We ate stewed pear salad, grilled chicken and for dessert they served a strange, solid cake.
Of course the work I have been contributing to was just part of what was projected. I was incredibly proud to be asked to stand in front of the 1000 or so people and introduce myself.
Will Ferrell, Jay Roach, Ermin Chemerinsky and Jane Lynch all spoke beautifully on behalf of the ACLU and their various causes and friends.
During the interval both Usher (the singer) and Scooter Braun (2 million twitter followers) took the time to introduce themselves and congratulate me.
Of course, as usual, not one gay person, including honoree Jane Lynch made themselves known to me. The chasm that exists between me and the gay community in LA was even more evident than usual at this event.
Only last week the gay ‘director’ Guy Shalem texted me telling me that I deserved to be in jail… mocking the time that I had spent there, telling me that I only had friends I made in jail.
Guy Shalem is a gay Israeli fame-whore who lives in Los Angeles. I met him at some grimy gay party in the Hollywood Hills last year and he subsequently invited me to Griffith Park for a walk the following day.
The conversation on the mountain centered around his visa problems, his inability to make relationships work, his celebrity friends and his desire for younger boys.
He complained that Outfest were sniffy about his short film. When I saw it I understood why. “Bruce Vilanch is in it.” He boasted, “They should love it.”
After all, he’s obsessed with celebrity… why shouldn’t Outfest?
So, it was mildly shocking to see Guy at the ACLU event. Wearing a bad suit and even worse shoes.
He had seen the video lauding the work we are all doing for those held on spurious ICE holds.
He heard the applause I received when they asked me to stand.
He heard Hector Villagra, head of the ACLU talking publicly about my personal bravery and commitment to the ACLU.
Guy is the perennial plus one to any gay celebrity. Last night, yet again, he was with Jane Lynch. He saw me, headed toward me and shook my hand. Apparently forgetting the vile things he said last week.
I told him in no uncertain terms how and what I felt about him coming up to me.
He motioned to his ugly short gay friends lawyer Aaron Rosenberg and his ‘husband’ that this was worth watching. They snickered, like vile bullying children, behind my back.
Let’s face it, Guy was only there for the free dinner and to stand with his famous friend and hope to ensnare other famous people with his puppy eyes and his maudlin sob stories.
The point of the evening was completely lost on him.
After I walked away from Guy other honorees came up to me and offered their hands.
One of them, an elderly female philanthropist said, “We are like kindred spirits, you and me.” I was so touched by her generosity.
So many kind people… not one of them gay.
Dude, my fat red dog ran away as fast as he could. The Little Dog stayed beside me as loyal as any dog can be.
I probably should have seen a doctor but, like my Grandmother and my Mother, a visit to the doctor is the last thing I do willingly.
It took an hour or so to persuade Dude to come back to me. For the rest of the day he looked at me differently. Like I was a stranger.
Scintillating few weeks. I am happy. Even though I shouldn’t be. I have no idea what is keeping me so buoyant…not smoking, not eating wheat, full moon, going to AA meetings? I really have no idea.
So many little things are giving me a great deal of pleasure.
The ripe figs I picked yesterday morning, the aubergine and tomatoes, the trips into Beverly Hills with Robby. The California sunshine, the hot nights, the pool lights that I managed to fix so the water glistens at midnight.
This too will pass.
The weather has been gorgeous, the company stimulating. The future a glorious mystery…the past not jumping up at me like a badly trained dog.
A great deal is going on…but my energy is being used creatively. Will let you know asap.
Anyway, just as you all seem to think I have vanished…
Here I am.
The day passed slowly and uneventfully.
I watered the garden. “Why don’t you have an automated system for that?” I hear you say. Well, I do. But…a bit like our mad bad Prince of Wales I like watering the plants individually and chatting with each of them. The citrus trees especially respond to gentle coaxing.
There is something charming and rather annoying about the ‘we’ pathology of twins. We are with each other a little too much. Consequently, when we left for Lake Malibou, I wasn’t in the best of moods.
We all helped Jennifer with her Out of The Box Wednesday pack then Miles set off with the delivery.
Robby and I drove into Hollywood. I wanted to stop in at Fresh and Easy where I buy English staples. Tea, bacon, marmalade etc. I can’t do with out them. We, me and the Little Dog, sat in the ugly court-yard outside the supermarket drinking coffee waiting for Robby watching lithe men heading for 24 hour fitness.
A woman from Chicago, who had arrived in Hollywood two nights previously, looked down at the dog and said, “There’s a little person trapped in there.” She fed him chicken breast. “This has got to last me two days.” She told the Little Dog. She was plump, dyed black hair and red lips. She told me that she was here in Hollywood to pitch reality TV ideas to…God know who. She was going to pay to pitch her ‘concepts’.
I was overcome with pity for her. She told me a couple of ‘ideas’ she had thought of pitching.
It occurred to me that for forty years not one original thought had been formed in that sappy brain.
I went for a walk.
Hollywood is grimy. There is nothing of any beauty to look at…to be inspired by. I yearn for my garden.
Robby picked me up after an hour in the gym. We had planned on going to an art/film/glamour party in Beverly Hills but I was tired and irritable so we drove home.
Well, we drove back to Malibou Lake and I helped Jason cook dinner for the children. After dinner, as the children were going to bed, I sat at their Steinway and tried playing the piano. I had not played for thirty years. I was shocked by how clumsy my fingers were. No longer able to slide effortlessly over the keys. I began to sweat. Evidence of my old age. Evidence of my own mortality. It was so frustrating! My left hand refused to even practice the scales in unison with the right.
I lay in bed last night thinking too much. Waiting to be dead.
Not so fast Batman!
Next week I set off on my ‘great adventure’ culminating in the birthday hootenanny. There are people flying from all sorts of wonderful places to help me celebrate my 50th Birthday…before I am not. I am stunned that so many old friends even exist for me let alone want to jump on a plane and be with me. You know, this is what I should have done last year…but last year I was with him in the back parlor of Wheelers.
Last year there was no room for anyone else. WTF?
Busy, busy, busy! Fled, after my morning meeting, to the bank and Malibu and back again. The misty garden smelling of jasmine and other, sweeter perfumes. I love the way the garden evolves. Wood chip paths and great forests of Euphorbia down where the goats will live.
Meeting with lawyer re. company in Santa Monica-where I also bought English chocolate and piccalilli. Had stove and blender fixed. Kept an eye on Blankstein grilling via NPR. Even if it is just political theatre it’s fun to think that this most ghastly of all men-Blankstein is having to play the villain role for all to see.
Goldman Sachs is just another human empire and it will eventually fail as they all do-eventually. It is the way we do things here on earth.
Human being/Human doing.
The Christian Louboutin party at the Robertson store with the great man in attendance (wearing lilac slacks) was a very friendly, if soulless affair.
‘A’ gays including the poisonous Peter Dunham with his age defying boyfriend the celebrity dermatologist Peter Kopelson-we often take time ignoring one another passing on Runyon Canyon. Peter Dunham, hideously scarred by acne and HIV, making small talk at the edge of the room with similarly scarred reptilians. Peter’s talentless, screeching ‘artist’ friend Konstantine Kakanias arrived bound in a flimsy scarf that did nothing to distract from his unusually fat face. Oh how one loves to loathe. The most amusing line from Konnie’s on-line resume- Second Prize, International Award for blah blah blah…who the fuck boasts about coming second?
As well as the gays, some of whom I liked by the way-none of whom were wearing CL shoes there was a contingent of Iranian women with huge asses squeezed into badly cut denim jeans tottering around on red soled CL hooker heels. These dusky gals baying for their photograph taken with Christian who willingly obeyed as only a man can when he is selling most of these women over a thousand pairs of his shoes-each! It was like a fetish party. I didn’t recognize any of the women other than the ubiquitous Tracy Ross-saw her at Prada party too. Dull.
One woman arrived in McQueen but the ensemble was so badly put together she looked like a Michael Jackson Halloween clone. Sad.
There have been a glut of ‘recessionary chic’ soiree held in small stores across Beverly Hills and West Hollywood, usually with red carpet facilities but there was none last night. Tomorrow will be the shoe-signing event when Christian signs shoes. My friend Jamie is going, one might want to link to her blog to find out how that went.
Dinner with Peter Scarf at the Mercantile before he went off to drink at some hip club somewhere.
Sweet, late night conversations with lamb head made me content and happy before I slept. Oh, if only..
Miserable day in LA. Misty British rain rather than the fat tropical raindrops we usually have.
After breakfast with John and the lads I drove to Malibu and built a HUGE fire. It was raining so hard I had no view what so ever. A huge cloud had gobbled the entire house. Luna went on a garden adventure in the rain and came home covered in mud. I had to turn a hose on her, which caused her some consternation, then, being the Luna dog, she began to LOVE.
Now, when it rains, rather than looking downcast, worrying about how many weeds I’ll have to clear in the spring so my house doesn’t instantaneously combust when the fires come-my eyes sparkle. The property is now one big goat buffet. I cannot wait for them to arrive!
One of my readers suggested that I contact a goat rescue if one indeed exists. And, blow me down; one really does exist in California. I’ll call them tomorrow.
The general contractor arrived to discuss the changes I need to make to the roof to accommodate the solar cells required for me to get off the grid. I also discussed how we would pump the spring water that bubbles up at the bottom of the property into where the vegetable garden will be.
Last night Anna invited me to a party at her and Mel’s house in East LA. I was the only man. It was such a groovy party. We wrote down on pages of Anna’s old script what we wanted to forget about last year and what we wanted for 2010. I wanted to forget rather a lot. My aims for this year are simple and sure. I stayed a couple of hours, chatted with Jamie Babbitt and some girl who is going to be in the reality version of the L word.
Since writing yesterday how much I had forsaken during the past three decades in pusuit of hedonism I began today to formally grieve. In pursuit of selfish ends I have destroyed a potentially wonderful career, the chance of a lasting intimate relationship and an enduring happiness.
This is no time for self-pity, however.
My father died when he was only 53 and I like to remember that on his deathbed he would turn, at last, to God.
I’m so glad that I have a God in my life who I trust will show me the way, regardless of whether the route is treacherous or not. To put ones life in God’s hands is not for the fainthearted.
Tim and Amanda drove from Beverly Hills to sit by the fire with me then we hacked back down the mountain and ate lunch at a raggedy hole-in-the-wall Thai restaurant on the Pacific Coast Highway. It was perfectly delicious.
As we were leaving we complimented the chef who was also lunching but on a plate of boiled hen heads.
Christmas Eve in Beverly Hills last year was a mass of heaving bags, frantic women and dissolute men. This year there was scarcely a soul on Rodeo Drive. ‘Deck the Hills’ Beverly Hills tacky shopping slogan-hadn’t worked. Tim, Amanda and I walked briskly from shop to shop nere another shopping bag to be seen.
In the spirit of Christmas Past I was wearing a pair of black cashmere pantaloons with pink socks and buckled shoes. I had both the dogs with me. All eyes on Duncan. It is possible to be a chic farmer-as Martha Sitwell proves. I am so sick of dressing DOWN. Bland, dreary jeans, meaningless sweats: how can a man of any sexuality express himself sartorially?
Women, for that matter, don’t seem to have it any better. Note the tribes of identically dressed club girls waiting in line on Ivar. Shivering, tiny, rectangular micro-mini dresses and boucle crop tops, emaciated spikes of pink/brown flesh once born as arms and legs.
Since my rehab experience I am having a cris de coeur. A real one. A bone fide cris de coeur. Well, not so much a crisis of the heart but of the cock. A cris de pallique!
I am having an unplanned, unwanted, unloved revelation about my sexuality. I really don’t know if I am gay anymore. I think I might not be. Genuinely. I am having a MOMENT about my gayness. Somebody wrote on some board somewhere, “If Duncan Roy doesn’t like gay sex-he isn’t gay.” Well, as it happens, that might be true.
Lets face it; my sexual relations with man are based on recreating earlier abuses. I seldom get excited-if ever. I don’t get no-satisfaction. Perhaps if I trained myself to be present during sex with men but…even…even that seems like nonsense. I just don’t enjoy men. I lay there wondering, unengaged, what the hell am I doing here? Out of body. Thinking about Delia’s thick bean and bacon soup.
Wearing pantaloons does not make you a gay. Nor do pink socks.
There’s something about dressing up, wearing wonderfully exotic clothing that makes me feel complete. Frankly, at my age, I can wear what ever I damn well please. I could wear make up if I wanted-and have been considering it.
I don’t want to be a star cross dresser rather a star-crossed lover of beautiful things. After all, there’s a tranny deep inside of me-who’d like to be deep inside of you.
Somewhere along the way I became confused, disillusioned or just plain bored of GAY. It used to be fabulous; it kept me coming back, the mere spectacle of GAY..but now look..it’s crazily banal. The bars, clubs, private parties are all the same. The same ghastly narrative, the same Benny Hill type chases, the same miserable, vacuous queens. I didn’t sign up for that. I signed up for glamour and individuality.
Would any of you mind if I just stopped the gay bus and got off?
Yesterday, I found myself in conversation with a woman whose life I had been at the periphery for many, many years. We met at lunch with Amanda and Tim and, as so often happens, we had both been caught in the same social cobweb. But, whereas the spider had already sucked me dry-my friend is in the process of being eaten alive.
I am incredibly attracted to a certain kind of woman as I am attracted to a certain kind of man. However, a man’s intellect does nothing for me. I don’t wake up thinking about his brain-I wake up thinking about his cock. His story is a means to an end. A woman’s story can, and often does, lead to intimacy.
Okay, more of that later. Some other day. More will be revealed etc. etc.
I voted round one for the Academy Awards. My personal shortlist (films I had seen) was three times longer than 2008. The Academy will be thrilled to hear that I took my voting duties very seriously this year.
The best actor category was the hardest vote to cast. Gordon Levitt from 500 Days of Summer left a lasting impression-but really, that was IT. So much easier to vote for the women! There seemed to be real choice. The role as written for women hasn’t gotten any better but women seem to have fun with their performances. Whilst the men seem imprisoned by introspection the women are having a fucking blast…think Up In The Air.
Finally for Christmas! My Christmas cheer:
If you have the chance, time or inclination do please check out Fanny Cradock. Fanny, a 1970’s TV chef of the British snob variety became a ‘camp ’ legend, rude, funny and disparaging she predates Simon Cowell by thirty years. Fanny had all his savvy but in those genteel days was fired for being a bitch whereas nowadays she would be given a pay rise.
My Grandmother couldn’t stand Fanny because she’d wear long sleeves whilst say, stuffing a goose.
I always wanted to create a mid-century modern TV bitch type character based on Fanny Cradock but Justin Bond got there first with his Kiki in the award winning show Kiki and Herb.
Johnny Cradock after eating a freshly made doughnut once said, “Mmmm, delicious. I hope all your doughnuts taste like Fanny’s”