May 11, 2020 (In The Year of the Trump Virus)

May 11, 2020 (In The Year of the Trump Virus)

I woke up this morning, finding a photograph (1948) of our property on Facebook.  Where Home Restaurant now is, it used to be Currie Ice Cream Parlour.   Up the hill is our house, where we are now prisoners of the Trump Virus.  There used to be a Red Car Station on the hill, which is walking distance from our home.  Until now, I never heard of Currie Ice Cream.  I texted my mom about it, and she told me that there was one in Hollywood near her home when she was a teenager.  It seems that they were famous for their Mile High Cones with a lot of scoops.   I looked on the internet, and there are some interesting images of their interiors.  There seemed to be a jukebox, which, to me, is a sign of civilization.  Also, benches by the counter, that were big enough for two people.  I have seen stools by the counters, but not seats for two.  The staff that worked there had white outfits, similar to the classic gas station attendant uniform. 

The I-5 is right beyond our house, and that was built around 1956. I guess that Curries was still in existence when Interstate 5 was being constructed or perhaps even opened at the time.  When I walk around the neighborhood, I'm amazed by the everyday occurrences of life being lived or structures that still exist from the mid-20th-century.  My dream is to have a silver plaque on the side of our residence that says that Tosh Berman wrote "TOSH" here. Perhaps even have a small museum in honor of my work and life. 

Today, I did some work on my secret project, as well as reading some articles about President Virus's White House stricken by the Virus. He's a fellow that is surrounded by enemies, germs, and wicked, ugly karma.   Shakespeare could have written this narrative, but the truth is he wouldn't.  Nothing is interesting about President Virus.  His existence will be less remembered than Currie Ice Cream Parlour.