Archives for posts with tag: YouTube

Bruce Weber, Fern Mallis, Ralph Lauren

Last Wednesday I found myself at the 92nd Street Y supporting my great new friend Fern Mallis in the most recent of her Fashion Icon interviews.

Even though these interviews have become legendary within the fashion industry garnering great reviews from all in attendance, there is very little on-line that one can see other than tiny clips.

Fern deserves her own YouTube channel and somebody needs to organize this for her post-haste.

As I am a fairly new friend I watched what little I could find on-line of past interviews, spoke to friends and by all accounts these interviews are very special indeed.

Indomitable Fern is known most notably for her creation of New York Fashion Week but more importantly she is the consummate glass ceiling smasher.   A brusk Russian jew she has huge charisma facilitating the delightful way she has of cutting through the crap to get to where and what people are interested.  One feels that if anybody can, Fern can.

Interviews with Donna Karan, Polly Mellen, Tom Ford, Andre Leon Talley, Marc Jacobs, Vera Wang charting the genesis of their personal style, describing the homes where they were brought up, the relationships they had with their parents and their personal adventures within the fashion industry have moved and delighted her audiences.

I arrived expecting a great deal.   In the front of the theatre sat amongst other fashion luminaries Grace Coddington and Ralph Lauren.

The lecture series was announced, Fern introduces a short film by Bruce Weber with notable scenes including his own days as a model, numerous famous names and an elephant Bruce likes to take pictures of draped with naked boys.

The problem with Bruce Weber?  He’s not that interesting.  When all is said and done Bruce is a married man obsessed with the homoerotic.

With his wife sitting in the audience it would have been difficult for any great interviewer to ask pertinent question about the other elephant in the room.

The humongous pink elephant in the room.

The question I wanted answered… like all the others who sat with bated breath wondering if Fern would go there.  The question we wanted answering but was never answered, “Bruce Weber, are you gay?

In 2013 post DOMA this would not be an unusual or impertinent question.  He has, after all is said and done, devoted himself to photographing naked, young, super-fit, white boys.  He is brilliant at photographing naked white boys because he loves them.  He worships them.  Everything else he photographs dulls by comparison.

Bruce says that taking a picture of a beautiful boy is like a ‘handshake or a hug’ I would go further… every time he takes a photograph of a beautiful, naked, white boy he is fucking that boy, caressing his ass, sucking on his cock.  The photographs and films of beautiful, naked, white boys ooze sensuality, eroticism and the promise that we are only one shot away from seeing them hard and proud shooting jizz all over their perfect white bodies.

Bruce Weber, are you gay?

Bruce Weber, why do you only shoot white boys?  Why is there never a black or asian or pacific islander in any of your pictures?  Why do people like Grace Coddington or Calvin Klein or Ralph Lauren let you get away with this appalling racism?

Bruce Weber, have you (like Terry Richardson) ever used your power and prestige to encourage those boys you photograph to do other more extreme things for your camera?

I had lunch with a friend on Saturday who was also at the interview and (once we had discussed Terry Richardson sexual unmanageability problems) both lamented Weber’s lack of openness.

If we are truly looking for clues about this closeted, married sixty-five year old man we may look no further than a dull, almost forgettable story he told about a beautiful man carrying an air conditioning unit.

Walking in the street Bruce stops and, risking a ‘punch on the nose’ asks a half-naked man carrying an air-conditioning unit if he can take his picture.  If it is his true intention to simply take a picture why would the man want to punch him on the nose?  If Bruce’s intention is to seduce the man… then a punch on the nose seems more likely.

I can shamelessly ask to take anyones picture if I only desire to take pictures.  But if I am shamed by my desire for you, I want you to open yourself up to me, let me take you to a quiet place and take pictures of you as a means to watch you do things you keep private… then the implicit threat of violence seems more likely.

Beneath the chubby, bandana wearing kindly old grandfather facade lurks a self loathing homosexual, terrified of clearly and truthfully expressing his desires.

The interview was not as great as it could have been because we all colluded with Bruce Weber’s charade.  If we could have gotten past the crust of self-hatred then a perfectly brilliant interview might have happened.  No such luck.

Finally, Bruce expressed his frustration… hatred even for the democratization of photography, for Instagram, for Facebook postings.

In Bruce’s perfect, elite white world manned by an army of assistants, he advised us that we should take our most treasured digital images and have them printed on expensive paper and make books as perfect keepsakes.

Bruce lives in a world of perfect keepsakes, of platinum blonde golden retrievers bred by east coast breeders.

Bruce lives by the sea, in the mountains, in the city keeping his eyes peeled for perfect boys who may or may not become stars in a world where naked Russian dancers come on seven month adventures around the world.

“Sergei, come travel with us.”

A faux commune of beautiful, young, white men, strumming guitars in the moon light. Warmed by flickering log fires, sitting on Navajo blankets and always naked, their abs and lats and still wet hair glistening from skinny dipping in crystal clear water and always ready for another perfect photograph.

Hush now, the girls have gone to sleep.  Let me lay beside you and enjoy you for a little while.

The narrative is always the same in the cult of Bruce.  The gently spoken, self loathing homosexual who needs his wife’s permission to buy another dog….

The criminal matter is resolved.

Do you want to know what happened?

As part of a plea deal crafted by the DA and my lawyer, I plead NO CONTEST to a misdemeanor.  My sentence?  An 18 month gagging order and a 52 hour course in anger management.

There was no jail time, no fine.  It was all over in 20 minutes.

I smoked a cigarette outside the courtroom.  So did the DA.  She sat there in her black coat.  Sitting where she always sits.  Behind a wall.

Like a naughty school girl.  Smoking.

And I felt like it was going to be OK.  Because she was smoking too.

The judge said goodbye, the bailiff smiled.  The stenographer watched with interest.

I said goodbye to my lawyers and drove to Venice.

I had a lot of thinking to do.

On the way to Abbot KinneyRussian woman rear ended me.  We stopped abruptly on Wilshire Blvd.

Her name was Natalie Volk.  She was very apologetic.  Her husband got out of the car.  Natalie must have been 80 years old, he was older.  She touched the back of the car to make sure it wasn’t all a bad dream.

We exchanged personal details.  I’m not going to call her insurance people.  I know what they’ll do to her.  How punitive they can be.

That night I stopped at a gas station to buy gas and soda.  A huge black woman begged me to fill her gas tank.  The station wagon was packed with kids.  They were homeless.  They lived in that car.

I paid for their gas.  I made it seem like a terrible imposition.

Absurdly, I didn’t want other people to think I was being hijacked.

I went to buy myself a soda.  The woman at the checkout said, “That was really kind of you, they were homeless.”  She smiled and said,  “I’ll pay for your soda.”

I felt badly that I hadn’t been kinder to the homeless women.

On my way out of the service station I saw the most beautiful black man.  A solid wall of muscle.  He was walking up Lincoln Avenue.   I circled around until I found him.  I stopped the car and asked him what he was doing.

We had a chai latte at the Coffee Bean in Marina Del Rey.  He was from Chicago.  28 years old.  A personal trainer.  He had moved to LA a few months ago to help his brother.  He used to have dreadlocks.

I dropped him off at his apartment.  He invited me into his empty place.

At 5am I drove him to the gym where he worked.

Perhaps I should have given him more?  More than a chai latte?

As I drove home up the PCH.  Looking over the Pacific Ocean.  I thought about the previous day.

All that public money wasted.  All that time taken by highly paid District Attorneys,  Attorneys who could have been solving real crimes.

Money that could be spent repairing a local school. Money that could have been spent investigating white-collar crimes.

I was listening to John Martyn.  Solid Air.  Synthesized sea gulls.  A heartbeat.  My heart is still beating.

2.

Whatever may happen.  How ever bad it gets.  It is is up to you… yes you…  you can turn the worst things that happen into the most extraordinary adventure.

As anyone who has a creative bone in their body knows, to carve something artful out of wherever you find yourself… well.  It’s up to you.

So, it was no coincidence that, after I spoke to the reporter about The Trust Act, after my involved and specific conversation with the  lawyer, after I had recorded the Youtube video….

I sat down at my desk and rewrote the ending of my script.

What a killing crime this love can be.

This is for you Daddy.  You bad, bad man.

On Friday at 10am I will stand before you all again, on your televisions, in your newspapers, sparking up the internet.

Damning the authority.

On behalf of the brown people.

And after it is all over?  I am left on my own.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  Because I have you.

I want to tell you about my neck.  The arthritis in my neck.  The arthritis that makes my arms numb.  My fingers tingle.

I am pleased not to share that with anyone.

The audience is singing along with the familiar tune.

It is 2am.  The dog is farting.  He’ll want to go out in the middle of the night.

Mel picked me up from the house at 6.15am and we drove into The Palisades for the 7.30am AA ‘bank’ stag meeting.  I could only endure a few moments then I left.

I wandered around the Farmers Market looking at the organic vegetables, cut flowers, the smell of fresh samosas baking in the early morning sun.

I felt like Ripley (played by Alain Delon) at the fish market in the original film version Plein Soleil (see above starts at 9 mins and 9 seconds) of the novel The Talented Mr Ripley by Patricia Highsmith.

He has no idea what is waiting for him…

I first saw this film in Spetses, Greece.  The open air cinema, when I was 21.  Ironic huh?

If you don’t know this film…see it.  It’s available in its entirety on YouTube.

I couldn’t sit in that meeting facing those scoundrels.  One of them told us that he had called his wife a cunt and the other laughed heartily.  He was trying to confess his wrongs, the others behaved like Rush Limbaugh.  They thought it was sooo damned funny.

So I went for a walk in the now blazing sun.   The hottest day of the year so far.

I chatted with a good-looking man and tried to take my mind off the meeting.

Mel and I walked the dogs down to the ocean.  After he dropped me back at the house I tried writing, attempted to eat.

A friend dropped by and we meditated. Yes, we did.

Dinner with Anna in Venice, met a Greek friend, bumped into Rufus. Bed by 11.

There was a moment this afternoon when, yet again, I felt totally at peace with who and where I was.  Not only did I feel as if I was inhabiting my own skin but I wanted for nothing.  That is a wonderful feeling.

As in any full life there are problems…but nothing that seems to steer me away from this feeling of being settled, peaceful and at one with the world.

I walked to the new road…it was wonderful…it’s nearly finished…not that I will ever drive on it.

I want to cuddle up with someone.  To share my bonhomie.

75 pages into the script.  It’s fucking brilliant…even if I say so myself.

How likely is that someone you know will kill themselves?  How come I know so many people who have?  How is it that I think suicide is a perfectly honorable death option?  Killing oneself not out of self-pity but because it’s just the right thing to do?  Because it’s time.

I am only 16 years younger than my mother.  I watch old age creep over her and do not want that.

I never again want to feel the pain I felt last year.

Until the startlingly handsome decorator arrived yesterday that’s really all I could think about.  In between tinkering with my book.   Hence the odd video posted.

Blue grey eyes, perfectly formed.  Beach, bleach blond hair.

You might think that I have been bored with all this death thinking but actually I have not.  I have been doing stuff.  Enough stuff.  Dinner at Nobu last night.  On Wednesday I went to the premiere of a TV show, yes…that’s LA for you.  They premiere TV shows.

I met a Navy Seal.  Dangerous.

I took Robby to the event at Gauchos in Glendale (such glamour!) where we were served about ten pounds of meat.  My poor tummy.

I am still mightily pissed off at the Twins.  Daily revealing themselves to be self-serving, manipulating and utterly self obsessed.  I am creating MONSTERS.  For example: when Robby drives, the rear view mirror is positioned so he can look at himself and not the road behind him.

Constantly checking his hat hair.

It never occurs to either of them that the adventures and people who I have introduced them to might be reciprocated in any way.  They are off with my friends of friends who patently want to fuck them, thinking that their scintillating wit attracts them to others.

We sat in Joan’s on Third on Wednesday, Robby was overly concerned that other people might think that I was fucking him.  What he doesn’t realize is that if a young man of dubious sexuality is out with any man…people will assume that they are fucking.  I think everyone is fucking everyone in LA.

Yet, they are both so friendly.

Their friendliness is often misconstrued.  It seems flirty.  They touch you but woe betide if you touch them.   I think Robby understands, he’s grateful…but not enough.

As for Miles…I can scarcely look at him.

They both take but rarely give.  Where’s the humility Christian boys?  Or are you just hung up on…what the fuck are you hung up on?

I am overdosing on the twins.  I can’t wait for then end of the month.  Not a day too soon.

I have been watching the Vlog Brothers YouTube videos.  I watch them at least twice/three times a week.  John and Hank Green.  Hank is a bit of an idiot with a huge brain.  A real nerd, well that’s what I thought…until…I’ll explain later.  And John, I rather liked author John Green until yesterday.

He said something that made me despise him.

He said that he didn’t like meeting strangers.

He said that he couldn’t give random hugs.

His excuse was pathetic.

I don’t think John Green is a nerd, I think he became one to keep his brother company.  I think John Green is erudite, sophisticated, intelligent and  handsome.  I think I would be scared by his intellect if I met him.  I would be scared if I met him.

You should check these guys out.

On their own, performing for their cameras they become the men they always wanted to be..yet, because they are now famous…internet famous…and successful, this strange act is obviously just that.

The pressure to perform must be HUGE.  It is apparent when they are together in the same room…who is more authentic.  Hank is softer, more at ease.  Gentle.  Off stage Hank might be the one.  Off stage John looks surly, miserable, dark.

John has a great deal to prove.  He has the bigger career. He has the wife with a big life in the art world.  The adorable kid.  The conflicted Christian pre history.

He wanted to be ordained.

I’ve always thought that it takes a huge amount of ego to be a priest where as most people think that it requires the absence of ego.  To stand up and channel the word of God wearing fancy hats and garb.  You need balls.  John Green has balls.

The decorator returns today.

I am going to VidCon at the end of the month.

I want to fuck a hooker.

The twins will all at once irritate, frustrate and delight me.  Miles has this notion that he wants to direct.  Am I expected to help him?  He needs to make something.  If he wants to direct…he needs to make a film so that he can show people what he’s made of.

If he has any art, has an understanding of detail.

Shoot something!

As for Robby this is maybe his moment.  He wants to be an actor.  He is not a great beauty.  Not really, he has crude features yet there is something mesmerizing about him.  He has something.  I don’t know if he can act.  If he has the strength.  If he can overcome the fear that often walks hand in hand with self obsession.

I have not written this diary properly for a few days.  A great deal is going on.   Traveling East.

It seemed like I said yes to far too many dinner invitations and ended up cancelling all of them.

I am talking to sales reps about The Picture of Dorian Gray.  Finally.  It is time.  David Gallagher is the breakout star in Super 8 so we may very well sell it.  With David looking so amazingly fit and grown up and Aleksa in Boardwalk Empire…perhaps we can sell it for what it is worth.  Anyway, I’m talking again to sales agents so let’s see.  I just want what it is worth.  Not selling it for anything less.

I am still not happy with the edit.

The desert.  We drive into the night.  The Freeway.  Homogenous America.  The same 6 restaurant chains, the same names…again and again.  Nothing to differentiate state by state.   The desert is beautiful.  Desolate, hot, 110 degrees yesterday.

I am now in Willcox Arizona, sitting in the Safeway Starbucks where coffee is twenty cents more than The Palisades.  To prove that people must be BORED beyond reason living out here I have been recognized more in the past ten minutes than the past ten months.

They are playing Nights in White Satin by The Moody Blues.

So, we left LA yesterday morning.  The previous day we spent dozing on the beach then had dinner at the rancid Taverna Tony’s.  Flayed shrimp.  The Beautiful Dane’s Swedish friend arrived and we all stayed in Malibu that night leaving early the following morning with Robby.

The Swedish friend (whose name I refuse to remember) is a clumsy idiot and I don’t expect revising my opinion any time soon.  They call each other Bagel.   Within ten minutes of meeting me he had knocked my phone out of my hand.

Robby and Miles returned from their wedding weekend, apparently the bride and groom washed each other’s feet in the Christian ceremony.  Robby looked great.  They are such sweet boys.

Very clean feet.

The Dane sings Riders in The Storm in Danish which is funny.

Picked up a huge SUV at The Dane’s insistence.  Expensive, gas consuming behemoth.

We drove to Glendale Station where we picked up another Dane, a girl called Lucie who used to work in the fashion and textile department at the Met in NYC.  We had a great deal to talk about.

It seemed like a good idea to fill the car with friends but as it turns out the idiot friend and the Dane have a very specific sort of relationship and Lucie is his ex gf who he took two years to get over.

I began to reassess.   My farts stink.

We drove from LA to Phoenix.  Dinner at The Royal Palm Resort which is incredibly beautiful.  Taco Tuesday.  Luxury on a budget.  The Swede nipped off with his good-looking friend and bought two dresses from H and M for him and the Dane which they changed into in the parking lot.

We stopped in a gas station and a man told his friend very loudly that the dress wearing men should be arrested.  As we drove deeper into Arizona the dresses caused me some panic as I really did not want either of them to get shot.

As you can tell from my voice.  I am trying a little too hard.

Stayed in a small motel with wi-fi and a big black dog.  The room cost us $60.

We are on our way to Marfa, Texas to the Donald Judd hangers.

If you want to see all of the videos from this trip…go to my YouTube channel.

We are off soon.  Long journey ahead.  They are playing Joe Jackson’s Stepping Out.  The Starbucks girl is blending caramel frapaccino and I will never see Willcox Arizona ever again.

It’s none of my business what you think about me. Remember that. Duncan Roy…asshole.

Busy past few days. Mostly interested by the end of my novel. Eluded me until last night. Then, just as we are serving dinner (Michael B), it hit me like a rock in the head. The dignified end that had been requested of me.

I have had to really listen these past few days. Listen to somebody I have never met yet whose opinions I trust. Somebody who although several thousand miles away, is as engaged as I am with my book. It is all at once disconcerting and exhilarating.

He asked if I was wedded to the idea that this be a ‘gay’ novel. Don’t! That’s what I thought. Please don’t do this to me. Then, without a moments thought I said that I wasn’t wedded to the idea but didn’t know if I could write it any other way. He suggested that I re read a certain novel with similar themes. That I might be inspired. Well, I did and I was. He was right.

As a result of his suggestion..everything has to be re-jigged but it is smoother, less…his words…’self conscious’. That seems to be what he levels at me most often…that my writing is ‘self conscious’. Then I think to myself, you are out there helping me write a better novel. Do you want to write? No, he says. That’s not my job. I don’t have those aspirations. Like a therapist he is loathed to talk about anything else other than my work and me. He is a closed book.

He helped me with the POV (Point of View) which I had thought about a million times when making a film but never when writing prose.

So, there’s a beginning, middle and an end. That’s that.

What else? Well, I have been in the garden for hours. It looks amazing. I am either at my desk editing or I am in the garden planting and pruning. My nails are constantly black with mud. There is a trail of dirt through the house where I can’t be bothered to take off my shoes but get very grumpy if anyone else forgets to.

I went to a dinner with Tom and wished he didn’t want to sleep with 19 year old boys but wanted to sleep with me. I had sex with the deaf boy whose deafness kinda turns me on. We fucked. I wish I knew him better.

The Dane arrives this evening and we set off on our adventure. What is it with me and adventures?

Have been to therapy every day. I feel great. I feel complete. I know, God damn it, that this will pass but being active in the body and the mind seems to placate my yearning heart. However, I am acutely aware that when I feel good like this I start hankering for more. Where’s mine?

Wild Sage

Yesterday we went for a long hike though the Malibu Canyon State Park.

Beautiful wild flowers.  The Little Dog in 7th heaven.  Drove home via the Malibu Farmers Market and prepared fresh chard for dinner.  Bought delicious goats cheese flavoured with lavender.   Made dinner for three of us then slept FITFULLY as the dog was up and down the stairs all night barking at wildlife in the garden.

Saw Chris Cortazzo the local, gay celebrity realtor wearing jeans that were far too tight for a man of his shape and disposition.

Did you know that I am the eldest of 11 (maybe 12) children shared between my Mother who had my half brothers Stuart and Martin and my errant father Kuros Khazaei who had 8 or 9 further half brothers and sisters with 4 or 5 other women depending on which story you believe.

I have met all of my half siblings except Jonathon (no contact) and Natalie who I have spoken to on the telephone. So, here goes, here are the rest of my half blood brothers and sisters born in wedlock/legitimately by my father:  Dominic, Michael, Natalie, Jessica, James, Rebecca and Jonathon Khazaei.  Illegitimately by my father Karen and there maybe another called Roya…but this might be a paternal myth.  Like the diamond heist.  Can anyone shed any light on that?  Or that the Kray twins threw him out of a window?  Or that he carried a tape recorder everywhere with him?

That’s all there is to tell you about them.  Just wanted you to know.  Some of you think I am an only child.

The beautiful Dane arrives from NYC next Sunday and a couple of days later we will head off on our ‘Great Adventure!’ all of which we will document here and on YouTube.   Obviously it was at about this time last year that The Penguin and I went to France.  I’ve been reading over my rather romanticized blogged version of those weeks.

My anger refreshed.  Remember, the night I arrived in NYC he was already (I later discovered) seeing someone else in a ‘non exclusive relationship’ and decided to fetch his stash of meth from under his bed and snort it in front of me.  I feel so angry writing this.  That he would take such a risk with my sobriety.

By the time we left for Paris he had no respect or love or care for me what so ever.  He just wanted the free ride.

Whilst we were in Europe he was hooking up with other men when ever he could, using internet pornography, skyping with his ‘non-exclusive’ boy friend and lying to me every single day.

I think of those weeks in Europe and my heart sinks.   Mind you, how must his ex girl friend feel?  That on every vacation they ever took together during their 7 years he would do exactly the same.  Hooking up with random strangers in bathrooms then slipping into bed with her.  Her sucking a cock that had just been up a strangers ass.

I have just been writing the final pages of my novel so this revisited fury has some provenance.

As for the novel?  Anything I put my mind to…my heart into…what seems for others a long and painful process has become quite effortless.

I am now working with a book editor from the not so niche publisher.  It is most often described in the press as a ‘leading independent publisher’.   The time difference means that notes were waiting for me this morning when I woke up.  My first notes.  I was so excited I almost couldn’t look at them.

Wow, this editor thang is a revelation.

Working with someone who helps shape, define and redefine the work I am doing.  Helping me be less self-conscious.

As for the imprint by whom I will be published..their rosta of edgy authors is very impressive indeed.

I just heard that Laura Ziskin died of cancer yesterday.  Now I feel terrible.  She was a great friend of The Penguin.  I’m so sorry.

Yesterday I wandered the garden taking pictures.  Here are some of them:

Marine Layer at Night

My friend Ashley moved in last night.  She arrived with Thai food and a pillow.

Almost immediately felt a trillion times better about everything.  Being on my own is not good for me.  Just me and my head.  We lit a huge fire, watched interesting film clips on my computer and life felt a great deal better.

The marine layer shrouded the house all night so everything this morning is wet and sparkling.  The gray light, as I have said a million times, suits all the colours here in the house.

I get my watch back today, the big gold one I broke last year but forgot to pick up.  I should fetch my grandfather’s ring that is still in repair.

I bought a family box of food from my friend Jennifer’s company Out of the Box Collective which arrives Saturday week.  She has sourced the best of what is available from local farms including organic meats, vegetables and raw milk/yogurt etc.  I am really excited about this!

Three of us living up here cooking great food, making art and doing what humans do..supporting one another..and I don’t mean through bad times but supporting one another to do the best of what we can possibly do.

The great thing about Ashley is her connection to everything happening in the new arts here in LA.  Performance, film etc.  We watched clips of things on YouTube that inspire us.  She showed me a really interesting animation/performance that I loved.

I understood that I had not just isolated myself from people but from my life blood..art.  I simply stopped going to anything.  I stopped turning up.  To have a life in the arts you have to be present.  For nine long months I have been a dead man.  Jake became my life and the poor lamb head just couldn’t be my life.

Manhunt date number 4 was a funny latino boy. 27 years old and HIV positive.  Hmmm.  We didn’t have much to say so he left. He was a bit pissed that he had driven all this way and didn’t get any.

I feel so much better about everything.

Suddenly all of my anxiety, obsession and resentment has slipped away…at least for the time being.

This morning I thought about writing which I have not thought about for a long, long time.  Just having someone around keeps me focused.

Let him have his life and I will have mine.  I wish we could have had a kind goodbye.

You see, I went from having a dear, dear friend to having nothing…whilst he was surrounded by his family.  Never on his own.  A family to fall back on.  I had nothing.  When I lived in Whitstable the people there, they were my family for good and for bad.  I just had to step outside of my front door and I would engage with people who had known me all my life.

Lily

I saw a property for sale today in England that I can’t stop thinking about.  Hastings is a small British seaside town.  I have always really loved it.  There’s a house there that looks amazing.  Huge.  Lots of space.

You see!  Already my head is in a different, more positive place.  Just wait until Anna arrives and we will be cooking, as they say, with gas.

At 8 this morning Jason popped by with Lily (my god-daughter) and her brother Max for breakfast.  Hot chocolate.  I think this maybe a regular event as they have an hour to kill most mornings between dropping the kids off at their various schools.

Somebody asked me what I seek in a man.  I think he wanted to know about sex but I replied:  intelligence, wit, kindness, fortitude, patience.

Have a great day everybody!

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