January 20, 2014

January 20, 2014

I just heard the news that they are going to shoot my script "In Old Arizona" which will be filmed totally in the outdoors. It's a western and I can't imagine a western without the outdoors and a horse or two. These days it is not practical to film a horse inside a room. It has been reported that Lord Berners had a pet horse that ran freely in his home in England, but alas, I don't feel that's natural, and a Western by all means and definition is 'natural.' 

The good and bad news is that our leading actor is Colin Clive. The bad part of the news is he's English with a very strong accent, and also he is drunk 90% of the day. I was told by the producer that I would have to slightly re-write his character as a drunk 'dandy' (due to his accent) cowboy. When you are a writer and especially working in the film industry one has to compromise, and I do so knowing the responsibility of the work itself as well as the production costs of making such a film. To give the film its retro western look, which I visioned being like watching it as a child on Channel 11 (Los Angeles) on Saturday mornings, we will be using old stock Fuji Film, that was transported by air from Japan. 

This will be my first script that was filmed, and already I feel successful. To celebrate my once-in-a-lifetime mood change, I put on a recording by Juan García Esquivel, who by his nature is always lively and fun. The one thing that is missing from my life on a daily basis is a sense of fun. Writing this Western was my attempt to approach 'fun' from a distance. I feel I can never allow myself the luxury to feel good. 

To give the film the authentic touch, we tried to get the music rights of Slim Whitman, who I think would be perfect for this film. The first thing I wrote for this script is the Colin Clive character on his horse (which I wish had the same color of fur or skin as Lassie) riding towards the darken skies of the Arizona landscape. At this point the Slim Whitman song will come over the soundtrack. The very thought of this made me cry, but it gave me the image to work on to finish this script. Once you got the ending, the rest of the writing becomes easy. One reason I like death, is because it is such a natural ending for a narrative.

I often wished that Federico Fellini had made a Western. One of my literary references for “In Old Arizona” was the French novel by Eugène Sue called “Mystères de Paris.” Although Arizona seems so far away from Paris, I still think of landscape as a place that only exists in one's mind or imagination. I hope everyone who will see this film, will and can enjoy it.

January 19, 2014

January 19, 2014

All the things I really like to do are either immoral, illegal, or fattening.  I was reading an essay by Alexander Woolcott, and was feeling a tad ill.  I went out with a very good friend for dinner last night, and the mixture of potato and enchilada didn't agree with me at all.  But than again why would one eat a potato substance with an enchilada?  There is no such thing in anyone's life as an unimportant day.  Yet, I found myself in bed being very aware of my stomach and thinking that I even look fat when laying on my back.  The true test of being fat for me is standing up naked, and if you can't see your genitals then you are too fat.

I felt an anxiety attack was on its way.   It didn't help matters that I spent a great amount of time yesterday in the bathtub reading short stories by Patricia Highsmith as well as Edgar Allan Poe. I felt like I was a subject matter for a photograph by Larry Clark.  Totally wasted, and very nervous about going out that night with my friend.   She is very beautiful, and with me looking fat, and basically disgusting looking - I just didn't want to appear together, because I felt it would make her look bad.

To calm myself down, I tried to visualize myself in a painting by Paul Cézanne.  It took me five minutes or so, but I started feeling the tropical heat and it made my body feel better.  The great thing is that when I stood up again, I looked down and I could clearly see my genitals.

January 18, 2014

January 18, 2014

Two things made a huge impact on me and my wife was the Northridge Earthquake and the night before purchasing our first computer, the Macintosh Classic.   As a couple or even as an individual we never spent so much money on an object such as the home computer.  At the time I didn't even know its full use.  I was thinking of it as a typing machine with a screen.  But we went to the local electronic shop, purchased the computer after talking to everyone for some sort of advice, and we settled on the Apple computer. The other computer brand seemed too macho or nerdy, I just wanted to turn it on and do its magic for us.  I remember at the electronic shop we purchased a computer game called "Alice" illustrated by Kuniyoshi Kaneko, whose illustrations reminded me of paintings by  Balthus.  

We set the computer up no time, did the registration thing, and added the "Alice" game into the computer.  The game itself bored me (all games bore me) but the images were so great.  My wife and I were thrilled to have "Alice" as well as having a computer.   We went to bed that night happy and content.

Around 4:30 in the morning I felt a dropping sensation as well as a roar that seemed to come from the gates of Satan's home.  They said the earthquake lasted for seconds, but it seemed longer to me.  Without a doubt I knew instantly that this was a major incident that was taking place, that may kill us as well.   The odd part was the quietness after the quake, maybe a second, and then the car alarms went off.  It was almost a musique concrete piece because there were so many alarms being set off at the same time.

It was pitch dark, and we just stayed in bed.  I remember trying to fall asleep but that was impossible.  Once daylight broke out I got out and surveyed the damage.  The first thing we thought of, more than lost life or what happened outside the house was our computer.  I went into the office area and books from the shelves were dumped on the floor, but standing perfectly proud on the table was our computer.  Nothing but chaos around the computer, but there was something almost spiritual about it not being harmed during the quake.

The worst thing about the quake was the aftershocks.  I remember for at least a month I had a deep fear of walking down the street, thinking an aftershock will happen any moment.  Therefore I avoided walking by brick walls as well as telephone poles with wires up above.  I imagine if a quake happened the wires would land on me and of course I would die a painful death from electrocution.  Odd enough that didn't happen.

January 17, 2014

January 17, 2014

As usual after eating my Peanut Butter and Jam English muffin, I took my bath.  Rarely do I take a shower, because I feel taking a shower is sort of the lower class of a bath.  Taking a shower represents that you have to something in great speed or the only purpose is to clean oneself.  But alas a bath is one taking over time, even denying time to soak themselves into a small body of water. Today I took a scented bath (smells like a forest in some imaginary land) while reading the play "The Cherry Orchard" by Anton Chekhov.  It seemed appropriate to read this while taking a bath.  Doing nothing can almost be seen as a political act in our world today.

Carl Laemmle, who was the father of Universal Pictures, so much part of my history, with respect to my love for films.  But the film medium is so fragile, and I remember reading that all his property or place of business was eventually torn down.  Only in the San Fernando Valley is his true home still exist, in a permenent place.  But before that his personal residence was owned by Thomas Ince, whose house was razed in the '40's.  Stars, film and the Cherry Orchard don't last forever!

I think about things like that while taking a bath.  Where i live is also where Mack Sennett worked and lived - yet where is his studio or home?  Shouldn't there be a plaque praising and acknowledging this great figure of cinema history?  But then again, perhaps there is a plaque. Often I have trouble explaining myself, at times I suffer from what Ronald Firbank suffers from, which is a feeling of not belonging.  Nevertheless, once I am out of the bathtub I rarely think about these matters.

Georges Bataille : Literature and Evil

Georges Bataille interviewed on French TV (with English Subtitles) regarding his fascinating book "Literature and Evil."   Thanks to Zach and Daniel Ricculto for bringing this footage to my attention.

January 16, 2014

January 16, 2014

Every morning I have my breakfast of English muffin with peanut butter and a touch of blueberry jam facing my street and always that abandoned car in front of me. About two months ago, I saw a young man in that car, but it seemed like he had trouble starting the engine. I ate one side of the muffin slowly and from the first bite to the last, is exactly how long it took him to try to start up the car. After that I never saw him again, but I am reminded of him whenever I see his car, and that happens every morning.

To distract myself from the sight of the car, I started to read Miguel de Cervantes' "Don Quixote," but the car kept distracting me from the read. I could easily remove myself from my seat where I have breakfast all the time, but I started to resent the fact that I have to move and not the car. The feeling of anger in the morning is not a good feeling at all. But the car in front does change, it gets dirtier and dirtier. Also the front door windows are open, so who knows what goes on inside the vehicle when I am asleep at night.

The other day while I was taking my walk I did go near the car. I didn't want to touch it because it was so dirty. But I did give it a quick glance and what I thought I saw was an image of Kate Moss, maybe a photo taken by Francesco Scavullo on the back seat. It was such an odd juxtaposition to me, that I went back to my house and played some records.

Once inside the house I picked up the Quixote book, but changed my mind and read one of Susan Sontag's essays from her book "Styles of Radical Will." For whatever reason I played the original cast recording of "Hello Dolly" with Carol Channing, and something by Ethel Merman. I just wanted something glamorous and sophisticated in my life. 

But again, I felt a depression sneaking up on me as I ate my breakfast of English muffin with Peanut Butter and jam, facing that same image of that abandoned car.

January 15, 2014

January 15, 2014

I worked at one bookstore for 25 years (off and on).  The last fifteen years was full-time occupation.  My memory is that I entered Book Soup sometime in the 80's and I reached out for a Gilbert & George art book on the top shelf, when I did so, that book and several others landed on the top of my head.   It was at that very moment that I decided to work there, even though I wasn't asked to work there.  But nevertheless I showed up on a daily basis - around 2PM Tuesday through Saturday, and basically hung out there.

I always had the talent to chat, so the fellow (not technically) employees allowed me to roam the store and occasionally help the customers locate books and so forth.  Odd enough the management got a little testy when I picked up their phone when it rang.  I always picked up their phone saying "Tosh here, Book Soup."   On the record I never actually said "Tosh here, employee at Book Soup."  That is a big difference.

When I started 'working' there, I remember a beautiful woman by the name of Elizabeth Short.  She was an expert on Hollywood history, and actually turned me on to some great books.  The one title that stands out at the time is Otto Friedrich's "City of Nets."  One day I showed up at 'work' and she wasn't there. The shock of her not being there was highly depressing to me.  Seeing a face on a regular basis and then not seeing them, is something that words often fail me in describing such a lost.  When people go, I often feel that their spirit remains.   It was one of the reasons why I stayed there for so long.

Serge Gainsbourg in Today's Guardian UK

photo by Tony Frank

A very good introduction to the songs  of Serge Gainsbourg.  Without a doubt one of the great songwriters from the 20th Century.    Read it here on the Guardian:

http://www.theguardian.com/music/musicblog/2014/jan/15/10-of-the-best-serge-gainsbourg

Also read the biography by Gilles Verlant "Gainsbourg."   Translated by Paul Knobloch, and published by TamTam Books.

"Answered Prayers" by Truman Capote (Vintage)

Why I picked up what some consider to be Truman Capote's worst work is to this day a mystery to me.  I was at Alias East Bookstore on Brand, and I had $7 more credit.  Due that I didn't want to hold on to a credit in my pocket for the next week or so, decided on this as a mood purchase.  Also I recently got back from New York City, and I wanted to read something 'classic' from Manhattan aesthetic.  My understanding is that "Answered Prayers" was a novel that Capote never finished, but talked about consistently on TV chat shows, and through the print media.  He was consistently late in delivering the final manuscript to his publisher, and some thought, for awhile at least, that this work doesn't really exist.  Perhaps due to his alcohol/drug dependance of the time, or plain old writer's block.

Once he did publish an excerpt of the book, a chapter called "La côte Basque," and hell opened up to him and swallow him and his book.  The controversy was that he based this story on real people, even including their real names.   Society pretty much threw him, as well as literary critics.  Keep in mind the only other book I read by Capote was "Breakfast at Tiffany's" a novella that did nothing for me.   So, I read "Answered Prayers" thinking it will be a slighter version of the inferno, but alas, it was a pure joy.

One, Capote's really bitchy and funny, and two, he is a remarkable stylist as a writer.  I may have trouble with him as being a narrative type of writer, but for someone like me who enjoys a good sentence or two, Capote is my guy, for now.  Also I have a deep respect for gossip being part of social history.  Gossip may or may not be true, but it speaks a greater version of truth in the narration that is history.  Capote attempted to capture the genius of Marcel Proust, but I think he failed.  But what he did capture was a moment in time, and a time that was very much Capote's last stance in that world.  Surely he knew that once he writes this, he will never be part of that world again.  Is that what happened to "Answered Prayers?"  Nevertheless this is an excellent document of life in Manhattan for the few, and luckly Capote is one of the few to capture that series of moments.

January 14, 2014

January 14, 2014

I woke up with not a hangover, which was an odd feeling for me.  Usually when I open my eyes in the first thing in the morning the pain makes me close them as fast as possible.  I try to pretend its a cold that is going around or an allergy attack of some vague sort, but the fact is I am a huge fan of Charles Shaw red wine.  All sorts of red, as long as the color is red and it stains my round white table.    This morning I woke up to some painful process of writing that as usual took me to places that I didn't need to go to.  What I did need to do is have lunch with one of my best friends Jenny at Mohawk Bends.  Most of the dishes there are vegan or vegetarian, but it is sort of really good trash food at the same time.  She ordered a healthy looking salad, but I went for Avo and Chips, which is fried avocado and of course french fries.

Since it was noon (approximately 12:03 pm) I ordered a glass of Chardonnay which was $9 per glass.  My meal itself cost $12, and I hate the fact that my wine was almost as expensive as the food.  Perhaps through my upbringing, I always felt all beverages should all be in the $2 or $3 range.  Even alcohol!  

Jenny was very excited because she started reading the works of Pierre Loti, who to be honest, I knew very little of.   But anyone who wrote a book called "Flowers of Boredom" is OK with me.  Jenny is very much of an adventurer of body and mind.  Although I never shared the body part of her adventure we have shared literature that was important to us over the years.  I was more of a Yuki Mishima man myself.  I always liked the idea of a writer dressed in an uniform, and if he was photographed by Cecil Beaton, or made into a film by Joseph Losey better yet.  Sadly as far as I know Mishima was neither photographed by Beaton nor made into a film by Losey - nevertheless Jenny didn't know that, so as long as I tell these 'facts' loudly enough, she will of course believe me.  I always prefer the images by Beaton than say a photographer like Garry Winogrand.  Too much realism destroys the illusion of fantasy.

After lunch we went a couple doors down to visit my new favorite record store Blue Bag Records.  Happily they just received a shipment of 7" EP's from the 1950s.  I purchased around 20 titles, all from that era.  After saying goodbye to Jenny and thanking her for the meal (as a principal I always have someone else pay for my lunch) I rushed back home to photograph and play my new (although technically old) records on my sort of new, but old portable turntable.   I can look back today where I didn't have a hangover, had lunch (paid for) with a great friend, and surrounding myself with the beauty of music not processed by the 21st Century.

Drafthouse Films to distribute Michel Gondry's "Mood Indigo" (Foam of the Daze)

Boris Vian's hero Duke Ellington 

At last!  Sometime this year us Americans will be able to view Michel Gondry's version of Boris Vian's classic "Foam of the Daze" (L'écume des jours).  The film will be called "Mood Indigo."  No official release date as far as I know.

Read about it here.   

http://drafthousefilms.com/blog/entry/drafthouse-films-to-deliver-michel-gondrys-mood-indigo

January 13, 2014

January 13, 2014

Usually I don't fall into a deep sleep on an airplane, but I did and when I woke up I felt totally misplaced being on a plane.  Perhaps because I was dreaming I was in my grandparents house in Topanga canyon, which was a home that brought me a sense of security and happiness.  Not Topanga mind you, but just the home in the Fernwood era of the canyon.

I have heard that the great TV comedian Ernie Kovacs died in a car accident in the canyon, but I think it was on Sunset Blvd, near the Beverly Hills Hotel. Nevertheless the image of Kovacs on TV as well as Robert Stack in "The Untouchables" brought a certain amount of joy to my youth.  I often imagine that I was dancing with Gwen Verdon at my grandparents' house.  I can't imagine why, due that the staircase from top floor to bottom was very narrow.  I can't imagine a dancer would find this staircase or house even remotely interesting.

The strange thing about the house in Topanga was that it was small.  Basically an one bedroom house with a small living room and a kitchen and dinning area downstairs with a large property surrounding the home.  But when I dream about the place there is all of sudden additional space - from the bedroom area.  It goes on to another part of the house, with an additional bathroom.  This only existed in my dream, but the funny thing is that I rarely ever go into my Grandparents' bedroom.  Not exactly off limits to me, but just a place that I never go or play in.  Nevertheless this room in my dreams becomes an enlarged space.  It seems that the expanded place has no one really living there, or maybe used as a vacation home?

Many years later in that home I would read the complete works of Jean Genet as well as the magnificent biography on Genet by Edmund White.  it amazes me that I would think about all of this somewhere over the Pacific ocean in very comfortable plane.

January 12, 2014

January 12, 2014

I wondered around where I used to work, Book Soup, looking for a book that I ordered for the store, hoping it didn't get sold, because I really wanted to read it today.  Charles Perrault is a favorite of mine due to the fact that I was raised with his fairy tales.  I can never get enough of "The Sleeping Beauty" or "Little Red Riding Hood."   My Mom used to read them to me as a child, and even though I can never remember the location or that whole day, I do have strong memories of her reading these stories to me.  So once I was old enough to read them by myself, it was like another texture was layered on my memory of these stories.  To bounce out the fairy tales I also purchased Haruki Murakami's "The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle" as well as a collection of short stories by Jack London.

Afterwards I took the bus line No. 2 to Amoeba Records to purchase   vinyl copies of Tex Ritter and Ray Price.  I never had an understanding or appreciation for Country recordings, but I decided I needed to make a giant leap into this world, with both feet first than head.   My wish was to find a 10" version of their albums, because I wanted something from the 1950s to give it that authentic appeal, or what it is like to discover something from that era.  But of course that is really impossible, because I am going back on someone else's nostalgia.  Odd enough I really don't have that feeling for the past, so I need to either share or ride piggy-back on someone else's desires for the past.  Luckily I found everything I desired, at that moment.

When I got home, I photographed all my new possessions.   It is not enough just to have the books and recordings, but I also needed a photo representation of some sort as well.  Photos to me are second-hand objects, a remembrance of things past.

"The Stray Bullet: William S. Burroughs In Mexico" by Jorge Garcia-Robles

University of Minnesota Press ISBN: 9780816680634

It's odd but I never read a bad book on William S. Burroughs. As a writer I think he's great, as a human being, I don't know. He's a fascinating personality that's for sure, but it seems to me that he's a natural nightmare for the National Rifle Association. I can sort of understand someone who is involved with gun culture, but I can't put my head around someone who loves guns even after shooting his wife by mistake. That, would make me give up firearms, but alas, Burroughs kept his interest in firearms for the rest of his life. That part of him I don't like. 

"The Stray Bullet" is a fascinating book written by a Mexican journalist Jorge Garcia-Robles that covers Burroughs stay in Mexico. In detail it goes into the shooting of Burroughs' wife Joan and what happened before and after that tragedy. Her death has always been kept at as a distance with respect to Burroughs writings and commentary. Although he said that was the moment that he became a writer, but it struck me that he never came to accept her death by his own foolish behavior. In that sense not a very nice man. Seeing the two photographs of Joan's body in this book is shocking. Because this is the first time I have been confronted with her death in a graphic manner, and it does leaves one with a bad taste for the Burroughs image. 

It is also interesting that he had no interest whatsoever in Mexico as a culture, either in its history or popular arts. Him and Joan basically just fed their addictions... and that's basically it. In many ways Burroughs world is a very solitude and protected landscape. He risked danger but always by choice. On the surface he's a total noir type of personality, but his weakness is all over the place. "The Stray Bullet" is a sad book, but its interesting that it is written in the point-of-view of a Mexican who appreciates the art of Burroughs, but also quite frank about a man with a lot of faults.

January 11, 2014

January 11, 2014

I had a dream last night that there was snowfall in Los Angeles.  I looked up at the sky and a snowflake fell right in the middle of my eye and it stung me.  I woke up in my little tatami mat room in Meguro, Tokyo.  The first thing I see is the window with a tree that has snow on it.  Usually I'm cold, because Japanese houses don't normally have centralized heating, but alas, I didn't feel the morning chill.  i got out of the futon, went to the toilet and then back to the futon.

 I had a hard time focusing on what day it is and usually when I travel, I have a hard time focusing on location.  Perhaps due to jet lag i have awakened in the middle of the night not knowing where I am, yet familiar with the room.  It is almost like if my room was traveling with me.  But now I know I'm in Meguro and it never snows in Los Angeles.  The really odd thing is I heard Slim Harpo's "I'm a Kingbee."  It took me awhile but I think the music was coming from the outside.

 I put my t-shirt and pants on and went out.  Once I opened the door the music immediately stopped.  I heard the crows outside, and normally that is normal.  There is something so disturbing about the sound of those birds.  I often felt that they were having a conversation about me, and therefore because they have 'crow' language, they can speak freely among us humans.  I closed the front door, and immediately the Slim Harpo song starts up again.

January 10, 2014

January 10, 2014

I arrived in Tokyo late last night, mostly due to the bus trip to the Meguro Hotel than the flight itself. The Narita Airport is about one and a half hours away from Tokyo, so the additional travel time is the thing that really knocks you out. It's bad enough to be in a plane for ten hours, but then having to take a bus for more travel time is the point where one says to themselves "I had enough." Nevertheless I am here because I wanted to surprise my friend Dennis Cooper on his birthday. Him and a friend of his are in Japan for the next two weeks, and I thought "wouldn't it be a good surprise if I just showed up in Japan to see him for his birthday."

From Meguro where I normally stay, I went to a coffee shop in Shibuya, where I heard that he goes to every morning at exactly 10:15. He's been to Tokyo /Japan once, and is a well disciplined figure with respect to scheduling. As a creature of habit he always shows up at this particular coffee shop every morning he's in Tokyo.

My plan was to wait around the cafe as a lurking Rasputin, maybe behind an over sized potted plant. And once he gets in line for his coffee I would just appear behind him in that line, and bingo, tell him happy birthday.

But odd enough, while I was waiting at the Doutor Coffee shop, he doesn't show up. First of all many of the customers here was looking at my way and wondering why I was hiding behind the potted plant for a half n' hour or so. I was so puzzled, because I know Dennis spent time in Hawaii, and Doutor Coffee has a plantation on that island just for the purpose of supplying coffee to this shop and its chain in Japan. A change of plans made me purchase a cup of coffee and I found a vacant seat by the water sculpture, which is one of my favorite spots to sit and drink coffee. As I have mentioned I am not a big fan or 'real' nature, but I greatly admire 'fake' nature. This sculpture represents nature to me, without being really nature and I love that.

At this time it seemed obvious that he won't appear, so after drinking my coffee I walked down to Tower Records, which is only a block away from the coffee shop. I went on the third floor, where they have American music, and I thought I should buy Dennis a CD. For whatever reason I thought it should either be a Johnnie Ray or Max Roach CD. For the life of me, I couldn't really analyze the reason why I would focus on those two artists for Dennis. I don't think he even likes that type of music. But I'm known in the free world as the worst gift giver ever. God knows that most people return my gifts, and usually I am pretty happy about that, because my gifts are normally what I would want as gifts.

I bought a compilation of Ray's recordings called "Cry" which is put out by Bear Family, a great label out of Germany, and Max Roach's "We Insist," which is normally a very hard album/CD to find. I can only hope he'll like it, if not, he will just return it back to me. Which is perfectly OK because I don't have either album in my collection.

JOE ALBANY... A JAZZ LIFE 1980 Complete 60 min. Feature Documentary Film plus book review of "Low Down" by A.J. Albany

A hard to put down, and for a very good reason.  It's excellent.  This has to be the ultimate Jazz/drug/damaged youth memoir written by the daughter of jazz pianist Joe Albany, who on one level can be seen as a dad from hell, but one can still like him by the end of the book.   The one likable figure that does come out is the author A.J. Albany, who is an extremely good memoirist  and leaves the reader charmed by her  observant manner of picking the difference between the dirt and the stars.

Although her upbringing is troublesome at the very least, her intelligence and good taste comes through greatly.  I really like that she has a knowledge of the golden age of cinema while living in 1970's Hollywood, when it was dicey and not very nice, specially to young people damaged by the world of drugs and abandonment.  The one thing that does save her, we think, is her smartness, and the relationship between dad and her is both touching, because even though he fucked up big time, there is that bond between daughter and father that is pretty good.   But I think the daughter worked towards the bond more than dad, which is sad, but the reader doesn't fall into the world of pathos, because she has the spirit to survive, or at least we hope so - the book ends on a dark note.   One suspect that this dark note may have changed, but we're not sure till we read what happens later, and I hope she continues to write her adventure on to a page or two or another book.  

"Low Down" is without a doubt an important document on life on the edge in Los Angeles, as well in the twilight jazz world.  This small book reads well and fast.  Her focus on the teenage and young youth years does want one to read more, and that is a very good thing to have a desire for.

Below a fascinating documentary on A.J.'s dad Joe Albany.

January 9, 2014

January 9, 2014

When I went to New York City this past month I visited Margret who I haven't seen for ten or so years.  She looked great, in fact beautiful. We met at the Strand Bookstore at 7PM.  I was kind of nervous to meet her, and we agreed to meet at the TASCHEN floor, because its small and compact and would have been impossible to miss each other.  While waiting I looked at the Jane & Serge book that just came out, and it struck me how sad photo albums are -even in the happiest times, there is a sense of tragedy around the corner.  It is one of the reasons why I don't keep photo albums in my home.  To look at the good times just reminds one of the bad times, and that is often too painful for me.

Margret showed up, we hugged, and I almost (I say 'almost') forgot how great she feels when you have your arms around her.   She has aged like me, but is and will always be an attractive woman.  I never understood why we didn't take our relationship one step further, but sometimes these things are not in the cards, and it is what it is.

We walked down to Canal Street, to have some Chinese food, which to be honest wasn't so good, but I ate very little because I really wanted to dwell into Margret, and everything she stands for.  Or to put it more honestly, what I think Margret stands for.  Often we project our desires that seem real to us, but alas, it is just a photoshop image of what we think we want.

One of our most lasting (and never ending) conversations is our argument regarding the early years of Scott Walker's music comparing to the music he's making now.   It seems everyone loves Scott's music, but never the same period.  So many of my friends love the early material, but really have a hard time with his later music.  Margret and I, when we get together, have heated discussions regarding the career of our Scott.  I actually feel that there is no difference between his early music and his later stuff.   It is one long thread between the ages, and you can't ignore one aspect of his work, because it is really 'one' long piece of music.   She, like others, doesn't see it that way.

We walked up Broadway, to window shop, and usually we don't touch each other, but for some reason we found ourselves holding hands and even though we didn't say anything, it was kind of a shocking moment for the both of us.

I think we love each other, but the thought of love was much more powerful than the everyday version of it.  When we departed, we just waved goodbye to each other.

January 8, 2014

January 8, 2014

I met Elvis Presley when I was around 10 years old.  In Beverly Glen there is a park off the main street where every Saturday Elvis and his Memphis friends would team up to play touch football against, and mostly, the citizens of Bervely Glen Canyon.   My father would join these pick-up games occasionally and it seems to start up around 2:00 P.M.   I was with my father watching him play football, when one  of Elvis' buddies came up to me and ask if I want to meet Elvis. I said sure, or however a 10 year-old says 'sure' and he lead me to Elvis as we approached him towards his back.  He was sitting on the park bench by himself watching the games, and he was wearing a blue double-breasted jacket with crisp white slacks, a sailors cap, and wrapped around sunglasses.   His friend, who was directly behind Elvis at this point said to him "Elvis meet Tosh."   Elvis without turning around or looking at me stretched his arm and hand towards me and I put my little hand in his to shake.  He didn't say a word nor looked at me.

I never met David Bowie, but I did go to his Santa Monica Civic show in October 1972.  My father and mother took me, and I must have been around 17 or 18 years old.  It was my first time seeing such a 'production' in a rock n' roll show.  I was struck by him physically being on stage and the fact that his movements was very stylized and not overly emotional or friendly-like. About a year later I went to the Long Beach Arena to see his "Aladdin Sane" show, and again I was struck by his sense of theater, or his ability to raise the rock n' roll show into another medium.  I never seen anything like that before.  Also I was with a girl and her girlfriend ,and I liked the girl very much.  But alas, she never liked me the same way.  So the memory of this show is one of the highest of the highs, and the lowest of the lows.  The next time I saw him was at his Diamond Dogs show.  This was very special because Toni Basil got us tickets for this performance, and we sat next to Steve Allen and his wife Jayne Meadows, who were old friends of Toni's.  It was amazing to me that I was sitting with Mr. and Mrs. Allen, which at the time I felt I was on a TV chat show.  The last time I saw Bowie was where I used to work, at a bookstore.  He came in and pretty much purchased every new fiction hardcover book on that trip.  When he paid for his books, I was physically very close to him and I noticed the difference between his eyes.  One was a different color from the other and it was kind of breath-taking beautiful.

January 7, 2014

January 7, 2014

For the past week I have been growing a beard. But now I feel it is time to shave it off, and due to the thickness of my beard I decided to go to my local barber for a straight edge razor shave. I went to Bolt Barbers on Spring street near 5th in Downtown Los Angeles. The beauty of surrendering yourself to a barber is a wonderful thing. The only part I don't like is when they dip the chair and you're facing the ceiling. I have severe vertigo, so I pretty much keep my eyes closed during the shave, and I am also a tad fearful of the straight edge razor.

When I walked in I noticed there was a guy in his parked car in front of the barber shop and it seems like he was crying. What really made me notice him is his car, which was a Rambler American, I guess from the early 1960s. The shop has mirrors, so if I dare to open my eyes time-to-time I am looking at a reflection that shows the entrance of the shop, including the crying man in his Rambler. I was drawn to watch him, but couldn't keep my eyes on him due that I got dizzy.

When I did open my eyes I saw him with a container and he was pouring liquid over his car. It didn't strike me as being strange due that I was sort of blessed out by the ongoing shave. So I closed my eyes for awhile. I opened it again, and the driver was in his car, still crying. I closed again, and I think minutes later I opened my eyes and looking almost upside down through the mirror I saw him and his car on fire. It was seconds before it became a torch, I closed my eyes again.

It was this point that the shave was about over and I heard sirens. Firemen were yelling and they had a hose that was spraying high-pressured water on the burning car. I got out of my chair and paid I think $30 plus tip to my barber, and then I walked out, passing the burning car to my bus stop on Main and 4th.