Category: art

Categories
art

Billy Childish

Billy Childish 2/1/2011

I spent the morning writing lists.

Decided NOT to go to Florence as I couldn’t make the bloody SNCF website take my frigging credit card.  So, I booked into Dean Street Town House and decided to spend some days in London instead.  After all..London is by far a more exciting city than Florence.

By Midday I had made all manner of plans with various friends.  Toby Mott, Tim and others.

Whilst in town have resolved to throw myself into AA meetings, which I have been loathed to do since I arrived.

The day could have ended there but, on a whim, decided to pop in on artist/writer/rocker/father of two Billy Childish who is enjoying something of an art world reprise.

The day would get not only very much better but also very expensive.

I have known Billy since we were at Medway Art College Foundation Course in the late seventies.   Another one of my up and down explosive relationships…but I have always been a great supporter of his and he me.  An unlikely friendship.

When I lived in Whitstable I would spend most Sunday afternoons with Billy and his Mother June.  Delicious roast chicken lunch every Sunday.

For the longest time I thought that he would end up like artist and dandy Sebastian Horsley:  successful once dead. Thankfully that has not come to pass.

Billy’s monumental new work has become monumentally well received.  After a sell out show at the Basel Art Fair and a major New York exhibition in an important gallery planned for the end of the year I can perfectly understand why he seems so confident.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dwb6v2tkqRA]

These new paintings are unbelievably beautiful and really hard for the Art Establishment to ignore.   The new work has an impeccable provenance.   Obvious influences include German Expressionists: Erich Heckel, Kirchner, Nolde.

Dreamlike reworking of earlier paintings as well as bold painterly portraits of Billy’s great heroes (Jean Sibelius) and when I was there, an epic series of paintings reworking images from the Battle of Wounded Knee.

Billy has been cruelly left out in the cold for nearly thirty years.  The art world added insult to injury by choosing to patronize the second-rate antics of Tracy Emin over her acknowledged mentor and ‘inspiration’.

I remember introducing Jay Jopling to Billy in Whitstable one Sunday afternoon and was shocked by Jay’s indifference.  Jay told me after the meeting that he thought Billy ‘aggressive and tricky’.

It brings a tear to my eye to see him finally and rightfully accepted into the fold.

Today I filmed him painting in his studio.

People ask him how long it takes to paint a painting.   “What can I say?”   Stabbing at a ten foot high canvas with his charcoal.   “An afternoon or thirty years?”

The new work is huge.

Of course it’s huge!  He is no longer restricted…physically…no longer painting in his bedroom.  He is being acknowledged.  He has a huge studio.  His wings no longer clipped.

These paintings are important.

We talked at length about Tracy Emin his long time ex girlfriend…who, when he saw her the time before last, rudely told him that she could not be bothered to hang out with anyone who ‘hadn’t realized their potential‘.

Tracy!  What a pompous cow!  Liar to boot.

Anyway, since the upturn in his fortunes she is suddenly very friendly with Billy.  He will, by far, crush her with his fame and fortune….even though he has no intention of doing either.

Tracy is a silly girl…she believes in her own greatness whilst all the time using made up stories to fuel interest in it.    Tracy, you mad cow…listen to me…we all realize our potential sooner or later…sometimes quickly…sometimes slowly.

I have a huge collection of Billy’s work.   Beautiful things.

Julie, Scout and Billy 2/1/11

Categories
art Auto Biography Love Rant

Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know

I was informed you were dangerous and to only speak to you when chaperoned.

AMANDA ELIASCH

You know who coined the phrase Mad, Bad etc?  Lady Caroline Lamb of course… about Byron!  Although my fun friend the sadly departed Matilda, Duchess of Argyll thought the same of her predecessor, the even more glorious Margaret, Duchess of Argyll whose husband found Polaroids of her sucking a huge cock… naked but for a string of pearls.  Frankly I would rather have been Margaret than Matilda.

Margaret said, “If you have to be a Duchess you may as well be the Duchess of Argyll.” I loved my Duchess adventures in Edinburgh and The Highlands playing back gammon and drinking whiskey, even though she hated paying her gambling debts.

Tell me how brilliant that is?  Amanda warned off me?  Most people are in no uncertain terms.  It certainly separates the chaf from the corn.  (The Chav from the Thorn). The people who remain in my life are up for the adventure of knowing me.   My new friend Ed, for instance, who I am spending tomorrow evening with…  what a sweetheart.  Of course there’s a long list of oafs who cannot bear the heat in the kitchen…  more fool them.

When I left Joe he told the friends who remained my friends they were ‘spineless’.  I am PERFECTLY sure that I would do EXACTLY the same. I am excited by my own life all over again.  What adventure will I have next?

Amanda and Tim are once again breaking up…  but the truth of the matter is that Amanda… poor old bird… can’t bear to be separated from Tim.  I know THAT feeling.  I hate to be separated from the man I love.  I want to punish the fuck out of him… so now she’s upon FB slagging him off like an old fish wife.

I was never so lonely as the moment I left him.

Tim’s being very discreet but really!!  These two star crossed lovers must decide what they want to do!  I can’t be the sacrificial lamb every time they fetch out their AK 47‘s.

Amanda’s beef?  Tim bought her a voucher for a ‘Garden Center‘ turns out that the ‘voucher’ is for her to buy something from the glorious Chelsea Physic Gardens a stone’s throw from her Cheyne Walk home.   Now, I would love that as a gift.  I don’t really care if Tim berates me behind my back.  It’s his prerogative but the simple fact is… I don’t care!   He’s in excellent company.

What’s been going on in FREEZING COLD Whitstable?  Had breakfast at Windy Corner Stores.   Wandered home along the  beach.  In the very short time it took me to get home something of a miracle  happened…I began to inhabit my own skin once again.  Every time I pray for something it is swiftly delivered.  The only problem is… I don’t pray enough… because I’m frightened that the magic won’t work!

Typical Boxing Day… cold meats, TV, pickles, a trip to the pub.

Whitstable, my darling home town grounded me.  Everything is going to be OK.  This is where I have lived and I will die.  The people who know me..know me.   I am so happy here..even though it is not my current home there is always, and will always be room for me.

PS You’ll need more than a chaperone to keep safe around me.

Boxing Day 2010

Categories
art Dogs

Bugger That

Hospital day yesterday.  It was quick and efficient.

Nicola arrived from London on Tuesday and bought delicious, French macaroons.

We ate dinner at Wheelers (4 courses 65 GBP including a dozen native oysters) and she stayed in Georgina’s B&B in the same room/bed I stayed this July.

The following morning we bought her Wellington boots from the ancient shoe shop Wooley’s on the High Street and went for a long walk on the snowy beach.  Met other very jovial dog owners and the little dog ran like a mad thing through the melting snow, his little pink paws skidding over the ice.

The woman in Wooley’s, incidentally, remembered fitting my school shoes when I was a boy.   Wooley’s has been on Whitstable High Street for a hundred years next year.  They asked if they could put my photograph in the window when they celebrate their centenary.  I was honoured!

We walked to The Battery, Marilyn’s place on the beach..I described it in my blog the other day.  On the way there, however, we peered through Janet Street-Porter‘s cottage window at her austere modern kitchen and her Gary Hume prints.   I wouldn’t want to live there.  It was so impersonal and the yellow walls were painted the wrong yellow.

The Battery looks a bit worse for wear.  I may nip up there later today and take a picture of it for you so you can see what I am talking about.

If you hadn’t noticed I feel leagues better.

I decided to let myself off the hook.  Become quite tearful when I write it down like that.  It’s time to stop beating myself up.  Give myself a break like they say in the Narcotics Anon literature.

I was chatting with a friend yesterday and I realized that I was finally out of the woods.   It’s a decision.  I have been waiting for a storm to pass rather than wash something down the drain.

My friend was telling me that he would find it hard to love again after his last failed romance, that he had been tossed aside…and I thought to myself, “Bugger that, life is far too short not to fall in love!”  I come from a long line of men who can say proudly that they love another man.  I love you is possibly the hardest thing one man can say to another.  I am doubly proud that I have said it and I meant it.

Saying I love you is much harder than saying I want to fuck you.

All I have to do is find a man who can hear those words and value them.

So, today I tried not to engage with bad thoughts and old resentments.   I thought out loud, come on LOVE you can show this old man that life is worth loving again.  So, I’ve been feisty all day but not angry.  I have been creative all day and not asleep.

I pulled out a couple of scripts.  I made a couple of calls.  I thought about finding a producer.  I had a meeting with a woman I might do a property deal with.

It was good day.  It is good to be home.

Categories
art

I Love Whitstable

I love Shoreditch too.  I love Soho.  I love rioting students.

I love (particularly) the paint splattered Rolls that the parasite Prince Charles and the hag Camilla were caught in the other day by the ‘off with their heads’ militant protestors.  hahaah.

I am really loving being home. It has settled something in me.

After my fuck session (which will do me for some time I might add) I wandered happily all over Shoreditch.

I stopped in at a number of cool looking shops:  like the funky Japanese run clothes shop that sold padded linen overwear, the odd man’s pop up shop that sold Swedish soldiers head-gear and ‘vintage’ socks.

A shop that sells second-hand mens socks.  Eww.

I dropped into White Cube and resisted calling Jay.  The show was spectacularly lame.   The entire space devoted to a 37 year old artist called Rachel Kneebone.  Lamentations 2010 is the name of the downstairs show.  Huge white porcelain tangled/mangled/reconstituted genitals on huge marble plinths set against slate grey walls..beautifully lit.  The usual soulless, inchoate nonsense you might expect to find in White Cube.  They reminded one..obviously of the Chapman brothers and their obsession with the dark, chaotic imagery of the unconscious.

White Cube

Jay is already showing new artists who cannibalize existing White Cube artists.  Apparently Kneebone is expressing the ‘trauma of death, loss and grief’ and shown differently these works might very well have achieved her aim but so elegantly displayed they had the guts knocked right out of them.  I went upstairs to see the rest of the show but was told to leave as I had the dog with me.  I wasn’t leaving the Little Dog outside so I left.

I wandered around.  I met a man in the street who offered to blow me but I hadn’t showered that morning after a night of sex… I declined more for his benefit.

I found a wonderful shop called Labour and Wait which can be found at:

Labour and Wait

This charming store is really worth a visit.  I thought, when I found the 1940’s lilac, enameled milk-boiling pot pictured below:  Oooh, I thought, my friend Marilyn Phipps would like this.

As if by magic..who did I bump into today?

Marilyn Phipps!

Marilyn has the most wonderful home in Seasalter called The Battery.

The Battery, a nineteenth-century naval building, is a huge, bright blue, wooden house that sits right on the Whitstable beach and faces onto a 120ft secluded sea-front.  The Battery is a shrine to Forties ‘utility’. The kitchen was put in during the Forties when the house was used as a holiday retreat for disadvantaged children.

Marilyn has carried on the Forties theme throughout the house. The two huge wooden doors between the dining room and kitchen were made in the Forties for Ramsgate post office. The kitchen walls are lined with teapots, sugar shakers, vinegar jars, and salt cellars.

A huge kitchen clock was bought locally and the chunky table was already there.

The Battery can be incredibly hard to keep warm. Marilyn solved her problem by installing an enormous wood-burner for the dining room. She painted it midnight blue, making it more abstract sculpture than functional heater…she calls it The Beast.

The Battery has a fascinating history and features in the book Wooden Houses. It was built as two big wooden sheds at the end of the nineteenth century.  The first housed two cannons, the second was a drill hall for sailors, and during WW1 it was a convalescent home for wounded soldiers.

Marilyn still get’s people visiting who remember it from their childhood holidays in the Forties, saying they had the happiest time of their life here.

Wait!  Did I tell you that they found a strangled woman in the room I was staying in at Soho House NYC?  I can’t wait to stay there again.

Categories
art Christmas Dogs Gay Whitstable

Bollocks

Spent the past couple of days in London. Stayed at Dean Street Town House which is just perfect.  Perfectly well-appointed.  Huge rooms, pale pink curtains, heavily interlined.  A wonderful shower and a great coffee-making facility.  Delicious, hand-made biscuits.  The little dog and I luxuriated in acres of white linen and huge, fluffy pillows.

This morning I walked to Oxford Street through Golden Square.  Lovely to be home in London.  Lovely.  I was stopped by a beautiful, blue-eyed youth who wanted to talk about the little dog.

The beautiful youth not withstanding the streets are unusually crammed with ugly British people Christmas shopping.  Big faces on bald heads.  Prematurely middle age.  Marching up and down Oxford Street clutching at grim paper bags and their final straw.  Pasty, miserable, bespectacled boats.

Boat race=face.

The damp streets.  The gray sky.  Oh this is my darling England.

Stopped in at a pop up gallery on Berwick Street and bought:

By Christian Brett.

I thought in the circumstances..very appropriate!

Anyway, if you are interested in this and other work go to:

www.picturesonwalls.com

As a free gift, comes with every purchase, they gave me an original art work by Banksy….a brown paper bag with a Marks and Spencer type logo that reads ‘Marks and Stencils’ and is already selling on eBay for ninety quid.

Had a long chat with the curator Sam (knows Wendy Asher) who felt that the whole STREET ART movement had been suspended in aspic for the past decade and I think that he may very well have hit the nail on the head.  He didn’t feel as if he had ‘grown up’ that things had remained static, unevolved, complacent.

My own contemporary art world gripe: how come so few artists have anything relevant to say about world altering current events like Iraq?  For instance?  Who is making work about that?

Most conceptual, contemporary art is so bloody insular and self obsessed.   The entitled, bloated Tracy Emin (for instance) has become unashamedly bourgoise and so, I am sad to say, are the rest of the YBA wankers.

Why make work about a corrupt war when I can tell you all about my vagina/blood/self?

The art of ME.  I am all I ever think about… etc.

It’s Jay’s fault.  He loves a good title and a decorative flourish.  Jay Jopling has never been interested in political art and that, my friends, is very sad.

I mentioned Joseph Kosuth to Sam the pop up shop curator as an example of an artist who might have an opinion about the war and the bloody peace.

What is conceptual art?  The ‘value’ of particular artists after Duchamp can be weighed according to how much they questioned the nature of art.

Conceptual art is based on the notion that the essence of art is an idea, or concept, and may exist distinct from and in the absence of an object as its representation. It is called Idea art, Post-Object art, and Dematerialized art because it often assumes the form of a proposition (i.e., a document of the artist’s thinking) or a photographic document of an event.

Conceptual art practices emerged at a time when the authority of the art institution and the preciousness of the unique aesthetic object were being widely challenged by artists and critics.

Conceptual artists interrogated the possibilities of art-as-idea or art-as-knowledge, and to those ends explored linguistic, mathematical, and process-oriented dimensions of thought and aesthetics, as well as invisible systems, structures, and processes.

Artists such as Joseph Kosuth and members of the Art & Language group wrote theoretical essays that questioned the ways in which art has conventionally acquired meaning. In some cases such texts served as the art works themselves.

Dinner with Nicola and Chris on Saturday night.  Lovely.  We ate oysters, game pie and vegetables.  Ended up flirting with a cute doorman with footballers thighs in some club on Dean Street.  He was ‘straight’ so I walked away.  Damn.

This evening I met Charlie at a huge ‘A’ gay Christmas event.  I met loads of people.  Lovely (sexy, charming, witty and down-to-earth) Dutch/Kiwi man and his friend but the BEST was a gallerist/singer songwriter called Robert Diament who I could totally FALL for.  I kissed him goodnight.

Out sexy gay man with a brain.  Huh?  How did that happen?

Well, it’s not going to happen  In the cold light of this sober day (Monday morning) he’s far too young and until my heart is mended…I really can’t imagine letting anyone near me.

Drove back to Whitstable with Alma who is very funny and we giggled for miles.

Anyway, as I have said before..after letting you know my initial impressions of someone ‘special’ I won’t be writing about them again.  Can you tell that I am having a nice time?  That I am happy?  Can you?  I am safe and warm (house is a bit chilly) and enveloped by love?

I forgot to mention yesterday…I bought a hat at Kokon to Zai.  It is rather splendid.

Then I went to bed…good night…sweet dreams.


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Categories
art

The House

The house looks so beautiful.  Totally rearranged, crammed with stuff…another load of art off to auction this week.  The gilded hall table, the 18th century credenza…my Gio Ponti lamps…should make no sense but does.

New art by Dustin Yellin and Danika Phelps.   I covered the 18th century Napoleonic chair with latte coloured silk..a sort of duchess satin.

I can’t believe that I have sold only a third of the art formerly hanging on the walls.  It is astounding that there is so much still here.

A gorgeous breeze from the sea today after several days of blistering Santa Anas.

After my meeting this morning (saw an old friend from Whitstable) Mel and I had breakfast by the Palisades Sunday farmer’s market then walked the dogs.  I dropped in on my young neighbour who was having a party.  His friends wondered if I was his uncle.

Last night on my way home from Brentwood (middle eastern dinner with Dom who now works for new Oprah channel) I stopped at a red light, smiled at a very cute boy standing on the sidewalk.  He promptly got into the car, kissed me fully on the lips, took my number and has been texting ever since.  Now, if I never see that boy ever again he managed in that one moment to trump every pathetic attempt Jake ever made at a romantic gesture.

We are going to the beach this afternoon.  Point Dume, we can take the dogs.  Going to take a picnic.  My last days before I leave on Wednesday.  A daunting trip home.  Taking the same route he and I took which, frankly, I am not looking forward to for that very reason.

Such a beautiful day here.

Categories
art Gay Rant

Hallooweeeen

Back on excellent form I decided to go Halloween party hopping.  Started at SHLA which was a fucking BLAST.  Wearing a huge fur hat, all night it was stroked and fondled.  The rest of me wrapped tightly in black.  My new heroin chic thin frame.

My waist has shrunk from a chunky 36 ins to a very palatable 33ins.

Yum fucking yum.  Nice to wear all those form fitting togs.  Vintage Helmut Lang.

Actually, even though I intended to run around town my Halloween party hopping ended as it began.  I started at SHLA and ended my night there.

It’s time to start eating again.  I am getting too thin.

Anyway, the party at SHLA was really well planned.  They had spent a fortune on art installations and costumes.  Money well spent…the theme for the night: phobias.

Ornithophobia (birds)

Chiroptophobia (bats)

Emetophobia (vomit)

Dendrophobia (trees)

Arachnophobia (spiders)

Aviophobia (flying)

They should have had a homophobia themed room:   Spiteful little fingers.  Eyes that gaze out over your shoulder looking for something better.  Meaningless conversations.  Somebody whispering that they love you as they pick your pocket.

For God did not give us a spirit of timidity, but a spirit of power, of love and of self-discipline.

The greater part of my evening was spent on a sofa on the terrace flirting with an important (she said) artist (male) and a successful (he said) gallery owner (female), flirting and groping.  He was dressed as wolf man and she a pussy cat.  He told me to touch his cock which I did.  The gallerist squealed.  Then she joined in.  Finger sucking.  She gave me her card.  I left it on the table.

She said, “Which would you prefer?  To eat my pussy or suck his cock?”

I told her that I could do both at the same time.

Nikki Haskell joined us dressed as Marie Antoinette.  Everybody loves Nikki.  The ‘important’ artist asked her to touch his balls and she told him very imperiously to fondle hers.

“They’re made of pink satin.”  She said.

I met a bunch of  drunk ‘A’ gays who wanted to whisk me away to a gay party in Laurel Canyon but I bailed at the last moment.    I am not ready to throw myself into anything too gay at the moment..anyway I had too much fun flirting with the straight men stoking my hat.

It was a very festive end to the past few months.  The BEST thing about the party was that everybody from all the other parties all over town popped by so one really didn’t have to move at all.

Most famous person there:  Leo.  He asked if I had made anything since AKA.

Todd Feldman my ex-agent was having a party that I fully intended to join but why bother?

Spent the earlier part of yesterday with Luke who very kindly bought me lunch.

Like it or not there is still a shadow cast over me from the morbid events of the past few months, this will take time to pass but I am NOT staying at home being miserable.  I am out there doing what I do best: meeting people and having fun.

I took one number from one man but will delete it.  I have no desire to meet or engage with another man…not after JB.  That was enough to last a decade.  The idea of getting close with anyone other than those I already know is enough.

Ashley and Aaron Rose for breakfast.  Satie’s Gymnopedie playing.

Drifting over the garden like something aromatic.  Carrying me over the lush vegetation and down to the sea.

Life:  this is it my friend.  It is as it always was.

On my own.  Thank God!

Categories
art

Limited

Samia

Samia, my ex lover, would describe the people she had least respect as ‘limited’.  It’s a jolly good word to describe those we cannot be bothered with.

I love writing my blog.  Just as I loved writing my diary.

Some blog posts get particular public attention.  The most popular being listed to the right of this page.  Kristian Digby‘s Funeral in particular gets as many hits per day than any other post on this blog and cumulatively is the most read post on this site.  It heartens me that so many people leave messages for him there.  Sweet, kind, sad messages from people whose lives he touched.

I am so lucky to have been his bf for a few months.  I am so happy that it didn’t end in recrimination or bitterness.  I am just lucky that I have had the opportunity to know so many wonderful people.

I wish I could pick up the phone and call you Kristian.  I needed you these past few months.   I really did.

Kristian Digby

I am in a sparkling good mood this morning.

Oh my God!!!  Such dark days!  Such misery!  Such a BORE!  Coming to an end.  Well, I still have to deal with my balls.

My balls ache.  My back aches.  Let’s get this testicular party started.  I am sure that by the end of this surgery episode you will get tired of listening to me bleating on about the operation.  Apparently the penis gets quite bruised when they operate.  Black, blue and yellow bruising in the groin department.

Perhaps I should have it inverted and become the ugliest transsexual ever.  I am not likely to be using it recreationally any time soon.

I feel free to leave now.  What has been holding me back is finally resolved.  Perhaps having a vagina would solve my problems.  Maybe I wouldn’t be such a cunt.  Ha ha ha.

My poor doctor in the UK despairs of my hanging around here.  She thinks time is of the essence.  She tells me that I am risking my life.  She will be pleased to know that I am leaving soon.

Back to wintery London.   I wonder where I will stay?

Listening to really loud music.  Elsie de Witt is here, she’s singing along with Simon and Garfunkel.  The Bad Baby is sleeping soundly.  I hope she doesn’t wake him.

Elsie de Witt

The sun is shining.  I spent more time yesterday fixing the spa.  The light is working.  The air jets are fixed.  It’s a real spa!  I think I might heat it today and sit in it with my friend.  Under the stars.

A huge weight lifted from my shoulders.

Tim had his triple by-pass.  He’s only a few years older than me.  My old drinking companion Tim Willis.  His book is doing good business back at home.

Elsie is singing Midnight Train to Georgia.   Hush Elsie!  The Bad Baby is Sleeping.

Categories
art Gay

Are you Innocent? Are you a boy?

Innocentboy7 baring his ass..sent me a ‘wink’.   That’s what happens when you sit on Manhunt long enough.  Unlike the real city, this virtual city has no surprises.  Asses and cocks on view before they risk you judging their ugly mug, their pretty face.

A mountain of heaving pink and brown flesh.  Like some virtual concentration camp.  A tangle of broken limbs.  Faceless.  Broken.  Made to kneel at the edge of the pit before the single bullet to the head.

People like me and my friend Jon and his son.  People like me and Ashley.  People like me and my friend Rose.  Made to run over ploughed fields.  Naked.  To the pit.  To the single bullet.    A woman in a beautifully cut coat and dress protecting herself from two big dogs.  Her felt hat on her head.  Where is her bag?

Innocentboy 7 are you innocent?  Are you a boy?  I asked him.  He replied, “Yeah dude, I’m a flight attendant.”  He ‘unlocked’ the pictures of his face.  Thanks for the introduction.   I wasn’t interested in his ass or his face.

I love the city.  That’s where I want to trawl for men, male encounters.  The streets, we are all equal on the streets.  We can be mysterious.  We can be men.  In the summer, sweaty kisses.  Letting them undress you.  In the winter warming your hands on their hot bellies under layers of coats and scarves.  Strangers in virtual streets now wink at me.  “Hello Ducky, have you got a light?’   “Do you know the way to Piccadilly?”   or,  if you’re feeling particularly fresh, “My boyfriend and I..well, we was wondering?”

What is the point of meeting anyone if you know exactly what you are going to find slumbering in their underwear?   Where is the delicious mystery?   I don’t want to see your cock…or your ass.  Not until we have made a contract.   Your hot breath on my face, on my neck.  Kiss my eye lids.  Kiss me.  Seal it with a kiss.

Without doubt I have met some interesting people from the internet.  But…they ain’t going to fit in.   Will they listen to The XX?  Do they have the ability to light a fire?

Can they stay?  Did you ever think about just staying?  Turning your back on the life you had?  Just staying over and never leaving?

There are great forks of lightning dancing over the Pacific this morning.   Like those elephants in the Dali paintings, you know the ones..the paintings?  The real paintings.  When he was painting.  I think they are in Tampa, Florida of all places.  Did you know that?

Fixed the hot tub spa thingy yesterday.  It looks great.   Can’t wait to get in it.

Gayboyforolder just sent me a picture of his cock.  He is coyly pulling his underwear from his groin to reveal his meat, his cock, his prick, his weapon of war, his 8 and a half…well…sadly…it’s an ugly little thing.  I can’t imagine doing anything with that.  Not a girl like me.  It needs photoshopping.  It looks jaundiced.  It looks toxic. It looks traumatized.

Do you know who I am?

I have songs to sing today in imaginary opera houses, in Carnegie Hall, on the South Bank.  I have songs to sing.

Have not left the house for 8 days.  Last night a friend popped by and he was playing with my lap top and there was a moment when I wanted to hit him on the back of the head with my heavy metal torch because I HATE people messing with my laptop.  I would rather they looked at my soiled underwear.

Categories
art

Yo Yo Yo HIV and Other Tales

Woke up in a panic.  The thing growing in me.  That thing.  Must get it removed.  Have to get it removed but can’t move until everything is sorted.

Too much to sort out before I get there.

Manhunt Date number 9.  A 28-year-old Kuwaiti doing a PhD in architecture at UCLA.  He drove from Brentwood in the thick fog arrived at 10.30 was gone by midnight.  What do people think they are when they describe themselves as masculine?   What in heaven’s name does it mean?  Needless to say this was a huge queen under the thinnest veneer of ‘straight acting’.

The last ten minutes of the ‘date’ he was looking at his kindle and I was staring into the fire willing him to leave.

He left.

Poor lamb, driving up my foggy wet mountain in the pitch black only to be sent home because he didn’t meet my exacting standards.  He asked me about my past relationships.  Of course I told him the Jake saga but as I told him I thought..why am I telling you this?  Not even I am convinced by this story.

One interesting note, when JB was kicked out of his apartment by his long-term gf for being a lying, sociopathic, cheater Jake’s ex-gf  told him he had to pay his part of the rent until the lease expired..I think it expires this November from what I can remember…anyway.  When I told the Kuwaiti that he had been thrown out and had to live with his parents in Westchester the Kuwaiti was outraged that the gf had demanded half the rent.

The gays never get that bit of the story..why he couldn’t just walk away without paying her anything.  They never get the commitment/contract part of a relationship.  They squeal, as did the Kuwaiti, “Why should he continue paying his part of the rent in an apartment that he didn’t live in?”

When Jake complained to Pal the artist he was fucking with (allegedly) HIV behind the gf’s back about the rent issue…(Jake told me that he only found out after they stopped fucking that Pal was HIV positive..but I doubt it.  Pal doesn’t look like the kind of man who would keep quiet about his HIV positive status knowing that Jake was in a sexual relationship with a woman?  No, he looks like a responsible kind of guy.)

Well…

Pal, allegedly, told Jake to stop paying the rent and cut JA out…like a cancer.  This was a woman who had cancer scares ALL THE TIME!

Thankfully Jake did the right thing…he continued paying his part of the rent and the electricity bill despite casting himself as the victim to me and his gay friends.  He was so pissed when he got kicked out of the house…because it meant that he had to live with his parents.

He might have to behave responsibly.  Of course the moment he moved in he just did what he always did, acting out with drugs, alcohol and online hook ups.  But with the added advantage of having parents who would now co-sign his bullshit.

What a fucking moaner!  Unable to see his part in anything.  Complaining about his sister Emily’s wedding and the part he had to play in it.  Complaining about going to Cape Cod.  Complaining that he didn’t live in the East Village anymore.

You should have told the fucking truth!  How about that as a radical idea?

Weinstein pay him $7k to rewrite/line edit scripts for them.  He did three of them the fortnight before we left for Paris and he was still loathed to put his hand in his pocket to buy anything.  The day we drove all day to Cannes he bought me a Mars Bar.    I drove all day and he bought me a lousy MARS BAR?  And you are wondering why I am taking him to small claims court?  The day we drove from Sanary Sur Mer I packed the car with inexpensive and delicious food.

The first time I told him definitively that we should break off our relationship was when I realised that he was drinking and driving.  He would get totally DRUNK in NYC then take the train all the way to Katonah then drive to his parents house..drunk as a skunk…then call me moaning or crying about how TERRIBLE his life was…or text me from the train because he was lonely and I would (foolish me) always be there for him..because as he mocked in one of his last emails…”you find me irresistable…admit it.”

I did.  I found him irresistible.

Jake lived on the filthy underbelly of life because he chose to.

BTW art lovers!  Do look at Pal’s fantastic paintings…they are fucking GORGEOUS…if you are decorating a hospital.  He’s a handsome man.  Pity that he fell into Jake’s ‘straight boy honey pot’.  I wonder if he really did lie about his HIV status as Jake claimed.  Jake lied about everything.

If I were her I would sue that piece of lying shit.

My producer comes today to shape the treatment.   My friend RF tried to visit yesterday but blew a tire on the way up here.  I drove down the hill to find him forlornly at the edge of the road.  I had a long chat with Sharon about film funding.  Things seem to be picking up.   I worked more on the script and loved it.

I ate two bowls of corn flakes and felt tired in my bones.

My heart has been broken and rather than cry gently to myself I am so fucking angry.

That entitled prick has got away with murder and I am daily incensed by how he treated me and others.   Even 6 months after he came out he was still regretting his decision.  He would have been perfectly happy to stay in his vampiric relationship with her whilst he fucked men on the side.  That was a choice!  He knew exactly what he was doing and used her.  Don’t you dare lecture me about collateral damage!  I didn’t cause this mess.

JB is a reptile.

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