Duncan Roy's Blog[wpvideo f4zNSsKA]
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I had a lovely time today with you. You must have been twenty years old when I first met you. Now look at you. I like when you wear your jeans tighter. Cargo pants really don’t suit you. I like when you read poetry to me. I like when you crack my fingers.
Help yourself. You can have whatever you want. Take what ever you want.
Gary Winick (Tadpole 2002) died. He was 49-years-old.
Gary once introduced me to Mark Ruffalo. Mark wouldn’t remember me, Gary would.
Gary was one of the forward thinking guys who set up the ground breaking film production company InDigEnt. He was a really, really sweet man. No news as to how he died but I think, from what I can remember, he may have had a serious illness that he kept quiet about.
He was very discreet.
Crikey, so many deaths! I just diligently report them. It’s rewarding to find something nice to say about the recently departed like poor Wally in Whitstable.
In Jean’s case, it was quite hard. We hadn’t spoken for ages because we had a money issue that neither of us wanted to resolve. He was a terrible drain on his friends and family. Let’s put it this way: it was very hard for Jean to enjoy his gifted life without endlessly complaining or taking drugs.
People die. I just put on my bombazine shift and write the bleeding obituary.
Perhaps I should try writing my own?
I would entitle it: WEAK TEA or LOUD AND DIM or NOTHING REMARKABLE.
To be run in the Whitstable Times in the event of my death:
Surly Duncan Roy (65) found dead in his Swalecliffe bed sitting room. Former Lord of The Lies refused medication for obvious mental illness and made unremarkable films. Campaigned for the Red Spider Cafe. He will not be missed.
I have not written a last will and testament so the fuckers can squabble over what is left. I may leave it all to that little girl or to a bat charity or Jake’s ex-girl friend. That would be funny.
Watched Oscars. Was James Franco stoned? No! He’s been sober for YEARS. He just looked a bit unprepared. I would have preferred if Social Network had won best film. It deserved to. The Kings Speech is constipated TV tosh. Tom Hooper is a director of no importance. Why does Colin Firth KEEP telling the world how important Tom Ford is to him and how he wouldn’t be receiving these awards without having met him? I thought that Firth had a rather long and distinguished career before meeting Ford? Are they or have they been…fucking?
It occurred to me why Portman trumped Benning…Portman has more mileage in her and will generate more cash for CAA. Poor Annette Bening so obviously deserved that Best Actress Academy Award but she’s an old mare and who writes great roles for old mares that Meryl Streep isn’t getting first refusal?
Clip Clop Annette.
My neighbour, Jean-Maxime Perramon was killed on the 101 yesterday. He got out of his Ferrari at the edge of the freeway and was hit by a Lexus.
According to the CHP report two other vehicles were involved in the accident which happened at approximately 12:25 p.m February 26th 2011.
A silver Chevy van traveling north on the 101, five miles north of Reyes Adobe Road, initiated a lane change. A silver Lexus ES350 swerved to avoid it but collided with the rear of the van.
The Lexus driver lost control of the car and sideswiped Perramon’s Ferrari parked on the right shoulder.
Jean had stepped out of his vehicle because, according to the report, he thought he had hit a piece of metal. As he did so, he was instantly struck by the Lexus.
He was taken to the hospital, where he was later pronounced dead.
The driver of the Chevy has been identified by the CHP as James Pershing Flynn, 67, of Thousand Oaks, and the driver of the Lexus as Antonio Castillo, 37, of Montebello.
“Tonya Nicole Toma, 37, of Agoura Hills, was present in Perramon’s Ferrari at the time of the accident.”
Jean introduced me to Malibu. Showed me around. I discovered the house I would end up buying with Jean. We were once very good friends…for many months inseparable. Running up and down that bloody Malibu mountain in his Ferrari, attending AA meetings all over LA.
An unwitting child prodigy, Jean began his career earning money drawing chalk pictures on the streets of Paris. His creative talents did not go unnoticed. After completing art college he was hired as an art director by the important French advertising agency Oscar Mors et Varout. This would lead to his exclusively overseeing the world-wide advertising account for L’Oreal.
He moved to the USA where he became a production designer for the Richard Williams Animation Studio, becoming one of LA’s premier digital directors and designers working with artists and animators to create eyecatching, entertaining projects for clients such as Kellogg’s Froot Loops campaign.
Incredibly successful but mortally wounded by rarely discussed childhood events.
Jean lived with his wife and elderly mother on two lots on Rambla Pacifico. His Mother doesn’t speak perfect English so I would stop the truck and natter with her in French whenever I saw her.
Jean’s Mother remains a charming local character who walks the neighbourhood waving at passing cars. Jean was forever shouting at her.
I called his wife this morning. She sounded understandably exhausted.
Forever remodeling his home. I wonder if he ever finished it? Apparently he did, the house stands as a testament to his creativity and endurance.
His struggle to overcome active addiction was legendary to anyone who knew him. I hope that he died sober.
He was one of the most tormented men I knew.
He will be at peace now.
Very Sad.
P.S. A few months later his frail mother died in her sleep.
Did you know that I could knit?
Another of my weak tea successes.
When my mentally ill readers are not either reading my blog or taking their anti psychotic pills they may be knitting all alone in their unheated homes.
I can knit!
My grand mother taught me to knit when I was five years old.
I learned how to read a pattern, knit socks, knit Intarsia, knit a sort of free form, improvised Fair Isles technique. I knitted myself an Aran sweater.
I pride myself for knitting intuitively and not having to follow a pattern.
Spent the day at the farmers market. Farmers market folk seem to be very nice people indeed.
Here’s something I knitted earlier:
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You know how much I love Whitstable? That would be one of my ‘weak tea‘ successes: my relationship with Whitstable.
I love it there. I know everyone. We really know each other. For good and for bad.
Well, today I received some very, very sad news. My Mother‘s friend Carol who owns the Tudor Tea Rooms on Harbour Street…well..and this is terrible…her son Tony died.
Known affectionately as Wally to everyone who knew him, he was only 40 years old, tall, gentle, ran his mother’s business with aplomb.
When you order a pot of tea at The Tudor Tea Rooms you get a pot of tea made with loose tea and a strainer. Quality.
We used to say that they served school dinners at the Tudor but we loved going in there. Fire burning in the hearth all winter. Closed on a Wednesday. Real steak and kidney pudding with a thick suet crust.
Wally was killed during the day on the train tracks at the end of Glebe Way. Struck by the coast-bound 11.22am Victoria to Ramsgate train just before 1pm. I have no idea if he committed suicide or not. That’s what people are saying but I really don’t want to believe it.
He was such a nice man. Wally and his sister Sue had run that Tudor Tea Room since they were kids. Since we were all kids. Serving Steak and Kidney Pudding…opening the tea garden. He was the sort of bloke you’d see in Prezzo Pizza Place with his young family.
As every Whitstable pub and every other shop front became yet another super chic gastro pub or seasonal/organic eaterie…the Tudor kept the same decor, the same menu, serving the same Whitstable us who didn’t want the bother of seared scallops or poached samphire.
My Mother and I saw Wally just a few weeks ago when I was home for Christmas. He served us a good old-fashioned English roast. My mother mocked me for drinking tea with my lunch…like ‘some one from a council house‘ she said.
He stood at the till and asked after my life in LA. I felt embarrassed to tell him what my life was like in California. What he didn’t know…what he could never have known…was what I was thinking that cold December day a week before Christmas: that I would have quite easily traded my life in Malibu for a chance at running the Tudor Tea Rooms.
From where I was standing…his life looked perfect.
When I was a kid we would sit in the Tudor Tea Rooms and spy on Peter Cushing eating his poached eggs.
Poached eggs on toast. Every day.
My mother accidentally pushed Peter Cushing off his bike one day when she was getting off the bus from Canterbury.
Anyway, Wally was killed on the railway lines. The third person killed in the same spot in less than two months. What’s happening? What a waste of a good life, a sweet family man. I feel for his wife and children, his sister Sue and his lovely mum Carol.
If you get the chance listen to this Jellybotty’s track, Peter Cushing Lives in Whitstable.
It mentions the Tudor Tea Rooms.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3wpGPqWrjeQ].
Goodbye Wally.
The secrecy is getting to me. I can’t bear it.
You can slag me off as much as you want but the truth is: I am mortally indiscreet so this is like shoving a red-hot poker up my ass and NOT in a good way.
After bleating this week about never going to have sex ever again well…an old comfort buddy called me yesterday morning and we lay in bed all afternoon kissing and stroking and showering together. Someone I have known for years. A sweet-natured Iranian man, 28..hairy chest. There’s a picture of him in the blog I think. Hidden.
It felt good to hold him in my arms. It was very comforting.
The back of his neck reminded me of you know who so I looked him in the eye.
We scoffed a late lunch overlooking the sea.
As we ate two drunk people started a fight. A bruised woman in her late 40’s and her madly attractive, much younger (20’s) blond, surfer boy friend. Both chestnut coloured from lazing all year on the beach. Her sun bleached hair tangled in dried blood from a recent brawl. She threw two large bottles of beer at his head. They smashed on the ground. Later we saw this odd, violent couple being arrested.
Spent the rest of the day wrestling back control of the computer from Max. His 13-year-old brain having got the best of his mum and dad’s good intentions. Taking control of the family internet. He was horrified by what I had done: limiting his internet usage to 3 hours a day, no iChat, no unfettered Facebook. Every time he wants to do anything dodgy the computer emails me and tells me all about it.
Whilst they were out 10-year-old Hannah and I cooked dinner. Moroccan influenced lamb balls. Assorted vegetables. Buttered rice.
I am feeling good. Excited. Fearless.
The past few weeks have been really interesting.
Annoyingly I’ve not been able to write about most or any of it and will not be able to in the foreseeable future.
As I have said before, as life gets really interesting the blog becomes less relevant. Real life interrupts blog life and for that I am very grateful.
Eventually, when I am allowed, I will explode all over the blog and tell all but for the time being I am keeping my BIG MOUTH SHUT.
I am having to be covert.
Presently staying with friends whose main morning preoccupation is to read really bad news out loud off of the internet. The corruption, the greed and the misery we create around the globe gleefully read out loud to their increasingly cynical children.
Frankly, there is no reason for a young child to have the worst possible news read out to them first thing in the morning as they prepare for school. Scares them. Scared me when I was a kid. All that bad news about nuclear weapons. I had a recurring nightmare about the atom bomb exploding. On my own walking home from junior school up Windmill Road, Whitstable just in sight of my family home…when the atom bomb detonates. A blinding light then a fierce, hot wind. All I could think about was that I had to get home. Of course, there was no home to get back to.
Right now my friend is telling her 8-year-old, “Brain damage is linked to cell phone use…”
Like a fairy story.
They had a lunch here on Sunday for two German friends. A well-known actress and her film industry husband. Within two minutes of arriving he announced the death of Perry Moore a man I knew in passing from New York. Perry produced the Narnia films. Years ago Toby Mott, Noreena Hertz and I had lunch with Perry and Tatum O’Neal at Freeman’s on Rivington when it was hot to have lunch there. Perry and Tatum were both very drunk and weirdly abrasive. Terry Richardson joined us for coffee.
I was not shocked to hear about Perry’s death as it was somehow gay inevitable. His father sadly telling the press that his son was on fine form the day before. Well, nobody ever expects the death of a healthy young man, no father ever expects to bury his son.
Unless, of course, their son leads a double life. We live, as gay men, lives away from our loved ones. Compartmentalized, fine one day..dead the next, slumped in the bathroom…oxycotin overdose. It is too familiar to me. So sad.
It would not surprise me if Jake ended up like Perry.
Anyway the German made some flip remark about Perry dying and gay people in general. He didn’t realize that I was gay. He didn’t realize that I was half Iranian so later made equally racist, inappropriate remarks about Iranian films winning the Berlin Film Festival.
Sometimes you just have to take the bullet so…I challenged him. Within minutes he was threatening to punch my fag lights out. His wife apologized for his behaviour.
They left.
Scratch most white Germans and a jackbooted Nazi goose steps out of the wound.
Samia Saouma my Lebanese ex-friend, gallery owner who lives in Berlin and is arguably one of the chicest women in the world was once applying her lipstick in the back of a cab when her white driver told her that she was a rag-head whore who should prepare for her next trick out of his cab.
Nice.
Recently I took down a whole heap of posts from this blog. Blogs about him. Removed until they had no internet traction. Yesterday I reinstated them without his name attached. Self censorship is not a good thing. I also reinstated the Angry Reader blog that obviously came from ‘you know who’.
It amuses and disturbs me in equal measure that he would think that every achievement, everything of which I am proud he considers worthless. This coming from a man who has achieved NOTHING before he was thirty years old (17th May) when I, in comparison, achieved so much! Much more than anyone ever predicted.
By the time I was thirty years old I had written and directed plays, opened a restaurant, renovated houses, travelled the world. Christ! I did all that as well as being mentally ill, making enemies, etc. etc.
Achievement is not to be judged by others but rather owned by oneself.
I know that he gets drunk, stoned and lonely. I know that deep down he would prefer to resolve rather than reload. Time will tell. Time, as I have often quoted, is the greatest distance between two people.
I know that the we he suggests laugh at me has always laughed. They want me imprisoned or dead. They condemn me and they condemn my friends for being my friends.
He, on the other hand, may be surrounded by friends, family and lovers but at the end of the day he has to face himself, as we all do, in the mirror. I saw him wrestle with his conscience.
At that moment when I was most proud of him I should have just walked away.
As for the film? It takes shape before my very eyes. Working with CP in quite a different way than I have before. That’s all I can say. That’s all I want to say.
I still have no interest what so ever to meet, engage or have sex with any man.
Oscar party week. I am not involving myself until Saturday. Kick off festivities with Sharon…we will do the do…the merry dance. Still, if I am honest, I can’t really be bothered.
I want to make my own film now…not celebrate the achievements of others.
P.S. Tatum O’Neal wouldn’t remember me. She and Melanie Griffith once broke down together in an AA meeting. Crying about the relationships they had failed to have with their children. Meg Ryan looks like Melanie Griffith. They must have had work by the same surgeon. Meg Ryan wouldn’t remember me either.
Dinner with Jason, Jennifer, Hilary and Rex Weyler.
What an incredible man!
I will let you discover who he is and what he does.
Discussed his film…the film he wants to make with Viggo Mortensen about the creation of and how he co-founded Greenpeace.
We discussed potential directors and (rather unusually) how much a film like this might cost. Can one really justify spending 50 million dollars on a film? Really?
Naturally we discussed Egypt and how when the people speak governments are forced to take notice. We congratulated Julian Assange. We mourned the dead in Bahrain. We wondered about Israel.
The demonstrations in Madison Wisconsin are particularly heartening as are the angry British protestors who are presently targeting Barclay’s bank over claims of tax avoidance.
Is this Glenn Beck’s ‘coming insurrection’? Let’s hope so.
Ultimately the question one has to ask ones self is: Am I prepared to take a bullet for what I believe?
I told him that I knew people who were oblivious of what was going on in Egypt. In fact more than half of all Americans were not aware of what was happening in Egypt.
Why are people not more inquisitive?
Things are fine.
Much to think about and plan but everything is just how it is meant to be in God’s perfect world.
I have been writing our film. It’s hard writing again after so long not writing. Or rather, it’s hard to write a script after so much blogging.
Not much to report.
No intrigue.
Still sober.
I found this huge heart-shaped fruit in the garden. It is called a cherimoya.
Usually they are tiny.
Valentine’s day? Who needs it? A legitimate fuck you I think. Even though I have had a few lovely Valentine’s wishes.
It is always nice when people think about you fondly I suppose.
Who needs to be in love? Sending expensive flowers and cards to men who will let you down and break your heart?
Broken heart/Broken truck.
Yesterday, due to the broken truck, I stayed at home all day. Another neighbour stopped in with his huge poodle who, within minutes of arriving, pissed on the sofa. Urg.
The truck will take less time than it took to mend my diseased heart. Hopefully.
CP stopped in for lunch on his way to airport. Thankfully he didn’t piss on the sofa. I am going to miss him. A lot. Large parts of my brain that usually go unused were reignited whilst he was here. Like an old boiler.
My friend Jody arrived at our behest in the afternoon with his two small children. 15 month old twins. They were very inquisitive and active. It was an eye-opening experience to see this older gay man struggle with two very high-spirited infants.
He didn’t know any straight people. He said.
I hid the glass Jesus that kids are inexplicably drawn to. One of the kids stabbed the TV remote into the dogs food. They climbed the stairs. Though agile they were both oddly silent.
The little dog doesn’t really appreciate little kids so I had to keep him in my bedroom whilst they were running around the house.
More about this later.
Spent Sunday night preparing for this week which may turn out to be very busy. I see a flight back to NYC/London in my immediate future.
There is a great deal of happiness and opportunity to be grateful for at the moment.