Tosh's Journal - August 29

Very rarely has my father dealt with his memory of a place or time. He looked at the world as "now," and history I think meant a lot to him, but he was a person who existed for the present. So one would never ask him what it was like being in a recording studio with Charlie Parker. My father is dead, and I'm curious to know these things now, for instance, what did Parker say or do in that recording studio in Glendale, California? To hold that much culture on one's shoulder, one would think someone needs to share that information. Alas, as time marches on, the faces and names get cloudy, but surely Charlie Parker is important enough to share that tib-bit of details regarding what it was like to be in a room with Charlie Parker.



It comes as no surprise that I feel like Pinkie in Graham Greene's novel "Brighton Rock, which was also an excellent film starring Richard Attenborough. I'm so full of anger that I take out - anything, anyone, anywhere. I want to destroy so I can be devastated. My existence is so full of holes, that if you drew it on paper, you would need to have a mouse sticking his head through one of the cheese holes. Because that is what my life is like, Swiss cheese.



Then again, I should relax a bit more. One thing that is important to live is to laugh. I sometimes forget how significant it is to be able to walk into a movie theater, hopefully, a comedy, and just putting your angst aside and laugh what's on the big screen in front of you. What's in back of you can wait till the film is over. The thing is, I project Pinkie's face over everyone in the movie. I laugh, but it is like swallowing air, and it makes me sick to my stomach. I'm searching like a manic that there is some humor, either being said or implied. For all I care they could be showing "Night and Fog," and I would be laughing my head off. I sit in the theater, and I feel my scar on my cheek. I remember when I got into the fight, and he slashed my cheek. It didn't hurt for some reason, and when I went into the bathroom to examine the wound, I was intrigued by the cleanness of the cut. I took my thumb and little finger on my right hand, and open the cut to see if blood would come out. It reminded me of a woman's vagina, as I opened and closed the wound on my face. Thinking about the cut on my cheek in those terms made the pain bearable. It seemed like it didn't happen. I often dream at night that I have a loose front tooth, or an open scar on my body that is bleeding in front of the public, and when I wake-up, I feel that those physical dreams are quite real. It takes me at least five minutes to recognize that I was dreaming and the fact is that I don't have a loose tooth or a scar on my cheek. Yet, I play with my cheek, thinking that I have such an injury.



I wonder at times if I'm here or not. I often felt that I'm in someone else's dream or vision of a life that is not exactly mine. Perhaps Charlie Parker didn't exist, nor did my father. I feel I have seen something, and I can remember the scent of my father's shaving cologne, but as one gets older the senses get duller, and you eventually have a memory of having the experience of smelling such a scent. I imagine Joan of Arc, who heard voices from another world, as she knew the game was up and had to face the bonfire, that she had no choice but to follow the voice that came within, and surely not from another source outside her body. At the very least, I have the physical copy of the album cover that my father did for Dial Records, which is the first time Charlie Parker has appeared on a disk. That's real, and my memories are a movie as if it was directed and written by Preston Sturges.

Saturday, August 26, 2017

I have a problem.  A writer’s problem to be exact.  I have an urge to document and write on the Trump administration or White House.  It’s my nature to write satirical pieces.  I like to observe the world and somehow make it more absurd, to bring out the reality or the substance of that reality out to the open.  When I try to write about President Trump, I fail.

Also, I don’t think I’m the only one with this problem. I have seen excellent reporting on Trump’s world, but the observations or making humor seems to fail on a regular basis.   I read all the commentary in various publications, both from the Left and Right, and all fail.  I can’t speak for them, but since I have the same problem, I feel it’s the foundation is not settled under my feet.  It shifts like sand on a windy day on the beach.  Whatever ridiculous thing I write about Trump, the ‘great’ man himself seems to top it.   The truth is Trump is hysterical.  No one can touch him with respect to humor.   He’s the type of guy who has a knife on someone’s throat, and everyone says “please drop that knife, Don.”  Then he cuts the guys throat just because he wants to do it, or show that no one has any control over him.  He doesn’t care about the guy whose throat got cut, but cares deeply about how people see him, and even more important, that they don’t control him in any fashion or manner.

Trump is not like Conrad Hilton, who started off working in his Dad’s general store in New Mexico, which eventually he turned that general store into a ten room hotel, and of course, ultimately, the Hilton Hotels around the world.  Trump was very much born into his situation of wealth and followed his daddy’s footsteps into the world of property.   I would like to say that Trump is brilliant at branding, but in no way or fashion have I ever wanted to wear a Trump tie or eat a Trump steak.  I have always considered him a low-life bottom feeder of a tycoon and one with no original creative vision.   Howard Hughes was born rich, but at the very least he had an impressive vision of aviation and owning a movie studio.  Trump never did anything creative in his life. Everything he touches turns into mediocrity.  Including his family and now, the White House.

There are great characters around Trump, for instance, Steve Bannon.  But even writing something satirical about him is hard, due that like his soul brother of sorts, Trump, he’s impossible to make fun of due that he makes himself into a fictional figure.  For one, no one likes Donald Trump.  Bannon, I’m sure, thinks of him as a fool, and of course, every Republican secretly and (sometimes) publicly hates him as well.   I seriously doubt that Jared Kushner likes Trump.  I’m going to presume he wants his wife, but his father-in-law.  No.  He can be made fun of, due to the corruption of his very soul.  Trump and Bannon have no soul.  Kushner does, and he knows what he’s doing is bad.  Therefore a chance for a writer to comment on someone like Jared.

For example with Trump.  Him pardoning Sheriff Joe Arpaio.  Apparently, a man who is in the wrong job, but loves the position of power, in the same sense as a boy who likes to be chosen hall monitor at their high school.   Does Trump like or care for Arpaio?  My guess is no. He's just a prop for him to use, and he will throw him under the bus if the mood hits him in the right place.  Arpaio is a man with a vision, a plan even.  Therefore a perfect subject matter for a writer to comment on humorously.  Again, if I was going t focus on Trump, I will come off as a failure.  At this moment and time, it's imperative for writers to comment on their time and era.   The thing is, it's a tough job when you're dealing with a psychopath.  I don't have the skills of a true crime writer, but perhaps one is needed when writing about the Trump administration.

On the other hand, I'll still work on it.   All of us should do so.  I just wished that there was someone like Preston Sturges around.  Where is he when one needs him?

- Tosh Berman

August 29, 2014

August 29, 2014

Very rarely has my father dealt with his memory of a place or time. He looked at the world as “now,” and history I think meant a lot to him, but he was a person who existed for the present.  So one would never ask him what it was like being in a recording studio with Charlie Parker.  My father is dead, and I’m curious to know these things now, for instance, what did Parker say or do in that recording studio in Glendale, California?   To hold that much culture on one’s shoulder, one would think someone has a need to share that information.  Alas, as time marches on, the faces and names get cloudy, but surely Charlie Parker is important enough to share that tib-bit of information regarding what it was like to be in a room with Charlie Parker.

It comes as no surprise that I feel like Pinkie in Graham Greene’s novel “Brighton Rock, which was also a wonderful film starring Richard Attenborough.  I’m so full of anger, that I just take out - anything, anyone, anywhere. I want to destroy so I can be destroyed.  My existence is so full of holes, that if you drew it on paper, you would need to have a mouse sticking his head through one of the cheese holes.  Because that is what my life is like, Swiss cheese.

Then again I should relax a bit more.  One thing that is important in order to live is to laugh.  I sometimes forget how significant it is to be able to walk into a movie theater, hopefully a comedy, and just putting your angst aside and just laugh what’s on the big screen in front of you.  What’s in back of you can wait till the film is over.  The thing is, I project Pinkie’s face over everyone in the film.  I laugh, but it is like swallowing air and it makes me sick to my stomach.  I’m searching like a manic that there is some humor, either being said, or implied.  For all I care they could be showing “Night and Fog” and I would be laughing my head off.  I sit in the theater and I feel my scar on my cheek.  I remember when I got into the fight, and he slashed my cheek. It didn’t hurt for some reason, and when I went into the bathroom to examine the wound, I was intrigued by the cleanness of the cut.  I took my thumb and little finger on my right hand, and open the cut to see if blood would come out.  It reminded me of a woman’s vagina, as I opened and closed the wound on my face.  Thinking about the cut on my cheek in those terms made the pain bearable.  It seemed like it didn’t happen.  I often dream at night that I have a loose front tooth, or an open scar on my body that is bleeding in front of the public, and when I wake-up, I feel that those physical dreams are quite real. It takes me at least five minutes to recognize that I was dreaming and the fact is that I don’t have a loose tooth or a scar on my cheek.  Yet, I play with my cheek, thinking that I have such a scar.

I wonder at times if I’m actually here or not.  I often felt that I’m in someone else’s dream or vision of a life that is not exactly mine.  Perhaps Charlie Parker didn’t exist, nor did my father. I feel I have seen something, and I can remember the scent of my father’s shaving cologne, but as one gets older the senses get duller, and you eventually just have a memory of having the experience of smelling such a scent.  I imagine Joan of Arc, who heard voices from another world, as she knew the game was up, and had to face the bonfire, that she had no choice but to follow the voice that came within, and surely not from another source outside her body.   At the very least, I have the physical copy of the album cover that my father did for Dial Records, which is the first time Charlie Parker has appeared on a disk.  That’s real, and my memories are really a movie, as if it was directed and written by Preston Sturges.