"Planning My Escape"

Hollywood is a terrible place to get old. Dave had to get out.

After 40 years of living in Los Angeles, I escaped.

I had to. It was life or death.

My decision to cut and run came from a vision of my death on streets where I’d walked and lived. Sounds overly dramatic, but I work in entertainment. I know drama.

You wouldn’t know me, but you’d recognize my voice on radio, TV, the Internet, narrations, documentaries and cartoons. I’m a professional voice over artist, aka “VO.” I do other things, too. I have talented hands; I can paint portraits and I write, produce and mentor.

In my last decade in LA I moved once, from the San Fernando Valley to the Arts Districtwhere rents were cheap and the spaces were perfect for my studio. The downsides:live/work lofts are commercial property with no rent control and landlords can charge what the market will bear.

Two years after my move downtown, people were paying twice my rent for a 1000-square-foot loft with concrete floors and a counter for a kitchen - a box with no interior walls or privacy. My old nemesis, gentrification, had officially arrived. I’d see Bentleys, McLarens and Land Rovers parked next to my cheap Fiat. Property value rose so fast that building owners made money on empty lofts.

To say it wasn’t artist friendly would be a vast understatement.

My epiphanic moment of clarity came while choking on toxic diesel exhaust. I was walking my little rat terrier at 7:00 am, and we had stepped out of the gate onto 6th Street. The produce warehouse across the street was noisy and moving at full tilt, my dogyanking my arm out of its socket to reach that first tree, when I noticed that the crawling masses of tens of thousands of homeless in tents from Skid Row were now within 40 feet of my front door - along with the smell of urine and excrement.

The man I’d seen yesterday, screaming in an expensive business suit, railing at the world’s injustice while standing on the soapbox pile of his life, was now sleeping peacefully, tucked up against a red brick exterior wall. Yesterday it was obvious he was evicted from wherever he’d lived with all his possessions: a cappuccino machine, a stack of stereo equipment and a lot of other nice clothes and stuff that looked like he’d lost an upper management position. Probably never saw it coming. That morning it was just himin a blanket. Most of his belongings were gone, his stereo, all the nice stuff, poof, gone. He had a bag of clothes for a pillow and his now filthy double-stuffed too-expensive down comforter was wrapped tightly around him. He probably didn’t know he’d lost everything, sleeping peacefully on the concrete. This was happening regularly since the depression of 2008. It is, has or will dramatically wound everyone but the very rich.

The reality of my age and his situation hit me like a bucket of cold water. I was one month, maybe two from being him. I’d barely pulled off rent a couple of times recently over parking tickets gone to collection, or union dues, or unexpected car troubles.

The immense financial depression had given people permission to do horrible things and act like heroin addicts, chasing profits with monkeys on their backs. I was witnessing the end of...

"Pay it Forward"

The superpower of sharing, the bliss of giving back, and the happiness that comes from mentoring the young.

• 2
• 0:00
• You The older looked out the window. It was a great day to play.
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• 0:43
• But which instrument?
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• 0:44
• The banjo? The ukulele? The bassooky? It was a great day to play. But which instrument? The banjo? The ukulele?
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• 0:49
• The bassooky? He turned and regarded the weather again, and then decided on his Spanish guitar. He carefully put it in the case, walked out the door, and headed for a quiet spot at the park.
• 1
• 1:05
• He loved playing for animals. They really listened, unlike so many people that smiled but never stopped. He deftly checked his tuning, but was distracted by noise. Something was pushing through the strangling brush at the edge of tall shady trees. He saw the old guitar first, held high, and then its holder, scraped and tattered. A younger, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, arms and body scratched and bleeding. His gaze focused only on the older's acoustic guitar.
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• 1:46
• The older held the priceless craftsmanship out to the younger and asked, Would you like to play it? All he could do was nod. His mouth hung open, his eyes disbelieving about to play something he'd never dreamed of and only seen in the windows of the local luthier. They traded guitars.
• 1
• 2:09
• Carefully, Younger held it and marveled at its lightness. Holding it like a chalice, he played all he knew as Older played Younger's guitar. It was magic, and Younger glowed with excitement as Older took the lead through key changes, different tempos, with chords Younger had never heard. No matter what Older played, Younger played something unexpected that worked and flowed. And when they finished, Older asked Younger if he'd like to
• 2
• 2:47
• learn more, and Younger's head nodded like a bobble doll. Meet me at the statue in the park begin your lessons. This is how it began. do do do do do do do do
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• 4:08
• and and do do do do ♪ ♪
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• 4:50
• ♪ ♪ ♪ So... the the the the the
• 2
• 7:17
• the For three hard years, Boulder grilled Younger on all aspects of music.
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• 7:48
• Then they moved through the stringed instruments, bazooki, oud, tambourine, ukulele, banjo, Mexican bass, and other stringed instruments the Younger never knew existed. Older had never seen anyone ravenously devour musical knowledge like Younger. But Older also spoke on life, love, desire, and many other things because Younger should know that music needs a good life to exist. Older taught confidence, how to act professionally, be on time, and stay open to whatever note was played. All these teachings revived Older's spirit. Going back to the basics
• 1
• 8:37
• with Younger reminded him how healing it was to share and enjoy life again.
• 2
• 8:46
• This is how it began. So... so Here we go. When Younger felt there was nothing more to know the song of the sea, or the birds in the trees, or the sound
• 1
• 10:48
• of the wind?" Younger was astounded. The thoughts that were inspired by Older's questions excited the Younger so much, he couldn't sit. He jumped up, pacing back and forth, tumbling the idea of hearing his world as a song, as music like a symphony with a beat, a key. It made his mind race.
• 1
• 11:20
• For the first time, Younger realized his knowledge merely scratched the surface of a much deeper world. He doubled his practice to keep up, and Older kept the brutal pace for another three years. And after ten thousand hours of lessons, and three times that in practicing alone, Older proclaimed Younger good enough to play with others and not pick up any bad habits.
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• 11:48
• Younger never felt...