Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Monday, March 30, 2015
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Sunday March 29, 2015
I loathe Sundays. The day of rest is a day of thinking about resting. Sunday is like being slowly buried alive. Just as my face is being covered, Monday comes along, and you're dealing with the thought of once again, facing another Sunday. To this very day, I'm still confused if Sunday is the first day of the week, or the last. The vagueness of it, drives me insane. I can never understand the mania about Sundays. All I know is that by chance if I feel restless, it seems to be always on a Sunday. Fucking Sunday.
The other thing that bothers me is that I travel throughout Los Angeles on the bus, and the bus schedules on Sundays are slow or non-existent. Many times I find myself in a part of town, and not being able to get out of that area, due to the limited bus services on Sunday. Once on the bus, no problem, but waiting for a bus that may or may not show up, is torture. Also, there are few shade trees on streets or especially at a bus stop. Direct sunlight which causes skin cancer is also part of the equation of life on a Sunday.
Sunday is also the one day of the week, where I think about the other six days of that week. For me, it's the period at the end of the sentence. Rarely does the week work out OK for me. So my depression kicks in on a Sunday, realizing that I was pretty much of a failure throughout that week. When the thick Sunday paper hits my door every Sunday morning, the depression is so thick, I feel like I can't swallow. The paper rarely has news of that day, but mostly looking back on the week - which is like looking at my weekly journal, which is mostly blank. Which to be honest is a perfect self-portrait.
I've read that German and Swedish researchers have determined that Sunday is the most depressing day of the week for a lot of people. It was suggested on one website to write a letter to yourself on a Sunday night, and the second part of the letter, imagine yourself doing something exciting. Moronic advice which even makes me more depressed.
"The Sunday Night Blues" is the terminology for those who can't face the rest of the week, and realize that Sunday is just a reminder of things to come. Which is partly true for me, but what I loathe the most about that specific day is that it's set up as a day of relaxation or meditative thoughts. Those who control the calendar also control the world. I'm even upset that there is a 24-hour day. The restriction of days, months and even years I find to be restrictive and totally depressing with respect to the creative spirit. If I was free of Sundays, I feel I could take each day as it is, and not what I imagined it would be.
I can't imagine anything worse than the Sunday Brunch. The combination of breakfast and lunch. More likely an excuse for those who can't get up early for breakfast, which leads to a sense of guilt of missing that meal and having lunch instead. A world that is not causal made up this late morning/early afternoon meal - and it is usually a social outing, where one has to deal with the like-minded crowd. It's a disgusting practice. British author Guy Beringer coined the phrase "brunch" in an article printed in "Hunter's Weekly" in 1895. Brunch was proposed by him as a stance against the meal after one goes to church. It should be lighter in mood. Beringer's theory is that the brunch will "put you in a good temper, it makes you satisfied with yourself and your fellow beings, it sweeps away the worries and cobwebs of the week." For me, it is totally the opposite. I can't stand eating with a group of people who honor the work week by having a meal together on a Sunday.
Also the Sunday brunch was a good excuse for those who are burned-out, due to their work week, to start drinking alcohol in the late morning. Bloody Marys, Bellinis and Mimosas are the popular drinks tied to the image of Brunch on a Sunday. In the United States, brunch became part of the social life in the 1930s. The hotel restaurant also jumped in because a lot of restaurants were closed on Sunday - so there was a service that needed to be offered. Traditionally it is agreed upon that brunch takes place between 11:00 AM and 3:00 PM. Oddly enough, this is the time-frame where I do most of my writing.
For years, I have refused to have "brunch" due that it cuts into my private time with pen and paper. The fact that most have to have a social life while working, and then on the weekend they are expected to once again, have a "social life" is a life of misery. One needs not only to eliminate the 'brunch' but also the concept of a day of imprisonment - known as Sunday.
Saturday, March 28, 2015
A very nice write-up regarding my "2014" series as well as "June 1, 2014" chapbook that was recently released. The link above will lead you to the article. Merci "The Culture Trip.com."
Sunday, March 22, 2015
Sunday No. 11
Sunday March 22, 2015
In my many moments of pure crisis, I often find myself at the Santa Monica Pier - not only for the view of the Pacific Ocean, but more importantly, Zoltar the Fortune Teller. I tend to make the wrong choice at the worst times in my life, so I choose to let fate take a hold of me, by giving my role of chance to Zoltar. Like others in my troubles, I tend to look at a higher power to lead me out of the darkness into the lightness. For whatever reasons, I have always been attracted to the Santa Monica Pier, not due to its tourist attractions, but the darkness that seems to lurk in the shadows between the arcade games. It is one thing to be here in bright daylight with others, but to be surrounded by the machines themselves in the dead of the night, is almost a spiritual re-awakening. I have to admit I felt fear when I'm here alone in the arcade, but also feel that I'm only a foot away from my existence, and therefore feel more alive than anywhere else or time.
The Santa Monica Pier opened in 1909, which was a very much different world then. The extension from land or beach to the sea, must have been a sign of significant meeting - in that one is honoring the horizon that the ocean represents. For me, when I look out at the edge of the pier to the vast amount of water, I think there is no turning back once one makes that journey beyond the shore. So, instead of going forward to the horizon, I turn my back to the ocean, and head towards Zoltar.
This particular vending machine only cost a quarter, and lucky they had a change machine near-by. I put my quarter in, and received a fortune from Zoltar saying: "You are a strong believer in fate." At that moment, that belief was extremely strong. I looked into Zoltar's eyes to see if I can receive a recognition of some sort. Oddly enough, I couldn't get a fix on his eyes. It seemed that he was looking away from me, perhaps as far away as my past. "You feel you have no control over your destiny." No shit Zoltar! I often wander around the pier after midnight, hoping to see a sign saying 'don't jump into the ocean."
Instead I look at my fortune card that came from the vending machine, and it tells me that my lucky numbers are 10, 12, 13, 2, 1. Since today is the 22nd, and I didn't see 22 as among my lucky numbers, I felt I was on very dangerous ground. All I could hear was the hum of the Zoltar machine, and the waves hitting the pier. For whatever reason, I thought of a piece of music by Edgar Varése "Arcana." The original arrangement consists of an orchestra with 120 musicians, and yet, here I can just hear Zoltar and the ocean. Both have an organic quality, and I always thought of Varése as a composer tied closely with rural and urban sounds. And here I'm, standing by the fortune vending machine, and only feet away from the majestic ocean, which is calling out to me.
As I was very much alone, I felt more romantic. It started to rain, and I had no desire to hide myself from the tears. Alas, I read the last part of my fortune, which reads "fate will be kind to you and you can expect your life to run on a smoother pattern." I looked back at the ocean, and immediately realized that my destiny lies not there, but with Zoltar. I made a promise right there, that I would never leave the pier, nor will peer pressure will ever make me jump into the ocean. My thoughts, my life, are an island of contentment.
Thursday, March 19, 2015
Sunday, March 15, 2015
Sunday March 15, 2015
What I find fascinating about nature is that I have no interest in it. Also I wonder, living in Los Angeles, if I can fully go into 'nature. ' Where I live, I'm surrounded by parks and mountain trails. Yet, as far as I can gather, these trails were made by humans. So the very nature of either building a road or making a trail is already changing what is once 'wild' nature. Most people don't even think about what is or what isn't nature, but for me, it's important to make the distinction between 'real' nature and 'man (woman) -made' nature. Is the reflection we see, is that real or not real? As I get older I crave to see or feel something that is real. So far, when I take my walks in the hills of rural Los Angeles, I feel I'm on a movie set, than say a natural landscape that is untouched by human hands.
While reading up on the history of Griffith Park, I was surprised to learn that there was an Indian tribe called "Gabrielinos" (now called the Gabrielino-Tongva tribe) that lived in the area. It seemed that Corporal Jose' Vicente Feliz was rewarded with a Spanish land grant in 1775. Colonel Griffith J. Griffith acquired the land in 1882 and eventually gave it as a gift to the city of Los Angeles in 1896. In 1934, the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) built retaining walls, hiking trails, access roads, maintenance, and restored some of the structure that are in the park. The CCC camp, after Pearl Harbor was attacked, became a prison of sorts for Issei (Japanese people who immigrated to a new country), who were considered by the FBI to be 'enemy aliens. ' Griffith Park Detention Camp could hold around 70 men. It seems that the major crime by these people, was the fact that they were part of the Japanese race. As of today, Sunday, I can find no trace of this world.
The only thing I connect to is an image of Smokey the Bear. Smokey has been around since 1944, so he was ten years old when I was born in 1954. Throughout my life I was aware of Smokey, and he is the one consistent figure in my whole life. So as I enter the park, he is the one that greets me. It has been reported by the Ad Council, that Smokey is recognized in the U.S. BY 95% of adults, and 77% of children. I have memories of having a Smokey the Bear lunch box. The message that became very clear to me, was “only me, can prevent forest fires.” Whenever a fire breaks out in a forest, to this day, I feel responsible for the destruction.
Living near Griffith Park, I feel that it’s my almost private playground. Although I do share it with a million other people at the very least, I still feel like it’s a reflection of my life. My wife and I walk up to the Griffith Park Observation to look over the magnificent landscape that is Los Angeles, which as we all know by now, is the greatest city on the West Coast. It is interesting to note that the Observatory opened up in 1935, around the same time that the CCC was building up the park. A utopia vision of the mixture of nature and the stars - the perfect partnership. Being a long-time fan of “Adventures of Superman” TV show, I was happy to discover that they used the Observatory as Jor-El’s laboratory on the planet Krypton. We went inside of the Observation to see the Foucault pendulum as well as the refracting telescope, Zeiss. The song "Lost in the Stars' came to my mind as we sat there and watch the stars appear on the ceiling. Someone behind me made a 'moo' sound, and at first, it annoyed me, but I followed him up by doing a rooster. It was a full audience, and it seemed everyone looked at us in the darkness or one or two voices saying "shut-up." We did, and speaking for myself, I just pretended it didn't happen in the first place.
When we walked out of the Observatory, I noticed a statue or a bust of a face. I walked up to it, and I admired the way the sculpture captured the hairstyle of the person's face. The next time I get a haircut, I want to bring this bust with me to show to the barber what type of haircut I want. It's very difficult at times, to communicate with a hair-cutter in exactly what you want. For instance, if I tell them that I want my haircut to be a combination of Elvis 1956 mixed with touches of Bowie's Ziggy haircut of 1972, I would mostly get a blank stare. But here, bringing this statue, I think would solve that problem. A photograph would be helpful, but bringing an object that is 3-dimensional I think is better. That way, the hair-cutter can see the object from all sides and angles. Then again, maybe I'm putting too much thought on to all of this.
As we walked down the hill taking us to Los Feliz boulevard, we ran upon a pack of coyotes that were eating something that was once alive. I wasn't sure if the victim was human or beast, but we just walked down the street and paid no attention to the carnage in front of us. Griffith Park means many things to people, but for me, it is a reflection that is life, but life as being projected by yours truly on a very warm Sunday afternoon.
Tuesday, March 10, 2015
Sunday, March 8, 2015
Sunday No. 9
Sunday March 7, 2015
As I sit here looking at my tree outside the window, I notice that the seasons play havoc with its leaves, and therefore so does nature with my beard. I never liked to shave, due that I find the daily procedures boring. I have a thick beard, and if I wanted to be totally clean-shaven, I need to do it every morning. Sometime ago, I decided to only shave once a week. Only on Sundays, I would shave. But the weekly process of trimming the beard and then getting a razor was like being in school. I don't like to be told what to do -either by teacher or nature. It wasn't that long ago that I started to see a barber for a hair trim and shave every Sunday. A shave and trim costs $60, while just getting a full-shave is $35. I have this thing where I detest odd numbers coming up on my bill. So just to avoid that, I always throw in a trim as well to make the total into an even 60.
I like to think my haircut is as precise as my personal life. Neatness is a sign of a civilized man, and to this day, I'm bothered to see if some male is either wearing his hairstyle wrong, or the clothing is off. Socks to me is the real test. They should match with something that you are wearing. Shirt or even, a hat is good if it's the same color or pattern as your socks. It's a little gesture, but the actions will take you far. Also it serves as a mental exercise as well. To locate the right pair of socks with the correct shirt can be a treasure hunt, but if you're good at it, the awards are plenty. I have noticed that most women are aware of the sock and shirt combination. The best or as I call it, my masterpiece is the argyle sock that matches the sleeveless argyle v-neck sweater. Powered blue button down shirt, either opened at the neck or buttoned up - your choice. But the color combination is a real winner.
Every Sunday I do my best to dress as the best I can before I see my barber in Echo Park. He knows me well enough (not my life, but what I prefer in a haircut and shave). I remember the first time I saw him, and it was a joyful experience. I got into his barber chair not knowing what to say exactly. I always felt it was beneath me to show an image of the haircut I wanted. To articulate your desires verbally to your barber is the best form of communication. I told him that I wanted a haircut that was short as possible on the sides, and a tad long on the top. He asked me if I wanted a "1" or a "2" for the sides I told him that I didn't know the difference. He cut my hair to a "2" on the side, and then showed it to me. It was long. I told him a "1." He then suggested a 1 and then a "2" and will cut half-an-inch on the top. That sounded perfect and that is exactly what he did.
The best part of the haircut is when he focused on the hairline above the ears. I was obsessed that he cut it in a way where the skin was shown, and that the whole area had to be 'clean' with no hair whatsoever going over the ears. He also spent time tracking down all the hair on my ears as well. One of the things I hate the most is finding hair in or on my ears. I hate to see it when I'm talking to a male person, and the first thing I notice is the hair either on the ear, or worse coming out of a nose nostril. I do have poor eyesight, but still, the details are extremely important. At home, I have a check list of things that must be looked at on a regular basis - which includes hair on the ears, coming out of the nose, and hair on the nose. And eyebrows must be trimmed at all times. Bushy eyebrows cannot be helped, but surely one can keep them trimmed and for God's sake don't allow hair between the two eyebrows. One doesn't need a bridge between the left and right eyebrow.
The beauty of having a shave is being in someone's power. As soon as the shave starts, my eyes are closed shut. To this day, I have never seen a straight razor blade approaching my face. The first thing he did was put a lotion on my face, and then a hot towel covering everything except my nose. Once removed he forces my head to one side and starts to work on the neck and on up. I can actually feel every hair being cut on my neck. Not exactly painful, but there is the feeling of something being cut off your neck and face. The slight pain is part of the procedure, because every time you feel the tinge of pain or discomfort, you get an award of a soothing cream or hot towel or both. When I shave I always shave upwards, but not once does he do that. It is all downstrokes, and the whole procedure takes at least a half-n'-hour. It never fails, that I think of Sweeny Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street while feeling the blade against my throat. Somewhere in that procedure he put on something that stung me slightly, but the smell was Royall lime. I remember the scent of the after-shave, because my Dad wore it all the time. There was one time he picked me up from the ground to kiss me, I must have been three or year years old, but I clearly remember the smoothness of his face right after he shaved as well as the royal lime scent.
As I was sitting in the barber chair, I was suddenly in another place, location and time. The music being played over the barbershop sound system was Charlie Parker, when he was making recordings for Dial records in Glendale, California. A sound that was very much part of my childhood at the family home. So the combination of the scent, the hot towel and the memory of the smooth skin of my dad brought me into another dimension.
The images that were in my brain eventually became a black and white 8mm film, and once the towel was removed, and I opened my eyes, the world was in Technicolor. The first time, the first trip is always the best, and after that, you're just trying to capture that lost moment. Although my face is right, the hair perfect, and the shave as smooth as that girl's ass - I'm feeling out of time. Like a stray dog knowing where his food is, I go back to the barber shop every Sunday to get my emotional fix for the rest of the week.
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Sunday, March 1, 2015
Sunday No. 8
Since today is Sunday, this is the day where I’m going to build my ideal record shop within one of my rooms in our house. I often dream of living in a record store - but not just any record store, but one from the 1950s or early 1960s. The mid-modern interior plus music is a seductive image for me. In my dreams, I have often looked at out-of-print albums and just being amazed that I’m holding them - but alas it is only a dream. But as they say, “dreams can happen.”
For the vinyl, I basically sold everything except the house and clothes I wear on a daily basis. The artwork was sold, as well as my car and the wife’s car as well. I also went on a diet of just eating one meal a day, to save money to purchase not only quantity but quality vinyl as well. I went to various dealers at the Pasadena Swap Meet in the Pasadena City College - and purchased a great deal of vinyl. Around 3,000 pieces. I have a sizable classical section, which is mostly the label Columbia “Masterworks, ” series; the so-called six eye label. Then of course, the complete Dial Jazz recordings as well as Miles’ Columbia releases (of course, and again, the six eye label) as well as every release from Reprise Records, the label started by Frank Sinatra in 1960. And for good measure most of the releases from Capital Records 1950s era. Then I have a sizable section of Factory Records, and of course, The Beatles Apple releases - but not the actual Beatle recordings, but the other artists who had albums issued on that label.
The actual room which will now be a record store is 100 feet by 100 feet. It’s a decent size room and it used to be our living room. Using vintage photographs of authentic record shops from the 1940s to early 1960s, I pretty much have the design for my dream room. I had to re-do the walls and floor, and I actually covered up a window by placing it with a giant image of the Columbia six eye label. I went for the art deco meets mid-century retail interior look for this room. Since the windows were removed, I could put up album displays on the walls, and then I built a long counter, where I placed the turntable and register machine. Even though it’s a real register, there is not any money in it. I also built a magazine rack and filled it with vintage 16 Magazine, Tiger Beat, old copies of NME, Melody Maker, and the first two or three issues of Rolling Stone Magazine (when they were still situated in San Francisco). The turntable I purchased for the space is The Thorens TD 124, which was first introduced in 1957, but mine is actually from 1966. The additional Goldring 850 cartridge with the Rega II tone arm made this the ultimate turntable. It’s very important that when playing vintage vinyl that you also use a vintage turntable as well.
After finishing the decor and getting the inventory together, is to add a very important element in the whole picture. I needed a very beautiful and sexy girl to work behind the counter as well as help me to keep the records in their sections. With that in mind I needed to re-finance my home, to raise funds for payroll to finance such a person. I went to Amoeba to locate the most stunning woman employee there, and believe me there are plenty of beautiful eye-candy material. But I also need a woman who can talk and think about vinyl as well as looking good in a 1950s vintage dress. No slacks or casual wear is allowed in my private record store. Also she must be single, and not be involved with anyone else, besides me of course.
I choose a girl by the name of Virginia. She had long straight blonde hair that came to her derrière, and I made sure she wore short skirts, due that she had long lovely legs. I also insisted that she be barefooted while working in my record store space. So there was a touch of the Sandie Shaw aspect of her as well. She totally agreed to everything, and it was an extra plus that she was very much into 20th century classical music and was quite a fan of the composer Luciano Berio.
The genius touch, was to be able to add a small bar at the left side of the sales counter. That is where I kept my various bottles of wine, as well as sake (planning to add Japanese showa era pop music) and whisky. The opening day when everything came together was on Sunday March 1. Virginia showed up for work in a proper work attire, and I eventually got myself a drink of whisky and water. I sat down and while she was behind the counter she put on a copy of Berio’s “Sinfonia” with the composer conducting the piece. As I approach my older age, I realized that one shouldn’t have to compromise their stance in the world. This privileged place, or room, with Virginia, is and will be my final statement left on this world.
-Inspired by Lun*na Menoh & Boris Vian.