Followed by a walk up Abbot Kinny with Tristam Summers.
My days are split between the remarkable and the absurd. Bloated with new experiences, extraordinary adventures and, of course, passion.
Every day unfolds like a new napkin.
From dawn I write and rewrite. I am determined and hungry, inspired by the 75-year-old man who won the Palme D’Or in Cannes this year.
On Thursday I stood in front of the Men’s County Jail with a disparate bunch of men and women denouncing the secure communities protocol, the very same protocol that illegally incarcerated me. A press conference for the Spanish press.
The only Anglo Saxon, the only non spanish speaker.
They hailed me and the other people called to testify. ‘Viva Duncan!’ they shout together. I am moved to tears.
Nobody I know cares about these people. Not least my gay ‘friends’ who savage me publicly for standing shoulder to shoulder with day workers, maids and gardeners who face daily threats of deportation and police harassment.
The writing and photography give my life meaning and hope. The immigrants, of whom I am one, better shape my understanding of the world.
I am not interested in what I wear. I’m sure I look like a hobo. My beautiful tailored shirts are shredded. I have no interest in replacing them.
All the vintage Helmut Lang has been sold.
I can cobble together an ensemble for dinner. I look respectable enough.
Last week a young gay man told me I was lonely and sad. I feel neither. In fact, I have never felt so complete.
Such a lovely day yesterday.
Thank you all for your kind wishes and wonderful gifts.
Everything was perfect. The people, the locations, the birthday greetings.
Breakfast at home with one remaining child, the others are away at camp.
Lunch at the club with Tom et al.
After lunch more friends arrive. We decamp to the Chateau Marmont.
I inadvertently drink half a bloody Mary they serve instead of a virgin Mary.
Feel totally buzzed.
A short time at the Abbey on Robertson with more buddies.
Dinner at Gjelina with Gabe and his bf.
Bed time welcome. Sleep like a log. Dreaming of my burgeoning script.
Power and prestige can be just as intoxicating for those who are powerful and prestigious as for those who seek them out…or chance upon them.
Infamy can have the same mesmerizing effect. Mass murderers, on their way to the electric chair, marry formally reasonable women.
The mother/father killler Menendez brothers, still get proposals of marriage from star struck suiters.
I have seen gown adults buckle before the very famous and the not so very famous.
The youth of Hollywood, like so many generations before them, have been levied.
Sexual expediency is a price silently adhered to any deal.
I don’t need to tell you Marilyn‘s story…do I?
It’s quaint! It’s so old fashioned…it’s happening today.
Somehow everybody knows that if you are going to go the distance in this town you better go the distance with whomever has the power in this town.
Many people masquerade as powerful and do very well thank you very much. Taking advantage of those who are want to trust them.
Gays are particularly vulnerable.
It’s best, they are told, for a life as an actor…to stay in the closet.
The closet protects and it taketh away.
To be a young, beautiful gay man arriving in Hollywood for the first time has a million, unforeseen drawbacks that seem, to the uninitiated, like wonderful gifts.
Noticed by rich and powerful men (when you have lived your life in relative obscurity) perverts the course of any fate you might believe in.
There are plenty of fate healers.
Look at him.
Picked from a legion of other boys. He feels special at last.
Boys who would not normally indulge in the crepe flesh of the elderly become their most ardent moisturizer.
Especially for a young gay man who may have been deeply closeted, living in the jet black shadow of toxic shame.
Never realizing his own beauty. His own worth.
Ignorant to the attention he receives as he walks innocently down the street.
Like Dorian Gray, shown for the first time how gorgeous he is…becomes immediately vain and arrogant.
Throws off his mantle of quiet humility and becomes addicted to the adoration of others.
Watching my gay brethren in Hollywood flocking to the shrine of the generously rewarded can be a sickening sight.
Young boys arrive uninvited from small towns in far off states armed with copies of US weekly.
Hoping to make everything better, validate and soothe away the pain of a miserable and isolated childhood.
Unless those boys are fabulously gifted, educated or similarly bequeathed the last of their youth is stolen from them by the unscrupulous.
Their talents go unnoticed. Their dreams unfulfilled, their virginity discarded to the most affluent.
Another notch in the bed post.
Get them drunk or worse.
People say, let them make their own mistakes.
It’s very hard to do.
So, the fame whores and the star fuckers line up…pig pink, shaved and waxed for the jovial grandees who take turns like so many commissioned shop assistants on the floor of the biggest meat market in the whole damned universe.
It was a wonderful day yesterday.
Had lunch with Jon in West Hollywood. Delicious chicken and polenta at Hedley’s. Great to see him. We hadn’t seen each other for weeks and had loads to catch up on. He is in very good spirits. Business is booming for purveyors of luxury furniture so he is doing very well.
Met Ryan F and his super sexy new girlfriend Kirsty Mitchell who was once Miss Scotland but is now a very bankable young actress. She worked with my old friend Billy MacKinnon in his and his brother’s film Small Faces.
Had dinner at The Tasting Kitchen in Venice with Anna. Wonderful food. I had pork…again with polenta and baked cherries. Dropped into Gjelina to congratulate owner for sticking to his guns and not let Gordon Ramsey and ‘Lady’ Victoria Beckham bully them into making menu substitutions.
Arrived home late and fell into bed exhausted. Woke at 5am and watered the garden. My current obsession.
I should have called this post: Pre-Existing Condition.
I have always been embarrassed by my piles. Hemorrhoids. I have always had them. Ever since I can remember. Thank God I was never a bottom.
Whilst the rest of the world looks on in horror at the inevitable nuclear meltdown in northern Japan, the brutal attacks on protestors by the Bahrainian police force, the Libyan civil war I spent this evening with a complete stranger from the internet who arrived at my home with a bag of groceries and cooked me dinner.
Whilst he did that: I fainted. Very, very Jayne Eyre of me.
The upshot being that I badly bruised my back on the fucking chair Michael Temple made for me. The chair looks nice but it’s a FUCKING DEATH TRAP.
That’s what we do in LA. Strangers come to our mountain top mansions and prepare Penne Carbonara. I served coffee in delicate Sevres coffee cups. The dog was FREAKED OUT when I fell over. He ran away from me when I tried to placate him.
This morning Charles left in his neat black suit and freshly pressed shirt and tie. He looked so sweet. I had film stuff to do after he left. After a few film related conversations on the telephone I walked to the PCH. All the way there and all the way back. He chased many ground squirrels.
I sold some art.
This afternoon I watched Sophia Coppola‘s film Somewhere. I really enjoyed it. The language and locations of our Hollywood lives. Too many afternoons floating on the pool, too many hasty hook ups. Too many facile conversations. Too many text messages from people who either want to fuck you or fuck you over. Not enough substance. Set against a back drop of elegant hotels with fancy toys to play with.
I once lived in the Chateau Marmont for a month. I moved there when the mountain burned. I have spent many hours there making new friends.
I remain isolated.
Most of us are isolated here. However successful we are or we are not. However many parties we are/are not attending, however ‘connected’ we are.
Waiting for a great idea.
So now the next great idea has come upon me and I have convinced others to work with to make a dream come true. Suddenly this town makes sense.
Los Angeles, oh you strange and terrible place.
The christian twins are coming to stay. The beautiful, twenty-year-old twins are coming to live with me at the house, live at the house whilst I am in NYC. When they return from Utah. My born again beauties.
I ate the pasta/caprese salad/garlic bread and he left soon after we finished our coffee to my strange, secluded mountain top life.
He was perfectly nice.
The bruise on my back is worth photographing.