Category: Queer

Golden Globes 2017

Post author By Duncan Roy
Post date January 9, 2017

It’s the morning after the Golden Globe awards. I don’t have a hangover but I do have a severe headache. Ahead of my rant, the first order of the day? Congratulate Barry Jenkins who brilliantly won the best drama golden globe for his exquisite film, Moonlight. By awarding this black/queer film best drama the HFPA have thrown down a gauntlet to Hollywood. They are daring The Academy to address its crippling lack of diversity. I predict that Moonlight will go on collecting nominations and awards (will win SAG, Spirit Awards) but can it win Academy Awards? Here lies the rub. The only two bankable commodities in this little film are Jenkins and Harris who are both Hollywood gold.

The liberal, Hollywood talent elite are trilling about Meryl Streep. They forget the less liberal Hollywood majority booed Michael Moore after receiving his Bowling for Columbine Oscar and using the academy podium to remind us of President Bush’s fictitious reasons for invading Iraq in his brilliant and oft quoted ‘fictitious times’ speech. President Obama of course, perpetuated those fictions but did it by stamping out dissent and whistle blowing within the United States. Snowden, Assange, Manning. My heroes.

The real money in Hollywood is behind Trump… the power. The talent can make art out of outrage and in turn make billions of $ for the white Hollywood establishment. I can’t imagine former friend and UTA boss Jeremy Zimmer is anything other than thrilled by the prospect of a Trump presidency, salivating over the kind of big money he’s going to make these next four to eight years.

I wonder who reps Barry Jenkins? I can tell you one thing. He won’t have a black agent or manager at one of the leading agencies or management companies… because there aren’t any. Until there are black faces repping big money at the agencies, black faces producing movies or living on Carbon Beach in Malibu or heading up the teamsters union… Hollywood will be as is it always has: racist. A white industry where predominantly white men control the money. It is not a place where your dreams will come true, it is a place where old white men will decide which of their dreams will come true using your talent.

It’s simply not good enough to call Trump names at award shows. Yeah he’s a prick, yeah he’s hollow, yes he’s predictable. Are we gonna repeat ourselves every day? Expecting a different outcome? Let’s call him what he is: Donald Trump is the most powerful white supremacist in the world. Riding an international wave of fascism. Your president is a white supremacist.

As I’ve asked a million times before, are you willing to put your life on the line to fight fascism? Are you willing to demonstrate, be interned or tortured or imprisoned? Sooner or later Facebook rants and memes just won’t cut it. History proves that when things get nasty the people do as they are told. However brave they say they are before the black shirts arrive. It’s my guess that you’ll put up with it too. You’ll go on the one million woman march… then they’ll round-up the South Americans in California and what will you do? Then they’ll go after lgbt rights… and what will you do? They’ll outlaw abortion. What will you do? They’ll shoot to kill and fill the prisons with any and every black man who looks scary and what will you do? Tweet?

You’ll tweet about it.

I’m very slowly going blind. Foolishly, after many years of not looking carefully at my plate, I started wearing my glasses when I eat. Oh My God, revolting! Gelatinous sauces oozing from the edge of beef and chicken. Seeds baked into bread. Glazes and jus and creamed potato sprinkled with chives. I want to vomit, overwhelmed by the detail, the slightest movement as you press down onto the burger and my lunch becomes a suppurating sore discharging blood, guacamole and mayonnaise. I am captivated by gravy as it seeps under and drips around roast pork. Nauseated, I have to take my glasses off. On Saturday night we had pasta with sea urchin butter and caviar at Fish and Game in Hudson. Although delicious, I couldn’t fully enjoy it until it was just a blur on my plate otherwise, it was a mesmerizing… awful experience.

The dogs know it is bitterly cold this morning. Minus 13. They are under the covers. Hidden away. Unlike England which is cold, wet, dark and raw thankfully it is bright and cold here upstate making the day less of a chore. Our store, Tivoli General is open and there are AA meetings in Hudson.

I stayed in bed, too distracted by pain. The infection in my jaw getting worse.

The third Monday of January is notorious for suicide. This third Monday in January will be no different. A mass suicide event will take place in the USA and nobody will say a word.

Did you know I fell out with Stephen Fry a year or so ago? I had the audacity to mention the freedoms and privilege a celebrity enjoys. Celebrities HATE when you discuss their fame. Or in his case… his twitter feed. We then had an email fight about God and the existence of God. I asked him if he realised almost all of his sober friends have a god in their life. He reluctantly accepted that spirituality may be very loosely beneficial for some people but that’s that. There’s a connection (if you can be bothered to work it out) between his reluctance to discuss celebrity and his eagerness to dismiss a certain kind of God. “Stephen, you don’t have to believe in God,” I said. “As long as you know you’re not God.”

He said rather ominously, “Be very careful.”

Not being very careful, I asked, “So if you don’t belive in God… who do you cry out to every time you try killing yourself?”

That was it. No more Stephen Fry.

Tags Chelsea Manning, Donald Trump, Edward Snowden, Jeremy Zimmer, Julian Assange, Meryl Streep

Queer

Another Short Story About Death

Post author By Duncan Roy
Post date January 5, 2017

A Fragment

There’s darkness all around me. Both sides. Consider it. Consuming me. Your death. When I wake in the morning and retire at night. My obsession to kill, to kill you obscures the view, softens the edges like a drink, like a cold beer, like a veil. Then I’m walking in the world. I am on the street. I am not where my body is. Away from my house, trapped in the sunlight. Jacarander in full bloom. Smashed avocado on the side-walk. Why bother going out? I could be planning his death. Planning the end of his life. Scripting the final words he will hear before he’s snuffed out. I have to feed the dog. Buy probiotic. Pass the homeless black man reclining on the concrete bench.

Franklin, Selma, Cherokee.

The only fascinating thing that came out of his mouth was my cock. I have a photograph of that. I wish I had been more tenacious tending my own lusty garden, less sensitive, less caring.

When people stay over they complain I scream out in my sleep. Night terrors. They ask, who is Jake? I shudder to think what I am doing in those forgotten nightmares. Am I trapped or caught or bringing down the knife? Have I cornered him? Is he begging for his life? Have the tables been turned, the police called? Am I already handcuffed, am I sitting in the electric chair?

There are no consequence, nothing scares me when the lights are on, when dawn has broken. As I make my way, steeply up the dusty trail. Fighting one resentment after another. Slip sliding past these single people with their dog children. Calling out. One dog, two dogs, three dogs. This morning I counted 145 dogs. I’m calling your name as I sleep. Jake! Come back to me.

There is something inevitable. Keep your voice down. I am planning. I’ll leave it up to my dreams to work out the detail. The multiple contractions of apprehension. Accept my fate, God’s will (not mine) be done.

I worked in the county jail for the Mexican nuns. Organizing lectures for the pre-trial detainees. I met murderers there. They were so contrite. I listened politely to their stories. “I’ve taken a life.” He wept. He buried her in a storm drain, using a broom handle to push her limbs out of sight.

Culver, Washington, Sepulveda.

The heavy rains, El Niño flushed her desiccated body into the LA River, bobbing along the concrete culvert until she met the choppy Pacific Ocean. Murderers all, never thinking I would one day join them. Wearing orange scrubs and yellow underwear. I wonder if I will be as contrite when strangers ask me for my story? Contrition has never been my friend.

After many months of consideration everything is in place. Everything I need to know: Where he lives, the route he takes to work, how I can find him.

Hyperion, 101, West Temple.

I have seen recent pictures of him on his Mother’s Facebook. The way he wears his hipster beard, trimmed in such a way I never knew. I wonder if his lover advises him to wear it like that? He is wearing a jacket I picked out for him. Do you know how much that amuses me? Every time he pulls on that jacket he has no option but to think of me.

I have not yet bought the weapon.

The cast is chosen, the die… is cast. The private detective, my unwitting accomplice. The weapon? Must buy. Top of the list. Number 1. It was easy to find the Private Detective. Google. Boasting he once worked for the LAPD. Despicable cops. Everything about my failed relationship with Jake was conceived and born on the internet. It was shaped on web cams, emails, Facebook, Manhunt, Grindr.

Determined by him.

When and whenever he wanted. I gave into him. Until I didn’t.

How and why should a charming, affluent, fifty year old think like this? Why this murderous obsession? I used to wake every morning full of hope, like a young boy! Enchanted by all the world has to offer. Now I see nothing. At the mercy of nothing. Darkness both sides of me. I used to wake up every morning and thank God for the new day. Now there is no God, just a black hole where God used to be, consuming everything in the universe. Sucking anything of value into the vortex. The furies are all I’m left with. On the edge of the black hole.

I have given up wondering why I am so angry at him. This is all you need to know:

Alone in my bed at night but not isolated. The house is full of people. The dog is well fed. The maid cleans. The gardeners trim and prune and sweep. There are fragrant hyacinths, white and purple, growing in pots on the dining room table. Freshly grown fruit picked and washed ready to eat.

I don’t expect to get away with this. In anticipation I have been disconnecting from my darling dog. He knows it, he paws at me insistently. He knows something grave is in the offing. He, in turn, is learning to trust the kindness of others. He doesn’t want to be left on his own. I may have murdered months ago had it not been for the extraordinary something between me and a dog. I am ready to let go of him too. He hides from me when I cry, he hides from me when I am angry. Leaves puddles of urine on the white rug. He cowers when I shout at dullards on the streets or digital voices on the telephone. He is scared by the smell of whiskey on my breath. He is ready for a different master.

I am ashamed to tell you, when he first arrived from the shelter I was quite cruel to him. He was scared and disoriented when I brought him home. Barking, barking. He would pee on everything and after a week of cleaning the house, scrubbing the god damned carpet, mopping the tile, the smell of dog pee on everything I owned. Every time he peed I shouted at him.

He defecated in my closet. I shouted so hard he ran away and hid in the garden.

I wished he would never come back. I begged God the coyote would eat him. The rattle snake would kill him. For a week he managed to not get eaten by the coyotes. How? Packs of coyote stalk my property. Screaming for their dinner. He walked back into the house as if nothing had happened. He never urinates on the carpet again.

He’s not the only one who escapes the anger when it comes. People in the room move away from me as if they know me. I used to shout at people in the street. I’ve been angry. Very angry. Furious. It’s a problem. Perhaps I am well-known for flying off the handle? There’s no question mark. I am well-known for losing my temper. At work, in situations where powerlessness grips me, I feel myself sinking. I shouted so loudly, my blood pressure so high, I collapsed. Shifting the liquid in my inner ear. The doctor thought I was having a stroke.

I lost my temper with Jake. I lost my temper when we thought he had been robbed. I lost my temper at the airport in Paris, Charles De Gaulle. He recoiled. Everyone does. I am a big man who looks docile for the most part. Docile, until they prod me with their stick. Docile until the blood drains out of my face, my lips turn blue and I look like an animal. I know where you are. I can hear you talking about me during the day. My ears burning. He’s doing it right now. I can hear him laughing at me. Describing my horrible temper. Sharing stories about me with his friends. Laughing at every choice I ever made. I imagine him with my old acquaintances (friends no more) who may have contacted him. Laughing at how old I am. Wondering what he ever saw in me. My erectile dysfunction. The white in my beard. My stiff knees.

He is only twenty-nine years old. I don’t expect him to celebrate his thirtieth birthday.

Chris, the Private Detective. The first time we met, we met in public. We drank coffee at a large table at my private club over looking Beverly Hills and West Hollywood.

Doheny, Hillcrest, Thrasher.

A plump, sanguine, middle-aged man who is not even middle-aged. Certainly fifteen years younger than me yet seems so much older. There is something invisible about him. He is uniquely American. He is invisible. He is everyman, dressed as everyman therefore invisible. I would be hard pressed to pick him out of a crowd even though I have met him twice. He had no particular expression, no charisma, no beauty and no opinion.

Only when pressed did he tell me about his other clients: a woman from Pasadena whose husband she suspected was having an affair. He followed the unemployed spouse into Santa Monica who sat in the library day after day drinking english tea from a flask he filled at The Coffee Bean and reading free newspapers until it was time to go home.

I wondered if I had ever been followed, watched or my movements documented? Really, who would care enough to do that? I couldn’t think of anyone other than Joe. The thought made me smile. Not even he would bother. Even as we were in the midst of our messy ‘divorce’.

The second time I met Chris the Detective we met at my home. He had, by this time, reseached me. He was less restrained, he knew who I was and who he was dealing with. He told me about a boy he was looking for, a lost boy. He thinks the boy is already dead. Suicide. “Let’s talk about money.” Chris pulled a contract out of a black plastic folder and I handed him a cheque for $1, 500. Discover where he goes, I said. With whom. Simple.

Yes, I am a homosexual. I wondered if you guessed already? Had I made it obvious? Was it evident in the way that I write? The way I see things. Does it differ from the way you see things? A homosexual, a landlord and recently (I don’t know how to write this) a television personality from a reality television show. That’s how I make my money, odd jobs. Like the downs syndrome boy who lives in my home town. Running errands. I am a high achieving cripple.

Odd jobs suit me fine.

Yet, I earn more money than I ever have. Using all of my potential. Even though the worst of me seems to get the better deal every single day and always has.

I can confide in you?

Each night I regret the passing of another day. I lay in my bed and before I fall asleep, knowing that soon my freedom will be curtailed. My sheets no longer woven from heavy linen. My houses in the mountains will fall into disrepair. Friends and family will come and take what they want and the lawyers will take the rest. My dog will never see me again. Will he too die in prison? Euthanized by strangers? Is it worth it? To lose everything because he made a fool of me? Lied to me? Can I risk everything? Should I?

I have never been so sure of anything in my whole life. In lieu of suicide, murder works just fine. I talk to him, imaginary conversations. I catch hold of his sleeve and I ask him, “Can I tell you how you broke my heart?” He looks back at me. His brown eyes and soft mouth. I say, “Because you trusted me, you encouraged me, you loved me. Then you saw something you hated and turned your back on me and I was alone and I couldn’t bear being all on my own… again.” Then I feel sorry for him. I want to help him get out of this pickle. Run away! While you still have the opportunity. I don’t want to kill anything. But the wish to kill is never killed, even when I am happy, even when the twins are bouncing around the house.

Sometimes I want to call you and give you fair warning. I want to tell you to run and hide so I can’t get you. But I don’t. I don’t because the die is cast. I have already caused him inexorable pain and chaos. I know his entire family (Mother, Father and sister) stand beside him whereas I have no one here. His tiny jewish mother, her short coarse hair, married to her tall slim husband whose ambition is to travel by push bike from Southern California to burning man and take acid. His mum and dad who only found out he was gay when I forced him to tell the truth. They were shocked their son could have made so many bad choices, led a double life. Told so many lies. He compartmentalized the life he led with his fiance and the life he had with me.

He is not uncommon. So many gay men learn how to lie, to skirt the existence others think they lead. Last week a gay acquaintance of mine found dead in his bathroom from a Oxycontin overdose. He was fine! His father told everyone that he had only just put down the phone twenty-four hours ago and his son, his only son, his darling son was fine.

I used to tell him that. I warned him. Toxic shame kept him lying to everyone who loved him and would end up killing him if he didn’t tell the truth.

My name is Charles Maguire. I am fifty years old. I live with my small dog in a large, mid-century modern house designed in part by Rudolf Schindler on three acres of verdant, semi tropical gardens overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The gardens are planted with Agave, cactus and other drought loving succulents. Below the house there is a small grove of olive trees. Last summer I grew cherimoya, oranges, grapes, lemons, plums, peaches and many vegetables. The excess fruit and vegatables I left at the top of the drive for my neighbours, they took the produce and ignored the honesty box.

Malibu is a tranquil place many miles away from Hollywood. I can see the stars at night and listen to birds all day long. Hawks wheeling in the sky. There is a carp pond and a plunge pool. My neighbours are European. Americans tend to fear the idea of living on the mountain. When they arrive at the house they say, “Are you scared of….mudslides, fires, earthquakes etc?” And I reply, “No… not much scares me up here. Then they tour the garden and tell me this is a ‘magical’ place. It is when you stop being scared.

Latico Canyon, Las Flores, Topanga.

Last month young twins moved into the guest house but mostly they hang out with me. My Mormon twins, tall, perfectly sculpted bodies, so polite and thoughtful. As much as I love them, they shall not distract me from my great task. Perhaps all I want is attention? Craving attention. Negative or otherwise? The trial, I arrive looking svelte and dapper. I will stand in the witness-box and sob when forced to tell my abusive back story.

I think about him again. I think about how he may or may not be with someone he loves who is not me. I think of him having sex with someone he loves who is not me. Then I think murderous thoughts that many of us have when ditched. I console myself in the shadow of that word: I think about the wounds on his body that I am going to inflict and how they will open in his flesh like cactus flowers.

I don’t think anyone will be surprised when they hear that I am arrested. Most people I know understand that I am the sort of man who would or could be capable of murder. Just like my father. He was the same way.

The route he takes to work everyday. Hyperion, 101, Culver.

The twins are in their room making love. I can hear them. One of them says softly, “Don’t!” They giggle. They look at my AA sober coins and say, “These are really cool trinkets.” They are going to the gym and getting ready to audition. They don’t know my thoughts. They can’t possibly know what is going on upstairs in the head department. They are simple Mormon boys who make love in the morning and talk about girls all day long. I can hear them kissing. I can hear them cooing like doves. I can hear one of them gasp.

Since he left me I have put on weight. My jowls are sagging. The skin around my eyes drooping over my eye lids. My belly looks permanently full and my skin is dull and grey. I used to be attractive but that doesn’t matter any more. Who cares what I look like?

I don’t.

I have not had an erection for months. Hey, gay boy. Can you imagine that? Fucking gay boys! Not to have an erection? Not to wake up with morning wood because all you can think about twenty-four seven is how you are going to speed a bullet through his brains?

Murderous thoughts destroy ones libido. Although, most murderers say they get an erection after a murder, that ones penis becomes doubly engorged.

I don’t look at pornography, I don’t show myself on any match-making web site. I don’t drink alcohol or take drugs. I drink coffee and smoke strong cigarettes. I barely ever brush my teeth unless I have to share a car with someone… and then, only when that person matters. I stand naked in front of the mirror so the image of who I am burns into my brain. I am ugly and useless and un-lovable. I am old.

Some days I kneel at the edge of my bed and pray that I can be delivered from this obsession but God long ago fled the scene of this crime. I have nothing to lose. My life is worthless.

I can hear the twins in another part of the house film scenes for a film that has no beginning, middle or end. The dog is with them, he’s barking and running around joyfully. I know, if I join them they will sit quietly. Their joy deferring to my misery.

Did you know that I used to have two dogs? The other one was killed in the road. I miss her so much. Somehow her death, her cruel and senseless death introduced me to the idea of death. Life’s fragility. I am crying now. Thinking about her.

Anyway, that’s that. The detective has been appointed. Cal from Manhattan Beach has the gun. It is presently sitting in a box wrapped in a dishcloth. He texted me a picture of the gun. Applying some Polaroid app to the image which made it look very old-fashioned. Very old. Everything is in place. What could possibly stop me. Other than his pleading face? His begging cries? His convincing argument that he might live?

Why don’t I just kill my old self and spare his young life?

I say goodbye to the dog and the twins. I walk for one last time around the estate. The paths that cut into the hill-side. The view over the ocean. I say goodbye to it all. “The next time you see me will be on the television.” The twins look a little confused but are too polite to pry. The Little Dog thought he was coming too and looked quite panicked when I did not invite him into the car. I didn’t look back. I could hear him barking. I didn’t look back.

405, Vista Del Mar, Highland Ave

Cal, shows me the gun. He is very excited. A plan to kill. I am discovering that murder excites some people, like the soldiers in Afghanistan who without consideration shot and killed innocent men and women without regard. It was their thrill and now I feel it too.

A thrill comes over me, more intense than anything I have ever felt before. Do men feel the same before they kill themselves? Have I thought about suicide? I think about it everyday. Every single day. If I am brave enough go kill myself I might as well take someone with me. The man who broke my heart. The man who caused everything to stop except time. Stuck in this morass.

Gay NYC Queer Tivoli NY

Slave Holders Rebellion

The New York State Sheep and Wool Festival held at the Dutchess County Fair Ground, Rhinebeck NY is one of the last remaining countryside traditions in New York State. Unlike the bawdy Duchess County Fair (started in 1842) the Sheep and Wool Festival (started in 1980) is very genteel. Affluent white people, mostly women (with compliant bearded husbands) and gay 30 something men pet Vicuna and jostle for home spun, naturally dyed, two ply.

In England we regularly honor the land and our relationship with it. Many of our country festivals have pagan origins. The Harvest Moon, St Michael’s Mass, Lammas Day, country fairs and garden festivals. When we celebrate May Day in my home town of Whitstable at the very edge of ‘The Garden of England’ on the North East Kent coast bordering the shallow, oyster clogged Swale, we revive a 16th century English tradition. Local people garland spring flowers and weave twigs of new leaves. Pussy willow, catkins and briar. With these we entirely cover a grown man. With his head dressed in topiary he often stands over nine feet tall. This walking bush became known as Jack ‘o the Green. The Jack is central to the Whitstable May Day celebration and leads a parade of Morris Dancers and mythical characters to the town square.

We celebrate our medieval past without too much shame. The colonial atrocities we care to admit, were committed elsewhere. We plough the fields and scatter the good seed on the land… and thank God for reminding us how lucky we are not to have seen the Boer War or Partition with our own eyes. In the USA, however, the recent past is not so easily side-stepped. The terrible ghosts white folk see: the ghosts of slaughtered First Nation people whose land they stole and the million or more slaves who made this land what it is today. In the North East embarrassed white people do not necessarily want to be reminded of their slave-owning ancestors or those who killed the thriving Algonquian people of the Hudson Valley.

7-14 million people lived in North America before the white man arrived. Today, little evidence survives of the people who lived here. Anyway, who visits North America (unlike Greece or Mexico) and thinks to see the First Nation pyramids of Louisiana or the ancient Pueblo cliff dwellings in Colorado? The Greek government loves to invest in the Parthenon and Greeks love to visit it. But First Nation sites are more likely to remind Americans of the Trail of Tears and treaty violations than appeal to their nationalism.

Dr. Adrienne Keene, a First Nation scholar and activist. “We are taught nothing was here, so Native people deserved to have their land taken away: that’s how white supremacy and colonialism work.”

What of the thousands of slaves brought to the Hudson Valley? Walk into the country side, look at the derelict shack, the rickety chicken coop. People once lived in those… shivering as the bitter wind and snow tore over the fields, daring not to faint as the scorching summer sun beat down on thousands of enslaved men, women and their children who cleared and farmed these lands. Driving from Red Hook to Tivoli the bucolic landscape of The Hudson Valley looks less benign.

Josiah Henson wrote, “Wooden floors were an unknown luxury. In a single room we huddled, like cattle, ten or a dozen persons, men, women, and children. We had neither bedsteads, nor furniture of any description. Our beds were collections of straw and old rags, thrown down in the corners and boxed in with boards; a single blanket the only covering.”

On North Road, Tivoli NY opposite my Victorian home stands an elegant, marble obelisk erected in 1866 commemorating lives lost fighting the ‘Slave Holders Rebellion’. When I first read the crumbling text I was taken aback. What was the Slave Holders Rebellion? What did this inscription mean? Was it some local event? Nobody seemed to know. White people didn’t know. Black people didn’t know.

The Slave Holders Rebellion is how the Civil War was contemporaneously described. The meaning of the Civil War, the point of it…

Slavery is New York’s dirty little secret. Many people are shocked to learn that slavery existed in the North East. Yet, as on the cotton fields of the southern states, people as property were considered essential to further settlements and do profitable business. By reducing labor costs to the care and maintenance of their human chattel, settlers turned a huge profit on a relatively small investment.

In New York State, owning 10 slaves at the turn of the 18th century was considered a large holding. Michael Groth, in his article, “The African-American Struggle against Slavery in the Mid-Hudson Valley 1785-1827,” estimated that one in 10 households included slaves. All persons of consequence were expected to be in possession of slaves, but not every slave owner was wealthy. People of modest means owned slaves. The purchase of a slave was a worthwhile investment for a farmer with moderate income.

“Those that could afford it kept slaves, and each owner put a mark upon his black servants, and registered the same with the town clerk, in order that runaways might be more easily traced. For instance the mark of Mathew Wygant was ‘a square notch of ha’penny on the upper sie of the left ear’.”

For 200 years, from 1624 to 1824, the first Dutch territories were sparsely settled with white people. Enslaved Africans were a major portion of those first wave of immigrants, estimated in some areas at between one-fifth and one-third. In Ulster County, in 1746, slaves numbered 1,100 with the white population at about 4,100. It is unknown how many First Nation people they lived along side. The Dutch West Indies Company brought the first slaves to New York territories in 1626 to work on farms, roads and forts. The Dutch were frustrated at their inability to profit from lumber, fur and agriculture.

In 1644 the Dutch West Indies Company brought in 6,900 men, women and children from the African coast.

It was company-owned slave labor that laid the foundations of modern New York, built its fortifications and made agriculture flourish in the colony so that later white immigrants had an incentive to turn from fur trapping to farming.

Between 1600 and 1860, the transatlantic slave trade brought 9 to 11 million enslaved Africans to the USA. In 1820, about 10 percent of the population of the Town of Kingston NY consisted of black slaves. By the end of the 18th century, New York held the dubious distinction of being the state with the largest slave population in the North. Ironically, the streets of Kingston and Rhinebeck NY were more diverse than they are today.

Slaves were sold in Kingston and New Paltz at public auction. Terms were made easy so people of modest means could afford them. A commodity bought and sold, used to settle debts and bequeathed to heirs. Slave sale notices were common in daily newspapers, next to advertisements for land and farm equipment. They described these men, women and children as “healthy” and “stout”, the same language used to sell livestock. It is clear from the advertisements that infants or children could be sold at the “purchaser’s option,” separating a mother and child with the stroke of a pen.

The cost of a slave today would be around $30,000.

Not everyone acquiesced. Reported slave rebellions and insurrections took place all over North America. More than 250 uprisings or attempted uprisings involving ten or more slaves. I’m sure many more went unreported. Tiny acts of attrition.

18th century slave owners bragged how well treated and content their slaves were, but life for the enslaved African living in the North was cruel and un-rewarding. New York State’s slave laws were harsh and even small transgressions punished by public flogging. The hope of freedom inspired hundreds to risk absconding. If caught, a fugitive slave could expect punishments including amputation of limbs or death.

Runaway slave notices published in newspapers recount in detail the outer wear worn by slaves. The clothing described in these notices reflect the deprived existences they led. Style, color and material, hairstyle and type of headwear are recounted in great detail by slave masters. Most fugitive slaves ran away with only one set of clothes. “Young mulatto girl, wearing red calico, with blue petticoat.” Scars, missing ears, skills, behavior – insolent, plausible, bright… were all listed.

Most slaves ran away to be with their families. Some just fled, others planned carefully. A young man from Rochester NY took off with two sheep and a beehive. Many fugitive slaves found refuge in the woods of upstate New York. The woods not only provided cover and protection but a chance to seek Native Americans inhabiting the region. Many found shelter and safety with Native Americans and were welcomed into their tribes. Large rewards and treaty offerings for the return of runaways did not dissuade Native nations from harboring slaves.

In July 1799 the NY State Legislature enacted a partial emancipation. The law freed all children born to slave women after July 4, 1799, but only after at least two decades of forced indenture. Boys became free at age 28 and females at age 25. Until then, they were tied to the service of the mother’s master. Children remained enslaved because slave owners were confident that parents would remain with their children. Unrestricted freedom did not come to New York’s slaves until a new emancipation law took effect 28 years later, on July 4, 1827.

The freeing, in 1827, of adult slaves led to economic havoc in the North East. The opening of the Erie Canal in 1825 compounded the issue and destroyed the economy of the Hudson Valley. Meanwhile, freed slaves were left to fend for themselves. Those with good skills were undercut by white, cheap immigrant labor beginning to flood the Hudson Valley from New York City. The white immigrants were paid for their time and did not need to be fed, clothed and sheltered. Some freed slaves remained as tenant farmers. Up and down the Hudson River you’ll still find names like Africa Street where freed slaves formed their own small communities.

New York City was a reluctant supporter of the Slave Holders Rebellion. Its trading economy was heavily invested in the slave-based production of cotton. After the Slave Holders Rebellion, New York and New Jersey were alone among northern states in not abolishing slavery. Governor Morris and John Jay attempted to insert a clause into the founding state constitution suggesting the eventual elimination of slavery, but were rebuffed. As New York moved to abolish slavery, amongst the counties most vociferous in their opposition and who voted, “nay” were Dutchess County.

There is white marble obelisk in Tivoli, Dutchess County at the edge of North Road. It commemorates the lives lost of local people fighting the Slave Holders Rebellion. There is something heroic and magnificent about the title: Slave Holders Rebellion. It perfectly articulates the ambition of that war. And how it latterly became… the Civil War is testament to how black and brown people have had their history reframed by generations of white revisionists. Like the First Nation people before them the domestic history of enslaved men, women, children and their brutal slave owners has been wiped away by white folk, cruel, embarrassed and afraid in equal measure.

No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave,
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Star Spangled Banner by Slave Owner Francis Scott Key

Slavery remains the dirty little secret of New York State. Shared by almost every other northern state. In the south, for good or ill, white people upholding their racism and white supremacy, proud of their slave-owning past have inadvertently kept black history alive. The ancestors of northern slave owners do not celebrate the traditions of the land… for few white people ever worked it. Whilst english people were ploughing and scattering black slaves were violently forced to do the same. The history of this bucolic place, this upstate paradise, white folk keep silent… vanishing into the corn.

Tags Dutchess County, Jack 'o the Green, Lammas Day, New York Sheep and Wool Festival, Slave, Slave Holder, St Michael’s Mass, Star Spangled Banner Francis Scott Key, The Harvest Moon, Tivoli, Vicuna, whitstable

Alcoholics Anonymous Gay NYC politics Queer Tivoli NY

January 1 2017

It’s been some time since I turned my back on this blog. I rather ostentatiously announced that I would never blog again. But it’s been a tumultuous year inter personally and internationally. Not a great year to ignore. The most important reason for not blogging?

Last year I met someone I have grown to respect tremendously, even though in the peripheral vision of the public eye he is perhaps one of the most private people I’ve ever called a friend. He has become one of those closest to me. In its former incarnation my blog had become a risky means to communicate my triumphs, failures and frustrations. Those around me felt uncomfortable, aware they could end up in this personal blog at the mercy of my public point of view.

The closer I became to my friend, the more I grew to love his gentle disposition, his trust and generosity. I did not want to endanger our friendship nor cause him or his family anxiety. I stopped writing. This week I mentioned to him why I had stopped writing my blog and how I might start writing again. He was very supportive.

I am an oaf. The older I get the more clumsy I become. Some people become physically inept. I’ve become mentally less agile. Tripping over myself when I get excited. Wading through molasses when I get tired. Writing this blog every day kept me alert.

There’s a red squirrel living in the barn, aggressively defending the ancient black walnut tree. He’s not at all like a British red squirrel. He’s more like a stoat. He spent the autumn collecting walnuts, filling a cavity at the base of the tree with his foraging. He sits peeling walnuts, industriously creating a midden beneath him. When I don’t see him I worry the barn cat ate him. I hadn’t seen him for a week after the heavy snow but today he was back on his branch. His fluffy tail and chattering warning off the grey squirrels who, even though they are thrice his size, run from him when he spies them stealing his stash.

The Little Dog is getting old. He sleeps more. His soft jowl is grey. He has fatty lumps forming on his chest. He loves a long walk and streaks ahead of me and Dude. He must be 12-year-old. Maybe. I’ve no idea how old he was when we found him at the rescue.

I don’t have a TV. It keeps me from the worst of the news cycle. Twitter and Facebook keep me up to date. The second screen. Bloody hell. I’m addicted to that thing. I’ve tried hard to not look. Tried an app that tells me how many hours a day I spend engaging with it. Shocking. My head down like a pious monk looking at the little screen.

Last Easter Dennis and Elizabeth Kucinich stayed here with me in Tivoli. They’ve bought a very scruffy farm in Poughkeepsie. They are vegans. They eat tapioca for breakfast. I’ve never known two people to bicker as often as they do. We went for long walks. Dennis says, “You realise Trump is going to be our next president? He’s going to win.” At lunch he repeated his assertion. My nice white, affluent friends smile knowingly. Crazy Dennis Kucinich. They didn’t believe him, I didn’t want to believe him. A few weeks later the two gay men who live opposite this house put up a Trump/Pence sign on their lawn and… I knew Dennis was right. President Trump was inevitable.

There were many dinners and lunches prepared on North Road this year. It seemed to irritate my nice friends whenever I cautioned a Trump presidency. “Only angry white men will vote for him.” they said. They assured me there weren’t enough angry white men to defeat the women and the people of color Trump had offended.

They think I am an angry white man.

Trump won the primary. The establishment attempted to shame him with crude tape recordings, unseen tax bills, the stories of unpaid artisans.

I felt isolated every time I repeated my assertion. How could I be so sure? “Do you have a degree in political science?” I was asked by an affluent gay man peering at me suspiciously. “No, I listen.” I said. “I listen to people far away from the shrill, gay echo chamber. I sit with AA people. Local working people, the kind of people who plough your drive or file documents in the local hospital or work in the probation department… the kind of people sophisticated city folk never engage. They love Trump.”

The AA folk I met all over the state confirmed my suspicion that things were not as the pollsters claimed. The double-digit Clinton lead. The hyperbole. In hind sight the polls now seem like establishment propaganda.

On the TV despondent hacks wondered why every time Trump made a gaffe or said something untoward his ratings soared. Upstate, men and women of all ages had already decided Trump was their guy. They did not care about pussy grabbing. Ruth said, “He can grab my pussy.” They did not care about Trump’s debate performance or his racism. The language Trump used… they could understand. I heard their roar of approval echo over the mountains and into the valley every time Trump shat all over the politically correct.

My nice liberal friends were too busy believing in Clinton’s invincibility. They refused to listen to anything other than hollow reassurance from other liberals that a Trump presidency was totally impossible.

Some polls, discredited by the establishment, indicated Bernie Sanders was the only Democrat in the race who could comfortably beat Donald Trump. My nice white friends scoffed. “We don’t want a Bernie revolution.” Amy said.

“When Trump’s elected you’ll wish it was Bernie’s revolution rather than Trump’s.” I replied.

Consternation at the dinner table. “Trump isn’t going to win,” they said. “He can’t win.” What seemed evident to me became increasingly absurd to others. The choice was obvious: It was either Sander’s revolution or Trump’s. Revolution was what the people craved.

Hillary Clinton won the Democratic presidential nomination. They kicked Bernie to the curb, unwilling to work with him. Clinton’s affable, dull running mate (whose name I’ve forgotten) made no impression on the nation and Pence effortlessly destroyed him during the vice presidential debate.

The affluent white people I know in New York City have become complacent, deaf to the pleas and need of the rest of the nation. Whilst my city friends were slightly inconvenienced by the banking crisis, the working poor suffered real consequences: they lost their homes, their jobs and their dreams. They foolishly believed affable President Obama would help them, but Obama ignored the opiate epidemic claiming the lives of desperate Americans, he ignored the many suicides of hopeless young men. Whilst we were applauding Obama’s inclusive rhetoric, cheering his trans toilet initiative. A black president honoring the trans community… I heard a different story from my local white friends of all ages, smoking cigarettes after the AA meeting. They recoiled from the trans toilet debate… unable to register their disdain for fear of PC retribution.

Meanwhile Robby Mook, Clinton’s gay campaign manager, deliberately chose to spurn the votes of the working poor and went after the soft Republican vote believing them more educated and therefore outraged by Trump’s racism and misogyny. It was a catastrophic decision. Mook’s strategy was informed by the ringing lies he heard in the pink echo chamber. The same hall of whispers I am privy to. They said, Clinton will win because Trump is a clown. I was getting blocked on Facebook for pleading with people to get ready for President Trump. Empirical evidence rather than scientific opinion. I was listening to my AA friends. I was looking at the Trump/Pence signs sprouting up all over New York state.

The gays alienated themselves from anyone who didn’t think like them or look like them or agree with their blind devotion to Clinton. The merest questioning of her integrity was perceived as heresy. The more they blocked me the more I realised just how hopeless those people would be the morning after the election.

I was invited to an upstate ‘Pink Belt’ gay pool party. The hosts and guests were short, buff and white. In spite of my fear of mediocrity I had a very pleasant time. The short white host saw me out. I mentioned my fear of gay pool parties as I thanked him for inviting me. “Don’t worry,” he smiled “I’m out of shape too.” I paused and looked into his big blue eyes.

The gays sneer at the working poor who vote against their own interests… forgetting the working poor have no interests. They have no Obama Care, they have no home to call their own. They limp from one bill to another, doing their best, never daring to dream. Trapped by debt, obesity, addiction and religion. The working poor do not have ‘interests’ to vote against nor common cause. They were angry, raw and unrepresented whilst Obama touted gender neutral bathrooms.

Where was the change they could believe in? Where was the change we could all believe in?

In the early hours of the morning November 9th 2016 I was on a late train from Grand Central Station to Poughkeepsie NY. There was a middle-aged woman wearing an ‘I’m With Her’ baseball cap. She had been at the Javitz Convention Center waiting for Hillary’s victory speech. She sat on the train weeping. Her face wet with tears. The conductor asked if she was ok. She railed against Trump. The conductor said, “Oh dear, things are going to work out just fine.” Young people started laughing, jeering at her. Trump supporters. She sobbed inconsolably. The mob sneered at Obama even though many had voted for him. They were excited, they were excited for a new American dawn.

Hillary Clinton beat Robby Mook on his chest with both her fists when she realised she had lost the race.

In the UK the Brexit referendum happened earlier in 2016. My Mother and Brother voted to leave the EU. Leave won the popular vote. Hate crimes became a daily occurrence. I felt sad and shocked. England shrank before my eyes. The sickening thud of jack boots on the streets, austerity leading inevitably to the solutions of the anti-establishment right-wing. I lamented our decision. Others came to their senses too late, wishing their protest vote hadn’t had such an impact.

All over the world people are shaking the tree, expecting it to afford them cover.

Ori posted a picture on Instagram. A dinner with friends the night after the 2016 presidential election. 10 white, identical looking gay men in their thirties… commiserating. ‘This is why we lost the election’ I wrote beneath the picture. ’10 white gay men believed Clinton would win because they repeated wishes as if they were facts.’ He blocked me. Nobody wants to believe that they are part of the problem.

In the aftermath of the presidential election Hillary Clinton vanished into the woods of Chappaqua. The rich got richer. Those friends who scorned my prediction were gracious enough to acknowledge I was right. But what of it? Clinton supporters are still unable to grasp what is happening, they blame the Russians, they blame Wikileaks, they blame the electoral college, they blame the polls, Jill Stein and Bernie Sanders… they blame everyone but Clinton. Their fury is palpable. Their distress acute.

We wait for January 20th.

Tags AA, ACA, Bernie Sanders, Dennis Kucinich, Donald Trump, Elizabeth Kucinich, Hillary Rodham Clinton, Instagram, Mike Pence, New York City, Pink Belt, Red Squirrel, Robby Mook

Queer

The End

So, that was the final blog. There will be no more. I’m done.

Thanks for the support, for reading, for encouraging and even for damning me.

It was great.

Now. Adieu.

Alcoholics Anonymous Film Gay Hollywood Immigration Money Queer Rehab

Christopher Cortazzo Realtor: The Bad Gay

Post author By Duncan Roy
Post date August 10, 2016
7 Comments on Christopher Cortazzo Realtor: The Bad Gay

Malibu California

Prologue.

Should I dedicate this blog to affluent, gay, white male: ‘The King‘ Chris Cortazzo?

Chris Cortazzo, Coldwell Banker’s top-selling Malibu realtor. Remember? He accused me of extortion when I threatened to blog about him? Chris and his legal team predicted a felony in my future… an automatic deportation.

Chris wanted to fine me, humiliate me, take away my home and most importantly he wanted to silence me… yet, after months of bargaining with expensive help from his Super Lawyer Bryan Freedman… Chris Cortazzo accomplished no fines, no deportation, no felony.

When all was said and done Chris achieved a wobbly misdemeanor and a recently expired, three-year gag order… as part of a convoluted plea deal. The ubiquitous plea deal routinely offered to people like me in the USA who couldn’t afford a fair trial.

No. Chris Cortazzo is undeserving of any dedication. He is a very, very bad gay.

Instead, I dedicate this blog to every man woman and child presently held illegally in jails and prisons all over ‘the land of the free’. There are presently 2,500,000 people in US jails.

Two and a half million people.

Private and public US jails and prisons are crammed with brown men, women and children who could not afford a fair trial and under hopeless duress accepted a plea deal. Worse, there are corroborated stories of pre trial detainees tortured into signing false confessions or incriminated by the police and corrupt, racist prosecutors.

Thanks to organizations like the Innocence Project hundreds of men and women have had their convictions overturned and on occasions released from decades of solitary confinement for crimes they did not commit.

Cowed by PTSD many will not survive their freedom. Suicide and terminal illness rates are high. It is hard for them to live normal lives. They return to unrecognisable neighbourhoods, children estranged, families and friends scattered. In some states they are barred from voting. For the decades of torture they endured many sue and win handsome payouts but after huge ‘civil rights’ attorneys bills, taxes and years waiting for payment they receive only a little remuneration.

Fearful, white tax payers unquestioningly pay whatever it costs for more prisons, death row, jails, the police and the military. They believe mass incarceration makes them safer. They rarely enquire: Who profits from mass incarceration? They are unaware that the same people profiting from corrupt and illegal wars in Iraq and Libya also own the jails and the prisons ignoring the untold suffering within.

Whilst the 1% get richer on the backs of the poor, hiding their ill-gotten gains elsewhere, avoiding taxation… disenfranchised people of color are radicalized by brutal treatment whilst incarcerated. The poor know they are easy prey. Inside the big house they are gouged further by deputies who own and operate vending machines. A 50 cent pack of noodles sold to those who can least afford it… for $3. Loved ones forced to pay 1000 times more than you and I to receive phone calls from the incarcerated.

In America… if you are poor, vulnerable or sick… expect to be enslaved by the state.

Black communities are bullied by a police force trained to raise revenue by issuing hundreds of bogus tickets. In Ferguson MO 80% of the residents had been ticketed for minor infractions, raising millions of dollars for a failing local government. Private prisons are kept profitably full by agreement between local politicians and prison owners. Remember Judge Ciavarella, jailed for receiving payment from a prison owner for imprisoning innocent children? Some of those innocent kids killed themselves.

Two million children are arrested every year in the US, 95% for non-violent crimes. 66% of children incarcerated never return to school. The US incarcerates nearly 5 times more children than any other nation in the world.

Ferguson and Mark Ciaverella are just the tip of the iceberg. As in any tin pot dictatorship, powerful Americans use jail to silence whistleblowers and truth tellers.

This is my story: the story of rich, entitled white folk taking down and silencing enemies using the public court system as their personal weapon.

The blog referred to during this post is the blog I allegedly ‘threatened’ to publish if Chris Cortazzo didn’t right his wrongs. The original blog exists publicly in its entirety as court records, evidence submitted by the prosecution during my pre-trial.

Why now? Why write this 4 years after the event? I might have left my story in the past but this story became unexpectedly relevant. I was recently contacted by lawyers who revealed I wasn’t the only Malibu property owner who had fallen foul of realtor Christopher Cortazzo.

Powerful friends, they say, make powerful enemies. Chris and his friends proved they could do anything they wanted to me and others. There were times when I suspected my very own lawyer had been bought by the other side.

This is a Hollywood story. As with any epic Hollywood story it requires a suspension of disbelief. This narrative snakes in and out of reality tv, multi-million dollar homes, secretive Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and into the many canyons of Malibu, Bel Air and Beverly Hills. It stars ‘A’ listed talent and their representatives, a cast of corrupt policemen, prosecutors and the judiciary. It is the story of shameful… affluent, white gay men and their friends.

It is fortune lost and found.

Dear Chris,

Let’s get one thing clear before we go any further. I don’t want anything from you. Nothing. I don’t want your money, I don’t want your time, I don’t want your body. I want nothing from you… never… ever.

This is the blog you didn’t want me to write, the blog you spent tens of thousands of dollars trying to kill. This is the blog I sat in the Los Angeles Men’s County Jail contemplating. This is it. This is the blog you wanted me to regret.

Chris. Are you ready?

Before I start, I have two words to say to you: Hiroshi Horiike.

Hiroshi Horiike on the steps of his Malibu Mansion.

This name probably means nothing to your starry friends and clients, your 1% billionaire neighbours or the older Malibu home owners you nurture until they are ready to sell their ocean side properties. The celebrities with whom you carouse all over the world may not be aware of Hiroshi Horiike. I doubt if you make mention of his name in the many mansions, yachts and fast cars you inhabit.

Let me educate my readers.

Millionaire Hiroshi Horiike spent two years searching California for a dream home, one grander than any he could find in his native China.

After visiting more than 80 properties in the Los Angeles area with an agent from Coldwell Banker, Horiike paid $12.25 million in cash for a four-bedroom, six-bath Tuscan-style mansion with a swimming pool, spa and guest house on 5.1 acres (2.1 hectares) overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

There was just one catch. After settling in, Horiike found the Malibu home had less living space than he’d been told — a third less. It had 9,434 square feet (876 square meters) instead of the 15,000 square feet shown in marketing brochures from the seller’s agent, who also worked with Coldwell Banker.

You were the realtor repping both Hiroshi and the seller. You were the realtor. Chris, you were the realtor referred to in this quote and subsequent court documents. Sounds dodgy doesn’t it? No wonder you wanted to shut my big mouth.

Horiike, who also goes by his native Chinese name Peng Hong Ling after adopting a Japanese name as an adult, claimed he was cheated and sued the agent and the brokerage. He won a state appeals court ruling that sellers’ agents have a fiduciary duty to protect buyers’ interests, not just those of their clients, when there’s only one brokerage involved in a deal.

Of course you and Coldwell Banker have been defending yourselves vigorously in the courts… there’s a great deal at stake for Californian real estate agents.

If left standing, the decision could compel disclosure of confidential client information or force brokerages to drop out of transactions where they represent both buyers and sellers, threatening commissions on tens of thousands of deals.

Have you fucked it up for your Californian realtor colleagues? Have you derailed their gravy train?

Horiike and I have a great deal in common when it comes to you, Chris.

Horiike and I were both US property virgins. We foolishly thought we could trust our realtors. We were naive, we were excited, we were unaware… in the unlikely event we were duped by unscrupulous realtors when we purchased our homes… we only had two years for discrepancies to reveal themselves before a remarkably short statute of limitation kicks in. I discovered my geological discrepancy after two years… some people must have rubbed their hands in glee.

Hiroshi, he’s the Mensch! Hiroshi is the man who won’t let go of the bone, Chris. And you… you are Horiiki’s bone. He’s taking his case all the way to the Supreme Court because, like me, he had his dream shattered by realtors.

But let’s concentrate on us for a moment Chris. Just us. Before this blew up you already had a very low opinion of me. An opinion you share with many white, affluent, gay men. Chris you described me, after our couple of dates, in court documents as ‘dark and creepy’.

Let’s cast our minds back to happier times. Chris, let’s remember when I arrived with society photographer Todd Eborle at the annual Barry Diller pre-Oscar garden party a few years back (I sat between you and Helen Mirren) we had a nice enough time. We ate from the buffet. We marveled at Rupert Murdoch and David Geffen chatting animatedly at the edge of the garden.

As I mentioned earlier, we’d had a date or two in West Hollywood but it didn’t work out. You claim we didn’t have oral sex. If you can’t remember sucking my cock, I’m perfectly happy to forget it too. The next time I saw you? At the house on Hume Road, Malibu. I loved that house like Horiiki loved his, and a little like Horiiki I’d seen a ton of houses before I found my dream house on Hume Road.

Corey Nelson my dumb, good-looking realtor was sick of showing me property. He had shown me hundreds of homes. Sometimes… I wouldn’t go inside. Rude!

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Corey Nelson

The purchase of Hume Road happened before the crash when realtors didn’t have to work very hard to sell a house. We had given up looking. Corey Nelson and I hadn’t spoken for months. So, when I found my little slice of paradise I called Corey because I knew he would appreciate making a sale. I could have called anyone but I felt loyal to Corey. I had no clue his inexperience and ambition would severely compromise me.

I was renting an apartment in Hollywood that had once belonged to Joni Mitchell. Every day I would drive from El Cerritos Place to the Malibu property and sit in the garden, sit on the terrace and gaze at the view. I was desperate to buy the house on Hume Road. Indeed, my enthusiasm predicated just how much of a liberty you two groovy hucksters might take with me.

I met the owner of the Hume Road House, Kelly Mormon. He asked if I wanted to move in before I bought the house. I moved in. I explored the neighborhood. I saw a family of bob cats and eagles wheeling through the canyon. Humming birds fed from the passion fruit flowers that grew on my terrace. Walking Las Flores Canyon one warm evening I met a grumpy man from Cal Trans who told me buying a house on Hume Road was a really bad idea. He told me the city should buy the houses in the canyon and demolish them. I’d heard rumors the land was unstable. The neighbours denied it of course. They assured me everything was just fine.

I wrote to Corey explaining my fears. When we subpoenaed his emails it was revealed soon after I wrote that email… Corey Nelson wrote you Chris asking what he should do about my cold feet. Your reply was chilling. “Call me,” you said. I can’t imagine the plan you hatched during the call.

Corey abandoned his fiduciary duty when he made that call to you, Chris.

PRE-HISTORY

Let’s talk? You and me? Can I confide in you?

Do you remember the film? I’d made a film people loved and I’d been nominated for a British Academy Award. They warn the foolhardy: never move to LA unless invited. Industry people (my agent and manager) told me my interests would be best served if I moved to Hollywood. In 2007, after 35 years, I sold my beautiful sea-side house in Whitstable Kent. I started house hunting in Los Angeles.

I met Corey Nelson from Sotheby’s a well-known realty company. He was one of those cute ex Bruce Weber models who would do almost anything to make a sale. I met him with an older gay realtor who claimed he was fucking him. We met at Joan’s on Third in West Hollywood. I love Joan. She’s a romantic! Have you heard her story?

Corey and I spent a long time house hunting. I looked at hundreds of houses, none I liked. Corey was cute and fun. We spent time together socially, we climbed Runyon Canyon. I trusted him. I believed realtors in the USA behaved like estate agents in the UK: with honesty and accountability.

Months into our search I had still not found a house.

My recently deceased friend Jean Perramon lived in The Santa Monica Mountains. His house had views stretching from Santa Monica to Point Dume. Walking his neighborhood one evening I peeked past a large For Sale sign through the gates of an abandoned estate. To Jean’s consternation I opened the gates and wandered down the steep drive into two acres of lush, semi tropical gardens. Huge cactus trees, ancient palms. Bananas, citrus, plums. Stone paths weaving through the landscape. At the end of the path an empty, unlocked 1970’s post and beam family home divided into two apartments.

I told Corey about the house and he introduced me to Chris Cortazzo, Kelly’s agent.

Well, we scarcely needed introducing.

Listen, let’s face it…Chris has done very well for himself. He comes from a humble Malibu family, his mother is often seen eating lunch in the garden at Cross Creek. His fireman father is dead. He sells more real estate than any other broker in the USA. For a man who is scarcely literate… he has done very well for himself. Perhaps it is gay mythology but your story includes a romantic liaison with billionaire Barry Diller who, it is alleged, set you up as a realtor and let you sell his property. Is that true?

He writes this about himself on his own website:

Yes, Chris Cortazzo’s name is everywhere in Malibu, because that’s what happens when you’re “The King.” It was actually the Bravo TV program Million Dollar Listing, in which CC was profiled among several other L.A.-area top-producing agents, that coined the term “The King of Malibu”. Perhaps it was his incredible production that earned him the title. Perhaps it owes to the type of clientele he often serves, namely some of the biggest names in entertainment and business.

After renting the Malibu house on Hume Road for a couple of weeks I asked Corey to write an offer. The house had been on the market for a year or more hand had a price reduction. I live in a country where houses languish on the market for years, it did not occur to me that if a house had been on the market for a few months it may be problematic. Nor did it occur to me that I may be working with a couple of realtors who were determined, at any cost, to sell me a doozy.

My soppy, inexperienced realtor wanted his commission and was sick of showing me endless properties. We had written offers before but they had not been accepted. I had never ordered an inspection.

The problem with the beautiful house? During the past ten years there had been landslides on either side of the property. There was illegal construction in the garden including un-permitted retaining walls and water tanks degrading the land, making it more liable to slide.

They knew if I had this critical information I would not buy the house and more importantly… it would be worth far less than the 1.4 million dollars I paid for it.

Neither the seller nor Chris disclosed this information. Information, by law, they were required to reveal. Corey told me a thorough geological report would cost me $10,000. So, using the excuse I would save money I needn’t spend, they presented me with an expensive and thorough looking geological report conducted in 2004. Corey persuaded me this report was adequate for my purposes, advising me I should have a verbal report from another geologist to confirm nothing seismic had happened after the 2004 report.

The difference between 2004 and the year I bought the house? The house no longer sat on an HISTORIC slide as the report stated. A historic slide means that during the past decade no noticeable seismic activity had taken place within a thousand feet of the property and the land was stable. In 2004 the house sat comfortably on the ridge line, foundations built on bedrock.

However, shortly after that 2004 report was written large parts of Las Flores Canyon including Hume Road began sliding into the sea. My house now sat on an ACTIVE slide. This important information was deliberately kept from me. Moreover, Corey told me that he could not find a local geologist who would come to the house so we hired a geologist recommended by… Chris Cortazzo. I was assured by Corey that the ‘verbal’ geological report from a geologist was perfectly normal. Again, abandoning his fiduciary duties.

The young, good-looking geologist sat uncomfortably with us in the garden, Corey at his side. He held the 2004 geological report. I asked if there was anything I needed to know that may influence my purchase of the property. I asked many, many questions. I needed to know everything before I invested my hard-earned $1, 500,000. Without looking into my eyes the ‘geologist’ told me the house had a “reasonable half an inch of ‘creep'” but failed to mention either of the recent slides or the illegality of the un-permitted terracing.

I bought the house. After we signed contracts at the close of escrow, Chris shook my hand and said, with half a grin, “You’re going to own that house for a very long time.”

Only when I tried selling the house… did I learn what he meant.

The next time I saw Chris Cortazzo he was sitting in a sex addict meeting where he claims he was ‘helping a friend’. After seeing him at the meeting I wrote a sweet email welcoming him to SAA. It’s hard to admit a problem like sex addiction. I wanted him to feel safe when he returned. That’s what we are taught to do in AA SAA etc… we look out for each other. We reach out. Almost immediately the troubled transphobic sex therapist Sean McFarlane who lead the meeting told me not to contact Chris again… under any circumstances.

Why?

Sean McFarlane chaired the Brentwood Sex Addict meeting (ironically held in a middle school until the school realized a famous pedophile attended the meeting) for over a decade, a serious break from the 12 traditions and frowned upon within the Anonymous community. McFarlane didn’t seem to care much for the AA rules unless others broke them. His personal recovery, doubted by many, seemed ‘unsponsored’. He tells a melodramatic, highly questionable personal story and is well-known (to those within the addict community) to prey upon vulnerable celebrities eager to keep their failing marriages.

Consequently, he has a gang of loyal Hollywood/sports celebrities with whom he consorts in and out of therapy. He would boast how he taught Mike Tyson’s daughter to swim. The daughter who tragically… drowned. Our ‘trusted servant’ McFarlane rarely accounted for the huge 7th Tradition purse he collected every week and handed over to his ‘treasurer’, John Artz.

It is rumored Sean McFarlane would take sex addicts through the 12 Steps… if they paid him. Again, discouraged within the anonymous cult who pride themselves on sharing their sobriety with newcomers… for ‘fun and for free’.

Sean ‘no shame in my game’ McFarlane is a transphobe. I never once heard anyone in that Sex Addict meeting challenge his transphobia. He considered all trans people ‘evil’. Whenever he had the opportunity he told graphic tales of his own heroism in the face of evil transsexuals. How he saved one or other of his many trans chaser clients from the grips of an evil ‘tranny hooker’.

The group would cheer Sean’s transphobia. Lawyers, agents, actors… casting directors. Collectively witch hunting the trans people Sean considered evil. Lately, as the Hollywood conversation turns toward inclusivity, color blind casting, gender neutrality… one wonders how Sean and his creepy white guy transphobic friends in the entertainment industry will survive?

THE REVEAL

The last time I heard from the ‘geologist’, he had turned to Jesus. I was in my bed… at home in Malibu. It was dark. He called from a blocked phone. He was distressed. He apologized for calling late at night. He stumbled over his words. He told me Corey instructed him not to mention anything that would influence me away from buying the house. The ‘geologist’ felt guilty. He omitted to tell me the status of the slide had changed from historic.. to active.

He told me the lie plagued his conscience.

People ask: What did you do when he told you? What could I do? I tell them. “I listened.”

When we subpoenaed the geologist during my pre-trial… a completely different man (50 years old and morbidly obese) arrived at the court-house. He didn’t want to be there, he was sweating bullets. It was all the proof I needed but the pre-trial judge refused to listen to our evidence. It was one of your triumphs, Chris. The truth couldn’t help us. The statute of limitations had long run out.

When I spoke to Corey he said, “I knew this would come back to haunt me.” You’re right Corey, if you have any conscience, it’s going to haunt you… the rest of your life.

After the geologist’s late night call I emailed Chris letting him know I’d give him time to ‘do the right thing’ and find a solution including a ‘fair and equitable’ settlement… or I would start a campaign against him… including paid advertisements in local newspapers, national news articles and a revelatory blog.

Soon after writing this email I was arrested and held without recourse to bail in LA Men’s County Jail.

TP… the bug-eyed, ex head of a major film studio and his son were Malibu neighbours and regular faces at my sex addict meeting in Brentwood. TP’s son described sex therapist Sean McFarlane’s reaction when he heard I’d been arrested,

“Sean leapt out of his seat and punched the air screaming… ‘he’s going down’.”

Bryan Freedman, John Adler (my SAA sponsor), TP and others smiled broadly at the news. The men in that sex addict meeting coalesced around you Chris, you became one of their walking wounded.

Bryan Freedman, another self identified sex addict/alcoholic I saw almost every morning at either the 7am Palisades AA stag meeting or the Sex Addict meeting in Brentwood.

Chris, how did you meet Bryan Freedman? Did you meet him at the sex addict meeting? Did transphobic sex therapist Sean MacFarlane introduce you? Bryan is a great fan of transphobic sex therapist Sean McFarlane.

Bryan Freedman’s firm Freedman + Taitelman would represent your interests against me.

Bryan J. Freedman was selected as one of the most influential entertainment litigators in the country by The Hollywood Reporter in 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014 and 2015 and in all eight years has been named in the Top 100 Power Lawyers list. Additionally, Bryan was recognized as a Southern California “Super Lawyer” in 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015 and 2016, a peer-based award reserved only for the top 5% of all lawyers in Southern California. Also, Bryan has the unique distinction of being 1 of only 22 selected Honorees to Variety’s 2015 Legal Impact Report.

I know a very different Bryan Freedman. This is the man who wept in AA meetings because he couldn’t bully his son into being the first jewish NBA basket ball player. This is the married man who confided in a public SAA meeting he couldn’t stop intriguing with women… looking at small ads whilst his wife slept beside him. This is the man who would high-five the equally despicable UTA Talent Agency boss Jeremy Zimmer at the AA meeting ‘above the bank’ in the Palisades where we sat together for more than a decade.

How involved was Bryan Freedman? How much money did you pay him to have me vanish into the jail system? I’m guessing he was involved with the plan? He’s a Super Lawyer. His plan might include a cast of corruptible characters. How much did they have to do with my illegal incarceration in the Los Angeles Men’s County Jail?

You and your advisors believed I might bend to your will if you held me in jail long enough.

Remember, we have to suspend our disbelief:

Just about every branch of Ferguson government (police, municipal court, city hall) participated in “unlawful” targeting of African-American residents for tickets and fines, the Justice Department concluded this week.

At first, the plan unfolded splendidly! We understand how utterly corrupt American prosecutors are. Existing in a semi secretive world of grand juries and trumped-up charges designed to protect the rights of the 1%. County prosecutor Anne-Marie Wise is no different, she played out your rich boy charade very admirably. Anne-Marie, persuaded there was a case to answer by your impressive lawyer, sent her ZZ Top cops to arrest me. They kept their cop badges under their waist length beards.

I agreed to meet Chris on the Pacific Coast Highway outside the Country Kitchen in Malibu (opposite the home of Tom Pollock) where he had offered to make his amends for ripping me off. Instead, as I ate my breakfast burritos the cops arrived. As I sat handcuffed in the blazing sun a black Rolls Royce with blackened windows cruised past, it lingered. Was that you Chris? I knew the Rolls had something to do with you, Chris… so did the cops.

Did you enjoy watching me handcuffed Chris? Did you take photographs on your cell phone?

ZZ Top and I headed up Las Flores Canyon to Hume Road. The crazy bearded cops ran around my property with guns. Why? Because this is the melodrama of over paid, over weight, underutilized… LA cops. Once in the house they meaninglessly tossed furniture and emptied my draws. They seized my lap top and took me to the Calabasas police station where they interviewed and charged me with a felony extortion. Extortion (for those who remain confused) is either threatening to reveal a secret or a crime unless money is paid. It usually accompanies threats of violence.

Even though I had a valid US visa I was informed I could not post bail because of an Immigration Hold. If an alien in the USA is charged with a felony they can be held for up to 48 hours by ICE to determine if they are a threat to the nation.

Your plan was working.

A day later I was taken to The LA Men’s County Jail. Processed. Screamed at. They gave me a chest X-ray. They fed me a baloney sandwich. They asked if I was either suicidal or gay. I told them I’m gay because I’d heard from Robert Downey Jr this was the only way to survive the jail and anyway I’d been out of the closet for a long time and I wasn’t about to crawl back in. Not on your account Chris Cortazzo.

48 hours passed. I was not released.

Whoever flicked the switch… whoever threw away the key did so at this moment.

To achieve this plan they needed a dependable federal government insider: someone prepared to override ICE protocol and keep me detained for longer than the mandatory 48 hour Immigration Hold. This part of the plan required someone important in Federal Government to break the rules. At the final reckoning I was held longer in Men’s County Jail on an ICE hold than any other pre trial detainee… ever.

Keeping a pre-trial detainee in jail until they bend to the will of the prosecutor is a common ploy. It happens all over the USA. It is happening right now as you are reading this blog. People agree to anything to get out of jail and they assumed I’d plead guilty to felony EXTORTION and an automatic deportation.

As you can imagine, the jail is a dangerous place. I had to get a grip. Surprisingly I was very well equipped to deal with the jail. AA/SAA had taught me a few simple tricks:

1. Wherever I am… I am in the right place.

2. It’s all part of God’s plan.

3. Acceptance. Acceptance is the answer to all my problems today.

So many of the lessons I learned sitting with Sean MacFarlane, Jeremy Zimmer, Bryan Freedman and you Chris in the rooms of SAA and AA… listening to the 12 Steps kicked in and saved my ass.

And so… I sat in the jail. For 86 days I sat in the jail. I’ve already written about that, Chris. I’m sure you’ve read it.

Almost immediately, the plan began to gently fray. The first part of the plan depended on my finding the situation in jail… terrifying and intolerable.

You thought I was like you and Bryan and Jeremy and so many entitled, affluent white dudes? You were certain I’d agree to anything to get out… including your terms. You thought I’d crumble. You thought I’d lay down and die. But the only thing crumbling… was your plan.

Chris, as you subsequently learned, I’m a stubborn son of a bitch and I wasn’t agreeing to anything. So, for a few weeks I went back and forth to court. The first two judges were ghastly and totally on your side. They refused to listen to evidence, they were rude and surly to my attorney.

Do you remember? I sat in front of you at the pre-trial. I was shackled. You sneered at me Chris. This is where I learned how much you hated me after our date. This is where it became apparent to me the rich can do anything they want in an American court. They can buy the court just like they buy everything else. Protected by your tame prosecutor, Chris… you looked so very smug.

After keeping me illegally in the jail for 86 days without a whiff of surrender, without capitulating, without giving an inch…. the ACLU started sniffing around my case and someone got scared. Someone was likely going to be held responsible if something happened to me. If I died in the jail of cancer… or a gall stone blockage… or fell victim to the violent deputy culture in the jail, which might very well have happened.

I realized two months into my incarceration: Wow, this situation is illegal and someone… someone is going to have to pay for this! I’m going to get paid for this. I relaxed, thinking to myself: another tough day at the office. I played cards, I ate pork rinds, I had visitors, I kept myself out of trouble and I waited.

I told my friends on the phone I suspected my incarceration was illegal… knowing I was being listened to. Then, one evening with a little warning from the Mexican nuns working in the jail for the Esperanza Project, I was called from my dorm, sat in a holding cell for a few hours, handed my clothes and ushered out of a small, unassuming door at the back of the jail.

The puckered asshole of the jail. Shat out onto the balmy LA streets.

At the final reckoning I was paid for every day I was illegally held as a pre-trial detainee without recourse to bail.

Fuck Chris, the day they released me from the jail you were on the phone for hours to your lawyers and the prosecutor and the prosecutor to your lawyers. My release terrified you and a simple order of protection wouldn’t mollify you. As I was getting out of the jail and headed home to Malibu and my dog… you were hiring 24 hour body guards. You were frightened I would come after you. And why wouldn’t you be scared? After all, you and your friends had kept me locked up illegally for three months.

I must admit, when I first read this flurry of activity in your restitution claim (you expected me to pay your lawyers fees) and the hiring of body guards as documented in your restitution claim I laughed out loud. I have no other weapon than this blog. The only weapon I have is so American: freedom of speech.

Once out of the jail my lawyers and I relaxed into a long wait for you and your lawyers to alter your expectations. You hadn’t really worked out what would happen if I didn’t capitulate. You hadn’t worked on finding a corrupt trial judge. You thought I’d be long gone.

Brian_Turnauer-Profile_Headshot-post_by-Rodezno_Studios-web

BRIAN TURNAUER

Were you assured by ‘Super Attorney’ Bryan Freedman and his unfortunately large featured lackey Brian Turnauer they would find you a sympathetic trial judge?

The catastrophic and totally unexpected final blow to your plan came soon after my release: Ms Wise seemed poleaxed by the judge assigned to our case: enter the unassailable Judge Jessic. The Judge who couldn’t be bought. The judge most likely to have integrity. You should have seen Anne-Marie’s face Chris, when she realized our Judge wasn’t going to play the game. My favorite line of Judge Jessic’s to Ms Wise?

“I must admit I’m finding it difficult wrapping my head around this charge. What’s the difference between threatening to blog and threatening to write a Yelp review?”

The prosecutor hung her head and said quietly… ‘nothing’. You should have been there Chris is was GREAT. Just like the time… and I’m repeating myself but it’s worth repeating… when Judge Jessic wondered out loud why I was sitting in the dock and not you. We all know the reason for that Chris? Because justice in the USA is reserved for the few who can afford it.

How quickly a felony dissolves into a convoluted misdemeanor when you can’t buy the judge. At the suggestion of the ACLU I refused to plead guilty to anything and opted for the Californian ‘No Contest’ plea. The huge restitution claim was whittled to almost nothing. No fines or costs to pay. All you were likely to get out of your ‘plan’ was a gag order. A three-year gag order.

I had to sit quietly on probation for 18 months. A grimy realtor from AA, the appalling self-promoting/self-obsessed/self-publishing Robert Radcliffe (Sotheby’s Palisades), called the police and told them I had been rude about you Chris Cortazzo. I read the police interview, Rob. The lies you told! The police jumped all over the claim spending hours of their time filing reports. Jessic threw it out. He knew what was happening.

Tell me Chris, even though it’s election year and this may be dangerous conjecture.. I’m guessing Hillary Clinton did your federal bidding… just a guess? To hold me indefinitely in jail… breaking the rules. Did your billionaire mentor Barry Diller do the leg work? Did Barry call the Mayor or the state department? I can’t imagine Hillary would take your call, Chris.

I returned to the Palisades AA stag meeting. The discomfort on the faces of Jeremy Zimmer, Bryan Freedman, John Artz (Malibu based DUI attorney with plenty personal experience of DUI) and the Dutch creep who burglarized my house whilst I was in jail. I wasn’t disappointed. They were outraged! Jeremy complained bitterly I had broken AA laws by blogging about him. Fuck you Jeremy Zimmer. Fuck you. There are no AA laws. There are no leaders.

Chris, this is the blog I must have written a thousand times since I left the jail, I wrote it… then deleted it. I wrote it… then deleted it. I must have torn up a million words. Sometimes, I would frame the blog as an apology, sometimes a roiling river of resentment. I had months to write it, months to rewrite it. Waiting for the gag to be removed.

And now? How did you affect the rest of my life? As I outlined in my damages claim, I have PTSD. I deal with it. The experience inspired a general disgust for affluent, white gay men and specifically a loathing for realtors, lawyers and Hollywood agents.

The extortion law was originally written to protect people who had committed crimes or had secrets from being violently blackmailed. Of course it’s hard luck when, in life, one gets fucked over. In America the potential for being fucked over is a daily hazard, most often than not those who manage to successfully do the fucking over are hailed as the winners. Just look at the Wall Street ‘winners’ rewarded for fucking over the entire nation.

Unlike most people who get fucked over, who cannot fight back…I have this modest blog. It has proved to be one of the most effective fog horns in the world.

EPILOGUE

Try as he might, Chris Cortazzo couldn’t keep out of trouble. Chris faces more legal challenges. As well as the lawsuit with Hiroki the Chinese Billionaire another grubby lawsuit has emerged… from a desperate Persian family whose property Cortazzo represented. They are claiming Chris cruelly ripped them off. The truths Chris feared most have revealed themselves. A theme emerges: those of us who have publicly aired our grievances with Chris Cortazzo share a common bond. We are all foreigners in the USA.

As for the legion of Million Dollar Listing fans who couldn’t believe Chris was anything other than a saint? I ignored the lies written about me all over the internet; I don’t have to prove myself to anyone. There’s no shame in my game. With the help of the ACLU I sued LA County and a substantial financial settlement arrived from the City of Los Angeles a year later. I sold my beautiful Malibu house. I moved to New York and set about reinventing my life.

Bryan Freedman. (I’m slowly shaking my head.) There was a time I held you in such high regard I asked you to become my AA sponsor It’s hard to forgive you Bryan. You, Sean MacFarlane, John Artz and Jeremy Zimmer are the worst kind of ‘sober’ people. Daily celebrating the AA message of humility, espousing the 12 Steps, quoting The Big Book… declaring forgiveness and ownership of ones defects of character. Your ‘sobriety’ is a sham. You may as well be drinking/drugging /cheating on your wives. You remain the same Trump like arrogant hypocrites, behaving contrary to the AA message, as you always were. The very same men who arrived in our rooms broken and defeated (I remember your stories) begging for help with their alcoholism and sex addiction. You have learned nothing… whilst affording me the greatest gift: LA County Jail.

The Brentwood celebrity Sex Addict meeting moved locations. An undercover journalist sat amongst the sex addict group from a sleazy British newspaper. He called me, wanted me to help him out. The SAA attendees scattered. Members of the meeting asked why there was little financial accounting within the group. Every week the 100 or so the very rich men in that school room would drop five or ten dollars in the ‘7th Tradition’ basket. No one could account for it. Where had the money gone? Sean was removed by democratic vote as the group leader. His wife left him. The meeting disintegrated.

The cult of snake oil salesman Sean MacFarlane is not new to the anonymous programs. AA/NA is particularly prone to charismatic leaders guiding the incomprehensibly demoralized addict and alcoholic out of the shadows and into the light. Rehabs, sober living accommodation, half way houses and addiction counsellors… facilities mostly run by addicts and alcoholics, the lunatics are indeed running the asylum. No doubt there will be many other Sean MacFarlanes ‘helping’ other desperate addicts achieve sobriety… of course, for huge sums of money and little consequence.

Queer

Penultimate Blog – Disrupting

Post author By Duncan Roy
Post date May 31, 2016
4 Comments on Penultimate Blog – Disrupting

As my interest in blogging dissolved and published less frequently this past year I often wondered how I would say goodbye (once and for all) to this blog.

Before I blogged I kept a journal. Laboriously hand written every day for twenty years. Secret. The blog became a paradox. A public diary… yet intensely private. If anyone mentioned the blog to my face I became indignant… as if they had snuck into the library and read my private journal. When asked, I refused to talk about it. The blog, I explained, was my public life. If you want to talk about it do so through the blog. “You are my private life.”

These past months I returned to keeping a hand written diary. Life is too exciting not to.

Since Jenny Ketcham introduced me to WordPress in 2008 so much has happened. Some good, some bad. I’d dabbled with blogging when I first lived in Hollywood but it was only after I met Jenny during Dr Drew’s Sex Rehab that I embraced it. I embraced the freedom and notoriety blogging afforded me. Shortly after I began writing daily, as if to confirm my good fortune, Roger Ebert tweeted how brilliant it was.

The show, when it aired, was not well received among gay white men. My blog too, seemed distasteful to the gays. In fact, gay white men seem terrified of my blog. It caused a visceral hatred. Gay white men have so many secrets. By exposing my own frailties and perversions the blog threatened to incriminate them all.

Yet, even though one might think many people read my blog, I rarely had large number of visitors, tiny numbers compared with successful blogs. Occasionally the numbers would go crazy. The largest number of visitors for one post? The Bryan Singer blog. 20,000 people in one day.

During my most active period, writing daily, I built up a loyal following. I was approached in the street, I was given unsolicited advice about my mental health, I was sent gifts for the dogs.

I always wrote for myself. I didn’t feel the need to be ashamed of anything. I wrote about anger, intrigue, sex, sexuality, religion, politics and much to the horror of AA people… I wrote about my relationship with AA as I fell in and out of love with it. Attendees at the ghastly Palisades Men’s 7.30am AA Stag meeting were particularly angry about this blog.

Fleeting love affairs rather than the cult of abstinence inevitably enriched my writing. The relationship with Jake B existed more in the blog than it did in real life. It flourished on these pages and withered on the streets of NYC.

Our love affair inspired me and the blog soared. As the relationship failed… so did my writing. When Jake and I split I sank into an obsessive, self destructive depression. I posted every intimate detail of our life together. The blog became less creative and more vindictive. My loyal readers fell away. Fury enveloping everything around me. A thick cloud of resentment that took years to clear. Years in the shadows with only my obsession to give me succor. I worked it all out here. Page after page after page. The carcass of our love affair lay there for years, like road kill. If anyone googled his name my blog would jump up at and slap them in the face. Page after page after page. Finally, after much soul searching, I removed the most scurrilous descriptions of him. Why? He wrote a long email that put an end to the nagging questions. All I wanted was closure.

I was never very far away from the blog. The blog came to define my years in the USA.

Of course! The blog, famously, became the instrument for which I was arrested. It was sited in court documents, extravagantly quoted by the police and prosecutors.. but more of that in my final blog.

As I’ve grown happier, at peace… the blog becomes less interesting to write. Long before it became a liability… I enjoyed the daily commitment. I had a wonderful writing routine. Waking at dawn, a long walk with the dogs into the dewey Santa Monica mountains. I spent far too much time overlooking the Pacific Ocean, but when I was perfectly calm I’d sit at my desk and unpack the previous day.

It is not any more necessary for you to know me. No longer appropriate for you to know every detail of my life. It is none of my business what you think of me. That is for the book and the candle. So, I bid you… my dear reader, adieu.

Queer

Cirrhosis of the Soul

Post author By Duncan Roy
Post date February 3, 2016

Last night, another fraught, upstate church basement, sandwiched between two miserable men at the damp and draughty AA meeting, sitting opposite the un-insightful chef, listening to the uninspired leader tell his wretched, cliched story… I was having a revelation.

Remember St Alphege? Our local Protestant church? Whitstable? Remember that? I must have been 8 years old when I decided to flee our secular household and join the choir.

The choir mistress dressed me in a black, woolen floor length cassock, a white starched surplus and a dramatic ruff. I remember slipping on my costume, the voluminous sleeves, the swishing of the fabric around my legs. I though, this is what an evening dress must feel like. I feel fabulous.

It felt sooo fabulous I would break the church rules and wear my cassock and surplus home and hang out in my room, draped over my bed like a movie star.

I knew a great deal about movie stars. I’d watch afternoon TV when ever I could. Black and white American movies from the 30’s and 40’s played most afternoons on one or other of the three channels available at the time.

My mother thought I wanted to be a priest. Nope, I wanted to be a glamorous movie star draped over a chaise lounge.

One sunday the Choir mistress told me I couldn’t wear my cassock home anymore.

Pissed, I began volunteering at the bi weekly church jumble sales. This gave me access to a huge number of free dresses. I hauled them back to my room. I don’t ever remember being ashamed. My mother seemed amused. My favorite was a black taffeta gown encrusted with jet beads. I would hang out at home wearing that.

Thankfully, a prepubescent boy in a black taffeta ball gown didn’t seem to attract too much attention. Even when I decided to wear it in the garden. My neighbors asked where I got it. “I designed and made it,” I told them.

My mother borrowed an elegant navy blue crepe cocktail dress. Loaned to her by my aunt. She wore it to a party and the photograph of her from that dinner and dance makes her look so sophisticated.

One night, my parents were out, I crept past the baby sitter watching TV in the sitting room and into my mother’s bedroom. I pulled the dress out of her wardrobe and over my head. The silk satin lining, lingering scent in the luxurious fabric. I am a woman.

It felt wonderful… but it didn’t fit. It was too long. It bagged under my skinny arms. I looked in the mirror and the dress swamped me. It was so unflattering. I wanted it to look as marvelous as it had on my mother. I found a pair of scissors and began altering the dress. The more I cut into it the less it fit… until it was a tattered rag.

I lay in bed terrified I would be beaten.

She must have found it but she never said a word.

My grandmother bought a remnant of purple, silk velvet. It was beautiful. She lined a cigar box with it. With what was left I wrapped up a small doll I owned. I would rub the velvet on my cheek. When I took the doll to school… I was ridiculed, by everyone including my form master.

I woke up to a horrible reality.

Other boys did not have dolls, they were not wearing evening gowns at home and they did not have mad crushes on other boys. The ridicule turned to homophobia. Hmmm, I thought. So, you’re going to hate me for something I can’t change? I’ll give you good reason to hate me. You don’t want my fledgling sexuality shoved down your throat?

Well! Suck this… bitches.

And so, I left the church. I was sent to a boarding school in Shropshire. To escape chores on a Sunday morning I’d join my head master John Lampen at a Quaker meeting in Shrewsbury.

I sat in silence for an hour then hang with my friend Susan at her parents house. I didn’t listen to the Quakers whenever moved to speak in the meeting, but one Sunday somebody said something that caught my attention. She said what all Quakers believe:

‘There is that of God in every man.’

I heard something I knew to be irrefutably true. I understood instinctively there was indeed that of God in every man… we are all born with our own god, a relationship with a god of our understanding, as I was born with skin and teeth and hair… I was born with a soul.

God was an inherent functioning part of me.

Notionally I believed in an external ‘god’ from the brimstone vicar of St Alphege. But he was obviously very disapproving of the kind of boy I am. This Christian God channelled through the pompous vicar hoseing down his congregation every Sunday with his sanctimonious Christian flavored God. The God of sanctioned wars and disease who hated gays and abortion.

Their God was not my god.

I had a very special, unique god inside of me… he would not judge, he would understand. A gay god. Of course my god is gay! Everything about me is gay, from my nose to my liver… to my god.

The God in this gay man, in me… was going to be my friend. A friend who understood my doll and my jet encrusted ballgown.

We started chatting. I trusted him. He would instinctively know answers to the most baffling problems if I listened carefully to my new friend. When I stole something he would chide me. When I strayed from the path he would gently guide me home.

I would never again face anything on my own.

Like many teens I had a miserable adolescence and sought to change the way I felt. How ever I could. I listened less to the God inside of me.

A friendship cannot prosper if one or the other is ignored. So it was, as the years past, I made difficult decisions… without consulting him.

Without him I made bad choices, choices I was ashamed of. I turned my back on my helpful friend. I chose ambition and drugs and alcohol… none of which interested him.

I ignored his protestation.

The more I ignored him… the weaker he became… his voice grew inaudible.

Decades past.

I found myself, stunted, thirty something, staring into the bathroom mirror of our home in Kensington that balmy September… staring into my hollow eyes, my nose dripping, the house over run with lower companions. My heart was beating like mad. I called out to my old friend: God help me!

He was not there. Instead of his reassuring voice… I faced a black hole, an abyss where once I found comfort and solace.

My diseased soul.

As I stood at the mirror I heard, quite clearly, another voice. Another, less friendly voice. And that harsh voice made clear the choices I had: to live or die.

So, that windy night, I chose to live. The house emptied, I scrubbed the floors. I ate dinner and slept at a decent time. The following day I went to my first AA meeting and written on the wall was the word God. A God of my understanding… and I knew I had come home.

A few years later I had lunch with my mother. The evening dress I had butchered in her bedroom as a child weighed heavily on my conscience. I told her what had happened and apologized. She looked at me quizzically. “No,” she said. “I remember that dress very well. I returned it to my sister. It was perfectly okay.”

“It wasn’t cut to ribbons?”

“No.”

“It must have been a dream.”

“Yes.”

A dream I had carried around most of my adult life. The fear and the shame I had carried around for all those years. I loved the dress? I hated the dress? I don’t know.

Film Hollywood Queer Rant

Racist Hollywood

Post author By Duncan Roy
Post date January 23, 2016

Did you think I was oblivious? When I toured the fancy talent agencies? Meeting the managers in their art filled, airy offices on the west side? Shaking hands with eager entertainment lawyers. Do you think I didn’t notice the teamsters and the grips and the sales agents… the casting directors, the art directors and the camera department… do you think I ever said out loud… why are none of you black? Why are so few of you latino or asian?

When I arrived in Hollywood, at the talent agencies, they introduced me to gay agents… because I’m gay. They thought I might feel more comfortable. They talked gay with me. They told me about their husbands, they hoped I might party with them in Palm Spings. What do they do with their black clients? All those white agents perfecting their patois, their chicken and waffles… their white shame… their apology.

On their own… feeling safe, they tell you what they really think. On the golf course, in the AA meeting. Listening to the talent agency owner whilst he disparages woman (‘nobody wants a woman director’) and people of color (‘they just don’t have our work ethic’). At the white AA meeting we attended in The Palisades I watch in awe as the sober, white entertainment lawyers… hoping to do business with the fat, short, racist… laugh in agreement. It doesn’t go unnoticed that most of the powerful white men I meet pandering to low grade racism… are Jewish.

I was told by one mega producer who famously makes very, very white super hero films that he wished every muslim would either convert or die… and when I wrote to him the following day explaining members of my family were muslim he replied it wasn’t his problem I was related to ‘rag heads’.

I was called a rag head and sand nigger by a well known gay white writer when we fought about money.

The white, gay caterer told me last week he didn’t employ black people. “It makes my clients uncomfortable.” He smiles, he hopes his winning smile will somehow deflect my critical glare. He hopes, because he has come out as a racist, I might extend some sort of sympathy, some understanding. When he came out as gay… he was a hero. Would his honesty about race garner the same result?

Sales agents told me, when casting my film Dorian Gray, “Don’t even think about a black lead, we won’t be able to sell to the Middle East.” They were unembarrassed by their racism, actively excluding black people from lead roles, from leading, from leading a better life.

I asked talent agents to suggest people of color to play Dorian Gray. They couldn’t.

Charlotte Rampling and Michael Caine are not the problem. The teamsters and the agency boss are the problem. Of course Charlotte and Michael see black faces on set, in the make up trailer and at Craft Services.

They say the Oscars don’t matter. Of course they fucking matter. White people with an Oscar nomination can expect a wage increase of a gazillion %. Awards are factored into contracts, an award contractually guarantees the writer/director/lead cast more money. That’s how contracts are structured.

Pretend, as Robert Redford did yesterday, it was the work rather than the award that mattered… betraying his disingenuousness. His elitism. If awards don’t matter… get rid of the Sundance awards.

White men (gay and straight) keep women and people of color away from the big money, excluded from the validation, the opportunity, from the prizes.

Prizes that suddenly don’t matter to Robert Redford… because it’s not about the glory, it’s about the work.

Tina Gharavi is an Iranian Film Director. Her statement on Facebook today should bring tears to your eyes.

I am constantly told, oh it doesn’t matter, doesn’t exist, it’s not worth getting upset over…. or that it will change with time, that it’s all in my head… or make a film that they cannot ignore… or if you were any good, it will happen anyway…. At the end of the day, my whole career has been needing to prove myself twice more over than those on my left and right and it is exhausting. More than just the work itself, it’s the fact that people deny the prejudice even exists. When I first met my partner, he was skeptical that there were systems at play that did not give me the same chances as other filmmakers. After 5 years of watching, he has seen the many times that opportunities were given to others less qualified… of the invitations that never arrive… Now he is more livid than me…. He sees the fact that the panels will invite the white male director (except when it is a panel where they need to discuss diversity or need a female to turn up). Truth is many black filmmakers watch their white peers rise up with projects which are less interesting and challenging… well, one can imagine the effect that has on the soul. Films are a commercial as well as an artistic expression. I have said this before, sometimes I wish I had never left painting. You can paint without much money but filmmaking… that means a lot of people have to have incredible belief and support for your vision. Most of the time, however, it is a failure of imagination… and that is were we are all poorer. We need to confront this and Charlotte would do better than making choices and decisions based on her own experiences. I don’t know many black or ethnic filmmakers who would agree with her. I challenge her to work on my next film, not as an actress but as an Exec and watch exactly how many opportunities I am given which impoverish my fellow white filmmakers. I call her out… if she wants to really see what the truth of it is. If she was following my story so far she wouldn’t have said what she did. I don’t want a leg up just because there aren’t enough black filmmakers…. I want an equal opportunity because I have important stories to tell.

Tags racism, racist, UTA

Film Gay Hollywood Queer Rant Tivoli NY

Carol: Lesbian Love Story

Post author By Duncan Roy
Post date January 16, 2016

Carol, the well written, well designed, well shot, well acted but ultimately turgid new movie by avant garde industry darling Todd Haynes has a fan base… an angry, indignant fan base.

Many beyond the film industry feel this mostly second rate film should have earned a place in the best film and best director categories at this years academy awards.

The vociferous fans feel the film has been ‘snubbed’.

There are blogs and op eds and blazing Facebook posts about this apparent injuctice. The fans blame homophobia, misandry, misogyny and fear of women’s sexuality.

Even though Carol has in fact been nominated in 6 categories including the prestigious written adaptation category this is not enough for many disgruntled Carol fans.

There’s plenty to complain about this award season. People of colour are vanished from the awards. Female directors? None. The roles women are asked to play:

Best Actor jobs: Screenwriter, astronaut, trapper, inventor, artist.

Best Actress jobs: Mommy, lady, inventor, girl, wife.

I’m wondering if, after this so called scandal, members of the academy will bother voting for this slight film at all.

Wether they are directed by white men or not (Carol was directed by a white man, a man… why?) most of the other nominated films are simply more engaging and well directed.

Personally, I’m rooting for The Big Short. There, I said it.

Tivoli is under siege this afternoon, gangs of identically dressed gay men. Fur trimmed Parkers and skinny jeans.

Identical white gay boys. Vile.

They stare at me dressed in my tweeds and hunters like I’m a fucking circus freak.

Fuck off.

Tags Carol

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