I started making lists:
When I was two and a half years old, I learned to speak French fluently.
When I was five, on my first day in kindergarten, I cried and cried, breathlessly sobbing, “I want my mommy,”
When I was ten I dreamed that my father had died and become a bird perched on a telephone pole on Ventura Boulevard.
When I was eleven, on the first night in the desert town we’d moved to, I was so frightened by the large moths that kept flinging themselves against the window screens in that furnace of a night that I didn’t sleep at all.
When I was eleven I met a devoté of Edgar Cayce, a man in his thirties, who used “hypnosis” to put me into a “trance” in which I accessed my “past lives.” I couldn’t tell if I was making up all the things I said or not.
When I was eleven I read my first grown-up novel: The Shrinking Man by Richard Matheson
When I was eleven I acted in my first play, The Clown who Ran Away.
When I was fourteen I kissed a girl on the mouth for the first time while acting in a scene from The Importance of Being Earnest.
When I was fourteen my Aunt Eleanor taught me the guitar chords to Careless Love.
When I was fourteen, standing near a bank of lockers, a kid whose father was a cop, showed me a photo he had stolen. It showed the corpse of a man who had killed himself with a shotgun in his mouth. It didn’t look real.
When I was fourteen I imagined, for a few months, that I would become a rabbi when I grew up. i urged my secular parents to keep kosher. They didn’t.
When I was fourteen standing near a bank of lockers, a kid whose father was a cop, showed me a photo he had stolen. It showed a couple having sex. The man was naked except for a pair of wing-tip shoes – the kind my father wore. The woman was also naked and quite hairy. It looked too real.
When I was fifteen I heard a Ravi Shankar record for the first time and felt completely disoriented, unable to tell where the music began and ended.
When I was sixteen, at the start of my senior year, I discovered that I had become the tallest person in my high school, faculty included.
When I was sixteen, in home room, I refused to stand for the pledge of allegiance. The kid behind me pulled me upright by the collar of my shirt.
When I was sixteen I started smoking.
When I was seventeen my friend Betsy and I hot-wired her father’s 1939 Buick convertible and drove the deserted desert two-lane highways all night long.
When I was seventeen I got a small part in a professional play.
When I was nineteen I had sex and marijuana for the first time.
When I was nineteen I went to France for my third year of college.
When I was twenty I met a blind Algerian student in Bordeaux who, when I asked what it was like in Algeria, said, “Ça chie,” which means, literally, “It shits.”
When I was twenty, hitchhiking alone through Algeria, a small truck I was riding in had its windshield shattered by a large watermelon hurled from an oncoming car
When I was twenty one I got my first acting job on television.
When I was twenty one, at my draft board physical, I sat in my jockey shorts in front of an army psychiatrist who kept an unlit cigar stub in his mouth while asking me how I expected to amount to anything if I continued to use illegal drugs.
When I was twenty two I moved into a group house in Echo Park. My roommates smuggled large quantities of hashish from Lebanon, built a sauna in the laundry room, introduced me to intravenous cocaine and methedrine and to vegetarian cooking.
When I was twenty two I appeared as a “bachelor” contestant on The Dating Game, simply because, as a union actor, I’d receive a hundred dollars for a day’s work. A “starlet” was to choose one of us as her “date” on a whirlwhind trip to Bangcok. The “bachelors” were hidden behind a screen and the starlet had to bas her choice on the answers we’d each give to her questions. She asked us to “imitate you favorite hero.” I was high on grass and speed and heard myself paraphrasing, in French, Jean-Paul Sartre. Something about “L’éxistence précède l’essence…” She picked me.
When I was twenty-three I was cast in the film, M*A*S*H.
When I was twenty-four, I read The Gates of the Forest by Elie Wiesel and understood how little I knew about brutality and despair.
When I was twenty five, a roommate said that I was the most selfish man she had ever met.
When I was twenty six I spent a day watching crows in the snow in Vancouver’s Stanley Park.
When I was thirty, I called a phone number I saw in an ad in an alternate newspaper from an institutionalized Jewish man who requested visitors. He asked me to bring him a pastrami sandwich. I said I would. I never did visit him.
When I was thirty-one I turned down a small role in Close Encounters of the Third Kind in order to tour the country with a political theatre ensemble.
When I was thirty one Joseph Chaikin invited me to join an experimental workshop he was launching in New York.
When I was thirty three I started Traveling Jewish Theatre with Naomi Newman and Albert Greenberg.
When I was thirty nine I stopped using alcohol and marijuana.
When I was forty one I stopped smoking cigarettes.
When I was forty two I got married.
When I was forty five I walked from Mill Valley to Bolinas and back.
When I was forty nine I sang to my mother as she took her last breaths. Later that year I made a solo performance that told the story of her dying.
When I was fifty I woke up one morning seeing double, the result of a small tangle of redundant capillaries in my brainstem.
When I was fifty one I moved my father into a dementia-care facility
When I was fifty three I sat with my father’s lifeless body and sketched his face
When I was fifty four I took up scuba diving, completing 300 dives in kelp forests and coral reefs during the next seven years.
When I was fifty five I adapted the Israeli novel, See Under: Love, for the theatre.
When I was fifty five I met my first grandson, River, born at the turn of the millennium.
When I was fifty nine I had open-heart surgery to repair a prolapsed mitral valve.
When I was sixty two I played Willie Loman in TJT’s Death of a Salesman
When I was sixty-nine I experienced thirty minutes of “transient global amnesia” and began developing a music-theatre piece about memory and aging.
When I was seventy I had a seizure. I lost consciousness, fell and tore a ligament in my thumb. Six weeks later, I performed my music-theatre piece about memory and aging for friends. Two months later, I had a second seizure.
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