his laugh sound like?
• Short? Tall?
• I hope he’s smart. Wonder if he went to college?
• Does he like cats? Maybe he’s a dog guy. What if he hates animals?
• What if he doesn’t reply to my email?

Certainly, she must have been filled with trepidation. Had to be. Regardless of her apprehensions, her letter was crafted masterfully. She laid the groundwork for a very simple reply from me. Made it easy, in fact, for me to respond without any sort of commitment. Except for one thing. The words she chose to use, the very way she wrote, the careful manner in which she guarded both of us from discomfort or pain. I knew this girl. Even in this a short note I saw myself. I found myself wanting to know her more.

It needed, no it deserved, an immediate reply. A little over twelve hours later, I turned on my computer and began my response. I put fingers to keyboard and tapped out 375 words (if memory serves) and with one click I pressed “send” on Thursday, May 18, 2012, 8:53AM (not that I paid any attention).

And so it began. An amazing and wonderful fairy tale set in motion by one simple mouse click.

In the past 36 months, we have shared meals and told stories. Both of us trying to pack all these years of living into each other's memory. Making up for lost time. We first met, face-to-face, over grilled cheese sandwiches in West Hollywood and they met Liz over eggs in Portland. I’ve been converted to liking Brussels sprouts (no mean feat) at a gastro pub in Long Beach and we have celebrated her 30th birthday at a restaurant overlooking the city lights. My daughter has become a mother, her husband a father. I am now a grandfather and my wife a step-mother. Since they moved back to California, meetups for coffee and conversation are ever more common. Emails continue, as do text messages, and Facebook posts. Each one bringing two people a little closer together after being so far apart. More stories. More history. More laughter. More family.

One daughter. One father. One click.

Actors and Me. Musings on Fraternity.

I work with actors. Often I produce plays that have actors in them. I direct actors quite a bit. I also coach professional actors and teach young actors. Sometimes I act with actors. I have done all of these things with actors for well over 30 years. I have rarely been disappointed when doing this work.  Yes, I have a day job to pay the rent, get the suits cleaned, buy some plants for the garden and food for the fridge, and occasionally take my beautiful and talented actress wife on a swanky date. This work I do with actors does not fill my wallet. Not even close. However, these collaborations do fill my soul. They make me laugh. They make me cry. They make me think. They challenge me and make me better. Actors and the work actors undertake are one of my deep passions. I care about them. Their work, their psyche, their bodies, their voices, their health, their joy, their exuberance, their commitment, their intelligence, their opinions. Them. I care about them. Even the ones I don't much like, I still care about.

Now when I use the word "actor," I mean something very specific. I mean those men and women who are trained in the imaginative world of creating and inhabiting characters based on the written words of playwrights. I do NOT mean people who are merely celebrities. I do NOT mean people who call themselves actors but have never been on a stage or in front of a camera in a character. I do NOT mean people who, while perhaps are entertainers of some kind, have never lost themselves in the words of Shakespeare or Mamet or Miller. I do not mean talk show hosts or comics or models or media personalities or people with a website dedicated to gossip.

I AM referring to people who know how to use their voice. People who can speak properly and be heard in a theatre. Women who can project while wearing a corset and men who know how to walk on a raked stage. People who have been in a dark rehearsal room with other actors pouring over lines and movement and gestures. People who refer to a cigarette and a Diet Coke as "dinner." You know - Actors.

In my relationships with and between actors, even after all this time, I am still taken aback by the passion that actors have about what they do. Most recently, there have been two instances that have made me at once proud and so full of hope for the future of my tribe, my band of brothers and sisters, who have chosen these impossible careers.

The first is what I'll refer to as the "intimate theatre debate" occurring here in Los Angeles. For those unfamiliar with this ruckus, suffice it to say that a very large number of actors in LA are at odds with their own union about whether or not actors should be allowed to work for free (or close to it) if they so choose. The actors want to be able to make that determination for themselves. The union (Actors' Equity Association) says, no. Actors must be paid a minimum (regardless of budget or revenue) or else suffer not working under the protections of the Union. [For the sake of this post, I am dramatically oversimplifying this debate, obviously. For more info click here.] What has happened over the course of this argument may be more significant than the end results of Equity's action. The actors (several thousand of them I might add) have rallied together in an amazing display of solidarity as ARTISTS. They have communicated intelligently and passionately and (for the most part) civilly about this work they do as a community. Theatre artists and intimate theatre companies have joined their voices, and in some cases their very memberships, to support the idea that actors are special and have unique needs and requirements and consideration. From the very famous with lengthy careers to those just starting off on this arduous path -- they have joined together to control their own artistic destiny. Basically, making the case that the manner in which they pursue their art is just as important, if not more so, than money. I have never been as proud to be a member of this community as I have in the last several months. While the outcome will certainly affect me as a producer, the unity, collaboration and homogeneity of the theatre community in Los Angeles has been staggering. And beautiful.

The second occurred 1000 miles away in Portland, Oregon. Several times a year, I am asked by a few theatre companies and a couple universities around the country to come and hang out with their actors. Sometimes a couple days, sometimes a few hours. We call them "master classes" or "workshops," but I like to think of them as collaborative skull sessions where a company just gets a different perspective (mine) on their work or process of work.

Usually, when someone like me comes in to work with a group like this there is some initial resistance. I mean, let's face it, I'm not a household name in the theatre world (nor do I want to be), I don't have a book to sell, and I do not posture or pretend to be some kind of guru. I'm not. I'm just a theatre guy that has some experience and knowledge that some actors might find helpful. Hopefully, I can communicate it in a meaningful way to the actors around the table.

This particular group of actors seemed different, though. Experienced though they all were, they appeared open and available. (Each one of them also happened to be very talented, but that's a whole other subject.) I'm sure they had their questions about me. I had worked extensively with one of the actors (he's is the reason I was there in the first place), but the rest didn't know me from Adam's off ox. Yet, here they were for two days listening, questioning, applying, investigating new techniques. Challenging themselves and each other to get better, to learn, to experiment. Remarkable. And beautiful.

Two groups of actors separated by size and distance. Each proclaiming to the world and themselves that what they do has merit, is important, and should be constantly nurtured and improved upon even in the face of impossible odds.

Who does that? Actors do. And I love them for it.