Archives for posts with tag: Jacob Brown

Jacob Brown and Andrew Durbin

1.

Yesterday the HRC hijacked another celebrity coming out to further their own white, elite agenda.  Shame on you Chad Griffin.

So, Ellen Pagecomes out‘ with Chad at her side and (as scripted) is immediately hailed as ‘brave’ by the neo liberal media for telling her truth.  Big fucking deal.  Did Ellen Page come out in Uganda, risking her life?  Did Ellen Page use her power and prestige to help those less fortunate lesbians in other parts of the world who risk being imprisoned or worse for the luxury of telling their truth?  No, she talked about how hard it was for her to crash stereotypes.

Poor Ellen.  My heart bleeds for you.

As more and more celebrities come out it is no longer good enough to expect and prepare for fanfare without their truth becoming a political gesture.   It is not good enough for a celebrity in the free world to expect a ‘small gesture’ toward acceptance to be adequate.

Small gestures need to get bigger.  It is the responsibility of every lgbtq celebrity who comes out to address the disparity between their free lives and their oppressed brothers and sisters else where.  For Ellen Page not to mention Uganda, Russia etc. was willful and selfish.

After all, what did she expect… a fucking medal?  No, all she was doing was safeguarding her job and her position and her fame and fortune.

2.

Party last night at Jacob Brown‘s East Village duplex.  Celebrating his birthday were cute thin people, two old farts… me and the perfectly adorable producer Hunter Hill.   Crowd included (amongst others) the delectable poet Andrew Durbin and former MOCA head honcho Ari Wiseman.

I loved that my controversial green fur hat found favor with this cool, queer crowd.

3.

Valentine’s Day, enjoying my burgeoning relationship.

We decided to have dinner at Isa in Williamsburg.  We’d heard good things and it looked very lively when we passed by this summer.

We popped in at lunch time to make our reservation and the young lady maitre’d dutifully jotted it down, took names and numbers and the promise of a two top.

At 8pm we arrived at Isa.  The booking was lost, we were given the end of a community table under a loud speaker playing the most intrusive music, the waiters seemed to be very eager to process EVERYONE in and out very quickly.

We were asked by 4 separate people if we were sure we didn’t want alcohol.

Anyway, I ordered the rustic tomato soup and the skirt steak.  The soup was ok but served in very small dish.  The skirt steak entree was ghastly.  It was like chewing through a shoe.  A rubber shoe.  I sent it back and the duck special was whisked to our table in its place.  The duck was ok, not very well seasoned, the polenta was soupy and badly prepared and $30.  The tiny dish of $7 brussels sprouts were tepid and badly flash fried leaving most of them untouched by the pan… temperature issues at Isa became an irritating theme.

Our coffee was also cold so I left it.

The staff were the kind of people who try to shame you for making a complaint.  Condescending young people who are used to old people putting up and shutting up.  “Do you think you’ll like the duck better.”  He asked after I sent back the inedible steak… he asked as if I had some sort of learning disability.  No, I’m just past 45 years old.  I can hear and understand just fine.

We attempted to leisurely enjoy our dinner but the waiter was eager to snatch our unfinished dishes, “Still working on that?” they pestered.  YES!!  Leave us alone I wanted to scream but I didn’t.  This was obviously the worst choice for a Valentines dinner.   A total waste of time and money.

Here are some recent moments:

Enhanced by Zemanta

1.

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.

At the club I met Scott Cooper who made Crazy Heart and we stood in the bathroom discussing his new film, Out of the Furnace with Christian Bale.   He is understandably excited.  Really lovely man.  I bumped into Nona Summers who was with a loathsome Greek from my distant past.  Kevin and I sat with Jacob Brown from the New York Times. A super cool kid who is making his second short film.  We watched his first at the table.  Enigmatic, sexy and very well shot.

Jacob has excellent taste.  He and Sean Devany are the up and coming generation of young gay film makers fearlessly re-imagining their own experience as gay men, using film for their catharsis.  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.

2.

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.

3.

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 colorful 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.

4.

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.

5.

I am headed to Provincetown to stay with Benoit.

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 4,267 other followers