Categories
Category: Alcoholics Anonymous
December 2nd 2013. Just one year away.
1.
I didn’t stay at home last night.
On the way back to Malibu I stopped in at one of those coffee-house chains. I sat nursing a cup of hot black brew.
I sat quietly. I am wearing my black pantaloons (Miu Miu), a Stetson, raspberry colored hand knitted socks with sky blue trim.
I sat listening to a bunch of affluent white men in their 50’s and 60’s dressed in motor cycling leathers, complaining about President Obama.
They were rudely spouting one ill-informed cliché after another, rudely condemning: green solutions, ‘cripple’ access around Santa Monica, the ‘fiscal cliff’ etc.
These same men defend Israel. Even though this week Israel and the USA find themselves horribly isolated on the world stage.
The old white men are stuck in another age, another time… baffled by a changing world… still unable to comprehend how Mitt Romney lost the election they were convinced he’d win.
I wanted to ask them questions but I knew nothing they had to say would tell me anything I didn’t already know.
Their fears laid bare: Black leaders, electric cars, marriage equality.
“They’ll all cry that they voted for him.” they convinced each other.
I felt like I was on the winning side. Their Schadenfreude didn’t feel dangerous… it felt old-fashioned.
On the way home I listened to something on NPR about a group called LA Jews for Peace.
A group of Jewish Americans committed to peace in the Middle East through a negotiated settlement to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, an end of the Israeli occupation of Palestinian lands, and opposition to American militarism, imperialism, and exceptionalism.
Their spokesman bemoaned America’s UN vote against Palestine.
America, like the old white men at the coffee shop, seems unable to comprehend or adapt to the changing world.
What the white men at the coffee shop don’t seem to acknowledge: they have more in common with their President than they seem to realize. I mean… Obama is only half black, raised by white folks… cup half full lads? Surely?
Obama owns his whiteness in the Whitehouse and flays his blackness on the stump.
Barry Goodman (old white jew), unfriended me on FB the day the UN recognized the Palestinians right to statehood.
Just nine nations voted against the Palestinian Authority’s upgrade to nonvoting observer state status, which passed the General Assembly 138-9, with 41 abstentions.
Voting “No” on Thursday were Israel, the United States and Canada, joined by the Czech Republic, Panama and several Pacific island nations: Marshall Islands, Micronesia, Nauru and Palau. The Pacific nations typically support the U.S. and Israel at the U.N. on key General Assembly resolutions.
In the face of this terrific news self hating jews like Barry Goodman reacted like spoiled, entitled children.
In a unanimous resolution passed Sunday, Israel’s Cabinet said it would not negotiate on the basis of the General Assembly’s recognition of a state of Palestine in the occupied West Bank, East Jerusalem and Gaza Strip.
“The unilateral step taken by the Palestinians at the United Nations violates peace agreements,” Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu complained, justifying Israel’s rejection of the U.N. vote.
Astoundingly, he bleated:
“The only way to Palestinian statehood and peace is through direct negotiations with Israel.”
Then he told the rest of the non compliant world he was going to hold onto money that was owed to the Palestinians and build all over their shit.
2.
I don’t trust any of the gay men I meet in LA. Industry men.
Bryan. WTF?
I had lunch with one of Bryan’s boy toys yesterday, the second in one week. I met a technician Bryan works with, Bryan says, “I don’t want to direct movies, I want someone else to direct them and I critique their results.”
After I started defending the Palestinians during the Israeli bombardment Guy S (second rate Bryan sycophant) tells me that they all hate me. That’s like music to my ears.
I call Tom. Tom denies what I already know to be the truth.
They know, they all know that sooner or later I’m going to write everything down.
Hollywood Babylon style.
It’s just a matter of time.
3.
December 2nd 2013. Just you wait Henry Higgins, just you wait.
Related articles
- Israel withholds Palestinian funds after UN vote – Reuters UK (uk.reuters.com)
1.
I have been listening to Max Richter‘s re imagining of Vivaldi‘s Four Seasons.
Listen to it.
Doesn’t it inspire you? Inspire you to write or paint or reach out?
I have been re-writing my script. Tinkering. It’s all about nuance now.
The balance of power shifting subtly between two lovers.
I saw new pictures of him. He looks less grotesque. Like he is finding his own style. Owning his beautiful smile. Owning it.
It makes me happy to know that he is thriving. That he is going to make a better job of this than I ever could.
That he will enjoy the benefits of being a young gay man in 2012.
I have been all over the place recently. High and low. Good and bad. Always present. Never shamed.
At LACMA I was more interested in the spectator than the art.
Some people are art.
I have been in the company of old men in those strange AA rooms. In basements, church halls, galleries. Yes, there is an AA meeting in a gallery in Venice.
I like old people because I am in training to be one. Surround yourself with old people and you might learn to age with dignity.
I like getting old. Watching the lines on my face get deeper. For those Peter Pan gays amongst you… you’ve got it coming. ha ha ha.
2.
I’m sitting in The Chateau with Elizabeth and a professional gambler.
He’s my age, boasting about the 20-year-old girls he can snare. But he’s not owning it. He’s not proud. He’s telling me like he tells his friends that he owns a Water Lily by Monet.
The painting just stares back at him blankly.
It has no value. She stands at the end of his bed, naked… looking at him blankly. Wondering what to do.
I re-imagine the grotesque freaks.
3.
I watched in awe as the audacious Israelis, once again, killed Palestinians.
They have not attacked either Lebanon or the people of Gaza since the mid east shape shifting Arab Spring. Times have changed, time has strengthened the international hand of Hamas. Making the incredible credible.
So, it came as no surprise when, after a week, a ceasefire was brokered by the newly elected Muslim Brotherhood President of Egypt.
It heralds the new order.
Within hours of Hilary Clinton‘s departure from Egypt the new president announced (temporary) extensive new personal powers. There are popular demonstrations planned in Cairo today.
I railed against Israel on my Facebook page. In Europe they ‘liked’ my stance, in America they didn’t.
Here their brains are fried by Israeli propaganda. Pro Palestinian aristocrats in England wrote private notes of support. Americans urged me to stop my public support of the people of Gaza.
Sneering at pictures of dead Palestinian children.
The temptation is to see the tragic bloodshed in the narrow terms of the Hamas rockets and Israel’s right to self defence.
Israel has that right of course… and it’s worth restating.
This is not just about rockets and self-defence. It’s about 1.3 million Palestinians crowded into a tiny strip of land (or “prison camp” as David Cameron called it), most of whose families were refugees from land now occupied by Israel and who feel that their hopes of a viable Palestinian homeland are further away than ever.
Yes, the Israelis withdrew from Gaza in 2005 but Israel’s continued blockade has strangled Gaza’s economy and only served to encourage the militants.
“When Israelis in the occupied territories now claim that they have to defend themselves, they are defending themselves in the sense that any military occupier has to defend itself against the population they are crushing… You can’t defend yourself when you’re militarily occupying someone else’s land. That’s not defense. Call it what you like, it’s not defense.”
4.
AA. It has been a welcome return. Looking for a sponsor, working out a year of resentments. Sitting in those rooms with those beautiful boys. Refusing their interest, I cannot be trusted with it.
Based on a True Story.
This is based on a true story. Everything you see has some basis in truth. The sun is shining. I am in bed. Over looking the Pacific. Getting older, a performance artist. A sober man.
Not dead yet. I wondered who would love me and the love (when it comes) comes from the most unlikely source.
Last night we sat in the Chateau Marmont with a professional gambler. We ate pumpkin pie. We drank hot chocolate. Vincent arrived with two beautiful Swedish boys. I was in bed before 12.
The fridge groaning with left over Thanksgiving food whilst the starving homeless roam the streets like so many tatty zombies.
Categories
Hot Sunday
Categories
I Am Not What I Am
At this time of life it is time to take a good hard look at what is and what could be. The obvious frailties: reading glasses, aching joints, the prospect of a life without enduring love. If I had only invested in a surrogate child. All my fears may be allayed.
That, for the uninitiated, was irony. You know how I feel about those surrogate gaybies. Abandoned to nannies until they can talk. Dressed up like performing monkeys.
“They spent every weekend on Fire Island this season and didn’t take the baby once.”
I am judged by what I own, by the company I keep, the baby I can afford, the art on my walls, the boy in my bed, the ideas in my head, the club I belong to, the house of my dreams, the car in the drive, the clothes on my back, the God of my understanding. I am judged.
Who am I? Take all of this away and leave me on the streets of Brooklyn and I am content. I want to be just like you. My history erased. My name changed. Once again.
The fire sweeps through the apartment building. The fire captains excited by the prospect of a real fire, manageable, heroic. Nobody is injured. The windows are smashed. The art deco facade blackened.
The jews are on the streets blowing their horns for the new year.
“Are you Jewish?” The young Hasidic Jew asks me.
” No. I’m not a Jew.”
I change my mind the next time I am asked. “Yes,” I lie, “I’m a Jew.”
He takes out the ram’s horn. I stand there in front of this eager youth with boyish whiskers and a large black hat, (the bastard child hat of the sombrero and the fedora) and for ten minutes he chants incantations and blows his horn.
We walk to Park Slope, enjoying the multi-million dollar mansions, the Art Deco Brooklyn Library, the renovated Museum with oddly placed Rodin in the foyer. Delightful Prospect Park adjoining the Museum could have been designed by Capability Brown but was (of course) designed by Frederick Law Olmsted the designer of Central Park.
We ate at the new burger joint in Park Slope. My burger was made of Elk. As I was ordering my elk burger I opened an urgent email. My friend’s brother had been shot dead on his farm in Maryland. He was found, partially eaten by animals, on his tractor. They have no idea if it is suicide or murder. I filed the tragic news as ‘pending’. I called his Mother and offered condolences and help.
These streets. They yield all manner of fine opportunity. I can disappear on these streets. Today it is dark, wet and grey. The wind is warm however, the rain splashes onto my face. The Little Dog sits patiently outside the coffee shop.
Yesterday I lay in the arms of a beautiful boy who wanted me to fuck him. His cat curled up in a shoe box. After he came we lay watching Glee in bed. Mawkish, sentimental nonsense, a world invented by gay men where periodically an entire orchestra will appear from nowhere and youngsters will start singing hearty cover versions of popular tunes. A world run by the LGBT community. Bullying each other with waspish bon mot.
The drama is lackluster and situational. The one-dimensional characters problems are slight, their solutions are wholly achievable. They worry to the point of suicide about their home town until they are saved by the gay hero. This new gay frontier, where blue-collar dads talk like Kant, where black trans boys walk freely and unchallenged around a mid-west high school in full drag… this homo-utopia merely betray the dreams these gay writers had about their own youth. The dream of freedom.
The episode starred Whoopie Goldberg and Kate Hudson as teachers. Teachers masquerading as judges from America’s Got Talent.
“You’re Fired!” “You’re Cut!”
But of course Kate has a drinking problem and a lost dream and Whoopie wants to be Maya Angelou.
I took the dog and the train into Manhattan where I met with old friend Oscar Humphries who looked amazingly well. We have had our fair share of adventure (all over the world) these past ten years: Driving 24 hours into the Australian bush to a Bachelor and Spinster ball for the Sydney Morning Herald. Louche nights in Paris and London. Son of Dame Edna Everage creator Barry Humphries he is perhaps one of the most talented yet self-destructive people I know. We went to an NA meeting on Prince St. Then dinner at Cafe Select. I just adore him.
I had a late date after dinner with a charming man. We brought cup cakes and drank hot chocolate on West 4th St. I climbed into bed at midnight and fell straight to sleep.
Nightmare: The Cohen’s, David and his 6 children are looking after The Little Dog. I bump into the youngest son who tells me without compassion, “You’ll probably be sad when I tell you this but…” they had to put The Little Dog to sleep because it was too ‘nippy’.
Were I the Moor I would not be Iago.
In following him I follow but myself;
Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty,
But seeming so for my peculiar end.
For when my outward action doth demonstrate
The native act and figure of my heart
In compliment extern, ’tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at. I am not what I am
Categories
Park Slope
Dawn. So much to be grateful for.
One day, when the storm has past, I will tell you everything. Not just the pretty pictures. Not just the elegant parties.
1.
Saw Premium Rush with John and Valoree Papsidera at a plush private screening room.
An exciting, gritty movie with a huge problem at its core: The bad cop played by Michael Shannon is not really a bad cop… he’s too funny.
So, come the last scene, the conclusion… I was left feeling cheated.
The last scene is terrible.
I did not feel as engaged with the story as one might have hoped.
There were too many chances for the main character Wilee (played by Joseph Gordon-Levitt) to make different sorts of choices. He could have called the police. He could have returned the package. He could have stayed at home.
Great use of New York and great ethnic casting.
2.
Perhaps, like so many people, I am in denial?
It is not far off… the conclusion.
I have had a lingering cold/flu. Sweats.
Script notes arrive and I am loathed to open them, even though I know that they will be good. Brilliant.
How does one turn a life event into a work of fiction? Well, obviously, you have to jettison the truth.
I spent the larger part of yesterday in Venice. My favorite location. Stalking my favorite haunts. It’s like Whitstable. I know so many people. Casual acquaintances. Unlike my home town, where they have known me all my life, their understanding of me is based on what they read.
After the LA Weekly piece they are well aware of what is going on and mask their desire to pry with small talk.
Sometimes I wake up and think I should go to an AA meeting but I’ll wait until I am in another city.
It is the truth: art heals. Remember when I was sick five years ago with my leaky spine? Good God, that was painful.
Convalescing, I stayed with David Philp and his wonderful wife (art critic and broadcaster) Hunter Drohojowska-Philp in their gorgeous Beverly Hills home. She brought beautiful books for me to look at and set art work at the end of the bed.
The pale yellow room designed by Jenny Armit became a temporary sanctuary. Until I was well again.
3.
I had a long chat with an old buddy in London, someone I worked with repeatedly in the old days. A great benefactor.
It’s cold outside and hot inside the house. I open the door and let the mountain in.
The garden, this year, has matured into the garden of my dreams.
Bumped into Drew Pinsky at CNN, we were both sprayed orange for our various TV appearances. He was sweet, as he always is. We hugged and gossiped. He asked if I had read Jennie’s book. I told him that I hadn’t but I’d get around to it sooner or later.
The children make me laugh. I sit with them watching Barbie cartoons and they mock Charlie’s new girlfriend (Charlieissocoollike) children can be very cruel and very funny.
Weird clicking on my telephone. I think my phone is being tapped. Why?
Categories
Yikes
I love this picture. Francis Bacon and Lucien Freud in Wheelers.
1.
Waking up at Robby’s apartment. West Hollywood. Feeling like I have a hangover. I haven’t. I’m still not drinking. Waiting for the right moment…but it never comes. The sanctity of sobriety.
It’s hard after nearly 16 years to think about the right time to start drinking.
A woman I know from the programme called yesterday. I told her that I had renounced AA. “How’s that working out for you?” She pried condescendingly.
I faked a dropped call.
2.
Saturday pre pride party. Good fun. The über gays. The fake NYC producer I mentioned in an earlier post sitting at his table wondering how I manage to surround myself with such beauty. He looked exasperated. Staring over at us.
Pride was a great deal of fun. On the streets. The floats have not changed for 30 years: muscle boys and drag queens. Not very inventive.
I stayed at the London Hotel courtesy of my Kuwaiti friends. They pitched up at 8am. We ate smoked fish and Quiche for breakfast.
3.
Nothing is obvious. Just when you thought you’d never kiss anyone meaningfully ever again.
I saw you in the bar and knew you were the one. A brief conversation. Kisses, glances, then you pissed on me. That was new to both of us but so damned exciting. A mouth full of piss. Then we spent the afternoon talking. Eating. Each other.
You left an impression. Creases in the bed sheets.
4.
Without me even noticing it LA is full of gay men with beards.
Does this mean that they/we are growing up? That men are trumping boys? The aesthetic is not only very pleasing but means I get looked at all over again. I have some currency…if you know what I mean.
5.
I don’t have time to write this very often. There’s a great deal to do.
I’m helping those boys in the jail, even though they don’t know it. Meeting lawyers down town who are investigating conditions in the jail. They seem shocked. Young lawyers. Fresh faced. Idealists.
I try balancing my complaints with a broader understanding of the jail dynamic. The deputies are not just cruel…they are frightened. They do not treat the trans population with contempt because they hate gays, they are confused by the feelings the girls bring up in them.
Ernest lawyers ask how I would change things in the jail. I am always prepared for those questions.
Last week I sat with Senator Ron S.Calderon who is co-sponsoring a bill in the State of California that would basically abolish the situation in which I found myself. Protocols would have to be adhered to. States right to decide trumping the draconian Immigration Department.
I drive for hours to get to the meeting and speak clearly and concisely. I know that I am speaking on behalf of thousands of wrongly incarcerated immigrants.
I go to cities I would never usually visit. I am introduced to people I would never usually meet. Immigrant rights advocates, Methodist ministers. I am familiar with Secure Communities. I hear terrible stories. They tell me that ICE operate like the Gestapo. They spread fear in the immigrant communities, wrecking homes, lives, marriages, separating families, sending children into foster care.
6.
Then, there is the other work. Kevin, my incredible new assistant, and I…running all over town. Putting this show together. Holding things together.
Today I see the doctor. No good news all over again. I’m sure.
Wish me luck.