Dig That Deadly Scene by Tosh Berman

 

Dig That Deadly Scene by Tosh Berman

April 29, 2020 (In The Year of the Trump Virus)

April 29, 2020 (In The Year of the Trump Virus)

I need to walk more. When I do go out to walk, I see other people like me who are thinking of walking for the past few days, and then suddenly, they're out walking at the same time. When I see them, I across the sidewalk to the other side. The problems are, what one should do if two or more are walking toward your direction, and you can't avoid them. The only thing one can do is reverse the trend and go among the others in the same direction. So, my walk is only 1/2 block long, and I'm back in my living room, thinking about my walk, and being aware that strolling in one's neighborhood is a pleasant memory from the past.

From Amoeba Music's website, I purchased The Doors' "Waiting for the Sun." I played it loudly, which made Lun*na closed her studio door. For the past two or three years, I have been criticizing The Doors to friends, enemies, and on various people's Facebook posts. A week ago, I had the urge to listen to the song "Love Street," which is a tune that was a favorite of mine when I first purchased this album in 1968. I was either 13 or 14 years old, and remember having a deep crush on a girl in Topanga Canyon, and whenever I played this song, I thought of her. Playing it now, I still have the memory of having a feeling for this girl, but for the life of me, I can't recall her name or face. My memory never forgets an emotion or a feeling, but people are like ghosts in my life.

I was watching "Columbo" with Ross Martin playing a contemporary snobby art critic who is also a murderer. He had one put-down comment after another, but none of it was witty or wise. Still, I loved watching Martin dealing with Columbo, as the evidence piles up that he is the killer. I fell asleep before the show ended and woke up to another Columbo, where another killer is planning and executing a murder. In my sleepy mind, I couldn't figure out what happened to Ross Martin's art critic. Slowly, I realized that this is another episode of "Columbo," and immediately, I felt sad that I missed the past show. I could have just watched the previous shows' end, but I felt that would be cheating. Perhaps it was fate for me to miss the ending of that specific episode. - Tosh Berman.

March 22, 2014 (Tokyo)

March 22, 2014

From pulp writer of westerns Louis L’Amour to composer Stephen Sondheim I hope to find my center somewhere between those two artists.  I have a boundless admiration for L’Amour, because he wrote 100 novels, and there is something magical about Sondheim’s input as a theater composer as well.  Sondheim is probably the best known figure in modern (and quality) theater, and I ….want to be placed among those two giants.  The bitter truth is that I am not as good as those two.

It is not certain at this moment that I will be awarded the Nobel Prize for literature, since at this moment and time, I only have one book published and one out-of-print volume of poetry.   To my wife and I we feel that alone should guarantee me at least a shot at the big prize.   To write in this day and age is only two steps away from total disaster on many fronts.  First and the most obvious is the financial aspect of being a writer - which I can only see now is non-existent.  I abandoned my job at a bookstore to totally focus on what’s in my head and obsessing how to get those thoughts on a piece of white blank paper.   So far, the blank piece of white paper is winning the battle.  But alas, there are many battles in a war, and I shall become a victor!

As of now, I live my life like Chico Marx, in that I have to hustle, gamble, and sneak money from every avenue and road that lay in front of me.  The one image in my head when I wake up in the morning is the Nobel Prize and the second image is of the same thing when I go to sleep at night.

For inspiration, I often think of the actor Ross Martin who played Artemus Gordon in the great western TV show “The Wild Wild West.”   What I loved about him is that he’s the side kick to the James West character, but it strikes me that he is sort of an Iago to Othello, that he’s actually the main character of the narrative, but is hiding in plain sight.  Writing to me, is someone who appears to be invisible, but alas, they are there reporting what’s in front of them.  The art of the writing is finding out what you should pick out in front of you.  Right now, from my angle of the writing table, I see a book of art by Yayoi Kusama, but the color scheme is inappropriate for my sense of aesthetic, even though I do have a great appreciation for her art and focus in life.  The ‘visual’ life is of great importance to me, because when I take my daily walks through Tokyo, I often think of the cartoon strip “Little Lulu” which was created by a genius named John Stanley.   Her observations on a daily basis saves the day for her and her friends in the strip, and I think to myself “if only I can do that in my life for me and my friends.” Would it be possible to write a work of fiction, and somehow the world will turn out better, and therefore I will win the Nobel Prize for that alone?”

Common sense tells me that I will fail miserably.  But failure alone is interesting.  I’m one of the very few people on this planet that actually likes the Keith Relf solo recordings more than his band, The Yardbirds. And for sure his solo work was one of the significant failures in 1960s pop music.  So my next thought is can I fail, but fail on a grand scale, where people and readers will notice me?