Storm Drain

What a frustrating night!

Of course, as time passes and I know that I have to see Jake again…I get more agitated, start protecting myself. Arm myself. Perhaps I am not myself? I just can’t bear the idea of being in the same room as that lying scum bag.

So, yesterday I waited for the storm but none came. It was so hot in Venice that I shed almost everything I was wearing. Robby and I drank coffee in Intelligentsia.

Chanced upon a great art show by an amazing young British artist Paul Insect. Strong graphics, good colours.

Apparently I was not alone…the previous show had been bought entirely by Damien Hirst.

I think I am frustrated because I met someone last week with whom I have a connection but do not trust myself to see again. Will not risk involvement.

So, I spent the day with Robby. He dropped me off in Beverly Hills. Met Matt ostensibly to go see Shame and Q&A with Steve McQueen. Didn’t go. Went, instead to see the Hedi Slimane installation at MOCA. Good crowd. HUGE crowd. Jonathon Brown, Miggy Hood, Gus Van Sant, Jeffrey Deitch..others.

Met cute, well dressed boys. Was not the only man with facial hair.

Boys wore Comme kilts. Girls wore red lispstick. Lots of black and velvet. NYC type crowd. Met ‘going to be huge’ photographer Aaron Stern and the kid who won the last survivor Judson Birza.

The show was hideously derivative. Reminded one of Larry Clark but without the compelling obsession. Black and white pictures of pretty, full lipped boys and girls, urban landscapes projected onto a huge cube whilst a shaggy haired band played discordant music.

Gagosian Gallery showing graphite work by Adam McEwan.

Particularly loved the ‘shutter’ that divided the main space but caused major anxiety for the gallery assistants who had to stop people mushing their heads into this low slung sculpture.

Loved all most all of the show except the work in the upper gallery which was very dull and badly conceived.

Off to shla to meet Nick Compton my South African cricketer friend.

He was co-opted by the most awful drunk in the room. We left.

Then…bad, bad mistake followed Matt to gay party in North Hollywood at some writers house where I bumped into Robby, Miles, Tom, Toby, Fielder and Bryan Singer.

I was the only man there with a beard. Most of them knew who I was and had an opinion.

God help me.

One particularly vile but pretty 21 year old started telling me how to dress.

This rancid, dreary waiter from Utah wearing a ubiquitous plaid shirt…ill fitting jeans telling ME how to dress. I was outraged.

He wouldn’t stop talking.

I said, “When I was your age I kept my mouth shut because I learned so much more.”

Adam Press looked on at me in horror, I know what he was thinking, “You blown your chances with that one.”

Which was true. Nothing he had to say for himself was either interesting or original.

Unlike Fielder Jewett (same age) who is a true original and worth listening to. We left, drove home up the 101 in the pouring rain.

The storm had arrived.