April 27, 2020 (In The Year of the Trump Virus)

April 27, 2020 (In the Year of the Trump Virus)

The one thing about Americans as a culture or society is that they are predictable.  Their Achilles Heel is that they must feel independent from others.  It's a culture that is based on the importance of "Me" than anything else.  If you tell them not to go to the beach, for example, they will feel like a matter of pride, and human right, that they must crowd the coastline as a sign of their importance to themselves.  Also, they are merely bored.  Which I totally understand.  They may live in a small compact structure, and also, there are the issues of them having children, dogs, all screaming to go outside somewhere, anywhere that is not in their restricted living area.  Viruses are a mystery force.  One cannot see it; therefore, one must suspect that it even exists.  If it was space aliens hovering over Los Angeles, that is one thing, but can one be in fear of something that is not obvious to them?  If the day is sunny and warm, it's very American to go out and play among fellow citizens.  For me, I hate social gatherings.  I prefer staying at home and working on writing and watching "Wanted: Dead or Alive" (starring Steve McQueen) on streaming services.

Twice a month, Kimley and I do a podcast "BOOK MUSIK," where we focus on one book on music per episode.  We just finished reading Nik Cohn's "Awopbopaloobop Alopbamboom: The Golden Age of Rock."   The book, written in 1968 by a then 22-year old pop music geek, is a masterful form of youth reflecting on the pop culture of the 1950s and 1960s.  Cohn had the knack of praising an artist at the beginning of the paragraph, and by the end of that paragraph, he says they're shit.  Every sentence he writes is argumentive but superbly written.  Cohn and Ian Penman, I think, are my favorite prose stylists who write on music.   Of course, I will probably change my mind next week.

My hobbies at home are watching early 1960s TV shows on streaming services, hating President Virus (that takes a great deal of time, a real time-waster), reading music books, memoirs, and playing records.   What I find horrific is reading the daily death counts on the popular media and social platforms.  It seems my entire generation, the baby boomers, are quickly dying off.  That's a total drag.  The Trump Virus has killed many, and also the aging of the bones and body are working hand-in-hand in eliminating the people I love or respect.

On the other hand, Lun*na and I put up a canvas covering to protect us from the direct sunlight when we sit out and have our wine around 6 in the evening.   We're fortunate that we can spend the time to reflect on the world around us, and in such a manner of reasonable comfort.  Have a great day. -Tosh Berman.

March 16, 2017 (Tosh's Diary) Los Angeles

March 16, 2017 (Tosh's Diary) Los Angeles

Night to night and from day-to-day I try to stay alerted to my surroundings.  We arrived from Tokyo a few days ago, and since then it has been a struggle for me to accept my brain is in my physical body.  We arrived at 1:00 PM, and due to the organization of Super Shuttle, we arrived at our home at 3:30 PM.  So overall, it takes one and a half hours on a bus to Tokyo to Narita airport, then three hours hanging out at the airport.  Then nine and a half hours on a plane.  Customs take around 30 minutes with the weirdest questions such as 'how much cash do you have,' with right after that, 'I spent time in Japan to see my cousin who's in the military.'   While there is a line of people waiting to be processed so they can get on with their lives to pick up their luggage.    A very long day that March 14. 

I get home to face a month full of mail.  Bills as well as invitations that are way past their acceptance.  The first thing I noticed when we walked into our house is the smell of someone not being there, except the odor of dust and no air, due that the windows were locked up.   I had to make a few phone calls, and then I looked at the ceiling for a few hours from our couch in the living room.   

The weather is warm, and we just came from a climate that's wet and cold.  Our clothing still expressed that part of the world, where in fact we should be wearing shorts and a t-shirt.  The heat made me feel not good, but out-of-existence.   I couldn't relate to the sweat that was building up on my chest and forehead.  I still have the traces of a cold that I caught in Tokyo, I think due to the cold rooms that I came upon from the cold outside to slightly warmer places.   Also, I kept on moving consistently for a month without rest or reflection.  There were so many things to see and do.  I didn't use the word 'no,' while I was in Japan.  

I can't sleep.  My body is fully active.  My brain is dead.  I maybe dead.  Just feel like the body is operating without a thought in my head.   Today's date or day is just a theory, and I'm aware of the deadlines that are in place in front of me.  I'm feeling sad, and I don't have the foggiest idea why.  My emotions are up front, and logic is somewhere buried deeply into a locked room.   I walked around the house in pitch darkness.  I go to bed, but my brain is in the daylight.   I look up the ceiling, and I can't make out the cracks which I think of the Nile River.  I used to follow it from one end to the other  - and by the time I reached there, I'm asleep.  This is not the case tonight.

I read the newspaper websites in the middle of the night, and I know life is going on, but I feel so not part of it.  Dick Clark, one-time America's oldest teenager, commented that "Jet lag is for amateurs."   I only wanted to be in that category, because I loathe professionalism that puts me down into a particular class or position.   I try to remind myself that I'm on a higher plane, but the truth is, I'm always crashing in the same car.   What do I know about knowing?  I'm going round and round in my house, and I only have these walls to keep me grounded.   When I do sleep, it's at 6 in the morning.  It's not sleeping; it's more like being in a coma. 

David Bowie 2002 `America´

One of the many great performances by David Bowie.  It's a great song already, but Bowie adds that magic touch to make it even greater.

"ROADBOOK" BY Hunter Barnes (Reel Art Press)

ISBN: 978-1-909526-27-3 Reel Art Press

When you get down to it, the United States of America is a very odd country.   So large, with so many different cultures within its boundaries.  That, is probably what makes it a very interesting place.  Personally, it scares me to death.   Unless it's nature shots of parks, the seaside, and cute animals, the rest of the country is a fearful and haunted place.  "Roadbook" by Hunter Barnes captures what is scary to me, in other words, the human being.  

All of the black and white photographs are from the 21st century, but it could be any era in the States.  They say things change, but in certain parts of our world, nothing changed.   A series of images from Sammyville, Oregon is portraits of men with their guns.  Most are wearing their weapons as if it was the wild west - which the case may be in Sammyville.  One thing is clear. There will never be a ban on guns in this country.  There is no way in heaven or hell, that these guys and gals will give up their firearm.  It's not going to happen. Not in my lifetime nor if I have a kid, not in their lifetime either.  

Photographs by Hunter Barnes

Throughout the book, except on a section on really beautiful women in New York City (why in his right mind, would he leave the city?), we see life on the margins.   Motorcycle gangs in NYC, prisoners in CA State Prison, low riders in New Mexico, Black gang in East St. Louis, white Baptists, and rednecks.   Barnes captures the world quite well, because I suspect that these people accepted, or at the very least, trusted him.   As far as I know this wasn't a fast hello and goodbye project from Barnes, he actually spent time with these people.  The portraits show a relationship between the subject matter and the photographer.  I have always believed that a good picture is not just the image itself, but that the photographer knows the culture, and its people, and then the photograph can happen.  At least the good ones.  And this book is full of great portraits. 

As usual, the book is beautifully designed by the good people at Reel Art Press.   The design never gets in the way of the images by Barnes.  It serves the image.  

Photograph by Hunter Barnes

- Tosh Berman