April 12, 2017 (Tosh's Diary)

April 12, 2017 (Tosh's Diary)


It's Wednesday, and I'm waiting for the mail.  My day is, waiting.  I wake up due to the sun coming up, and I move around the house to avoid the intense and direct sunlight.  It is not until around 7 PM where I feel I can stay still and place my body on the seat facing Waverly Drive.

Once the sun goes down, I feel more alive. Perhaps due to its cocktail hour at that time.   The first sip of white wine drains all my anxiety away.   I feel guilty about spending money on vinyl records, but it's one of the great pleasures in my life where I can sit in front of the turntable, with headphones on, and play an old record, that clearly has a lot of history on it.  The album may have been at the very least in one household, but perhaps two.

 I remember in the 80s I sold my records to get credit to buy new albums.  It was the only way for me to afford in getting a new record.  At that time, it was Aron's Records on Melrose, but I often regret in letting go records that mean a lot to me.  It's mostly an impulse on my part that when I want something new, I just trade in what I feel I can trade in at that moment.  I'm happy to get the new record, but it always comes with a profound sense of regret.

The wine drinking now is very much like the sun moving in a 12-hour day, it's just a reminder that time is moving on.   I sense a significant loss of wasted time, but that comes down to the nature of doing work, and on a schedule.  As I wander around the house to avoid the sunlight, I plan to sit myself down to write.  Within 12 hours I very much want to write something special or original. Or if anything else, something that will bring importance to whoever reads the text.   On the other hand, the truth is, I just want to make a presence within those hours to prove that I can be productive.   Alas, I often fail.

As mentioned, I feel close to Stephen Bannon.  We did arrange a meeting early this year, but we never met up.  Although I don't have proof, I suspect he deliberately ignored me.   I can feel his presence hooking me, and pulling towards his direction.  But then he rejected me, not by words, but by expressing no communication or clearly expressing the fact that I have no meaning in his life.  It's ironic that he's getting the same treatment from President Trump and his family.   They use you for your ideas, and once finished, they throw you back into the ocean.   He and I are like bloated whales, that are stranded on a beach.   I was thinking of approaching him again, now that he has been rejected, but decided that would be cruel on my part.   I sit here and get angry, but what good is it to add misery to his already miserable existence?  This is what I think about, when drinking a glass of Charles Shaw white, and listening to an old Move album on my hi-fi.

The Sunday Series: Sunday November 1, 2015

The Sunday Series

Sunday November 1, 2015

Sunday.  Dumb-day.  No-day.   All-day just thinking how boring Sunday is.  The relaxation of a whole population is perhaps the most negative aspect on what many consider to be the first day of the week.  To greet the new week in such a fashion, is like running full-force against a brick wall.   The only saving grace for me, is that the Downtown Library is open from 1 PM to 5 PM. At least in those four hours, there is a sense of bliss compared to the agony of the other 20 hours that exist on a Sunday.  I’m always shocked when I see the importance of “nothing” on our culture.   The blankness of the day, and I guess the fact that we don’t even get mail delivered on Sunday is a blessing to some.  A day without getting a bill.  Then again, I do see postal trucks around town delivering more likely Amazon “Advantage” purchases.   To be a consumer on a day off is like the work itself.

So boring, even dogs take a day off, and force their owners to walk them around the house.   I wonder if it’s the dog or the owner that makes the decisions in the household.  I suspect that a dog has a seductive power over the human, and therefore a master/slave relationship is at work.  From my window I see a pretty girl walking by with her dog, and I think “lucky pup.” As for me, I’m drinking the last bottle of Trader Joe’s “Charles Shaw” in the house, and wondering what happened to my finances.  Where did my world go.  “Do you remember Walter?” I don’t think he does, or his senile brain is thinking of memories that are made-up, and sadly, I’m not part of the big picture in his life. 

It is a day after Halloween.  I dressed up in a costume on one will ever figure out who it is.  Me.  The truth is, I have always worn a halloween costume, but no one has paid that much attention to it.  When I close my eyes, I have always taken on the role as the murderer.   It is the only profession where I felt suitable to be in.   In my private notebook, I have kept a list of people who I wanted to do away with.    In alphabetical order by last name.  Men and women, but oddly enough, more men are listed in my list of people of the soon-to-be-past.   I don’t know why I’m so gender-orientated.  I have heard from others, that they think of me as a homosexual.   I do admire Ronnie Kray, but who wouldn’t, with his good taste in glass eye-wear.  

As I sit here, getting slowly more drunk, I think of the opportunities I turned down, either due to fear of change, or the fear of not getting back from where I came from.  My whole world is really here, sitting by the round dining table, marking time, by doing nothing except drinking, if the worst, at the very least, the cheapest wine on the market.   One man’s high is another man’s hell.   I want to wish you a very happy Sunday, for those who take the day as a reflection or mediation.   As for me, I like to be medicated before I even put my foot down on the cold bedroom floor before leaving the bed.  

- Tosh Berman

June 30, 2014

June 30, 2014

I have been a member of the Scriblerus Club since January 1, 2014.  We see each other once a month to write, think, and to be honest, to drink.  We have been working on a book “The Memoirs of Martinus Scribierus.” for the past six months, and so far, it is going pretty smoothly.  “Martinus Scribierus” is a combination of yours truly and two additional characters by the name of Johnny Gay and Johnny Swifty.  I met them at Brand Books in Glendale, in the literary bio section of that store.   So far, we have meetings at that location after the store closes at 8:00 pm. We have done this on a consistent basis since New Year’s Day.

My contribution to the meeting is usually two bottles of Charles Shaw, a jar of mild salsa, and corn chips.  The Johnnies (that is exactly what I call them) usually bring just themselves, due to their financial situation which is not so hot.  One of the Johnnies works there, and with permission from the owner, he could have our regular sessions at the Brand.  The only rule is that we have to turn off the lights. Therefore not use any electricity in the building.  So the Johnnies supply candles and matches for our meetings.  To get inspiration for “The Memoirs of Martinus Scribierus, ” we often talk about our favorite literary memoirs.   Not exactly “literary” but I always admired Errol Flynn’s “My Wicked Wicked Ways, ” mostly for the title and the fact that you can’t really trust the information that he’s supplying in his book.  We all agreed that our memoir should follow his path, and therefore a great chance that this book will be seen and read as a masterpiece.

Since we don’t have any electricity, we can’t play music or show any films - which is a major part of our meetings.  We’re all film geeks, and what we do, in placement of showing a film, we discuss the plots of our favorite film works in great detail.  For instance, the last meeting I told the Johnnies about a film made in 1947 called “T-Men, ” which is a semidocumentary style film noir about two U.S. Treasury agents who go undercover in an attempt to break a counterfeiting ring.   It’s a very exciting piece of work, and I enjoyed playing out all the roles in the film.  I became quite skilled in using my hands to express the tale, and with the shadows cast by the lighted candle it looked pretty cool.  I guess what we were doing is sort of a primitive version of cinema.  

Only once was our meeting disrupted by the presence of the Glendale police.  They drove by and noticed the flickering of the lighted candles through the large windows facing Brand Bouvelard.  Luckly Johnny could contact the owner, and he over the telephone, cleared up the whole matter with the local police.   The book is nearly finished, and to protect the innocent, we’re going to make the memoir look like it was published in London, sometime in the 18th century.  But if one reads it, the narrative clearly takes place in 21st Century Glendale.

The two Jonnnies and I will stop and disband the club on December 31, this year.   The bookstore’s owner is retiring, and we felt it would be appropriate to retire as well.  The memory of the bookstore will last as long as the Glendale citizens and elsewhere, keep a memory of the store itself, but also anyone who owns or reads “The Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus.” Culture doesn’t die, it just moves in the shadows of a flickering candle light.