Tosh Berman's Blog, page 208

November 4, 2014

November 4, 2014

I had a job in the Los Angeles sewer system as a “Sub-supevisor in the sub-division of the Department of subterranean sanitation. I just keep things moving along.” I had the 5 AM to 1 PM shift, which was fine for me.  After an early dinner, I can focus on working on my memoir, which appears to be endless. When one writes about their whole life, I have a tendency to go through my address book, and write about each person.  Most, as you can gather are not that important to me, nor am I worthy to them - nevertheless as a memoirist, I believe that it is my responsibility to comment on my relationship with each and every one of them.  I live alone now, due to the stench I brought with me from work.  Here I can stink up the house, and not worry about a girlfriend.  Even though my long-lasting and suffering ex was once employed in a meat-packing factory, so she at that time stunk up the room as well.   The combination of sewer and dead meat scents did not go too well together.   Take my word on this!



Before I became a Sub-supervisor, I was in the entertainment business.   I made a record in the early 50s that was a minor hit on the British Airways.   “Mr. Sandman, ” a classic song, and my version, to be honest, didn’t really add much to the original version done by Bing Crosby.   Although I couldn’t get myself arrested here in the States, I managed to do a small tour in the U.K. Well, again to be honest, it was only Manchester and Liverpool.  We couldn’t book a gig in London for some reason.  Nevertheless I was known to be “Northern Novelty, ” which was a short-time cult-like movement of record collectors that only collected 78 rpm disks that were hits in Manchester.  My only fan that I can remember was a spicy British woman by the name of Cosey Fanni Tutti, who sent me the most unusual photographs of herself.  I tried to locate her in both Liverpool and Manchester, but failed miserably.  Sometimes a photograph is all you really need.



My life, at this moment, is not so hot.   As you can guess, my music career went down to the sewer, and even there I couldn’t last long in that occupation.  To hopefully find a connection to a better job, I joined my local Raccoon Lodge, where the saying around the club room is “An Emergency meeting is an Emergency meeting - never a poker game.  An Executive Meeting, that’s a poker game.” I met two people there, and both were in the motion picture business.  One is an actor by the name of “Gig,” and he is very friendly, but seems to be attached to the hooch, the other is a cameraman who claimed to photograph movies for Orson Welles and Charles Laughton.  Both I find kind of “iffy. ” On the other hand,  in this town you can’t always pick a winner.  Both of my new friends suggested that I should go in the acting business.



I need what one would call a “headshot,” so I found this photographer who had a studio on Hollywood boulevard near Vermont, and his name was Robert something or another, nevertheless  I have to admit I was a tad nervous being in front of him.  He told me that I should remove all my clothes for that perfect headshot.   The reason for that is: “So you can focus on the neck and above and not worry about what’s below the neck.” That I have to admit, sounds reasonable to me.    He gave me a knife and a leather jacket to wear, and he said “just go for it.” I have to say that was or is the best part of being an actor so far.  So far, “my specialities are corpses, unconscious people and people snoring in spectacular epics.” Things are finally looking up for me.

November 3, 2014

November 3, 2014

I got the tail-end of the Showa Era, when I lived in Japan in 1989/1990.  Hirohito was the emperor during the Showa period, in fact that is how one measures history in Japan.   His time period (as well as the Showa era) is from December 25, 1926 to January 7, 1989.   There is obviously that incident that happened between our country and Japan, but nevertheless what I find the most fascinating is the film/art/literature culture of that era.   Due to the passing of the Emperor, I came upon a series of books and documents regarding the Showa era, when I was there, and each image from the 20th century had a profound effect on me.  It is difficult to believe that when I first visited Japan in 1989, I never used chopsticks.  The first night there, I had my first proper Japanese meal, and in front of me were these two wooden sticks.  I was deeply hungry, and when one is in that state, it is amazing how one can master these two wooden sticks to serve the purpose of putting food in your mouth.  Also I loved the thought of eating without stabbing my food on a fork.  That to me seems so violent. Yet picking up food gently using chopsticks, somewhat made the food more tasty to me.

When I was in living in Tokyo and Moji-Ku, I lost track of my culture, due that at the time there was no internet, and if I wanted to read a newspaper, for instance the Japan Times (their English language daily paper) I had to wait two to three days before I got the latest edition.  So the big news of that time was the Berlin Wall going down and the large San Francisco earthquake - all news I got two days later after it happened. I felt like a man out of my time, and often like the Man who fell to Earth as well.   I would wander around Moji, going from shop-to-shop to coffee shop-to-bar, and all the children would stare at me as I walked by.  At the time there were hardly any foreigners walking around, so I must have looked like an alien to them.  In fact, perhaps I’m an alien. 


My obsession at the time was to collect images of Astro Boy.   I was struck by the beauty of the narrative of a robot boy who was invented to replace the inventor’s real son, who died in a car crash.  Over his grief, he realizes that the robot son can never replace the “authentic” son he had, so he abandoned Astro Boy.   Of course, the robot boy becomes a hero and saves the day - as all superheroes do in their own fashion.  Around the same time, “Godzilla” became known, and was of course regarded as a metaphor for nuclear weapons.  The creature from the mishap of science would destroy Tokyo, but yet, the city always survives.  As a hobby I like to walk around Tokyo and see the original buildings from that era (1960s or 1950s), but it is getting harder to locate, due to the nature of Tokyo always tearing down and putting up new buildings.  I have been going there for the last 25 years, and I often feel that Godzilla must have come upon the city again, and “forced” some changes again.



For my own personal choices, I have always preferred the character “Black Jack, ” due that I think he is the most mysterious character in the world of its creator Osamu Tezuka.   He’s a doctor, who seemed to fall out of the legal medical world, to travel around Japan to help those in need.  The fact that he commits illegal surgeries is of great interest, and quite scary to me as well.   The ‘goth’ doctor, if he’s even a real “doctor” strikes me as an original character.  For the Japanese reading audience, he may not be so scary, but to me, I think I would be terrified of being on an operating table, and having to face the man/boy with the white streak hair.



On the other hand, I have an emotional pull for Goseki Kokima (the artist) and Kazuo Koike’s (the writer) manga series “Lone Wolf and Cub.” The story is about a wandering assassin who travels with his three-year old son throughout Japan, in the hopes of seeking revenge on the Yagyū clan.  The clashes in the comic are quite violent, but also disturbing with the respect of the son and his father.  In a way, it makes me think of the Cormac McCarthy novel “The Road.” Both narratives deal with a father taking care of his son, in a very hostile world.  It is almost fairy-tale like in that the bond between father and son is called into question by the daily life of survival at its worst state.

More likely I will never ever know Japan, but I will always be in love with what I think is Japan.   The reality and what I imagined is quite a leap into a faith that maybe misleading, nevertheless, it’s a world of my own making with the significant assistance of the above.

November 2, 2014

November 2, 2014

The ordinary world is so dull.  Day-in-day-out.  One has to re-imagine themselves just to brush off the offensive personalities that are of “that” landscape.  One needs to take a space and make it special.  I have often admired the work of Rudy van Gelder, due that he took a room, made it to his specification for the perfect sound to capture music genius’s sounds.  Throughout my life I tried to find the perfect location to do my writing, but alas, I seem to fail.  I first began working in my personal library, but I found myself enclosed in a world of my making, in other words, the books I have read and worshiped.  The books have a tendency to reflect the personality that I desperately want or desire, and once I approach the empty piece of paper … it stays empty.



I try to re-imagine myself in a world that is artificial, and therefore I’m drawn to films made by Luchino Visconti - because the setting appears to be much larger than the characters. I’m thinking specifically of “Death inVenice” and “The Damned.” Both locations are inflicted with decay, and the death of a culture can be an inspirational torch to get one to be creative.  On the other hand, for me who I find contemporary culture to be unexciting, lifeless… It’s a stretch of my imagination to convey a better world out of that miserable existence that I call the 21st century.



On the other hand, I need a landscape that seems real to me.  I was very much raised in the world of comic books, and one illustrator that has always captured my attention is Steve Ditko, who seemed to have an almost feminine approach to his super-heroes.   Doctor Strange is very psychedelic - almost too much for my sensibilities. His adventures take place on another dimension, that is hard for me to understand or grasp.  I can’t identify myself in such a world.  Perhaps because it is just so fantastic.  I need a landscape that is clearly decaying.  The 21st century is for sure in that mode, but it is so dreary it is hard for me to get my imagination around it.



The way I see it, I don’t want to shoot contemporary culture with an elephant gun, so I wished it would just shuffle along.  Yet, it stays like a bad odor in a public bathroom.   Boredom is worn proudly on their jacket lapel. With that in mind, I always remember the quote from Jules Barbey d’Aurevilly:  “Hatred needs scorn.  Scorn is hatred’s nectar.” I have a print-out of that quote and I attach it to my notebook, as an inspiration or motivation to finish a project.  My feeling of disgust is the hunger within that makes me want to write, to create - a better world?

November 1, 2014

November 1, 2014

  The first thing I see when I wake up in the morning is my window and the tree that is out there.  I worry about that tree, because if it disappears it will change my life.  Also I can’t properly sleep at night, unless I gaze at the same image.   For most people the lighting at night would disturb their sleep, but for me, I feel a sense of security knowing that the streetlight will be there, and as usual, reflecting on the tree - which also gives it a certain amount of dimension, that is almost 3D like.   It’s very beautiful.  Therefore I often think about the tree and worry about its existence.  When Gaza was under attack, the first thing I worried about was the plantation or its trees.  The second concern was the architecture.  If I was living there, I think I would be very disturbed to realize that a tree that was once there, no longer exists.  That for me, would be worse than a human life dying.  Therefore one can imagine how horrible I felt when I came back from a long trip, to discover that tree was now gone.

Not only that, but new graffiti on the staircase that leads to Fletcher and Glendale.  It is not just the words on the stairs that I find disturbing, but also the paint color.  It is totally wrong aesthetically, and it doesn’t make any sense to me why someone would do something like that.  What is it that makes a human being write something on a piece of property that they don’t own?   Concrete itself is quite beautiful.  The fact that these stairs were built sometime in the 1920s, the purpose being of course for people to easily get to the red car station that was once there.   Or to walk down to Fletcher and Riverside or Glendale Boulevard.  When you see concrete it is almost a zen beauty - in that it is nothing, yet everything.  Once you paint it or worse, add letters, it becomes defined as a singular object.  It just serves as a background for one’s phrases or markings.  Without the graffiti, the concrete becomes something more.  Now when I walk down or up those staircases, I’m exposed to that person’s (the one who did the graffiti) point of view, or even worse, their feelings that they own the spot.  The beauty of a public stairway is that no one owns it.   Therefore you are expected to share it - which means it should be totally blank and utilize for the purpose of getting from “A” to “B” without thinking of the aesthetic of the staircase.



The combination of the tree that is currently missing, as well as the marked-up staircase, well, I can’t live here anymore.  I feel totally violated and the only thing that soothes my battered soul is the music of Victoria de los Ángeles, singing “Bachiana brasileira no 5.” If that is gone, then I would shoot myself, but not before turning the gun on to whoever spray painted the steps.   I often swing from contentment to disturb violence - the fear I have is when my contentment becomes or accepts violence.  Lately I have been admiring the beauty of the gun.   The fact that such an instrument of such precision machinery can cause such horrifying results - well, it makes my head spin.



“All philosophers must, therefore, doff their hats to the poets when they discover that the path of reason takes them only so far.” I have been writing poetry throughout my life, and now I have stopped, due to the removal of the tree as well as the surroundings around my property that has been altered by those who don’t live here.  A sense of place, and the need to accept one’s ability to be in that place is important.  Now that has been altered by someone who clearly likes to violate the sense of peace in the beauty of a tree well-placed on one’s property as well as on the public staircase.   I standalone, looking at space that once had a tree, and I feel like my life has no purpose no more.  “Much as I have no wish to hurt anyone's feelings, my first obligation has not been to be nice but to be true to my perhaps peculiar memories, experiences and feelings.”

October 31, 2014

October 31, 2014

“Nothing ever becomes real 'til it is experienced.” At this very moment, I’m recovering from a dream that woke me up very early this morning.  I just got back from a trip to Japan, and I feel like I have one foot still in the Shibuya crossing and the other is in my bed at home.  The dream was very peculiar.  It seemed like I had a job position in Book Soup, I wasn’t buying but perhaps I was an assistant to put together events for the store.  It seemed like the store hired a European, who also had his own performance group as well.  He was handling events, and I think I 'm working under him.   There was something sinister about him.   He sort of looked like Jimmy Savile, and all his programming deals with events for children of all sorts, but mostly those who were under nourished or from troubled families.

I helped arranged a picnic in a park, and once I got here I realized that the whole surrounding was covered with rats.  My job was to get rid of the rats before the children arrive.   The European (since I don’t have a name for him, I’ll call him that) had his group of performers help me with the clean-up.  It felt like we had to kill numerous rats, by stabbing them with knives.  I did kill one, but I found it too gross, yet, the traveling troop appeared to be really into the massacre.  The children showed up, and I remember feeling hesitant or concerned that they may find a dead rat by their picnic table.



“Give me books, French wine, fruit, fine weather and a little music played out of doors by somebody I do not know.” That was the catch phrase for the picnic event.   There was live music being played, yet, it seemed horrifying to me.  When I came back to the store, there were numerous events taking place.  One in the back counter, because there was already an event happening at the front of the store. It seemed that the “European” managed to over-book events, so we had to use every available space in the store to hold such event.  For instance when I went up to the office upstairs, it was full of people there for a lecture. I stayed for a while, because I couldn’t reach my office table. In fact, it seemed that the lecture was taking place on top of my desk.  I needed to get a form of some sort, so I weaved in and out of the audience to get to the desk.  A gentleman who was giving the lecture was on the table, standing and speaking to the crowd.  He was dressed like someone from the 18th century.  What I remember was that the lecture was inspired by the writings of John Keats.



The next thing I know is that I was on a cargo plane, and there was another lecture being held.  It seemed that the European booked so many events for that day, that we had to rent a cargo plane to hold another lecture or book signing.  There was someone talking, but the noise from the plane's engines was drowning out the speaker's voice.   For whatever reasons, I had to arrange to bring a huge player piano onto the plane.  It was made to play the music by Conlon Nancarrow.   As we were flying over Los Angeles, a fellow employee came up to me and said he has to push the piano off the plane in mid-air.   I told him that I didn’t think that was a good idea.  He said he had to do it, because the “European” ordered him to do so.  So, he pushed the player piano out of the plane, and I told him that I was concerned that the piano may hit someone down below.  He seemed not to care or even aware that this could be an issue.

Then all of a sudden David Bryne came up to me.   At first I thought the cargo plane event was for him, but it became clear that he came not to participate but to be a part of the audience.  He was asking me questions about the book signing that is occurring at that moment.  My feeling was that he was very nice, but I couldn’t figure out why his hair was dark.  All the photographs I have seen him lately, it’s white.  And the hair color didn’t look fake, and he looked naturally quite young.  I thought that was odd.  We both heard music down below and we looked out on the open door (where the piano was pushed) and saw a band down below.  It was an older man playing a full kit of drums, and a small child playing a keyboard instrument.  What he was playing was fairly minimal, and it sounded pretty great.

“I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.” I woke up with a feeling of depression coming upon me.   I have this meditation where I just focus on these words: “I was never afraid of failure; for I would sooner fail than not be among the greatest.” But how does one know if they’re great or not.  Fraud rules the landscape, and I’m very much part of that world, where even if I have a mirror, I’m not sure of what I am seeing is the truth or not.  “Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard, are sweeter.” And therefore I must hunt down what I don’t know, for there can be an answer to my question that gives me so much anxiety.

October 30, 2014

October 30, 2014

“Nobody picks on a strong man.” So maybe I was just asking for it.   I have always been ashamed of my body, even though I was skinny, I still had a tummy sticking out.  Even as a child, I can’t stand seeing myself without a shirt.  I notice that from my waist up, right to the chin area is my weakest part of the body - both aesthetically as well as in strength.  Everyday when I was in both junior and in High School, I faced shame on a daily basis, when I had to take a shower with the other boys.   The first thing I noticed is how physically strong my fellow male students were.  They ran faster, picked up things heavier without a thought, as well as being able to do push and pull-up’s without even thinking about it.  I, on the other hand, had to struggle doing even one push-up.  I remember the gym teacher and the other kids in my class, laughing at me almost on a regular basis.   My only escape was Saturday and Sunday, where I didn’t have to go to school.

One day I went to the beach in Venice, with a girl I really liked.  It was in the afternoon and the sun was really hot.  My skin is white, and usually I don’t spend any time in the outdoors, and of course my body shows the lack of natural sunlight as well as physical work.  My daily exercise is picking up a book and making a frown if I don’t like what I was reading.  On the other hand, my date that afternoon is or was a true beauty.  What now comes to mind is 37-23-38, which pretty much describes my interest in her at the time.  When we got to the beach, she was wearing a light plaid cotton dress.  As I set the blanket down on the sand, I took my pants off, which exposed my baggy swimming trunks.  She took off her dress, and she was wearing black bikini top and bottom.  I instantly felt an erection and I made sure to be laying on my stomach as fast as possible.  I fully don’t understand how one can avoid the inherent aspect of seeing women on the beach and not having, or controlling one’s erection.  As I was talking with her, I noticed all of a sudden my side of the blanket became shaded.  Obviously there was an object that made an appearance, and that object was blocking the direct sunlight.  As I looked up, I noticed a young man, very well-built and wearing black speedos, looking directly at her.   He then looked straight at me as he talked to my date.   He told her that he had a blanket and shade as well as a cooler of beer, and would she like to join him.  She said yes, and as I was trying to get up from my position, he took his foot and knocked me down. In fact, he kept his foot on my back.  She laughed, and got up, took her dress and went towards him.  He eventually removed his foot, but not before he kicked sand in my face.  “See ya later young man, ” he laughed.  In fact, both of them were laughing at me.

I made an effort to act cool, but I was so hurt.  But I didn’t leave right away, I stayed on my blanket like nothing happened.  When I got back later that afternoon, I became furious.  I kicked a chair across the room, and I even got madder, knowing how brave I am with resect to wooden objects.  It was at that moment that I noticed an ad in the back of a special DC comic book edition of “Bane, ” that ironically enough was on the chair that I just knocked over.  I looked at it closely, and I was taken by the image of a man with muscles, in conjunction with an image of a male who was skinny and pathetic looking.   The phrase “How Joe’s Body Brought Him Fame Instead of Shame” caused an emotional turn-around for me.  I had a stamp and $30 and mailed it to the address that was located in the ad.



I received a booklet and it explained that I didn’t need weights, but just exercise on a daily basis, and only for fifteen minutes per day. “15 minutes a day!  Give me just this and I’ll prove I can make you a new man.” The schedule appealed to me as well.   The author, Charles Atlas, mentioned he got inspired when he was at the zoo, and he saw a lion in the cage stretching.  He wrote: “Does this old gentleman (the lion) have any barbells, any exercisers? … And it came over me,… He’s been pitting one muscle against another! ”



Atlas’ “Dynamic Tension” program consists of twelve lessons and one final perpetual lesson.  Each lesson is fully illustrated with Atlas doing the exercise.   I did this for two weeks and already I saw some improvement.  About two weeks after the improvement, I went back to the beach, and I saw my “ex” as well as the guy who kicked sand in my face.  As I walked by his ‘area, ” I on purpose walked on his stomach.  He got up quickly, and glared at me.  I told him, “Oh I’m sorry, but you were laying down and I needed to go in that direction.” He said I could have easily went around him and his blanket. I said “yes, but I really didn’t want to do that, and I see no reason why I have to go “around” your blanket or your presence.” I then spitted in his eye, and told him to get a clearer view of me.  I then flexed my muscles in front of him, and made sure he saw my ass as well.  He backed down, and I felt great when he looked towards his feet, avoiding eye contact with me.  And she just smiled at me, with approving eyes.  I then walked on their blanket and kept going, towards the ocean.  I felt so strong, at that time, I wanted to jump into the ocean and swim to Japan.

October 29, 2014

October 29, 2014

There were many films shown on my flight from Tokyo to Los Angeles. I have a hard time sleeping, so instead I treat myself to a film orgy of sorts.  The flight has interesting film programming.  For instance, they had a tribute to Eddie Constantine, which I think was kind of obscure but really great at the same time.  I of course have seen “Alphaville,” but people forget his other films, such as “La môme vert-de-gris” and “Ça va harder.” It is a nine-hour flight, so I could watch those two films, but also they had the oddest programming ever on a plane: a Joseph Goebbels film retrospective.  They screened “The Eternal Jew” and “Jud Süß” (“Süss the Jew”) both of course being highly controversial films - and especially showing them in-flight.   The other odd film they showed was just footage of Akiko Kojima winning the Miss Universe crown in 1959.  That event took place in Long Beach, California.  A city that is not far off from my home in Los Angeles.



There was an uproar at the time, because many didn’t believe Kojima had measurements of 37-23-38 inches (94-58-96cm).  Some were convinced Kojima had undergone breast surgery, but she strongly denied taking such actions to win the Miss Universe contest.  She was also the first woman from Asia to win such a prize in the Miss Universe pageant.  The combination of watching the films and not being able to sleep had a profound effect on me.  Especially watching such a hateful film like “Süss the Jew.” Nevertheless I find myself back in Los Angeles, feeling woozy and not sure where my culture is heading.



La môme vert-de-gris” was the first Eddie Constantine film, that also featured a character that he was famous for, by the name of Lemmy Caution. It is said that his character always approached a beautiful woman with a glass of whisky in one hand and a cigarette in the other.   I had thought of myself in that mold, while dreaming away in front of my small screen on someone’s backseat.  In the end of the flight, I was for sure taken by Eddie’s approach to the detective life, but felt quite alienated by the Goebbels’ retrospective.  Nevertheless I find myself back in Los Angeles, feeling woozy and not sure where my culture is heading towards.  Perhaps it marks the end of one era, and the start of another.

Pacific Standard Time starting October 30, 2014 (with post number 302)

Quick note. I'm leaving Tokyo and be in Los Angeles tomorrow. That means post number 302 will be up Pacific Standard Time (PST) around 11:00 A.M. and in the East 2:00, and in Asia 16 hours later. I want to thank everyone in Tokyo for making me feel like this is my real home. From the future, I go back to the drought, the harsh sunlight, and uncertain future. In other words, traveling back to the past. arigato Shimada and Meguro-ku, Tokyo, Japan  - Tosh Berman.

October 28, 2014

October 28, 2014
Before I start writing I have a slightly ambiguous feeling: happiness is a special excitement because unhappiness is always possible a moment later.” I pick up the pen, knowing I’m going to go down in that rabbit’s hole and god knows how I’ll get out of here.  Dead.   I’ll open my eyes and find myself in Soho London, and I’m sitting in a private member’s drinking club called “The Colony Room, ” not far from Francis Bacon’s table.  I have always been fearful about approaching his table, because that gentleman has a tongue.  A tongue that can strip the varnish off my soul, and therefore I would stand there naked.  Within seconds, he will know that I’m a fraud.   Most people I know would take a lifetime to sniff out my charlatan soul - but Francis, can smell deceit as if he was dining in a Bank of America board meeting.  Here in The Colony Room, I for sure stand out, compared to the regular clientele.  


The music they play here is mostly The Shadows, and I for one, always enjoy a good foot-tapper without hearing someone singing.  I briefly met Hank Marvin (the lead guitarist for The Shadows) here, and it seems he was friendly with Francis, but then again, a lot of people were… except me.  I'm a member of this drinking club, due not to money, but influence.  I bring customers who will eventually become long-term (financial) members of this club.  That, and that alone is the only reason why Francis Bacon will tolerate me.  As a favor to the master of the club, Muriel Belcher, Bacon kept his claws off my flesh and ego - but I can see through his eyes, to his very soul, that he would like to insult me in public.  I wear my vulnerability as one wears a coat in the winter season.  I don’t want to take it off for fear of being criticised by the master.  


Another lad who comes by here is Wayne Fontana, who had a band called The Mindbenders, and they had a hit “Game of Love.” Of all the citizens who land here, Wayne is the one I can chat with, and not being worried about my self.   Perhaps because he was even lower than me, in Bacon’s eyes.  Wayne tends to a nut job.  He once filed bankruptcy and somehow got himself arrested for pouring gasoline in a bailiff’s car, while the bailiff was still in his vehicle.  He had to serve some time in a nuthouse, but now it seems everything is OK.   Wayne is a reader, and he is aware of my books - especially the one I wrote on Sparks.   I think he is very interested in the thought that maybe I would be willing to write a book about him and his music career.  Which is so far from my interest at this point, but I never told him that.  I find it best that when one wants something from you, your duty is to be able to delay it as long as possible.  The best technique is not to say no, and allow a strong “maybe.” That way, they won’t give up on you, thinking you will come through in some fashion.  He just released a record, as single I think, called “Pamela Pamela.” I don’t like it. In fact no one in the club here likes it.  But I just acknowledge that he has that record, and I never comment on it. 


“Sometimes, I feel the past and the future pressing so hard on either side that there’s no room for the present at all.” I travel these parts of Soho, well, mostly at The Colony Room, and I know I need to keep my own time, my own world, and not claim this world for myself, because it is really not mine.  “If you asked me who I am, the only answer I could give with any certainty would be my name.  For the rest: my loves, my hates, down even to my deepest desires, I can no longer say whether these emotions are my own, or stolen from those I once so desperately wished to be. ”



At that minute I looked around the bar, and I caught Francis’ eyes, and he looks at me with no thought or emotion behind it.  I knew at that point that this will be the last time that I’ll be here in the club.  So I headed for the stairs, and before I went down, I did a quick look around, and thought to myself “Goodbye.” 

October 27, 2014

October 27, 2014

“Manners are a sensitive awareness of the feelings of others. If you have that awareness, you have good manners, no matter what fork you use.” The world I live in, can only be bearable if you are polite to others.  Politeness should be the rule of every home and structure, where you show consideration and encouragement to others.  One can express an opinion, but only if you state it with facts and present your idea in such a manner that won’t offend the other.   One can argue for an atrocity, but be kind to those who may disagree with you.  I may disagree with you, but I will with the last breath of my life, defend your right to say what you know.  On the other hand, if you don’t “know, ” then I have the right to shove my fist down your diseased throat.

“A gentleman does not boast about his junk.” If you are going to praise yourself, be careful in how you proceed in doing so.  One can’t take over a house with their work, because perhaps one’s work is not worth the space that is taken.  As one knows, space is limited.  We have to respect the limitations of actual footage and space in a room, as well as having a healthy respect for limits.  If one goes beyond the limit, then that can be regarded as bad manners.    In that case, I have the right to pour gasoline over your work, and throw in a match as one leaves that space.



“In popular houses where visitors like to go again and again, there is always a happy combination of some attention on the part of the hostess and the perfect freedom of the guests to occupy their time as they choose.” When I go to your home, as a guest, I expect politeness and kindness.  In return, I won’t slash your couch with a blade, or throw paint on the walls.  Nor will I tie up and torture your children.  I won’t rape your wife, or take the dog for a walk in the park, and only return with a leash.  I promise to be considerate when you show your pride in your work.  I won’t demean you and your time that you spent on making that piece of shit.

“The letter we all love to receive is one that carries so much of the writer’s personality that she seems to be sitting beside us, looking at us directly and talking just as she really would, could she have come on a magic carpet, instead of sending her proxy in ink-made characters on mere paper.” This I promise you my dear talentless friend, I’ll write about your failures as if it's honey directly from a bee.  This letter is unsigned, but you know who it is from.  Even though you’ll never admit it, because you can’t understand how one can hate so much, yet get so much pleasure from it. I’m a happy man, and I’m happy because you’re a total idiot.  Your failure is my whip cream on top of a chocolate milk shake.



“Whenever two people come together and their behavior affects one another, you have etiquette.” And that is why I choose to destroy you. Inch-by-inch, and then yard-by-yard. I’ll make sure that you started off with nothing, given something, and then taken away - which will leave you with nothing.  I want to give you the taste of the greatest gratification, so I can remove that pleasure and watch you suffer.  You’re such a child.  Not the well-behaved intelligent sweet beautiful child, but totally the opposite.  You smell of and breed shit.  My version of porn is watching you approach failure again and again, and enjoying your frustration, fears and your need for therapy.   But the cherry on the top is when you even fail your therapy session.  The doctor gave up on you.  Your dog gave up on you.  Your worthlessness is my perfume.  My pleasure is your depression.  The angels on your shoulder are not what you think they are. When you walk, you walk alone.

Remember “we are making war for civilization, are we not? Very well, we are. Therefore, we eat in a civilized way.” and therefore you’ll never eat at our table.  Bye-bye my little useless piece of dishonorable shit.