On The Island of Lost Souls by Tosh Berman

 

"On The Island of Lost Souls" by Tosh Berman

Read it Here

"Martini" by Tosh Berman

 

Tosh Berman on William Powell's The Thin Man, Booth Tarkington, Irwin Corey, Thelma Todd, and The Thin Man's Martini: Read it here: 

Martini by Tosh Berman

The World of Tosh Berman, Wednesday, May 26, 2021 (Bar)

 

https://tosh.substack.com/p/bar  

The latest episode of "The World of Tosh Berman. Wednesday, May 26, 2021 - Bar.

Tosh's Journal: September 15

TOSH’S JOURNAL

September 15

“A great many people have come up to me and asked how I manage to get so much work done and still keep looking so dissipated. “I have always been known to friends and foes to be the go-to-guy with respect to having a martini always near me. In all seriousness, “I know I’m drinking myself to a slow death, but then I’m in no hurry.” I have trouble sleeping at night, so I find having a chilled glass of martini at the bedside helps me sleep better. If I wake up in the middle of the night, I just reached the cooler, and take another sip, and I’m off to dreamland, where I try to imagine my life as a memoir. Which also keeps me up at nights, because I’m so damn busy remembering every little incident that went through my world from age 1 to 20. Youth is significant, but the memory of childhood is much more important. Luckily there have been substantial changes in the world of writing, one that “the biggest obstacle to professional writing is the necessity for changing a typewriter ribbon.” With the miracle machine, the laptop, I don’t have to worry about that. Now I can write till my fingers run off to the side, where the martini glass resides.

My life changed when I found out that I’m a distant relative of Gilles de Rais, perhaps the first serial killer on record. The Frenchman was alleged to killing up to 600 children from 1432 to the spring of 1433. I personally don’t believe the number is that high, more likely 200. Nevertheless, being related to such a brute (although a refined one, according to historians) hasn’t helped me much. The dark cloud that follows me I think came from my distant relative. I try to think and behave like François de La Rochefoucauld, who seemed to be a reasonable gentleman of nobility. I bear that in mind while writing my memoirs and sipping my drink. He wrote that “true love is like ghosts, which everyone talks about and few have seen.” I had a dream the other night that I was on an island, and I came upon a sophisticated party, full of beautiful women - one of them looked like Louise Brooks. When I approached her, it was like I wasn’t there. She didn’t acknowledge me, and I had the feeling that either I wasn’t there, or she wasn’t there as well. The whole party appeared to be projected from someone’s dreams, but, to me, it wasn’t from my dream.

“There is only one kind of love, but there are a thousand imitations.” So perhaps my dream the other night was my experience of falling in love, but the girl didn’t even exist. Can one love just an idea of being in love? The other part of the dream that I remember quite clearly is when I heard someone from the party saying “Why don’t you get out of that wet coat and into a dry martini?” At that moment, I woke up and reached for my chilled martini.

September 15, 2014

September 15, 2014

“A great many people have come up to me and asked how I manage to get so much work done and still keep looking so dissipated. “ I have always been known to friends and foes to be the go-to-guy with respect of having a martini always near me.  In all seriousness, “I know I’m drinking myself to a slow death, but then I’m in no hurry.” I have trouble sleeping at night, so I find having a chilled glass of martini at the bedside helps me sleep better. If I wake up in the middle of the night, I just reached the cooler, and take another sip, and I’m off to dream land, where I try to imagine my life as a memoir.  Which also keeps me up at nights, because I’m so damn busy remembering every little incident that went through my world from age 1 to 20.  Youth is significant, but the memory of youth is much more important.  Luckily there have been major changes in the world of writing, one that “the biggest obstacle to professional writing is the necessity for changing a typewriter ribbon.” With the miracle machine, the laptop, I don’t have to worry about that.  Now I can write till my fingers run off to the side, where the martini glass resides. 

My life changed when I found out that I’m a distant relative of Gilles de Rais, perhaps the first serial killer on record.  The Frenchman was alleged to killing up to 600 children from 1432 to the spring of 1433.  I personally don’t believe the number is that high, more likely 200.  Nevertheless, being related to such a brute (although a refined one, according to historians) hasn’t helped me much.   The dark cloud that follows me, I think came from my distant relative.  I try to think and behave like François de La Rochefoucauld, who seemed to be a reasonable gentleman of nobility.   I bear that in mind while writing my memoirs and sipping my drink.   He wrote that “true love is like ghosts, which everyone talks about and few have seen.” I had a dream the other night that I was on an island, and I came upon a sophisticated party, full of beautiful woman - one of them actually looked like Louise Brooks.  When I approached her, it was like I wasn’t there.  She didn’t acknowledge me, and I had the feeling that either I wasn’t there, or she wasn’t there as well.  In fact, the whole party appeared to be projected from someone’s dreams, but clearly to me, it wasn’t from my dream. 

“There is is only one kind of love, but there are a thousand imitations.” So perhaps my dream the other night was my experience of falling in love, but the girl didn’t even exist.  Can one love just an idea of being in love?  The other part of the dream that I remember quite clearly is when I heard someone from the party saying “Why don’t you get out of that wet coat and into a dry martini?”  At that moment, I woke up and reached for my chilled martini.

July 29, 2014

July 29, 2014

My first step into the world of alcoholism is by watching William Powell in the Thin Man film series.   If this was a drinker, then sign me up.   I loved how he focused on martini drinking and solving a mystery between drinking sessions.   My day is pretty well-arranged, that by 9pm in the evening I’m drunk.  The beauty of the day is the rhyme and timing of moments passing, participating the first sip of the martini.  Drinking is not the most important part of the day for me, but to know that “it” will happen, excites me to no end.  I often feel that after a great writing session and basically being alone with my torrid thoughts, the award of the grueling work will be the taste of the combined elements of vodka, vermouth and olive.  On special occasions (at least once a week) I like to have a martini around 1pm if the morning is going well.  So the buzz in the afternoon is a pretty good introduction to the full-throttle of serious drinking in the evening.

When I’m writing I imagine myself as two different people or maybe the same person with poles apart characteristics.  I haven’t really worked that out yet.  Nevertheless, I feel my brain is kept separate from my fingers as I type.  What comes to bear in mind is the story of “Archy and Mehitabel” in which the cockroach writes free verse poetry by hurling himself at the keys one at a time.  Due to that practice and his very size, it’s impossible for him to operate the shift key on the typewriter, so all his writings were written without capitalization or punctuation.  I kind of go through the identical procedure myself.  Of course I’m too big to throw myself onto the keyboard, but nevertheless there is a coordination I have to continue to focus on between my brain and typing.

I’m working on a novel about a family that is born wealthy and therefore wealth comes naturally to them.  Its take place in an era where new wealth is made due to an individual’s genius in making something new, or the ability to look at the world as if it was a map, and building or inventing items that can be used by the masses.  The tension is not due to wealth alone, but the class structure that produced old money against “new money.” As my leading character says: "Don't you think being things is 'rahthuh bettuh' than doing things?"

My behavior is like a Professor Irwin Corey in front of the typewriter.  I’m just trying to make sense of a world that I really don’t have an understanding of.  I just know it tastes like a stale martini left on the bar for way too long.   If I can just imagine staying focused and keep to the schedule I think it will work out OK.  The drinking part is what keeps me in-tuned to the day.  Like the sun arising and going down at dusk, I know the martini will take me to another place, where I can wander and be free for at least a certain amount of hours per day.  Not to be restricted to the gravity of the Earth and in front of my typewriter, but to expand my drunk consciousness onto an expressway or at its worst, in a garage in Pacific Palisades, with a car motor running.   But once I’m on the highway, I usually avoid the exit signs.