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My grandmother Anna got the house and property at 1548 Crater Lane in Beverly Glen—a canyon area between Coldwater on the Valley side, and Sunset Boulevard on the other side—through a subscription to a magazine. The house was an additional gift if one subscribed to that particular publication. Eventually, she just signed the house over to my mom, because Wallace refused to have anything in his name. The only legitimate card he had with his name on it, just because he couldn’t get around it, was his driver’s license—but beyond that, nothing. My dad tried to remain invisible. One would think he was on the run from the law, but I don’t believe that was the case.

Wallace did not like to participate in the world unless he chose to. He never voted, either; his politics were more left than anything else, but I think if he hadn’t been killed, he would have become a social libertarian. In a work Wallace once made, he wrote “FUCK NATIONALISM.” That pretty much expressed his genuine political desire. Wallace was a man not happy to be contained by either borders or laws. I was never encouraged to participate in society, because he himself had no interest in it. Wallace craved anonymity like it was air. If he could have disappeared at will, he would have done so. My dad always had an enduring respect for someone like Houdini, the “escape artist,” who fled from chains and jail cells. As a child, he saw Houdini newsreels and I’m sure they had a strong hold on him. And though I wasn’t aware of it as a child, Wallace made the role of being an artist into a performance of some sort.

WALLACE BERMAN / Fuck Nationalism, 1950s

I was born on Wednesday, August 25, 1954, around 12:10 a.m. It was a hot, stinky, sweaty night, the type of weather I hate with an intense passion. My mother must have hated it even more. I read somewhere that giving birth is painful, but afterward one forgets about the pain. The world my parents provided for me was not too bad at all. From the moment I was born until now, I’ve lived the life of a pampered prince. I share my date of birth with Elvis Costello, who I like to imagine was born at the exact same time I was. I often examine his image on the Internet to compare my aging to his. I also share my birthday with Sean Connery, British novelist Martin Amis, Richard Greene (who starred in the British TV show The Adventures of Robin Hood [1955–59], a show of great importance to me in childhood), Tim Burton, Ivan the Terrible (who I only know through the Eisenstein film), Van Johnson, Ruby Keeler (of 42nd Street [1933]), Leonard Bernstein (whose West Side Story [1961] had a profound effect on me), Yasuzo Masumura (who’s my favorite Japanese film director), and Ludwig II (who had great taste in interior design).

To be born is genuinely an amazing thing, even though birth happens constantly. I’ve always felt honored to be a member of the Berman/Morand family, if not the larger collective known as the human race. I learned all my social skills from my parents. I didn’t have that many close childhood friends. I did play games with others, but I never felt close to my fellow tots. I am an only child, and I am very comfortable in my skin, as well as being by myself. The only intimate friends I had were objects, which have a great importance for me. I remember as a baby being more interested in the packaging of the toy than the toy itself. My mother has told me that she and Wallace would buy gifts for me, and I would always spend more time with the box the gift came in than the gift itself. I got bored with objects that were manufactured specifically for one thing. So a box or even gift wrapping became more appealing to me. A box, for instance, could be a secret hideout or an additional room in the house. I always liked the world under the table, the chair, or in the box, because I am highly sensitive to a restricted space. It is something that pleases me greatly, as well as being incredibly scary under certain circumstances. As a baby or small child, the restricted area gave me a certain amount of comfort.

The name “Tosh” is from “Antosha.” It’s a Russian male name. Wallace, during his brief stint in the Navy, met an Antosha, my only knowledge of whom is that he was a huge jazz fan or music collector. He had a record shop in the San Francisco Bay Area that just focused on jazz. I’ve asked my mom about him. She never met him, but her understanding is that Wallace felt very close to him. I’m not sure if my dad met him in the Navy proper, or if Antosha was in the hospital Wallace was sent to after having a nervous breakdown. This breakdown was caused by the daily naval exercise of blowing up schools of dolphins. It seems dolphins read on the radar as possible enemy submarines, so when in doubt, blow them up. Wallace couldn’t handle this daily slaughter. I was named after Antosha, but my legal name as it appears on my birth certificate is simply Tosh.

My first memory ever is seeing a bloody face outside my bedroom window staring at me. The memory of that horrific image takes place at the Beverly Glen house. Not only was this my first home, but we came back here after living in San Francisco. As a baby and a child, I felt like all roads led to our home. It seemed to me, even as a child, that our house was the scene of a nonstop party that lasted from one Saturday night to the next. I have very little memory of the family being there alone. It seems to me someone else was always in that house.

The night I saw the bloody face, a party was taking place in the living room. I was in a crib facing the window, which was near the backdoor entrance and exit from the living room. Ramblin’ Jack Elliott seemed to have wandered out of the party, tripped by my bedroom window, and helped himself up by grasping the window ledge. All innocent enough, but for a baby seeing such a sight as a drunk man with blood on his face, it was a bit much. The fact that this is my earliest memory doesn’t say a lot for my fragile psyche. I must have been somewhere between six months and a year old, and the horror of that moment is tattooed in my DNA.

I’ve never officially met Jack, but he’s clearly the first monster in my life. I remember once my mom told me that when she was five, my uncle Donald would tease her that someone was outside the window looking in. There was a curtain covering the window, and as my uncle was cruelly reciting all of this, he threw open the curtain, only to expose a face looking inside the room from the second-floor windowsill. It was apparently a burglar, who was surprised by my uncle’s sudden removal of the curtain. Donald fainted, my mom screamed, and the robber fell off the windowsill.

Our small house on Crater Lane had its share of visitors, living and breathing ones as well as spiritual ones. My mother told me that she had a loom in the living room; once in the middle of the night, she heard the sound of the loom weaving yarn. When she woke up, she noticed a pattern designed on the yarn on the loom where there hadn’t been one before. That morning my parents moved the loom to the storage room underneath the house. Also, I remember guests at our home commenting during one party that they saw an old woman sitting in a rocking chair in our yard outside. According to my parents, they didn’t know this lady, nor had they ever seen her on the premises. The house for sure had a vibe, but I always thought it was my over-the-top imagination that brought out the creepy stuff in our home. Maybe it was, but still, one can never know what happened on the land at Crater Lane.

Although I never witnessed it, there were stories of a spirit or two haunting our local eatery, Four Oaks, up the street from Crater Lane on Beverly Glen Boulevard. A headless ghost with a yellow cape had reportedly been seen around the restaurant; according to legend, he had been murdered by a jealous husband after being caught in bed with the man’s wife. Another ghost was also visible in Four Oaks, who, unlike the headless gentleman, seemed cruel and threatening. It’s been suggested that perhaps he’s the husband who committed the murder of the headless man with the yellow cape. Many people, mostly women, have pointed out that the headless ghost was a comforting spirit. Some women in the Glen have commented that the spirit’s presence could be felt in their beds. The other ghost who was stuck in the Four Oaks structure was mean-spirited and destructive; once, a small fire started in the restaurant kitchen, and no one could figure out how else the blaze could have gotten started, except by the ghost.

WALLACE BERMAN / Anna & Tosh Berman, 1955

There was another story about a friend of my parents bringing along an additional guest (everyone brought an additional guest to our house) whom he had just met for the first time at a nearby bus stop. This particular guest had an abnormal speech pattern; he mostly spoke in Middle English. It was like he was dropped on this planet in the wrong year, expecting the 15th century instead of 1950s Beverly Glen. (Maybe he got the 5s mixed up?) As the evening wore on, the company began to suspect that he was an alien visiting us.

Nevertheless, my parents found him perfectly charming, as he was amazed at the function of a corkscrew and other earthly objects. In the early hours of the morning, my parents’ friend dropped him off at a street corner in Westwood but felt guilty right away about leaving him at dawn at a deserted bus stop. He immediately went back to the bus stop, but the mysterious visitor had disappeared. There was no sign of a bus or anyone walking on an early Sunday morning. He looked all over the neighborhood. But the guest had apparently transported himself back to his spaceship to give a detailed report on the advanced technology of the corkscrew and the living habits of the bohemian set. After fifty-some years, there’s liable to be a monument to the corkscrew on some hilltop on Mars. Hopefully, in my lifetime, I’ll be in a position to visit this memorial.