The Little Dog is, as usual, very chill. He becomes more trusting as he gets older.
I spent two days in the hospital having a stent removed from my gall bladder. Yes, I did.
I had dinner with Fern Mallis… who, as you know, invented fashion week.
After dinner we decided to attend the Giorgio Armani One Night Only event.
When we arrived we were whisked off to meet Armani who refuses to speak english but spoke english to Fern… because Fern is a legend.
On Sunday we went to the doggy Halloween parade in Tompkins Square Park but we couldn’t be bothered to wait in line.
In Woodstock we met a man wearing a lovely sweater.
I met a friend of Wendy Asher’s.
The hedge fund billionaire who owned the apartment also owned a perfect Nakashima coffee table.
The lounge is perfectly beautiful and looks like the Beverly Hills Hotel interior on Acid.
This is my Halloween costume:
It is a paper napkin with two slits torn into it.
The following day I went back to Woodstock to look at a lake house I want to buy.
This is me and The Little Dog in the view taken by Angelo:
I haven’t written anything for so long.
Perhaps I just ran out of things to say.
Roger Ebert died. He wrote to me recently urging me to write more. I have no idea why.
The house in Malibu is filled with my things again and the garden, this beautiful spring, overwhelms me.
Moving back in gave me the opportunity to start editing once again. I threw out three huge boxes of old clothes. Cashmere, labels, everything loved for a moment back then. Helmut, Yves, Issy, Comme des Garcons… boxy shirts from another era, trousers that I can (after my op) still get into but have lost interest in.
I kept all the Helmut Lang couture. It’s just too special.
I feel myself floating over the surface of my life.
The road trip across the USA was spectacular. Chicago, Denver, The Rockies, Utah and Vegas. Just me and the dogs and a car full of art and luggage. I met lovely people and saw cities I had only ever heard of.
I never went over the speed limit.
The operation to have my gall bladder removed was painful but since having the surgery I feel wonderful.
I didn’t realize how much pain I was living with. How the pain made me grumpy, listless and intolerant.
Now, without that girdle of pain, without the imminent GB attacks… I feel perfectly happy. Peaceful.
I can concentrate. perhaps that’s why I need to write?
During the past few months so much has happened. Things I can tell you and things I can’t.
Yet, after the moment passes, I can’t be bothered to write it down.
Editing the huge amount of stuff I own to a few essential pieces. Taking my old stuff to vintage stores, consignment stores and auction houses has been cathartic and profitable. Who knew things were so valuable?
But more than that. It feels like I am winding down. Not is a morbid way.
With less stuff and less girth (since the op I lost a great deal of weight) I feel not only lighter but more agile, more energy to do important things (for me) more time to devote to others, causes, delights.
As you know, those who know me, I like my decisions to be made for me. I LIKED my decisions to be made for me.
Recently I have taken control of the reigns. Less at the mercy of Duncan Roy. Do you know what I’m talking about?
At this time of life it is time to take a good hard look at what is and what could be.
The obvious frailties: reading glasses, aching joints, the prospect of a life without enduring love.
If I had only invested in a surrogate child. All my fears may be allayed.
That, for the uninitiated, was irony. You know how I feel about those surrogate gaybies. Abandoned to nannies until they can talk. Dressed up like performing monkeys.
“They spent every weekend on Fire Island this season and didn’t take the baby once.”
I am judged by what I own, by the company I keep, the baby I can afford, the art on my walls, the boy in my bed, the ideas in my head, the club I belong to, the house of my dreams, the car in the drive, the clothes on my back, the God of my understanding. I am judged.
Who am I? Take all of this away and leave me on the streets of Brooklyn and I am content. I want to be just like you. My history erased. My name changed. Once again.
The fire sweeps through the apartment building. The fire captains excited by the prospect of a real fire, manageable, heroic. Nobody is injured. The windows are smashed. The art deco facade blackened.
The jews are on the streets blowing their horns for the new year.
“Are you Jewish?” The young Hasidic Jew asks me.
” No. I’m not a Jew.”
I change my mind the next time I am asked. “Yes,” I lie, “I’m a Jew.”
He takes out the ram’s horn. I stand there in front of this eager youth with boyish whiskers and a large black hat, (the bastard child hat of the sombrero and the fedora) and for ten minutes he chants incantations and blows his horn.
Delightful Prospect Park adjoining the Museum could have been designed by Capability Brown but was (of course) designed by Frederick Law Olmsted the designer of Central Park.
We ate at the new burger joint in Park Slope. My burger was made of Elk.
As I was ordering my elk burger I opened an urgent email. My friend’s brother had been shot dead on his farm in Maryland. He was found, partially eaten by animals, on his tractor. They have no idea if it is suicide or murder.
I filed the tragic news as ‘pending’. I called his Mother and offered condolences and help.
These streets. They yield all manner of fine opportunity. I can disappear on these streets.
Today it is dark, wet and grey. The wind is warm however, the rain splashes onto my face. The Little Dog sits patiently outside the coffee shop.
Yesterday I lay in the arms of a beautiful boy who wanted me to fuck him. His cat curled up in a shoe box.
After he came we lay watching Glee in bed.
Mawkish, sentimental nonsense, a world invented by gay men where periodically an entire orchestra will appear from nowhere and youngsters will start singing hearty cover versions of popular tunes. A world run by the LGBT community. Bullying each other with waspish bon mot.
The drama is lackluster and situational.
The one-dimensional characters problems are slight, their solutions are wholly achievable. They worry to the point of suicide about their home town until they are saved by the gay hero.
This new gay frontier, where blue-collar dads talk like Kant, where black trans boys walk freely and unchallenged around a mid-west high school in full drag… this homo-utopia merely betray the dreams these gay writers had about their own youth. The dream of freedom.
“You’re Fired!” “You’re Cut!”
But of course Kate has a drinking problem and a lost dream and Whoopie wants to be Maya Angelou.
I took the dog and the train into Manhattan where I met with old friend Oscar Humphries who looked amazingly well.
We have had our fair share of adventure (all over the world) these past ten years: Driving 24 hours into the Australian bush to a Bachelor and Spinster ball for the Sydney Morning Herald. Louche nights in Paris and London…
Son of Dame Edna Everage creator Barry Humphries he is perhaps one of the most talented yet self-destructive people I know. We went to an NA meeting on Prince St. Then dinner at Cafe Select. I just adore him.
I had a late date after dinner with a charming man. We brought cup cakes and drank hot chocolate on West 4th St.
I climbed into bed at midnight and fell straight to sleep.
Nightmare: The Cohen’s, David and his 6 children are looking after The Little Dog. I bump into the youngest son who tells me without compassion that “You’ll probably be sad when I tell you this but…” they had to put The Little Dog to sleep because it was too ‘nippy’.
Were I the Moor I would not be Iago.
In following him I follow but myself;
Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,
But seeming so for my peculiar end.
For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
In compliment extern, ’tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at. I am not what I am
I was diagnosed with neck arthritis some tine ago after losing strength in my arms. It is, of course, a degenerative, condition.
Yesterday, after a long hike up Runyon Canyon with Vincent,and the Little Dog I was dismayed by the increased dull aches and weakness in my arms and legs.
Getting older with anything degenerative is a depressing idea.
Last week I managed to get the 24 hour flu which included stomach cramps, nausea and general malaise.
Apart from the weakness and flu life has been a great deal of fun.
Laural Hardware, after two and half months, has become THE coolest place in LA.
Even so, they remain the humblest success stories in town.
It is that time of year. After a day of writing I put on my autumn style and head off to whatever event seems most appropriate. The Fendi Baguette party was wonderfully organized. Peggy Moffitt, Victoria Hervey and Jeffrey Deitch etc.
Victoria Hervey goes to everything. Rude and pompous.
You know, of course, that I knew her brother John who, at the time of his death, was The Marquess of Bristol. It was he who introduced me to Freddy Hughes and radically changed my life.
In these modern times there’s really no reason for a girl like Victoria to behave so despicably… I mean… what does she actually do?
I hear that she is on the verge of being banned from a very exclusive club here in LA for being vile to the staff.
I have been spending a great deal of time at Vincent’s house in Brentwood. Such a beautiful home filled with wonderful art and books and mid-century modern furniture. Such a history! Presidents and celebrity sitting in the same furniture where I now sit watching Vincent’s crackling serve.
He knocks balls all over the tennis court and I swim lazily in the lap pool.
There’s a croquet lawn at the house but I could never win. Vincent is a croquet fiend and scoots around the course in as much time as it takes me to negotiate the first few hoops.
Exciting months ahead as the year draws to a close.
Regardless of where I’ll end up we are going to shoot the movie in January. I have been meeting with actors and heads of departments and line producers. It’s fun to be so involved with the process once again.
I have been asked to write an AA expose. There’s only so much exposing one can do in 1,500 words.
Continuing my occasional ‘Fuck you’ series of LA essays I nominate the ‘award winning’ illustrator and elderly Greek queen Konstantine Kakanias as my latest Fuck You.
Konstantine threw a party last night.
Who put the kaka into Kakanias?
This guy has tried it all.
Artist, writer, illustrator, jewelry designer.
B’jesus with this much talent this homo should be a household name!
He’s tried so hard to be something but for poor old Koni, nothing seems to stick.
He’s just a socialite with a great talent for persuading other socialites to take him seriously.
You know, I have known the rancid Konstantine for many, many years.
We first met with Manolis Mavrakis and Fred Hughes in New York in the early 80′s. Fred loathed him. Manolis laughed at him.
Koni painted my portrait then tried to have sex with me. I declined. He was smelly and creepy.
I left the portrait on the easel.
We periodically bump into each other all over the world. Much to his chagrin and my infinite amusement. It was he I referred to as Nona Summer’s vile Greek escort last week.
Konstantine attracts the WORST sort of people. Nona, Peter Dunham, Justin Kern, Alex Hitz etc.
As his last incarnation he was calling himself an artist. He had a laughably sophomoric show at The Light Box Gallery in LA before it closed down.
Kimberly Light (heiress) rues the day she ever let this cretin have his own show at her gallery.
He was the only artist who did not sell at the Angel Food project auction at CAA several years ago.
That’s how seriously the art elite take him. Look for his work in the collections of important collectors and you will not find his name.
His work is absurd.
Yet, within that sub-world of dodgy socialites and rich kids looking for a purpose he has carved himself a ‘career’. Some how he persuaded Swarovski to manufacture his designs.
Silly rings, “Inspired by Byzantine royal jewels.” He brays.
Did they sell? They were a total disaster and can now be found on the Swarovski website knocked down to a fraction of their original price.
Last night Konstantine was up to his old tricks.
Konstantine is now a film maker.
He has made a ‘film’ and to launch this seven minute animated masterpiece he assembled LA’s elite… including ‘designer’ Justin Kern and his pretty side kick Stephanie Danan for whom the ‘film’ was commissioned and QVC favorite… fried chicken go to guy and Coca Cola heiress Alex Hitz and a gaggle of loafer wearing euro trash.
“They’re very collaborative people and they’re really creative. They like playing with other creative people and that’s where it all crosses over,” Indeed, Danan and Kern enlisted the efforts of friends like Tatiana von Furstenberg (heiress), “They’re not in a singular mind-set and they can pull from other mediums.”
I walked in and immediately saw twenty people I knew well enough to kiss and twenty people I knew well enough to ignore.
I waved at Konstantine… he flew out of his chair…
“Who invited you…” he trembled. His voice deserting its usual treble… escalating into a Maria Callas soprano.
Alex Hitz who I kissed lavishly (after all he had paid for a wonderful dinner at the Sunset Tower) said, “This is Konstantin’s party.”
“I know,” I said, “And I am the wicked fairy.”
Alex shrank into the shadows. I turned to face the outraged Greek. Like his country… in debt and struggling to save face. He held out his fingers like 10 wands and told me to get out.
I left, greeting people on the way out with smiles and kisses. Clo Perrin (heiress) looking gorgeous in white silk jersy.
Justin Kern waved. Justin is proof that there is life after modeling… just.
“I’ll be writing about this!” I grinned cheerily!
Before I left one of the guests, a beautiful young Parisian flew up to me and laughed, “Darling, what a waste of time. You didn’t miss a thing. Poor Konstantine.”
Dinner at Laurel Hardware with a cute jew. Great kisser.
On Friday night we saw Lily perform a charming play after her month of theatre camp. She played a slutty demon.
I smiled, remembering my own fashion obsessions when I was his age.
He is not having a great time at school. The other kids are mean to him and he in turn is a pain in the ass. I know that feeling too, being an obviously gay kid who spent the larger part of his childhood at war with other kids.
I rather hoped I would grow out of it but…I didn’t. I am still at war.
The entire weekend was spent rehearsing and shooting tests for the movie. I look forward to viewing the material.
After day one we met Jacob and Fielder at Laurel Hardware. The dinner was spectacular.
We scoffed the heavenly pig cheek, sharing the lamb, the char, assorted salads and the most delicious rhubarb and strawberry cobbler and roasted peaches.
The ingredients are locally sourced, incredibly fresh and the flavor combinations were perfectly well judged.
After day two of rehearsing and shooting the most dramatic scene in the film… we all took off for the local watering hole.
Boys leaping a hundred foot out of the air into the ice-cold water.
Policeman confiscating beer and … of all things… an axe. A mostly Mexican crowd they looked horrified when the cops turned up.
After my time helping out the ACLU I now know why.
It was a day. Yes. Yesterday was a long day. Good. Kind. Revealing.
I walked the dogs. Through the bourgeois streets of suburban Malibu. Early morning. Before the sun breaks through.
I have struggled with writing both the end of the film and the novel. Because, I suppose, they are both so firmly planted in the experience of being me.
My Producer is fine with everything. Everything but the last page. He wants an epiphany.
So, that’s what I am striving for.
The film is about a sociopath, a charming sociopath. In fact, the film is about two sociopaths.
I can’t discount my own bat shit craziness. Let’s face it… I did some terrible things.
For those of you who have been reading this blog for the past two years… I think you will be pleasantly surprised by the balanced and sensitive way I have drawn the characters… but that is not my credit to take.. it is my dear Producers influence.
If I had my way there would have been murders my dear…
His genius for editing and re positioning.. for making me (and you) care for the person I loathed and loved.
For revealing the truth.
I headed into town at 11 to meet my assistant at the club.
I’m test shooting cast this Sunday and having informal crew meetings. I met a very competent First AD this week.
I bumped into Nona Summers who was with a loathsome Greek from my distant past.
Jacob has excellent taste.
I am heartened that these smart young gay men are once again beginning to tell their stories.
For the longest time young gay film makers shucked their own experience in favour of chasing a bigger, straighter audience.
As a result… our community became less vibrant.
The gay film festival circuit, until recently, was lack luster and uninspiring… this year, at Outfest, there were so many interesting and well made gay films. It warmed the cockles of my homo heart.
Gay men want, understandably, well made films with high production values but financiers are loathed to invest… scared that the audience wont come.
The tide is turning.
Brock pitched up looking incredibly sexy in a tight, pale blue polo shirt.
We ate Caesar salad with added chicken.
After lunch we met Rafi Gavron the hot, hot, hot British actor who was ass raped in the TV series Rome. He was with his cousin Dean McKillen the owner of the super chic new restaurant Laurel Hardware in West Hollywood.
Dean invited us for dinner on Saturday.
Brock and I hung with Kevin and Fielder at their home on Martel then decided we would preempt the Saturday invite and go to Laurel Hardware.
The place was packed with a really interesting crowd. A smattering of Young Hollywood and some cool looking gay men. Dean made us feel very welcome, sending us delicious pizzas covered with burrata and basil.
The boys drank beer and I didn’t.
I drove Brock back to his car and met up with my night-time companion, collapsed into bed.
There is an odd collision of circumstance:
Jacob is the best friend of the best lesbian friend of you know who.
One degree of separation.
It doesn’t surprise me. It is a very small world.
We trawled through Facebook.
I looked in awe at pictures of my ex and his new boyfriend. They are indeed an unusual couple. Dressed in outrageous and colourful garb. When my ex’s bf wears his heels he must be 7 foot tall.
There was a picture of them holding each other in a bucolic setting. My ex is quite short and his beau wore heels. The height differential was staggering. It looked like a post wedding picture.
You know, after the vows.
I wondered what they would wear when they actually got married. If Thom Browne would make the costume.
They looked very, very happy.
Diane Arbus would have photographed them. I mean, it was like that… like a Diane Arbus picture.
I expect to feel different things when I see them together but I always feel the same. I am truly happy that he is happy. From a distance I share their obvious happiness. It is a relief.
I am pleased that even though we will never know each other… will never speak ever again… that I was indeed somehow, in some way responsible for forcing that boy out of the closet and into the life he should have enjoyed since his teens.
Mostly I congratulate myself for saving her.
It baffled me, for the longest time what terrified him about being gay. I understand now. He wasn’t scared of being gay, he was scared of being that kind of gay. Flamboyant, creative, a dandy.
Every time I see him in the virtual street my questions are answered. A picture, as they say, is worth a thousand words.
I hope that she is doing ok, that she has found a good man. An honest man. I wonder if she forgave him? I mean, there’s only so long one can hold such hatred in one’s heart.
Perhaps one day she will thank me. I don’t expect any thanks from him.
My great friend, the abundantly talented Lady Rizo is off to the Edinburgh Festival. Packing her Marchesa frocks and her false eye lashes. I urge my British friends to urgently seek her out.
You will not be disappointed.
I am headed to Provincetown to stay with Benoit.