It is hard work to do nothing. I'm always filling my day with things to do, to avoid the nothing. Once I wake up in the morning, there are a few minutes of dread where nothing is happening. I'm trying to set my mind on what the day will be like. I check my calendar, and like a lot of people, I'm obsessed with making lists. If I have less than five things to do that day, I feel depressed. Then slowly the feeling of guilt that you should be producing something, even if it's not essential. I open up my computer and look at the blank screen. Nothing is happening. I then look out my front window, facing Waverly Drive, and I see no one. Usually, people are walking their dogs at this time in the morning, but alas, I see only a fat furry cat walking down the sidewalk by him or her self. A dog when is either on a leash or free from it always walks without a purpose or direction. A cat walks going to a specific direction in mind and is rarely side-tracked by anything unless someone approaches it. There is one moment which becomes tense when I see the cat walk behind a parked car, and I wonder if I will see it again exiting that car. The moment I see the cat still, I feel a sense of relief. He or she then enters into an opening of the bush and disappears.
For me, there is no feeling of the cat being cute or beautiful. I like to see it walking down the sidewalk with a sense of purpose or plan. This inspires me to get back to my writing. There is a piece of music that causes me a great deal of anxiety, and it's John Cage's "4'33." It has a strict format where the piano player sits behind his keyboard and doesn't play anything for the duration of four minutes and thirty-three seconds. People think this is a work of silence, but it is the opposite of silence. When you are in a concert hall or theater "hearing" this piece, you are immediately aware of the sounds around you - perhaps a nervous cough, a clearing of the throat, a fart, or the fear of making a farting noise, air conditioner, heating vent, shuffling of feet, and so forth.
When I write, I need consistent sound around me — either music or outside ambient sounds. For instance, traffic noise, as well as a child, is screaming down the block from me. Each sound is like someone hitting me with a live electric wire, which gets my brain to jump. I work in a lonely place, which is pretty much my head. This is no longer a bad thing at all. To actually feel the space between yours truly and the world is an area that I can measure and fill up images with, but I also can subtract imagery as well. The thing is you have to control the noise around you, and something like "4'33" is chaos. Because you can't control the noise level of silence in one's life. So setting everything aside, you sit there for "4'33" in the quietness that is impossible, and also the anxiety or blissfulness knowing that things will happen again at 4 minutes and thirty-four seconds. It has a beginning and an end.
It's very work-orientated. We usually have 8 hours a day to work. Within those 8 hours, we have two fifteen minutes breaks, and often an half-n-hour lunch. Or it could be an hour lunch. Nevertheless, this sets a schedule for the entire day that one can't question or get out of unless you call in sick. Or like me, unemployed. When you don't have a job, you're facing a series of moments that cannot be filled. So one is left with the anxiety of confronting 'nothing.' Drinking is an effortless way of dealing with the sense of time wasting away. Because at least you are taking something that sort of comments on time passing, and you reflect on the failure or happiness of those moments.
-Tosh Berman
I'm trying to do away with my vices, so I focus on being on the entrance to nothing. I want to face that void, and be contented with the blankness that will come upon me. That hasn't happened yet. I remember seeing a performance by Yves Klein called "Monotone-Silence Symphony" in New York, and what the piece consists of is an orchestra of 70 musicians and singers performing a D major chord for 20 minutes, followed by 20 minutes of silence. The members of the orchestra are instructed not to move and sit on their seats. It's a tougher piece than "4'33" because we know that the silence will last exactly 20 minutes. So one is getting around 16 minutes of more silence. But we do get the contrast between sound and silence in this work. I have met someone who went to one of the performances and felt that the work failed because the silence part was not done correctly.
Daniel Moquay, who is in charge of the Yves Klein archive and the estate was quoted regarding the performance of the piece that took place in a Parisian church: "The door of the church was open, and a pigeon came in and sat where everyone could see him," he said. "During the 20-minute silence, he did not move at all. It was kind of incredible. And then when the silence was over, he left."
Is there a more celebrated face than the face of Antonin Artaud? For my entire life, I have always been in the presence of his face. My father, along with portraits of Brigitte Bardot and Jean Cocteau, would have an image of Artaud by his work table in Beverly Glen, and later in his studio both in the Glen and Topanga. I was a teenager when I saw Carl Theodor Dreyer's "The Passion of Joan of Arc," and like others, I was very much impressed with the face of Renée Jeanne Falconetti as Joan. Like Artaud, Falconetti suffered from mental illness throughout her life, and eventually committed suicide in Brazil in 1946. When I was working at Beyond Baroque, Viggo Mortensen took me to see "The Passion of Joan of Arc," which at the time, he was obsessed with the film. He brought me along because he just liked to share his love for the film and who he considered the greatest actress. Falconetti! He also knew I was a huge Artaud fan, and the scenes in the movie, to me, are dueling faces at work, which is quite remarkable, because Artaud looks so calm, almost evil in a tranquil sense.
When I found myself in Tokyo, I was fortunate to see Kabuki theater in the Ginza. What I found fascinating was how the audience re-interacts with the actors and what was happening on the stage. There were moments when it seems that the audience becomes part of the theater play. When one walks into the theater, the lighting on the audience side is not darkened. So one cannot only see what is occurring on the stage in front of you, but one is also aware of what the audience is doing. For instance, I was surprised to hear people talk in normal tones during the performance. After a while, once my ears and eyes become accustomed to the "new' environment, I accepted that the whole theater or building was a performance. One also notices how flat the Kabuki play looks on the stage. No one is highlighted, and it is like seeing a film of a John Ford landscape in Utah, where mountain peaks match the importance of the human figures traveling in that landscape.
When Artaud saw Balinese dancers perform at the Paris Colonial Expo, he must have been affected by the technique and aesthetic of accepting the audience as part of the performance. Also most important is the ritual aspect of the production and how the dancers use all parts of their body to express themselves, including head and eyes movements. Kabuki is over-the-top as well, and one follows the narrative by its grand gestures than say the quiet moments.
Artaud wrote a play called "Jet of Blood" which starts with a young man and a young girl repeating the lines, "I love you, and everything is beautiful," "You love me and everything is beautiful." They repeat the lines in different accents and styles to each other. Then when the man comments that "the world is beautifully built and well ordered" - a sudden violent storm appears, including a hurricane which separates the man and girl, with two stars colliding, and assorted objects falling from the sky — mayhem rules in the world of Artaud.
Artaud is an artist whose life is not separated from his art. An ill man all through his life, plus an addiction to hard narcotics made him vulnerable to the outside world. His mania got worse when he obtained a walking stick of knotted wood and was convinced that this cane once belongs to St. Patrick as well as Lucifer and Jesus Christ. He spent the last years in a mental hospital. Artaud didn't do many performances either on film or on the stage. His writings have become influential literature for poets, actors, and those who are abused by the system of living in a world of not their making. I, myself, can not escape his influence, especially concerning how he sees space, distance, and the performance that somehow falls between the different categories. To provoke an audience is one way of changing the world. To feel, to create, and throw oneself in the storm that is, society is truly wonderful. Unless that society is there to reject and harm you. - Tosh Berman
I remember Alan Wilson's death, from acute barbiturate intoxication, because I was living in Topanga at the time. He wasn't world-famous, but famous in Topanga. He was a member of the band Canned Heat, and although I never actually met him, I for sure saw him at the local market. The only Canned Heat song I liked was "On The Road Again." I love the minimalism of the recording. The consistent drum beat and the distinctive sound of the cymbal, with the additional tambura, which is an Eastern string instrument. It's the blues, but with an unfamiliar presence due to the instrumentation. I first heard that song when I was in bed, around 3 a.m. I had a transistor radio glued to my ear, and I remember this song, and it seemed so eerie and depressing at the same time.
When I have my moments of despair, the song comes to me from the back to the front of the head. Alan Wilson was a friend of depression as well. They found his body in the hillside behind the lead singer Bob Hite's Topanga home. Wilson loved nature and preferred to be in the outdoors as much as possible. He liked to take his sleeping bag, and finds a beautiful tree and sleep there. It was reported that Al had a hard time connecting with people, perhaps being on the Autism Spectrum. He was a passionate conservationist, and read books on botany and ecology. And of course, an academic on the subject matter of the blues.
Interestingly, a man who was so removed from human interaction would have a love and understanding of something so poignant as the blues. Yet, his blues was something that I feel was close to the bone for him. To quote the whole song:
"Well, I'm so tired of crying
But I'm out on the road again
I'm on the road again
Well, I'm so tired of crying
But I'm out on the road again
I'm on the road again
I ain't got no woman
Just to call my special friend
You know the first time I traveled
Out in the rain and snow
In the rain and snow
You know the first time I traveled
Out in the rain and snow
In the rain and snow
I didn't have no payroll
Not even no place to go
And my dear mother left me
When I was quite young
When I was quite young
And my dear mother left me
When I was quite young
When I was quite young
She said, "Lord, have mercy
On my wicked son."
Take a hint from me, mama
Please don't you cry no more
Don't you cry no more
Take a hint from me, mama
Please don't you cry no more
Don't you cry no more
'Cause it's soon one morning
Down the road I'm going
But I ain't going down
That long old lonesome road
All by myself
But I ain't going down
That long old lonesome road
All by myself
I can't carry you, baby
Gonna carry somebody else"
I find this song moving because it seems to be a tight circle, where one can't get out of its rhythm or structure. The actual drone of the music that is the foundation for the other instruments is relentless. The singer is in hell, and here in a small number of words describes the landscape that there is no escaping from. Throughout my life, I always find 'chance' as a 'free from jail' card, but here "On The Road Again" its permanent groundhog's day, where and when misery matches with the solid beat. Endless.
I imagine Alan Wilson looking out to the stars, in his sleeping bag and thinking, at the very least, a limitless vision that must have been an escape of some sort. Now eternal sleep.
I can't forget the night I met you. That's all I'm thinking of, and now you call it madness, but I call it love. Alone from night to night, you'll find me. I'm too weak to break the chains that bind me. For one command, I stand and wait now, from one who's master of my fate now." It is like you never died, or maybe you've been dead for a long time. No one told me that you left the earth. They played your records and said to me that these were recent radio broadcasts. The letters I read from you, till recently realized that they were not from you, but signed by another to give an appearance of your being near me. My dream is broken in two, but it can be made like new on the street of dreams.
You're too beautiful for words. Alas, that is all I could offer. I started to paint because I feel that it was my former language, where I can say things I can't say, but can on canvas. I often roam inside the Jardin des Plantes, and when I go into the glasshouses, and I see the strange plants of exotic lands, it seems to me that I enter into a dream.
I wait patiently for a letter from you, but I never know if it comes from your heart, or if it is even real. When you last wrote to me, you said, "goodnight sweetheart, may dreams guide you." Ever since then, I wait for the mailman to bring some news, but the bills and advertisement to the local shopping mall, remind me how empty I feel. Will you not come back to me and give me some reason to keep on living? And I do live, but only to count the days since you have gone.
You're my everything underneath the sun and moon. My only dream, my only reality - you're the song I sing, and the book I read. When I say this to you, or write to you, I sound so dumb, but if I can add Russ Colombo's croon, then I think you understand my words, as it should be voiced.
I don't know why I love you as I do. You appeared to be interested in touching me only when we are dancing. How I long for the music to stop, and never take my arms off you. Tears without measure, my life seemed so wrong - and with a smile, you banished sorrow. But that is all changed because together we will live in dreams. Even separately. - Tosh Berman
"If I live, I live, if I die, I'll die." There is very little here, except the ocean, which surrounds this island, and the mountains. All structures and shops are close to the water as if it has second thoughts being in the jungle-like the growth of nature. Once you're on the island, you are here forever. Even if you leave, the insect bites seem to stay with you for a long time. I have rashes on top of other rashes, and for sure, me being here, must have shortened my life by at least minutes if not longer. If I die on this island, I will haunt it forever. I don't believe death is the end, but a continuation of one's hell. Once you throw the dice against the wall and your numbers don't come up - you're fucked, and you're fucked for life.
I came to this island because I needed to test myself in the sense that I would choose life over death. To me, it is the same. The fact it is in the middle of summer, which means the weather is not only hot 24 hours a day, but also humid, where one's sweat seems to attract every insect in existence on this island. The most common insect I have here is an overlarge spider. When you walk down one of the paths or even the street that circles around the island, which is a two-lane road, one often walks into a giant spider web. If I take a ten-minute walk anywhere, I find my hair has cobwebs and an occasional living creature of some sort. The other animal I see here, and I see a lot of is cats. Most, if not all, are wild. They don't look approachable, but still, they are beautiful creatures. I wasn't sure if it was due to my exhaustion from the heat, but I could have sworn I saw a cat as big as a large dog. It was an orange kitty, and looked normal, except it was huge. I immediately walked the other direction, because for sure, I felt the animal would have approached and eaten me. I think it would go for the eyes first and then the hair of my body. I then imagined that the cat would drag me into the bushes and eat the rest of my body.
I did see an odd sight when walking down a dark road, there were two crows in the street, picking on something. As I slowly approached these flying rats, I can see they were eating a dead squirrel. Which amazingly enough, I never see these critters on trees or anywhere else. Only once, and this squirrel is quite dead, yet still, a meal for the birds. I even saw a deer with horns, but he or she pretended to hide from me in a bush. The deer never lost sight of me as I slowly walked down the street. As a human, I don't feel that I should be on this island whatsoever. It belongs to creatures and nature. I often felt this way when I walk around the dog park in Silver Lake. Humans take their dogs here, but it seems like a concentration camp to me. There used to be grass, but now it is nothing but dirt and dogshit. There is something depressing to me when I see humans playing with their pets - it reminds me of master and servant. One can't escape the horror of being human and being part of the social system where one looks for love wherever they can find it, even for a dog that is with you because one feeds it. The beast must conform to the human's point-of-view of what an animal is - in other words, their pet or animal must reflect the owner's ego. Here on the island, beasts (cats) run free and I find it beautiful because here they are - as they are meant to be — not a human's concept of a beast, but indeed a creature on their terms.
I spend my time writing, mostly at the abandoned elementary school. My wife and I set up a portable studio within the space, which is jammed full of images of students and teachers who are no longer working there, and more likely no longer alive. Even then, nature is taking over the room. Insects roam freely from one body to the next, and when I take my clothes off to take my daily cold shower, I look like a map, not made by human intelligence, but from an insects point-of-view. So if I do die here, I will become part of the natural world - food for the cats, crows, and a dessert for the insects. - Tosh Berman
Tosh & Kimley discuss "Under the Big Black Sun: A Personal History of L.A. Punk" by John Doe with Tom DeSavia and friends. Having both experienced the L.A. Punk scene firsthand, we found this to be a nostalgic and at times underwhelming look back at a scene that defied definition with bands ranging from the pure pop of the Go-Go’s to the hardcore thrashing of Black Flag. So what is L.A. Punk? We discuss both the Hollywood and Latin influences unique to the L.A. scene as well as the strong graphic visuals and DIY aesthetic that permeated all aspects of the scene. Contributors to the book include Exene Cervenka of X, Jane Wiedlin and Charlotte Caffey of the Go-Go’s, Mike Watt of the Minutemen, and Henry Rollins to name just a few.
Power. I love power. There is something so beautiful about the nature of power in that at the end of the day, all that matters is… power. The people who tend not to like power are the ones that usually are not fit in that position or have a role in power. Also oddly enough they appeared to be getting fucked on a regular basis. They're almost wearing a sign around their neck, saying, "Kick me." But also keep in mind in the role of society, you need these pathetic people, because they will always take abuse, and on times, thank you for it. They can usually survive due that they can always find another loser among the ranks that will help them out. One thing that weak people are good at is finding other defenseless people. What they share is their hatred of those who are entitled. In fact, it is virtually a mania for these people. The more that they express their contempt for the powerful, the more powerful I get. It is just like a broken water pipe during a drought. They blame the neighbor watering his lawn too much, but meanwhile, they sheepishly accept the real-power-to-be and become bullies themselves. It never fails, in that, they are frustrated by those who control their lives, but they will take it upon themselves to make a fellow citizen feel the blows of their world.
It is usually a huge gesture that makes the powerless feel even more helpless. Public, almost random, executions always drive them batty. They run back to their shabby homes and frown in front of their computers. If you overload them full of rotten images, they usually become numb to them. Excess is my perfume; for another, it can smell like shit.
Nevertheless, my role is intended to be an entertainer of sorts. I am dishing out punishment as much as favors. My philosophy consists of keeping them guessing. It is sort of like being behind a mammoth recording mixing board, and you control the sounds in that room. More vocals, but to do that you have to lessen the cello player's input. He or she will complain, but when the moment seems almost too bleak, throws them a bone. They'll gobble it down with pure happiness and a sense of regret.
They say power adds a certain amount of isolation. This is true. I have put numerous prisoners through solitary confinement, and the irony is, I too put myself in that state of mind. I basically like people to have sex with, and the ability to master their lives. This gives me great comfort at the end of the day. For Love, I have assorted animals that I am quite fond of. I never mistreat an animal in my life, because I know by their nature that they will if they are given the opportunity, eat me up.
On the other hand, people reason themselves for survival and therefore rarely strike back in a consistent method. If you consistently push and push a crowd or a group, they will eventually fight back. The thing is the fact that they are so frustrated and so full of false pride, they will do something quite futile, like using a useless weapon of some sort. Once they are doing that, then I can bring the army in and crush them. Not enough to destroy them, but sufficient for them to experience the power of my will.
I allow elections and a governing body into my reign of 'pleasures. 'However, I make sure that they are either voting for Heckle or Jeckle. The best policy is to ensure that each party fears the other. Therefore a voter will vote out of fear for the other person, and they will never vote for what they desire. In a democracy, even a fake one like ours, people tend to vote in a negative fashion. They fear the other politician because so-of-so, but the fact is both parties are the same thing. Which again, by the end of the day, is intended to support yours truly. All I can say is let them hate (me) so as long as they fear (me). Whatever becomes of me, it will just be my body gone, therefore, and for all purposes, I live. - Tosh Berman.
All artists aim at creating their world. What makes them a good artist is their ability to be pleased with their vision when it now comes to life. I have consistently been intrigued by Victor Frankenstein because he had an idea, and he failed. Decay is a fascinating subject in itself. I often buy fruit, such as a banana, not to eat, but to see it die. Although technically fruits are dead when they arrive in your kitchen or at the market, but to me to see it in such a beautiful shape and then, over a short period, turn ugly, and ripe with goo, which is almost like blood, and it's a fascinating process for me. Frankenstein appears to be not that much into life, but more of watching the decay in action, and having that figure (his monster) commenting on the decline of life.
One of Doctor Frankenstein's significant influences was Paracelsus, who lived in Swiss Germany from 1493 to 1541. An occultist, but one who didn't study from manuscripts, but from nature and life in front of him. He gave zinc its name and also discovered that some diseases are rooted in psychological illness. With that inspiration, Frankenstein collected body parts from various graveyards to see if he can bring dead tissue back to life. He eventually succeeds, but alas, his sense of the aesthetic and design was terrible. The "creature" turned out ugly. Very ugly.
Seeing his invention come to life, and not to his liking, he flees the creature. In a real sense, he's the father who leaves the child, but even worse, he doesn't provide for the creation that he created. Alone, Frankenstein's "monster" demands that he makes him a mate, a female that he can be with. He does, but the "good" doctor destroys his creation, realizing that he started a new race. With that in mind, his monster swears that he will kill him and anyone he comes in contact with. So what we are confronted with is revenge, stupidity, and passion for creating something that wasn't there before.
I'm often jealous that I have never created a character (besides myself) that either makes their world or at the very least, have some importance to the world out there. I never loved Robert Crumb. I have consistently admired the fact that he presented a landscape that is so full of his characters and even has a soundtrack attached to those images. Eros becomes one's world if they focus and concentrate on making that world. I don't accept a lot of his imagery, but that is perfectly fine because one can enter or leave the entrance to one's desire. There is always an exit, but unlike Victor Frankenstein, he didn't make a proper exit for his invention.
The role of the dandy is to re-make the world into their vision. This is sometimes not a workable solution; nevertheless, an adventure does come out of the process. The art of it is to embrace your creativity and feed and entwine oneself around it no matter what the cost is. For inspiration, I look upon Joan Blondell in "Gold Diggers of 1933. A citizen of the depression, she makes efforts to embrace a new career in illusion, which is the essence of show business - to create a world that doesn't exist, to exist. Every day, every hour - I work hard to live, and I appreciate the spirit that wants to create, but again, it is the art of living. Some are masters, and some are just failures. But one can learn from both positions.
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.
Some days I wake up in the morning, and I can't bear the world -mine, their's and yours. I remember seeing there was a commercial on TV many years ago when the adult, in bed, woke up with a smile on his face, due to the smell of fresh coffee being made or a bowl of cereal waiting for him in the kitchen. I never had that type of morning. Instead, I get a wave of anxiety that I have to set aside, or I will never get out of bed. In a way, I live in separate compartments, where one room is total despair, and I have to suck that feeling out of that space and put it aside or put it in another part of my brain. There is something wrong when one wakes up and is in a moment or two of pure panic. What I feel is "knowing is not enough; we must apply. "Willing is not enough; we must do. Generally, I do not give in too much to feelings. An overly sensitive heart is an unhappy possession on this shaky earth."
Every morning I do an inventory of everything I did the previous day poorly — one horrible blunder after another. As a child, I remember we had a statue of a female in our backyard. I would spend a great deal of time touching her face, feeling that somehow I could capture the emotion she's expressing, but also I was drawn to the coldness of the marble. It would give me comfort, and when no one was around, I would embrace the statue and stand there with my arms wrapped around its head. At times, I could have sworn that her marble face would change an expression. Either it was unmoving and non-judgmental, or it could have a faint smile on her lips. "Raising a child is a creative endeavor, an art rather than a science." This is precisely how I was raised, and I grasp anything that will keep me on balance in a world that has pits, holes, and rings of fire at every step.
The Velvet's "White Light White Heat" maybe the most excellent song ever. Every time I put it on my turntable, I can feel the power of the words taking me to another place, but yet, I'm aware that I'm still here, in an area that has no room for me. I like to read fairy tales by the Brothers Grimm because I think they put the reader right in the front of a headlight of an oncoming car, and I think any child would learn to jump away from the blinding light. I tend to embrace the sun, and I think it is one of the reasons why I love the song "White Light White Heat."
I learn lessons from all my mistakes, yet I can't correct anything. I hit the side of my head and go 'Hey dummy,' but that's about it. My life is like holding a bowl of burning flaming liquid on the top of my head. I'm just trying to avoid all the sinkholes on the ground. I want to contain everything I have and not spill it out on the pavement in front of me. But most of all, I want to rock. And. Roll.
Tosh & Kimley discuss Beneath the Underdog: His World as Composed by Mingus, the memoir by iconic jazz musician and composer Charles Mingus. Mingus’s memoir is known for its picaresque telling of his childhood growing up in the Watts neighborhood of Los Angeles and his travels to the California Bay Area as well as his time in New York City. While the book doesn’t give a lot of detail on his musical work or his playing with all the greats of his era, it does give an illuminating perspective on race and growing up and living as a black man in America in the twentieth century. Not to mention his many escapades with pimps, prostitutes and assorted other riveting characters. This book swings like few others!
Spotlight on … Edouard Levé Suicide (2008) *
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*(restored) ‘It would be an interesting experiment to sit someone down in
a chair and present them with a copy of Edouard Levé’s Suicide from which
front...
Happy Birthday Elliott Gould
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Happy Birthday to one of the all-time greats and one of the coolest of the
cool Elliott Gould. From my 2019 New Beverly interview with Elliott Gould
about ...
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