Old Blog 184,000 words – Duncan Roy's Blog

Categories: Dogs, Rant Tags: Father

November 20, 2009 duncanroy 22 comments

After a couple of hopeful weeks I now despondently watch Sex Rehab.

Kari Ann, as we guessed when we were filming the show, would be the unwitting star. A post-modern Mildred Pierce. The care and therapy I received whilst at The Pasadena Recovery Center was outstanding. I am sad, however, that the work most of us committed to has taken a back seat to Kari Ann’s crude camera hogging. Using Kari Anne as the narrative spine of the show may be VH1’s solution for increasing viewing figures but sadly it isn’t working–viewing figures have plummeted.

Simply, Kari Ann is not a very attractive TV personality. Though I don’t personally dislike her it comes as no great surprise that once viewers realized they were watching the ‘Kari Ann Show’ they began flipping channels.

Viewers may return after Oprah airs the Sex Rehab special on Monday but frankly, I doubt it. The damage has been done.

From my perspective as a film maker there are fundamental structural problems with the show.

Firstly, the ‘narrative’ of sex addiction is nothing like drug addiction. Alcoholics/Drug addicts commit to be abstinent from mind-altering substances. The ensuing drama is simple: Will they? Wont they? Most people understand the simple concept of not taking a drink or a drug. Most people do not understand, however, the concept of not having sex or sex addiction. Why should they?

Treatment for sex addiction often starts with a period of abstinence from all sexual activity after which the sex addict can then healthily re-engage with his or her sexuality. The cure for sex addiction therefore is: sex. (As in the cure for overeating/anorexia etc. is: food.) When we tell our stories as sex addicts we seek to define our unique sexual agenda–where our lives have become unmanageable and we are now powerless over our destructive sex conduct. Example: my ‘triggers’ includes straight identified men, chronic masturbation, pornography, Internet hook up sites and intrigue. These triggers are wildly different from Phil, Amber, Kendra and Jennie.

In Celebrity Drug Rehab each story has one extraordinary similarity: Pitiful and incomprehensible demoralization due to the excessive use of drink and drugs forces a life or death choice upon each drug addict. In Sex Rehab we all have extraordinary differences. This uniqueness simply cannot be explored adequately nor make great TV in the format as presented. We merely get a tiny glimpse into each character never fully understanding the individual addiction nor the solution.

If, say, the first episode of Sex Rehab had been an hour and half long rather than a TV hour of 43 minutes we might have had an opportunity to fully ‘know’ and engage with each patient. Allowing more time at the beginning of the series for each character to emerge might have lent a truer perspective on the patients, their unique addiction and their struggle. Subsequently our understanding, sympathy and enjoyment would grow only deeper as the weeks past–regardless of Karin Ann’s antics.

The other reason Sex Rehab may be losing it’s audience is the subject itself. Modern American audiences may not be ready to accept a high concept reality show/documentary that so directly and baldly challenges our notion of healthy sexuality. From what I read on Twitter etc. many are baffled, and remain so, by the very idea of sex addiction. Baffled by the notion of an ‘intimacy disorder’, by retraumatization, by sexualized anger etc. etc.

Sex is perhaps the only pleasure left to many, many young people who find themselves demoralized, unemployed, foreclosed upon-with little to look forward to. The complicated message that Sex Rehab seeks to explore, but ultimately fails, may be perceived as challenging our personal ideas of decency–in as much as it may reinforce a Christian ethic upon a VH1 audience that has long committed to a much freer sexual code of conduct.

By dumbing down the show Sex Rehab VH1 have done a terrible disservice to sex addiction and those of us who suffer from it.

Categories: Rehab Tags: Sex Rehab

Miss Teen America

November 22, 2009 duncanroy 14 comments

Malibu Sunday

The day Sex Rehab airs I read twitter posts avidly. East coast viewers are the first to start letting me know the content of each episode. Today, for instance, I know that Kari Ann’s Miss Teen America tiara arrives in the Rehab. A request I made of her so I could wear it. I have always wanted to wear a Miss America crown. The irony is not lost on me. The gaudy iconography of a teen queen. As soon as I knew Kari Ann I wanted her crown. I have no idea if my requests will be screened but she really had no intention of bringing the crown into rehab until I demanded it.

Consequently Kari Ann taught me how to walk like a Princess, answer teen queen catwalk questions, sang the pageant anthem as I sashayed around the rehab garden wearing her crown. I loved it so much. I loved her crown even though it was a bit beaten up–when they took away her title she had thrown it at the wall.

Don’t you just love that scene in the movie when the teen queen throws her crown at the wall? It’s a great scene.

“Miss teen America is founded on the principle that the future of our world is dependent upon the leadership qualities of today’s youth. We believe that involvement in community service should be both encouraged and rewarded. We further believe that in order to become a strong leader a young woman must be a well-rounded individual. She must challenge herself scholastically, she must be poised, and she must be comfortable with herself in respect to her learned and natural talents. She must possess a strong desire to effect a change in her world, and to set an example for others to do the same. In the spirit of competition, she must be gracious. With this in mind, we provide the forum for young women to challenge themselves to be their best, and we reward them for their efforts.”

Poor Kari Ann, how was she ever going to be all the above snorting meth every day? Engaging in soft pornography and making sex tapes with Rebecca Gayheart? The problem is: she was a nice normal girl before LA bit her in her fat ass.

Gloria Steinham might disagree. Feminists might say that she is merely empowering herself. I doubt it though. Jenny Ketcham is empowering herself. She is an American Writer and will only grow in stature and relevance. Kari Ann will become even more irrelevant than she already is.

As much as she was a pain in the ass I really became fond of Kari Ann. I know that this might be hard to believe but when you get to truly ‘know’ a person-regardless of whether you ever see them again-they tend to linger in your heart.

When Kari Ann wasn’t teaching me how to be a Miss Teen America I was teaching James how to knit–which he took too with some gusto. My grandmother taught me how to knit when I was five years old. The surfer dude was a joy to teach.

Fuck! I hate how the editors have edited Sex Rehab. It’s a pile of shit.

Update. Eric, Jenny, Justin and I went to b’day party in Santa Monica. It was situated in a dance studio. There were gays for me to goad and straights for me to tease. We left before midnight. I slept well. Strangely the little dog preferred to sleep on the sofa. Whilst we were at the party Luna stayed in the bathroom with her bone and damage, when I returned, was minimal. I think it gave the little dog some time away from Luna’s frantic puppy behavior too.

Did not fret about blood clots. In fact, gave them very little thought all day.

More will be revealed.

Categories: Gay, Rant, Rehab Tags: Oprah

MISS TEEN AMERICA ADDENDUM

November 22, 2009 duncanroy 11 comments

OK. LOVED the last Sex Rehab (episode 4). They must have had some other editor edit this as it was interesting, pithy, moving and multi faceted. Adored every twist and remembered acutely how I felt as I watched Amber and Phil let loose with the anger.

Jennie and I watched spellbound.

Well done VH1

p.s. I know that this is kind of arrogant but I really felt better looking in this episode. Was it perhaps because I wasn’t crying?

Categories: Rehab, prison Tags: Dr Drew, paris, prison, Rehab, Tyra

Fuck you Oprah.

November 23, 2009 duncanroy 50 comments

How do I feel about being excluded from Oprah’s Sex Rehab special? You may well ask dear blog readers. I feel PISSED OFF! The producer’s excuse? They didn’t want to confuse the issue of sex addiction with a gay story. FUCK YOU OPRAH! Confuse the story? That’s a strange excuse because shame based societies like the African American community and Gay Communities have the highest incidence of sex addiction/sexual compulsion. There are plenty similarities between her and me. Pity she wasn’t prepared to have a sex addict on her show who actually works a solid 12-step programme. There you go I broke my SAA anonymity.

Whilst we are at it–what the hell is Drew doing on these shows pretending he knows jack about sex addiction? The woman who did all the work on the show was sex therapist Jill Vermiere! Drew speaks in the broadest terms about addiction but really–he knows nothing about sex addiction.

Drew’s specialty is substance abuse, but his real speciality is damage control–turning up at hotel rooms and coaxing heroin addicts into rehab. Coaxing crack addicts off of roofs, etc. Most days in sex rehab I worked with Jill. If I could even bear looking at Drew he was mostly baffled by what was going on–by the depth of emotion, by our commitment to do the work. It was because of Jill that we did the work. She too has been silenced in all of this high octane press shenanigans–the two real recovering sex addicts have had their voices stolen firstly by Drew then by Oprah.

Mostly, though, I am seething about the media’s approach to anything gay. Our stories are never integrated hence we are never integrated. It would not surprise me if it were a big old gay boy who made decision not to have me on the show–after all us gays do the most damage to each other.

Did Oprah and her people forget that the gays have been her very loyal fans? But let’s face it we were Obama’s biggest fans and look how far that has got us. Frankly, Oprah, what HAVE you done for the gay community recently? Did you forget about us or are we just not powerful enough? The gay community supported the election of President Obama. The black community did not return the favor by supporting us in the Prop 8 battle. Why?

Don’t worry, I am not on Tyra either. Same reason. Poor excuse eh?

Fuck you Tyra

November 24, 2009 duncanroy 19 comments

It is really hard not to look at pornography. It’s really difficult when you wake up at 4.30am with a troubled mind not to use porn like you might take an Ambian.

Being sober for 13 years, sadly Ambian is out of the question. I have no option other than to sit with uncomfortable feelings until they go away–or climb Runyon with the dogs.

When I first moved to Paris in my late teens I stayed in a small room on the Rue de l’Universite. I had no idea why I was there other than I had escaped my country, my family, my other life. I was in shock. A refugee. At first the mere prospect of walking the streets terrified me. I found a bottle of sleeping pills, I would masturbate then take a pill, waking up many hours later only to repeat this sad ritual until all the pills had gone. Like heroin, a rush, then a deep sleep. I have a very selective memory (forgetting people especially) but I remember these days as if I had just lived them. I remember the stains on the sheets, the empty bottle and the relief I felt when I left the room and walked back into the city.

I have only recently learned how to live in my own body. To exist in my own skin, within the parameters of the life laid down before me. I have only recently learned to trust the next step forward. You may think that I am confident, dressing up in tiaras and laughing with my friends but my bravado masks, and has always masked, a profound sense of discomfort.

When they sent me to prison, after the initial shock of being sentenced, I loved most every moment of it. The routine, the food, my cellmate, my cell, the language, the echo, the vast and towering Victorian halls. There is something very operatic about a British prison.

I was never scared in prison–my basic needs were always met. I was never attacked or picked on-after all my crime was a JOKE! Being sent to prison for not paying a credit card bill. I felt like an anthropologist in prison–visiting a foreign land. I felt the same in the Pasadena Recovery Center. I was visiting the land of reality TV, the land of mass media, the land of shattered dreams and unrealistic expectations. It was the second great act of my operatic adventure.

(If only my life were an opera.)

I loved being in Rehab exactly like I loved being in prison. Drew thought that I would leave Sex Rehab within the week–he was sure of it. He had no idea just how much I desired incarceration. How much I love having my options removed. How much I relish my own death. I immediately loved my fellow inmates in Rehab far more than I could love them in the world. The depth of love I felt for them could never be replicated beyond the walls of the rehab. My coconspirators. My brothers and my sisters. Equally the loathing I felt for the producer and production team was rarely masked. It perfectly replicated my prison/hospital experience. My fellow prisoners/patients and the guards/nurses who looked over us.

You see, I was born to be fearless. I was born to take risks. To be an artist and a gardener and a butler and a saint.

So, when I wake up in the morning and I don’t masturbate to porn–I choose life. I choose not to throw a warm blanket over my feelings and start the day raw.

Jennie and I walked Runyon yesterday. It was beautiful up there. It is always beautiful up there looking down from Mulholland over the great, gasping city of LA.

I had the oddest memory. New Years Eve twenty years ago in a huge New York club–taking ecstasy, being really fucked up and thirsty and not being able to find water. I am with Camille and Gulshan. The water in the bathroom had been switched off forcing people to buy bottles. There are no bottles left. Nobody would give us a sip of their water. There were acrobats above us and I thought to myself–this is what hell is. This is what hell is.

Oh yeah–fuck you Tyra for not having me on your show–but actually I don’t care, she’s too tabloid–even for an attention hound like me.

Thanksgiving 2009

November 26, 2009 duncanroy 23 comments

Thanksgiving 2009. Hollywood California USA.

Today I have a great deal to be thankful. It is odd to think that less than a year ago I was still ensconced in my porn cave. Now, in the most public way, I am delivered from my unhealthy behaviors. For that I am incredibly grateful.

As the weeks pass and Sex Rehab unfolds on VH1 emails arrive from all over the USA. Mostly men and some women tell me the most harrowing details of their addiction. I am most moved by the heterosexual men who reach out to me, for I am sure it is no easy task in such a sexually polarized country to do so.

These men and women who sit alone in their homes, forsaking humanity, searching for the perfect image, delving into the darkness of their souls speak volumes to me. And it is to you and your courage that I give thanks this morning.

One gay man came up to me in the street and told me that at 31 year old he had never had a relationship, forsaking happiness for pornography and fleeting hookups.

A few nights ago another man sat in my living room crying because he could not stop looking at pornography, ‘the worst kind’ he said. He was appalled and shamed by his actions and desperate to stop.

At times like these there is little ‘advice’ I can give. I am there to listen and offer hope that lives can change. That there is a solution.

There is a solution. I am here to affirm that this true. If you are suffering any kind of addiction there is a solution. For this I am grateful.

I have been very surprised that so few homo haters have bothered contacting me and for that I am grateful.

When strangers call my name in the street it is all so often to congratulate me for my bravery, to reassure me that they are on my side. It is the hardest thing of all to put your hand out to another suffering man. To make space at your table for those who see no way out of misery.

I am so fortunate. Whatever happens good or bad I remain open hearted. Whatever may be in God’s plan for me is really none of my business-but I can tell you one thing of which I am totally sure-if I can live without resentment, shame or anger then I am alive to receive the abundance of this world. To me abundance does not mean houses, cars, and exotic travel. Abundance means simply, to be sure footed in a world littered with treacherous obstacles.

My gratitude this morning is for life. I am grateful to be alive. That, at this very moment, everything is just as it is meant to be.

Categories: Dogs, Gay, Rehab Tags: food, Malibu, santa ana

Anthony my Acerbic Grunt and Eroticized Rage

November 29, 2009 duncanroy 60 comments

Malibu November Garden

I remember sitting in a car with my mother. Her car. I am in my mid twenties. The refrigerator that I just bought refuses to work and I have to return it. I am so full of fear and shame and resentment that I know the only way I can deal with this very simple situation is to lose my temper–but I hate losing my temper! I hated that the only way I knew to find the confidence to return a refrigerator was to get mad. I knew, painfully, that I let myself down. I said to my mother tearfully, “You know HE did this to me, he made me this way.” I knew instinctively that the crushing blows of my step-father had shattered my confidence and caused a rage so violent it would define my existence.

It would take twenty years for me to know how to deal with my anger and then quite suddenly–it would be gone.

When I was a little boy I remember smashing every single thing I owned. It was the only power I had over the world. I smashed everything I loved. I hated him so much. I refused to be subjugated by my stepfather. I could not fight back with my fists so I evolved a tranch of behaviors to defend myself–empower myself–some of which I have to this day.

Pat Carnes says, “Anger and sex can be fused in such a way that it is self-perpetuating, self-destructive, and once ignited, independent of culture and even family.”

My rage comes from my desire to be free of bondage. Every time I lose my temper I have the same feeling of casting off my shackles. Yet, I cast off a great deal more. I lose my temper at the talent agents and I walk away from a restricting situation and a career. I lose my temper on the phone to the bank that refuses to acknowledge an error and nearly wreck the car. I lose my temper violently with a man I do not want to tell the truth and the police call me to discuss the ‘situation’.

There are always consequences for my rage.

After my rage–I think about sex. I go online and look at men. I masturbate. I want to be close to them.

I have a suspicion that on tonight’s sex rehab you may get to see me lose my temper. Finally! I am really not as nice as they made me seem so far. I lose my temper twice during the taping of the show and tonight I lose my temper with the vapid trainer woman who wears her nasty sweats too tight revealing the outline of her vagina. I think I may refer to it, angrily, as her ‘camel toe’.

This woman was almost certainly a ‘plant’ by the Producers to get the guys to talk more about sex. I overheard the cameramen say that he ‘felt sorry’ for Phil and James as this ghastly, inappropriately dressed woman bends over in poor Phil’s face. However, at that moment I was feeling vulnerable and worthless. I was alone–my friends had gone with Drew and Jill to do art therapy and I felt ignored. Within the context of the Rehab I felt ignored. All of the cameras were on them and THAT alien woman. My rage got the better of me and ANTHONY came to the rescue.

Who is Anthony? Anthony, caged deep inside of me, only stirs when I feel embarrassed, vulnerable, besieged or when I need protecting from the conspiring world.

Anthony, my alter ego, was the Lord I pretended to be when I lived in Paris in my late teens/early twenties. My charismatic, acerbic grunt; Anthony is invincible! Anthony gets things done. Anthony is the enforcer. He makes films and paints and etches and believes in God but he is also destructive, violent, rageful, addicted to drugs and believes that there is only room in my life for him and me.

Anthony doesn’t trust anybody. He will convince me that no one is good enough, rich enough, intelligent enough or beautiful enough. He will convince me, always convinces me, that I best be on my own–that if I don’t listen to him they’ll hurt me like I have been hurt before. That I will only ever be able to trust him.

When he leaps forward to defend the helpless child I used to be, my accent, posture and face completely change.

Anthony terrifies me. When I am Anthony I stand beyond myself wringing my hands, imploring him to stop, to stop shouting, to put down the knife, please don’t say that to her…Anthony please. After he has gone it is like a bomb has been dropped in my life and I am left to pick up the pieces.

As I found out in rehab the solution for my anger turns out to surprisingly simple.

They said that I had to get to know Anthony. They said, acknowledge his attributes: his tenacity, strength, clarity but, they said–when ever he charges to defend you–coursing powerfully through your body, tell him politely to go way–that you can deal with this.

So I say firmly but politely, “Anthony, I can deal with this situation. Thanks, I can handle this.”

He didn’t want to hear that at first, he badly wanted to defend me. Now he listens and backs off. I can feel him sink back into me. Thankfully he is beginning to trust, trust that I can deal with anything I say I can. That I am not so vulnerable any more.

I had to learn to accept Anthony’s gifts and ditch the rest. As for me, I am kind, thoughtful, sensitive, diplomatic but prone to people pleasing. Between us we have a chance at being a grown up man, the ying and the yang without the fury or the subjugation.

I had three great revelations in Sex Rehab and this was the first. More will be revealed.

This Shameless Blog

November 30, 2009 duncanroy 36 comments

Phew. I am in Malibu. It is hot and windy. Luna has vanished but she always returns, there are three acres for her to explore. The little dog likes to stay within a few feet of me; he has found his favorite patch of sunny carpet overlooking the property. The sea is sparkling in the distance and the palm trees glisten like cellophane in the mid-day sun. I think that these are the Santa Ana winds, my eyes are burning and I am thirsty–desert thirsty.

Luna just returned from her garden adventure, skipping up the path.

I wish I could accurately record the beauty of this place for you. Looking down at the valley below, it feels up here like a Tuscan hill fort or a Chateau overlooking the Cote d’Azure. Listen to the humming birds, smell the sweet Datura trees and the giant honeysuckle. Nasturtiums drift from the top to the bottom of the property. Huge succulents; agaves, aloe and euphorbia bloom at this time of year. Great orange spikes of alien flowers. I wish you were here.

Sadly, this may be my last winter in Malibu. The house is FOR SALE and I want to leave by the end of June. You know where I’m off to.

I started today in Noah’s bagels on San Vicente drinking a vast cup of coffee when a man approached me and asked if Cari Ann was OK. I told him that she was. It is still surprising to me when total strangers know who I am.

Yesterday I spent time chatting with my friends in New Jersey and Charlotte NC. I had dinner with Emily and helped her assemble her bed and watched Sex Rehab with her and the dogs.

Yesterday’s Sex Rehab was nothing like I expected. Judging by what was tweeted and commented earlier in the day I thought you all had seen what had really happened. To tell you the truth I was much ruder to that trainer than they showed. When I said I had a melt down I really did MELT. What you didn’t see was exactly who would catch the full force of my Anthony wrath. It certainly wasn’t smelly trainer lady.

A really beautiful camera assistant came to work one day with his jeans worn low revealing his perfect butt. He was a terrible trigger for me. I had a ghastly crush on him. They told him to pull his pants up but he was always letting them slip back down.

So, the meltdown referred to last night on the show was not with camel toe trainer lady but aimed at the camera assistant. I yelled for production to get rid of him. “And you can get rid of that!” I screamed at the poor boy–he was only doing his job. His ass was driving me insane in the same way Phil was being driven bonkers by Cari-Ann’s ass hanging out of her…out of her? Out of her. We were all so sexually charged by the second week of Sex Rehab; feelings were violently erupting all over the place.

BTW I apologized to the camera assistant and the Rehab tech.

I really loved episode 5.

Like many people, watching Jill’s ‘smile’ work with Cari Ann moved me to tears. Carri-Ann was a tough nut to crack. I was also quite teary when I saw my therapy revelation with Dr John Seeley. That was the first time I had been introduced to the idea of retraumatization and it made perfect, astounding sense. It was the smoking gun. It was the moment for which I had waited too many years.

That perfect realization for all to see and the anger revelation were two moments that I will take to my grave; they would irrevocably change my life. These insights had immediate effect on me. From that moment on I would no longer let Anthony defend me and I would always be aware of exactly what I was doing every time I entered that dangerous sexual bubble that leads to retraumatization.

OK. A little controversy:

There has been some debate/consternation on these pages about my views on the ‘politics of obesity’.

As with sex we need always to have a healthy relationship with food. As sex addicts we hold onto our old sexual behaviors as over eaters hold onto theirs. There is a huge amount of entitlement connected to sexually addictive behaviors. I assume, from what is posted here, that this entitlement may apply to over eaters.

Firstly let me tell you that I have a huge compassion for those of you who wrestle with your weight and the consumption of food. However, let me make my point once again:

The purchase of healthy food in the USA is restricted to the wealthy, urban elite. In countries where rich and poor shop at the same markets, where all produce is democratized there is little or no obesity.

Where processed food is sold cheaply to the poor or the poor are not educated to buy what may be considered healthy food or the poor cannot afford healthy food and forced to eat processed food-then there are higher incidences of obesity.

Freedom of choice can only exist where there is real choice and where freedom is respected. If I live twenty miles outside Albuquerque and all I have to choose between at the local strip mall is a Super Market full of processed food and a Subway..I have no choice. I cannot make healthy decisions. My freedoms are restricted. This also applies to religion, sexuality and education.

Both ‘sexual politics’ and the ‘politics of sustenance’ are in many ways very similar.

So, let me repeat this unpalatable truth: people are kept enslaved by debt, obesity, ignorance, fear and shame-all of which are endemic in the USA right here, right now. Educated people, hungry people, fearless people, shameless people are difficult to control.

In my opinion the ruling elite of the USA did not ditch slavery in 1865 they simply enslaved everyone else. To break the shackles of your slave master: lose weight, get educated, get out of debt and stop believing in a damning God.

BTW I am 54 days sexually sober.

From Sea to Shining Sea

December 8, 2009 duncanroy 22 comments

Cloud over Route 66

I managed to stay in my bed until 6am. Winter finally arrived in LA and there were flurries of snow in Malibu. The city now has a backdrop of snow-covered mountains.

Feeling fractured today. Balls and lower back still aching. Don’t trust doctors. Especially here where they just want your money. Hail socialized medicine!

I finally watched episode 6 of Sex Rehab. Kari Ann continuing to provide a rich seam for the producers to mine, almost not worth commenting on until Selma’s dismissal. The facts are: Kari Ann failed every one of the mandatory drug tests and was not thrown out of the Pasadena Recovery Center. Active drug users are not allowed to stay in Rehab because they are actively using drugs! The excuse for the meth found in her pee was that she was also taking prescription medication that may have made her test positive. So, whilst the ‘rules’ applied to Selma they did not apply to Kari Ann. Kari Ann’s behavior would never have been tolerated in any regular rehab facility. Selma should not have been provoked daily by the antics of a known drug user in the facility. Selma, in my opinion, was thrown under the bus for the sake of MORE drama. Disturbingly, both Drew and Jill seemed complicit with the producers rather than with us the patients. After Selma’s firing was aired the attitude within the community of recovering men and women toward the show changed considerably, in fact, Sex Rehab lost a great deal of credibility and for that I am very sorry.

Since the New York Times guy interviewed me I am feeling more suspicious and less warm toward the Producers of Sex Rehab. Whilst I feel that I am being fairly represented, albeit not chronologically, others are not.

As for James all I have to say about James is that you witnessed an ‘incident’ between us. After our spat we all got on very well. I taught him to knit, went to his house, have been in contact since. The ‘incident’ between Jenny and James happened 5 days after we arrived in rehab. Most viewers fail to realize that the show was shot 7 months ago, we were in the facility for 3 weeks and that there are 504 hours of real time shot on 20 cameras squeezed into 344 minutes of TV. You see only a fraction of the work, interaction, activities, etc. etc. It takes months to edit a show like Sex Rehab. The project ping pongs from Producer to Network until the amorphous ‘show’ takes shape planished by the tiny suggestions, remarks and notes of all the concerned parties.

As a filmmaker would I have edited it differently? Of course I would! As a Brit I am probably more ponderous than most Americans. We like a slower pace; we like to ‘live’ with the characters. Along with millions of other fellow Brits I used to watch the Big Brother contestants sleep at night. It was reassuring.

I promised Luna that I would take her to Runyon today. Today is a perfect day for a long walk. Cool, bright, views as far as Palos Verdes. The little dog is in pain–his dewclaw all swollen and pink. Luna in on my lap watching me type.

For those of you who may think that I have not explored my adopted country I want you to know that I have driven four times across the United States from LA to NYC and back again. I took both the southern and the northern routes. I spent time in New Mexico, Tennessee, West Virginia, Texas, Connecticut, Florida, and Mississippi. I particularly liked Memphis. I was stunned by the Memphis neighborhoods that had a church on every corner. In Arizona I marveled at the snow covered Grand Canyon. I listened to folk tell their stories and wrote them down for a novel that will probably never be written. I wanted, briefly, to retire to Austin. I gawped at the massive crosses on the interstate highways, I ate barbeque, catfish and chicken fried steak and scoffed at the provincial cuisine. My eyes widened when I saw the black men in Tampa Florida who all looked like stately Massai warriors. I smuggled the dogs into non-pet friendly hotels and was glad that I drove in the winter rather than the summer.

I have lived in your country for 5 years now and I have loved your warm welcome however London is calling me. It is charming me, convincing me to come home. I am committed to LA for the next six months–then I really must be moving on.

By the way, this post should have been called, Fuck you Larry King! as yesterday we were bumped from appearing on his show-we were meant to be appearing on Friday. Amanda Knox trumped us. Damn you Amanda Knox. Damn you.

Scrambled thoughts. A side of Nostalgia please.

December 10, 2009 duncanroy 25 comments

Bumble’s Christmas Cake

There were few people and fewer dogs climbing Runyon today. I read some vile, homophobic comments on the Sex Rehab message boards. I reported them as ‘harassment’ and they magically vanished.

When we were making our Sex Rehab show Amber told me never to look at the ‘boards’. I vowed that I wouldn’t but vanity gets the better of me. I want to know what people think. Well, they think I am sanctimonious, they think I bullied James, they think I like having sex with little boys etc. etc. They say that they would never let someone like me near their children. They think I am brave, sexy, handsome, and more attractive with longer hair, less attractive with a beard, well dressed, and should have known better.

The nasty things people write sometimes turn me on–that’s the kind of sex addict I am.

Whilst Sex Rehab airs, I have enjoyed that so many thousands of you have bothered to read my blog. The singular benefit of appearing on the show–that I have been able to share myself fully with you all. As the show winds down and it’s treachery becomes apparent I will miss your kind words and kinder prayers.

It’s hard when someone you love thinks that they know more about everything than you do. I have learned to keep my mouth shut because ultimately it means little or nothing but at the moment, at that infuriating moment when I am being told things I have known for thirty years, I just want to say, “yeah, and?” but I don’t, I nod as if this is the first time I have ever heard these scintillating insights.

I remember, as my mother approached 65 years old, she burst into tears. She was crying because she had been looking in the mirror and seeing an older woman look back at her, look her in the eye. An older woman than she remembered ever being. She was crying for lost youth. She said that she felt ‘the same’ but looked ‘terrible’. There is a theme that runs through our family about lost opportunity, lost youth, unfulfilled dreams. We were unable; it seems, to close the deal.

Bumble Ward posted a picture of her freshly baked Christmas Cake. I was thrown into a nostalgic tailspin for everything I had left behind in my Whitstable kitchen. Bumble baked a rich fruitcake to which she had added cardamom and bitter cherries. Every year I lived in Whitstable I baked a Christmas cake and made the marzipan from scratch. I rolled out white, shimmering with glycerin, blankets of royal icing. I would bake with whoever was around to join in on the fun. Usually it was Georgina and her grandchildren. We would drive to Sainsbury’s, buy heaps of dried fruit then haul it home and beat and stir and bind and grate. Then, if we were feeling particularly ambitious we would make a huge Christmas pudding.

A great, steaming pan of fruit, molasses and shredded suet bound in white muslin. Oh I love cooking so much. I love the smell of allspice, orange zest and nutmeg, I love peeling almonds and soaking sultanas and currants in rum. The house filled with the intoxicating aroma of Christmas baking and pine trees. I love wrapping presents and serving mulled wine to my friends. I loved cutting out cardboard stars and covering them with silver paper. I loved the little children singing carols on my doorstep and the rare Christmas when snow fell. I love my glittering advent calendar and everything that a Christian celebration has to offer. I loved going to midnight mass with my bawdy, drunken friends to sing carols loud and clear. I love my Victorian town decorated festively. I love Christmas. I really do.

On Christmas Eve, after the smoky pub, weaving my way home through the matt black night I would sit by the fire and knit and listen to the sea gently lapping over the shingle.

Amber, Jennie, Phil, James, Nicole, Kendra, Kari-Ann and Me

December 12, 2009 duncanroy 55 comments

I get asked all of the time what the other guys in Sex Rehab were like to live with. You know, we shot the show so long ago I almost forgot but I’ll tell you my impression of all of them here.

Frankly if I hadn’t been on the show I would never, ever have met any of them. All of them were out of my social or geographical orbit. I was only one degree of separation from Amber as it turned out but still, I don’t think we would have ever made time to get to know each other.

Nobody smelt badly except maybe James when he arrived. Nobody had appalling table manners. Everybody was mostly courteous, kind and inclusive–even Kari Ann. Remember, the way the show is edited tends to exploit the best and the worst of who we are.

Whilst I was there I hung out mostly with Jennie and Kendra but I had long and involved conversations with almost everyone. Why did I hang out so much with Jennie? What was it about her that I loved so much? Well, for a start, she is hungry for life, for education and for new ways of thinking. She devoured ideas and suggestions, she listened when I mooted Film School and I still believe that if she plays her cards right there is nothing that she couldn’t do.

Jennie has the correct balance of ambition and talent and the show opened a door into her hidden soul. Listen, do I love her painting? No, but I respect her for getting up every day and picking up a paintbrush. Do I think she errs toward overblown prose? Yes, but she is a 26 year old ex-porn star starting over with a huge amount to learn, look at and consider. With consultation she will get exactly where she needs to be.

There are still dark forces determined to unsettle her, unseat her ambition, and refuse to let Penny Flame forget where she has come from. These vile bodies write vicious posts on her blog, they rewrite her wikipedia page. I am well aware of these embittered, desperate people–they try to do the same to me but they can’t touch me now because, in the words of Quentin Crisp, I am one of the stately Homo’s of England.

There was so much time where we did nothing in Rehab and by nothing I mean no group, no therapy, no planned activity. We mostly filled our time playing dominoes or cards. Nicole was a genius at dominoes so I’ll start with her.

Jennie and Nicole really did not get on very well. They shared a room but there was a tension that bubbled up between them and actually came to a head as we were standing in line off camera moments before we filed into Rehab Graduation. I didn’t and still don’t understand their gripe but I suggest it has something to do with class and pre-history. Nicole is one classy broad, elegant, chic, fierce. One of those gals who came to Hollywood in search of that ‘Hollywood Dream’ and ended up being one of it’s finest victims. Her Colin Farrell sex tape caused her to feel tremendous shame and ultimately isolated her from her friends and family. She faced Hollywood’s dark forces head on. Sex tapes are so often a double-edged sword, nobody really knows who, if anyone, will benefit. What I found out from most of the women I shared time in Sex Rehab with was just how many of them had sex tapes with celebrities squirreled away for a rainy day.

Kendra and Lucas are the sweetest couple and live with hundreds of rescued dogs and cats in a sprawling house in Northridge. Kendra has devoted her life beyond ‘Kendra the Stripper’ to helpless animals and causes that fight injustice head on. Whatever may or may not happen to our friendship I know in my heart that she will always be there for me. She is the sort of woman who stops at the side of the freeway to open an abandoned cardboard box in search of kittens and puppies. She rescued my dog Luna twenty minutes before Luna was going to be destroyed. She has a huge, huge heart but seldom makes room in it for herself. I know that her philanthropic life is at odds with what she has to do to earn money. I am sure she is only moments away from the kind of woman she would like to be.

Kari Ann needs to get the fuck away from David Weintraub. Her tendency toward men like him will destroy her life. Now she is Miss VH1 super bitch I fear that no one will ever get to see the girl she could have been. With men like David Weintraub crafting her existence she may very well end up dead, drowned in her own vomit whilst David parties in adjoining rooms. This deadly scenario is all too common in Hollywood. One could imagine an altogether nastier narrative for David documented with grainy TMZ videos of him being hustled, half dressed and sweating into police cars crying foul. I end up writing about Weintraub when I wanted to write about Kari Ann, there is a terrible irony to that–that he and men like him will always eclipse her. Her meth antics on Sex Rehab were not as constant as the show editors wish you to think. Sometimes we would just lay outside quietly chatting, giggling and smoking. I will remember her best like that. A sweet little girl with a meth habit.

Phil Varone, don’t you just love him? We all loved him. What isn’t there to love? He concisely articulated every problem he and others had. He was and is a superb diplomat and sensitive to boot. Watching him with his Dad has just made me love him even more. Phil and I played Mexican dominoes with Nicole and it was over those plastic tiles we got to know each other. We never locked horns, as I am wont to do with other males. Phil went to Sex Rehab to do the recovery work. If we had not been there I wonder if that work you see and relate to would have ever happened?

During the interview process I told the producers that I likes surfer boys and lo and behold there was James. The big problem was that I never found him attractive. He, like Kari Ann, had arrived after a protracted period of drug and alcohol abuse and three weeks really wasn’t enough time for him to figure stuff out. He had been paid a great deal of money to wear certain clothing whilst on the show and that initially galled me. Maybe I shouldn’t have judged him so harshly. After the ‘rape the shit’ comment he made to Jennie we got on very well and I even taught him how to knit. Even though I didn’t get to know James as well as the others I respected his dolphin like sea talents. We spent a day at Huntington Beach. Watching him surf was a joy.

Amber had a profound effect on me. She reminded me of a very beautiful version of my mother. Her emotions close to the surface, her aquiline elegance and sweet demeanor and real desire for recovery. Her story is harrowing and desperate. The enmeshed relationship she has with her mother, the loyalty she has for her mother, the huge price she paid for her addictions. Hearing her story would make me cry. The anger workshop we did, the paint in her hair, the way she almost flew through the air like an angel when she was throwing the paint and the eggs. I will never forget the impact she had on me. Amber, Phil and I had lunch recently at The Ivy. I am always slightly in awe of her. I always will be.

Jennie, what more can I say? We were, are and will always be friends in whatever shape God intends. I am sure that my protectiveness will get in the way like it did when I now famously approached David Weintraub at Cecconi’s and challenged him after he was rude and demeaning with her. I want her to soar higher than I ever did–even though I get envious when she does. I want her success to fit her like a loose garment. I want everyone to be as amazed as I that a woman with so much talent could have buried herself so deeply in the sordid world of pornography. It amazes me that she touched the lives of so many men as a porn actress even if these broken men wanted to fix her with cheap, meaningless promises. I have not and will not see her in her porn incarnation, I met Penny Flame briefly but do not want to meet her ever again. I am privileged to know Jenny Ketcham. Our relationship is not without it’s hitches but we are addicts, right? We are blighted by the disease of perception. Both of us.

Which brings me to…me, the eighth member of the Sex Rehab cast. You know what addicts are like, they either hate themselves or love themselves too much and I am no exception. I could make huge and grandiose statements about myself or I could tell you that I am a piece of shit. I wrote that and I laughed out loud. I really have no idea what the others would say about me if they could right here right now–but I could guess. Kendra might say that I am a flakey friend who says he is going to show up but always gets way laid. Amber might be suspicious of me and Kari Ann would say, ‘I love you to bits but you talk shit about me’. Phil would find something totally loving and appropriate and Jenny might too. James would howl and say something dudeish and give me a huge hug. I would say, about me on sex rehab, like I have many times before, I am so glad that I got to go on the show and change my life because of it.

I get to write this blog and today, this very lunchtime, I get to thank strangers in the street who show their heartfelt appreciation of sharing all the work we did so honestly and publicly. Thank you all so very much.

Staying Out of the Results

December 14, 2009 duncanroy 40 comments

Before I signed my contract to appear on Sex Rehab I told my friends that what ever happened to me during the editing of the show I would stay out of the result. That I would let God deal with the details and I would not let any of it be my business. That was until…

OMG! Today, moments ago, I discovered–and I just had to write a blog about my extraordinary discovery–a reader alerted me to a website devoted to people who give a shit about TV! So much of a shit, in fact, that the same sad people spend hours not just watching reality TV but getting so involved that they form ‘opinions’ then spend hours sharing LMAO with complete strangers their ‘opinions’. The fact that these opinions are misguided, uninformed and mostly sophomoric is neither here nor there.

This reality TV viewer web site is like REALITY TV PORNOGRAPHY! It got me hard. Really.

Amongst some occasional intelligent analysis I read about ‘haters’ (apparently I am one) and a huge amount of second rate Kari Ann/Jill/Selma/Kendra ‘diagnosis’ from a bunch of avid reality TV addicts. I really had no idea that people took this stuff so damned seriously. I am DESPERATE to throw my hat into the ring and take on these virtual dumpster divers! IMO I think I could have quite a scrap.

I learned so much! Punctuated with LMAO, LOL, OMG and IMO I learned that I was snarky, immature, ugly, a misanthrope–but probably because I was sexually abused. I learned that I hated James and did not teach him to knit. That I bullied James and ‘hated’ on him. I had my words maligned, insulted, ‘hated’ on. I am, apparently, a disgrace to gay people. I learned that there were people trawling my facebook page–so all the people I don’t know have now been removed. I learned that homophobia is alive and KICKING!

For people who seem to hate the haters there sure is a great deal of hate!

LMAO! Oh you people! How you have amused me during the past few weeks.

“I’m 24 and I’ve heard that my generation and people that are teens right now are some of the most narcissistic people ever. But I think it’s just because with more technology and things, the people who might have been overprotective or felt stifled as children who want to raise their kids the opposite way might be able to spoil their kids more. There have always been people like that, it’s just more noticeable now.”

LOL. And with scintillating insights like that who needs 19^th century literature?

One particularly astute commentator opined that the British were apt to be socially insensitive. Rude. Well, we’re not rude–we are direct. We say what we mean and we are not, as a nation, or as individuals so sensitive to the naked truth as you the Americans. I spent hours in my dorm at school being viciously rude to my class mates and they to me. It made us howl with laughter. We LOVE a good insult/irony.

Consequently, we will punish Tony Blair for war crimes and tax our bankers for profiteering. What, you may be thinking, does that have to do with price of cheese? Work it out amongst yourselves. I am sure ONE of you will have an ‘opinion’.

OMG after reading the posts–and I could not stop they were so addictive–I thought to myself, well producers–you did a great job! An amazing job of creating the goodies and the baddies and I am one of the baddies! To many, many viewers I am just a vicious queen! And so be it. What you think of me is none of my business. It’s true!

“Between his blog, his twitter page, his facebook page, and God only knows what other type of self promotion he’s doing he has got to be the most vain S.O.B. out there! UGH! His whiny, childish behavior is disgusting. Honestly, grow up honey. And yea I will admit when the show first began I found Duncan very charming, funny, etc. and so I did read his blogs, twitter page, etc. but its like the more he talks the more I dislike him.”

LMAO every time I read a vile comment like that my cock got harder. LITERALLY. I look at my own reaction to the hate and I realize that I still have a very long way to go.

And lastly…for you clever, clever people, a little context: When making Sex Rehab there were 350 hours of real time footage shot on 20 cameras. That’s approx 7,000 hours of footage squeezed into a chilling 344 minutes of TV.

LOL.

And finally my most favorite line:

“Duncan has a meanstreak that he gets away with because his sex appeal is soooo appealing. The reason men face-fuck him and leave him is because a meanstreak is only tolerable for as long as it takes to orgasm.”

A woman could only have written IMO the idea that I would want a relationship with anyone I had blown is frankly absurd.

LMAO

IMO

LOL

OMG

July 18, 2006 – Tuesday

PARIS

I love the smell of Paris. I love the streams of glistening street cleaning water on a bright morning coursing over the cobbles. I love the great boulevard. I love my secret lover’s courtyard. I love her white skin at night, my black hands on her breasts. In the hot afternoon she sprays her hands with eau de cologne. The pungent smell of vetiver filling the apartment with a promise of erotic nights.

There is a small boulangerie on the Boulevard St Germaine where they sell delicious croissant almonds; they are soggy with almond paste. This afternoon I will go to Trocadero and drink lemonade and eat macaron. This afternoon I will buy a white shirt in Charvet and wear it with my secret love at dinner on the rue de cherche midi. How strange and different a woman’s body is after so many years of hairy men. How they yield, how they do not judge you. I never mind taking off my underwear in front of a woman. Taking off your clothes in front of a man who spends hours in the gym. The last man I slept with had a firm, hairy body. I had to apologise for mine. He said, “I like it, I really do.” He was lying. He did not want to see me again. He cancelled. He lied.

I am not a very good gay. Bad Gay. I don’t like men. Of course I am useless as a straight–after making her climax with my tongue I wonder about the boys on the street. I think about that beautiful Russian boy I met on the train who I am almost in love with. Even so, when PH and I were together I needed no one else. I simply needed her. I have only been in love with one woman and one man. The love is quite different. It means something different.

American men have perfected the art of seduction. When the firm, hairy one told me that he would not stay the night and wake up in the morning with me, it made me curse him. I left my body–floating just above the ceiling–and I could hear him say, “you’ve gone quiet.” And I replied, “I knew that you would do this.” And then he said, “So you’ll not be disappointed then.”

He said at dinner the line that makes a woman melt, “sex means nothing to me outside of a relationship.” I had already blown him ten minutes into the date. He paid for dinner. The champagne was chilling in the fridge. Champagne he had bought and that I would never drink. He did not think to ask if champagne was an entirely appropriate gift. I went to bed early that night. The smell of him on my fingers. It was my birthday–I had chosen to spend it with a total stranger rather than the friends who wanted to see me. It was not a good choice.

Bad Gay.

The following night the same thing happened with a red headed boy who when I called him the next day was obviously petrified. Bad gay. I am a very bad gay. And then there is Ed. Ed, who sits in his room and has cam-to-cam sex with men. I think that he might have the right idea. He will never be disappointed.

I have lent my apartment in LA to a friend. I hope that he looks after it. People have very different ways of living than I do. I have a new bed. Hope that he does not stain it.

Susanna S. once said that Duncan will give you the world, then one day he will take it all back. She did not actually say that, that is better than what she would say–as she is an inarticulate grunt. She meant that people take advantage of me until I get pissed off. My

friend who is borrowing my flat then asked if he could borrow money from me. Then you begin to get pissed off. Joe T let me buy him alcohol and dinners and let me cook for him; then when he had money, expected me to pay the valet.

I am going to be a grumpy old man who has to defend himself like a prize-fighter. Resentment will kill them before it gets a sniff at me. I want to be on my own. People distress me. Their ways. When I did cocaine it made me even more solitary, made me walk from Kensington to Soho at 4am. My toes bruised yet I could not feel the pain.

Bad Gay.

We walked the Seine last night. It was perfect. The pedestrian bridge–the one adjacent to the Pont Neuf, is covered with young people puffing on weed. They have food and guitars and the police just wander on through. Its like a little strip of youth revolution in the heart of the city. I could not imagine that happening in London.

Night it is incredibly warm on the streets. My secret love drank menthe and lemonade. We came home and had that sort of time you only remember from your youth: enthusiastic, passionate, and perfectly connected. Did that really happen? Nobody crept out after they came; there were no lame excuses. This morning we had breakfast and then we shopped around the rue de Bac. I bought a raincoat and a velvet romper suit for LA. We had lunch. I ate a delicious garlic tart with celeriac and rocket salad. We saw a glamorous woman dressed in black linen—her haircut immaculately severe. We saw her meet her affectionate lover.

Tomorrow my secret love has to go to the American Embassy and get her working visa. I will buy fabric for a lampshade. Tomorrow I will catch the wonderful train and be back in London, away from her arms until we see each other again in California. As I write she is playing with my beard. Her fingers glancing my nose and eyebrows. She looks tenderly over at me and smiles as the laptop noisily corrects my spelling.

She will learn to see me in less attractive circumstances. She will see me frustrated and sad and furious. She will see me rudely demand a better table in the restaurant or shout on the telephone at a moronic bank person–my least favourite phone call is to the bank/credit card/cell phone company–the thieves that come into my life monthly. She will see what I am like. The other side of this coin.

So. This bad gay has to kiss his secret love on the lips–adieu.

August 31, 2006 – Thursday

Back in LA. The apartment was very clean and tidy. However, some of my towels have vanished and one of my beautiful French tea towels was used for heavy duty cleaning and I spent ages trying to revive it. It looks like with a few more hot washes it might regain consciousness.

I woke up far too early and set about plumping cushions. My beard has a huge hole in it from my nervously pulling at it at the airport. So, this morning I went to Vine and Sunset and my Puerto Rican hairdresser shaved my entire head. I have had a beard for so long now I really did not recognize myself. I look like my grand mother when I am concentrating. Not very hot.

The last time I flew to LA I was sitting near John Major–though what the former Prime Minister of the UK was doing coming to California beats me. Does he have celeb friends in the hills? Does he surf? Anyway, he was there reading the newspapers in the same row as me. I had previously seen Brokeback Mountain with friends at The Grove in LA and afterwards I had battled to keep from crying. I decided, rather stupidly, to watch it again on the plane. As the credits rolled I felt like crying, so I made my way to the tiny loo and cried. I was making a terrible noise, big fat tears rolling down my cheeks and onto my chin. When finally I had finished sobbing, I opened the door only to find special branch—the UK equivalent of FBI—who were traveling with John Major, outside the loo door.

“Are you alright, sir” one asked and I said, bursting into tears again, “Brokeback Mountain.” and slammed the door. After a good half hour I went back to my seat and John Major looked very kindly at me and asked in a stage whisper if I was OK. “Brokeback Mountain.” I said and the ex-prime minister of Great Britain and all of its Dominions frowned and nodded understandingly.

I took all my shirts to the lovely Russian lady who presses them at the environmentally correct launderette. I could go to the local laundry but the walk does me good. I don’t think the one at the end of the street gives a fuck about the environment. This week I am going to buy a scooter. A Vespa. I am very, very excited.

SS in Berlin thinks that I have a changed personality when I get here. I am going to make a concerted effort to be kinder this time. More accommodating. Now I don’t have a beard to hide behind–I need to be a great deal nicer. Maybe my beard made me aggressive in LA–or just the place. Hot, sweaty. Disparate.

September 1, 2006 – Friday

Woke at 4.30am. Still dark outside. Still cannot find missing towels. Sharon only used the white ones. Apparently everyone knows that Sharon cried when she told me that the laundry had lost my large white towel.

Spoke to JA yesterday who confirmed that she has cancer. They misdiagnosed the lump she had in her leg—it was the spreading kind of cancer and not the other sort that stays put. She sounded brave but angry that the mistake had been made and that Blue Cross is not honoring their insurance agreement.

I went for a long walk on Runyon Canyon as soon as the sun came up and looked over the city. I felt like Warren Beatty in the film Shampoo when he looks over LA, sadly realizing that his life is in tatters. Yet, it was not my life that was in tatters—it was my friend’s—a friend who had been there for me for over 15 years.

I think that I have a shoe addiction. I buy so many pairs of shoes. If JA died it would leave a vast hole in my life. I think that she is going to die. It is the spreading kind of cancer and not the kind that stays put.

I felt a slight tremor yesterday. Watched the fan tremble. Thought about my bed, which is a four-poster and could save me if the big shake down happens at night. I was sitting quietly looking around at my new cushion arrangement. The blue ones on the white armchairs. The pink and orange ones on the sofa. The new paisley cushions on the floor with the mauve shot silk floor cushion. Where are my fucking towels? Perhaps they are hidden in Daniel’s room?

September 2, 2006 – Saturday

I passed 73 dogs on my walk on Runyon Canyon today. They call it dog piss canyon. I don’t think it smells at all. The dogs are all quite good-natured, although I had a fear that if one of them did attack me it would be my fault because I was wearing black socks or had a beard. “He was wearing black socks—my dog hates men with black socks.” Most owners walk silently with their dogs but others keep a ghastly, high pitched baby talk monologue going with their dogs, “Daddy wont be happy about THAT when we get home.” “Keep up with your brother.” Obviously the dogs are not related, one is a Yorkie and the other is a large black mutt. The illusion of family pervades the canyon, all these lonely people with dog brothers/sisters to feed and focus on. “Mummy said NO!”

Last night, after my AA meeting, we ate dinner at Swingers on Beverly. The conversation was dominated by the rumor that Bush intends to use ‘little’ nuclear war-heads on Iran. I was dumbfounded by just how jocular the discussion was.

Joni Mitchell used to own the apartment block where I live in Hollywood. It is the most adorable pink building built in the early 1930s. I have a huge sitting room, a smaller, well-proportioned dining room and the original kitchen and stove. There are two reasonably sized bedrooms and a bathroom off of a long dark corridor. Pamela (queen of the groupies) DesBarres lived here in this apartment. There is a photograph of Sid Vicious leaning against my fireplace. I have decorated for comfort and relaxation. How lucky I am to live in two such perfect places? Whitstable and Hollywood.

At 12 I went to my lunch time AA meeting but it was a bad mistake—such a bunch of self obsessed relapsers. I had mass murder thoughts during the meeting, which I have not had since I was last there—so in the words of Hunter Philp I shall “go where the love is.”

September 3, 2006 – Wednesday

38 dogs on Runyon Canyon today.

Met Sharon S at the Arclight. We saw Oliver Stone’s new film about 9/11 which was, at times, very moving but I was over come with the feeling that it had been made too soon after the event.

We talked about our sexual obsessions—after a life of sex how difficult it is to reorient oneself toward a relationship. Sharon has huge tits and I kept on thinking about them during dinner. She told me that her next door neighbor is a very fit looking young girl who makes wrestling videos in her back yard. Sharon calls her Canyon Barbie. I tried to explain to her how PH makes me feel—like I am a MAN when I am with her. Filling out my own body.

Sharon has never met me without a beard so was delighted that I had dimples. I love intelligent, strong women. We wandered to the parking lot arm in arm and then she dropped me at home in her black porsche.

September 4, 2006 – Monday

78 dogs on Runyon Canyon.

The transformers on Outpost exploded yesterday causing the fourth power cut of the summer. Thankfully I was not here for any of the others. John and I drove to Ralph’s and bought ice to keep the fridge from getting too hot. I bought three chickens for dinner–they were half price. I also bought melon and strawberries. In the line at the check out the young couple ahead of me had 20 boxes of microwavable hot dogs and a carton of diet beverage. He looked into my cart and said, “This guy eats healthier than us.” I inquired if they were having a party. The petite, pretty blond girl told me that this was there diet, franks and diet drink. “I don’t cook.” she said, “I’m frightened of raw meat.” Her gorgeous boy friend winked at me.

Alexa, Devon and Sabrina invited me to join them on a trip to Little India which is in Artesia some 40 minutes from Hollywood along the freeway. The power out meant that the fans did not work, so they lured me with a promise of air conditioning in the car. When we got there, it was just as you might imagine—several strip malls selling sari’s, jewelery and Indian food. We had a blast. I bought odd looking raisins and nut meg and almonds. Being in Little India reminded me of the UK. Tea and digestive biscuits and Wheatabix. The smell of petuli oil pervading the hot streets. We ate lunch in a small restaurant and ordered Indian food that I had never seen in England. We took our chances and before long delicious things arrived in compartmentalized styrofoam trays. The Indians were watching me eat mine with some amusement—it turned out I was dipping my savoury main course into my desert. I suppose it was like watching someone put ice cream on their hamburger.

We all fell asleep, open mouthed on the way home.

8 people for dinner. Delicious.

After they all left, the Internet yielded somebody for me to cuddle. Made it perfectly clear that I did not want sex. We walked together up the Canyon counting dogs and then he left.

September 5, 2006 – Tuesday

Only 23 dogs on Runyon Canyon today. Why?

At first I thought about not going or taking an easier path, but every time my head tells me to take a day off of my workout—to take the softer, easier path—I remind myself that JA is savoring every day as it may be her last and so, out of respect, should I.

On the way down the Canyon I try to say good morning to everyone I meet. I have learned that to simply nod and smile is ignored. The sort of nod and smile that I would appreciate on Whitstable beach, for instance. A hearty, British, old-fashioned “Good Morning” shakes all of them out of their self-obsession. Of course, one can look totally insane doing that. The best way to make contact with any of them is to say hello to their dog. However, I refuse to talk to dogs. “Come on Philip.” Calling dogs’ human names is, quite frankly, batty. I like Dogs to have Dog names like Scamp, Napkin, or Ruffian. If owners must insist on human names for dogs then choose names that express something about the nature of the specific dog—Napoleon, for example.

Manny’s on Fairfax for breakfast yesterday with the gang. The couple on the table next to us arrive carrying a dog in a basket—a shaved Pomeranian. They pulled the dog out of the bag and plopped it under the table. “Is your dog friendly?” They ask the couple next to us. “No.” I say. We all laugh. I ask them if they are trying for a baby. I am forever asking straight couples if they are trying for a baby. “That’s our baby,” she said. On another table there is an Italian Grey Hound that is so thin it obviously has bulemia. “Does your dog have self image problems?” I ask. They laugh. Imagine that thin dog thing hanging over the toilet—its little paw shoved down its throat.

Later, My friend arrived with his dog, Nick. When we got home I realized that Nick was going to be like a third person in the apartment. When we went to lay on the bed my friend insisted Nick come too. Call me old-fashioned but I do not think that sleeping with dogs is entirely hygienic. So, rather than spend time with me on our own and put the dog outside the bedroom, he left.

What preoccupied me as I climbed the mountain? My roommate, Daniel. Where do I begin? The towels have not been returned. Daniel and his very young boyfriend pick at my stuff in the kitchen, nuts etc., but not enough for me to make a decent complaint. I buy a huge carton of kitchen roll; he buys two. To make matters worse, his towels are printed with gold fish. Then, last night at 3:45, I wake, as if from a nightmare, hearing a huge crash in the kitchen, of course, think that somebody is breaking into the apartment, I leap out of bed. I see that the rug in the hall is folded over and rather than be timid I shout, “Who the fuck is there?” and charge toward the kitchen. Standing in the dark is Daniel, holding a bowl of cereal and a glass of juice. He is obviously very drunk and calmly begins questioning me about why I am screaming around the house. His tone is sinister. “Tell me exactly why you found it necessary to scream.”

September 6, 2006 – Wednesday

Thirty four dogs on Runyon Canyon. Saw a group of elderly Russian men pushing a baby in a stroller. Had sudden panic that I could be arrested for smiling at lesbians. “I smile at everybody.” Would be my pathetic defense in the courtroom. Nobody smiles on Runyon Canyon.

Sprinting up the canyon I thought about my father dying of pancreatic cancer when he was only 53. The last pictures of him are on his hospital bed looking defeated but still very fat. He only had one eye. Lost it in a Porsche racing accident. When my father was a young man somebody apparently threw him out of a second floor window because he owed them money.

Dan Glenn popped by to cheer me up even though I was perfectly cheery. A few minutes after he left, Chris Parker arrived with chocolate muffins. Later, Tony my neighbor dropped by to say hello. He had been in Redondo Beech dressed as a Hot Dog for three days being paid $50 an hour. Children hugging his legs. He lost a lot of weight in that costume.

Dinner with Ian Drew at The Chateau Marmont. Nicole Richie arrived and kissed us all.

Ian and I have a very jolly supper. We discuss the Prada party that neither of us bothered going to but was apparently the best party of the season. Half way through dinner Ian made us move inside to a very bad table because he thought he saw Elizabeth Taylor. It wasn’t. I see the adorable James Franco eating dinner with his charming friends. We will meet this Friday to watch my film. Joel Mikely was busy with Peter Bogdanovitch and Brittany Murphy. I love Joel.

Sadly, I also bumped into DP (Paramount number cruncher) and TB (bit player) who are ghastly people. Snobby DP telling more dreary stories about getting drunk—she had just returned from Deauville film festival and was disappointed that there were too few parties. She boasted, “Last time I was here at the Chateau I was up until 5 getting WASTED.” Ha ha ha. When is she going to realize just how un-cool that is?

In the lobby Will introduced us to two very handsome marines who had somehow got past security. They invited us to have a drink at the Bar Marmont. I had lemonade.

September 7, 2006 – Thursday

Only 12 dogs this morning on Runyon Canyon.

I woke at sunrise and slogged up the hill. Very few people are out and about that early. Before the sun breaks over the horizon it is easier to see the path ahead of you. Every day, before my walk, I pray for JA.

After lunch my beautiful actor friend Josh came over to discuss his auditions. He is so fucking handsome yet lacks that essential oomph that gets him the job. Josh is worried that people will perceive him as arrogant if he is too sure of himself. When you are that beautiful people expect you to be a little bit arrogant. Nobody wants a nerd in buff’s clothing.

I have never been that good looking but I exude confidence and I genuinely believe that things are going to work out. I rarely feel defeated, even when things are DIRE. Since I got sober nothing frightens me. So many people live in so much fear. Financial insecurity, snakes, Muslims, preparing raw meat. When I was younger I was ok looking, young looking, but when I walked into a room people were aware that I was there: by reputation, by the way I dressed but mostly by my presence. It’s a fact.

Josh is a war hero fresh from Iraq—he should be super confident. I will take him to the next Hollywood do I go to. He needs to be out there, dressed up, making things happen. Letting people know who he is. We all do that in this city. It is like living in 17th Century Versailles. The etiquette, the pecking order, the instant recognition that leads to stellar patronage. Who sits where in restaurants or how they are sitting and with whom they sit. Madame de Pompadour by Nancy Mitford is a great book to read if you really want to know how Hollywood works.

The Internet introduced me to a young man who came over as a prospective date. We fed the tame squirrel nuts. No sex. He left when Dom turned up to take me to dinner.

The Beef ribs we gnawed on fwere disgusting. $25. I was a bit hyper after having spent all day with Josh. Conversation about Lindsay Lohan’ss vagina on the Internet. No knickers as she got out of the car. Poor LL.

How could I forget to mention that the towels have FINALLY been returned to the cupboard in the bathroom where they live. Hurrah! Thank you for your concerned e-mails and notes.

September 8, 2006 – Friday

It is a totally over-cast, grey day on Runyon Canyon. 35 dogs.

One of my oldest friends called from Europe—I was really pleased to hear from her. She is a very chic art collector who I met and had a brief but passionate affair with when I was in my late teens. As with all of my friends, we have had our ups and downs. We have had periods of silence and moments of high drama. I was thrilled to hear from her—I always am, but I could hear in her voice that something was wrong, the very same something that I have been aware of for some considerable time. She confronts me—challenges me. We end up having a furious row but instead of slamming the phone down, I finally demand to know what was the matter. What was this all about? She tearfully told me that she was going to be 52 next week and the penny dropped. Menopause. On the edge of madness.

September 9, 2006 – Saturday

After my walk I eat dates and nuts and coffee made in the pot Will Self bought for the house in Whitstable.

Lunch was wonderful. Xan and I ate at Italian restaurant on Brighton Way. Our waiter was a bit smelly. I ate antipasto and chocolate cake.

We talked for two hours and afterwards I felt totally invigorated and optimistic. It seems that we have a friend in common—Tim Hunt. I met Tim when I was Lord Rendlesham. I have a very old picture of Tim Hunt, The Princess Anne of Bavaria, Alexis deToquville and me at dinner in Paris in 1982. I like talking about that time; I so rarely get an opportunity to do so with people who understand it.

I must be the same age as Xan. 1978, whilst I was in Whitstable being bullied by my stupid stepfather, Xan was leaving a huge stately home and going to Oxford.

Lunch $37 with tip.

Barneys after lunch. I saw apricot silk velvet pillows that I have been hankering after for AGES reduced from $350 to $100. I had to buy them. Shop assistant gave me his number. I had my meeting with James Franco at the Chateau Marmont so I took my cushions and left. Once at the Chateau, I heard my name being screamed across the lobby. Chris Parker. I could not talk. He was with two girls who looked like they had their phones glued to their ears.

All I want to say about James is this: he is a gentleman. We watched the film. We drank Badoit. He drove me home in his Bentley.

When I returned from London two weeks ago I felt energized. I felt strong. Two weeks into being back here and I feel put upon. That is the only way to describe it. I feel pressured by unknown forces. Low-level dissatisfaction pervades my day. I engage with fools and play their games. I am already sick of listening to the trials of others in one-sided conversations. God works hard for me in LA. I hand over a great deal to him. Perhaps tomorrow will be better.

Go where the love is.

September 10, 2006 – Sunday

Sunday. Day of rest. AA meeting to go to. I may walk this evening. The same young man just left the house that left last week. No sex. I was not interested. That’s cool.

Xan and I are really connecting. He is very funny and warm. I find that I am slightly in awe of him for all the wrong reasons. I told him what happened with my brother and mother when I was at home. He asked if I had ever made amends to either of them and of course I have never ever made amends to my Mother for past behaviors. I wrote to my brother S offering amends but they were rejected, described as ‘nauseating’. We drove to Gagosian to see some austere black and white Japanese show. It was dull, serious and lacked energy. The crowd was sexier. The men wore expensive hats.

Now, I am going to walk to Santa Monica Blvd. and get the bus to my AA meeting.

September 12, 2006 – Tuesday

Just returned from my morning walk. 53 Dogs.

Today I walked with Corey Nelson, my realtor from Sotheby’s. Corey is a stunningly good-looking ex-Bruce Weber model. He and his girlfriend walk Runyon Canyon everyday. We decided to take the other, steeper path. On the way up it was difficult to talk because I was huffing and puffing like an old man. We made our way down the usual way yet, astonishingly, everybody at 8:30 seems very social—most people say a warm hello. I suspect that this is because Corey has perfect pecs and abs.

Later, I had a conference call with my manager, lawyer and producer of Dorian. It was the same old story. Arclight stalling, Carl failing, Effie dealing. Carl is the guy who a year ago came on board to raise more money for the film. He seems to spend most of his time on vacation. His big, bovine head grinning inanely. His LA teeth catching the sun. He agrees with anything anyone says. If I did not have the rooms of AA I would be tearing my hair out but this is God’s plan and I have to put up with it. I really don’t worry about it. Art comes when it is ready. It is born out of confusion.

If I choose to make unconventional films in an unconventional way I must expect there to be no convention.

September 13, 2006 – Wednesday

I did not count the dogs on Runyon Canyon. I saw the Russians with the baby and they all said hello. The cute boy with the hat totally ignored me. The lesbians said a cautious hello.

It was a cool, tranquil morning.

As I began my leisurely decent, deep in the wooded part of the Canyon a man started screaming. He was furious, angry against the world. I tried to see what he looked like but he was hidden under a canopy of trees. He was like a monkey in the rain forest letting everyone know that he was there. “Shut up you crazy fuck!” somebody called out to him but it was half hearted—they understood why he was screaming. He was screaming for all of us.

Yesterday was such a day of extremes. Corey took me to see another house. It was a house owned by an Italian writer in Beverley Hills. A beautiful modernist house designed by Georgescu in 1958, sadly it had a ropey view. After the viewing Corey dropped me off at the Key Club AA meeting. I stayed for half of it then walked to my 1pm meeting at the Chateau Marmont.

When I got home I planned to take a nap, but I ended up having a long chat with my manager about Dorian instead.

Later, John picked me up in his jag and we headed off to the AA meeting on Robertson. I put my hand up and I shared about my walks on the mountain. I told them that I was going where the love was. I hinted that I had found God in the mountains—that I was humbled by the mountains. I do my best in AA, which is all I can do.

John and I had a late dinner at The Chateau. Chris Rock was hanging about the lobby—apparently stood up by Courtney Love. I sat with Jessica Simpson briefly—she looked AMAZING. That girl has the most perfect skin.

September 15, 2006 – Friday

22 dogs. One young man applauding his Jack Russell for taking a piss. “That’s amazing Billy!” he commended.

I have been organizing my Itunes library. 22 days of songs. The new itunes 7 reveals previously unseen album covers on my lap top-suddenly I am excited again by my music collection, flicking through all the music I have. Seeing old friends—like Alice Cooper’s Billion Dollar Baby—the first ever album I bought. I was at boarding school in Dorset listening to Alice Cooper from my bedroom overlooking the verdant English countryside—I always have been a bit bi-polar.

I liked being at that school. I learned how to make cheese, chutney, jam, milk cows and learnt all about Jason and the Argonauts. Saw a dead badger by the side of the road and when I pulled its tail the thing came off in my hands—I was 13. Country people are not scared of dirt or death. We would camp outside on the lawns and learn to listen to the earth. The school was called Monkton Wyld Court—a beautiful gothic, Pugin inspired rectory. I remember horseback riding in the snow, my fingers frozen onto the reigns. I remember learning to play the piano. Where are those skills? Stored away just in case. Stored away with the detailed maps of Sydney and Paris and Glasgow or Cannes. Stored with my times tables. 7×8=56 Remember that one and you’ll be fine. 8×8=64. Stored with descriptions of Renaissance Art and Golden Rules.

Yesterday I had a gentleman caller—no sex. Just being held is all I require lately. My new maid started. Angela was here when Virgil the gentleman caller arrived. Virgil and I sat on the roof and listened to our respective stories. He has three dogs and a daughter. Is that a deal breaker? Angela laughed when I followed after her putting all the ornaments, candles etc back in the correct places.

September 17, 2006 – Sunday

Sunday, day of no walks on Runyon Canyon. No dogs to count, no fat to burn. No.

Runyon Canyon Emergency! Yellow notices posted all over the waste bins, the seats, the notice boards and on Myspace. Attention Everyone! The Parks and Recreation Department want to build a car park at the foot of the Canyon.

Why can’t people just walk to the Canyon? I walk to the Canyon. I walk everywhere. I really love walking LA. I love peering closely at palm trees, I like nosing into gardens. I like taking alternative routes. When I was a small boy I walked in my pyjamas from Whitstable to Herne Bay. When I had my drug problem I walked so hard from Kensington to Soho that all my toes turned purple from the bruising.

September 18, 2006 – Monday

Yesterday, by 10 am, I had already met a handsome black realtor off of the internet. I made it crystal clear that I did not want to have sex. He swung by in his flashy BMW and we headed to the farmers market on Vine where I bought 8 huge organic peaches which are ripening in a pale green bowl in the sitting room as I write.

At night, I got the oddest phone call from my friend Tim in NYC. Tim is a 26-year-old Whitstable lad who has done very well for himself as a sort of live in life coach for a very rich Jewish American family. He told me that Danny Gallagher was dead.

Danny, another young Whitstable boy, was badly hurt in car wreck just before I came back to LA. It seems that he got some sort of infection in the hospital and never recovered. “I don’t know how I feel about it, Dunc.” Tim said. I felt exactly the same. You see, I have an affection for those rough Whitstable boys, but it is not always comfortable bumping into them as they drunkenly make their way up Island Wall. Danny, when he was younger, was very homophobic. He would sit outside the Neptune and sneer at local gay man Duncan. But, last year, we sat down and talked and he asked about my life and I listened to his story. His brother had died of cancer. From that moment on he always went out of his way to come say hello and ask how I was doing. I love those rough Whitstable boys. I always have. I am, after all, a rough Whitstable boy who just, for the time being, lives in LA.

So, Danny Gallagher is dead and I am sorry for that. Finally stumbled into bed at 12.30. I am going to collect my new desk today and write…and go to the gym…and think about rough Whitstable boys.

September 20, 2006 – Wednesday

76 dogs. A great deal of unchecked poo.

I have a distant memory of a steam train roaring into Whitstable. I remember the smell, the acrid smell of burning coal. The diesel trains that ran between Wolverhampton and Shrewsbury stank so badly even on the coldest day we kept the windows open. I thought we were lucky not to live in the age of coal smoke but we live in the age of exhaust fumes and the sound of the 101, the 405, and the M2.

Yesterday Steve the beautiful actor came with his huge car and we drove to Bonham’s to collect my new desk. When I got it home I was so excited because I had to rearrange my sitting room to accommodate it. I LOVE rearranging; it is and has always been my greatest pleasure. I filled the draws and set out my lucky desk creatures: my lucky bird, my lucky cow, my lucky Jesus, my lucky saint. It is, I am certain, the gay gene that determines that I know how to scatter cushions and place ornaments in such a way that when Greg Yeardye popped over last night he said: “You have such great taste.” Darling Phil used to berate me for talking about home décor rather than deal with any problem we might have. Even when I was in prison my cell was perfectly clean and rearranged and the other prisoners would stop by and hang out.

September 21, 2006 – Thursday

It is too dark to go for my walk. Ten minutes to six. Silence. The fridge groaning and shuddering in the kitchen. Lucky Jesus on my desk peering at me with his one good eye. He is made of mercury glass, he has a painted white face and red lips. Lucky Jesus is holding a chalice in the folds of his robes. I bought him in Romania in a tiny antiques store, I think I paid a dollar for him.

At his feet, propped up on my new desk, are the only two photographs of my Father that I own. In one of these black and white photographs my Father is leaning against the railings over looking Margate beach. This photograph was taken in the summer of 1959. My Father is looking directly at the camera; he has a wry smile on his tanned face. On what is obviously a baking hot, high summer holiday the beach is packed with British sunbathers. The other photograph of my father is very odd. He is holding a gun, perhaps it is only a toy, but he is pointing it at a boy’s back. The boy has his hands up in surrender. In both pictures my father is exquisitely groomed and perfectly dressed. He is wearing well cut trousers, a crisp white shirt and in the first he is wearing a plain, straight tie. In both he looks very Persian, he must have been quite exotic for the North Kent coast in 1959. I bet he knew how to look after himself. I wish that I had met him just once. Even though he was, by all accounts, a difficult man.

Yesterday I went to the DGA and watched, for the first time, The Picture of Dorian Gray on the big screen. I saw, for the first time, that it really worked. Oh thank GOD. Now we can put it back into a box until all of the financial problems are resolved. From now on I am going to concentrate on the property I want to buy.

After the fantastic screening I had some very nasty phone calls from a deranged English man I know who has substance abuse problems. He said that he wanted to kill me. So, I had to spend time talking to the police and lawyers and I will, unfortunately, have to deal with this today. Thankfully, after the first mad call, I had the foresight to record the second abusive, threatening rant. This second homo-phobic, racist, violent, death-threatening call lasted for over 17 minutes. My father would carry a small recording device everywhere he went for just such an occurrence.

My third date with Sunday Internet Man. We explored The Grove and finally we just sat in his Mercedes and cruised the hills, exploring the tiny, winding roads around Beachwood Canyon. It was very romantic. We stopped in at mine for an hour and he rubbed my back and shoulders with his strong hands until I slept.

September 22, 2006 – Friday

The mountain was so fresh and breezy this morning. I saw, at least, six blue jays. 54 dogs. All of the Russians said good morning. Unusually a couple kept pace with me through out my walk. They discussed James Blunt, he told her about his job as a writer on some TV show and she told him with a rather embarrassed laugh that all of the guys she dated in college were now gay. She couldn’t understand her “super power,” so I turned and I said, “Perhaps gay men know how to listen. Perhaps they want to hear what you have to say.” She looked at me askance for a moment. A stranger was talking to her. Then she replied, “Yes, perhaps that is true.”

September 23, 2006 – Saturday

I went to an AA meeting instead of taking my walk.

You know, believe it or not, I did not get sober to make films, buy more stuff, get a better job, make friends, have more sex, get a partner or a bigger house. I stopped drinking and taking drugs 9 years ago so that I could sleep easy at night. All I wanted was a life without fear. I got sober for one reason: I wanted Peace of Mind.

Yesterday, Peter YBH collected me for Breakfast. At the table beside us a young woman was wearing a T-shirt that said in bold black letters: “I’M NOT INTERESTED” over her huge nip tuck tits. I went up to her and said, “Oh, I’ve got a tee shirt like that, it says, ‘I HATE EVERYONE.’” She laughed, “I like that, where can I get one of those?”

I should have said that I had a T-shirt that said “I suck black cock.”

I don’t have either of those T-shirts.

I was in bed by midnight. Daniel the roommate, by the way, has disappeared.

September 24, 2006 – Sunday

45 dogs, 1 screaming Chinese infant. Happy Russians. Many isolated, miserable looking ‘attractive’ 30 something white folk. Squirrels noisily harvesting what ever they can find in the palm trees. The sun is shining. LA looking marvelous.

I feel unencumbered today, like I used to when I first got sober. I don’t think that it is truly possible to explain the feeling of being in one’s own body after having such a profound sense of being emotionally AWOL. After years of what can only be described as an out of body experience, re-entering ones own skin, inhabiting ones own head is such a RELIEF. Of course I still have the occasional, odd moments when I desire not to be me. To run away and hide, lost in the tsunami, surfacing twenty years from now in a white Panama hat in some obscure fishing village in South America. I think about what it felt like not be me when I had that other name. I thought about it there on the mountain this morning.

September 25, 2006 – Monday

6am. The sun rising over LA. I saw: 15 Dogs, The Chinese Man running backwards. I met and walked with Denny the interior designer and Regina his 8-month-old puppy with topaz eyes. We both admitted to praying on our walk on the mountain. Today I prayed for serenity and a moderate disposition.

September 29, 2006 – Friday

San Francisco

I am on my way back to LA from San Francisco today. I used to say, on my way ‘home’ but of late I do not feel like LA is home. Whitstable is home. Whitstable is my home where I live and I will die. I keep dreaming about what I will take back to London with me when I go. The art, that’s all. I will take that wonderful collection I have amassed so quickly.

San Francisco is totally unlike LA, which is a scummy shithole with no friendly faces, that stinks of rotting avocado, which smells like semen. I over reacted. I love LA. No I don’t. I am there to finish my film. If that’s the case I may be there a few more years.

October 1, 2006 – Sunday

A sluggish start to this Sunday morning. I was up and down the mountain by 8am. I only counted 27 dogs. Almost everyone said hello. I was wearing red. Everyone says hello when I wear my red hoody.

It was on this day ten years ago that I got sober and stayed sober and did not have another alcoholic drink one day at a time. No wine with dinner, no glass of champagne at New Years. Nothing. On this day ten years ago I made my way from Adam and Eve Mews in Kensington to my first AA meeting. I weighed 50 lbs lighter, I was wearing a black Dolce coat, a black polo neck sweater and I was driving a brand new pea green Porsche. Within two years all of those fancy trappings had gone. Before I got sober I could not leave the beautiful house for more than ten paces, black discharge drained out of my nose onto my white shirts, I was desperate, broken and alone.

Today is also my stepfather’s birthday—a hideous coincidence.

October 2, 2006 – Monday

Pink clouds drifting over LA this morning smeared onto the pale blue sky. 26 dogs. Triathlon boy with amazing calves.

On the mountain two ordinary women were discussing Iraq, “Attacks on US servicemen have gone up from 1 to 100 a day.” I put that situation to the back of my mind.

My 10th year AA anniversary was mostly quite dull—no fanfare. Many people called to congratulate me. I suppose that it is some sort of achievement. I suppose.

I was in bed by 12. This time next week I will be in London. Already I have delicious things planned. Must remember to take autumn coats and good shoes.

October 3, 2006 – Tuesday

22 dogs. I wore a hat. Most everyone said good morning.

I saw the elderly Ukrainian couple who stand on the corner of my street. They greet me politely. They must be 70 years old, no taller than 5’4. They have dark, tough, wrinkled skin. They look like the circus performers Diane Arbus used to photograph. They wait there patiently every morning. She wears a heavy coat and carries an old fashioned handbag. He smokes unfiltered cigarettes, his pants and shirt are beautifully pressed. This morning they were still waiting when I got back from my walk. I asked what they were doing but she said, “Speaky no inglis”.

Yesterday. Went to lunchtime AA meeting. To my profound irritation I could not get hold of any of my closest friends. Tried calling and e-mailing and texting but nobody replied. It felt like I was stalking my friends! Sascha seemed to have just vanished. Maria, who always returns my calls, vanished. Dom, Ian and Peter: vanished. Sent article to Eric—no reply. He’s new so doesn’t realize. By the evening I was exceedingly grumpy and paranoid.

By 7ish most people had replied but by that time the damage was well and truly done.

I was seething.

I decided the best way to deal with my irritation was to walk to Neal Spectre’s house near the Peninsular Hotel in Beverly Hills for his Yom Kippur celebration. I walked all the way down Sunset then turned left near Rodeo. Stepping off of the busy road and into those expensive streets. It is so quiet around there. I passed no one, not one other pedestrian. The hiss of the water sprinklers misting the lawns to keep me company.

October 4, 2006 – Wednesday

This morning, at 6.30am I saw a great big hawk. A beautiful bird of prey intelligently surveying the world around it. The bird watched me pass the Ukrainian peasant people on the corner of the street. I did not care how many dogs I passed.

Good walk, good meeting then a great screening at the DGA for buyers. They loved the film—loved it. What more could I want? They understood it, loved the style.

I walked home from the DGA, which is less than half a mile.

Then I began to read the last few weeks of my diary. Recognizing the miserable truths. There is no grand declaration I can make that I can honestly stick to. Will I choose inappropriate people to pin my hopes on in the future? Certainly I will. Will I spontaneously fly across the world to see someone I think I can love? Yes. Will I always be the subject of my own mythology? Certainly. This is the way it is.

October 6, 2006 – Friday

Yesterday, Romaine, my friend from Nice, came to the house whilst I did the laundry and we drank coffee and killed time before I prepared to meet Amanda in Bel Air.

I had been invited via Amanda by Sandy to: A pre-Halloween celebration: “Dinner of the Dead Poets”.

THE INVITATION:

‘It will be held at my ranch in the Santa Ynez Valley on the night of the full moon.

This will be a formal, black tie and ball gown, dinner for just 12 people. I know that you possess both the imagination and the wardrobe to be an important guest at this artistic evening. Please come dressed as a dead poet and bring a poem to recite, which was written by the character you have chosen.

In order to facilitate your transportation needs, I would like to send my plane to bring you to Santa Ynez (a 30 minute flight from Santa Monica airport, leaving at about 4:30 PM) and to return you back to Los Angeles before midnight on the 5th’.

So, that is what we did. I decided to dress as and read from Oscar Wilde. As a dead Oscar I interpreted the event accordingly. I wore Miu Miu knickerbockers, my new Dior jacket and long pink stockings with red shoes. Thank God I took my huge aubergine silk velvet scarf that Tania Sarn gave me and threw it over my head. It was freezing!

On the way there I sat next to the pilot, which was wonderful watching the journey unfold in front of me. I was not at all frightened. It was like having goggles on underwater. I can’t swim without goggles because my biggest fear is the unknown. On the way back I sat in the back and I felt every bump—it was scary just because I couldn’t see.

When we got to the tiny airport we were chauffeured twenty minutes to a contemporary house that looked like a vert de gris Mayan Temple.

The really great find of the evening was Bo, our hostess’s 25-year-old son, who is a friend of Oscar’s. He drove me, at great speed, in his turbo Porsche to the party, which was set in a vineyard ten minutes from the house. Charming, sweet boy.

We ate in the winery, which had been beautifully decorated for the occasion. The twelve of us sat under a diaphanous golden awning. We all had our photographs taken. We then ate amazing organic food that had been fedexed from Ohio. There was a small band that played suitably dead music and a young woman sang gently in the background. Spookily the accordion player looked EXACTLY like Vivian Westwood. Our hostess was charming and funny and dressed as a 9th century Chinese poet.

After dinner the car came and we were flown home. In bed by 1:30 am.

This morning there were 41 dogs on the Canyon path—four of them belonging to Peter D., who I bumped into as they were leaving the park. I heard him before I saw him, as did the other concerned walkers who exchanged worried looks at the sound of this man screaming at his dogs. He was shouting at one of his small Yorkies to get back on the path. Peter K. in tow.

I cheerily said hello and kissed them both. We were all a bit too sweaty for that kind of greeting. He asked about the film and apologized for not returning my calls. It was at this moment that I began to have a sort of out of body experience. My outer me saying, “LEAVE, walk away from the area, don’t tell him anything, just get out of there as quickly as you can.” My actual body is now fully engaged in conversation, I began to tell him about Sandy’s party I went to last night. He snapped, “She’s a NIGHTMARE, she killed two people on Everest!” I did not react. I just looked carefully as him and began to gently erase him out of the picture. I felt rather sorry that he was so angry. “I rather liked her,” I said. “We had a wonderful time”. He just looked at me as if to say of COURSE you would like some one like that. “I’ve got a meeting at the Palisades.” He barked at Peter K. who was pulling twigs off of the dog. Peter D., angry before I got there—I bet he’ll be angry all day. He was wearing lurid pink underwear.

October 8, 2006 – Sunday

Friday was another day of boring lawyers and stuff that I simply had to get on and deal with. Signing with new agency, management, publicist and lawyers in one foul swoop. All of that palaver had to be handled by the time I leave for London tomorrow. It had to be done. A new broom.

Today went to 8am AA meeting. No walk. Coffee in Urth café with Will.

Alexa came with me to Bonham’s to view the Sunset Estate Sale and guess who I bumped into! Peter D. He was outraged!! He said, “I don’t appreciate that you wrote about me in your BLOG. I’ve never trusted you. Ten years ago, I said, ‘I like him but I don’t trust him’. I didn’t have to be pleasant to you first thing in the morning. Showing off about your party.”

This indignant tirade about my blog, which one of my helpful readers had passed onto Peter D by e-mail. How speedily news travels! Then he changed tack and huffed and puffed about how ‘grateful’ he was to me for alerting him to the dangers of gossip. Alexsa, listening in, just laughed as discreetly as she could out of Peter’s view. It took will power not to laugh at his pathetic tantrum there in the middle of Bonham’s. Paulo, sitting behind the desk, asked us three times to leave the foyer.

“Was anything I said made up?” I asked. “No,” he flamed.

“Then how have I been untrustworthy?”

“You’re right, I shouldn’t gossip,” he said.

“So it was you that was untrustworthy?” I asked calmly.

As I tuned back into his diatribe he said, “How many people did she kill on Everest? Was it two or three?” As he was unable to let the story go I thought that I should, at least, defend my hostess as she had been so generous to me. Armed with a little information from the Internet I said, “What proof do you have that she killed any people on Everest? From what I can gather the worst thing she did was have a copy of Vogue sent up the mountain. If any one of your society friends whom you DO approve of had done that you might very well of thought it humorous. The worst thing Sandy did, as far as you and the bunch of piranhas you hang out with are concerned—is survive.” At that point he totally capitulated and resorted to petty insults.

The great thing about this blog is that I find out very quickly whom I can depend on. Those who loathe being mentioned are usually snotty ex pat Brits who are embarrassed to know me. People who dip into my life to see what is going on but too embarrassed to say that they have been there. Like visiting mad people at Bedlam.

The fact is, I have never felt very comfortable around Peter. He insists on making totally unprovoked bitchy jibes. “Darling, you need to get my boyfriend to give you botox.” His best friend is a camp, Greek illustrator with an active drink problem who battles Peter in some vile post-modern contest to see who can be more offensive. Peter lives a metaphysical farce.

He is consequently a very angry and resentful man. Of course I know exactly why, but THAT is something I would never, ever write here.

October 11, 2006 – Wednesday

LONDON

Pouring rain. Soho House.

I left LA on Sunday after the Bonham’s Sunset sale. I bought an African head dress. I don’t know why. I love auction rooms; they have a very calming effect on me.

We flew into London over Kew, the pagoda there is so pretty and I realised that what I missed most about home when I am in the US are these great acts of public generosity made for the greater good of the people. We have so much to love about our towns and cities, so much that distinguishes them from each other. In LA we have the HOLLYWOOD sign. LA is a one-postcard town.

I headed into Soho on the bus through torrential, almost tropical, rain and ended up in Soho House sitting with Nick Love who I have not seen for a couple of years. He was sitting quietly reading the Sun and drinking a cup of tea. Nick and I were at film school in Dorset ten years ago and at that time and for a few years after we had a pretty intense, inseparable friendship. The same sort of co-dependant friendship that I had with Richard Green during most of my twenties. These homoerotic, non-sexual, highly charged friendships I associate most with my alcoholism. I have had them with both women and men and they usually end very badly. They are creatively and emotionally explosive but regardless of the outcome, for me, have been the greatest relationships of my life.

When Nick left we gave each other the hugest hug. I kissed him on the neck.

I took the tube to the Frieze art fair where I met Bettina who is organising the press for Dorian. Bumped into and chatted warmly with Tracy Emin, Benedict Taschen, Max Wigram, Simon English, Sam Hodgkin, Paul Kasmin and many, many others. Apart from Benedict, I have known most of these people for most of my adult life. It felt very good to embrace all of them. We are getting older and less ambitious. That is a very good thing. Saw Jay from afar but can still not bring myself to say hello.

Later, I met Christian and his blonde friend from university. The friend wanted, very amusingly to get “fucked in the arse.” He was adamant but we remained at the bar and Christian and I just jawed for hours about LA and London and the relative values of each city. The friend, eager for a stuffing persuaded us to go to a tacky gay bar a few streets away where a toothless drug dealer tried to sell us cocaine and pills. I was wearing Dior so had no intention of staying in that ghastly place for long.

Christian, realising that I was in no mood for gams and the young took me to Trisha’s on Dean St, which is a basement room with pictures of the Pope on the wall. An old fashioned speak easy. It was rather wonderful. Chatted about ‘The Queen’ and Diana of Wales and soap operas. When we ran out of cash we headed over to Soho House where we met Alan Cummings and the cast of Bent. We hung out with them until 3 in the morning and then I took the night bus home. Briefly thought about taking a cab as a bunch of Asian youths were brawling on the street and I was wearing red shoes but thought better of it and caught a number 38 which took me directly to Phil’s. Crept into bed. Slept like a log.

The following day I had tea with my brand new obsession de jour–Harry C. We walked from Regent’s Park to the Dover Street Hotel and sat in the lobby, now remodelled, where Scott Crolla and I used to go when Crolla still existed. The high tea with scones etc. cost $150. Absurd. Harry is a blonde, willowy, 25 year old Etonian with the sweetest disposition. Married. Lives in Paris. Beautiful.

October 17, 2006 – Tuesday

Sunday. Chelsea.

Spent all day in bed with a horrid cold. Both Phil and I blighted with aching limbs and throbbing heads late last night. Isn’t that odd to get simultaneous colds? I couldn’t think of a better place to be ill than here with Phil. We are in beds at opposite ends of the house. I can hear people arriving upstairs, I can hear Moffy leaving the house with her chums, then hours later her footsteps in the hall, chattering about her adventures.

When I was in prison I began writing a novel. It was as if today had been a perfect slice of that novel only on that fictional afternoon there was snow on the ground. Snow on our boots. Fresh snow. I just lay here all day and felt incredibly safe. Nothing could hurt me here in this room. Here in this huge house, sleeping where the cook probably slept once upon a time. Here in this room I do not have to deal with liars or the disingenuous or the black dust that settles on everything in LA. I do not have to climb a mountain to find my serenity.

October 18, 2006 – Wednesday

Back in LA, resident alien. Sick as a dog. I spent all day chasing North Dillon St once again. Fuck. That house has fallen out of escrow three times. I really love it. What is God doing to me?

When I got home last night I rearranged the house. I was meant to be eating with Devon and Aleksa but ended up franticly rearranging books and the mantle piece. I was naked. The curtains were not drawn. I did not care.

The day before I left for LA I had to haul my sorry ass down to Whitstable. I had a goodbye breakfast with Phil and Paul at the Mona Lisa. Whitstable gossip included: the Barratt girl (toughest family in Whitstable) had smashed Shivonne Hewlett in the face at the pub because Shivonne had stolen the Barrett’s boy friend who is down to the final eight on X Factor. The Barrett girl had then sold her story to the Sun and filled the ex-boy friend’s piano with tuna.

Bumped into the Barrett girl outside Dave’s deli sitting with two girl friends, suddenly she looked very glamorous as if a dose of minor celebrity really suited her. Oblivious to her recent brush with notoriety I told her how wonderful she was looking. Apparently, according to them, X factor is all a fix because Shivonne’s mother, Therese, is a friend of Sharon Osborne’s.

What a load of bollocks.

As fate would have it Monday was Danny Gallagher’s funeral so I took my life in my hands and decided to go to the wake, which was happening up at the Marine Hotel in Tankerton. When I got there I realized that there was not much building, plastering or plumbing going on in North East Kent that day as every builder, plasterer and plumber for miles around had found themselves a black suit and was now eating pork pies in the paved area at the back of the Marine. Saw Ronnie, the antiques dealer, who owes me £100. Poor Stuart, the plasterer, was given a very hard time—when I arrived his friends raised a huge chorus of light hearted jeers, as I had once very loudly told all of his mates that I thought he was one of the best looking men in Whitstable. I think that crown now belongs to Andy, the electrician, who although a bit dull is very cute.

Finally I made my way home but not before three other people had told me the Barrett/Hewlett story and how Sharon Osborne was fixing it at X Factor.

October 20, 2006 – Friday

Ashton Kutcha

5.45am

Back in LA. I still have had the flu. Sitting in germ soup on the plane sandwiched between two of the most miserable women alive did not help. What, you may ask, was I doing in the back of the plane? Can’t be bothered to explain that drama.

I am spluttering phlegm all over my laptop as I write. Consequently, due to illness, I have not been up to much. Invitations to LA fashion week went unanswered. Meant to be going to New York today but can scarcely move from my bed. I hate being ill. Ill means weak, ill means powerless, ill means unable to climb the mountain. Stalling at the base.

Thankfully I am sleeping well. In bed by 9.30 last night. It is cold in the apartment at night though. I am sitting here wrapped in a pale blue shawl like a little old lady. I could just turn on the heat. Won’t do it, too British, old fashioned, put on another jersey or climb into bed.

Spent Wednesday evening at home instead of going to parties. Sweating hot and cold.

On Thursday morning, my friend Hillary popped by for a cup of tea. It was great to see her and for the next hour and a half we luxuriated in a trough of delicious gossip. By the time she left I felt bloated on our feast of The Misfortune of Others. It was very, very naughty.

Later, after 18 months of messing around, I walked two blocks from my house and I hired a car. I was so weak and had so much to do I could not stomach buses, taxis or walking.

The moment I pulled away from the strip mall in my rented car I became a Californian.

Even though I was stuck in traffic listening to a mad misogynist I was pleased not to be on the hot streets negotiating the cracked pavements and the cracked out pedestrians.

October 26, 2006 – Thursday

Last night, Michael and I drove to the Hollywood sign where a rather odd 40th birthday party was taking place. A drum circle, fire pit, belly dancers and women on stilts. Met a couple of actors, a rocket scientist and a comedienne. After a couple of hours of not really engaging and some spicy chicken wings I walked home.

The Canyon. It was pitch black until 7am this morning. Pitch black. The air was cold and damp. As usual the small Armenian couple were out there on the corner. As usual they were not speaking, as usual he was smoking, as usual it was she who said “good morning.” I could smell the aromatic tobacco from the gate. Everything about these two was as I had left them two weeks ago except she was wearing lipstick on her thick, old lips. I suddenly wondered why she had made that decision, this morning, looking in the mirror and I wondered if she had put lipstick on for him, the silent dwarf.

October 30, 2006 – Monday

The sky is grey but it is not cold. The clocks fell back on Sunday so I can climb the mountain at 6am and it’s not going to be pitch black. Today, there were mostly women on the path. 23 dogs. The craggy dwarves were on the corner of my street, she was wearing lipstick…again. He looked very carefully at me when I greeted his wife. Apparently they wait there to be collected for day care. There goes my maid/butler fantasy.

I came home to the smell of fresh coffee and pineapple. I am really loving where I live, at just the moment I am about to pack up and leave. Isn’t that always the way? I spend hours rearranging the furniture, the rugs, the bits and pieces that I have hauled in my luggage to this town to make myself feel better about being here. A big bowl of green apples and papaya on my mirrored table gives me more pleasure than anything I can describe. On a cloudy day like today in LA when there is a certain chill in the air I relax a little more than I usually do. Like taking a roast leg of lamb out of the oven. The juices seem to settle.

On Saturday morning I called JA who has cancer. I dreaded calling her, as she has been so understandably angry of late. But for the first time since she knew how ill she was she sounded really optimistic, joyful even. She spends two weeks in Germany being treated for cancer then flies back to Mexico to build her houses. She really is an amazing woman. She told me that she would be spending Christmas in London with her children and I wondered, of course I did, if it would be her last Christmas and if it was then London is the perfect place to be.

October 31, 2006 – Tuesday

This morning, the polite Latvian dwarves were not standing silently on the corner of El Cerrito Place waiting for their ride to the day care facility. They were at home screaming at each other in Latvian. Rather, I saw the old woman dressed in a floral, floor length house coat on her 5th Floor balcony screaming back at what could only have been the silent husband. She held, in her right hand, a long carving knife. She kicked thuggishly at her screen door on her way back into the apartment. I lingered on the street for a few minutes wondering what would happen next but I really did not want her to clock me out there on the street listening to them…to her. Aleksa told me that the old lady was well known for screaming, everybody knew about her on the street. I was so sad. She had always been so polite to me. “Good morning,” she would say softly, reverentially.

Amazingly I got ‘looked’ at today on Runyon Canyon by somebody quite cute. Even though I knew I would never act on it just being looked at in that way gave my day a tiny kick-start. When ever I get my beard going I am looked at all the time. My woollen beany over my eyebrows and a big bushy beard and I get looked at.

So that I might try and fix my feelings in a positive way I caught a bus to the coffee bean on Sunset and Fairfax and ordered a blended caramel frapaccino. I sat outside on the chilly patio and watched a homeless man trying to get food or money from who ever would listen. The people he begged from were polite but he didn’t manage to get anything from any of them. Finally, he sat down at one of the empty tables opposite me and picked shreds of thick black skin off of the soles of his feet that he then placed carefully on to the table. I will never, ever drink a caramel frapaccino ever again.

I went to two AA meetings yesterday after the homeless foot skin incident; I went to one at 5:15 and another at 7:45. The first made me feel OK the second compounded the feelings of utter misery. In between the two meetings I managed to cram in a screaming conversation with both my realtor and the realtor of the house that I am meant to be buying. Buying houses is a shit experience in LA. Shit.

I was in bed by 11.00

November 3, 2006 – Friday

Ate dinner last night with Ian at Chateau Marmont. Sat next to Geoffrey Rush. We then bowled over to the BAFTA/LA awards at Century Plaza. Sharon had a ticket for me for dinner and the celebrations. Stephen Fry hosting the event very amusingly. Dustin Hoffman, Tim Robbins and Forest Whitaker presenting awards to Sidney Poitier, Rachel Weisz, Anthony Minghella and Clint Eastwood. The awards were good but the party afterwards felt like a suburban dinner and dance just like I remember my parents going to when I was a kid. Blousy women wearing too much make up, too many sequins, the men in moth eaten tuxedos. The invitation should have read: Join BAFTA/LA to honour Hollywood icon Clint Eastwood with a dinner and dance in the Hove Cricket Club situated behind the gas works.

We ended the evening at Hollywood Social at Aldomovar party where drunk, gay Sony Classic publicist made a fool of himself.

November 7, 2006 – Tuesday

I collected Johnny T. from airport this weekend. Dropped his stuff off at his hotel in Century City, then ate dinner at Chateau M. Saw Steve Garbarino and his girl friend Maddy sitting with Val Kilmer. Steve congratulated me on the piece I’d written for him about Oscar Wilde. I loved writing it. I used to write for The Sunday Times Style Section when Tim was editor. When I arrived at Steve’s table I made that terrible cliché of an error of thinking that I already knew Val Kilmer and asked enthusiastically how he was doing and what he was doing next, before realizing that I did not know him at all. The last time I did that was to Diana Ross in First Class from Cannes to London. OH GOD. How foolish.

When I got home I paid my Canterbury City Council tax over the phone. I then realized that as a single man I was entitled to a 25% discount that I had asked for some time ago but had not been applied to my account. Consequently I have been overpaying my Council Tax for 6 years. They owe me 6x£300=£1,800. When I complained they told me that I was not considered a Whitstable resident. NOT A WHITSTABLE RESIDENT? I immediately contacted my lawyers.

November 8, 2006 – Wednesday

The afternoon was spent listlessly trying to tie up loose ends. Tried getting back my DVD from Doug Christmas who is a nightmare of a human being.

Dinner at the Chateau with MR turned into a bit of a fiasco when he overslept and I was left table-hopping, which can sometimes be fun, but all I really wanted to do was hang out with Sharon. Saw Diego Luna who I am having breakfast with this Thursday. Saw Steve Garbarino who showed me the mock up for the edition of Blackbook that I am in. It looks fantastic. He was dining with Chloe Sevigny.

November 10, 2006 – Friday

Graham Nash

This morning I lay in bed paying bills on-line and looking at pornography. I answered e-mails then hauled myself out of bed, into my shorts and onto the street. The Canyon was quite eventful, bumped into David Thomas and his boyfriend. Then, hard on David’s heels, I bumped into the Peters. Peter D. scuttled past me like a reptile but dear, sweet Peter K. gave me a big hug. That man is a class act.

A dorky straight couple held up a picture of a non-descript dog, “Have you seen our dog Scruffy?” The plump male one whined. “We have lost our dog, Scruffy.” The female warbled out Scruffy’s name. If I were Scruffy I would be in some kind of witness protection program, living in Florida.

November 13, 2006 – Monday

Monday morning. The weekend was long and eventful. I did not climb the Canyon on Saturday or Sunday. This morning I woke at 6am, pulled on my shorts and thick tee shirt and began my walk. No dwarves, no screamers. I was so deep in thought I did not notice the view nor did I count the dogs. I was thinking about what I had, what I needed, what I wanted. I was thinking about Whitstable and how much I love it there. I was thinking about my friends and the cottage where I used to live. I was thinking about the over 60’s centre.

The weekend began last Friday lunch time at the Chateau M. When I arrived Steven Fry bellowed my name out over the garden. It was Veteran’s day so the poor dear at the desk had to spend the entire afternoon turning away ghastly looking civilians. However, one table of vulgar interlopers who would never usually be welcome in our little garden paradise had managed to get past him. They were pointing, staring at celebrities. The staff responded by ignoring them completely.

Bought groceries at Wholefoods and started cooking for Tiffany, Sharon, Houston, the Palladino’s and BIG MISTAKE my shallow gay neighbor and his ghastly friend. The gays giggled and made snide comments and one of them scarcely knew how to pick up a knife and fork. How can you be gay and not even know how to eat properly? I made it quite difficult for them to stay so they left before the pudding. Cooked sweet potato and sprouts, which I par boiled then threw into hot olive oil until the edges were singed like bubble and squeak. Chicken baked in red wine and bay leaves.

November 14, 2006 – Tuesday

7am. Yet again I missed the dwarves. I listened for her screaming but I could not hear her. The usually blue LA sky full of towering silver clouds. Downtown the fragile skyscrapers are scraping the sky. I passed the elderly Russians with the baby and a photograph of Scruffy with LOST written under his name, pinned to a fence. Scruffy, I fear, has gone forever.

November 15, 2006 – Wednesday

So hot today, already, at 8am. I feel delicate this morning, fragile even. My skin is uncomfortable on my fingers. Pins and needles. I remember my grand mother saying “pins and needles.” “Suck it and see” was another one of hers. I don’t suppose that I will ever see her alive again. I don’t want to see her. She is in her assisted living room in Herne Bay, stuffing food into her mouth that she can’t swallow. My grand mother is 96. I would like to say something to her. I would like to apologize. I just can’t seem to forgive my grandmother or my mother. I try to, God help me, I try to forgive them but I can’t. The last time I saw my Mother and Grand Mother was on Island Wall in Whitstable near the first cottage I owned. Nana was in her wheelchair. I kissed her. She had some food on her chin from the lunch she just ate. I am sitting here trying to forgive her.

I remember visiting her at her neat, seaside, semi-detached house in Herne Bay when I was a child. She had orange curtains in the spare room where I slept decorated with black reeds. I liked when the sun would shine onto them as everything in that room would have a warm orange glow. Before she went to bed she would lay the table for breakfast so that if I woke before her I would sit in the dining room quietly, the room smelling of sweet apples. Little boy delighted by the expectation of breakfast. The curtains drawn. I loved that house. I liked that the back garden was ordered, the lawn closely cut. In the wooden water butt I could pick at mosquito larvae that wriggled in the black water.

When I stayed with her I especially liked taking the bus on adventures to Reculver, Broadstairs and Ramsgate. I liked falling asleep in her lap. I liked the sharp smell of vinegar on fish and chips. I liked the junket she made with nutmeg.

Does she remember what joy she gave me when I was little? She is well looked after by my Mother who is a good daughter and Grand Mother herself.

I don’t really have much to do with my family nor they me. Without family that I can trust suits me fine. I no longer feel isolated. Thankfully I have God, a God of my understanding. I am never alone.

I have been so angry in the past. I am getting too old to be angry like a young man.

Yesterday I met Joe and Dom for a late dinner. We ate at the ghastly Wolfgang Puck restaurant in Beverly Hills. This was my second experience at this terrible place. The curried short ribs were disgusting. The chocolate soufflé was almost inedible. Thankfully I did not pay. Dom and Joe quizzed me about my burgeoning relationship with Sharon. Of course I am just as baffled as they are but I really like her, being with her. Connected.

November 17, 2006 – Friday

I just got back from my walk. It was far too late to find any serenity up there on the mountain; there were far too many chattering people. On the way down I slipped on the steep path—it was the first time. I wouldn’t want to break my hip, not here in America where nobody gives a shit.

I spent most of yesterday in bed critically unable to do anything. Spoke to sponsor who told me that taking a day off is fine, but lets face it: I have been taking “days off” for twenty years. All day I suffered sudden flash backs to obscure moments in my life. Most alarmingly I vividly remembered fetching the milk from the farmyard when I was at Shotton Hall School. Lugging churns of milk from the farm, freezing before sunrise, into the Land Rover. It set off a chain reaction of odd memories. Shotton memories ending with that fateful kiss with Linda, the member of staff who was subsequently fired for her “unprofessional” involvement with me.

The day before was great. I had lunch with Amanda at the Chateau. I adore her. She is such a chic, intelligent, funny, charming woman. Sat next to Jason Resnick from Focus who told me that I had lost weight. The beard is such a great way to fool people into thinking you have lost weight. He mentioned that he had seen Sharon making out with some guy at the New Yorker party the previous evening. That guy, of course, was me.

“I thought that you were gay”. He said. “If only it were that fucking simple,” I smiled. Somebody sent a picture to Sharon of us making out at the AFI party. We have become a very public couple.

That night I had dinner back at The Chateau M and met the utterly charming, handsome Stavros Nicharos and Carine Roitfeld, the editor of French Vogue. Dinner with Marilyn Heston, Ian Drew, saw Robbie Williams, Claire Danes, Hugh D’Ancy and others. Claire Danes found everything Hugh said very, very funny. I don’t remember him being THAT funny.

November 21, 2006 – Tuesday

The top of the Canyon was obscured by thick, low lying cloud. Met Glen Williamson and his new puppy. I hauled my ass up the hard way. The later one climbs the more screamers there are.

I’ve not written anything for three days. Such drama! Whilst I was having lunch, on Friday, with Merle Ginsberg in Beverly Hills somebody came into my house, pushed my maid and stole my laptop from my desk. Later that day the thief called me on my mobile phone demanding $2,000 to be put into a bank account. I can’t write anything more until the police have dealt with it. Thankfully, I learned many years ago to back everything up. Nothing vitally important has been lost. Most of my really important day-to-day information is stored on my Blackberry. Photographs will have to be reloaded but what the hell. I was more annoyed that my maid was reduced to tears. Poor thing, when I got home she was standing in the kitchen twisting her handkerchief in her hand, her face wet with tears. “Mister, a man came”. She sobbed.

The police were wonderful, really prompt and polite and interested. The two detectives were so different from British police who really don’t seem to give a damn. It was very impressive.

I had to somehow forget about the missing laptop and concentrate on feeding 12 people who were invited for dinner. Merle Ginsberg, Sharon Swart, Hilary Carver, Julie Delphy and her German boy friend, Marilyn Heston, Loren Beck, Aleksa and Devon for lamb and roasted beets which were DELICIOUS. Joe, Ian Drew (plus three) and Dom arrived after dinner with pudding and eggnog.

It was a remarkable success.

The following day I went to AA meeting then took JT to Brentwood for breakfast. Maury looked very busy. Met Sharon after breakfast but I was in shock about my lap top and unable to communicate effectively. We drove to Burbank in the truck and bought rugs at Ikea. I felt introspective. SS didn’t like me being so quiet so I went home and napped. We have not spoken since.

On Sunday I got up early and instead of my hike I went to the Hollywood farmers market where I bought more flowers. I saw KD Lang buying groceries. I then drove that huge truck to AA meeting in West Hollywood. An hour later, feeling very good about life I headed to the Grove to buy a new laptop at Apple. It took two hours but it was worth it. Met Dom at Barney’s where I bumped into Brian Ferry and his young wife. He looked great, she looks like Lucy. Dom insisted that we eat lunch in a nasty Beverly Hills diner. Why? Dom tried to convince me that he is on some sort of frugality drive which means that we have to eat at a cheap, ghastly diner. In fact he is spending all of his money taking JT to the Barbra Streisand Concert. He is obsessed with JT.

Buying chocolate in the chocolate store on Canon Dom and I saw a young Ethiopian girl with a pair of false red pumped lips like you some times see on celebrities here. At first we thought that they were real and dashed out of the store for a closer look but the girl took them off and Dom and I screamed how wonderful the false lips were and how much she looked like the “Dreadful Jocelyn Wildenstein”. “Yes! Oh my God how much like the dreadful ‘Bride of Wildenstein’ you look”. Dom chimed in. “That Wildenstein monster!” And, as if by some ghastly say it three times magic we noticed, sitting, eating a light lunch out side, not ten paces away was Jocelyn Wildenstein no longer enjoying a quiet bite whilst she listened to a morbidly obese queen and his svelte friend screaming about how vile she was. When we realized our catastrophic faux pas Dom just ran up the street. There is nothing more heartening than watching a fat man running.

On Sunday night I met my new neighbor and hung out at my place.

Yesterday had tea with S Fry at Chateau. Introduced him to Joe. Of course they got on like a house on fire. S Fry really loves Dorian. He looked a bit disheveled. Talked more about the Dam Busters.

Dinner, where else but the Chateau, with my friend Richard and others. Saw Michael Bellisario. Clare Staples joined our table briefly but after telling us that she had just spent 6 million dollars on her new house and that she only came down from her room because she thought that I was Duncan from the boy band Blue I lost interest in her. She wonders why she is single? Most probably because she has grown a cock and bathes in testosterone every night.

Don’t worry love, you’re buying a 6 million dollar house and you live in LA, you won’t be single for long.

P.S. Dom wrote these very funny revisions to todays blog…

I have taken the liberty of editing your blog entry:

On Sunday, I got up early and instead of my hike, I went to the Hollywood farmers market where I bought more flowers to cover the smell of my old roommate’s decaying body that I hid behind some drywall in the spare bedroom. I saw KD Lang buying groceries and told her how people often mistake me for her, but she seemed disinterested (maybe because she didn’t realize I used to be a woman). I then drove that huge truck to an AA meeting in West Hollywood. One hour and four donuts later, I headed to the Grove to buy a new laptop at Apple. It took two hours and several reminders that I was a film Director, but it was worth it. After trying to force Dom to eat at Koo Koo Roo, we strolled to a fun little diner in Beverly Hills (a beloved watering hole of Beverly Hills notables for decades). I devoured a huge burger and fries which left a greasy grin on my face upon completion. Dom is helping me learn the important lesson of frugality. He explained to me how saving in certain areas would give me more money to do fun things like going to the Barbra Streisand concert. He and Joe are going tonight and he promises to tell me all about it. I am not jealous of the beautiful friendship that has grown between Joe and Dom. I love them both and fully understand when Dom feels compelled to hang out with someone closer to his own age. Ended my Sunday at Barney’s where we met Bryan Ferry and his wife. He looked great, she looked beautiful, and their bodyguard that removed me from the building was charming (I got his number and promised to put him in my next movie).

….Dom chimed in. “the exotic Jocelyn Wildenstein!” And, as if by some ghastly say it three times magic we noticed, sitting, eating a light lunch out side, not ten paces away was Jocelyn Wildenstein no longer enjoying a quiet bite whilst she listened to a handsome impressionable young man and his older friend screaming about how vile she was. When we realized our catastrophic faux pas Dom just ran up the street. I was impressed by his speed and agility; I tried to run, but couldn’t, because I am in my 50s. I am asking Jocelyn to bring pudding to my next dinner party.

November 22, 2006 – Wednesday

dog/child

The canyon was virtually empty this morning as most people were packing or heading off on their Thanksgiving holidays. There were two scrapping dogs brawling in the dust. Their lesbian owners did almost nothing to separate them. Like CS who has a Great Dane most of them think that these creatures are their children and rather than pulling them apart like animals the lesbians were ‘negotiating’ with them.

Meet Princess the four legged dog/child that can be locked in the house for ten hours a day and eats its own shit. Taking a dog out for an hour each morning then locking them up in an apartment all day is frankly cruel. At least when CS brings her child/dog to LA she has bought it a huge dog run but most people who live here are just not that lucky. The same screwed thinking that makes ‘animal lovers’ imprison their dogs in tiny apartments with an hours exercise a day also makes them believe that eating a salad with a huge meal makes the meal healthier. As if eating lettuce cancels out all the damage a massive plate of pasta is doing to them before they haul their fat asses into their cars, up elevators or the path of least resistance.

I love Runyon Canyon, this morning it was quite chilly and grey. Silent. Green finches chasing each other. I always head up there feeling angry and resentful and return feeling peaceful and creative. If I don’t work out my resentments on the side of that mountain I work them out here in this blog.

Yesterday I ran errands, met Benjamin in the morning. We ate an early lunch and drank coffee in various locations all over town. I went to Silverlake to look at the house. I wish some one would buy it so that I could stop thinking about it. Jesse M called in the afternoon, a young actor I have not seen for ages. For reasons known only to himself he wanted to swing by the apartment. He arrived with another short, good looking 22-year-old ‘actor/producer’. I sat on my sofa wondering what the fuck they wanted. Apparently they wanted to meet me. Flirtatious, dangerous straight boys in my house. They knew Bryan Singer, Joel S and Bill Condon and now they knew me. I had invited Aleksa’s family for dinner so I was sitting in my apron and tending the oven as they told me all about their huge projects. Jesses’s sister is called Mindy and I think may be the wrestler who lives next door to Sharon.

At 7.30 the boys were still there and invited themselves to dinner. I fed ten people easily as I had massively over bought thinking that I could make enough for lunch today. Aleksa’s grandmother and grandfather Tony Palladino are amazing and I can only hope that if I ever make it to their age I will be as vibrant. Tony is the artist who created the Psycho logo for Hitchcock.

By 11 they were all gone so I went to bed. Getting tired of sleeping on my own. I want to fall in love.

November 24, 2006 – Friday

Thanks Giving

The Canyon was really chilly and bright this morning. I had to wear a hat, sweat shirt, tee shirt and long sweats so that my knees didn’t get cold. I think that I may fire up the boiler and burn off all the dust.

Yesterday was Thanksgiving which means nothing at all to a Brit like me. Turkey, buckles and puritans. To celebrate this greatest of all American hoidays Dom, Hillary, John and his girlfriend and I ate Thanksgiving lunch at some second rate restaurant in a huge Shopping Mall called The Grove. The food was inedible and I could have fed everyone there for half of what it cost me personally. It really annoys me to have to spend good money on bad food. What is the fucking point when one can cook great food effortlessly and cheaply? I should have stayed at John Wolf’s and eaten with the Palladino’s but I felt OBLIGED to eat with Dom. I hate feeling OBLIGED! In fact I hate holidays.

The morning started well enough: Hillary and I walked the Canyon straight up the hard way. I then drove around in search of an AA meeting as the one I wanted to go to was not available to me. Unable to find anywhere convenient I ended up at The Coffee Bean on Sunset where, amazingly, I had an impromptu AA meeting by the fire pit with other grateful recovering addicts who had also discovered that none of the usual venues were open for the holiday. I felt a bit weird holding hands and saying the serenity prayer in public. Apart from our little group holding hands there were ten other people drinking morning coffee at the Coffee Bean on Sunset including Paris Latsis and one of the Baldwin brothers who was playing backgammon in an outfit that could only be described as caramel.

Even though the eating part of our lunch was ghastly I am very fond of Dom so enjoyed talking about OJ Simpson, Netflix, dark meat versus white meat and the guy who plays Kramer on Seinfeld losing his temper on stage at the Laugh Factory and calling talkative black audience members ‘niggers’. Kramer then lamented the passing of lynching ‘niggers’. The Jews and the Blacks have always had difficulties with each other. Why?

After lunch I fled to the security of Beverly Hills and the huge house of Anastasia the Romanian eyebrow lady who was throwing a party with Merle Ginsberg’s sister. The house that eyebrows built nestled serenely in the most beautiful part of Beverly Hills. It was a delightful party with excellent food. I stuck my fingers down my throat, vomited up the lunch I had just eaten and started all over again. No I didn’t. I didn’t vomit but I did eat a second HUGE lunch, which I forced down my throat. It was SUPERB. Merle was on sparkling form. She introduced me to her gay friend who wrote Prêt e Porter for Altman who died yesterday. Look, we are all allowed to make at least one bad film and that was Altman’s. SORRY, but it’s true. I rather liked her sullen gay friend but he had one of those faces that looks as if he has just tasted something very, very sour. I call it ‘gay face’.

I cannot get enough of Merle. Her boyfriend was there who I met in the plane on the way to Sandy Pitman’s party. He looked completely different as he was not dressed as an Arab. I met Anastasia’s Romanian family who were adorable and thrilled that I had been to Constanza where they come from on the Black Sea. I met other friends of hers from Bucharest who knew all about the Elizabeth Hurley scandal. I met one beautiful girl who is a series regular on Nip Tuck who had seen The Method and knew my entire name. Ended the evening talking more to gay face and an Internet gossip woman who tried to pump me for information about who was gay in Hollywood, as if I would know anything more than her. To the amusement of the others I turned the tables and grilled her about her love life. As it turned out this dried up old harridan had had no sex life at all and when she did confined it to missionary position with one person. Vicarious sex lives are the worst sex lives of all.

I left Beverly Hills at 7.30 and joined Ian Drew at a very odd little party in Larchmont. There was no traffic so getting around LA was very quick and easy. You could understand how convenient it must have been here once upon a time for drivers. Anyway, Ian was sitting with seven women, six miniature dogs and some silent designer who looked like that freak from the band Sparks in the 1970’s. I ate more pumpkin pie and offered to start a food fight but the woman who owned the house looked a little shocked. I did my favorite comedy party trick and put one of the tiny dogs into the microwave. I did not press the button although I was tempted.

Home and in bed by 11.

November 26, 2006 – Sunday

Michael Temple

The Canyon. Homeless people live there at night. Once the gates close at sunset they must emerge from secret paths. Occasionally one hears them screaming out. Screaming their truth. From where I live, at night, I see helicopters scouring the brush for them. Hovering noisily over the Canyon with powerful lights beaming, searching, and sweeping the contours of the canyon for the homeless.

This morning a tatty black man with a moth eaten white beard was petting a tiny black pug owned by a very chic Asian woman. She called out its name. The dog ignored her and licked the homeless man’s fingers. Worlds converged, I watched her anxiously look at her dog and the homeless man. She knew that this old man wasn’t going to harm either her or her dog. We train ourselves to ignore the poor. I ignore their pleas for money, for food, for shelter. The dog/child knew nothing. No amount of training could make a dog differentiate between his kindness or hers. Asian woman had to acknowledged that she shared her world with homeless black man.

Further up the Canyon angry black woman from last week was screaming at her Husky called Runner. Screaming. The husky looked bewildered. I asked her if her dog was deaf. She said no. I asked if it might not be a good idea to put her dog on a lead then train it to accept commands. Angry black woman was outraged. I said, “You know that I am speaking the truth. I am telling you quietly and politely.” She tried to laugh at me as if I was an idiot but the truth was indisputable. “Nobody wants to listen to you screaming.”

I climbed the mountain with Michael Temple who arrived from London yesterday. We had dinner at Taste with Benjamin, Joe and Richard Squire. The food was OK. Richard was very funny but looks washed out. He reminds me of those medieval drawings of the Plantagenet’s. Thin features and flaxen bangs covering his ears. Richard fascinates Michael; he can’t understand how he survives. Nobody really understands. Michael asked a million questions about Richard. Like an alien he might have chanced upon.

Yesterday was spent mostly at home reading and writing.

I thought about Zoë in Whitstable, the mad woman with the red hair who lives on Harbor Street. Michael met me in her basement when I was 7 years old. What was it about her that made me feel like she was where I belonged? Her shop was opposite the Harbor gates and called Napoleon Bonaparte’s 101st Lucretia Borgia. It smelt of bees wax polish, wood smoke and the harbor. It must have been winter when I first discovered her. It must have been a bright winters day. Perhaps it was snowing. There were kittens in the basement and I sat by the fire on brown leather, Victorian sofas rupturing their horsehair innards. In the shop there were two huge pieces of Victorian furniture and a chandelier. Everything was painted white except the soot licked onto the chimneybreast.

Why was I drawn to her? Drawn to Richard Squire. Drawn away from my family? I have a framed picture of me on my desktop. I am seven years old. The harbor is a long way from where we lived.

Too much remembering.

I have been having very vivid dreams. Last night I found myself in bed with Brad Pitt and some woman. I have never ever thought of him like that. It was so..real. I blush just thinking about it. As we were having sex I thought to myself in the dream, “How will I ever write about this in my blog without pissing him off?”

November 27, 2006 – Monday

Yesterday

It is raining. Raining. Beautiful Elliot arrived from Sydney and tormented me with his perfection–he stayed twelve hours then left for Colorado to work as a ski lift operator. It is very strange living with Michael in my flat. I have known him for so many years in so many different situations. Even though he is a delightful friend he has so many annoying habits. He repeats words one after another in curious voices. He compares situations we find ourselves in to films he has seen. Michael speaks with his mouth full of breakfast and showers me with scrambled egg. We spent the day exploring LA in the car. Silverlake, Los Felis, Down Town. I thought that we should drive through the rain to Santa Barbara. We went to the Chateau for dinner but when I got there the charming security man took me to one side and told me that I had to leave. Shockingly, I have been banned from the Chateau Marmont for writing this blog so I have had to set my blog to private until further notice. Earlier in the day, at the Farmers Market, on Beverly I bumped into my AA sponsor but he was behaving very oddly. I am really looking forward to getting away. Going to Sydney. Finding my serenity. Of course it does not matter what I lose or what is taken away from me. I believe in my higher power and therefore everything will be OK. It always is.

November 29, 2006 – Wednesday

Arrested

It was a very, very chilly morning. I wore my woolen hat with the hood from my red hoody pulled over my head. The wind whipped through the Canyon; thankfully the rain from yesterday had dampened the paths so there was no dust whipped into my face. I took long fierce strides. I was furious. Furious about Michael, furious about my film, furious!

At the summit I looked down over the wind swept city and did not feel so bad. I kept on begging God to give me a sign that would make things better. A sign that would solve the various problems that now inhabited my beleaguered head. Some sort of sign that would show me the way toward repairing my tattered sense of well being.

I repaired the damage I caused at The Chateau. I apologized to the general manager for causing him to have to take such drastic action. He was so sweet. For any of us who are lucky enough to have the sort of relationship that I do with perhaps the most civilized environment in LA we have to take our commitment very seriously. If it weren’t for delightful times had at that charming place I would have left LA many, many months ago.

The police called to tell me that they had arrested the boy who’d stolen my laptop so I had to attend an interview at Wilcox LAPD. The detectives that interviewed me were, yet again, courteous, attentive and professional. They recovered my laptop but it is damaged so I will have to have the information removed from it professionally. I felt sorry for the guy who stole it, sitting in his cell, unlikely to get bail.

I dashed home to:

Cook ox tail for my Steven Fry dinner. He was on sparkling form. Joe made a great sidekick for him to entertain us all with one masterfully told anecdote after another. I really had no idea that S Fry was such a great mimic. Michael (the emotional vampire) did not say one word throughout dinner. He sat there listening and eating tofu. Eric was just beautiful. Eric’s boy friend was very quiet and a bit overwhelmed. Dan Scheffy from New York: very sweet. Merle Ginsberg was a sad no show.

December 1, 2006 – Friday

The Pebble

At 8am there was a chilled, stiff wind gusting exhilaratingly over the canyon path. I can’t really remember what I was griping about as I climbed to the summit but my head was going ten to the dozen. I met a boy called Anton Dolphin sitting, swinging his legs on the bench at the summit. He was gazing at the crystal clear view of Los Angeles toward Santa Monica. It was so clear I could see Catalina, the smog blown out to sea. The canyons to my left, toward the Hollywood sign, filled with soft misty meringue. The huge, grey mountains beyond Silverlake usually concealed by smoke and mirrors were clearly visible. It was spectacular.

Anton is a twenty five year old accountant from Auckland. He was doing what most young people do from his country–he was taking time to explore the world. Anton is an ordinary boy making an extraordinary adventure. We chatted for an hour then separated on Hillcrest. I love talking to young men. I love listening to their stories, their aspirations laid bare. It is the truth.

Yesterday I had meetings with my lawyer and my manager who has become an agent at a great agency. I have, totally by default, got myself an agent at a great agency. I wonder if he will be able to effect any changes there for me. Anything for me to do? I just want to do SOMETHING other than Dorian.

Went to the Magritte show with Michael and Hillary but Hillary flounced off when I started talking to a charming 19 year old boy who wanted to know how to interpret Magritte’s work. I had forgotten just how much I actually knew. It all just spewed out of me. John Baldessari (curator) has made a great job of the show. It looked and felt great. The cloud carpet and decorated ceilings, the bowler hats on the guards and the extraordinary collection of work. I loved ‘A Clear Idea’ the best. I did not realize what a wonderful painter he was. The execution was exquisite. I enjoyed seeing contemporary works hung along side the Magritte, some work a homage to Magritte others a conceptual progression/evolution. Of course these iconic images are all very well known but as with Rothko or Matisse the experience of the work is key, I felt totally invigorated by the experience of this well known work.

The 19 year-old boy asked me to look at ‘The Pebble’, which is an odd Lautrec type cartoon painting of a half naked woman licking her shoulder. The sea is lapping around her. We sat looking at it for three quarters of an hour. It is the most sensual painting; one can taste the salt on the woman’s skin. One pays attention to her tongue and the back of her neck, the way she holds her breast with one hand, her modesty with the other. Her nipples are like tiny exotic fruits. The more one looked at it the more one realized that it was also one of the most erotic paintings that I have ever seen. Perhaps standing next to a perfect youth made it more so. I have no idea.

Dinner at 101 fried chicken special.

December 9, 2006 – Saturday

New York

New York. It is a bright, cold day in this vibrant city. I am staying at Soho House in the Meat Packing District. They have set me up in a huge suite with a massive white bed, steam room and a butler. I am here to write the secret project with Maria. I arrived the evening before last. Very kindly Tim picked me up from the airport, which was so darned sweet of him. Unfortunately there had been a bit of a mix up over my room booking at Soho House, so the first night I stayed at the gruesome Gramercy Park Hotel. The problem with the GPH is that it cannot work out if it is a dance club or a hotel. As I arrived somebody had vomited on the tile floor in the lobby and a young Asian woman had slipped in the diced carrots and acrid smelling spew. As chic as some say this place (GPH) is no amount of Warhol, Clemente or Schnabel will compensate for how bad and unwelcoming it is at night. It was so dark at the reception that it was impossible to read the booking slip. It was so noisy in my room that I could not sleep. In the morning I quietly made a detailed complaint, understadably they did not charge me for my room. Later that morning it was wonderful to finally arrive at the Soho House. The General Manager Mark and the others immediately made me feel welcome and gave me Danish to eat and latte to drink and told me their various home stories and I no longer felt angry or displaced.

As some of you may have noticed I have not been writing my blog so much lately. It suddenly felt like I was giving too much away. Also, I started going to AA meetings in the Palisades at 7am. As a consequence I have not been walking the Canyon. Instead, I get up at 6am drive west, go to my meeting and am at home by 9. Because I am dressed properly for my meeting I don’t then want to take off my clothes and change for the Canyon. As for this blog, annoying my friends at the Chateau deeply upset me and made me think hard about what writing an open diary does to the people around you. Anyway, I have decided that I will write this blog periodically or when I have time on my hands or need to let myself know what is going on.

I had lunch at the Chateau with Hilary C last week. We had a great time. I really enjoy her company. It was odd going back to the CM after my banning, as I no longer feel the same sense of freedom that I had before. It sort of curtailed my enjoyment. I wore a cap and sunglasses and tried to hide my face as best I could. I am so bored with LA and being here in NYC has merely heightened that feeling of discomfort I have about going back.

Sadly, last week, I caught Joe lying about me and tring to cause trouble in my life. Amazingly, he told Hilary that I had stolen Sebastian Scott’s chequebook. Telling me that he was having a dinner, inviting people I knew and letting me know that I was not invited. Why? I would have thought nothing of it had I not been told several days later by another friend that Joe had warned him away from me. I think what Joe seems to forget is that a) more people tell me what they think of him than he realizes and b) that I find it terribly painful discovering that a ‘friend’ has spread such miserable clichés about me. Such dull, unimaginative lies.

Bought gloves in Barneys. Had polet roti in cute restaurant near Barneys. Had sex last night with some one of unimaginable beauty. First time I have had SEX for months.

The boy who stole my laptop is in prison. His mother called me and told me that I was the Devil and that her son could never have committed such a crime. She hoped that I might find Jesus. The police called and I finally got hold of my laptop to transfer items from that to this. The horrid thief had forced his way into my files only to put most things into the trash. Thankfully I found all of what I wanted except the secret project.

Had business meeting with Victor. It was fruitless. I am no closer to getting Dorian finished. Strangely, I am not upset. God has a plan. I know it.

December 15, 2006 – Friday

December LA. I have just returned from NYC. Whilst I was there Will Self walked (for the press) from Kennedy Airport to his Downtown hotel. He is here in the USA to promote his new book. It will be just as bad as all of the recent others. I can just imagine him striding pompously along the LIE puffing on his pipe baffling the accompanying journalist from the NY Times with a whole lot of long words. He is truly the Gerard Manly-Hopkins of our age.

It is not perhaps the time to admit this but whenever he used to visit me in Whitstable I was always terrified that he would break something. He would change a shitty baby on a white bed or open oysters directly on wood causing great scratches in the wooden kitchen counters. One night I had Janet Street-Porter, Will Self, Deborah Orr and Jay Jopling around that tiny zinc dining table in my Whitstable kitchen. They are all HUGE people in stature and ego. Deborah used to be huge laterally which caused everybody I know to think that she was extraordinarily fecund. You just have to imagine Will Self and you start using words like fecund. Will is a sweet man but he uses his celebrity to ensnare then his verbosity to crush too many willing victims. What ever may or may not happen to Will and I, I am glad that we have been friends.

Time is the greatest distance between two people.

From a distance one quickly sees the people one has known for who they are and forgive them their defects of character. Janet is a cold fish, a snob to boot but her eccentricity is what makes me proud to be British. At dinner Deborah asked Janet why she had never had children. It was a question only Deborah could have ever asked Janet. Janet told us that one of her husbands had had a child who died. She said that she never wanted to suffer the pain she saw him endure. It was really very touching.

Deborah Orr. I never really trusted her or her incessant moaning. She is undoubtedly a genius, more so than her husband. Her intellect is a thing of great beauty. I would much prefer to hear her spout than her moribund husband. She endlessly reminds anyone who will listen that she comes from Govan, a very rough part of Glasgow. When Deborah and I met Lulu at Jay’s house one night I made Deborah tell Lulu where she came from and Lulu made a grand whooping noise and brushed her fingers against her nose to indicate how POSH it was. Lulu grew up in the Gorbals, which used to be a total shit hole.

Anyway, enough of the aptly named Self’s.

I walked the Canyon at 7am this morning. It was so pretty but my heart was heavy. I cannot imagine living here after I get back from Australia. I will do a few months of Dorian then it is time to get on and go back to Whitstable. I expect to be there by June. I listened to the same sort of conversations on my way up that I heard when I left, two frumpy women in badly fitting sweats complaining about some one who had wronged them. On the way down two executives were discussing powerful studio men. They were in awe.

I have done my stint, paid my dues to LA. I have stayed sober in LA. LA has been an interesting home for me but as I have said before it is like living in Whitstable, yet there in no allure. LA is a small town with small people. Self important, heartless and occasionally very, very cruel. The squabbles are no different or important from those I might hear in The Duke of Cumberland. The fights I witness in Hollywood are as vicious as any I have seen outside the kebab shop on Whitstable High Street.

Thankfully my shrewd investments may make this year my most profitable yet my ‘profit’ of course would scarcely pay for the mixers at one of Jay’s parties!

I am on the edge of something here in LA. On the edge of a continent or on the edge of my own life? I cannot continue this journey without a serious moment of reflection yet wherever I settle I am at the mercy of my own madness. My life has been all about shopping and fucking yet with none of the irony that this may suggest.

Somebody once asked me if I had ever been proud of anything in my life. I can honestly say that I am proud of every achievement I have ever made. Every play, film, dinner, room, article, sobriety, garden, blog. I am proud of all these things because I have had to do such terrible battle with myself to get anything done. The worst part of ME has always been my most terrible adversary. There is no one else to blame. I used to blame my stepfather but whatever seeds he sowed I have propagated. Every day I wonder who will get the best part of my day, that Duncan Roy or this Duncan Roy.

Finally, whilst in NY I contacted very old friends. A Whitstable friend and someone I had not spoken to for seven years. It was such a relief to call him. I was walking in what used to be the shadow of the twin towers. I suddenly remembered his telephone number and like a spell, a long forgotten spell I dialed the number and listened to his voice. It was wonderful.

Today I counted 27 dogs on Runyon Canyon.

December 17, 2006 – Sunday

Dreams

Last night I dreamt that it snowed in Los Angeles. The snow glinting in the sun, melting fast, too fast to fetch my camera. The snow held on longer in the valleys in the deep shadow. It was an exciting dream.

I have been very ill in bed with my cold. I am too ill to leave the apartment, too ill to call anyone. Dom came over yesterday but I no longer trust him and eyed him suspiciously over the matzo ball soup he very kindly delivered me. He is so crazed with love for Joe it is embarrassing and frankly, tragic. Joe is just as bad using poor Dom to fill his time before he does the decent thing and goes back home to England to do something sensible. Dom genuinely believes that he can be Joe’s boy friend.

By yesterday, full of phlegm, I had had just about enough of being here. I craved my little cottage and the brown Whitstable sea. I craved The Tudor Tea Rooms, Wheelers and The Whistle Stop. I craved Mother’s pride and marmite. I craved poached eggs. I craved anything that wasn’t me here and now. It was apparent that nothing I could do was going to change any component part of what I am suffering.

Joe the mountain scientologist visited me and showed me his new bicycle helmet. Merritt swung by and set up the printer that had been sitting in it’s box since it was bought weeks ago. Devon brought more soup as did Aleksa’s mother Sabrina who made a wonderful, soothing concoction of limes, cayenne pepper and hot water.

Being ill here reminds me of this time last year when I ended up in Cedars (hospital) with that terrible leaking spine. The devestaing head ache, unable to speak, to stand up. Then being saved by and staying with David and Hunter. Meeting Hilary. The way the doctor fixed it with that blood patch. I refused the anesthetic. Laying there begging that the pain be taken from me. I thought that I was going mad. I thought that I was having a nervous break down and all along spinal fluid was draining out of me. Just like George Clooney.

Phil left text messages. Cheered me up. She will never make it here–maybe in February for Mexico and the whales.

It was cold when I woke this morning; there was a bite in the air. I cannot stay in bed all day. I can’t do it. I have to do SOMETHING productive. Make lists. Write.

Apparently, if you threw a cat onto a 15th century funeral pyre the cat represented the devil. When I was a child I had a recurring nightmare that I had thrown a kitten into a fire.

December 19, 2006 – Tuesday

Deal or no Deal

I am still in bed with what has developed into a hideous chesty cough. I should never have gone to my AA meeting last night or had dinner at Ago even though I love rissotto and had truffle shaved all over it.

As I lay in my large bed my mind drifted from this illness to the first time I remember being in hospital when I got my scull crushed in a car accident when I was 5 years old. The next time I ended up in hospital was when I was 13 years old for being a nuisance at school. I thought that I might spend some time this morning writing about that. I remember playing canasta with Edna, hiding the drugs they gave me in my ear so that I did not have to take them, St Augustins, Pandora with the flakey teeth and the morgue. I thought that I might write about my being hospitalized when I was 25 in Sutton at the Hendserson Hospital and describe Sarah who killed herself and the blood in her room and knitting during group therapy but I have decided that I am going to write about that some other time.

Instead, I am going to write about people who read this blog and try to use it against me. Who contact friends and organizations with disinformation, who try to derail my film and me. For it came to pass this morning that I was sent a whole heap of e-mails from people I had worked with who are dissatisfied with me, who are working tirelessly against me and my film.

The more damage these people cause, the less likely I am inclined to get the film out of the box and try and raise money to finish it. The less likely I am able to attract an investor. As you may know, if you have been diligently reading this blog, I am about to start making a movie in the UK. Some of you naughty minxs seem to be under the misapprehension from you’re e-mails that you can do damage to me. If I lived in the scum you call you’re lives then no doubt you could indeed hurt me badly. But I do not.

Nothing you can do to me will ever stop me being creative or living a wonderful life. Nothing you can do to me can take away my sobriety, which is more important to me than any fucking film or any one of you.

I have passed these e-mails to my lawyer and any further attempts to scupper our film will be met with fierce counter measures. You are not the only ones who can make life very difficult. I urge you to consider this: You do not hurt me when you do these things you merely hurt the people who genuinely want to benefit from making art. the DP, the actors etc. By reducing the value of the film you merely stop yourselves from getting the money you are rightly owed under the agreement of your deferment deal. You do not and cannot hurt me. You merely hurt yourselves and the others that are owed money.

I urge you to work with me to deal with this problem as best we can.

December 28, 2006 – Thursday

Sydney

Sydney New South Wales Australia

I am back in the southern hemisphere, arriving on the chilliest day of the summer. It was a relief, however, not to step into sub tropical Sydney. A delicious wind cooled the usually sweltering mid summer city. I left my lap top in the taxi but it was returned to me. At night I noticed how hot the stone buildings were, that my skin was already mildly burned. I managed to deal with the jet lag in two days. This morning I woke at a very respectable 7am.

Since I arrived in Sydney I have eaten three times at the new Tropicana (chicken salad) now finally at home back in its original place on Victoria Street. I have eaten flourless orange cake at the new Dov also on Victoria Street and tasted their delicious, home made, sticky nougat loaded with candied cherries and almonds. I saw Ursula and Kate who now part own Dov with Matt Onions. I walked the streets to see what else has changed. I walked so hard that my calves hurt. I joined the gym, and worked my chest and shoulders. I found NA meetings and AA meetings and caught a cab to Bondi Junction and met Ben and drank more juice at The Tropicana.

I visited the dentist and had my teeth cleaned. I made further appointments to have a small filling in a tooth on my upper jaw and replace a broken veneer.

I listened to the varied bird song and realized what I missed so much in LA but for all my bitching and complaining how LA had reconnected me with AA, a connection I hadn’t felt for years and years. I bought a phone and got myself a new phone number. I smelt the sweet lush blooms on the trees on the street and listened to the mewing of the birds that sound like crying babies. I looked out for familiar faces and found them. I looked at the bald black-headed egrets in Hyde Park; I gazed at the huge bronze sculpture of Queen Victoria. I was just too damned excited. I have not seen the huge fruit bats migrating from Centennial Park but I am sure that I will.

I walked to Kings Cross, Potts Point, Elizabeth Bay and Woolloomooloo. I began walking up Oxford Street to Paddington but decided to do that some other time. I realized that the lower gay part of Oxford Street was now filthy dirty and far too many toothless drug addicts asked for spare change. For every fit, beautiful Sydney boy/girl there was a scrawny homeless addict to remind one where one might have ended up or might yet.

Surprisingly Sydney does not feel as optimistic as it once did. It feels like an anxious place to be compared with the ebullience I felt here a few years ago. Apparently, according to friends, China is making some parts of Australia fabulously rich but not here. Buying minerals, feeding the great 21st Century Chinese expansion.

I have no expectations for New Years Eve. What ever happens, happens. May go to bed, may watch the fireworks.

I have written 21 pages of my new script and I am falling over myself to complete it. It flows out of me like a torrent. It always happens like this here in Sydney Australia, in the Southern Hemisphere. I find my voice. It was here at this table that I wrote Dorian, it is here that I am writing Untitled LA Project and already a new world exists on the page. What could be more exciting than that?

January 6, 2007 – Saturday

Sydney. lay on Bondi beach yesterday with Charles, Anthony and Sophie. Had dinner at Lotus with Cameron and Zoe. Decided to go to bed early. Burned my hip in the sun. I am happy. Not really worrying. Drifting aimlessly when I am not writing or walking or going to AA meetings. I am bored with my hotel so am going to move. I may hire a car tomorrow and drive down the coast. I will. I think that I will.

The script is coming along very nicely. It is better than I expected. Works well.

Decided definitively that I am going back to London to live as soon as I can.

When I walk the streets I am inspired, alive, able.

January 7, 2007 – Sunday

FRUIT BATS

It is cloudy again today but deliciously warm and humid.

Most of my days here in Sydney are spent doing what I came here to do: write. I write in the mornings. I get up at 6am. I spend a good hour messing around on the internet. Read mail, the news: BBC, Huffington Post, look at messages left for me on various web sites. I write my required AA lists then my private diary. I leave the room to write my film (75 pages so far) and this occasional blog at a deli on Victoria Street where I am in love with the boy who serves coffee (flat white). As we all know it is impossible to buy a bad coffee in Sydney. I get back to the hotel room and check the Dorian Gray web site stats. We are getting a huge volume of hits from France where David Gallagher is a TV star. I mean over 2000 hits a day, which is phenomenal for an unpublicized site.

On occasions I don’t write at all and just explore the streets of Sydney either on my own or with my friend Ben. On Sunday morning Ben, Jake (the artist) and I found a cafe in Erskinville and ate chicken salad, drank delicious coffee and I poured demerara sugar straight from the bowl on the table into the palm of my hand and ate it like a child. We sat there for hours discussing Australian art whilst tropical rain fell torrentially onto the streets. A uniformed policeman and his female mate came into the cafe to escape the rain, he was so beautiful I asked him if he was a stripper.

I walk despite my poor burned hip which is horribly painful. I have bought books and food but little else. I am training myself to follow a pre-planned path and not get way laid by beauty. I have only seen one must have item: a modernist carved marble lamp in my friend Ken’s shop in Darlinghurst.

Cooked dinner last night at Zoë’s house. Huge frizze salad with boiled egg, lardons, walnuts and chopped freshly cooked asparagus. We bought some delicious salami and mozzarella and Turkish bread, which we all tore apart and devoured the moment we sat down. Baklava for pudding with guava juice. Ben, Zoë, Rose, Teddy, Larry, Jack, Jack’s girlfriend and another girl all no more than 22 years old. Very Sydney, so much fun.

Zoë is renting a beautiful basement in Surrey Hills and has invited me to move in tomorrow so I rented a car and am suddenly FREE! Whenever I get here I am trapped by old habits. I never really move from Sydney yet there I was washing my smalls in the hotel laundry waiting for the dryer to dry and I started looking at a map of Australia. I knew immediately that if I did not take advantage of this opportunity I never would. I am going to drive into the desert, the red heart of Australia. I have only ever explored New South Wales and parts of Victoria. I have been to Nyngen, Forbes (Charles Wilson’s beautiful country house), Melbourne, Tilba and Condoblin where I travelled with Georgina and Oscar Humphries who wrote very offensively about the Australian country tradition of the Batchelors and Spinsters ball. I took millions of pictures that ended up in a sunday magazine and an exhibition of Australian reportage.

Back in tedious LA things have been going a pace. Before I left Hollywood I realized that I had been the victim of a terrible fraud and so had to deal with it. The worst thing about knowing that things are ‘not right’ when you are naturally paranoid is sorting the fact from the fear based fiction. I had to write a difficult letter. The truth, and nothing but the truth. It took a week to write the bloody thing. That said, when it was done I felt a whole heap better. Lawyers in these circumstances are not your best friends. When I fought my ‘divorce’ in court I did it on my own and as honestly as any one can in the circumstances. The courtroom and the truth are not, one quickly realizes, synonymous. Even after I had written the letter my index finger hovered dangerously over the return key for a good few days. I just kept praying for guidance and asking God and my few trusted friends what they thought of what I was doing.

I hate having to fight fairly yet when I fight unfairly I end up loathing myself. In a world which seems rigged against most of us most of the time this primitive side of my nature becomes essential. The courage to change the things I can, it’s tough to be courageous. It’s hard to turn up in a city with nothing and make a film from scratch. It’s tough to do things in an unusual and challenging way. For all of producer Brad W’s defects of character he taught me to pick my battles wisely.

I pressed the button and off it went for only God to determine the outcome.

I have been thinking a great deal about Tracy Emin-what a great artist she has become. I saw a photograph of a sculpture that reminded me of the roller coaster at Dreamland in Margate and of course that is exactly what it was. A scaled down naieve sculpture of the roller coaster at Dreamland. It was so wonderfully evocative. Tracy and I both come from Kent, villages that are not so far away from one another and we are about the same age. She was the girlfriend of Billy Childish who I was at art school with and very close friends with. It was because of Billy, I suppose, that I was suspicious of the authenticity of her work but let’s face it: if she was ever influenced by Billy Childish as he loudly claims she has well and truly flown his coop. When she makes work away from the mirror she excells. Building the Whitstable beach hut in the Saatchi gallery for instance was a stroke of genius. I loved her helter skelter tatlin tower at White Cube and now I love her roller coaster. I remember the experience of Dreamland so well. The coconut matting to slide down the helter skelter. The clockwork ticking of the roller coaster, the abrupt ending and the fearful screams. I loved it, as did she. Tracy has evolved into a bone fide arts star. One of the best of British.

I cannot tell you how much I love being sober, how much I love my sobriety and how I am loving writing the most thorough and grueling step one. Sometimes I feel so ‘here’ that it’s as if all my skin has been removed and I experience the world as a raw unborn thing.

Every night I watch the bats in the sky, huge fruit bats flying haphazardly in the twilight. Streams of them, black flapping chattering to each other all the way home.

January 10, 2007

Rap

The Book Kitchen, Surrey Hills, Poached eggs.

I have found a new walk to walk every morning. Bronte to Bondi along the coastal path. Up at 6.30 I wake poor Zoë and drag her out of bed, drive to Bronte and we walk. God damn, such beauty we pass in nature and human form. “You missed that one.” Zoë said this morning as some perfect being sprinted past us and out of sight. And such is the nature of my addictive personality I want to run back and catch a glimpse of what ever I had missed. We mostly both walk quietly, however, lost in our own thoughts. Gazing out to sea. It always looks so inviting even though there were warnings of bad currents at Bronte. The air is wet and piquant with sea spray that dries the moment it touches our faces. I love my morning walk, all my thoughts are collected there. I don’t have the same sort of medatative experience that I have on Runyon Canyon but quite frankly I am never so full of loathing and resentment here as I am in LA. Here I am calm and fearless. Perhaps my renewed vigor in AA has caused me to be less furious. Perhaps I just feel safer and why shouldn’t I? Anyhow, what ever it is, I am losing weight, being calm, tanned and start the day with a new kind of optimism. I passed three dogs on the path. This is not a dog culture. No tiny house bound, constipated dog children to negotiate, no screamers, no dust.

What will be will be.

We were going to Bronte yesterday to swim with Teddy and Anita but ended up at Nelson’s Park which is a harbor beach packed with Greek families swimming within the confines of the shark net. We swam beyond the net risking being eaten by great whites. Met Eugenie who used to go out with Oscar and had a brief flirtation with one of the Grimaldi boys and a bunch of Zoë’s very thin chums who were being perved over by men who sat like vultures at the periphery of the group. The girls are so thin most of them look like boys. No wonder thin women feel they need breast augmentation. I swam with Teddy and James in the warm water then we went for a precarious rock climb along the shore. I am not a sprightly as I once was and lagged behind these 22 year old boys who scampered over the rocks like lizards. On the way back we discussed how a lobster sheds its shell. They did not believe that a lobster could shed its entire shell and sit soft and vulnerable on the ocean bed whilst it waited for its new exoskeleton to harden up. This odd knowledge comes from me hanging around the kitchen at Wheelers listening to Delia, who, by the way I miss terribly. When we all got home and verified the disputed lobster information on the Internet I won a $5 wager.

On the way to the beach a small, old woman was trapped in the drive of her huge Vaucluse home by a selfish person who had parked in front of her gate. We commiserated with her and wondered who could have possibly done such a thing. I told her it was probably the muslims which she agreed with without a seconds thought. It would seem that Muslims and global warming account for all most every bad thing that happens nowadays.

Anita cooked dinner for us all at her Mother’s house and then we drove to Hyde Park barracks to listen to Hip Hop, which was all part of the Sydney Festival. Ugly Duckling were the headliners and of course we found ourselves back stage with the politest most unthreatening rappers you ever did meet. I entertained them with my meeting Jay Zee in New York and The Game in LA stories which dumb found people who know about rap. Anyway, Zoë knew the guys who were on before Ugly Ducking who are the sweetest, blue eyed, public school boys who rap about how nasty stale muesli is and his mum asking him to tidy his room. Very sweet. The white, middle class audience bobbed around half-heartedly. White rap is not as authoritative as black rap. You simply don’t feel that thump in the chest that you do when you hear black rapper men shouting at you. We went to the gaslight after the concert and bid farewell to James who flew to London this morning. I did not envy him flying back to London. Not one bit.

Last Days

Book Café, Surrey Hills, Sydney

It is raining today. Hard. The streets are flooded. Rain drops loudly on the tin roofs. Nobody complains about the weather because of the drought. This morning, like every morning for the past week, I have ordered poached eggs and bacon.

I spent the early part of the morning at the dentist having a crown replaced that fell off in the 101 Cafe in LA 6 weeks ago. I did not feel the needle go in. My nose is still numb from the anesthetic and I am concerned that stuff is hanging out of it because that’s how it feels. I have to go back tomorrow to have the last of the mercury fillings removed and replaced with white porcelain. Finally getting rid of all those ugly, unnecessary fillings British National Health Service dentists made us suffer just for an extra tenner a pop. That’s what they were being paid by the government to fill our teeth. Taking perfectly fine teeth drilling them and filling them with mercury. I have been traumatized by British dentists just like so many 40 something men and women. Consequently, my poor gentle Australian dentist has to deal with me in his office sweating and squirming and swearing at him.

As the end of my Australian trip approaches I must tell you all that I have had a lovely, relaxing time. I left my hotel on Oxford Street and stayed with my friend Zoë Wane. Together we have traversed the city from one huge house to another. When we weren’t enjoying the many mansions of her rich friends we sat in the Cricketers Arms that Zoë’s brother runs where we sat with Vito who looks like Bart Simpson all grown up (see pics) and Jack who looks like Castro and her twin friends Teddy and Larry. Last week, Anita, Teddy’s girlfriend cooked a Malay feast at her home which was so delicious I thought that nothing I would ever eat again would ever compare to what she served at her table that night. Zoë and I ate at Fratelli in Potts Point with Zoë’s friend Ben Brady and endless coffee shops in all the Eastern Suburbs with various combinations of the above.

Last night Ben’s girlfriend Jasmine and her mother prepared Persian food and we sat and ate on their balcony discussing Lebanon and Iran and watching forked lightening dance over the sea.

I had dinner with my friend Vassilli Kalliman who took me to his brand new gallery and introduced me to the wonderful work of Sally Smart and David Griggs. We ate at Bird Cow Fish on Crown St., which was very satisfying. I saw Sophie Mears and Anthony Sissian and swam with them at Bondi they told me that they had been living three blocks from me in LA. I walked around Coogee bay with Kate Fisher and we sat fully clothed on the rocks being sprayed by huge waves. I ate pasta on the lawn of the Darling’s beautiful home in Bellvue Hill with their son Daniel and his gorgeous South African girlfriend.

My dear old friend Charles Wilson, the furniture designer, and I ate dinner at his house and whilst trying to assemble his very chic candelabra I spilt a huge mug of coffee over my white trousers. Ken Neal took me to one of many dinners I had at Fish Face on the Darlinghurst Road. I ate the sashimi on every occasion, had everything on the menu once and the fish curry twice.

I saw Jess Cook who prepared a lunch time avocado salad for me to eat in her loft. I saw Rose who took me to a one nighter at the Flinders Arms called Health Club. I tanned on various beaches and had occasional tangled phone calls with people in other countries. Saw Dreamgirls and hated it. Saw Babel and respected it. Saw Marie Antoinette and loathed it but remembered what it was like to shoot AKA in Versailles. I finished the first draft of my new Untitled LA Project and I wrote a gratitude list every day and sent it to my AA sponsor.

I slept alone and often wondered about someone I had left behind in NYC–you know who you are. I thought about Sharon and developed a nasty resentment against Samia who has not returned my e-mails despite the fact that at this time last year she was so obsessed with me that she flew uninvited to LA and behaved toward me like Glen Close in that bunny boiling film. As usual I got all the blame.

Unsatisfyingly bumped into Oscar H at Fiveways who was all snipes and false promises and Peter S at The Bayswater Brasserie who was frankly annoying although I enjoyed seeing his brother Charles and his charming uncle.

I will miss the friendship, the food, the beauty, the vista and most of all I will miss who I become when I am here. The man I allow myself to be. Calm, kind and full of hope. I will try and carry all of this good me back to LA and The Oscars and to Baha Mexico where I started blogging last year and where this year I am meeting Phil H to watch the whales migrate at the beginning of February. Thousands of them.

February 2, 2007 – Friday

Kevin Zegers

I am back in LA. Feels like I am back at work/school/LA. Various pre-Oscar dramas unfolding, Hollywood intrigue playing itself out in front of me. I am not as invested as I was last year. Last year I was at the center of it all with Sharon to see how it worked. It was utterly exhausting. I will not be going to the parties this year. I may pop into the Soho House rented mansion. Anyhow, I am just not interested in the films they have in competition this year.

Went with Kevin Zegers to Hyde. He is a sweet thing. Interesting listening to his take on the making of Trans America. He is Canadian. Liked him a great deal. At the Golden Globes last year Brad Pitt said to him, ‘Trans America is your Thelma and Louise.’ Which is a pretty damned cool thing to hear. Kevin stole Trans America from David Gallagher. David lost TA and made DG instead.

Up on the Canyon this morning it was very cold. It has been really cold here. I like it. There were very few people there, fewer dogs. The guys that tend the path were using a very noisy machine, a ‘low blower’ they said, and that is what it does-very loudly. It blows dust all over the place. What about using a broom?

So, I thought about how lazy we all were and how much I hate the TV remote control and how it was the best and worst invention of the past fifty years. I thought about those ‘home entertainment’ rooms that folk have here and how many remote controls these people have lined up in front of them desperate to be entertained. Last week I invited a friend to my home and he was amazed that I don’t own a television set. American TV depresses me. It makes me miserable. The commercials are grueling, relentless and mind altering. The content is formulaic baby food. When I live in NYC I lay on the sofa when I can’t sleep and watch the Home Shopping Network because there are no commercials and the content is exactly what it is-selling. The Home Shopping Network is authentic, amusing, dramatic, reality TV at its very best. I love it. Occasionally I am tempted, like an alien from another planet, to pick up the phone and buy something. Austrian Art Glass or a cover all powder that gives a translucent glaze to any skin in any tone. I listen to the rehearsed testimonials and I am transported.

Jean and I drove in his Mazeratti to Malibu and the mountains around there. As the sun began to set, low in the winter sky, the grassy hillocks at the base of the mountains were covered in silver grass that looked like fur. We had gone to look at a beautiful modernist house perched on 15 acres of land on the top of a huge mountain that is For Sale and we were tempted to pool our resources and buy it. The air was bitter. Remember it had been snowing in Malibu only two weeks previously.

Had lunch with Amanda Ross who invited me to Laurie Simmons event at The Billy Wilder Cinema at The Hammer. It was an ‘art’ film. Meryl Streep can sing! There was much applauding the work but I must be honest, I do not understand why Laurie Simmons feels that an obscure art film needs a conventional narrative. I don’t get it. Laurie’s film was shot by Ed Lachman who had introduced me to Brian Jackson the Dorian DP. She had worked with Mathew Weinstein who I had a brief affair with when he lived in London 20 years ago. He was so gorgeous then. I had dinner with Merle Ginsberg at Red Pearl Café after the film. Met Amanda’s rather handsome fiancé.

Had meeting with my agent at Urth Café flushed from his trip to Sundance.

Back at school, getting on with shit. Every moment of every day, in every situation in LA we work toward our filmmaking goal. Every relationship and situation unfolding in front of us like so many jewels, sifting out the paste from the diamonds.

May 17, 2007 – Thursday

Isabella Blow

There is a large John Lautner house out on the PCH for sale it will costs who ever buys it 33 million dollars. At night it looks like it has been carved in amber.

I am in Toronto, here for the gay film festival. I am staying in a bed and breakfast that was once a very grand house. Dorian is the opening night film and I can’t get out of bed. I can’t move out of my room. I am ‘on line’ to various friends. Various websites. Looking, my eyes getting very tired.

Death:

Isabella Blow killed herself. She drank weed killer, paraquat, and took 3 days to die. Her husband’s father did the same. Her grandfather committed suicide too. She was an occasional friend to me. When I made The Baron in The Trees she oversaw extra ordinary pictures of me for Vogue. The week before she died she visited with Philippa in Langton St with her sister Lavinia. The last time I saw Isabella she was at a party Lucy Ferry threw with Si Newhouse at Lucy’s home in Kensington. She was with some Argentinean man who looked like a second rate gigolo. I don’t remember her for her hats. I remember going to Hilles to see her and Detmar and Amory with Philippa and my friend Justin from Whitstable who was a simple lad who also committed suicide a few years later after he was set upon by homophobes in Camberwell. Isabella took him under her wing, realizing that he was totally out of his depth and said,” You know what you need young man–a pork pie!” and dragged him in his car to the village and bought him a HUGE pork pie.

I have one very funny picture of Isabella and Jay Jopling in my photo album. He looks bemused and she looks like an alien in mourning. He looks young.

You know that she was Tim Willis’s girlfriend for years but left him for Detmar Blow. I called her the night before she was to marry Detmar to ask why she was marrying him and she said, “I’m not marrying a man, I’m marrying a house.” Which was true. I used that line in AKA.

KB wrote yesterday:

‘Sorry, darling Duncan, missed all the excitement around Dorian – though I saw Mrs. Merton last week, who mentioned she’d seen you. Issie’s funeral yesterday. Amazing send off with horse drawn hearse (very beautiful – though I forgot to remind Detmar that she had wanted a glass coffin a la Snow White!) from Glos Cathedral. kept remembering their wedding there and was sad, but service was rather uplifting and Rupe Everett gave a very good address. Detmar did a good wake at Hilles afterwards and I saw lots of old friends.’

I met Issie when I was tenty four. She was seeing Tim Willis in those days and they had just moved into Tim’s aprtment in Notting Hill. Tim Willis married Joanna and then I became the God Father to their child. Issie could not have children. There was some shenanigan about Hilles and children and how Detmar’s mother wanted her daughter (can’t remeber her name) who married Crusty Levinson (who was married to Philippa’s sister Francine) and their children to have the house. In aristocratic circles to lose out on the big house is a DISASTER. She indeed married the house but it was stolen from her.

Good-bye Isabella Delves Broughton nee Blow.

Since I last wrote my blog I have moved to Malibu and now sit high above the sea on a small bluff. Everybody visits so I am not alone. I am in Toronto unable to leave my room and I miss it terribly-my house. The very light traffic outside my hotel room woke me at 5am.

I moved from Whitstable finally–just as the peonies were about to bloom, ants on their sticky buds. I have not really stopped grieving my Whitstable loss but will do when my stuff gets to Malibu. In some ways I wish that the whole lot would sink in the Atlantic. But that might mean that people would get hurt which I don’t want.

Dinners during the past month included: Birthday dinner for and with John Dewis and Kevin West where I met the utterly adorable Elliot Hundley. Opening of Dan Flavin show at LACMA. New age baby shower on Mulholland with babies spirit guide who had been ‘communing with foetus’ and wanted us all to celebrate that the baby was looking forward to being born, to be made flesh. Derek Frost and Jeremy invited me to dinner in Pimlico when I traveled to London for premiere of Dorian. Dorian, up on the big screen in Leicester Square. How did it feel? Not great. I love the film but others were not so kind. People who get it-get it. The others are the others and perhaps they are right. Even so, this experience is more exciting than AKA, which was only great when it got to Outfest. Then that soured when the onslaught happened and I was unprepared for them, for when they love something and you don’t believe it.

Melanie threw a dinner for me with Mickey Wolfson and others came too. My new best friend Wendy A had lunch in Malibu with her and Barry Levinson and others.

Seeing a great deal of Joe who made moving effortless and wonderful. In fact he is making my life all that much nicer by being good to me.

I gave my brother Martin my Porsche, which seemed to delight him. I gave my fridge to Babs and Tony. I took down all the curtains and deconstructed the house. I said goodbye to every one of my plants. I felt like such a traitor for leaving them behind. Tim came by with Jo and Sibbley. He brought gypsy tart and we ate it at Babs house with hot tea.

When I returned from my final month is Whitstable Dom collected me from the airport and when I got back to the new place Joe was in the new kitchen cooking dinner. The new garden is a huge undertaking. Thankfully I have discovered a nursery that is closing down on the PCH and is selling everything very cheaply. Yesterday I bought an 8 foot cactus and planted it.

Bought euphorbia and aloes and agaves.

I listen to the coyote at night howling and chattering and eating baby deer. I am eager to see a rattlesnake. I saw a mountain lion. A raccoon got into my car and ate skittles. A Blue Jay raided the humming bird nest and stole all the baby humming birds. Trevor stopped by and heated the Jacuzzi and we lay in it with Eyal the Israeli boy who is dark and mysterious.

So much more has happened but I can’t remember or don’t want to remember. I had a great time in Miami and lay by the pool at the Raleigh with VD and CZ. I am as brown as a nut and looking forward to great wrinkles on my face.

Categories: Rehab Tags: Jennie Ketcham, Sex Rehab

Blod Clot

November 21, 2009 duncanroy 7 comments

This morning I pooed a big red blood clot and much bright red blood. Instantaneously I wondered what would happen to my darling little dog if I died. I am not scared of death. I assume that someone somewhere would be delighted to add my date of death to my wikipedia page.

After much consultation on line I think that it is most likely that I have some kind of gastroenteritis. I felt pretty bad after eating the finger food at the GQ party. I am deliberately steering my thinking away from thoughts of cancer–though it should not be ruled out. To tell you the truth I just wanted to hop on a plane and get to a British doctor as soon as I could but I may just call Drew. He is an excellent GP and will know the right person to call.

My father died of pancreatic cancer. It took 11 weeks from the date of diagnosis until he passed. A swift death would be preferable. My friend Dione took months to die. Kept alive unnecessarily as the bowl cancer ravaged her body. I made a decision years ago that if I ever got cancer I would let it take me and not prolong life by having chemo.

To be at peace with myself when death comes is the ultimate goal. I have seen too many people struggle with death, young people especially. That was my aim when I got sober: to die peacefully without too much unfinished business, resentments or anger in my heart.

My house in Malibu is for sale. As much as I love it I really don’t need the extra worry it causes me. I am trying to simplify my life.

There have been occasions recently when I wondered what I was doing being alive anyway. I expected to die young and now I am too old to do so.

Last night a young man approached me on the street. 31 years old, gay and addicted to the Internet. He told me that he had been following me on Sex Rehab and that as a result of my telling my story he had totally changed his behavior. He told me that he had never had a relationship, that he had traded the chance for having one for a life of quick hook ups from the Internet.

I hugged him. It was heartening to hear that the show really had helped some one. Truly helped another gay man with similar problems to my own. When I agreed to go on the show that is all I wanted to do: Help another sex addict.

Eric and I walked Runyon today. It was lovely up there. Hundreds of well behaved dogs for Luna and the Little Dog to play with. I know that the little dog will be okay. He will go and live in Whitstable with Carol and Marc. He loved it there on the beach.

My Friend Killed Himself

January 13, 2010 duncanroy 13 comments

Donny, my friend, killed himself last night. He had struggled with sobriety, struggled to stay clean, struggled to stay out of trouble. Handsome, sweet, kind-hearted Donny just couldn’t stay alive. During the past 13 years I have lost many, many friends to the disease of addiction. It is always tough to reconcile but their loss keeps the rest of us alive. The truth is I always knew that one day this call would come and so remained aloof. I learned early on not to totally give myself to those wedded to the idea of death. The other men we know, who knew him, his friends my friends a community of sober men–are devastated. I can be there for them. I am there for you because you choose to live, to wake up every morning and face life on life’s terms.

I learned this shocking news at dinner last night. Dinner with Benoit Denizet-Lewis, Lady Rizo, Rob Roth, Cooper and Benoit’s boyfriend Nick at Soho House. We ate a $44 chicken. Earlier in the day I had lunch with Pierre the general manager of Soho House New York and very old friend. Recently in love he looks very happy and ten years younger. We ate delicious cauliflower soup.

The recession touches all of our lives in some way or other and no more so in the home where I am staying. My friend has been made redundant and after years of getting up and going into an office now finds himself carving an ersatz routine out of a long, jobless day. It is particularly hard to watch as I feel utterly powerless and wish that I could do something to make it better. A remarkably placid, gentleman my friend owned up to feeling very rageful in some situations when asked some sorts of questions about his predicament.

Benoit’s book event at the Gay and Lesbian Center on 13^th Street was very enjoyable. His new book American Voyeur is well worth reading. He is a great essayist. I particularly liked the experience of going into the Gay and Lesbian Center. A warm hive of gay activity. Benoit’s event, a dating workshop, some sort of dance workshop, a twelve step meeting, men and women hanging around reading on the stair. It had a feeling of community, which is so sadly lacking in my gay experience.

Roque came to visit and it was lovely to finally meet him.

I still have not gotten around to having my haircut. It looks very shaggy.

Ended Tuesday on the roof of the Standard Hotel overlooking the frozen river. We were eating fascinating deserts in the Boom Boom Room. It was a lyrical end to a tragic day.

Cooper and I shared a cab home.

Suicide Pact

January 14, 2010 duncanroy 7 comments

Another day with Benoit and his boyfriend in NYC. Benoit read the Abercrombie and Fitch essay from his book American Voyeur at the Powerhouse Arena in Dumbo. It was very funny. The guy who owns Abercrombie sounds like a total nutter. After the event we all ate dinner at the Lesbian owned restaurant Superfine near where I shot Dorian Gray. I ate a pork chop and lentil soup. It was delicious.

I thought I was leaving NYC today but I made a mistake so I’m actually leaving tomorrow.

It was hard not to spend the day remembering Donny–my dead friend. My friend who killed himself. I spoke to other men who knew him and it was difficult not to say, “I told you so.” Because I’d known all along that Donny would succeed one day. Like Heath, DJ AM, Brad Renfrew and my other Hollywood chums who seemed hell bent on an early grave.

People who want to kill themselves become very determined once they set their mind on it.

Issie must have tried 5 times before she drank the weed killer.

I’ve always been a little bit scared of people who express an interest in suicide. If they have so little regard for their own lives they might very well have little regard for yours, after all, they’re going to kill someone whether it’s themselves or you.

When I was in hospital during my mid twenties-after seeing all my friends die of AIDS–I had a mental breakdown and ended up in The Henderson Hospital in Sutton Surrey. There was a sweet girl there called Sarah who wanted to kill herself and she was, like Donny, determined to do it. Anyway, we were having a group meeting and I was sent up to her room by one of the nurses to get her and when I found her with slashed wrists, blood pumping everywhere. She said, “I’ll be down in a minute, I’m just cleaning my room.” She was dabbing at the great pools of blood with some tissue paper.

Had lunch with Alexi and his wife. Bumped into Christian Coulson in Soho who was an actor and is now a photographer. Had hair cut–not very well-0at Freeman’s. Alexi and I drank more coffee in Cafe Gitane in Nolita; then, after a nap, met Benoit and crew in Dumbo at 7. It was a full day overshadowed by the events of the preceding day.

In Consultation

December 30, 2009 duncanroy 9 comments

Miserable day in LA. Misty British rain rather than the fat tropical raindrops we usually have.

After breakfast with John and the lads I drove to Malibu and built a HUGE fire. It was raining so hard I had no view what so ever. A huge cloud had gobbled the entire house. Luna went on a garden adventure in the rain and came home covered in mud. I had to turn a hose on her, which caused her some consternation, then, being the Luna dog, she began to LOVE.

Now, when it rains, rather than looking downcast, worrying about how many weeds I’ll have to clear in the spring so my house doesn’t instantaneously combust when the fires come-my eyes sparkle. The property is now one big goat buffet. I cannot wait for them to arrive!

One of my readers suggested that I contact a goat rescue if one indeed exists. And, blow me down; one really does exist in California. I’ll call them tomorrow.

The general contractor arrived to discuss the changes I need to make to the roof to accommodate the solar cells required for me to get off the grid. I also discussed how we would pump the spring water that bubbles up at the bottom of the property into where the vegetable garden will be.

Last night Anna invited me to a party at her and Mel’s house in East LA. I was the only man. It was such a groovy party. We wrote down on pages of Anna’s old script what we wanted to forget about last year and what we wanted for 2010. I wanted to forget rather a lot. My aims for this year are simple and sure. I stayed a couple of hours, chatted with Jamie Babbitt and some girl who is going to be in the reality version of the L word.

Since writing yesterday how much I had forsaken during the past three decades in pusuit of hedonism I began today to formally grieve. In pursuit of selfish ends I have destroyed a potentially wonderful career, the chance of a lasting intimate relationship and an enduring happiness.

This is no time for self-pity, however.

My father died when he was only 53 and I like to remember that on his deathbed he would turn, at last, to God.

I’m so glad that I have a God in my life who I trust will show me the way, regardless of whether the route is treacherous or not. To put ones life in God’s hands is not for the fainthearted.

Tim and Amanda drove from Beverly Hills to sit by the fire with me then we hacked back down the mountain and ate lunch at a raggedy hole-in-the-wall Thai restaurant on the Pacific Coast Highway. It was perfectly delicious.

As we were leaving we complimented the chef who was also lunching but on a plate of boiled hen heads.

Categories: Rant

Gay Bashers

October 30, 2009 duncanroy 2 comments

London, during this year 2009, four queer men are murdered. All of them are middle aged or elderly. Greenwich, Bromley, Woolwich, Trafalgar Square. One of them hounded till death in his own home. Beaten to death in his sitting room by ‘youths’.

When I am old, how will I defend myself against a homophobic attack? I have done a valiant job so far. But if I am old how will I defend myself? Skinny wrists. Unable to call out for help. My glasses kicked to the curb. Paper skin torn from my old face.

Being old and Queer. There must be a different strategy for survival. One that does not include hiding or suicide. I have always been a big man. People have said on many occasions that I scared them. And so be it. Whilst other, slighter, more effeminate friends have had to deal more regularly with homophobia–I have not. Indeed, if I get a whiff of anything resembling homophobia I will rip your fucking balls off. I am that kind of guy.

I grew up in a working class fishing town on the North Kent coast. When I first acknowledged my desire for men; I told them straight. I told them what I wanted and refused to be shamed. I was genuinely astonished that they found my love of men so distasteful. The very same men who scorned me were the first to show me the way. At night, I kissed them on the lips. A little bit drunk, men shouting above the music inside the pub. The Two Brewers. Boys kissing in the misty guinnels between the red brick terraced houses. Smell the coal burning. Christmas tree lights glittering amongst the tinsel. My cold fingers warmed under his heavy coat.

Of course the locals let me know how much they disapproved of me but I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to let a bunch of thugs get under my skin. I was fucking fearless. Billy Stankovich tried to hit me. Paul Stromberg shielded me. I was less lucky at boarding school with nowhere to run.

Growing up being true to who you are means growing up with violence. Growing up desiring men and flaunting my ‘perversion’ meant learning how to avoid hate in peoples’ eyes or an unsuspected blow. I became adept at the evil bon mot. Words. Watch them shrivel. Words: more violent than a good kicking.

My friend and lover Justin, beaten by men in Camberwell commits suicide. They crushed his soul! He was 23 years old. Most young gay men who kill themselves do it before others can. It is too overwhelming for them. Simple boys who want to be with other boys. I was that simple boy but I chose to live! I wanted to live and faced their sneering, their snickering. Men and women. Women can be worse than men. Why? They have more to lose.

We queers are not alone. Tonight an asian man, a black woman, an aboriginal, a transgender will all die for the same reason. Because they are devalued in the eyes of the murderer.

This weekend there will be vigil in the heart of London for one of the murdered gay men. His name was Ian (56) and he made a critical mistake. He thought he could reason with fools. He was kicked to death amongst the bronze lions of Trafalgar Square.

Tell me what to do next? How do I save myself?

You must be fearless! Shameless!

Try holding your lovers hand in the street. Look into their faces. Kiss him on the cheek. I think, ‘I wish we were invisible now’. My darling, I wish I was not ready at all times to defend us from them. I hold my lovers hand. I hold his hand. I hold another mans hand. Why is that so repulsive to you? Why do you want to kill us?

I give it no thought until I hear that a man is dead. Another man struck down by their hand or his own. And I say:

I will not be shamed by you or your government or your church. I will not be shamed for wearing colour, a splash of make up, a bright smile, a predisposition for Judy Garland, Lady Ga Ga or holding my lovers hand on the street where I live.

10:20 AM

September 15, 2006 – Friday

itunes 7

22 dogs. One young man applauding his Jack Russell for taking a piss. “That’s amazing Billy!” he commended.

There were 15 gardeners trimming the mountain-something I never thought I would see but I suppose some one has to maintain the paths and trim back the vegetation. The undergrowth is so lush.

The walk was good. All the tight feelings in my chest vanished. It was really chilly up there on the path this morning. People at home don’t get the subtlety of the seasons in California, they don’t realise that we have winter nights or that it is very cold when the sun sets. ‘Why do people need winter coats in LA?’ I thought, when I first arrived. In fact, I get to wear all of my winter coats and even my fur hat.

It rained briefly as I was feeding the squirrel almonds from my hand. That animal is so funny. It chases the cats. American people say it is always raining in London. We deal in weather clichés. The truth is that we have had so little rain in the UK that we have to regularly ban the use of hosepipes and non-essential car cleaning, something that would never happen here. Read Joan Didion’s book The White Album if you want to know where LA water comes from-if you didn’t already see China Town.

I have been organising my itunes library. 22 days of songs. The new itunes 7 reveals previously unseen album covers on my lap top-suddenly I am excited again by my music collection, flicking through all the music I have. Seeing old friends-like Alice Coopers Billion Dollar Baby-the first ever album I bought. The first single I ever bought was Ben by Michael Jackson. You see! I have always been bi-polar! I was at boarding school in Dorset listening to Alice Cooper from my bedroom overlooking the verdant English countryside.

I liked being at that school. I learned how to make cheese, chutney, jam, milk cows and learnt all about Jason and the Argonauts. Saw a dead badger by the side of the road and when I pulled its tail the thing came off in my hands-I was 13. Country people are not scared of dirt or death. We would camp outside on the lawns and learn to listen to the earth. Check it out, it’s called Monkton Wyld Court. A beautiful gothic, Pugin inspired rectory. One winters day a kid wrote in the snow: Reunion 1999 on the terraces so we could all read it. 1999 came and went but I never went back to any reunion. I hitch hiked there from Whitstable once. Years ago. It took two days.

I remembered horseback riding in the snow, my fingers frozen onto the reigns. I remembered learning to play the piano. Where are those skills? Stored away just in case. Stored away with the detailed maps of Sydney and Paris and Glasgow or Cannes. Stored with my times tables. 7×8=56 Remember that one and you’ll be fine. 8×8=64. Stored with descriptions of Renaissance Art and Golden Rules. Gypsy tart. Thats there too.

Flicking through my collection of music like we used to-things coming full circle. Delighted by something you forgot you owned. An album cover that reminds you of a person or a place. The sound track of my life just here in the palm of my hand. I am listening to nobukazu takemura this morning. I like ambient music for my films and for my life. I listen to Aphex Twin and John Cage. Saw John Cage at The Almeida Music Festival in London when the US used to export its vibrant avant-garde.

At the next school I attended in Shropshire we listened to Roxy Music. Then, ten years later I am at a private audience with Bryan in Notting Hill. Ten years after that I am sitting in his kitchen with his wife. Then we are at the Saatchi Gallery with T Emin signing posters. Makes me feel home sick thinking about Lucy and the kids.

Annie Lennox reminds me of living at Jane McAllisters house in Edinburgh whilst I was working for Richard Demarco during the Edinburgh Festival. Must be talking to an angel.

Yesterday I had a gentleman caller-no sex. Just being held is all I require lately. My new maid started. Angela was here when Virgil the gentleman caller arrived. Virgil and I sat on the roof and listened to our respective stories. He has three dogs and a daughter. Is that a deal breaker? Angela laughed when I followed after her putting all the ornaments, candles etc back in the correct places.

Virgil left at 3ish. Gentle afternoon in doors-some people called to see if I wanted to go out but I stayed at home and read. The Mormon beauty from the BAFTA party for instance–he called. When I first stopped drinking it was such a relief to simply stay at home and go to bed early rather than chase a party. I am not missing anything. Anyway, I have a very social weekend ahead of me.

In bed by 12. I think that I may go to Sydney next week for a month.

9:46 AM

September 12, 2006 – Tuesday

I watched some of the 9/11 anniversary coverage. Did you know that there was an aircraft hanger at Kennedy with the most morbid collection of World Trade Tower scrap in it? Smashed fire trucks, three incinerated floors of one tower crushed into a molten ball, bikes chained to bike racks. It reminded me of something that I had not thought about for 35 years.

When I was 6 I was involved in a terrible car wreck. We were taking my aunt and her children to the airport. My grandfather, grandmother, mother, stepfather, aunt and five children packed into a large car that my stepfather had borrowed. It was a terrible night, torrential rain. My stepfather was driving fast to so we did not miss the flight. I was sitting on my mother’s lap in the front seat when the car hit a huge puddle and aqua planed over the freeway, over the central reservation and into oncoming traffic. I was catapulted out of the side window and onto the road. Thankfully nobody was killed. I suffered major head injuries-hence the scars and missing scull in my head.

A few years later I was staying at my grandmother’s house and found in the wardrobe of the room I was sleeping, zipped suit bags and when I looked inside I saw dirty, torn, clothes splattered with dried blood. I recognized the clothes immediately. I opened the bags and pulled out the clothes that we had all been wearing the day of the accident. My grandmother, unable to throw anything out, had kept them. When I told my mother the bags vanished.

At night, before I fall asleep, I think about the street where we lived when I was a child. I remember the house at the end of the unmade road in Whitstable. Stanley Road. I remember hot summer afternoons on Duncan Down wading in the uncut hay looking for lizards and chasing dragon flys. At this time of year I would collect heaps of black berries and my mother would make blackberry and apple crumble.

I remember the big department store that used to be on Whitstable High Street. I remember the smell of cheap furniture and Santa’s glittery cardboard grotto stored in a room at the back of the store. On occasional moments through the day I find myself in that store, on my own, wandering as a small boy in that strange, sterile place.

January 28, 2007 – Sunday

FIGHTING IS MY GENIUS

I seem to have fought all of my life with people, places and things yet I perceive myself as having a placid soul. For as long as I can remember it was inequity, in all its manifestations, that caused me to become furiously angry. As an infant I knew instinctively that the way my stepfather treated my mother was wrong and caused us all the loss of dignity. I fought hard against him even though his cruelty was more than any match for a small boy. I knew that the way my Uncle Norman beat his wife was wrong and caused her to lose her baby but nobody seemed to do anything about it. The desperate screams of women were familiar to me when I was a boy. My brothers may scoff at this description of our shared history but sometimes I think that they may have lived in a dream of our childhood where their father was some how absolved of his brutality simply because of their blood relationship with him. Because they were his children the beatings they received were not as unjust as mine?

Even though we had a tough time at home it is good to remember that only sixty years before I was born in Whitstable there were still child prostitutes in Victorian London that a man could buy and take to padded rooms in Wimpole Street and kill. We were, my brothers and I, lucky children of the post war, 1960’s modern world and all of the promises of the age were just revealing themselves to the men and women of my parents’ generation.

When I was born my shamed mother and I were hidden away from society yet only ten years later life in Britain had changed so radically that my ‘behavioral problems’ had been identified and I was taken to child psychiatrists, sent to hospitals etc. so that my maladjustment might be healed with group therapy and words. The massive head injuries that I received in a car accident when I was 5 would nowadays be factored into understanding my erratic behavior and vile temper but this was simply overlooked.

Like so many men I have tried, all my life, to make sense of myself. To have the luxury of sitting comfortably in my own skin. Ten years ago, after a life of therapy, hospitals, transactional analysis, cognitive therapy, prison encounter groups, sweat lodges, reike, traveling etc., after a life of talking it through and telling my fucking story over and over so that sooner or later the truth of my mad bad head would be magically revealed I ended up in a beautiful house in Kensington on my own snorting coke first thing in the morning knowing for sure that things were not meant to be like this.

By the time that morning came around I was unable to leave the house due to paranoid delusions and periodically black liquid flooded out of my nose at the most inappropriate moments, at dinner in Quo Vadis for instance. Ten years ago I self-medicated with hard drugs and alcohol and even used to attend sessions with my expensive psychiatrist high on coke.

I then began my sober journey.

It became apparent that the question I so badly needed answered by so many therapists I did not know how to frame. I knew that I was a mess, that my life was in ruins, that I was somehow responsible but the fundamental question remained. The question that I needed answered through out my adult life was this: How come I hated my stepfather so much yet became so much like him? How come I had scant regard for those around me when I was so plagued with the terrors of inequity? How come I thought nothing of screaming at those who were only trying to do their best? How come?

The answers are not always palatable, even to me.

The reality is that I do not live a good hearted world of benevolent people eager to do the very best for one another or even themselves. The skills of hard heartedness that my stepfather taught me are skills I needed to embrace rather than heal with therapies.

Recently I have begun to thank my stepfather for making my skin thick enough to fight for what I believe in or take the hard knocks and learn how to box with precision. I do not tolerate being beaten by those who give me pains or lawyers who give you bad, self serving advice or untrained, untested co-workers who expect an opportunity but give very little in return. Married women who want you to fuck them yet blame you when you do. Straight boys who put out but hate you for exploiting their desires.

I can thank my step-father for teaching me not to be lead by the nose or having overwhelming capitalist fantasies. I don’t want a big house. I have never wanted a big house. All I have ever desired is one room with a perfect view. What else could I possibly want? What is ENOUGH for one man?

At Anthony’s house this week he asked me what he needed to do to make a low budget film. ‘How did you do it?” If I have been asked once I have been asked a million times. How do you do it? As if there were a private door from a previously hidden corridor that they may not have noticed behind which the secret of making a low budget feature film lay. Usually I am polite when I am asked this question and try and help who ever is asking delude themselves that they will make feature films. For part of the truth is this: If you are asking me this question it is unlikely that you will ever make a film. If you are looking for a softer, easier path then you will never make a film. The secret door does not exist.

The truth of how I continue, against the odds, to make films is: I am a GENIUS.

I am a GENIUS because: I get off my ass, I write the script, I raise money, persuade people to work and then I force the film into the world. I do not feel fear and when problems arise I deal with them creatively and in a way that benefits the final product. When the film is made I call my friends in the press and get them to write about it and then I sell it all by myself. That is how I do it and if I need to do it this way then so be it. I never answer questions about budget because it’s personal. When people ask me how big my budget is I tell them that it is 8 inches long and quite thick. Asking about a person’s budget is more personal than how big his cock is. Don’t ask. Nobody ever tells you the truth.

I am a GENIUS because I am making films and you are not. Do gallery owners get asked endlessly how to open a gallery or novelists asked endlessly how to write a novel? I have no idea. When I made theatre nobody ever asked me what they needed to know, what great secret I had that they needed to know to make theatre.

I am a GENIUS because when I make a film I can’t take no for an answer and for that I am truly grateful to my beastly step-father and Derek Jarman who gave me that piece of advice long before I even contemplated making films.

I am a GENIUS because even if I had to make a film using my mobile phone I would do it.

Remember the other great and terrible truth about film-making: Nobody wants to make your film.

Nobody.

Even if you are really, really famous and well connected and a marvelous director nobody wants to make your film.

The only films worth making are the ones that you are passionate about.

So, I am a BAFTA nominated, award winning GENIUS and so is everyone else who gets off their ass and makes a film.

I have only one person to thank for this: My step-father who taught me to never back down, to take it on the chin and ultimately not be afraid and keep on fighting. He taught me to think beyond what was expected of me and anticipate problems way ahead of anyone else. He taught me to ignore what people say about me, the lies they tell, whether it is Oscar or Joe or anyone else. Perhaps that is why I never really found it hard to forgive him and never forgave my simpering Mother.

I have wasted most of my life trying NOT to be like my stepfather David Roy when all along I needed to follow in his footsteps and embrace every single thing he ever beat into me as the living truth.

November 15, 2006 – Wednesday

Grand Mother

So hot today, already, at 8am. I feel delicate this morning, fragile even. My skin is uncomfortable on my fingers. Pins and needles. I remember my grand mother saying ‘pins and needles’. ‘Suck it and see’ was another one of hers. I don’t suppose that I will ever see her alive again. I don’t want to see her. She is in her assisted living room in Herne Bay, stuffing food into her mouth that she can’t swallow. My grand mother is 96. I would like to say something to her. I would like to apologise. I just can’t seem to forgive my grand mother or my mother. I try to, God help me, I try to forgive them but I can’t. So, the last time I saw my Mother and Grand Mother was on Island Wall in Whitstable near the first cottage I owned. Nana was in her wheelchair. I kissed her. She had some food on her chin from the lunch she just ate. I am sitting here trying to forgive her.

Does she remember what joy she gave me when I was little? She is well looked after by my Mother who is a good daughter and Grand Mother herself.

I don’t really have much to do with my family nor they me. Without family that I can trust suits me fine. I no longer feel isolated. I do not expect anything different nowadays. I used to think about that man who shot those children in Scotland. I thought about how much pain he was in to do that, how fraught and bitter he must have been. Then I think about those school children that shoot guns at school killing teachers and other pupils. They are always described as being ‘alone’. He was a ‘loner’, but to be a loner you have to be ignored, shunned, misunderstood. It takes two. The people of the Scottish town did nothing to reach out to the man who shot their children before he shot them. They almost certainly mocked the lonely old man. The children who took guns into their school were mocked for their individuality. The Muslims feel powerless so gang together and vent their frustration. Do I feel alone? Thankfully I have God, a God of my understanding. I am never alone.

I have been so angry in the past. I am getting too old to be angry like a young man.

Yesterday I had lunch with Mickey Cottrell at Musso and Frank. I spent the afternoon at home. Bettina’s party on Melrose for The New Yorker was OK although I did not see the point of it. The goody bag had water in it. Goody. Sharon swung by to see me, kiss me. She had 12 pages to write so I met Joe and Dom for a late dinner. We ate at the ghastly Wolfgang Puck restaurant in Beverly Hills. This was my second experience at this terrible place. We had the worst table sat by the work station and the waiter had all the charm of a squid. The curried short ribs were disgusting. The chocolate soufflé was almost inedible. The only thing worth complimenting were the water glasses, which are very beautiful. Thankfully I did not pay. Dom and Joe quizzed me about my burgeoning relationship with Sharon. Of course I am just as baffled as they are but I really like her, being with her. Connected.

November 17, 2006 – Friday

Carine Roitfeld, Robbie Williams, Claire Danes

It is 8.30am. I just got back from my walk. It was far too late to find any serenity up there on the mountain, there were far too many chattering people. I stopped three times to speak with people I know. On the way down I slipped on the steep path–it was the first time. I wouldn’t want to break my hip, not here in America where nobody gives a shit.

I am driving a huge pick up truck. Somebody mentioned yesterday that the truck must make me feel more powerful. How could a truck make a man feel more powerful? I hired it to haul stuff back from Bonham’s. This apartment needs fresh flowers. The cleaner is in today; as usual she will be here for hours and not really achieve anything. I am going to be here too. I want to see what she does.

Yesterday morning Hillary came over at 7am. We hiked the huge Runyon path that stretches over three peaks. At the summit we met a Texan called Joe who makes ties for dogs. He was quite odd but worth investigation. At the gate we bumped into Julia Verdin who, for the first time, seemed genuinely pleased to see me. Perhaps I was deluded from the exhausting walk but I felt unusual warmth from her. Hillary cooked breakfast (eggs and bacon) then we drove to the Barney’s one-day only sale, which was crap. I felt bereft leaving that place empty handed. In search of more breakfast we drove west to Maury’s City Bakery in Brentwood and ate bagel croissants and fruit salad with ginger yogurt. However, I was feeling very peculiar. Not ill but not well. On the way home I fell into a deep sleep in Hillary’s car. When she dropped me off I felt even odder. Out of sorts. Miserable.

I spent most of yesterday in bed critically unable to do anything. Spoke to sponsor who told me that taking a day off is fine, but lets face it: I have been taking ‘days off’ for twenty years. I knew that the feeling would pass and when I tried to work out why I was feeling so odd I kept on thinking about my grandmother. All of that stuff I wrote about her yesterday. Perhaps she died? I lay in bed. I tried to eat but I couldn’t. All day I suffered sudden flash backs to obscure moments in my life. Most alarmingly I vividly remembered fetching the milk from the farm yard when I was at Shotton Hall School. Lugging churns of milk from the farm, freezing before sun rise, into the Land Rover. It set off a chain reaction of odd memories. Shotton memories ending with that fateful kiss with Linda the member of staff who was subsequently fired for her ‘unprofessional’ involvement with me.

At about 8 last night Arrick called, persuaded me out of my bed and took me to the101 for Thursday night fried chicken special. He was playing Baby Face in the car and I realised that all Baby Face does is yodel. All any of those singers do is yodel. Beyonce yodels. Listened to him yodel through a Beatles song. He dropped me off at 10. I sat wrapped up on the sofa watching gratifying home decoration programmes until midnight then went to bed. I slept well.

The day before was great. I had lunch with Amanda R at the Chateau. I adore her. She is such a chic, intelligent, funny, charming woman. We ate chicken salad. Sat next to Jason Resnick from Focus who told me that I had lost weight. The beard is such a great way to fool people into thinking you have lost weight. He mentioned that he had seen Sharon making out with some guy at the New Yorker party the previous evening. That guy, of course, was me. “I thought that you were gay”. He said. “If only it were that fucking simple”. I smiled. Somebody sent a picture to Sharon of us making out at the AFI party. We have become a very public couple.

Amanda was wearing a pair of bottle green suede boots that Rogier Vivier gave her.

That night I had dinner at The Chateau M met the utterly charming, handsome Stavros Nicharos, Carine Roitfeld (editor of French Vogue). Dinner with Marilyn Heston, Ian Drew, saw Robbie Williams, Claire Danes, Hugh D’Ancy and others. We love Carine. Ian kept reminding me that, amazingly, Carine R is 51 years old. She looks, in candle light, like a 19 year old girl. I felt great wearing my burgundy silk velvet D&G jacket, Dior pants, and some slim navy Todd’s. Claire Danes found everything Hugh said very, very funny. I don’t remember him being THAT funny. Interestingly, Doug Christmas had not mentioned our fight to Marilyn Heston. I gleefully told her the nasty Doug Christmas story, as a consequence she may think twice about doing business with him in the future. Am I being vindictive?

10:21 AM

September 21, 2006 – Thursday

On What it is to be Persian

There is nothing simple about me or Iran; the country of half my origin. I have been struggling with this problem since my Mother told me that my Father was Iranian when I was 13 years old. It was this fact alone that upset me most about my mother’s confession. I did not care that the man I had been calling my father was an impostor: I was relieved. I knew instinctively at that moment of revelation that the reason I thought and acted the way I do is because I am Iranian.

Even though I was brought up in England with everything that is quintessentially English (I am sitting here in LA listening to The Archers) my ways were different, my thinking was different and no matter how hard I tried to fit in with those around me I could not.

My mother did not want me to have anything to do with my real father, she lied about his name, she refused further information that would have helped me find him. For years I honoured her decision; then one day I demanded to know who he was. Once I had his correct name I posted a ‘I am looking for’ notice on the internet and within a week a lawyer contacted me from Canada. He said, “There are three thing that you need to know about you father, 1. I’m sorry to have to tell you that he’s been dead for seven years. (He died of pancreatic cancer). 2. You have seven brothers and sisters who really want to meet you and 3. If you’re looking for the inheritance there is none.”

I met my dead Father’s 7 children in my mid thirties. My sister Jess is the most sensible. My brother Dominic arrived in a Ferrari. Rebecca brought a huge box of photographs for me to look at. My brother James did not want anything to do with me when he heard that I was a homosexualist. MK is addicted to crack. MK told me that our father was an opium addict but this may very well be the myth of my father rather than the reality. I began to hear all sorts about him; what kind of man he was. I realised that it was imperative to understand not just the character of my Father but also the character of Iran for me to make sense of my own complexity.

Who was he? My Father. Who was that man? My Father was married 3 times, yet did he ever get a divorce? My Father was rich yet where is the money? Is it true that on his deathbed he impregnated his best friend’s wife? Is it true that he threw a gold lighter at his young son’s head scarring him for life?

I am appalled by these stories but I am also secretly in awe.

I am certainly British and I am delighted to be so, but my nature is unswervingly Persian. I am proud, arrogant, and I have one hell of a superiority complex. Of course, unsuprisingly, this makes me very awkward to handle. Like Iran I want to be taken seriously but I love challenging the status quo. I am declared anti-establishment.

As a descendant of the great Persian Empire I apologise for being so when I am calm and British but I can never say sorry, never make amends for what I am when I am in the grip of my Persian, explosive self. Persians have a rich cultural heritage, nearly 3000 years of written history. My Father, who only married British women, told his best friend that when his wife’s ancient ancestors were collecting berries on an English moor his forbears had hospitals for their pets.

You may find me difficult to understand but you find Iran difficult to understand. I am a Persian, not an Arab. Arabs invaded Iran. I am an equal mix of Persian and British; the Iranians have always respected the wily British.

Because of my terrible yet wholly Iranian arrogance, I suffer on occasions from a glut of confidence. Sadly, that does me more harm than good. I often over reach myself and when I fail, as I do on occasions, I feel victimized yet I never feel beaten, I never give in. I get up, brush myself down and I start again.

Of course you find me intolerable, flashy, charming, obnoxious. That’s what we are.

4:32 PM

Drama

It is too dark to go for my walk. Ten minutes to six. Silence. The fridge groaning and shuddering in the kitchen. Waking before sun rise with a clear head. Lucky Jesus on my desk peering at me with his one good eye. He is made of mercury glass, he has a painted white face and red lips. Lucky Jesus is holding a chalice in the folds of his robes. I bought him in Romania in a tiny antiques store, I think I paid a dollar for him.

I recognise the buildings in the distance quite well, they looked very fine in 1959. Margate is not like this now. It is a sad, empty place. Even though they say that Margate is regenerating it seems that there has been too much damage to the integrity of the town. Too many beautiful houses carved up into tiny bedsits. Too many abandoned shops. The large hotels accomodate a fragrant immigrant population made unwelcome by fearful locals.

The other photograph of my father is very odd. He is holding a gun, perhaps it is only a toy, but he is pointing it at a boy’s back. The boy has his hands up in surrender. This, I think, was taken on the Downs by the King’s Hall in Herne Bay. In both pictures my father is exquisitely groomed and perfectly dressed. He is wearing well cut trousers, a crisp white shirt and in the first he is wearing a plain, straight tie. In both he looks very Persian, he must have been quite exotic for the North Kent coast in 1959. I bet he knew how to look after himself. I wish that I had met him just once. Even though he was, by all accounts, a difficult man.

Yesterday was not a great day. After my walk in the Canyon Dan G came over and took me to the Coffee Bean. I was not really present for that. I was far away. In the afternoon I had a few annoying e-mails, a couple of disruptive phone calls. One of THOSE days but I was largely on top of it.

The best part of the day came when I went to the DGA and watched, for the first time, The Picture of Dorian Gray on the big screen. I saw, for the first time, that it really worked. Oh thank GOD. It really looks and feels exactly as it should. I invited a couple of friends of mine to come see it with me. Joel Mikely and his friend Cameron, Neal Spector and Alex Spendore. I was aware, as usual, of every fidget they made. Excruciating. Thankfully they are a tough, honest crowd. It’s a very sexy film on the big screen. David looks great! Better than great! Joel said that he was scared, he was worried that it was going to be bad. Thankfully he really liked it. What will happen to Dorian Gray now? Now we can put it back into a box until all of the financial problems are resolved. From now on I am going to concentrate on the property I want to buy.

My third date with Sunday Internet Man was spent at Cobras and Matadors which is by far my favourite tapas restaurant in town (avoid the lentils) then we explored The Grove and finally we just sat in his Mercedes and cruised the hills, exploring the tiny, winding roads around Beachwood Canyon. It was very romantic. We stopped in at mine for an hour and he rubbed my back and shoulders with his strong hands until I slept.

8.30 am I just got back from the most wonderful walk. Beautiful morning. I saw 56 dogs, 1 chameleon, 1 Blue Jay, 2 men covered in tatoos and a 50 year old Russian woman taking her tee shirt off revealing a huge flesh coloured bra. I saw one cute man. No top models. Took the left had route. On the bench at the crest of the hill there was a lady with a branch tucked into her belt at the FRONT. She sat quietly peering through twigs at the view of LA.

September 24, 2006 – Sunday

The Roughs Are Coming

7.45am Runyon Canyon, September 2006. 45 dogs, 1 screaming Chinese infant. Happy Russians. Many isolated, miserable looking ‘attractive’ 30 something white folk. Squirrels noisily harvesting what ever they can find in the palm trees. The sun is shining. LA looking marvelous.

From way up there in the mountain I can see how green LA really is. Who planted so many trees? The Jacaranda that, in springtime, blooms so as all of it’s branches are covered with mauve flowers. Now those thick trunked, spiky trees have huge, succulent, pink orchid-like blooms all over them.

Yesterday I met Dom at the Grove. The Grove is a themed Mall with dancing fountains tacked onto the Farmers Market which is no longer a farmers market in the sense that we understand it. We saw the film Hollywoodland. Ben Affleck was really very good. Diane Lane superb. I loved the way they all laughed at their own and the various quips of others, just like they did in the films of the 1940s. The film had such style. I got a bit lost at the beginning of the third act but it did not impair my enjoyment. Glenn Williamson, who also produced American Beauty, produced Hollywoodland. Glenn makes very elegant choices. He is a very calm, intelligent man. A real filmmaker. I was honoured that he said very complimentary things about AKA.

As I sat in the cinema I knew even more keenly that the path I had taken with Dorian was the right one. Cinematically the great reveal in Dorian Gray really works.

I feel unencumbered today, like I used to when I first got sober. I don’t think that it is truly possible to explain the feeling of being in ones own body after having such a profound sense of being emotionally AWOL. After years of what can only be described as an out of body experience re-entering ones own skin, inhabiting ones own head is such a RELIEF. Of course I still have the occasional, odd moments when I desire not to be me. To run away and hide, lost in the tsunami, surfacing twenty years from now in a white Panama hat in some obscure fishing village in South America. I think about what it felt like not be me when I had that other name. I thought about it there on the mountain this morning.

At the movie theatre Dom pointed out a man he thought looked just like me. The man was 45ish, very tall; he had a very fierce presence. He said, “You nearly ran into your doppelganger.” Do I look like that? Again, I got a surprising sense of how people perceived me. I do not and have never had any idea of what it feels like to be in my own company. “People are scared of you.” They say that. I am dismayed when they say that. How could that possibly be? Is that the sum of me?

In the evening I met Internet Date man and Ian Drew and we saw a rather odd performance by David Leddimont (?) in Santa Monica of a sort of homage to Quentin Crisp. Quentin was, in the 1970s, a rather grand old tranny who wrote a best selling book called The Naked Civil Servant. London Weekend Television subsequently made it into a film. I watch it often with Gary Davy and we scream with laughter. We use many of the lines from the film to amuse ourselves, for instance if either of us ever got laid the other would say, “It must have been foggy down the ‘Dilly tonight, dear.” Or, just becuase it was so funny in the film, “The roughs are coming!” Which will mean nothing to anyone unless you watch the darn thing.

Anyway, I have to tell you that I thought the show we saw last night was very poorly conceived but happily it reminded me of Quentin who was brave and clever and suffered, it seemed to others, unnecessarily for his art but that was what he was compelled to do. His friends in public for fear of association shunned him and he learned to exist on the out side of society and make the best of it until he was invited into the establishment fold at the age of 70.

I first saw The Naked Civil Servant on TV when I was 14. Moved to tears I immediately wrote to Quentin from my boarding school in Shropshire. During the next few years I received many letters from him and I would meet him occasionally in coffee shops in Fitzrovia. I saw him last in New York a few months before he died. I am ashamed to tell you that earlier this year I threw out all of the letters that I had kept from my school years. A great big box of letters. I knew as I was doing it that I was making a big mistake by not sorting through them. I couldn’t bear looking at all of those letters from my Mother. It made my feel sick. For 6 years I recieved two letters a week from my mother, grandmother, and various other members of my family. There were also, sadly thrown into the recycle bin, letters from Quentin Crisp and many other media types who bothered to write back to me during those years when I had nothing better to do on a Saturday morning in the school library than hunt celebrity.

Melvyn Bragg always replied to my adolecent questions and encouraged me to write explaining that he often suffered from, ‘Multiple contactions of apprehension.’ whenever he wrote anything.

In bed by 1am. I don’t like going to bed so late-it upsets my routine.

Tim/Amanda

November 16, 2009 duncanroy 6 comments

Today, Luna chewed three huge holes in the passenger seat of my truck. So, by 9am I was a little glum even though I am wearing a cheerful pink shirt and rather attractive cardigan. It’s really hard to train a Pit pup though I think I am doing OK in the circumstances.

My Jasper Morrison sofa is a wreck and needs to be recovered. Saw some gorgeous blood orange velvet on Labrea below 1^st street but irritatingly had just missed the 70% off sale. This sofa is a fucking mess. The leg keeps falling off too. This is exactly what happens to nice furniture when you share your house with a 70lb Pit.

Frankly I don’t care about the truck. I bought it exactly for this reason: so I didn’t have to worry about odd bumps and scratches. The holes are in the passenger seat-not my problem. If the dog had eaten the Porsche however…

I’ve really enjoyed the past few days after the GHASTLY gay/lesbian/cuckold dinner party debacle. Did I mention…and I’m sure I did…that Brett Easton Ellis watches SEX REHAB. Worth mentioning twice as there are few people I am totally awe struck by but he is deffo one of them.

Saturday was no less interesting. Lunch with Dom at American Rag. Still, I find it hard to trust him as he is prone to reveal that he takes a little bit too much interest in my life–in a rather creepy way. The fact is, the fun part of our friendship is over.

Had early evening nap, then Justin and I took a cab to the 30 years of MOCA event. Drank cans and cans of diet coke at the 30 years of MOCA after party at my friend Jerrod’s gallery on Sunset. Chloe Sevigny, Todd Eborle, some ‘a’ gays, Dom’s snobby up her own ass arts publicist friend. An enthusiastic Sex Rehab viewer woman approached me and told me how much she loved the show. The Asian man in the HSBC bank also ‘loves’ the show. Until last night I ‘loved’ the show. Last night’s show was less lovable.

Anyway, Justin woke up with a magnificent hangover on Sunday morning. I drove to Malibu and let the dogs run around the garden that has been transformed by the new gardener. It is so incredibly beautiful there. Paths, vistas, secret gardens, Bananas, figs and strange green pears still on the trees.

Justin and I napped on the hammock overlooking the sea then drove to Amanda Eliash’s brunch in Beverly Hills. Saw Sharon S with Hamish McAlpine. Love Sharon. I warmly congratulated Hamish for his recent wedding. I didn’t know he was a Kent boy, I said cheerfully, ‘I’m from Whitstable’. He turned his fat face toward me like a crude papier mache doll and with a vicious sneer said: ‘I hear that people smashed your windows.’

I was tempted to deny it. I didn’t want to remember what had happened nearly 20 years ago but it was true–there was a time in Whitstable when my windows were being smashed and anti gay graffiti was being daubed on my walls. AIDS AVAILABLE HERE. As I have written before, growing up gay in a small town anywhere in the world has its drawbacks. It was a very dark time. I was scared, vulnerable and had nowhere to run. To have this nasty, badly dressed, rich boy reminding me, mocking me–it was too much to bear. I wanted to rip his over sized head off his flabby shoulders. Frankly he couldn’t have done much about it. He looks about 65 even though we are prob the same age.

I was in no mood to let this creep diminish me so I let him have both barrels and felt a great deal better when he finally slunk away. Reptilian, homophobic Hamish McAlpine you are a very nasty little man.

We stayed at Tim and Amanda’s for a few more hours enjoying the cast of odd characters running around the house. Ryan Fox very sweet young director, Findley Quaid’s girl friend screaming at him on the phone for the better part of an hour. Justin looked happy. I don’t think that he has ever lived like this. I am going to dress him when we go to swankier events.

Jay Rayner, Clair Rayner’s son also there. A jolly, piano playing food writer, long hair and full belly. A little resentful of others making more money than he does but hey, most people are. Jay lives in Shakespeare Road, Brixton in the house directly next door to where Jay Jopling used to live-where Jay and I would have the occasional tryst. Rayner was also well acquainted with Whitstable. Missed out on buying there when it was cheap. Apparently a great friend of the chef Steve Harris and family. Jay Rayner, another acerbic Brit on US reality TV. We talked about his mother and he made me quite teary-reminding me of Clair Rayner’s reassuring a whole generation that everything was going to be okay..she was the British Dr Drew Pinsky!

Amanda invited me back for Christmas day. I accepted.

I loved seeing Tim. I always do.

Saw SEX REHAB show. Like most people I am irritated by glut of Kari Ann material. It’s a pity that VH1 made her the spine of show. Poor meth head. However, I won’t hear a word said against her, as she is very, very sick little girl.

In bed by 10.30pm. Up at 5.30…etc. etc.

Categories: Rehab Tags: Sex Rehab

LEVI

November 19, 2009 duncanroy 3 comments

Well, ask and you will receive! My night with Levi Johnston (and Tank). Also met Clint Eastwood who complimented my cowboy hat but thought my scarf looked like a tablecloth. The woman in the picture is my great love Sharon Swart from Variety. I had a blast . Wish it had been bright enough to take more pictures. EVERYONE in Hollywood was there. Perfect night. Tarantino, Eli Roth, the cute girl from V. Endless other agents, producers, James Franco’s lil brother. Left at 11.30 in bed by midnight up at 5 for radio tour for Sex Rehab. This is why we move to Hollywood right? To meet a legend like Clint? To hang out with him on a sofa at a party and learn about what was. My Levi infatuation is over now. It was fun whilst it lasted. I mean! It was great. He has meaty arms and a sweet smile. Here I go again…whoa.

Drag Queens and the Church of England.

December 1, 2009 duncanroy 22 comments

The town of Whitstable is on the North Kent Coast, England. It is primarily known for the flat native oysters that grow prolifically in the shallow estuary waters close to the shingle beaches. The British film star Peter Cushing, famous for Hammer Horror films, lived there with his wife Helen. Once, getting off a bus, my mother accidentally knocked him off the bicycle he rode around the town. Years later I bought Peter Cushing’s beachside house.

When I was a little boy I sang in the choir at St Alphage Anglican Church. My mother told me that she thought that I would make a good vicar. Not because I was particularly pious but she knew how much I loved dressing up in my cassock and ruff. Sometimes I would steal it out of the church and wear it around the house–much to the consternation of my family. I loved singing carols, hymns and psalms. I particularly loved singing psalms. The low growl the organ made when we sang those difficult psalms. I loved evensong when the church was candle lit and half empty. I loved singing at weddings because we got paid.

During the day the organist worked in Tattessals the butcher’s. She wore floral dresses and flat black plastic slippers. She looked funny in the mortarboard the ladies wore in the church. She always smiled. I think she may be still alive. That’s what my hometown is like. We knew each and every one. The men who worked the harbour, the women who worked in the supermarket and the schools. The antique shops on Harbour St. attracted unusual and eccentric men and women trawling for treasures, driving expensive and exotic cars. That’s where I met my first, fabulous gay men.

In the early morning I worked a paper round. Waking at 5 in all weathers to walk the streets delivering papers. I loved the smell of newsprint in the newsagent, the smell of burning paraffin.

Inquisitive little boy that I was I wanted to be involved in everything. I explored the graveyards, the football pitches, the cricket ground. I walked the golf course; I explored the beach huts and knew every inch of the beach from Seasalter to Swalecliff. I joined any club/organization that would have me: the drama club, the Anglican choir, and the barley cup drinking Mormons, the silent Quakers, and the theatrical Catholics. I knew every shop and every shopkeeper. I wanted to know about furniture and the names of flowers and trees. I would wait on the quay for the fishing boats to dock and watch the men sort the fish for Billingsgate market. If a particular house looked interesting I would knock on the door and ask to be let inside. I was rarely turned away. The only building I couldn’t get into was the Masonic temple.

I was there when the oysters landed, mixed with hundreds of orange starfish. I was there when the vicar blessed the catch. When the yawls raced on the Swale with their great umber sails, when the sea flooded the town, when the bonfires burned on November 5^th–I was always there.

In fact, I would do anything I could NOT to be at home. You know why. All of you.

I am no stranger to organized religion and village life. For the longest time I really thought that I might want to sign up and wear the cassock and the mitre and preach the gospels…until I realized that whilst my church tolerated a boy gay they didn’t want anything to do with a man gay. In fact, apart from the drama club and the Quakers, none of the clubs/churches were very happy to include me or men like me. I made no secret of my gayness. Never. EVER.

Recently I got to thinking about why that would be so. Why didn’t they want shameless gays in their churches? I thought about a thousand years of Christianity. I can’t imagine that some gays weren’t then exactly like we are now: a bunch of cynical iconoclasts. I mean, a couple of queens squealing in the back of a medieval church kind of destroys the control the clergy expect to exert over it’s congregation. Do you know what I mean? Certainly where I come from the gays can’t keep their mouths shut–they have opinions about everything. It wasn’t always so bad for gays in the community–we weren’t always burned at the stake. Not until Queen Victoria and the new Puritanism. Just look at our rich tranny history. Check out Fanny and Stella a couple of fabulous 17^th century drag queen who trolled up Burlington Arcade in their bustles and feathered hats. They were always in court but always got away with it. Can you imagine those boys in Westminster Abbey being FIERCE with the ushers?

This is my problem with gay marriage and organized religion. We are better than that! We know it’s a corrupt institution. Don’t we? When did we start straying away from our own rich culture? The language and locations of our gay lives? When did we stop being so brave? Brave enough to defend what we have rather than assume that what they have is better?

Why are we fighting for marriage in a church? You know, I’d be happy just to be protected. That I can walk on the street where I live holding my lovers hand. Call me old fashioned but all this gay marriage stuff is just nonsense.

As much as I believe in God, I want to do it my way and the Bishops and the Deacons knew that. The funny thing is–most of them were gay but they weren’t like ‘us’. They knew we weren’t the kind of folk (us vulgar gay boys) who were going to buckle down and not raise the occasional plucked eye brow at the badly written sermon, make inappropriate, ribald remarks about the cute new pastor. We just couldn’t be controlled because that’s the way we are. Our culture, up until now, has been about innuendo and barbed truths. You see, darling, my relationship with God was forged through adversity. I needed God in my life because he gave me solace, fortitude and hope. My relationship with God means that I am never alone.

When I was drinking I would listen to torch songs and pray that he would come, that’s the kind of God I have–one who listens to Judy and Barbara.

I’m just trying to understand who I am in relation to the church. There’s an imagined homo history that we have to explore–read between the lines. I don’t think the church (a thousand years ago) gave two hoots about what men did in bed but was terribly threatened by our candour, fearlessness and what made us the ‘other’. I’m not talking about those men who are silenced by fear, I’m talking about those of us who live out and proud.. The two tribes of gay: the trannies and the down low.

Duncan Ivan and Christopher 1982

“At Marlborough Street Court, when the assistant gaoler Scott called out “Ernest Cole,” a person looking like a well-dressed woman stepped into the dock and gravely faced Mr. Denman, the presiding magistrate. No one would have imagined that the prisoner, who was attired in a black fur-trimmed winter mantle, large black feathered hat and veil, and carried a muff and neat hang-bag was a man. It was alleged that the prisoner was a suspected person loitering in Oxford-street presumably for the purpose of committing a felony. Detective Gittens, D Division, deposed that, while in company with Detective Dyer, he saw the prisoner in Oxford-street on Monday evening. The prisoner was behaving like a disorderly female. He went up to the prisoner, and told him that he believed him to be a man. The prisoner endeavoured to escape by jumping on to an omnibus.”

The Times, January 2, 1901

Scrambled thoughts. A side of Nostalgia please.

December 10, 2009 duncanroy 25 comments

Bumble’s Christmas Cake

There were few people and fewer dogs climbing Runyon today. I read some vile, homophobic comments on the Sex Rehab message boards. I reported them as ‘harassment’ and they magically vanished.

The nasty things people write sometimes turn me on–that’s the kind of sex addict I am.

On Christmas Eve, after the smoky pub, weaving my way home through the matt black night I would sit by the fire and knit and listen to the sea gently lapping over the shingle.

Porridge

December 15, 2009 duncanroy 80 comments

Breakfast with John this morning at Cecconi’s. We ate oatmeal, which is American for porridge. Actually just milled oats with hot milk rather than the creamy, steaming, slow cooked porridge of my youth. Served this morning–like a desert-with strawberry jam! Yuk.

I was telling him about the long relationships that I have had with women. I have always identified as gay but recently, after rehab and therapy I am coming to other conclusions. Gayish maybe. I don’t know. ‘It’s complicated’ as they say on Facebook.

My relationships with women, as with Jennie on the show, have always been incredible romances.

I have loved women more than I ever loved me.

That was a Freudian slip. I meant to write men. But it’s true; I have always loved women more than men or me.

The woman that I have loved the most have been highly intelligent, powerfully articulate, always incredibly beautiful and sexually submissive. The most recent being the editor of a highly regarded magazine. I refer to all my past female lovers as my ex wives.

To understand these relationships I’d best explain the relationship I had with my mother.

My relationship with my mother was intensely emotional. Remember, she too was held hostage in our ‘family’ by my violent step-father. Consequently, I became her escape, her confidant, her secret affair. On the bus to Canterbury I said, “I’m not your boyfriend!” For the remainder of the journey we both sat in silence, shocked that I had articulated what had, until that moment, been our terrible secret. I was 12 years old! In lieu of a loving husband or a loving father we loved each other absolutely, unswervingly. She would confide in me, when we were on our own, that there was only us, no one else existed. Just her and me. That if she could she would run away with me. This emotional incest laid the groundwork for the intensity I seek out with women.

Sexual violence I seek from men. I always find it.

Even though I have had long relationships with men, I devalue these relationships when I compare them to the relationships that I have had with women.

The truth is my mother and I never escaped. She stayed married to my step father and endured his constant punishment. I escaped into madness and addiction.

I still find it very difficult to forgive her. She is a sweet and simple woman who really did her best to make a terrible life better for all of us. However, knowing what I know now, would it have been so terribly hard for her to put my brothers and I onto the bus and somehow get away?

I don’t believe that all gay men are born gay.

I know that this thinking sets me at odds with the majority of the gay community and many, many straight men. Saying that, I don’t believe that there is a cure for homosexuality – as once the dye is cast our sexuality seems inevitable.

There is no evidence that gay-to-straight rewiring or reorientation actually works.

However, gay men who live with and marry women are of course far more prevalent than we like to admit. But should these relationships be discounted? Both Oscar Wilde and Vita Sackville-West had incredibly loving relationships with both their spouse and a member of the same sex. Indeed, Oscar’s love letters to his wife are as beautiful and compelling, if not more so, than his letters to his male lover. Vita’s profound love for her husband provided a springboard from which she would leap into a previously unimagined same sex world.

Again, in my experience of having relationships with women, women were far more accepting of my behavior than one would like to believe and tended to stick by me even after multiple same sex indiscretions. When I have had relationships with women, women who knew that I had preferences for men, they tended to overlook the past and focus on a future that we might share together.

Most gay men who identify as gay are born gay. However, a few men (and I count myself among them) are sexualized at an early age. I am plagued with this question: If I had not been so badly abused as an infant would I have become gay?

There are many varieties of gay.

Men who own to same sex desires later on in life endure accusations that they were merely in denial: minimizing their life’s journey.

The group of men who seem to cause the most distress to both straight and gay men are those who genuinely seem to have sexual choice and act accordingly. Same sex experimentation amongst straight men, despite rowdy protestations, occurs more frequently than any of us like to acknowledge.

As I have written before we, as a society, are incredibly prescriptive about the sexual identification of others. Supposedly, once a man has crossed the sexual Rubicon he is damned. Bullshit. If only these sexual prescribers applied the same rational to female sexuality. But how can they? When straight men persuade women to act out lesbian fantasies have these women now become forever lesbians at the behest of heterosexual men?

All of my work as an artist has sought to understand, rework and revisit my initial trauma. This now feels, after therapy, like a terrible indulgence. Yet, to let it go…what am I left with? The future seems very bleak without this grotesque narrative.

PS My mother visited me after my grandmother died. It was uncomfortable for both of us but we got though it. When the big dog was killed I called her crying but I felt like I was crying to a woman I no longer knew.

In the words of Tennessee Williams: Time is the greatest distance between two people.

July 18, 2006 – Tuesday

PARIS

Bad Gay.

I have lent my apartment in LA to a friend. I hope that he looks after it. People have very different ways of living than I do. I have a new bed. Hope that he does not stain it.

Bad Gay.

So. This bad gay has to kiss his secret love on the lips–adieu.

August 31, 2006 – Thursday

I woke up far too early and set about plumping cushions. My beard has a huge hole in it from my nervously pulling at it at the airport. So, this morning I went to Vine and Sunset and my Puerto Rican hairdresser who shaved my entire head. I have had a beard for so long now I really did not recognize myself. I look like my grand mother when I am concentrating. Not very hot.

Courtney Love was on my plane from London. She looked pale but she always does. Sitting next to celebrities on a long haul flight is like going on a date. You get to see them so clearly. CL is on the wagon so she behaved impeccably but you could tell that the air stewardesses were waiting for trouble. A ‘difficult’ person is often made worse by the expectations of others. Everybody loves a good Naomi Campbell story and the mob loves to blame her for her antics but it is so often the goading behaviour of others and the nasty atmosphere created by the crowd that can make a celebrity attack–or anyone for that matter with a bad rep. Boxers are forever being offered to fight by complete strangers.

I know that I–to a lesser degree–can sense when people have a bad opinion of me or expect me to be the person they have heard I am. It is so hard, in those instances, to take contrary action. All too often I become EXACTLY who they want me to be and then all of their preconceptions are ratified. The contrary action is to ignore the baiting, the sly comment, the sneery look or the comment behind the hand. Of course, if one says anything about THEIR behaviour one is accused of paranoia. CL behaved impecably. At the carousel where we waited for our luggage she dragged her own very heavy cream leather luggage onto a trolly and I felt for her, I really did. This much maligned woman whose celebrity relies, in part, on her earlier bad behaviour is finding it very easy to change her insides but the others will not let her change the outsides.

The last time I flew to LA I was sitting near John Major–though what he was doing coming to California beats me. Does he have celeb friends in the hills? Does he surf? Anyway, he was there reading the newspapers in the same row as me. I had previously seen Brokeback Mountain with friends at The Grove in LA and afterwards I had battled to keep from crying. I decided, rather stupidly, to watch it again. Heath is so mesmerising. As the credits rolled I felt like crying so made my way to the tiny loo and cried. I was making a terrible noise, big fat tears rolling down my cheeks and onto my chin. Anyway, when I had finished sobbing I opened the door only to find special branch-the UK equivalent of FBI-who were traveling with John Major outside the loo door. “Are you alright, sir” one asked and I said, bursting into tears again, “Brokeback Mountain.” and slammed the door. After a good half hour I went back to my seat and John Major looked very kindly at me and asked in a stage whisper if I was OK. “Brokeback Mountain.” I said and the ex-prime minster of Great Britain and all of its Dominions frowned and nodded understandingly.

I might hire a car this weekend and drive to San Francisco. I like it there a great deal and my friend Randy lives there. Or, I might go to Mexico city with Eugenio and the others but that might be a bit bonkers. JT asked me rather grandly (he is a few days under 90 days sober) what I was doing with those people doing drugs. He cannot fathom why I get a kick out of hanging occasionally with those guys. What he forgets is I found him at that house and now he is nearly 90 days. He forgets that I am doing out reach work–so to speak. People are genuinely amazed that I can stay up all night with them without doing drugs or drinking. Nobody else I know wants to do it–we lead by EXAMPLE.

I start Valentine on Tuesday with the new writer and it is not a day too late. The secret project is coming along very well. Dorian has ground to a halt.

My life as a film maker.

SS in Berlin thinks that I have a changed personality when I get here. I am going to make a concerted effort to be kinder this time. More accommodating. Now I dont have a beard to hide behind-I need to be a great deal nicer. Maybe my beard made me aggressive in LA–or just the place. Hot, sweaty. Disparate.

Will add more later about this LA thing. Already have breakfast meetings scheduled for two weeks after labor day.

September 1, 2006 – Friday

dakota fanning

Woke at 4.30am. Still dark outside. Answered e-mails. Still cannot find missing towels. Sharon only used the white ones. Apparently everyone knows that Sharon cried when she told me that the laundry had lost my large white towel.

Spoke to JA yesterday who confirmed that she has cancer. They misdiagnosed the lump she had in her leg-it was the spreading kind of cancer and not the other sort that stays put. She sounded brave but angry that the mistake had been made and that Blue Cross is not honouring their insurance agreement.

I went for a long walk on Runyon Canyon as soon as the sun came up and looked over the city. I felt like Warren Beatty in the film Shampoo when he looks over LA sadly realising that his life is in tatters. Yet, it was not my life that was in tatters–it was my friend’s–a friend who had been there for me for over 15 years.

Last night I had dinner at the 101 with Dom and John R. We ate the fried chicken-Thursday special. It was delicious. I wish I had it to eat for breakfast. I am STARVING. The fridge is looking pretty bare. I have not had time to restock it. There are usually stacks of celebrities at the 101 but there were none to be seen last night. They had better things to do than eat the Thursday special fried chicken.

Dom and I have a private joke about Dakota Fanning being snatched by coyote from the terrace at the Chateau Marmont. Nobody else finds it very funny. If ever we see a small child or dog at the Chateau we ask if we can have Dakotas autograph. I was in Barneys once with Dom eating kippers-they stank so much that our part of the restaurant cleared out. Anyway, there was a child there who looked like Dakota Fanning and I asked for her autograph and her mother looked piteously at me and told me that this was not Dakota Fanning. That is how sad our private joke is.

I tidied my desk today and sorted out the draw and threw out old receipts. I think that I have a shoe addiction. I buy so many pairs of shoes. If JA died it would leave a vast hole in my life. I think that she is going to die. It is the spreading kind of cancer and not the kind that stays put.

Ian Drew called to get a quote he was writing about straight actors coming out in Hollywood for US weekly in the wake of the kiss between Travolta and that boy on the internet. The smoking gun. Finally, The secret is out. So what? Who cares? Who did not know that Travolta was gay? Will we believe him less when he holds up his sub machine gun and takes down a nation? Who keeps the gay boys in the closet? Other gays. They are vicious. Other gays keep gay actors from telling the truth about who they are. The velvet mafia must be reeling this morning.

I feel strangely happy and content. The walk did me some good. I should really go and buy my bike, which I did not do yesterday. I am secretly waiting for Dom to take me to the bike shop on Saturday and help me choose it. Must not lose momentum. Tuesday I start work on Valentine. Found old draft of script that reads well. All problems are structural. Must call Lisa B the casting woman and start talking. Perhaps my towels are hidden in Daniel’s room?

September 2, 2006 – Saturday

Dog Piss Canyon

“I’m frightened by the devil but I’m drawn to those who ain’t afraid..”
(Joni Mitchell)

I passed 73 dogs on my walk on Runyon Canyon today. They call it dog piss canyon. I dont think it smells at all. The dogs are all quite good natured although I had a fear that if one of them did attack me it would be my fault because I was wearing black socks or had a beard. “He was wearing black socks–my dog hates men with black socks.” Most owners walk silently with their dogs but others keep a ghastly, high pitched baby talk monologue going with their dogs, “Daddy wont be happy about THAT when we get home.” “Keep up with your brother.” Obviously the dogs are not related, one is a Yorkie and the other is a large black mutt. The illusion of family pervades the canyon, all these lonely people with dog brothers/sisters to feed and focus on. “Mummy said NO!”

Last night, after my 7.30-9.00pm AA meeting we ate dinner at Swingers on Beverly. The conversation was dominated by the rumour that Bush intends to use ‘little’ nuclear war-heads on Iran. I was dumbfounded by just how jocular the discussion was. Earlier, before the meeting started, a small Jewish guy was telling his friends loudly how ashamed he was of American foreign policy. Bush’s speech yesterday to a bunch of guys in fancy dress (ex-forces I think) was the usual war mongering pre-election bullshit. I keep on thinking about Michael Moores Oscar speech when he declared that we live in ‘lying times..’ How will we ever sweep away this bunch of liars, thieves and fools? We are the first generation of human beings who can not just pack our bags and find land to settle with like minded people. We have no escape.

Apparently my towels are in Daniel’s room. He did not flush the toilet AGAIN yesterday. I feel too embarrassed to say anything. Shall I leave a note on the bathroom wall? I have not actually SEEN the towels yet but at least he has claimed responsibility and will buy new ones if they are vanished. I scrubbed the tea towel that was stained whilst I was gone. This is the third time that I have scrubbed it-it seems to be responding.

I have decorated for comfort and relaxation. I have some of my photograph collection on the walls. Cindy Sherman, Thomas Struth, Larry Clark, Tracy Emin, Larry Sultan and Gillian Wearing. It is a lovely little group. I also have the dregs of the Holly Soloman estate sale, above my desk is a wonderful painting called ‘A Peaceable Kingdom’ by Jimmy Kellough, which is a piece of tat really but I love it. How lucky I am to live in two such perfect places? Whitstable and Hollywood.

At 12 I went to my lunch-time AA meeting but it was a bad mistake–such a bunch of self obsessed relapsers. I had mass murder thoughts during the meeting which I have not had since I was last there–so in the words of Hunter Philp I shall ‘go where the love is’.

I had lunch with my celebrity friend who I cant mention–maybe next time-at the Chateau Marmont. We were offered the table behind the hedge where they put all of the celebrities but we declined favouring the full spotlight. Since I have been gone they have put air conditioning into the lobby of the Chateau. Not as bad as I thought that it was going to be. The staff was having a serious meeting in the dining room. I waved but they all looked like they were being fired. We then went to see a cut of his new film that was, in a word, dreadful. Two words–dreadful and appalling. I could only sit through 30 mins of it without squirming off of my seat. The worst thing is he has invested $180,000 in it WITHOUT having seen any of the footage. I could have slapped him but I am TRYING not being so judgemental and he is a really great friend.

The oddest thing has happened. I woke up at 7.30 which is when I normally get up-I seemed to have totally got away with out having any jet lag.

September 4, 2006 – Monday

Julia Woolf

78 dogs on Runyon Canyon.

The transformers on Outpost exploded yesterday causing the fourth power cut of the summer. Thankfully I was not here for any of the others. John and I drove to Ralphs and bought ice to keep the fridge from getting too hot. I bought three chickens for dinner–they were half price. I also bought melon and strawberries. In the line at the check out the young couple ahead of me had 20 boxes of microwavable hot dogs and a carton of diet beverage. He looked into my cart and said, “This guy eats healthier than us.” I enquired if they were having a party. The petite, pretty blond girl told me that this was there diet, franks and diet drink. “I don’t cook.” she said, “I’m frightened of raw meat.” Her gorgeous boy friend winked at me.

Alexa, Devon and Sabrina invited me to join them on a trip to Little India which is in Artesia some 40 mins from Hollywood along the freeway. The power out meant that the fans did not work so they lured me with a promise of air conditioning in the car. When we got to Little India it was just as you might imagine several strip malls selling sari’s, jewellery and indian food. We had a blast. I bought odd looking raisins and nut meg and almonds. Being in Little India reminded me of the UK. Tea and digestive biscuits and Wheatabix. The smell of petuli oil pervading the hot streets. We ate lunch in a small restaurant and ordered Indian food that I had never seen in England. We took our chances and before long delicious things arrived in compartmentalised styrofoam trays. The Indians were watching me eat mine with some amusement-it turned out I was dipping my savoury main course into my desert. I suppose it was like watching someone put ice cream on their hamburger.

We all fell asleep, open mouthed on the way home.

When I got home I stuffed lemons into the chickens and poured curry paste onto the skin and put bay leaves and garlic under the birds and roasted them for two hours at a very high temp. I boiled potatoes and then roasted them with okra and tamarind sauce. Thankfully I also soaked and prepared some barlotti beans which was just as well as Julia’s husband is a vegetarian.

8 people for dinner. Delicious. Julia Woolf who I have known for thirty years. Who would have thought it? If somebody had told me that the coolest chic in Whitstable would be at my table in LA when I was teenager I would have scoffed. Julia’s husband is very funny and dry. Josh and Sara are always great company. I love the way Josh knows film.

After they all left the internet yielded somebody for me to cuddle. Made it perfectly clear that I did not want sex. We walked together up the Canyon counting dogs and then he left.

September 5, 2006 – Tuesday

room mate

Only 23 dogs on Runyon Canyon today. Why?

After the holiday weekend perhaps everybody had already hiked by 7am or perhaps they come later after a heavy night. I whipped up the Canyon in no time. I had a great deal on my mind. At first I thought about not going or taking an easier path but every time my head tells me to take a day off my workout-to take the softer, easier path-I remind myself that JA is savoring every day as it may be her last and so, out of respect, should I.

On the way down the Canyon I try to say good morning to everyone I meet. I have learned that to simply nod and smile is ignored. The sort of nod and smile that I would appreciate on Whitstable beach for instance. A mouthed ‘morning’ always solicits a reply from old people and people of colour but never from young white men or women. A hearty British old-fashioned ‘Good Morning’ shakes all of them out of their self-obsession. Of course, one can look totally insane doing that. The best way to make contact with any of them is to say hello to their dog. However, I refuse to talk to dogs. “Come on Philip.” Calling dogs’ human names is, quite frankly, batty. I like Dogs to have Dog names like Scamp, Napkin, Ruffian etc. If owners must insist on human names for dogs then choose names that express something about the nature of the specific dog e.g. Napoleon.

Manny’s on Fairfax for breakfast yesterday with the gang (food is just OK, the waitress forgets to post order so food arrives 40 mins after we did.) The couple on the table next to us arrive carrying a dog in a basket-a shaved Pomeranian. Just its face remained Pomeranian looking. They pulled the dog out of the bag and plop it under the table. “Is your dog friendly?” They ask the couple next to us. “No.” I say. We all laugh. We make small talk about the Pomeranian. I tell them that their dog looks like Dakota Fanning. “We never heard that before.” Thay say, laughing. I ask them if they are trying for a baby. I am forever asking straight couples if they are trying for a baby. “That’s our baby.” she said. On another table there is an Italian Grey Hound that is so thin it obviously has bulemia. “Does your dog have self image problems?” I ask. They laugh. Imagine that thin dog thing hanging over the toilet-it’s little paw shoved down it’s throat. My friend arrived with his dog Nick which is a terrier/chihuahua mix and quite sweet I suppose. When we got home I realised that Nick was going to be like a third person in the apartment. When we went to lay on the bed my friend insisted Nick came too. Call me old-fashioned but I do not think that sleeping with dogs is entirely hygienic. So, rather than spend time with me on our own and put the dog outside the bedroom he left.

Then, last night at 3.45, I wake, as if from a nightmare, hearing a huge crash in the kitchen, of course, think that somebody is breaking into the apartment I leap out of bed. I see that the rug in the hall is folded over and rather than be timid I shout. “Who the fuck is there?” and charge toward the kitchen. Standing in the dark is Daniel holding a bowl of cereal and a glass of juice. He is obviously very drunk and calmly begins questioning me about why I am screaming around the house. His tone is sinister. “Tell me exactly why you found it necessary to scream.” I heard him say as I retreated. I go to bed. I can hear that my neighbors have heard what is going on and will need to explain to them later.

JT called. He is having a great time in early sobriety. I remember my first sober New Years Eve. I was in the Sydney Opera House watching The Magic Flute. During the interval we watched the midnight fire works that set the entire Sydney Harbour Bridge ablaze and then we returned to the opera house for the second part of the opera. Perfect. My first six sober New Years Eve were even more perfect than the last. Three mediocre New Years Eve followed (including one with Georgina in Sydney) and then last year, of course, I was in St Moritz with the wonderful Antoinette Stern.

Today Erik the writer comes and Valentine begins in earnest.

September 6, 2006 – Wednesday

Canyon Barbie

38 dogs on Runyon Canyon today Sept 3rd 2006. For some odd reason these blogs are out of sequence.

The owners thankfully too tired to make small talk with their dogs. Yesterday, I shopped on Robertson but could not find what I was looking for. Lunch at The News Room with Dean West. The food was bland and expensive. I ordered a fancy fruit drink–wheat grass, pineapple and mint which had no taste what so ever. When I told the waiter it had no taste, that it tasted like water–he asked if he could remedy the situation by adding more ice. “Are you kidding?” I asked. He went onto explain that the ice would make the drink thicker therefore giving it more taste. I asked him to get me an orange juice.

I mopped the kitchen floor with bleach.

Met Sharon S at the Arclight. We saw Oliver Stone’s new film about 9/11 which was, at times, very moving but I was over come with the feeling that it had been made too soon after the event. I mean, that’s why the US are still in Iraq isn’t it? Avenging the deaths of 9/11?

The film works best in the confined space underground developing the relationship between the two trapped men. I constantly had to remind myself that this was a ‘true’ story-it was so shocking. Sadly, above ground, Stone never really captured the horror and confusion of that day. As a film maker he needed to be less reverential and more grandiose/dramatic and only time passing could or would have allowed that to happen. It was apparent from this film that Stone finds directing women almost impossible, consequently the wives of the trapped men are woefully undignified. The only female performance of any note was Maggie Gyllenhall. Maria Bello’s bright blue, over sized, contact lenses were very distracting. The flailing women erred, again and again, toward the dismally sentimental.

Nick Cage was phyically suited to the role but he is so prone to under playing that I wondered if his inertia would finally get the better of him. Strangely, as I experienced it, the film felt like a ‘white’ film which was odd because one of the guys trapped under the concrete was latino-his family did not really get a sniff at the action-was the latino woman with Gyllenhall the maid or the guys mother? I found out subsequently that the hero who found those guys under the rubble was not a clean cut white guy but a black man. A BLACK man found those men and WHITE film makers edited that out of the story. Stone is usually an oppinionated, egocentric film maker but ultimately this film, due to the enormous reverence to its subject, lacked a strong point of view and an unusual absence of ego became it’s downfall.

9/11 remains a ghastly pre amble to what Will Self calls the ’21st century commodity wars’. I would very much like to read the book that the film was based on. I cried when the film ended but I stayed angry long after we left the arclight, angry that today more innocent people would be buried under concrete by the US in Iraq. Nobody seems to have learned anything.

Saw JA in the line for another movie. She was wearing dark glasses. It is the first time that I have seen her since the cancer diagnosis. I suddenly felt consumed with anger that her stupid consultant had got the diagnosis so very wrong. It is such a terrible waste. Letter from DP yesterday expressing his concern for JA. We have all agreed to stand shoulder to shoulder should the time come.

After the film Sharon and I ate dinner at the Hungry Cat under that new apartment building on Sunset and Vine where I first lived when I arrived in LA. The bill came to $111. The food was decent enough-a bit complicated.

We talked about our sexual obsessions-after a life of sex how difficult it is to reorientate oneself toward a relationship. Sharon has huge tits and I kept on thinking about them during dinner. She told me that her next door neighbour is a very fit looking young girl who makes wrestling videos in her back yard. Sharon calls her Canyon Barbie. I tried to explain to her how PH makes me feel–like I am a MAN when I am with her. Filling out my own body.

Sharon has never met me without a beard so was delighted that I had dimples. I love intelligent, strong women. You know, it was Sharon who helped me cut the front of Dorian Gray providing solutions so that the beginning of the film sprints where it previously limped. We wandered to the parking lot arm in arm and then she dropped me at home in her black porsche.

September 6, 2006 – Wednesday

Nicole Richie

Thirtyfour dogs on Runyon Canyon. Saw a group of elderly Russian men pushing a baby in a stroller. Had sudden panic that I could be arrested for smiling at lesbians. “I smile at everybody.” Would be my pathetic defence in the courtroom. Nobody smiles on Runyon Canyon.

Sprinting up the canyon I thought about my father dying of pancreatic cancer when he was only 53. The last pictures of him are on his hospital bed looking defeated but still very fat. He only had one eye. Lost it in a Porsche racing accident. I thought, as I was running up the very steep bit of the canyon, my heat pounding, if I should really be taking it easy at my age. I could just drop dead at any moment. I thought about this: When my father was a young man somebody threw him out of a second floor window because he owed them money.

Yesterday began with Erik L the writer arriving to rake over My Funny Valentine for comedy ideas. We began discussing each character, their motivation etc. We decided that the leading man’s sidekick needed to be a group rather than an individual. We nailed the ‘heavenly’ side of the story into shape and made sense of what happens on earth. Discussed casting. Needs to be cast by AFM. Erik left just after lunch.

Dan Glenn popped by to cheer me up even though I was perfectly cheery. A few minutes after he left Chris Parker arrived with chocolate muffins. We sat by the back door and ate them. The squirrel that lives in my yard likes me spraying him with cold water. Chris and I amused ourselves with that for a little while. Chris may go back to London and get on with his acting. I used to scoff at LA dream chasing but now I see that it is all part of the process. We discussed his career then he too drove off. I am a refugee in this city. I cannot go home and do what I do here. Very hot yesterday and the day before.

Tony my neighbour dropped by to say hello. He had been in Redondo Beech dressed as a Hot Dog for three days being paid $50 an hour. Children hugging his legs. He lost a lot of weight in that costume.

Dinner with Ian Drew at The Chateau Marmont. As we arrived Will Carter screams at me, “Have you been doing BED AND BRAKFAST?” I am stunned. Why would the maitre de of the Chateau Marmont know such a thing? I admit that I have. “It’s all over town.” Ian pipes up. I flounder for a moment. How can I explain just how important it is for me to honour both sides of who I am? When I do b and b I serve rather than be served, I listen rather than be heard. It is terribly important for arrogant bad Duncan to be of service. That’s why I do Reiki. I looked a little perplexed but thankfully Nicole Richie arrived and kissed us all and the B and B topic was, thankfully, set aside. Anyway, this perfectly describes the collision of my two lives.

Ian and I have a very jolly supper. Shrimp/Artichoke/Steak. We discuss my life pre Whitstable this summer when we sort of lost contact-I was traded in for a boyfriend. I told him how mad it became going up to see EL every night. Night after night with Lindsey Lohan and that gang watching them party. We discuss the Prada party that neither of us bothered going to but was apparently the best party of the season thrown by our friend Amanda Demme. The last memorable party she threw was a Prince private concert for 200 people at the Roosevelt. I went with Ian and we must have been the only non-celebrities there. Ian is best known for giving evidence at the Michael Jackson trial. Half way through dinner Ian made us move inside to a very bad table because he thought he saw Elizabeth Taylor. It wasn’t.

I see my friend Steve Garbarino (editor in chief of Black Book) with Stellan Skarsgaard and sit with them for a moment. Maddy, Steves divine girl friend is packing in her room before she heads back to New York. I see the adorable James Franco eating dinner with his charming friends. We will meet this Friday to watch my film. Joel Mikely was busy with Peter Bogdanovitch and Brittany Murphy. I love Joel.

Sadly, I also bumped into DP (Paramount number cruncher) and TB (bit player) who are ghastly people. Snobby DP telling more dreary stories about getting drunk-she had just returned from Deauville film festival and was disappointed that there were too few parties. She boasted, “Last time I was here at the Chateau I was up until 5 getting WASTED.” Ha ha ha. When is she going to realise just how un-cool that is? TB may be amused by the John Travolta US Weekly issue. TB is a (very cute) gay who is vile about gays in public. Ian complimented DP’s new longer, wavy hair extensions.

In the lobby Will introduced us to two very handsome marines who had some how got past security. They invited us to have a drink at the Bar Marmont. I had lemonade. Ian was impatient to get to Foo Bar and belt out something by The Rolling Stones. We love karaoke. Monday nights are better but we had a great time anyway. The marines were sweet and very gay/gay friendly. After Ian brilliantly sang to us all we said goodbye to the marines and drove to Beige on Sunset but it was dead after labor day. Ian introduced himself to anybody we met as Kate Moss. “You filled out a bit Kate.” one rather cute Latino boy cheekily spat back at him. Of course all I could hear on the way home was, “Do you think Im fat?”

September 7, 2006 – Thursday

Blue Eyes

Only 12 dogs this morning on Runyon Canyon.

I woke at sunrise and slogged up the hill. Very few people are out and about that early. Before the sun breaks over the horizon it is easier to see the path ahead of you. It is not going to be so hot today, 10 degrees cooler. Every day, before my walk, I pray for JA. Yesterday was another bangingly hot day. After yesterdays hike I wrote e-mails and noted that, annoyingly, my blog had moved out of sequence.

Yesterday was a simple day. Chatted more to Chris P about his career. Had lunch with Clifton at American Rag we sat next to two very over weight managers who said things like, “He’s the next Charlie Kaufman.” I ate the avocado stuffed with coronation chicken salad. $50 including tip.

After lunch my beautiful actor friend Josh came over to discuss his auditions. He is so fucking handsome yet lacks that essential oomph that gets him the job. He is probably a good enough actor but when you audition and are THAT fit you need to follow through with direct eye contact (he has piercing blue eyes) and crack that cheeky smile and every single door in LA will open before you. Josh is worried that people will perceive him as arrogant if he is too sure of himself. When you are that beautiful people expect you to be a little bit arrogant. Nobody wants a nerd in buffs clothing.

Josh is a war hero fresh from Iraq–he should be super confident. I will take him to the next Hollywood do I go to. He needs to be out there, dressed up, making things happen. Letting people know who he is. We all do that in this city. It is like living in 17th Century Versailles. The etiquette, the pecking order, the instant recognition that leads to stellar patronage. Who sits where in restaurants or how they are sitting and with whom they sit. Madame de Pompadour by Nancy Mitford is a great book to read if you really want to know how Hollywood works. As a maverick film maker (Sharon calls me the gay film enfant terrible) I am intrigued by it all but do not invest in it.

One day I would like to make a film about the three most powerful gays in the city. The producer and the two agency bosses. Each of them have such a different style in business and their relationship with boys can be used as a metaphor for their general dealings. One of them is corrupt and corrupting. One creates protégés in the boys he dates and the other hires boys then dismisses them.

The less powerful gays jump up at the table like dogs of these three and a most undignified sight it is. My advice to any young actor arriving in Hollywood: There are certain hot tubs in LA you must avoid at any cost!

Had long chat with Effie Brown who is post producing Dorian Gray. She is a saint. Very business like though, very strong. I really like her, you know exactly where you stand with Effie. No bullshit!!

The Internet introduced me to a young man who came over as a prospective date. We fed the tame squirrel nuts. No sex. He left when Dom turned up to take me to dinner with his friend Andres who is moving to Zurich. Oddly he knows the sister of Antoinette Stern with whom we spent New Years Eve.

The Beef ribs we gnawed on for dinner were disgusting. $25. I was a bit hyper after having spent all day with Josh. Conversation about Lindsay Ls vagina on the Internet. No knickers as she got out of the car. Poor LL.

Will join gym today. May alternate between Canyon and gym.

September 8, 2006 – Friday

Peter

How could I forget to mention that the towels have FINALLY been returned to the cupboard in the bathroom where they live. Hurrah! Thank you for your concerned e-mails and notes. Again, I can confirm that Daniel washed and returned the misssing towels.

It is a totally over-cast, grey day on Runyon Canyon. 35 dogs. The elderly Russian men had the stroller with baby as well as a miniature clipped poodle-the ginger variety. Getting to know all of the regulars, what they wear, the route they take, the smell of their antiperspirant. One-man prances down the hill, taking tiny, pointed toe steps like a Lipizzaner horse performing dressage. Bird life evident on a dull morning, I saw plovers, humming birds and crested grouse.

I hope today proves a little less frustrating than yesterday.

It started after I posted my blog. One of my oldest friends called from Europe-I was really pleased to hear from her. She is a very chic art collector who I met and had a brief but passionate affair with when I was in my late teens. As with all of my friends we have had our ups and downs. We have had periods of silence and moments of high drama. I was thrilled to hear from her–I always am but I could hear in her voice that something was wrong, the very same something that I have been aware of for some considerable time. She confronts me–challenges me. We end up having a furious row but instead of slamming the phone down I finally demand to know what was the matter? What was this all about? She tearfully told me that she was going to be 52 next week and the penny dropped. Menopause. It was that that had kept her up all night sweating, reliving the past, feeling inadequate-confronting her own mortality, wanting to relive past sexual conquests. On the edge of madness. It was this terrible hormonal upheaval that she could not speak about previously that now explained everything about our recent history. This is real! This isnt madness and nor was it anything to do with me. Now we have something to work with and work through. She seemed delighted as her friends refused to say that, “Horrible word.”

Chris P arrived for lunch and we talked about his recent past. We never talk about me. He never asks about me. He really knows nothing about me. All he knows is that I am mad. Ate at American Rag. $35. Bad shrimp salad-unsatisfactory French toast. Moody waitress expecting a huge tip. Tips get on my fucking nerves. Tips are for good service. Since when did they become mandatory? My worst tip experience happened in NYC when I paid by credit card and then left the tip (double the tax) in cash. I left the restaurant only to have the not very attentive waitress scream after me, “Where’s my God Damned tip?” I told her that I had left it on the table in cash-we went back to where I was sitting and there it was on the saucer where I had left it. I asked the waitress for an apology, she refused, I took back the tip. Chris and I discussed JT and why I don’t really want to see him. It isn’t him. It is who I become when I see him. I don’t like who I am when I spend time with Joe.

After lunch Chris asked me why I refused to get a car. No answer.

My friend Charlie P is a rich, successful media man. When I need advice or guidance I call him. He is incredibly generous with his time. Whenever we meet I insist that I pay for our lunch or dinner. I feel that it is right and proper that I do so. He is always pleased because nobody ever pays for him. It suddenly occurred to me yesterday why sexual favours are so prevalent in this city. I have sat on so many occasions with actors advising them about their careers. Who to go to, who is good, who can help etc. Do these people ever think for one moment what this is worth to them? Do they consider that that it might me nice to take me to lunch for helping them? Then I realised. They have nothing to give. Young poor men and women have only their bodies to offer for good advice. That is the currency of the Hollywood meat market economy.

I was quoted in US weekly yesterday re John Travolta. Good quote.

After lunch I was meant to be seeing another actor who used to be in Angel but he failed to show up. This flaky arrogant behaviour is so LA. I called him and shouted at him for ten minutes. He is a deeply closeted actor. He accused me of being over emotional. This is the second time that he has let me down. I could have been with Gil and the kids or seen my sponsor or prepared some writing. Instead of which I sat around waiting for a tosser who could not be bothered to call.

I joined the gym. What a palaver. I had decided that I wanted to join LA Fitness at the end of the street. It is walkable, it is new and the facilities are good. I made up my mind, my credit card in my hand I told the girl at the desk that I wanted the introductory offer of $35 a month and could I get a membership? Nothing so fucking simple I’m afraid. I had to meet Carl who was going to show me the ‘facilities’. Carl told me all about his marriage break-up. Carl made no bones about the fact he thought I was gay. ” This is the kiddie room but a man like you won’t be needing that.” He asked what I thought I was doing climbing Runyon Canyon at my age-he suggested that I had to take care of my ‘brittle bones’. “I want you to come HERE every day Roy.” “My first name is Duncan.” I told him for the 5th time. “Is that your black Bentley parked outside Roy?”

Finally, after being shown the sauna, the cardio area and the racket ball courts I got my pass.

Peter Youngblood-Hills for dinner. Peter was in AKA he played Benjamin. We have had many adventures all over the world together and now we both live in LA. He arrived at my house on the scooter I want to buy. I cooked dinner. We had a great time together. We looked at his amazing photographs. He showed me the ones he took of me in Baha. We discussed JA who we stayed with there. We knew then that something was wrong with her. She was so thin and her jaw jutted out. Baha killed JA. All that misery she had to deal with. We talked about the whales we had seen and what a majestic experience it was. Peter has been in Africa with his friend Leonardo. Scoober diving with manta rays. He found cave dwelling shamans and photographed them. We discussed the Sufi myth The Conference of the Birds, which Peter Brook staged in Paris in 1980. I remember seeing that play as if I had just seen it yesterday. I had made my way to Paris just to see the play. I used to love theatre. I just hated making something that existed then there was no real evidence that we had existed at all. It is my arrogance that demands that I leave a mark.

Peter has a show of his work on the 17th September.

September 9, 2006 – Saturday

Shabbat Dinner

42 dogs on the canyon path today. The path that scars the mountain as you look up at it from Labrea. Blue-eyed man is slowly learning how to say good morning. He glances at me now and cracks the merest smile. “Good morning!” I say. I hiked much later than usual, seven thirty rather than six thirty, as I had slept fitfully. Daniel came in late with Jesse his b/f. I could hear them crashing around in his bedroom. Another grey morning. I like it grey and chilly.

It started off grey yesterday too but the mist burned off by 11.30 when I set out to meet Xan Rufus-Issacs for lunch. My legs were sore from my first stint with a trainer at the gym. Will, the trainer, is a small 25-year-old actor from the east coast. If he were an animal he would be chip monk. He asked me what exercise I did and I told him that I walked up RC every day. He scoffed. He then proceeded to take me through a punishing and wholly worthless leg programme. My legs, after all, are my best bits. My calves are worked out every day and my thighs and butt get hammered on the Canyon. Will said, “How does that compare with your walk on Runyon Canyon?” I saw that what he wanted was to PROVE something rather than help me. I shall insist on upper body when I go back on Monday.

After my walk I eat dates and nuts and coffee made in the pot Will Self bought for the house in Whitstable.

Lunch was wonderful. Xan and I ate at Italian restaurant on Brighton Way. Our waiter was a bit smelly. I ate antipasto and chocolate cake. We talked about Gus Van Sant, The Dangerous Sports Club-of which Xan was a founder member and his weekend into the wilds of Wyoming. We talked for two hours and afterwards I felt totally invigorated and optimistic. It seems that we have a friend in common-Tim Hunt. I met Tim when I was Lord Rendlesham. I have a very old picture of Tim Hunt, The Princess Anne of Bavaria, Alexis deToquville and me at dinner in Paris in 1982. Tim runs the Andy Warhol Foundation now. I like talking about that time; I so rarely get an opportunity to do so with people who understand it. I must be the same age as Xan. 1978, whilst I was in Whitstable being bullied by my stupid stepfather Xan was leaving a huge stately home and going to Oxford.

Lunch $37 with tip.

Barneys after lunch. I saw apricot silk velvet pillows that I have been hankering after for AGES reduced from $350 to $100. I had to buy them. Shop assistant gave me his number.

Instead of going home I decided to stop by early at Lisa and Neal’s house that is not far from Barney’s and wait there until Shabbat dinner. I had a wonderful late afternoon playing with Lola, Mikhail and the Bush Baby. They must be all under the age of 4. Isaac, 8, arrived and I pretended to be his father’s retarded friend that amused him greatly. 41 on the outside 8 on the inside. Amanda who is 16 came home from school. We looked at the pictures of her summer camp and then we wandered down to Saks to return a vile Lacost shirt. Saks closes at 6 so we missed it and wandered back. She still owns the shirt. I sat in the den with the Bush Baby’s dad Aaron watching bad celebrity TV. The house slowly filled up with relatives of Lisa’s and one particularly annoying Australian actor friend of theirs who is not only unsophisticated but also ugly. Chip.

Chip is one of those people who insist on trying to get the better of you. He behaves like an old-fashioned school bully. I first met him when he turned up at Amanda’s sweet 16 at Wacky Waffles on Sunset. He was with Nick Sawyer who was Orlando Bloom’s PA and now produces movies–notably he is producing Macbeth with John Maybury. There was some misunderstanding between Nick and myself about illicit drug taking and we needed to sort it out. Anyway, it was unpleasant and was totally innnapropriate for this discussion to take place at Amanda’s sweet sixteen. The moment Chip arrived last night he starts goading me about this incident and was delighted that I did not find it very funny. Chip then asked me to open the wine knowing that I go to AA and really don’t like to do it. When I refused he took Lisa’s brother into the scullery and giggled. What a fucking IDIOT. I had my meeting with James Franco to get to at the Chateau Marmont so I took my cushions and scarpered. All the children came to the door to kiss me goodbye.

Arrived at the Chateau. Heard my name being screamed across the lobby. Chris Parker. I could not talk. He was with two girls who looked like they had their phones glued to their ears.

All I want to say about James is this: he is a gentleman. We watched the film. We drank Badoit. He drove me home in his Bentley.

Missed out on dinner with Selina and Aleksa. Will send apology immediately I finish this.

When I returned from London two weeks ago I felt energised. I felt strong. Two weeks into being back here and I feel put upon. That is the only way to describe it. I feel pressured by unknown forces. Low-level dissatisfaction pervades my day. I engage with fools and play their games. I am already sick of listening to the trials of others in one-sided conversations. I do not trust that people will do their best, I like to think that professionals in the UK give their all rather than here where people do the barest minimum. God works hard for me in LA. I hand over a great deal to him. Perhaps today will be better.

Go where the love is.

September 10, 2006 – Sunday

ART

Sunday. Day of rest. AA meeting to go to. I may walk this evening. The same young man just left the house that left last week. No sex. I was not interested. That’s cool.

Saturday is Dom Day. We had lunch at M Cafe on Labrea. Dom had his oil changed at Jiffy Lube whilst we ate the contents of a bento box. Nothing to say about our conversation. After lunch we drove to Fred Siegel and bumped into Richard Squire and his friend Saweeda. They looked happy. More comments about my beard. In store Velvet bomber jacket by Lanvin costs $4000. I was shocked. I wanted to try it on but they did not have my size. I laughingly told the shop assistant (really sweet boy) that I had no intention of buying a $4000 velvet jacket-what ever the label. I could buy a scooter for that or invest in a new artist. “They don’t care what you look like,” Dom said, “All they want is their commission.” They don’t care about you-it’s true.

After Fred Siegel I napped for an hour and then Devon, very kindly, dropped me off at Marc Selwyn’s gallery on Wilshire to see the work of Paul P. Beautifully executed miniature paintings of boys from historical gay porn. I was the first one there. I enjoyed looking at his work on my own in the gallery. Reminded me of Whistler and Carriere. The dry point was particularly fine. Xan Rufus-Issacs arrived who loved the work and I think he may buy one of the paintings if one comes available; it was, needless to say, a sell out. In that part of town there were very, many exhibitions last night. Mostly new artists showing in established galleries. At Paul Kopeikin’s gallery, however, amongst the new tat I found a perfectly lovely David Hockney photo collage of the artists mother and a young blond man. I loved it. I remember in the late 80’s being bored by those huge ungainly photomontage pieces. Now I see that they are great works. $40,000 seemed cheap.

Xan and I are really connecting. He is very funny and warm. I find that I am slightly in awe of him for all the wrong reasons but am aware of this. I told him what happened with my brother and mother when I was at home. He asked if I had ever made amends to either of them and of course I have never ever made amends to my Mother for past behaviors. I wrote to my brother S offering amends but they were rejected, described as ‘nauseating’. We drove to Gagosian to see some austere black and white Japanese show. It was dull, serious and lacked energy. The crowd was sexier. The men wore expensive hats.

After Gagosian Xan and I sat on Sunset in the Coffee Bean and Xan showed some comedy porn he had on his phone. We drank very sweet frothy coffee.

Marc Selwyn had very kindly invited us to the dinner he was throwing at his house off of Doheny. The most perfectly charming post and beam set in a tree filled lot. The garden had been set for dinner. A hedge of majestic Cyprus keeping the event secret from the larger houses on the hill. We ate chicken with prunes and cous cous. I sat next to some very sweet collectors from Chicago. There was a great deal of discussion about Iraq, Bush, Iran and Israel. There was one very loud, rich collector who had uninformed opinions which I tried to contextualize. He asked for my number. His wife was dressed in clothes that had names printed all over them and two huge solitaire diamonds on her fleshy lobes.

I met Paul P’s boyfriend Scott Treleaven who is a video artist. They live in Toronto but they are moving to Paris. I want them to meet my friend SS. I think that they will get on with her very well. Scott had met Jarman in London and was inspired by him to make video work. I was really impressed by these two young, gay artists. We agreed that American artists seem to shy away from making work that says anything political at all. Why? Are they scared of being un-patriotic? Where is the fire that ignites political art? Can Damien Hirst only make work about love? The only show I saw in NYC that attempted to say anything about current world politics was Joseph Kosuth at Andrea Rosen.

Where are our polemical artists?

I had a great night and was in bed by 12. The evenings are drawing in. Next week it will be impossible to eat outside at night without those fierce out door gas heaters. Now, I am going to walk to Santa Monica Blvd. and get the bus to my AA meeting.

September 12, 2006 – Tuesday

real estate

Just returned from my morning walk. 53 Dogs. Today I walked with Corey Nelson my realtor from Sotheby’s. Corey is a stunningly good-looking ex-Bruce Weber model. He and his girlfriend walk Runyon Canyon everyday. We decided to take the other, steeper path. We hiked the three tall peeks and that makes for an altogether longer and tougher walk. We met at the Fuller entrance at 8.30. On the way up it was difficult to talk because I was huffing and puffing like an old man. We passed 4 people. The views are stunning, really stunning. We looked over toward the sea on our right and the Hollywood sign to our left. We made our way down the usual way yet, astonishingly, everybody at 8.30 seems very social, most people say a warm hello. We chatted to people all the way down. I suspect that this is because Corey (26) has perfect pecs and abs.

The strange woman I saw yesterday with the Yorkie strapped to her chest told Corey’s girlfriend that she carried her dog like that because it had been bitten once by another dog so now she is too paranoid about him walking anywhere. We met a dog called, ‘Freakshow’, we met really cool lesbians. We discussed bikes and if I should get one and Vespers and if I should get one. Most of all we talked about property because we have seen so much of it between us. When I was friends with Georgina I am sure that all the Kent estate agents had mug shots of us with BEWARE!! TIME WASTERS written below our names. We saw property wherever we went. New York, Sydney, Fire Island. It is so much fun looking at other peoples’ houses. However, I am genuinely looking for a house to buy here. I have seen so much property but none of it speaks to me or if it does then it’s too expensive. When developers get there hands on it the property is ruined. The additions of prissy ‘Zen’ gardens and horrible hedges of miniature bamboo, I call it ‘gay grass’. They add huge, ungainly kitchens with slate work tops. They lay badly installed hard wood floors. A terrible uniform aesthetic. All the ‘done’ houses are done out of their individuality.

I fell in love with a Soriano house on North Dillon St but it was too expensive for what it was and ultimately needed too much doing to it. Also, if you live at the top of any Hill in LA however gorgeous the view-the noise is terrible. The rumble of LA all day all night would drive me madder than the maddest man in mad land.

I love Silverlake. All of the best architects have examples of their work there.

Yesterday, Corey picked me up at 9.30. We drove to Edgecliff Road in Silverlake to see a house for me to buy. It was wonderful. Built in 1964, perched on a cliff over looking the lake it has never been ‘done’, thankfully no ‘zen’ garden with water feature, no designer kitchen built for a family of snackers and no gay grass. It is perfect for me. I am going to try and quickly raise the money today. The house really has had little changed since it was built. It is owned by two adorable old queens. They had great furniture too. We were there for hours. The 73-year-old man who owned the house said, rather obscurely, about his neighbor, “He wouldn’t know how to make a pie.” I asked him if he could knit. He couldn’t. I persuaded him to consider knitting as a precaution against arthritis. We laughed a great deal.

After the viewing I went home and I washed the filthy Venetian blinds in the kitchen with oxi clean then hosed them down outside-very satisfactory. I love Oxi Clean. Lazy day at home reading and writing. Should have achieved more but sat and thought about THE WORLD. A good day to think about THE WORLD. It is so hard to articulate ones frustrations about the state of THE WORLD. As I scrubbed my blinds I thought again and again about the choices that I had made that lead me to this place.

We planned a conference call with my manager, lawyer and producer of Dorian. It was the same old story. Arclight stalling, Carl failing, Effie dealing. Carl is the guy who a year ago came on board to raise more money for the film. He seems to spend most of his time on vacation. His big, bovine head grinning inanely. His LA teeth catching the sun. He agrees with anything anyone says. If I did not have the rooms of AA I would be tearing my hair out but this is God’s plan and I have to put up with it. I really don’t worry about it. Art comes when it is ready. It is born out of confusion.

If I choose to make unconventional films in an unconventional way I must expect there to be no convention.

September 13, 2006 – Wednesday

Jessica Simpson

I did not count the dogs on Runyon Canyon; I had a great deal on my mind. I saw the Russians with the baby and they all said hello. The cute boy with the hat totally ignored me. The lesbians said a cautious hello. I felt as if my body were changing today. It was easier to haul up the steep bits. Either I am getting stronger or leaner or tighter or maybe all three. When I lost weight before I lost weight gradually then I got horribly thin in a matter of a week. Must buy scales.

It was a cool, tranquil morning.

As I began my leisurely decent, deep in the wooded part of the Canyon a man started screaming. He was furious, angry against the world. I tried to see what he looked like but he was hidden under a canopy of trees. He was like a monkey in the rain forest letting everyone know that he was there. “Shut up you crazy fuck!” somebody called out to him but it was half hearted-they understood why he was screaming. He was screaming for all of us.

Yesterday was such a day of extremes. Corey took me to see another house. It was a house owned by an Italian writer in Beverley Hills. A beautiful modernist house designed by Georgescu in 1958, sadly it had a ropey view. I have made an offer on some of the furniture, which is all beautiful, mid-century modern. After the viewing Corey dropped me off at the Key Club AA meeting. I stayed for half of it then walked to my 1pm meeting with Jon Larson from the Directors Guild at the Chateau Marmont. I had the salmon that was far too complicated-too many flavours. We sat next to Selma Hayek. She looked great. I met Patty, the director of Monster and Brad Wyman’s partner. Brad was one of the producers on THAT film I directed in Romania. The problem with Monster is that, like The Devil Wears Prada, you have a great performance shining in a dull film. Let’s face it, if Elizabeth Hurley had been playing the lead in either of those films what would you be left with: The Method!!! Ha ha ha.

After lunch I walked home up Sunset via Bonhams to see the dregs of the fine furniture sale. It all looked ghastly. This Friday is the preview of the Sunset Estate sale. I love this auction. I furnished my entire apartment with things from this auction. June Havers and Fred McMurray previously owned most of what I own. I have their bowling trophies, their bowling balls, furniture, silver, a chandelier and some delightful dining room chairs. Once a month there is an LA Modern auction and I bought pieces by Paul Lazlo there. Auctions are my not so secret vice.

When I got home I planned to take a nap but, thrillingly, the secret project script arrived from London and I had to have a long chat with Seth my manager about Dorian and the secret project and Valentine which seems to be coming along well. Then I had a long chat with a financier about refinancing Dorian. Then I had to check my Dorian out of pocket figures. I guess that I am owed in the region of $150,000. By the time I had done all of that it was too late to take a nap.

John (works for Penguin) picked me up in his jag and we headed off to the C.U.N.T AA meeting on Robertson. This meeting, as you might have guessed from the title, is a British meeting. I think that my sponsor started it. For me, going to this meeting is like being dipped in acid. It is excruciating but I had promised my sponsor that I would go and embrace my enemies…

I put my hand up and I shared about my walks on the mountain. I told them that I was going where the love was. I hinted that I had found God in the mountains-that I was humbled by the mountains. I do my best in AA, which is all I can do.

After the meeting Corey and I went back to Silverlake to see the house at night. It was so COOL!! I love it. We also revisited the Soriano house on North Dillon. You know, it really is noisy up there. You can hear the valley traffic as if it were roaring through the garden. Too close for comfort.

John and I had a late dinner at The Chateau. I bumped into the adorable Dougray Scott who is working on Desperate Housewives. I met his girl friend Clare. Chris Rock was hanging about the lobby-apparently stood up by Courtney Love. I sat with Jessica Simpson briefly-she looked AMAZING. That girl has the most perfect skin.

John has a great story-he once woke up out of an alcoholic blackout on a plane. He had no idea where he was going. He was on his way to Buenos Aires.

John dropped me home at midnight.

September 14, 2006 – Thursday

OUTRAGE!!!

6.15. Runyon Canyon. Right hand path. 23 dogs. Two blind men with white sticks. Simon Doonan. Five people said hello.

On the way up the mountain I had a God almighty battle of wills between my acknowledged ‘dark side’ and the weaker ‘good’ me. My dark side always has such a compelling argument for any bad/naughty things I want to do. Dammit.

Yesterday I pissed a lot of people off writing my blog. I apologise. It was inappropriate.

Of course there are some things I choose not to write about in this blog but, unlike anywhere else in my life, this is a place where I can be totally honest. I am neither bound by fear of judgement nor at the mercy of a lie. However, I suppose that there are things that I should not write about. For instance, I do not write about sex, because when I did, it seemed to upset some people. I have agreed with myself new blog rules of engagement. I am no longer going to write about my EXPERIENCE of AA. From the moment I step into an AA meeting to the moment I leave the rooms of AA I will not report on what I have shared nor any opinions about who I have seen there-even if I am alluding to them and not making them obvious. I agreed tacitly to this when I joined and so it would be priggish of me to renege now, ten years down the line. I have agreed with my sponsor that I will share my AA type grievances with him. To this end I have removed the offending paragraph in yesterday’s blog and replaced it with a few apposite lines from the AA big book.

However, I will be writing in full about my experiences outside the rooms of AA.

Yesterday morning Chris picked me up from my apartment and drove six shirts and me to the ecological laundry. We had a very jolly time. We were both very happy. He is going back to England on Sunday. I suddenly realised that I would miss him. He is a spirited, sweet, honourable boy and even though I am double his age I learn a great deal from him. He wanted to take me to the Beverly Hills Hotel for breakfast. On the way there Joe called and asked Chris if he had read my blog. Joe was OUTRAGED! Chris, in a very difficult position, could not stop Joe from spewing his indignation. Chris cut him off, telling him that he would have to call him back later. We sat in the car and pretended to be posh for a good five minutes. Of course, if you are truly OUTRAGED by something you have read you do not call all your friends and tell them about it. “Have you read Duncan’s blog? I am outraged!” Even though Chris had the phone pressed hard to his ear I could hear Joe screaming. Chris and I, both having had a great deal of press attention in the past, know that when you are truly OUTRAGED you simply call your lawyer and deal with it. Recently poor Chris had to deal with adverse press and when he called me he was choked with emotion. He did not call all his friends to read the offending material and then be OUTRAGED. I noticed a huge swell in my readership numbers yesterday possibly because Joe was so OUTRAGED.

We ate a wonderful breakfast. We chatted and laughed. After my waffles we explored the Beverly Hills Hotel shop. We found the Beverly Hills Barbie and another Barbie holding the hand of a small child. “Look, Paedophile Barbie.” I said, holding up the box and shaking it. Chris went red and we scarpered.

Went home and read the secret script. It needs work but you can see how wonderful it is going to be. I had a day of DOING things in the house. I cleared out the junk closet in the hall and hung all of my winter coats in there. I closed most of the windows because at night it is now very chilly. I washed the glass. I fed the squirrel-it feeds from my hand. The maid called and told me in broken English that she would come on Thursday as she had a hospital appointment.

I took a cab to the Hyatt where I met Jon and we drove to the BAFTA garden party. OUTRAGED Joe was there not looking quite so outraged or if he was he was unwilling to confront me about it. In fact he did a great deal of cap doffing around Xan. The other aggrieved parties from yesterdays blog were also there and we mutually apologised and that was that. I had a very jolly time. Saw Charlie and Vicky from New York and hung around with them. I saw Marjorie and Xan, of course, and we ate pulled pork and black coffee and there was a very British raffle. Cute Mormon boy invited me to a party at Shag but I did not go. I went home and found places for my tools and threw out the last of Dee’s things that she left at the house.

I re-read the secret script which I love, as i was reading it the Valentine script arrived. That was less inspired.

I had a long chat with Xan before I went to bed. It was reassuring. I was reassured. I am going to pray that good things happen for Joe.

September 15, 2006 – Friday

itunes 7

22 dogs. One young man applauding his Jack Russell for taking a piss. “That’s amazing Billy!” he commended.

There were 15 gardeners trimming the mountain-something I never thought I would see but I suppose some one has to maintain the paths and trim back the vegetation. The undergrowth is so lush.

I liked being at that school. I learned how to make cheese, chutney, jam, milk cows and learnt all about Jason and the Argonauts. Saw a dead badger by the side of the road and when I pulled its tail the thing came off in my hands-I was 13. Country people are not scared of dirt or death. We would camp outside on the lawns and learn to listen to the earth. Check it out, it’s called Monkton Wyld Court. A beautiful gothic, Pugin inspired rectory. One winters day a kid wrote in the snow: Reunion 1999 on the terraces so we could all read it. 1999 came and went but I never went back to any reunion. I hitch hiked there from Whitstable once. Years ago. It took two days.

Annie Lennox reminds me of living at Jane McAllisters house in Edinburgh whilst I was working for Richard Demarco during the Edinburgh Festival. Must be talking to an angel.

In bed by 12. I think that I may go to Sydney next week for a month.

September 17, 2006 – Sunday

www.saverunyon.org

Sunday, day of no walks on Runyon Canyon. No dogs to count, no fat to burn. No.

What do I think? Will it make any difference to the quality of my life if they build a car park at the base of the Canyon?

Yesterday I wondered if it wouldn’t be rather nice to have a rustik shack selling breakfast stuff at the base of Runyon Canyon with a wood burning stove warming on a cold morning. I found myself dreaming about that just as often as I tend to dream about running the Red Spider Cafe which used to be a rustic shack/beech hut on Whitstable Beach. This summer Barry Green, who owns Whitstable beach, asked me (as he must ask many others) if I wanted to run the Red Spider Cafe. He wants to re-build it. I found this idea very appealing. The simplicity of a very honerable trade: I make you tea and cake, you give me £2.75. I never ever dream about making films in the same fond way that I dream about serving tea and running a small hotel on the Kent coast.

Why can’t people just walk to the Canyon? I walk to the Canyon. I walk everywhere. I walk to the farmer’s Market on Vine. I walk to the Auction House on Gardener. I walk to the Chateau Marmont. I have walked, on many occasions, from Labrea to Doheny to my AA meeting. I even walked all the way from my house to Roberston and Beverly. I really love walking LA. I love peering closely at palm trees, I like nosing into gardens. I like taking alternative routes.

When I was a small boy I walked in my pyjamas from Whitstable to Herne Bay. When I had my drug problem I walked so hard from Kensington to Soho that all my toes turned purple from the bruising. When I was at Shotton Hall School we walked the length of Offa’s Dyke which is an ancient path that runs the border of Wales and England. We stayed in idyllic Youth Hostels and I remember packing co-ordinating outfits.

I prefer walking to taking the bus. There is so much shame heaped on people who take the bus in this town. I tend to linger away from the bus stop just in case anyone sees me waiting for a bus. Can you believe it? I shall be more robust about my bus taking in future, less shameful.

Unfashionably, I think that Barry Green should be allowed to build beach huts and Red Spider rustik shacks all the way along the stretch of beach that he owns. I do not, however, think that Barry Green owner of the Whitstable Beach, should be able to build a hideous mock light house and crowd generic ‘fantasy Whitstable’ type architecture on the new marina.

I went to see the plans for the new Whitstable Marina devlopment before I left for California with my friend Charlie Parsons and we both agreed that the designs were HIDEOUS. The architect on duty told me that it was the council’s fault but this is patently untrue. The local council merely defines the architectural parameters for the architect: the height, housing density, materials etc. The architect is responsible for the imaginative response to those parameters. Whilst I think that the town will benefit from the new marina, the suggested designs were bland, depressing and what is worse one could already imagine abandoned polystrene oyster trays being blown all over the ertsatz cobbles on cold winter afternoons.

Continuing our Saturday morning tradition I had breakfast with Dom and John Roden at the 101 cafe on Franklin. This old fashioned, mid century diner is always stuffed with cute alternative people. Yesterday was no exception. Omelette, no toast, no potato. Yes, I’m starting THAT again Clare Swinburn. The smelly breath diet. We complimented some boy on his floral pants (trousers) and he said, “You have to be really straight to wear clothes this gay.” He showed us what was written on his ass and when we complimented his ass he said, rather seriously, “That’s harrassment.” Who put the ass in harrassment?

Spent most of the afternoon with my sponsor and then went home to meet Peter Youngblood Hills but lost my phone on the bus, then my afternoon went to shit-missed seeing/speaking with Peter, missed my opening at M+B gallery and when I finally resolved everything it was time to head over to Julia and Sim’s to see their gorgeous house in Silverlake, meet their divinely pretty daughter Elsie and meet their friends from Sheppy of all places and eat dinner in Silverlake. After dinner of Pork medallions and chocolate terrine I took them all up to the Soriano House and fell in love with it all over again. OH GOD!!! I love that house.

Stayed at Julia and Sim’s until 1am gossiping about Whitstable people. It was so much fun. No one was spared. Sim dropped me at mine and I slept like a log. The phone rang twice after midnight. I did not answer. I knew what they were. Two booty calls. Can you believe it? At my age!!

September 18, 2006 – Monday

Danny Gallagher

I woke at 7am. Pulled on an old, navy blue jogging outfit. I did not realise I had it with me here in LA, it’s one I bought on Oxford Street in Sydney 3 years ago. I don’t remember packing it.

Just missing one day of exercise stiffens my joints. I set off into the Canyon. I pass 51 dogs.

On the first ‘level’ before the steep bit there were 8 old Russian men sitting on the bench howling with laughter, talking over one another and thoroughly enjoying the delightful crisp, Californian Monday morning in mid September 2006.

Yesterday, by ten am, I had already met a handsome black realtor off of the internet. I made it crystal clear that I did not want to have sex. He swung by in his flash BMW and we headed to the farmers market on Vine where I bought 8 huge organic peaches which are ripening in a pale green bowl in the sitting room as I write. The farmers market was JAMMED with people. I have been going to that market ever since I first moved here and I have never, ever seen it this busy.

I saw purple okra and delicious cheeses and ten different kinds of dates. I saw many local people that I recognised, how lucky we all are in Hollywood to have this perfect destination for our Sunday mornings. The internet date was hungry so we headed to the 101 where we were served by Ryan who is a friend of Aleksa and Devon. We had both been invited to Aleksa’s birthday party so Ryan said he would give me a ride over there when he finished work. Saw beautiful boy in 101-looked like a dark Justin Timberlake. I did not get his number.

Internet Date and I then drove to Bonhams auction house where I saw a pale wood 50’s desk with really elegant legs that I had some how missed in the preview. It was an early lot so we were far too late to buy it. One of the auction regulars that I nod to occasionally saw me looking at it and told me that it had not sold so I ended up buying it for $50! I love it. Needs some slight repair but mostly it needs to be loved. It has really beautiful legs.

Paulo, my friend who works there, was annoyed because he had been sent out to buy sandwiches. He said, “I didn’t spend $150,000 going to college to be sent out to buy sandwiches.” He is a funny Italian boy who wears a wife beater under his shirt. Anyway, after the desk purchase-which as I had credit at the auction house I did not have to pay for anyway-Internet date drove me home. I don’t know if I will see him again. There was no immediate SPARK.

Jane Garnett called to tell me the great news that she is pregnant. We talked about her film The Illusionist that is a huge hit! I adore Jane, we chatted about the secret project that she knows and she loves. We agreed to meet some time this week. I am desperate to see her, she makes me feel SANE.

Coincidentally I received an e-mail from Georgie Byng yesterday who originally introduced Jane and I several years ago. Georgia was in my performance work, The Host that we performed in The Royal Oyster Company Hall in Whitstable. She is married to Marc Quinn the artist who made Blood Head, one of the great art stars of the Sensations era. One of Jays artists. Marc is a very kind man. If I am mad and difficult, like they say I am, people like Jane, Marc and Georgia are willing to overlook my defects and concentrate on the man they have known and liked for many, many years.

Ryan collected me at 4pm, we drove a little further west up Sunset to collect his friend Steve who had played Dorian Gray in a rather wonderful sounding theatre adaptation of Wilde’s novel. Steve, of course, loves the book and quoted huge chunks at me. If fact, we disagreed about the source of one particular quote and I had to concede, after looking at the book, that he was right and I was wrong. It is always good for ones constitution to admit defeat to a younger prettier man. I really took to Steve, a complex mess of desire, pessimism and loneliness-all spread out on the table for every one to see. An emotional yard sale. There is nothing better than a beautiful boy with a problem. Of course, ugly people never get the opportunity to let everyone know their STUFF. Nobody cares.

We headed over to Aleksa’s birthday party in Grifiths Park. I met her manager Eric Black. Really liked him. Eric told his best friend, also there at the party, a friend who he had worked in the CAA mail room with when they were fledgling agents/managers all about me. Good God, in the telling of my story, Eric’s description of me from a managers perspective made me sound like a TOTALLY insane maverick.

After Aleksa’s party (lasagne and cherry pie) we drove to a friend of Ryan who was having a party near the 101. Valet parking, caterers etc. Met a woman I know from NYC called Annette who is an Australian editor, she in turn introduced me to Trevor Groth from Sundance. Joel Miklely was there with a boy/man web designer. Met another Eric, a lawyer from San Fran-intriguing. Ate marzipan and drank coffee. We stayed for a while chatting with film people but I never feel comfortable in those places. Inevitably they think they know a great deal more about me than they really do. Most of what they know is sensational gossip. This is why I like hanging out with actors. Actors are less condemnatory. Actors like directors.

We left that party but had a couple of hours to kill so were driving back to my house when I got the oddest phone call from my friend Tim in NYC. Tim is a Whitstable lad (26) who has done very well for himself as a sort of live in life coach for a very rich Jewish American family. He told me that Danny Gallagher was dead.

You know, when those judgemental people look at me at those swanky film parties they dont realise just how hard I had to fight to survive. You would have thought that one would not have had to fight so hard in a place like this but you have to fight harder. This is all part of my great AA dilemma. All at once I have to let go and let God, yet I am compelled by my ‘ambition’. I tried explaining my ‘ambition’ to Eric’s friend yesterday, I tried to explain the desire in me, the compulsion to make art rather than money. This is what I think defines me as a maverick. That and the fact that I loathe most people!

So, Danny Gallagher is dead and I am sorry for that.

Steve, Ryan and I then went home and watched my Dorian Gray on the Lap Top. Steve and Ryan really liked it. That made me happy-after all, they are my core audience. We drank strong coffee then drove back up Sunset to Peter’s show of films and photographs. I really loved his work. It is enigmatic, clean, great colours. All of his sexy model friends were there including the devestatingly handsome Jamal Cohen. We hung with them for a while (can’t write about celebrity associations at this party-Peter would kill me) then headed off to find a quiet place to sit. It is very difficult in Hollywood on a Sunday night to find a quiet place. We ended up in Famina! A small Japanese store on Hollywood and Highland and ate crème brule and watched the insane pedestrians, the only ones that are left on Hollywood Blvd at midnight. Finally stumbled into bed at 12.30. I am going to collect my new desk today and write…and go to the gym…and think about rough Whitstable boys.

September 19, 2006 – Tuesday

Jake Gyllenhaal

I only have thirty mins to write my blog. I wanted to write about kissing. I wanted to write about the best kissers I ever had. I was expecting some kissing last night.

Today is jammed packed. I started my walk at 8.30 up Runyon Canyon. Took the vicious left hand route and consequently I am sitting here my thighs on fire. We beat that fuckin mountain in 18 minutes. I went with Tom Cruise look-a-like Corey the Realtor. He is the sweetest man. We saw 17 dogs and a top model on our walk. Nobody really said hello to us. It was a different crowd today: housewives with tiny dogs.

Yesterday was mostly spent at home doing home things and e-mails and writing. I washed dark clothing and drank black coffee. I spent time on the phone with Clare Swinburn and we discussed Christmas plans. I really want her to come out here for pilot season–whatever that is. Can some one please explain what Pilot Season is?

Had God-awful row with team about money that did not get resolved until I spoke to my lawyer today. Losing interest in everything connected with Dorian.

Dinner at Chateau with Chris my Mormon friend. The Chateau is such a performance! Will Carter starring as the maitre de with attendant non-speaking assistants. Nicole Richy hugging everyone. We are the family that is the Chateau Marmont. We sat on best table for two at the back. I had the Caesar Salad with shrimp. Mormon Chris had the steak. Then, to my left, the Dupont twins arrived whom I said a fleeting hello. In front of me Stellan Skarsgaad who I am frightened of sat speaking Scandinavian. On my right Jeffery Rush and family were eating a late dinner, the children went to bed then they had to put up with a woman just joining their table and introducing herself.

Rush might make a great lead for our secret project. Saweeda and her friend pitched up with no news of Richard Squire. On the table behind the hedge were Nick Jones and my friends from Soho House New York. I said to Mark, “I’ll see you at the Oscars when I crash the Soho House party this year.” We laughed. He gave me a huge hug.

Mormon boy found that we were unable to have a conversation because we were sitting next to the screeching Duponts and their motley crew so I had us moved into the lobby for coffee and cheese and there, sitting on the couch, was the scrumptious Jake Gyllenhaal. We waved, I kind of know him as we had long conversation waiting for broken elevator in Mercer Hotel in New York years ago and now we bump into each other periodically. I loved that he won the BAFTA. Like so many STARS he is becoming a kind of caricature of himself. The arched eyebrow, the strong jaw. Does he look in the mirror and think about how he photographs? I wonder. Like that freak Conan the red haired chat show host.

When he left the girl at his table stroked the seat where he was sitting and said, “He’s adorable.”

Mormon dropped me off at home then Steve popped over to run lines-that’s what we do in Hollywood, we go home at 11.30pm and run lines with actors.

Slept fitfully thinking about THE WORLD.

September 20, 2006 – Wednesday

Gay Gene

76 dogs. A great deal of unchecked poo. Dogs’ pooing behind unsuspecting owners. I took the less steep route. There is indeed a strong, unusual smell in the Canyon but it isn’t dog piss–it’s the smell of vegetation, damp straw, exotic bark and animals other than dogs. It is the smell of nature at its pungent best.

I forgot to mention in yesterday’s blog that from the tallest mountain Corey and I climbed we could see below us, for the first time, the 101 freeway carving through the other canyons. It was almost beautiful. We were suprised that we had never before noticed the shimmering 101. There was very little haze and for a brief moment the sun lit the tarmac and the tiny, glinting cars. I thought to myself that in 20 years time silent, electric cars would choke these huge LA roads. I thought about the public transport system that used to exist here and how it will undoubtedly return. As hostile nations hold onto their oil reserves our transport will, thankfully, adapt into something less noisy or smelly.

The house on Langton Street in Chelsea where Phil lives in London has three coal-holes. Every house along that street burnt so much coal. Where the bricks have not been scoured at the back of Phil’s house you can see how sooty black London must have been. I have a distant memory of a steam train roaring into Whitstable. I remember the smell, the acrid smell of burning coal. The diesel trains that ran between Wolverhampton and Shrewsbury stank so badly even on the coldest day we kept the windows open. I thought we were lucky not to live in the age of coal smoke but we live in the age of exhaust fumes and the sound of the 101 the 405 the M2. How could they live like that? My children’s children will scoff at the memory of us. “How could they live with those smells?” When would it have been good to live on earth without fear or fumes or disease? Never I suppose.

Yesterday Steve the beautiful actor came with his huge car and we drove to Bonham’s to collect my new desk. When I got it home I was so excited because I had to rearrange my sitting room to accommodate it. I LOVE rearranging; it is and has always been my greatest pleasure. I filled the draws and set out my lucky desk creatures: my lucky bird, my lucky cow, my lucky Jesus, my lucky saint. It is, I am certain, the gay gene that determines that I know how to scatter cushions and place ornaments in such a way that when Greg Yeardye popped over last night he said: “You have such great taste.” Thanks GY. Darling Phil used to berate me for talking about home décor rather than deal with any problem we might have. Even when I was in prison my cell was perfectly clean and rearranged and the other prisoners would stop by and hang out.

Had long chat with Lawyer, with mortgage broker and then Sunday Internet Date came over and we drove to Silverlake to look at the house and then we ate lunch at American Rag. I had the smoked chicken quiche that was so delicious it must have been very, very bad for me. Need a project–not a film. Need to rearrange massively. Internet Date is very distinguished and kind. He is realistic. Getting to know him slowly is delightful.

Had dinner with Greg Yeardye. I am very fond of Greg but after 6 months of him just disappearing do I want to be his friend again? Greg is a big, straight man. He is very competitive which I find unnessesary, he calls me on my shit–I like that, he is a terrible old gossip which is endearing and he is grandiose in the most vulgar, gold rolex kind of way. He loves to let everyone know how rich he is–but is he? He is the brother of Tamara Mellon who my friend Oscar Humphries had a well-publicised affair with. Tamara owns Jimmy Choo. Tamara is rich. Greg’s mother wears Chanel and lives in a huge house in Beverly Hills. HUGE!!! I love how utterly indiscreet Greg is. Within minutes of getting together he was booming information that would be worth MONEY to unscrupulous gossip hounds. What I love most about Giant Greg is how he wears the most ghastly shoes and does not give a toss. We will see how this pans out.

Before I went to bed I thought about a friend of mine who had started drinking again after a good few years of abstinence. I had the weirdest reaction: I was jealous. Even though he only drank a couple of glasses of cheap red wine I was jealous that he could start the whole sobriety thing again from the very beginning–that he could wipe his slate clean. I was jealous that the path for him now seems to me so simple once again. Staying sober by the grace of God one day at a time, a daily emergency (no doubt) but all the same, think of the ATTENTION, the support, think of the unconditional love.

Drama

September 21, 2006 – Thursday

September 22, 2006 – Friday

Are You Still Working on That?

The mountain was so fresh and breezy this morning. I saw, at least, six blue jays. 54 dogs. All of the Russians said good morning. Unusually a couple kept pace with me through out my walk. They discussed James Blunt, he told her about his job as a writer on some TV show and she told him with a rather embarrassed laugh that all of the guys she dated in college were now gay. She couldn’t understand her ’super power’. It was nearly at that point on the walk where we would peel off from one another so I turned and I said, “Perhaps gay men know how to listen. Perhaps they want to hear what you have to say.” She looked at me askance for a moment. A stranger was talking to her. Then she replied, “Yes, perhaps that is true.”

Years ago I wanted to make a documentary about Fag Hags, when the Queen Mother was still alive, she was a notorious fag-hag. After a great deal of research I saw that all being a fag hag really boiled down to was this: Some women need a man to listen. They don’t care what kind of man. Just any man will do. Finding a straight man with no agenda is obviously, judging by the women I have spoken to, very hard. Lonely, rich older woman are want to find a similarly aged gay man to dote on, shop with, ask for opinions and get brutally honest replies. “Darling, you look GHASTLY.” Truman Capote had his ‘Swans’ but he let them all down by writing about them. It is a mistake I often make–getting too attached to some women that I can only be gay with. Phil was different. She had ’super power’. I wanted to be her lover. Is that so unusual?

Today, I am listening to Jimmy Scott and today I am very happy. Today I am really happy. Pray for a dream to come true and it usually will. I can’t tell you the best bits of what happened yesterday because if I do they will go away. Needless to say part of my good feeling is about Dorian Gray, the screening the other day yielded very good results. The plan for Dorian’s birth are begining to make sense. The Big Idea began to happen before my very eyes. I desperately want to say but I JUST CAN’T!

Something wonderful happened whilst I was writing about being Persian. As I wrote it down something shifted deep inside of me: it was a revelation. It made me feel strong. Being understood or understanding ones self, what more could you really want from life?

Everyone here is talking about The Queen, Steven Frear’s new film about how the Royal Family dealt with the death of Princess Diana.

Of course I remember when Princess Diana died. I still think about it. I was in bed with Jamie P at Adam and Eve Mews in Kensington. JBC called in the middle of the night. I think that I was one of the first people down at the gates of Kensington Palace. During the next few days after they pulled the wreckage out of that tunnel I remember with disgust the vitriol poured over her memory by the establishment. Old cavalier politicians like Lord Norman St John Stevas telling us all that we should not grieve. It was very sad and strangely chaotic. When you get to see the great and the good with their knickers down by their Royal ankles your opinion of them changes. I remember two things about that time very clearly. After she was killed I drove down to Whitstable and you know, no one on the roads was driving faster than the speed limit. Not one person. We became our polite and considerate best. We had a great deal on our minds.

The other thing I remember very clearly thinking was: The Royal Family don’t understand this, they underestimate just how ‘powerful’ they really are. They’ve worked tirelessly to create one of the best loved soap operas in the world yet they didn’t understand that any well loved character in a popular soap has to have a conclusion that is made with the tacit agreement of us, the viewer, the subjects.

Of course ‘the people’ thought that she was murdered what else could they think? She was a rebel, a soap opera rebel. That’s what happens to a rebel in any good drama they die in a hail of bullets or they are taken out by the secret service. Regardless of whether she was pushed or not we knew that she could not survive. She had a big mouth, she told it as it was and they hated her for it. I was shocked when she talked on Panorama about her marriage. I was delighted and terrified and despaired for her. She was signing her own death warrant. I wrote to her to say as much. I stood in the crowd as the hearse passed by. I cried when her brother spoke. Later that night I went to a party with my friends Rachel and Sebastian. They did crack. I watched Rachel vomit out of a black cab.

Yesterday I had lunch with Bram, fried chicken special at the 101. Tony popped by in the afternoon we drank coffee. John collected me for dinner and we went to the 101 and ate fried chicken again. I’ve told you once but I’ll tell you again: Thursday is Fried Chicken Special at the 101 café on Franklin. I love it.

I’ll tell you why I go to the 101 and the Chateau so often: these people know me. Not in a grand way but in such a way that the staff know how to respect your dining experience. For instance, a familiar server will know that I do not drink alcohol, they know that I don’t like being interrupted mid flow with inane questions and most of all they understand when one has finished eating. In England we are used to setting our knives and forks at half past six on the plate so as a server can SEE that we have finished and take our plates without having to ask, as they do constantly here, “Are you still working on that?” Am I? Do you mean, have I finished? Can’t you see that the plate is still covered in food? Leave me alone until I indicate that I have finished by placing my knife and fork just so.

Am I still working on this?

Went to bed at 10 so I could be up at 5 for my walk.

September 23, 2006 – Saturday

Goth

7.30am.

I went to an AA meeting instead of taking my walk. I will go walk the Canyon tomorrow. I feel great. I can’t tell you just how much better going to a good AA meeting makes me feel.

Yesterday, Peter YBH collected me for Breakfast. We went to Dough Boys on 3rd. We ate the blueberry pancakes that were covered in seeds. Dunno what kind of seeds. Shiny seeds like beetles. The poached eggs came on the side in a small white dish. This ’side dish’ remains, to me, one of the great unexplained American mysteries. Why isn’t the poached egg just on the plate like everything else?

Whilst I was at Dough Boys I heard via e-mail that my house in Whitstable had been broken into. I knew immediately who had done it. I just knew. I am sure that it was the young man I met on the train from Sittingbourne to Faversham. Kass had seen him skulking around the house before I left for LA. Anyway, he must have made a hell of a noise breaking into the house because he didn’t get further than the kitchen. Perhaps he didn’t want to steal anything. Perhaps all he wanted was to see me? You never know. The house was fine. I just felt sorry for the poor people who were renting it–they were terrified.

On the table beside us a young woman was wearing a teeshirt that said in bold black letters: ‘I’M NOT INTERESTED’ over her huge nip tuck tits. I went up to her and said, “Oh, I’ve got a tee shirt like that, it says, ‘I HATE EVERYONE’”. She laughed, “I like that, where can I get one of those?”

I should have said that I had a teeshirt that said ‘I suck black cock’.

I don’t have either of those teeshirts.

After breakfast, Peter and I went looking at galleries; we went to M+B and Regan Projects LA. There was nothing in either of them to write home about. Then we went to the rug sale at Bonham’s where there was plenty to write home about. I ticked off a few rugs then Peter and I hung out at mine looking at the David LaChapelle mega book.

Finally, after WEEKS of waiting, the rest of the black leather dining room chairs arrived. They look great.

Dan G popped by at 5ish and we walked to the Italian Saint’s Day street festival that the Grandsons of Italy in America were having behind the Roosevelt Hotel in Hollywood. We ate all sorts of delicious Italian food, meatballs, sausage, doughnut and thick black coffee. On the way there we saw that yet another transformer had blown the man-hole cover off and into the middle of Hollywood Blvd. Plumes of smoke pouring out of the road. The police standing by. Traffic snarled up as far as Highland Ave.

Michael invited me to party at The Cabana Club but I did not go. Stayed at home writing and reading and watching makeover reality TV.

My regular favourite makeover TV moment used to be when Ricky Lake took a cool teenage goth/punk/emo and ‘transformed’ him/her into a ‘regular’ kid which, at the moment of revelation would always cause the parents of the poor goth/punk/emo to burst into tears. Fat Goth girls stripped of their black make up/cob web clothing and face jewellery and forced into cheap, badly designed skirts and blouses forsaking their individuality. It was proof, if I ever needed it, that most Americans distrust ‘individuality’.

I was in bed by midnight. Daniel the room mate, by the way, has disappeared.

September 24, 2006 – Sunday

The Roughs Are Coming

As I sat in the cinema I knew even more keenly that the path I had taken with Dorian was the right one. Cinematically the great reveal in Dorian Gray really works.

Melvyn Bragg always replied to my adolecent questions and encouraged me to write explaining that he often suffered from, ‘Multiple contactions of apprehension.’ whenever he wrote anything.

In bed by 1am. I don’t like going to bed so late-it upsets my routine.

September 25, 2006 – Monday

“You Must be Very Excited”

6am. The sun rising over LA. I saw: 15 Dogs, The Chinese Man running backwards. Dressage Man. I met and walked with Denny the interior designer and Regina his 8-month-old puppy with topaz eyes. We both admitted to praying on our walk on the mountain. Today I prayed for serenity and a moderate disposition.

Many folk acknowledged us.

I am so excited about The Secret Film Project I can hardly remember a thing that happened yesterday. I spent the morning re-reading the Secret Script and then at 12 I called the writer of The Secret Project and we had a most energetic and satisfactory chat. We are meeting in NYC on the 24th October to discuss with interested parties. She said, “Everyone has tried to warn me off of you Duncan but I have rather taken to you.” We agreed to be utterly truthful and transparent with each other and be true to our vision of the film. I refuse to let the wreckage of my past destroy this wonderful opportunity.

I appreciated her honesty, her candour.

In one bold sentence she totally defined our relationship so that it might work and bear fruit. She did not, as so often happens, hold onto the fear of what rumours there are and cause me to behave thus. As I have said before and I will say again: Let me be the person I am rather than the person you have heard I am.

Even better than all of that: I can shoot the film in England if we so wish.

Keeping a secret is so bloody difficult; this week I have drawn blood biting my tongue.

Needless to say, yesterday the sun was shining. It was Sunday. I had a very jolly lunch with Ian in Larchmont. He told me that he thought DP (Paramount Number Cruncher) looks like ‘Seal in drag.’ We couldn’t stop laughing. Had the chicken parramigano. $15. Dan G collected me after lunch and we went for one final trip to the house in Silverlake before I make my offer today. Strangely, the door was wide open as if the woman who used to live there expected us.

I had an hour-long chat with Phil. I miss her so much. I think that in large part it is her confidence in me that makes me able to face the difficult days. It is she that makes firm and resolute decisions when I am disabled by self-doubt. Some times I can feel myself falling in love with her all over again. I had to physically stop myself the last time I saw her. Will see her next week when I pop back to London to fetch last of essential things.

I had a nap at 5.30, which, was a huge mistake because when Vic came to collect me for dinner I felt sluggish and bad tempered. It took me a good two hours to regain my earlier positive mood. Vic stayed over but we just slept in the same bed.

People tell me that I must be excited about buying the house. “You must be so EXCITED.” Well, I am not excited about BUYING anything. Only art and the process of making art excites me. How lucky I was to be inducted into the world of The History of Ideas when I was so young. I remember with great affection the amazing woman who taught me everything I know, Vera Brumby my History of Art teacher at Medway College of Art. She said, “The history of art is the history of civilization.” She showed me how I could chart the route from those first Stone Age marks on a cave wall to Giotto to Gericault to Jeff Koons and everything in between. I had other inspired teachers, there was Judith, at school, who taught me the History of Music, she made me listen to Palestrina and John Cage. Goddamn it, how lucky was I?

They said, “Never be frightened to ask. If you don’t know-0ask. Keep asking.”

As a result of these marvellous teachers I came to believe that if a human made it I could understand it. That is why I knit, cook a great Cassoulet, make films, and build houses. This also leads to terrible disappointment when I see that the person I have employed to do a better job than I, rarely does. God is in the detail! Thank God for Joel Plotch who edited Dorian and did a better job than I could ever do!

Before she died Vera called me and she said with unusual pessimism, “Duncan, I think that we are living in an increasingly evil world.” I hoped that she was wrong about that but look around you.

Look at what the corporation is doing to our lives.

September 26, 2006 – Tuesday

Good Day/Bad Day

The phone rang twice last night as I slept. Twice. Then the bloody phone fell under my bed and the bed is so big I fell off it trying to fish it out from underneath. To make matters worse I had a call that I had to take early this morning so I ended up lugging the phone up the mountain with me on my walk. I am very grumpy about this. It was a total waste of time taking a BLACKBERRY up the mountain. No meditation, no serene thoughts. I may as well have just sat here at my desk.

So, there were 34 dogs. The entire mountain was cloaked in a huge cloud that has enveloped LA this morning. The entire character of Runyon Canyon changed. The cicadas chirruping through the grey soup, I past the tangled remains of the old OUTPOST sign that was once bigger that the HOLLYWOOD sign and lit with neon. There’s a notice explaining the history of the sign up there but some vile person has graffiti marked it with black aerosol. I stopped for a moment to look at what was left of it and wondered what it must have looked like. If the Outpost sign had outlived the Hollywood sign: “Mother, I’m going to the the USA to make a film, I’m going to OUTPOST!”

Breakfast with Neal S, sat next to Billy Connolly.

Yesterday was good.

Had lunch in Benedict Canyon with Sacha.

His glamorous friend Clare who manages Paul McKenna drove me home.

Calls from people who want to buy Dorian,

Had drinks with Jon King from Focus. Discussed Rocco etc.

Went to bed at 10.30.

Yesterday was bad.

My house in Silverlake went into escrow with some body else. Shit happens.

September 28, 2006 – Thursday

San Francisco

6.51am Hancock Street, San Francisco. I arrived here two days ago. The weather is perfect. Grey and cool. I am staying with my poet friend Randall Mann in his swinging 70s apartment up here in the Castro. A few days away from LA, I left Daniel to deal with Angela the Spanish-speaking maid.

The morning I left LA I had breakfast with Neal Specter. We discussed our Dorian ideas and he was more than helpful. It is true to say that the people who GET IT really get it and are inspired to help. He realizes that my excitement and enthusiasm need to be tamed, managed. He very gently talked me through the way this opening needs to be handled.

I need to calm down at these meetings. I could feel myself tripping as the ideas flew. I could feel myself sinking in my own thinking juice as my brain ruptured and the ideas spewed out of me, drowning me in notions. Neal just waited for me to stop rambling then he let me know how simple it all could be. We ate prime rib hash. It was delicious. The meeting was delicious. All any artist wants to feel is connected to others of like minds.

After breakfast I cleaned the inside of the freezer that had not been touched since the melt down they had had whilst I was away. It was disgusting. Cleaning, however, is a great antidote to any intellectual maelstrom that one may be experiencing. After I finished cleaning the freezer I scrubbed the kitchen floor. Marlene Dietrich would clean the entire theatre with her bare hands before she performed a show anywhere. It is a great opportunity to collect ones thoughts and have an instant feeling of gratification.

On Tuesday afternoon I went back to Bonhams to buy the rug I really wanted. It was cheap, really cheap. The auction room was crammed with dealers so I knew that I was getting a bargain. Thankfully the auction had a very slow beginning so I did really well. I am going back to London on the 8th October so I will lug it back with me then. I am going back to London. That will be fun. I am staying with Phil. I cant wait.

The flight to San Fran was not at all bumpy-those flights along the coast can be very turbulent. I had Russian cab drivers at both ends. Randall and I immediately jumped into our double act that has me literally doubled up in laughter. Ate dinner at Diamaru, which is my favorite sushi place here. We discussed the Americas Next Top Model poster, which is a gruesome affair, all drag queens and emaciation. One of them looks like she only just had her Adams apple removed.

The following morning my whole body was desperate to spring out of bed and climb a mountain. I waited for Randall to get back from Yoga and we walked to a great lesbian run diner where we sat in a booth next to Tracey Chapman. We then walked to my favorite furniture store stopping on the way at a thrift shop which had a wonderful moss colored velvet, deep sofa that had just come in for only $175. I urged Randall to buy it. Took the sub way shamelessly down town to the Embarcadero for lunch with Eric. I ate sausage, quite a Freudian choice, as Eric is very handsome.

After lunch Randall and I saw The Science of Sleep that I really, really wanted to love but I could not. I met the director M Gondry some time ago. Gondry is not an enigmatic man, in fact he is a bit of a charmless nerd and one realized very quickly that he simply got Gael to be him, that the preoccupation with the troubled genius unable to get a girl was HIM. Oddly, I met Gael the day he met M Gondry for the first time in New York at the Mercer Hotel. So here was the film. Some directors need to be reigned in. There was a great deal of showing off. There were many, many great ideas but they some how got lost in all of the genius. For a start he obviously had too much money. I like not having any money at all because it makes me THINK. There were a glut of ideas expensively executed but who ultimately cared about the sulky, self obsessed central character?

I wanted to love this film so much. I occasionally loved the imagery, the bedroom in the cave reminded me if The Singing Ringing Tree. I liked the eastern European filmic references but ultimately I was never given what I needed which was the perfect union between the man and the woman. Gondry needs either another great Kaufman script to tame his worst excesses or he needs to embrace the more obscure thoughts in his artists head and make an art film and show it in a gallery. I would have been far more interested to see this film in that context.

AA meeting followed by chicken and salad.

In bed by 11.

September 29, 2006 – Friday

San Francisco Day 3

Friday, San Francisco 2006.

I am on my way back to LA today. I used to say, on my way ‘home’ but of late I do not feel like LA is home. Whitstable is home. Whitstable is my home where I live and I will die. I keep dreaming about what I will take back to London with me when I go. The art, that’s all. I will take that wonderful collection I have amassed so quickly.

Yesterday, Randle was in the gym by 7am so I just lay in bed until it was time to meet him off of the Castro in a small café called the Spike which sold delicious chai latte, my new favorite, anytime hot drink. Randle and I looked at a house to buy on Sanchez which was a rickety old shack selling for $800k. The house next door had been covered with marble free form mosaic. There were banana trees in the back yard. The house is on a friendly street in a neighborhood with shops and cafes. You can walk and say hello to friendly faces that you may or may not know. Totally unlike LA, which is a scummy shit, hole with no friendly faces and stinks of rotting avocado, which smells like semen. I over reacted. I love LA. No I don’t. I am there to finish my film. If that’s the case I may be there a few more years.

To prove my point there was a very cute boy draped over his Harley Davidson watching us. Randle asked him what he was doing and he said, “I haven’t showered for two days, I sprained my foot and lost my job”. Within ten minutes he was drinking more Chai with us in Samovar, which is a cool little teashop opposite where I used to buy wool for knitting. Within ten minutes we were discouraging him from becoming a rent boy. I became bored with him after this and sat playing with my Blackberry. He was cute but obvious. How can any intelligent young man seriously consider being a rent boy?

After lunch with Eric the previous day whilst trying on flip flops I saw, to my disgust, that my toenails were less than attractive. So yesterday afternoon Randle and I had pedicures and manicures and I scarcely recognized my feet after the sweet Vietnamese woman had finished with them.

Bought sunglasses.

Foolishly, had a nap in the afternoon that ended with me waking up grumpily and making phone calls which is always a fucking disaster. Had to call my new sponsor who was very helpful and made everything calm again. Seriously, I have to make some hefty decisions about my film situation.

At 7.30pm Eric and I met at the sushi place on Sanchez and he was surprised, I think, by how delicious the food was. I was worried that my choice of restaurant might not be good enough, that this basic sushi place that I love would not send the right ‘message’.

Eric, what do I think of you?

I rarely meet anyone who inspires, challenges, and infuriates me quite so immediately. His naive republican politics aside he is a cultured, warm, elegant man. He dresses like an Italian aristocrat and drives a Vesper. If he did not have a boy friend I may very well have made a terrible fool of myself. As I sat there opposite him the conference of insecure voices chattering away told me that I wasn’t as witty, intelligent or worthy of him as I thought. Thank God he has a boyfriend. Than God he is 31. Thank God he is so far out of the picture that I do not have to give that romance thing a second thought. I did think about it when he said that he wanted to work a farm he owned. When he mentioned it he seemed to come alive. Long before Brokeback Mountain my fantasy was to do the same. How can a man be possibly fulfilled by writing contacts in a law firm? A man like that? Or am I just projecting my own prejudiced views of lawyers onto him?

It is always a bit of a test to mention that I have been in prison but he seemed to take it in his stride although what he might say to his friends later is another thing entirely.

We will see if this has legs, if we can be friends. He has the most beautiful eyes.

Randle joined us after dinner with the potential rent boy and made a few quips that had me laughing like a drain. Thank God. After discovering that Eric was a Republican, Randle quickly morphed into Martha Stuart and disingeniously complimented Eric’s Gucci shoes. Realising that this was not going my way I dragged Randle with rent boy in tow toward the Castro.

Eric drove off on his Vesper.

You know, I am so happy when I am with Randle Mann in San Francisco. We are always laughing yet our humor can be quite cruel. Nobody is spared our treachery, least of all ourselves. Every defect of each others character exploited for our own humorous ends. Over his beef burger Randle ribbed me mercilessly about Eric. Boy with rent boy aspirations sat there looking dumb. Randle does not like Republicans. Are we more than our politics?

Eric is more than his Barbour his finely made hands and his questionable past with Mitt Romney. I really like him.

Read Andrea Dworkin’s Right Wing Women.

In bed by 11.

October 1, 2006 – Sunday

Warren Beatty and Annette Benning

A sluggish start to this Sunday morning. I was up and down the mountain by 8am, which, for me, is really late. It must have been one of those days for a whole heap of the usual walkers as I only counted 27 dogs. Almost everyone said hello. I was wearing red. Everyone says hello when I wear my red hoody.

I took my time, this morning, looking back at the city where I live. The usual traffic roar from the valley was non-existent. I could hear unusual birdcalls. The sun obscured by a thick sea mist. When I got to the top of the hill I sat on the bench next to a mortgage broker called James from New Jersey who within ten seconds was telling me that he made 10k a month if he was lucky. His boss made 30k which he didn’t manage this month because it was so ’slow’. “Now he knows what it feels like for the rest of us”. James sneered. I had to get away from him just in case some of his stinking thinking got into my head.

On the way down the hill I thought about the seven deadly sins. I thought about James. I thought about dealing with my own worst defects/capital vices: Arrogance, Anger, Lust. One simply has to stay pure of thought to have the best possible relationship with oneself and God. I don’t want to live a life of guilt or shame or unnecessary complication. I really don’t want to live in James’s head.

You know, it was on this day ten years ago that I got sober and stayed sober and did not have another alcoholic drink one day at a time. No wine with dinner nor glass of champagne at New Years. Nothing. On this day ten years ago I made my way from Adam and Eve Mews in Kensington to my first AA meeting. I weighed 50lbs lighter, I was wearing a black Dolce coat, a black polo neck sweater and I was driving a brand new pea green Porsche. Within two years all of those fancy trappings had gone. Before I got sober I could not leave the beautiful house for more than ten paces, black discharge drained out of my nose onto my white shirts, I was desperate, broken and alone.

It was on this day ten years ago that everything began to make sense. I knew that there was more to life than drinking and drugging. It was on this day 10 years ago that my priorities changed. Every day since that day, whatever happened, good or bad has been a good day for me as it is one more day alive. During the past ten years I learned and came to trust in this one important truth: As long as I stay sober, what ever happens, everything is going to be OK. It always is.

Today is also my stepfather’s birthday; a hideous coincidence.

I left San Francisco on Friday. Randy, very sweetly, walked me to the BART and I took the train to the airport $5. We had spent the morning drinking more chai. Yet again I saw that the more open and kind I was with Randy the more I allowed my long suffering friends to love me. I have been of late so less irritable, impatient or angry. When the photographs arrived from my six weeks in Whitstable I scarcely recognised myself I looked so at ease. I am capable of being at peace with myself. I am capable of loving and being loved. The first flush of something like love began to take hold of me in San Francisco. I began to wonder again what it might feel like to be in love.

I took a cab from LAX directly to Neal and Lisa’s Shabbat dinner. It is always so great to spend time with their kids. I love Neal’s mother Lois who is very funny (and a terrible fag hag) dressed in Issey Miyaki. Neal had just installed a HUGE Gilbert and George in the Dining room. G&G painted gold and performing ‘Underneath The Arches’. It is a spectacular piece and very bold. Neal was a bit grumpy as he was fighting with one of his children. They live in the heart of Beverly Hills in a huge, sprawling mid century bungalow with a tennis court and pool and toys everywhere, the house is groaning with art. They also own a really lovely Baldessari.

That night I could not wait to get into my bed.

No walk on Saturday. Will picks me up at 7am for 8am AA meeting. After meeting I drive with new sponsor (who is a fucking DREAM) on impromptu trip up PCH.

In the afternoon Corey and I meet to take the modernist house tour of Silverlake. We had a very jolly time made all the better by our meeting Anne L who instantly reminded me of Margaret Matheson or Ann Skinner or any number of the very strong, intelligent, independent women I have been attracted to all my life. Ann is a 50 something teacher at a progressive school in Pasadena she lives in a Shindler house. Of course we talked all about Monkton Wyld. We didn’t stop talking. We saw Shindler, Neutre etc but best of all was the Gregory Aine communal living apartments that were SPECTACULAR. Apparently communists lived there when they were built.

Communists like John Reed and Louise Bryant?

I met my friend Sharon at the DGA later that night to see a special screening of Reds, Warren Beatty’s epic tale of love set against the backdrop of the USA’s entry into the First World War and the tail end of the Russian Revolution. You know, I was living next to the producer of Reds when it was being made in London. I was living in Islington on Furlong Road next to Simon Relph. I met Warren with Simon Relph and his wife Amanda. Isn’t that odd. It was 25 years ago. Warren and I talked about that briefly last night. I think that it is fair to say that Simon pretty much directed that film with Warren. I remember, one day, popping around to see Simon and Amanda and found them in that huge house separating Diane Keaton and Warren (who were an item) at the top and the bottom of the house still unable to stop them screaming at each other.

Annette Benning was in the audience with their children. I wondered what it must have felt like for her to have watched this very graphic portrait of Warren’s relationship with Diane played out for all to see. For some totally obscure reason they asked the foetus Bennett Miller to interview Warren after the film. Bennett is really enjoying his fifteen minutes; he arrived with Courtney Love and spent a good ten minutes glowering at me. Courtney, since I last saw her a month ago, had had some kind of radical facial over haul. Her lips are huge; she has cheekbones and seems to have new teeth although I could not be certain. Her hair was now ballooned into Blonde Mountain of curls.

Bennett just gushed incoherently over Warren for an hour after the film ended. A more sycophantic interview I could not have imagined. This was a totally wasted opportunity.

Met Craig Emmanuelle. Met the guy who directed Fly Boys and his wife who produced North Country.

Had long, constructive chat with Sharon on the way home.

In bed by 1.30am.

October 2, 2006 – Monday

Pink clouds drifting over LA this morning smeared onto the pale blue sky. 26 dogs. Triathlon boy with amazing calves. My troubled morning head crowded with stuff that I could not seem to shift.

Yesterday, after my walk, I had breakfast with Gil Bellows at La Pain Quotidian. I missed the chip giving at the 11.45 Log Cabin meeting so I did not collect a chip anywhere for my tenth year. Instead I ate a delicious ham and cheese omelette. Met architect and his wife from London. He said that he was scared shitless of when, “the tide turns” meaning, I think, when the Muslim world truly retaliates. Do you think that will happen?

On the mountain two ordinary women were discussing Iraq, “Attacks on US servicemen have gone up from 1 to 100 a day”. I put that situation to the back of my mind. The implications are far too much for me to contemplate. I am overwhelmed with waves of that terrible feeling of powerlessness. I should write more about the war. I don’t want to be one of those diarists who looks like he is burying his head in the sand but I have to get on with life. Life here in LA. Virginia Woolf kept a diary and you would never have guessed that a world war was raging around her. Perhaps that was the way she dealt with it. The way she coped with the unimaginable horrors.

After breakfast Gil and I drove to The Hollywood Farmers market to buy flowers for his 12th wedding anniversary.

Spent yesterday afternoon with David the talent manager. We killed time by visiting open houses and dropping in on Bonham’s 20th Century decorative art sale. There is an unusual Lautner kitchen island on sale.

Drove to Sasha’s for tea, biscuits and gossip. Sascha lives in a house that looks like Clough Williams-Ellis might have designed it. Clough Williams-Ellis designed Portmeirion in Wales, which is a madcap mish mash of odd Italianate houses and used as the set of The Prisoner, which was a cult British TV series in the 1960’s.

Had a long conversation with Eric. I was sitting overlooking the valley where Sascha lives off of Woodrow Wilson.

My 10th year AA anniversary was mostly quite dull-no fanfare. Many people called to congratulate me. I suppose that it is some sort of achievement. I suppose.

I was in bed by 12. This time next week I will be in London. Already I have delicious things planned. Must remember to take autumn coats and good shoes.

October 3, 2006 – Tuesday

Go Where The Love Is

22 dogs. I wore a hat. Most everyone said good morning.

I saw the elderly Ukrainian couple who stand on the corner of my street. They greet me politely. They must be 70 years old, no taller than 5′. They have dark, tough, wrinkled skin. They look like the circus performers Diane Arbus used to photograph. They wait there patiently every morning. She wears a heavy coat and carries an old fashioned handbag. He smokes unfiltered cigarettes, his pants and shirt are beautifully pressed. This morning they were still waiting when I got back from my walk. I asked what they were doing but she said, “Speaky no inglis”.

Yesterday. Went to lunchtime AA meeting. Had lunch with Gil. Shopped at Trader Joes. Wrote nearly all day.

To my profound irritation I could not get hold of any of my closest friends. Tried calling and e-mailing and texting but nobody replied. It felt like I was stalking my friends! Sascha seemed to have just vanished. Maria, who always returns my calls, vanished. Dom, Ian and Peter: vanished. Sent article to Eric–no reply. He’s new so doesn’t realise. By the evening I was exceedingly grumpy and paranoid.

By 7ish most people had replied but by that time the damage was well and truly done.

I was seething.

The party was in full swing by the time I got there. The entire family were at the party, Lisa’s brothers, sister and Mother and various cousins, Neal’s Mother Lois and Stepfather Alan in all there must have been 40 members of their extended family. I sat with Lois and Alan. Alan is a Scottish, dyed in the wool Republican/Conservative. I was in no mood to have yet another heavy handed discussion about the relative values of George Bush so I changed the subject and we talked about buying $92,000 Hermes Kelly bags in Cannes. It was easier. I like Alan a great deal. Regardless of his mad cap politics.

Bloody hell, two in one week.

My head is already in Chelsea. I am going back to London at my favourite time of year. The leaves are falling, a bite in the air. Whilst Moffy is at school I can take Phil for delicious lunches and visit galleries and generally pamper her. I am taking cashmere and velvet collared coats and twill trousers. Go where the love is.

October 4, 2006 – Wednesday

CAUTION RATTLESNAKES

‘If people never did silly things, nothing intelligent would ever get done.’
Ludwig Wittgenstein

What does an artist do? What does an artist hope to achieve? I can only do what I did yesterday and write. I sat here all day and wrote. After my walk.

At the gate of Runyon Canyon I noticed a huge yellow sign. If it has always been there I don’t know but today I noticed many things I had not noticed before. It said: CAUTION RATTLE-SNAKES.

I had had a miserable/wonderful day yesterday so I was determined to shift what ever it was that was holding me back from my serenity. I used the walk this morning to unwind some of the confusion. Contrary action I decided. Contrary action: that is what is needed. Literally. Instead of climbing the path anti-clock wise I walked in the opposite direction. As a result of this simple alteration I noticed so many different things. My perspective changed. For a start, I didn’t stop to rest: I forged ahead. I noticed that the Russians were wearing their slippers and pajamas. I saw the Canyon differently. I enjoyed it rather than conquering it. I said hello to nearly everyone I passed and had two or three decent conversations. I did not care how many dogs I passed.

Yesterday, I met David at the Chateau Marmont for breakfast. Lindsey L arrived in a hat and dark glasses. Either she had just arrived home from a party or she was up early for a meeting. I wonder. Saw Jeffery Rush eating breakfast. Maria called from London. Very good. Good start to the day. Good walk, good meeting then a great screening at the DGA for buyers. They loved the film-loved it. What more could I want? They understood it, loved the style.

I walked home from the DGA, which is less than half a mile. MISERABLE.

Then I began to read the secret project and it made me so sad. Lost love. Unavailable people. The central character of this film has emotional defects similar to mine-the same as many people. I sat at my desk and let out a yelp like a dog. I sat at my desk crying, an odd mixture of pain and pleasure. Big fat tears dripping all over my desk. I sat and read the last few weeks of my diary. Recognizing the miserable truths. There is no grand declaration I can make that I can honestly stick to. Will I choose inappropriate people to pin my hopes on in the future? Certainly I will. Will I spontaneously fly across the world to see someone I think I can love? Yes. Will I always be the subject of my own mythology? Certainly. This is the way it is.

Yesterday, I was crying because I began to see the same thing happen that happened with AKA. The strange delight that ones work can cause. No longer alone with an idea or a series of dislocated moments but a fully formed work that spoke to the people who saw it.

I was crying, pathetically, because the very person I wanted to call was not there. I am an idiot! I had many people I could have called to share the good news. Friends who love me and who would have been over the moon but none of them were the person I wanted to tell (NO! NOT the man in the suit) not some strange man in a suit. I wanted to call my father. I wanted to call my father and make him proud of me.

It was like when I won all of those awards for AKA. Awards mean nothing if you cannot share them with some one you love or who can love you unconditionally.

So I walked clockwise around the mountain and I saw the Russians wearing their slippers and I looked out for serpents. I felt the autumn chill on my lips and by taking this simple, contrary action I managed to start the day with smile and a spring in my step.

Had dinner at Pace with Marc S after Bonham’s 20th Century sale. Saw Russell Brown AGAIN for the third time in a week. We exchanged numbers. Accidentally kissed Marc on the lips when I got out of the car. THAT was funny.

I’m not the sort of person who falls in and quickly out of love
But to you, I gave my affection, right from the start.
You have a lover who loves you – how could I break such a heart?
Yet still you get my attention.

Why do you come here, when you know I’ve got troubles enough?
Why do you call me, when you know I can’t answer the phone?
Make me lie when I don’t want to,
And make someone else some kind of unknowing fool?
You make me stay when I should not?
Are you so strong resolve the weakness in me.
Why do you come here, and pretend to be just passing by?

I need to see you – I need to hold you.

Feeling guilty, worried, waking from tormented sleep
Your old love has you bound,
But new love cuts deep.
If I choose now, I’ll lose out;
One of you has to fall…
And I need you …

Why do you come here, when you know I’ve got troubles enough?
Why do you call me, when you know I can’t answer the phone?
Make me lie I do not want to,
And make someone else some kind of an unknowing fool?
You make me stay when I should not
Are you so strong, resolve the weakness in me.

Why do you come here, and pretend to be just passing by?

I need to see you
And I need to hold you.

Joan Armatrading

Currently listening :
Joan Armatrading – Greatest Hits
By Joan Armatrading
Release date: 18 June, 1996

October 5, 2006 – Thursday

Dior

12 dogs. Russians. Ukrainians. A dog called Mike. Clockwise. Beautiful, sunny, fresh.

Yesterday, as a result of my commitment to contrary action, I had a very business like day.

Met bank about mortgage.

Chatted more with Ruth about film.

Sent various e-mails terminating various business relationships so I can concentrate on the next phase.

I wrote.

I bought a jacket at Dior. I bought socks at Turnbull and Asser for the party I am going to this evening in the desert.

Spoke to Eric. It is raining in San Francisco.

AA meeting at 7.45.

Alexsa and Devon for dinner. Cooked chicken, boiled potatoes and peas. Strangely delicious.

In bed by 11.30. Heard Daniel get in at 3am. How does he do it?

October 6, 2006 – Friday

Dead Poet

I have just returned from my later than usual walk. Finding it hard to focus this morning. Do I need to get my eyes tested?

Yesterday Romaine, my friend from Nice, came to the house whilst I did the laundry and we drank coffee and killed time before I prepared to meet Amanda R in Bel Air.

I had been invited via Amanda R by Sandy H to: A pre-Halloween celebration: “Dinner of the Dead Poets”.

THE INVITATION:

‘It will be held at my ranch in the Santa Ynez Valley on the night of the full moon.

This will be a formal, black tie and ball gown, dinner for just 12 people. I know that you possess both the imagination and the wardrobe to be an important guest at this artistic evening. Please come dressed as a dead poet and bring a poem to recite which was written by the character you have chosen.

So, that is what we did. I decided to dress as and read from Oscar Wilde. As a dead Oscar I interpreted the event accordingly. I wore Miu Miu knickerbockers; my new Dior jacket and long pink stockings with red shoes. Thank God I took my huge aubergine silk velvet scarf that Tania Sarn gave me and threw it over my head. It was freezing!

When we got to the tiny airport we were chauffeured twenty minutes to a contemporary house that looked like a vert de gris Mayan Temple. The house was filled with amazing furniture by George Nakashima-one of the best collections of his work that I have ever seen. A beautiful, 24 seat dining table was particularly stunning. The only other person to have such beautiful Nakashima pieces is, of course, Eugenio Lopez.

The really great find of the evening was Bo, our hostess’s 25-year-old son, who is a friend of Oscar H’s. He drove me, at great speed, in his turbo Porsche to the party, which was set in a vineyard ten minutes from the house. Charming, sweet boy.

We ate in the winery, which had been beautifully decorated for the occasion. The twelve of us sat under a diaphanous golden awning. We all had our photographs taken. We then ate amazing organic food that had been fedexed from Ohio. There was a small band that played suitably dead music and a young woman sang gently in the background. Spookily the accordion player looked EXACTLY like Vivian Westwood.
Each course had a poetic theme. Mince and Quince for instance (Lear). Our hostess was charming and funny and dressed as a 9th century Chinese poet. She was wearing a wonderful plum coloured fortuny dress and earrings that were once owned by Diana Vreeland.

In between each course the guests, in order of when they died, stood up and introduced themselves. I stood up as Oscar Wilde and told them about my life and work. I then read the first part of The Ballad of Reading Jail. When I finished Ovid said, “That was intense”. I sat between Emily Dickinson (who looked more like Janice Dickinson) and Bo’s very pretty girlfriend. Amanda R went as Rilke, which was a great choice as she got to wear a wonderful Vera Wang dress. However, the dress was so sheer the poor thing, who is all skin and bones, just began to fade away in the freezing room. By the end of dinner Amanda/Rilke had totally lost her voice and she may very well have consumption by sunrise.

After dinner the car came and we were flown home. In bed by 1.30am.

This morning there were 41 dogs on the Canyon path four of them belonging to Peter D who I bumped into as they were leaving the park. I heard him before I saw him, as did the other concerned walkers who exchanged worried looks at the sound of this man screaming at his dogs. He was shouting at one of his small Yorkies to get back on the path. Peter K in tow.

I cheerily said hello and kissed them both. We were all a bit too sweaty for that kind of greeting. He asked about the film and apologised for not returning my calls. It was at this moment that I began to have a sort of out of body experience. My outer me saying, “LEAVE, walk away from the area, don’t tell him anything, just get out of there as quickly as you can”. My actual body is now fully engaged in conversation. I asked about the Sunset Sale at Bonham’s. “I’ve already been”.

I began to tell him about the party I went to last night, he snapped “She’s a NIGHTMARE, she killed two people on Everest”. I did not react. I just looked carefully as him and began to gently erase him out of the picture. I felt rather sorry that he was so angry. “I rather liked her,” I said. “We had a wonderful time”. He just looked at me as if to say of COURSE you would like some one like that. “I’ve got a meeting at the Palisades”. He barked at Peter K who was pulling twigs off of the dog. Peter D, angry before I got there-I bet he’ll be angry all day. He was wearing lurid pink underwear.

October 8, 2006 – Sunday

Peter D

Friday was another day of boring lawyers and stuff that I simply had to get on and deal with. Signing with new agency, management, publicist and lawyers in one foul swoop. Exciting and EXHAUSTING. All of that palaver had to be handled by the time I leave for London tomorrow. It had to be done. A new broom.

Lunch at Barney’s with Bram.

Had dinner on Friday night with Michael C and two other producers in Beverly Hills. It might have been a jollier evening but I was tired.

I am in London for ten days then I go immediately to New York for Tim’s birthday party and meetings with buyers. Then it’s Sydney for all of November.

Today went to 8am AA meeting. No walk. Coffee in Urth café with Will.

Alexa came with me to Bonham’s to view the Sunset Estate Sale and guess who I bumped into! Peter D. He was Outraged!! He said, “I don’t appreciate that you wrote about me in your BLOG (see yesterday’s blog). I’ve never trusted you. I said to (?) ten years ago ‘I like him but I don’t trust him’. I didn’t have to be pleasant to you first thing in the morning. Showing off about your party.”

“Was anything I said made up?” I asked. “No”. he flamed. “Then how have I been untrustworthy?” “You’re right, I shouldn’t gossip”. He said. “So it was you that was untrustworthy?” I asked calmly.

Peter had waited ten years for evidence of untrustworthiness and finally he had PROOF that I was indeed the person he always thought I was, or heard I was, because I simply and honestly reported what he had told me yesterday. As he blustered I just kept thinking, this is nothing to do with me, this man has been waiting ten years for me to let him down. A long-term self-fulfilling prophecy. As I tuned back into his diatribe he said, “How many people did she kill on Everest? Was it two or three?” As he was unable to let the story go I thought that I should, at least, defend my hostess as she had been so generous to me. Armed with a little information from the Internet I said, “What proof do you have that she killed any people on Everest? From what I can gather the worst thing she did was have a copy of Vogue sent up the mountain. If any one of your society friends whom you DO approve of had done that you might very well of thought it humorous. The worst thing Sandy did, as far as you and the bunch of piranhas you hang out with are concerned–is survive”. At that point he totally capitulated and resorted to petty insults.

The fact is, I have never felt very comfortable around Peter. He insists on making totally unprovoked bitchy jibes. “Darling, you need to get my boyfriend to give you botox.” I have tried very hard to be as friendly as I can but ultimately this argument has revealed him to be an old fashioned, self-serving, godless snob. His best friend is a camp, Greek illustrator with an active drink problem who battles Peter in some vile post-modern contest to see who can be more offensive. Peter lives a metaphysical farce.

He is consequently a very angry and resentful man. Of course I know exactly why, but THAT is something I would never, ever write here.

To his credit he did say that the only blog worth reading was Arriana Huffington’s. I agree. It’s very funny and informative and deliciously personal. But, one thing is sure, if Arriana Huffington had had to fight for survival on the side of a mountain like Sandy H did that fateful day in 1998 Peter might have given some thought to what it must have felt like to make life or death decisions. Decisions that in the decorated drawing rooms of West Hollywood would not have seemed terribly chic at all-darling.

Had lunch with Alexa and Sharon at Cheebo.

Dom for malted milk shakes this afternoon.

Michael C picked me up at 9.30 and we drove to the Hollywood sign where a rather odd 40th birthday party was taking place. A drum circle, fire pit, belly dancers and women on stilts. Met a couple of actors, a rocket scientist and a commedienne. After a couple of hours of not really engaging and some spicy chicken wings I walked home.

October 11, 2006 – Wednesday

LONDON

Pouring rain. Soho House.

I left LA on Sunday after the Bonham’s Sunset sale. I bought an African head dress. I don’t know why. I love auction rooms; they have a very calming effect on me.

Dom came over for coffee. We discussed my roommate whose b/f is becoming rather annoying. He woke me and the neighbors the other night loudly vomiting in the bathroom. When I confronted my room mate about it he told me that poor J was drinking the night before–bad excuse. Very bad excuse.

Andreas collected me from my house in his white Porsche and we drove to LAX in light Sunday traffic in took merely twenty minutes to get there. I had almost no luggage so everything was very light and easy.

I met a very sweet boy in the departure lounge who sat next to me on the plane and told me his life story–took about ten minutes. I fell asleep.

Arrived in Chelsea and met Phil at the Mona Lisa on the Kings Road where I ate a huge plate of greasy fried eggs and chips. It was wonderful to be back. Phil looked great-really happy. We jawed for hours. Told her about Peter D accusing me of showing off and she said that some people would always, deliberately misunderstand my enthusiasm.

Phil and I went to evensong at St Martins in the Fields then dinner in Soho. After dinner on the way home had to get passport pictures-had them made in Sloane Square photo booth. It took all of 3 minutes.

By the end of Monday I was exhausted. Desperate to go to bed. Slept very badly. Up at 4. Answered e-mails. Could not sleep. No mountain to climb.

Yesterday morning I headed over to Mayfair on the bus where I had business to attend to. Lunch with Bettina at Soho House to discuss film then hung out with Luca M all afternoon at his house until Phil arrived and ate deep fried spring rolls. There is a new Carluccio on the Fulham Road where Luca and I bought espresso.

Tuesday night NA meeting. Really good.

Dinner at the Chelsea Arts Club with Phil, Piers de Lazlo and his mad, drunk ex-girlfriend. I know that this may cause some controversy but in my opinion drunken women make appalling company–much worse than men. They are so undignified. Bumped into Laura and Peter Carew who were looking very elegant. Peter asked for Xan’s number as they were in the Dangerous Sports Club together and Laura was moved to tears when I told her that I had met Patrick Kinmonth in LA after 10 years of not seeing him. She misses him terribly. Sardines and stuffed pork belly for dinner.

This morning wrote article for Steve G then took bus in pouring rain to Soho. Bumped into and was delighted to see Nick Love who I had not seen for ages. He looked like a man–which he is nowadays. We were at film school together and have been on off friends for 15 years. As he left he gave me a huge smile and a cheeky wink.

October 13, 2006 – Friday

Frieze

Moffy stayed in bed yesterday ill with the ‘flu. Poor darling, all limp and pale like a rag doll. I sat on the lilac sofa and wrote my article for Blackbook and filed it by 12 o’clock.

I then headed into Soho on the bus through torrential, almost tropical, rain and ended up in Soho House sitting with Nick Love who I have not seen for a couple of years. He was sitting quietly reading the Sun and drinking a cup of tea. I sat down and it was as if the last two years had simply not happened. After the tiniest amount of hesitation the damnedest thing happened, I realised that we were both suddenly relieved of the burden of fatal competition. Neither of us had anything, any longer, to prove. We looked each other in the eye and it was all OK. What ever it was that had bugged both of us when we stopped talking all that time ago–had gone. Instead of strange looks and odd recriminations we laughed about Tuesday’s Sun newspaper witty headline after Kim il Sung exploded the nuclear device: How Do You Solve a Problem like Korea? Genius. It was delightful to see him.

Nick and I were at film school in Dorset ten years ago and at that time and for a few years after we had a pretty intense, inseparable friendship. The same sort of co-dependant friendship that I had with Richard Green during most of my twenties. These homoerotic, non-sexual, highly charged friendships I associate most with my alcoholism. I have had them with both women and men and they usually end very badly. They are creatively and emotionally explosive but regardless of the outcome, for me, have been the greatest relationships of my life.

When Nick left we gave each other the hugest hug. I kissed him on the neck.

What did I see that I liked? The only ‘art’ I liked was ironically on Jay’s stand. Jake and Dinos Chapman were sitting in a wall papered booth painting people’s portraits, Leicester Square style, for £4.5k. Very witty. Right on the money. Genius.

Missed buying Ryan McGinley’s pissing boy by ten minutes.

I did not see Samia, which was very odd. She was there but we curiously missed one another.

After the show I hooked up with Robert Yates from the Observer and his fiancé. We went to a ghastly Deutche Bank party at 5 Cavendish Square–I stayed ten minutes then walked to Soho House (the epicentre of my London social life) where I met Christian C and his blonde friend from university. The friend wanted, very amusingly to get ‘fucked in the arse’. He was adamant but we remained at the bar and Christian and I just jawed for hours about LA and London and the relative values of each city. The friend, eager for a stuffing persuaded us to go to a tacky gay bar a few streets away where a toothless drug dealer tried to sell us cocaine and pills. I was wearing Dior so had no intention of staying in that ghastly place for long.

The following day I really did more of the same. Phil and I drove back to Frieze Art Fair where I bought a Ryan McGinley. We had a slight consternation about Moffy and mobile phones, which meant that Phil had to dash off almost as soon as we arrived but before she left we bumped into Samia and her friend Isabella. Samia truly is the chicest woman alive. Mauve chiffon blouse, patent pumps and raven black hair.

I had tea with my brand new obsession de jour–Harry C. We walked from Regent’s Park to the Dover Street Hotel and sat in the lobby, now remodelled, where Scott Crolla and I used to go when Crolla still existed. The high tea with scones etc. cost $150. Absurd. Harry is a blonde, willowy, 25 year old Etonian with the sweetest disposition. Married. Lives in Paris. Beautiful.

After tea I headed over to Sotheby’s for the Whitechapel benefit auction preview. Beautiful Peter Doig painting on the cover of the catalogue. Saw Danny Moynihan and his very funny cousin who has a company called Joe Boxer and lives in San Francisco. Danny begins shooting his new film in seven weeks, Duncan Ward directing. Apparently everyone thinks that it is MY film. That can’t be good for either Danny or Duncan! Saw Max Wigram, also ex-Etonian ex-willowy, ex-sweet disposition. He called me a weirdo-which I suppose I must be. Danny and his cousin left Sotheby’s to find Maia Norman at the Armani party in Knightsbridge so I hung out with Dominic Burning for a good while. Very funny. Raving about Margate and art and how ART can save the day.

From Sotheby’s to the ICA on the Mall for the Cerith Wynn Evans show, it was very dreary. Max Wigram called me a weirdo there too. The best thing about the ICA was that it reminded me of performing there in our performnce art piece PORNOGRAPHY: A SPECTACLE. I could smell it. The memory of being there. 3 weeks of performing in that space. I think we performed The Host there too. Georgia Byng, Marc Quinn’s wife, performed in that.

Ended up, of course, at Soho House with Nick Moran for late egg and chips. Night bus home.

October 17, 2006 – Tuesday

Frieze Art Fair Day 2

Sunday. Chelsea.

Listening to Neil Young, Jimi Hendrix.

Spent all day in bed with a horrid cold. Both Phil and I blighted with aching limbs and throbbing heads late last night. Isn’t that odd to get simultaneous colds? I am never, ever ill with this sort of thing. However, I couldn’t think of a better place to be ill than here with Phil. We are in beds at opposite ends of the house. I can hear people arriving upstairs, I can hear Moffy leaving the house with her chums then hours later her footsteps in the hall, chattering about her adventures, “We took the wrong bus, we ended up in Shepherds Bush–there were chavs EVERYWHERE..”

Melanie De B arrived with medicines and vitamin C and the Sunday newspapers. Her husband had a stroke last night yet she still made her way over. I don’t really have any friends like that in LA. Then Kat G came in the afternoon with chocolate biscuits and we drank hot tea with Phil and Paul. After the second visit I fell into a dreadfully sweaty half sleep. It is now 9pm.

I have not written this diary since Friday and there is now so much to report.

On Friday morning I was meant to be meeting Bella F but we were both late getting up and ended up not meeting. We had a long chat on the phone. She is designing for Biba, which sounds perfect for Bella. Kate B, my glossy mag friend, said that the Biba collection was very good. Kate mentioned that Maia Norman’s collection was excellent, better than anything else that she had seen at London Fashion Week. Maia is Damian Hirst’s rather wonderful wife. Phil and I drove over to the Electric on the Portobello Road and ate eggs with Tiffany Whittome who has recently gotten herself engaged. I saw George, my assistant from The Method; his head seems to have doubled in size. I was very polite to him.

Received very odd e-mail from my Berlin friend insinuating that Phil had left the art fair the previous day looking distressed and then tried to blame me. She warned me to ‘be nice to her’ this advice coming from a woman who, estranged from her husband, sleeps with her 12-year-old son. Both Phil and I found this very amusing.

After our rather late breakfast I made my way over to Maria A’s in Kennington. It was so easy to find her house on the bus. We ate pasta and talked about the secret project and her imminent visit to NYC that corresponds with mine at the end of the month. Maria has the most beautiful garden and the house has been very sensitively renovated. It is one of those huge houses at the east end of Kennington Road. Huge.

At 3pm made my way to Georgia Byng’s in Primrose Hill–another huge house stuffed with beautiful art mostly made by her husband Marc Quinn. I met her new little baby who is a dear and discussed teen violence on Primrose Hill with Georgia’s daughter from her marriage to Danny Chadwick. She is a very pretty, intelligent, 16-year-old. Drank delicious hot tea and ate chocolate. Georgie has had huge success with her Molly Moon books. Sold in 37 territories. It is wonderful to see her doing so well.

As I was leaving she mentioned a conversation she had had with Will Self about my film, which intrigued me. I will write more about this at a later date. Will, as you may know, was once a very good friend of mine. We had, at one time, discussed the possibility of adapting his novel Dorian into a film as I had contributed to the research by way of contemporary descriptions of New York etc., which he used verbatim in his novel. Will loved AKA. However, when I realised that he had no idea how a film was made and delivered a 300-page script that he insisted was a ’shooting script’, which I never even bothered to read, we went our separate ways. I ended up adapting my version of the film from the Oscar Wilde Lippincott original. I sat pouring over Oscar Wilde’s only novel every morning for two months at Sullivan’s hotel in Sydney until the script was finished.

G. Byng was on such good form. I loved seeing her. Have really made the effort, this trip, to reach out to all of my old friends.

From Primrose Hill I took a cab to The Whitehall Theatre off of Trafalgar Square where I met Phil in the foyer and we saw a rather dull production of Bent. Moving but dull. One can’t help but be moved but I am afraid that the lovely in-real-life Alan Cummings ruined the production. He was all over the place. This was particularly sad because Horst played by Chris New, who I met with Christian C the other night, was amazing! I wish that Alan had been a little more focused and less..well..Alan. Perhaps he was jealous that Chris’s performance was so good.

Generally the production was annoyingly over directed, the German soldiers skipping around like scene queens.

Phil and I took another cab to Soho House where we met Clare. She was sitting with some very pretty friends who we persuaded to move to a bigger table. Phil was on the phone to I don’t know who but when she came back she looked perplexed and left quite soon after. After some fun with Clare’s friends we left Soho House for Max Wigram’s party for Ryan McGinley at Laundromat but it was DREARY and terribly ‘arty’.

At Laundromat I saw a boy, who I met at the Miami/Basle art fair, who describes himself as a ‘curator’. He was dancing. I had met the same boy in NYC dancing at an artist’s studio. Now, here he is in London…dancing. Clare and I decided to make a 3 minute art film called ‘The Curator’ some random boy dancing at art fairs all over the world. He said, “Look, art! It’s the new Hollywood”. If only it were my friends, if only it were. A bunch of crazed shopkeepers describing their 15mins in the sun as the ‘New Hollywood’?

We were desperate for an antidote to the pretentious art/new Hollywood party so we decided to go to The Shadow Lounge where we had a blast dancing and flirting until 3am. I met a man who tried to persuade me that we had had ‘great sex’ in a bath ten years ago in my flat off of Brick Lane. Even though I knew he was wrong (I never had a flat off of Brick Lane) he was so persuasive that it felt rude not to agree to the memory. I wanted to kiss him and then I wanted to kiss some other good-looking boy for a moment before I realised that I did not have to. The only lips I wanted were elsewhere.

We fought our way through the 3am Soho crowd, the aggressive mini cab men and the drug dealers then Clare drove me home. Slept intermittently. Red bull is a bad idea at 2am.

Saturday

All day yesterday and the day before all I could really think about was my dinner with Harry on Saturday night. I thought about him as I was thinking about kissing those men in The Shadow Lounge and then I thought about him all through brunch at David Gill’s spectacular gallery in Kennington on Saturday morning. I thought about Harry as I wondered who would buy an 8′ pink Perspex flamingo from David Gill for $60k. I thought about him as I ate delicious food and drank apple juice and played with Melanie De B, Michael Wolfson and Dan Macmillan. I thought about beautiful Harry as I flirted with Desiree and ignored Jane Barclay.

I thought about him as I waited outside the Royal Academy for André for 40 minutes attracting attention in my pink stockings and red shoes and pantaloons. I thought about Harry as we nipped into Bryan Ferry’s house to collect something Melanie needed for dinner. I thought about him all afternoon as I tried to fight off the beginning of the cold I have now.

All I could think about was the tall, fine-faced Harry. All I could think about was looking into his blue eyes and listening to his beautiful voice.

Bye bye squirrel. I love Harry now.

But, when Harry arrived at Langton St at 8.30 I was half the man I needed to be–my cold was now in full swing. Phil thought he was beautiful, Moffy thought he was beautiful, Paul thought he was beautiful. I think that Harry is the most beautiful creature who ever walked the earth.

Dinner with Harry.

All I could think about was mucus in my eyes, nose and throat.

October 18, 2006 – Wednesday

resident alien

Feel sick, felt sick on the plane. Back in LA, resident alien. Sick as a dog. I spent all day chasing North Dillon St once again. Fuck. That house has fallen out of escrow three times. I really love it. What is God doing to me?

Too sick to climb the mountain this morning, I stayed in my bed until Angela the cleaner turned up with her huge smile. I asked her to iron the pillowcases and wash the windows.

The day before I left for LA I had to haul my sorry ass down to Whitstable. I had a goodbye breakfast with Phil and Paul at the Mona Lisa. We had had a wonderful time during my stay at her house. Phil was affectionate, undemanding and generous. A good friend. Phil and Moffy left for Portugal and I caught the bus to Victoria Station and then the hour-long trip to Whitstable. I walked from the station directly to Wheelers where I had a coffee with Anita and the gang. The gang being Mark, the genius chef, Adam (Smalls) the teenage recently ex virgin looking all languid and manly and Angela who I affectionately call Sheppey’s Elizabeth Taylor because she has been married more than once. Oh, and Sid was lurking in the back preparing puddings but he had split up from his girl friend and was all quiet and odd.

Whitstable gossip included: the Barratt girl (toughest family in Whitstable) had smashed Shivonne Hewlett in the face at the pub because Shivonne had stolen the Barrett’s boy friend who is down to the final eight on X Factor. The Barrett girl had then sold her story to the Sun and filled the ex boy friend’s piano with tuna.

What a load of bollocks.

As fate would have it Monday was Danny Gallagher’s funeral so I took my life in my hands and decided to go to the wake, which was happening up at the Marine Hotel in Tankerton. When I got there I realised that there was not much building, plastering or plumbing going on in North East Kent that day as every builder, plasterer and plumber for miles around had found themselves a black suit and was now eating pork pies in the paved area at the back of the Marine. Saw Ronnie R (antiques dealer) who owes me £100. Poor Stuart A (plasterer) was given a very hard time when I arrived his friends raised a huge chorus of light hearted jeers as I had once very loudly told all of his mates that I thought he was one of the best looking men in Whitstable. I think that crown now belongs to Andy R (electrician) who although a bit dull is very cute.

Saw the very personable Sibley’s (chef and builder), as I sat with them one of my Whitstable brother’s friends said, “There’s Martin Roy’s brother”. I think that it was meant to be a rather convoluted put down. The Sibley’s and I just looked at him askance and continued our conversation.

I stayed all of twenty minutes.

I went back to Wheelers to report on the wake then walked home along the beach with Delia who showed me her plot behind the sea wall where she is building a very grand beach-hut sandwiched between Georgina and Barbara equally manicured plots. When we arrived Michael Fitt, Anita’s man was doing something with his shirt off with string and fence posts.

Finally I made my way home but not before three other people had told me the Barrett/Hewlett story and how Sharon Osborne was fixing it at X Factor.

When I got home Babs took me to my house and good God I have never seen that place look better, cleaner or more organised. Babs had ironed every sheet, weeded the garden, dusted every shelf and vacuumed every carpet and scrubbed every floor. It was immaculate. I felt really odd raiding the bookcase, taking shoes and filling a great big bag with stuff for my new resident alien status in LA.

They made me a delicious pot of tea and biscuits and gave me a lift to the station. They are such good people.

On the train back to London I met Ben the mechanic. HE was delicious. I am always meeting cute boys on the train to and from London.

Dinner at La Famiglia on Langton St with Louise and Toby Mott. Louise is now heavily pregnant and looks a bit tired. Toby seems quite Zen. Their builders have ripped them off. Rabbit and carpaccio. Delicious.

Bed by 10.30, woken at 11.30 by Piers making midnight supper in the kitchen. Crashing around with pots and pans.

October 20, 2006 – Friday

Ashton Kutcha

5.45am

Back in LA. I still have had the flu’. Sitting in germ soup on the plane sandwiched between two of the most miserable women alive did not help. What, you may ask, was I doing in the back of the plane? Can’t be bothered to explain that drama.

The day I returned there was an urgent message to call Corey my realtor. He told me the startling news that the house on North Dillon had fallen out of escrow again. Again! That poor house has been sitting there for seven months without anyone to love it. Three times in and out of escrow. Three times. One of those times was me of course. We agreed to meet the following morning to write another offer.

So, on Wednesday Corey collected me from my flu’ pit and we drove in his black Hummer to the Social Security office to get an SS number. The office on Vine was very clean and the staff very helpful. I now have so much to do. For a start I need to get a Californian driving licence.

After the social security office we had lunch at American Rag on LaBrea. Sat next to Ashton Kutcha who has that same creamy complexion David Gallagher has. It is a bit of a lunchtime scene in there. Jennifer Jason Leigh sat sulking with a very loud friend two tables away.

Spent Wednesday evening at home instead of going to parties. Sweating hot and cold.

On Thursday morning, after 18 months of messing around, I walked two blocks from my house and I hired a car. I was so weak and had so much to do I could not stomach buses, taxis or walking. Who writes my freaking rules? Why didn’t I do this sooner?

The moment I pulled away from the strip mall in my rented car I became a Californian.

Before I drove to an appointment with my lawyers in Beverly Hills my friend Hillary popped by for a cup of tea. It was great to see her and for the next hour and a half we luxuriated in a trough of delicious gossip. By the time she left I felt bloated on our feast of The Misfortune of Others. It was very, very naughty.

Met with Erik the lawyer. Discussed various up coming projects and what we were going to do with them all.

I forgot to eat.

Drove home to see Scott at my house where we hung out there for a couple of hours. Drove back to Beverly Hills, stopping on the way at Capellini sale and met with Bettina at Le Pain Quotidian on Little Santa Monica. Strategised and ate huge chopped salad.

As I was close by I stopped in at the Spectre’s house on Whittier but only little Isaac and their mad Mexican cleaner was there. He is such an entertaining little boy, so intelligent. I sat with him for an hour until Lisa came home then I set off for Silverlake but got stuck in horrible traffic listening to some mad man (Tom Likas) on the radio advising young men not to have relationships until they turn 30. He was fascinating. He believes that men can treat women as badly as they want, have all the sex they want and that marriage is for losers. He recently said on air that he would sleep with a fourteen year old girl if it was legal. When challenged he simply stood by the statement.

Even though I was stuck in traffic listening to a mad misogynist I was pleased not to be on the hot streets negotiating the cracked pavements and the cracked out pedestrians.

Dinner with Ann L and her very intense artist husband. Really had a lovely time. They live in a spectacular Schindler house with many, if not all, of the original details. It is one of those houses one instantly loves, it is packed with interesting things. Every piece of furniture they owned was worth looking at carefully. Ann dosed me up with vitamin C and then we had dinner at a Brazilian restaurant near by but I could not really taste anything.

Dom insisted that we meet on Santa Monica for a frozen yogurt. I sat there on the street sweating, desperate for my bed.

October 25, 2006 – Wednesday

Orlando Bloom

I am finally, after nearly two weeks of miserable sickness, my normal fit self. The flu’ has gone. No more shivering discomfort. No more sore throat. No more morbid thoughts. I will resume my walks on Runyon Canyon immediately upon my return to LA.

Waiting at Soho House in New York for Maria to turn up and discuss the secret project.

An Orlando Bloom look-a-like is sitting opposite me drinking a cappuccino. I am eating the éclairs they set out for tea. New York!! It is exhilarating to be back east. It was exciting to see the enigmatic city from the train at Newark. It is deliciously chilly yet the sky is huge and brightly blue.

Yesterday, on the plane from LA, we stopped off in Cincinnati because a woman collapsed in a dead faint along the aisle. At Cincinnati airport I have never, ever in my entire life seen so many people with such huge asses. On the plane I sat next to a massively gelatinous woman, her fat arms spilling over onto my side of the armrest.

I arrived at 9.30am in Newark, took the air train to the LIRR then the A train to 14th St and walked two blocks to Soho House. Took me about 30 mins from the Delta terminal to the great big brown velvet sofa I am sitting on right now. Nobody looks ashamed using public transport in NYC. This is where we gather, flirt, deal, and hustle on the subway and the street. On the streets of New York are strangers from every social class making all kinds of connections for the benefit of all. I much prefer this to my sterile street life in LA.

Had Dorian screening yesterday for more buyers. Dunno how well that went. I did not stay for the screening. Brian Jackson the DP saw it too. He loved it. We agreed that we would work together again in the future.

Before the screening I had time to kill so I had a long massage and a hot, hot steam in the Cowshed.

Stayed in Alpine New Jersey last night with Tim N from Whitstable who is working as a live in family counselor for the man that owns Hudson News. It is a made-of-chip-board mansion just like all of the homes here. I don’t know as if you can even raise a mortgage on a wooden house in England. The house has a cinema, basketball court and an Olympic sized swimming pool in the basement. He has a bunch of mates over from Whitstable to help celebrate his birthday. Burt (builder) and Josh (stone mason). They have this really funny game where they congratulate one another for using long, complicated words. We ate dinner at Florant in the meatpacking district. Great food. I had chicken but I should have ordered the skirt steak.

Now, irritatingly, I have to play catch up. So many days have past since I last wrote anything for my blog. I get overwhelmed just remembering everything that happens. I much prefer to see where the memory of the previous day takes me.

Saturday. 8am Westside AA meeting. Afterwards I sat on my own in the bakery opposite eating a fruit salad. I sat there wondering why such a huge building was being so badly underused. The space effectively benefiting from only 25% of the available sales floor. Ended up meeting the guy who owned the joint who also owns The City Bakery in New York. I told him all about The Good Shed in Canterbury. He was inspired by the notion of a daily farmers market. We exchanged numbers. He already checked out the Goods Shed and wanted to know how it was set up.

Later that same morning I ate another breakfast with Dom at the 101. Hillary popped by. Went up to North Dillon St. The door to the house was open. For some peculiar reason best known only to himself Dom pressed a panic button that, once upon a time, would have been in the master bedroom, the bells were insanely loud. We scarpered.

saturday afternoon Romaine came to visit. We drove back to Dillon and met the builder who told me how much it would cost to make the essential renovations. $300k.

After a long nap I headed over to a party at Effie Brown’s house, yet again I found myself in Silverlake. I met a young boy over there who was very funny, not very attractive, good (social) crime partner.

Young boy and I drove to The Chateau for a late bowl of hot chocolate. We said hello to Heath L who looks great. Better than great. He was drinking tea and his eyes were bright and hopeful. A different man from the crazed haunted man I met last year at the Oscars.

Young boy and I then drove home but he is straight so he slept on the sofa.

Sunday. The following morning we (young boy and I) went to 8am AA meeting in West Hollywood. Breakfast at La Pain Quotidian. We waited so long (45mins) for our food that when the bill came I refused to pay. The manager agreed and comped our food. Comped is a good word. In America we are as precise about our description of the use of money as Eskimos are about snow.

Sunday afternoon the young boy and I drove around the Hollywood Hills visiting random people before going over to Silverlake to see the North Dillon House once again and calming the nerves of the realtors who are waiting for me to get my act together. Ate more food in Silverlake. Pancakes and a side of bacon. Young boy drove me to the airport.

I have really missed collecting my thoughts on Runyon Canyon.

October 26, 2006 – Thursday

6 Hour Relationship

The Canyon. It was pitch black until 7am this morning. Pitch black. The air was cold and damp. As usual the small Armenian couple were out there on the corner. As usual they were not speaking, as usual he was smoking, as usual it was she who said “good morning”. I could smell the aromatic tobacco from the gate. Everything about these two was as I had left them two weeks ago except she was wearing lipstick on her thick, old lips. I suddenly wondered why she had made that decision, this morning, looking in the mirror and I wondered if she had put lipstick on for him, the silent dwarf.

On the mountain I tore up the dusty path. There were fewer people, fewer dogs. I only counted 17. One black man in a bright yellow track suit running backwards past little birds taking dust baths at the edge of the path. A pink sunrise over the city. I wore a woollen hat pulled down over my eyebrows. Angry start to the day. I worked off my fury on the incline, one one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand. My legs turning to jelly at the summit. Why weren’t people more sensitive to me? What about me? By the time I had worked over the summit I was amused by my self-obsession rather than a slave to it. Yet, if I had been sitting at my desk with those feelings I may very well have picked up the phone and alienated myself from who ever was currently not doing things my way.

On Tuesday morning, after we dropped the Hudson News heirs off at their private High School, Tim drove me back to Manhattan. I realised that his job was best described as ‘life coach’ to those rich, teenage boys. Back at Soho House I lay on the huge white bed thinking about everything I needed to do. That afternoon I sat on the 6th floor in the Club Room and met Laura Day who is a famous (apperently) writer of inspirational thoughts. I rather liked her. She asked me to look after her bags when she used the rest room. I thought about Gary Davy my friend in London who is constantly worried that the thieves will come to steal his bags/watch/camera/anything he owns. When she returned she told me her life story.

That afternoon Michael Goduti came to see the film and we watched it in my room. He was thrilled. We ate a late lunch in the new Diner on the corner of 14th and 9th Avenue. My fried chicken was greasy and uncooked. Met very cute actor called Johnny (22) and his shady, older gay friend. I just didn’t trust the gay one and as it turned out I was right not to trust him. He works as a male escort. The escort had too many teeth, too many stories and not enough of the truth. When the gay boy left us Johnny and his mid-west girl friend told me that the he was trying to persuade them to take up escort work too. I baulked. I’ve got nothing against male prostitutes. I used to know Aiden Shaw. In fact, he was in my musical Copper’s Bottom which played for six weeks at Sadler’s Wells. Aiden would get his huge penis out at rehearsals and show the delighted, screaming queens we had dancing in the chorus. I think I had sex with him once. I did have sex with him once. He was lithe and young-as was I. I saw him on the King’s Road recently. We have changed. We are all now so thickly built. Aidan is a great big bull of a man. Many of my friends have been hookers they all had great big smiling faces and dead eyes like fish on a marble slab. I’m glad that I never sold my ass. God knows that I could have.

I left New York at dawn and resigned myself to the humiliation of the security search. Shoes off, belt off, lap top out, keys and phone in the tray, throw away expensive scent, throw away toothpaste. The guys on the x-ray machine are rude and unhelpful. The floor is cold. I don’t like getting dressed at the end of the conveyor belt with strangers watching me. I don’t like any of it. After I put myself back together I went to my gate and saw one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen feeding his baby apple sauce. I introduced myself to Adam (29) and Jayda his beautiful 23-month-old daughter on their way home to Hawaii. So, at Gate 23C began a wonderful 6 hour relationship with a man and his baby in a jet plane over the USA. Before long I was holding the baby, the three of us getting along just fine in row 25. All the hostesses on the plane thought that we were a gay couple traveling home with our baby. I wondered for the first time what it might be like to have a baby with another man. Adam is married but seemed really gay, effeminate almost. It worked, the effeminacy, with the baby in his arms. I saw how things might have turned out if I had been more interested in effeminate men. By the time we landed at Salt Lake City I was smitten. I may never see him again but he taught me something profound about what I might have had, what I could still have.

By the time I got to LA I was so tired but had to summon up all my energy to meet DF and a gallery owner about Dorian and what I intend to do with it. I thought that it was going to be a very hard sell but it was astoundingly easy. After a few minutes I got exactly what I wanted. So, perhaps we should aim higher if that is going to be the level of interest. I was irritated by how many jokes DF cracked all the time and it was this that I thought about up the mountain. I find it difficult to concentrate when there are that many jokes flying around. It did not make me feel very safe.

DF drove me home and I checked to see if any of the silver teaspoons had reappeared. None had. I knew then that it was the end for the lodger. The apartment looked and felt great but I knew that my time there too was limited. I know that I have to move to my own domain, my own home. North Dillon is certain. Whitstable is coming to an end.

Why would I want to move to a city that I patently hate? Why would I move here? I can’t tell you. I just know that I have to be here and that being here means that I have to find a place to live and commit to. I think that I am that sort of artist who needs to be in LA. So, I will learn to love it and make it my home.

John and Susan invited me to John’s birthday dinner. He made the most delicious curry served with that flat Indian bread. I left at 10.30 and went to bed. Slept well.

This morning, after my walk, as I was making coffee Daniel told me that he would be leaving on the first of November. I had sort of made it impossible for him to stay. After hearing his drunken boy friend vomiting in the bathroom the other night. It was over. It was all over.

October 28, 2006 – Saturday

Lamb Shank

Saturday morning. Not going for my hike until later. Not going to my AA meeting.

The day before yesterday, after my walk, I had a busy Dillon St/Dorian Gray day. Mortgages, counter offers, meetings with publicists and finally dinner at Ago with Ruth Vitali.

For whatever reason, known only to my mad self, I am being dragged kicking and screaming into this house purchase. Buying a house should be a delight! Instead it is all so fucking complicated and moves at the wrong pace. I feel bullied into making important decisions quickly without due consideration. So, I started the day in the vilest mood making poor Corey the realtor sweat buckets. By 2pm I still hadn’t had anything to eat. I was insane with hunger. The Mexicans in the deli where Corey works looked terrified when I stormed into their quiet lives demanding a cheese sandwich. When I finally ate something I felt normal again. I signed the offer and Corey sent it over.

At 3pm I met Bettina at Fred Segal where we checked over the evolving Dorian press release. I am getting to really like BK even though she has a laconic countenance and a squeaky voice. She gets to know me slowly, deliberately and is obviously very suspicious but why shouldn’t she be? I think that she has prudently learned to keep her cards close to her chest. LA is a tough city.

After our meeting I followed a gorgeous Cuban around the men’s department of Fred Segal. Picked up a pair of Lanvin pants priced at $1,700, and that’s minus the tax. I was outraged! I threw them back at the assistant. Again. Boycott Lanvin! Saw Holly Elwes buying $5,000 dresses.

After no thought what so ever I bought a Dries van Noten cardigan with a long belt. Looks great with my baggy Comme cords. I felt a bit guilty however, so I walked from Fred Segal to The Log Cabin on Robertson in the hope that there might be an AA meeting I could go to but the door was bolted. Took taxi home. I went via Marc Jacobs where the rudest shop assistant in the world quelled my desire for more treats. Thank you God.

By the time I got home it was time to get a cab back to just where I had come from on Beverly and meet Ruth V for dinner at Ago. I was early so I chatted to the swarve Italian guys who run the place. When Ruthy arrived she looked perfect in Chanel, as always. “Of course I still go to London to get my hair cut”. Ate carpaccio and lamb shank. There were six of us gossiping over dinner about the industry. There seems to be a great deal going on at the moment behind the scenes. There was much discussion and conjecture about agents being laid off at CAA. I sat next to Ruth so we mostly chatted all evening but I particularly liked David S who is a smart, very well liked film journalist. After chocolate tart the assistant of the guy who made Perfume dropped me back home. In bed and asleep by 11.30.

On Friday morning I was up the canyon as soon as the sun broke over the horizon. 23 dogs, very chilly, did not pass anything notable. Went up the mountain fretting, came down the mountain with a more placid disposition.

Did not stay placid for long. My mortgage broker arrived and irritated the pants off of me. He simply does not understand how not to be arrogant. I then had a one-hour conversation with Cingular Wireless about my account and how I might get them to send me a letter confirming that I had paid my bill for a year. They refused. I called the man who refused me all sorts of names but he still refused. Tried to keep calm by eating muesli/granola. Drank coffee. That did the trick.

At 3 I had a conference call with the knob who runs the company who is meant to be selling Dorian. I left my rottweiller of a lawyer to deal with him. Our intentions are clear. We do not want this company to rep us as they have no feeling for the film. They hate me and they seem to hate the film. Took A and D to the house–they loved it. We then went food shopping in Koreatown. I invited 8 people for dinner so there was a great deal to prepare. My new dining room table fits eight to ten people perfectly, David F and his wife Aimee, Effie B, Sharon, Ann L, Peter L and Aleksa and Devon. The table looked great, the food was excellent and they all seemed really happy.

We all agreed that even though most of us were in the ‘business’ we were all definitely off duty. David F and his rather condescending wife left early to go to another party.

Sharon stayed over so we could get up early to go hiking. As I write there is no movement from Sharon who is sound asleep.

October 30, 2006 – Monday

Venus

On Saturday morning I called JA who has cancer. I dreaded calling her, as she has been so understandably angry of late. But for the first time since she knew how ill she was she sounded really optimistic, joyful even. She spends two weeks in Germany being treated for cancer then flies back to Mexico to build her houses. She really is an amazing woman. When you have a life or death emergency in your life everything becomes very clear. The decisions that you have to make to survive are non negotiable. I heard it in her voice. She told me that she would be spending Christmas in London with her children and I wondered, of course I did, if it would be her last Christmas and if it was then London is the perfect place to be.

The weekend flew past. I spent almost all of it with Sharon zooming around in her little black sports car. We drove to Malibu on Saturday, walked barefoot in the surf, ate huge prawns in a Greek restaurant then headed home. There were several graceful young dear on the Pepperdine lawn looking over at us in our fast cars. That night we had dinner with Sharon’s friend Jeff. Jeff lives in a house close by to where I live but his Spanish looking home is built on a bluff, high up, overlooking Hollywood. There is no access whatsoever by car to his house or the twenty or so other houses he shares his bluff with so one has to take a rickety old elevator from the street to get to it. What happens if his house catches fire, how would the fire department get to him? Jeff made me carve a face in the side of a pumpkin. Ann L says that Halloween is her least favourite American tradition. I think that you probably need little children to truly enjoy it. Anyway, I carved the face in the pumpkin then we had a very jolly dinner of pork ribs, salad and great conversation. Jeff is a 35-year-old producer. He is writing a book called: How to get out of Hollywood. It sounds very funny indeed.

On Sunday morning after my solitary walk up Runyon. Hillary came over and cooked our breakfast. She is so funny, nearly as bad as me at falling out with everyone. I found her honesty about it very endearing. When Sharon arrived to pick me up I smelt of bacon and eggs. We went to an 11am private screening of Venus starring Peter O’Toole. Just us in the cinema as the woman from the studio who was meant to be with us had a rat problem at her house so had to leave and call exterminators.

The opening shot of Venus is the view over the Swale from my house in Whitstable. That was exciting. The film was so very nearly brilliant. So very, very nearly. It was a terrible shame. Leslie Phillips was wonderful. Peter was very good. Vanessa Redgrave was redundant and theatrical. That woman’s acting has suffered from doing too much TV. The editing was ghastly. Hanif Kureishi’s crude excesses should have been cut out. So SAD. So very nearly a masterpiece. I could go on. I won’t.

After the disappointment of Venus we ate lunch at M café sharing a plate of roasted vegetables and iced water. In the afternoon I had a nap then drove to Wholefoods with Aleksa and Devon who bought fish for our dinner with Steven Francisco who is the dear from Effie’s party the other night. In bed by 11.30.

October 31, 2006 – Tuesday

Homeless

Amazingly I got ‘looked’ at today on Runyon Canyon by somebody quite cute. Even though I knew I would never act on it just being looked at in that way gave my day a tiny kick start. When ever I get my beard going I am looked at all the time. My woollen beany over my eyebrows and a big bushy beard and I get looked at. There were no more than 20 dogs on the path this morning. One of them belonged to a very striking fellow who showed me where below us the 101, the 405 and the 10 (freeways) all connected. Very useful information. You could see the 101 snaking over towards Silverlake.

Yesterday was a horrible day. Horrible. I don’t think that I can even bring myself to tell you what happened yesterday morning but needless to say it was all about relationships, expectations, disappointment. Damn! What can I do about this? By lunchtime I was in no mood for anything else to go wrong but it just so happened that this was another day when calls were not returned as eagerly as I wanted them and e-mails remained unanswered.

Spoke to Gary D, really pleased to hear his voice.

So that I might try and fix my feelings in a positive way I caught a bus to the coffee bean on Sunset and Fairfax and ordered a blended caramel frapaccino. I sat outside on the chilly patio and watched a homeless man trying to get food or money from who ever would listen. The people he begged from were polite but he didn’t manage to get anything from any of them. Finally, he sat down at one of the empty tables opposite me and picked shreds of thick black skin off of the souls of his feet that he then placed carefully on to the table. I will never, ever drink a caramel frapaccino ever again.

I went to two AA meetings yesterday after the homeless foot skin incident; I went to one at 5.15 and another at 7.45. The first made me feel OK the second compounded the feelings of utter misery. In between the two meetings I managed to cram in a screaming conversation with both my realtor and the realtor of the house that I am meant to be buying. Buying houses is a shit experience in LA. Shit.

I was in bed by 11.00

November 3, 2006 – Friday

Mister Blobby

Thick sea mist cloaked the Canyon. The sun diffused through the cloud like sand blasted glass. The path became mysterious, dogs emerging from nowhere, crickets chirruping, a jogging man singing loudly to himself. Everyone else walked silently on the damp earth crunching under foot. I enjoy the silence.

At the foot of the mountain one man was shouting at his dog. I am developing a violent reaction against people who shout at their dogs. Screaming at the top their voices ‘Come here!’ There is a man I hear regularly who wears ripped jeans screaming at all three of his dogs. One of them is called Lily. He is not shouting at his dogs because he believes that the dog will not come. He shouts at his dogs because he wants to let me know that he is assertive, powerful, that he can bend the will of those around him.

On Tuesday night I had dinner with Erik, my lawyer, at his house in Bel Air. He has an expensive, modern home with a Zen garden. If one HAS to have a Zen garden then I suppose this one, with its Mount Fuji waterfall was fairly accomplished. Inside was a mish mash of mid century furniture and huge black and white photographs by Herb Ritts. There was a particularly beautiful David Hockney. We watched my film, which obviously baffled my dear friend. We ate tofu burgers and sweet potato chips. The dog snored all the way through which I thought might have been Erik. You can’t win them all.

The following day I visited Katherine Ross who has just moved from NYC to her vast new home in Hancock Park. In each of the tennis court proportioned reception rooms were no more than a sofa and a dining room table. When I asked when the rest of the furniture was arriving she told me that this was it. They live very minimally. They have not, however, had time to install any of their huge art collection so I am sure that when the art is there it will all make perfect sense. We had a very pleasant time together discussing the vagaries of LA and housekeepers and what an exciting time it is for both her and her husband.

I then drove to my lawyer’s office to collect my hat and sign a letter of engagement. Tea and pound cake with Lisa Specter at her house in Beverly Hills and then The Shave where I had my hair cut, my beard trimmed and the gremlin hair on my ears removed. I also had a manicure but the blond woman with the huge breasts who cut my cuticles was a little too eager and this morning I can scarcely type as the ends of my index fingers are red raw.

Driving back up Wilshire I decided to drop in on Marc Selwyn who is showing Mel Bochner in his dear little gallery. We hung out for a little while discussing Dorian, which I intend to open in a gallery setting when the film opens in February. Marc told me that the art world in LA had tried for 50 years to make a relationship with Hollywood and failed. He had various theories: transient population, financial insecurity, cultural insecurity. None of which really made sense. Film people, who already consider themselves artists, simply don’t understand the more obscure art that people like Marc sell in his gallery. They cannot see how buying art will benefit or enrich them in anyway more than the art that they are presently engaged with-film making. Ultimately, to buy art one must disengage with ones own cynicism and very expensively engage with half-baked concepts and conceits. Film people are loathed to do anything so dumb.

Whilst we were discussing art my car was being towed. Spent next hour and a half and $180 dealing with that little palaver. By the time I got home it was time to get ready for the Bobby premiere, which was showing at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre on Hollywood and doubled as the first night celebration of the AFM. Sharon brought a couple of very chic dresses and a very pretty fur coat. We looked like a very cool couple as we walked to the theatre from my house-Grauman’s Chinese Theatre is only two blocks away from where I live. When we arrived we went directly to the head of the huge will call line, we were both starving so ate vile hot dogs and diet coke. Spoke briefly with Lindsey L who looked very nervous. After 5 tedious speeches from various dignitaries including the very high voiced Emilio Estevez, the Mayor and Harvey Weinstein we watched one of the worst films I have ever seen. It was like a long episode of Hotel with famous people in it. It was vacuous, tedious, clumsy, laughable. What astounded me was that this terrible film was meant to be a tribute to a man who might have been great? Then, I realised what it really was. Using my Versailles/Hollywood analogy it all made sense: The King and Queen want to provide an entertainment for all of the courtiers and insist that the dauphine and duchesses all take part. The King will write the script and make a humble appearence and all of his friends and the friends of his friends will play the various roles. The King is a genius.

I wish I had not worn my Dior smoking jacket.

Bobby Kennedy had 11 children.

The after party took place at the Roosevelt. Sharon and I dashed over to the buffet where we ate ravenously. We met charming people including the very dashing Paris Latsis who I first met at Eugenio Lopez’s house. Everyone was a little too embarrassed to say what they really thought about Bobby. People we did not know would tentatively ask if either of us had anything to do with making it before telling us how dreadful they thought it was. Holly Elwes, the producer, was standing in the Dakota restaurant at the Roosevelt. She looked shell shocked. She was wearing a horrible dress. Of course we all told her how wonderful the film was. How amazing she was. How exquisitely the dauphine and the dukes and the little cardinals had performed.

We left at 1.30am. I did not wake up until 8am. Hillary came over and we messed around at mine then drove to hers. Sat in the knitting shop and knitted. Went to Marc Jacobs and bought six pairs of shoes in their one day only 80% off sale. Drove to sponsors house and spewed my guts out about starting a relationship–how vulnerable it makes me feel. The great thing about my wonderful sponsor is that he speaks a truth I understand. His wise words make so much sense to me. I love my sponsor.

Errands included laundry, DMV, cleaning Daniel’s disgustingly dirty room that he finally vacated on the 1st November. I have never in my life been so happy to see the back of someone. I can sleep without fear of being disturbed. I do not lay in my bed expecting to be woken in the middle of the night by party boy lodger and his foetus b/f.

Ate dinner with Ian at Chateau Marmont. Sat next to Geoffrey Rush who was discussing Are You Being Served. We then bowled over to the BAFTA/LA awards at Century Plaza. Sharon had a ticket for me for dinner and the celebrations. Stephen Fry hosting the event very amusingly. Dustin Hoffman, Tim Robbins and Forest Whitaker presenting awards to Sidney Poitier, Rachel Weisz, Anthony Minghella and Clint Eastwood. The awards were good but the party afterwards felt like a suburban dinner and dance just like I remember my parents going to when I was a kid. Blousy women wearing too much make up, too many sequins, the men in moth eaten tuxedos. The invitation should have read: Join BAFTA/LA to honour Hollywood icon Clint Eastwood with a dinner and dance in the Hove Cricket Club situated behind the gas works. Carriages. It actually said ‘carriages’ at the end of the invite. It should have said, Self Parking.

We ended the evening at Hollywood Social at Aldomovar party where drunk, gay Sony Classic publicist made a fool of himself.

November 7, 2006 – Tuesday

Val Kilmer

Woke at 6.30. Answered British e-mails. Sadly, when I started my hike, I had already missed the Latvian dwarves. For the first time since I started my daily walk up Runyon Canyon I noticed the terrible stench of dog piss at the Fuller gate. Starting an hour later than usual means that there are many more dogs (35) and people in the Canyon, it was also very, very warm. Eathquake weather. I took the steep path. I did not stop to rest. The view from the summit was spectacular over the city to the ocean. I always forget to mention just how many trees there are down there amongst the houses.

Sadly, there were three, very annoying dog owners shouting at their hapless mutts. Poor Roxie the Ridgeback belongs to a couple of old queens of the Liberace variety. Roxie had decided, rather unwisely, to take a faster path down the mountain causing her overly distraught owners to bellow her name in tandem again and again. Roxie, frankly, looked like she had had enough. The other screamer was the type I described last time. A fat straight guy who wanted us all to know how powerful he was. Screaming after his dog at the top of his voice. I told him to shut up. He looked less powerful after that. Nobody wants to listen to screamers first thing in the morning. Nobody.

The weekend was potentially fraught with relationship tensions. I did not see Sharon.

On Friday morning I drove to Santa Monica to meet with Jason at the American Film Market and discuss our project Funny Valentine. We will get there one of these days but what a God damned struggle. It was fun to see Jason in his new capacity as MD of Velvet Octopus. He had new specs on which made him look like a Dutch diplomat-very elegant. Saw Houston King, saw Tiffany Whittome-it was obvious that I was going to bump into a bunch of familiar faces it was AFM.

Met with Eric S for lunch. He is such a beautiful man. I then sat in on his conversation with Jason as they discussed how hedge funds work in the film industry. Even though I did not understand half of what they were saying I felt like taking a shower after Matt explained what a shady business it all is.

I cooked dinner for a bunch of architects at my house on Friday night, roasted some garlic and bacon and chicken. Baked potatoes were delicious. Aleksa brought over some home baked strawberry pie, which we ate with cherry ice cream. I was in bed by 11pm exhausted.

On Saturday morning I drove to my AA meeting in Brentwood then had breakfast at the City Café. Maury prepared some succulent French toast made of Brioche with caramelized apples. Met Eric S who ate more French Toast then drove to his orange, 5 bedroom Spanish Hacienda in the Palisades which he is clearing so that he can rent it. He was going to chuck everything out but his brother and I persuaded him to have an impromptu garage sale. We put up two hasty notices sprayed onto cardboard and the customers arrived in droves. Before long most of the junk had gone and we had pockets full of cash. An honest trade. I am obsessed with this notion. It is the Iranian in me.

On Saturday night I met Nathan for dinner, we had a great time.

On Sunday Nathan and I had breakfast at the 101. After breakfast I sat in the auction rooms at Bonham’s and bought an eight-foot jigsaw of a plane crashing. It is wonderful.

Lunch with Jane Garnett and Marc in Santa Monica then collected Johnny T from airport. Dropped Johnny’s stuff off at his hotel in Century City then ate dinner at Chateau M. Saw Steve Garbarino (editor of Blackbook) and his girl friend Maddy sitting with Val Kilmer. Steve congratulated me on the piece I’d written for him about Oscar Wilde. I loved writing it. I used to write for The Sunday Times Style Section when Tim was editor. When I arrived at Steve’s table I made that terrible cliché of an error of thinking that I already knew Val Kilmer and asked enthusiastically how he was doing and what he was doing next before realising that I did not know him at all. The last time I did that was to Diana Ross in First Class from Cannes to London. OH GOD. How foolish.

After dinner we drove back west to Jason’s party, which was hugely entertaining. Saw Peter Youngblood with the guys who own Revolver. Saw Tiffany Whittome. Did not stay long. Back on the Freeway home. Dropped Johnny off at Guy’s. That boy is going to be a huge star.

When I got home I paid my Canterbury City Council tax over the phone. I then realised that as a single man I was entitled to a 25% discount that I had asked for some time ago but had not been applied to my account. Consequently I have been overpaying my Council Tax for 6 years. They owe me 6x£300=£1,800. When I complained they told me that I was not considered a Whitstable resident. NOT A WHITSTABLE RESIDENT? I immediately contacted my lawyers.

November 8, 2006 – Wednesday

Stephen Fry

It is unseasonably warm. At dinner last night there was more chatter about it being ‘earthquake weather’. Anything unusual with the weather, anything unseasonable is described as ‘earthquake weather’ here in Los Angeles. I have never experienced an earthquake. I do not own an earthquake survival kit. Of course I am aware that keeping my very expensive, hand blown glasses that I bought at Gump ten years ago on an open shelf is frankly ludicrous. Sometimes I lay in my bed and wonder if John and Susan’s bed from the apartment above will come crashing down on top of me when the earthquake finally hits.

The Canyon. Wednesday. 34 dogs. No shouting, no odd behaviour. The view was wonderful. Somewhere in the east there was a smoking chimney. Unusually the smoke was held like a fat flat frying pan around the building, a slim tail drifting onto the horizon. Everything, this morning, looked very calm. Placid. The hills and valleys spread out below me like a magical kingdom. I could not make out anything ambitious, wilful, cruel or selfish from up there on the side of that canyon. I could not hear the jubillant conversations Democrats were having as they celebrated their election victory. I could not see the young homeless woman in the wheel chair that begs on the corner of Hollywood and Vine or the dancing black woman who stands there too. Dancing all day like a Masai warrior, stamping her big black feet on the ground, her mini skirt rising up almost in slow motion as her body twists and turns on the corner of that grimy intersection, listening to music that plays from something she is holding in her hand. All I could make out was the sprawl of humanity.

Monday, went to two AA meetings. Met Sharon on the roof of the Arclight Cinema parking structure, which the AFI had transformed into an amazing party/reception area. Ate curried chicken.

Yesterday I had breakfast at the Chateau M with Stephen Fry. This was the first time since we met two years ago that I did not sit opposite him feeling like I was no more than a well dressed baboon. When he took me to the Garrick I was completely overwhelmed, my long hairy arms negotiating the condiments, my orange fur matted with kedgeree, my huge monkey face full of huge monkey teeth, my black beady eyes gazing around the recently decorated room. When we met in New York and had dinner with Barry Humphries after The Dame Edna show on Broadway I was less embarrassed but kept quiet. I felt more evolved. Yesterday all of my digits felt like they were the right human size. I could understand every word he said and even made him laugh. I ate porridge he ate muesli. He is here in LA writing The Damn Busters for Peter Jackson. We discussed Blair and how Iraq will be cut into his dead heart as Calais was on Mary Queen of Scott’s. We both agreed that if it had not been for Iraq Blair would have left office one of the most important British leaders of all time. SF used to write speeches for TB.

We discussed bi-polarity, AIDS and a film that he wants to make about an obscure Indian mathematician. It was wonderful to see him. He is a very kind man who, I am sure, struggles with his genius.

After breakfast I drove to the DMV off of Willoughby and passed my driving test. I am now the very proud owner of a Californian driving licence. Hurrah.

I had lunch with Clifton in Beverly Hills and bought another pair of shoes. I have since made an agreement with my AA sponsor that I cannot spend any more money. I am out of control. It is so destructive. Bought tickets for Australia. Have to go to NYC for a week in December.

The afternoon was spent listlessly trying to tie up loose ends. Tried getting back my DVD from Doug Christmas who is a nightmare of a human being.

Finally called Sharon who was over on Formosa with delightful friends who had prepared delicious feast of tender beef and roast vegetables. They were all a bit drunk and high on the fact that AFM had ended, their AFM ‘06 war stories were very funny though. One of the buyers was shown a live action dog film which the asian buyers narrated thoughout as there was no sound. “Now look, the bad dogs are coming..” We discussed film sales and how to sell art films. We discussed James Bond. Fierce discussion. Loved it. Went home alone and slept like a log.

November 10, 2006 – Friday

Graham Nash

I stayed in bed well after my 6am alarm. By the time I started my walk it was 8.30. This morning I lay in bed paying bills on-line and looking at pornography. I answered e-mails then hauled myself out of bed, into my shorts and onto the street. The Canyon was quite eventful, bumped into David Thomas and his boyfriend. Then, hard on David’s heels, I bumped into the Peters (D&K), Peter D scuttled past me like a reptile but dear, sweet Peter K gave me a big hug. That man is a class act.

A dorky straight couple held up a picture of a non-descript dog, “Have you seen our dog Scruffy?” The plump male one whined. “We have lost our dog, Scruffy”. The female warbled out Scruffy’s name. If I were Scruffy I would be in some kind of witness protection programme, living in Florida.

Last night I went to the Angel Food Project hosted by CAA. Brian Lord and Kevin Huvane doing good works for the local community. Robert Downey Jr., Adrian Brody were there to add a certain Hollywood pizzazz to the mixture of worthy, suited agents clustered around Brian and eager art dealers there to get the best prices for their clients work. Jason Weinberg is a strange man, he seemed pleased to see me then started critiquing my outfit. I was wearing a Bridget Riley inspired tie. The games people play.

My favourite part of the evening was seeing the despicable Doug Christmas not two days after he had been so rude to me. He was standing with Marilyn Heston. I towered over him showering praise on Mrs Heston, chatting about our friends and imminent dinner. Doug tried to make some sort of amusing comment about me but neither Marilyn or I took any notice, Doug’s chicklet teeth framed in a desperate smile.

The auctioneer was a young female New Yorker who quipped all the way though the auction. Although she was very amusing after ten lots her shrill humour grated on me and she took a very long time to get through the 30 lots on sale. Many people left the auditorium before the end. All of the lots sold for well above the reserve except Peter D’s vile friend Konstantine whose ghastly ‘mural’ did not sell at all. They raised a great deal of money for a very worthy cause. I bid on the Philip Taaffee and a particularly beautiful Elliott Hundley.

Everyone from Christies very excited about last weeks extraordinary Klimpt prices.

Had dinner with Loren Beck at Wolfgang Puck’s overblown new restaurant in the Four Seasons hotel on Wilshire. Richard Meier, the guy who designed the interior, blatently drawing on the work of Schindler. All those obvious details, skimpy false buttresses, pale wood elevations. The furniture was terrible; the tables too large, the office type chairs skidding around on casters. The place is simply too austere for my taste. Too much space. Space is not a luxury in LA. The restaurant would have been perfect in New York. We need intimacy and proximity here in this sprawling city. The staff, dressed like prison wardens added to the needlessly oppressive atmosphere. Our waiter was particularly charm less and more interested in flirting with two women on a nearby table. Before our order was taken the suited meat man arrived with a tray of Kobi beef which he introduced to us like his new born baby. For only $200 a marbled slice it looked as if it could clog your arteries with just one bite. Rather put off by the beef demonstration we ordered a mixture of starters: tongue, beef sashimi, asparagus, and beef tartar. Oddly, Warren Beatty was in the hotel bar looking less leonine than usual, he was drinking with a pretty blond woman.

I spent the greater part of yesterday trying to hunt down curtain rings for the black curtain rods in my sitting room. Needless to say the most obvious places failed me. Ended up in a haberdashery on Labrea about five blocks from where I live.

The previous day I had lunch in Westwood with Paris L and Terry his business partner then hung out with Maury at City bakery. Got home just in time to pull on a suit and drive over to meet Sharon at the Environmental Media Awards where we celebrated outstanding achievement within the Entertainment and Environmental Communities. Bullshit. It was a Lexus event to promote the Prius electric car. Anyway, I met Graham Nash from Crosby Still Nash and Young who is my total hero. I asked about Joni Mitchell. He said, “Joni’s recording an album, she’s angry, really angry”.

Met the boys from Maroon 5 (?)

After the awards Sharon and I were given two huge bags, which we filled with organic produce. There was a man dressed as a cow promoting soy products. We had a lovely time but she went home on her own. As I stood in the line for my car the cow introduced himself to me and we had a coffee together.

I have been spending more time over in Silverlake. On my own, eating breakfast at the little bakery on Silverlake Blvd. Checking it all out. I sat in what would have been my garden on Dillon. Shall I sell Whitstable? Where am I?

November 13, 2006 – Monday

Harry Bellefonte

The weekend began last Friday lunch time, Tiffany and I went to Orian’s spanish 1920’s apartment in West Hollywood and saw a good chunk of his new film Control, which is about that guy Ian Curtis from Joy Division who killed himself. Directed by Anton Corbin, it looks great. After looking at some of the film the three of us had a very long lunch at the Chateau M. When I arrived Steven Fry bellowed my name out over the garden. Discussed Venus with Geoffrey Rush who did a sparkling impression of Leslie Phillips playing Falstaff at the RSC. Hamish McAlpine and his partner Carol were eating lunch at the table beside us, they are great friends of Sharon’s. It was Veteran’s day so the poor dear at the desk had to spend the entire afternoon turning away ghastly looking civillians. However, one table of vulgar interlopers who would never usually be welcome in our little garden paradise had managed to get past him. They were pointing, staring at celebrities. The staff responded by ignoring them completely. Even though the civillians were bothering us like bears in a bee hive, we had a very jolly lunch that lasted well into the afternoon.

Bought groceries at Wholefoods and started cooking for Tiffany, Sharon, Houston, the Palladino’s and BIG MISTAKE my shallow gay neighbour and his ghastly friend. The gays giggled and made snide comments and one of them scarcely knew how to pick up a knife and fork. How can you be gay and not even know how to eat properly? I made it quite difficult for them to stay so they left before the pudding. Cooked sweet potato and sprouts, which I par boiled then threw into hot olive oil until the edges were singed like bubble and squeak. Chicken baked in red wine and bay leaves.

The following morning I went to my men’s AA meeting in Westwood and afterwards had breakfast with Loren at the City Bakery. The caramelised French toast and bagel croissants are food dreams are made of. After breakfast we went to the Peterson Museum where Bonham’s were having a Steve McQueen auction. We were just in time to see a pair of Persol Sunglasses that SM might have worn sell for $70,000.

When we left the auction Loren and I headed to the bunch of small galleries situated there on Wilshire near the Peterson. I wanted to take one last look at the Hockney Photo Montage at Paul Kopeikins gallery before SG bought it. We were in the back of the gallery with Paul when who should walk in? None other than the beastly Doug Christmas! “Why, it’s my old friend Doug Christmas.” I said. You should have seen his face, even with all that ‘work’ it visibly sagged. His mouth fixed into a terrible leer. He flushed the colour of fresh liver spots. Doug hastily made his way out of Paul’s gallery and, rather foolishly, into the one next door. I said, “God’s punishing you for being so dishonest.” The gallerist sitting at the desk suddenly took notice. Now, it may come as no suprise to any of you but I love an audience and this one was rather more receptive than I could possibly have imagined. I suddenly and unwittingly became Doug Christmas’s very own nemesis. I followed this sprightly senior around the various galleries whilst asking him loudly when he was going to return my property. By the time I had hounded the old fart into the car park I noticed that all of the gallerists from the various galleries were watching and listening to us from a safe distance.

Doug, rather pathetically, tried to physically intimidate me but I am a little too tall and he was a little too old to do anything other than sneer at me from very close quarters. Knowing that I had extremely bad coffee breath all I had to do was breath hard into his wrinkles. He recoiled, called me an ass hole, told me how rich he was then climbed into his car and shot off. When I went back into the car park to collect Loren all of the gallery owners came out and congratulated me for confronting him. It felt like that moment at the beginning of the Wizard of Oz when the munchkins climb out of the bushes to congratulate Dorothy for killing the witch. All of the little munchkin gallerists had stories to tell about Doug Christmas ripping them off. It was a triumphant moment.

On Saturday night Sharon and I went to Paul Allen’s house for supper with Harry Bellefonte. Dianne Carole in attendance, she has big hair and a bigger diamond. Harry told interesting stories about being a communist here in Hollywood in the 1950’s and recently meeting Chavez. He speaks very slowly and quietly. Burned my tongue on something wrapped in filo pastry.

The Fountain prem party was ok but the film is not very well respected and one gets the feeling that everyone was just going through the motions of having the ball and congratulating the Dauphine. Had a long chat with Rachel W who is a great friend of Phil’s and Daisy Coburn’s. “Are you enjoying being a star?” I asked. She looked momentarily pained as if I had said something cruel. It cannot be easy for Rachel to do this Hollywood nonsense. She is an intelligent woman. She told me to send love to Phil and Daisy and I kissed her warmly and waved good-bye.

On Sunday I headed over to West Hollywood AA meeting. There was a mad person listening to his personal stereo. Went to Sunset sale where I saw and ignored Peter D who, I notice, now has a long scaley tail! Had breakfast with Dom and Hillary and Dom’s friend Keith at 101. When Hillary left we went to see Volver at The Arclight, which we all loved. Penelope Cruz looking like Gina Lollobrigida, playing brilliantly in her own language.

AA meeting at Cedars then dinner then coffee on Santa Monica Blvd then I crawled into bed tired but happy.

There are very strange reports in the newspapers that the USA are to begin talks with Syria and Iran about the future of Iraq. Can this be true?

November 14, 2006 – Tuesday

Scruffy

7am. Yet again I missed the dwarves. I listened for her screaming but I could not hear her. The usually blue LA sky full of towering silver clouds. Down town the fragile skyscrapers are scraping the sky. I passed the elderly Russians with the baby and a photograph of Scruffy with LOST written under his name, pinned to a fence. Last week I was asked by his owners if I had seen him. Scruffy, I fear, has gone forever.

I took the steep path and sat at the top of the Canyon for a moment wondering about the world and how the west was ‘wooing’ Iran with stern words to help them get out of Iraq. “You’d better help us Iran or you’re going to be in very hot water!” Said Tony Blair wagging his finger (tail) at the bemused Iranian president. This entire situation would be funny if it weren’t so tragic. Before I set off on my walk I looked at pictures of all the British men and women who had lost their young lives in Iraq. I thought about the wounded with missing limbs or faces or minds. I thought about the vanity of my Prime Minister and his cabinet. I remembered my faithful to Queen and country military friends telling me with absolute conviction that going to Iraq and finding weapons of mass destruction was essential. Why are the British so involved with the US? What in God’s good name is in it for us? On the day that the Democrats were elected and the Republicans started planning their withdrawal from Iraq it was announced by the head of MI5 in London that they had uncovered many (300) deadly Muslim terrorist plots. Do the Brits believe this? I don’t think so. Most of them, us, don’t know where to turn in a country that has two effectively identical political parties. Where the police now roam the streets with sub machine guns and the truth is vanished. Like Scruffy, Tony Blair (another cherished lap dog) is lost in the wilderness. What can we do?

Had breakfast with Joe T. He looks great and is doing well. Joe Moller came over in the afternoon to talk about putting together our Dorian happening. Stephen Fry very kindly saw Dorian and said, “It has all the poisonous wickedness one simultaneously dreads and adores in the original and in the Huysmans originals.”

I stayed close to the house all day. Writing, making calls and tidying my desk. Bills needed to be paid and calls needed to be made.

Several people have written asking about my issue with Doug Christmas. Doug owns three galleries in LA called ACE; the publicist Bettina Kourec, with a view to using one of his venues to show Dorian as an installation, introduced him to me. She warned me ahead of time that he did not have a very good reputation or pay his bills but I took the meeting and he asked for a copy of the film, which I gave him. Two weeks later when we asked for the film to be returned he refused, for reasons known only to himself. He a vile crooked man who could have quite simply avoided all of this nonsense by returning our DVD. Instead, he chose to pick a fight. Sadly, he chose the wrong man to pick a fight with.

Aleksa cooked a delicious dinner last night of chicken and red peppers. After dinner Devon pointed up at the window of the apartment block opposite where the female Latvian Dwarf stands like a mad woman in a play. She is up there every night staring out of her apartment. When she is not at day care with her husband, she is screaming at him in her floral house-coat. Then, when the sun sets, she stands motionless, framed in her window staring, waiting for dawn.

November 15, 2006 – Wednesday

Grand Mother

Does she remember what joy she gave me when I was little? She is well looked after by my Mother who is a good daughter and Grand Mother herself.

I have been so angry in the past. I am getting too old to be angry like a young man.

November 17, 2006 – Friday

Carine Roitfeld, Robbie Williams, Claire Danes

Amanda was wearing a pair of bottle green suede boots that Rogier Vivier gave her.

November 21, 2006 – Tuesday

Lap Top Stolen

The top of the Canyon was obscured by thick, low lying cloud. Met Glen Williamson and his new puppy. I hauled my ass up the hard way. The later one climbs the more screamers there are.

The police were wonderful, really prompt and polite and interested. The two detectives were so different from British police who really don’t seem to give a damn. It was very impressive.

It was a remarkable success.

On Sunday night I met my new neighbor and hung out at my place.

Yesterday had tea with S Fry at Chateau. Introduced him to Joe. Of course they got on like a house on fire. S Fry really loves Dorian. He looked a bit disheveled. Talked more about the Dam Busters.

Don’t worry love, you’re buying a 6 million dollar house and you live in LA, you won’t be single for long.

P.S. Dom wrote these very funny revisions to todays blog…

I have taken the liberty of editing your blog entry:

November 22, 2006 – Wednesday

dog/child

By 11 they were all gone so I went to bed. Getting tired of sleeping on my own. I want to fall in love.

November 24, 2006 – Friday

Thanks Giving

Home and in bed by 11.

November 26, 2006 – Sunday

Michael Temple

Yesterday was spent mostly at home reading and writing.

Why was I drawn to her? Drawn to Richard Squire. Drawn away from my family? I have a framed picture of me on my desktop. I am seven years old. The harbor is a long way from where we lived.

Too much remembering.

November 27, 2006 – Monday

Yesterday

November 29, 2006 – Wednesday

Arrested

I dashed home to:

December 1, 2006 – Friday

The Pebble

Dinner at 101 fried chicken special.

December 9, 2006 – Saturday

New York

Bought gloves in Barneys. Had polet roti in cute restaurant near Barneys. Had sex last night with some one of unimaginable beauty. First time I have had SEX for months.

Had business meeting with Victor. It was fruitless. I am no closer to getting Dorian finished. Strangely, I am not upset. God has a plan. I know it.

December 15, 2006 – Friday

Time is the greatest distance between two people.

Anyway, enough of the aptly named Self’s.

Thankfully my shrewd investments may make this year my most profitable yet my ‘profit’ of course would scarcely pay for the mixers at one of Jay’s parties!

Today I counted 27 dogs on Runyon Canyon.

December 17, 2006 – Sunday

Dreams

Phil left text messages. Cheered me up. She will never make it here–maybe in February for Mexico and the whales.

It was cold when I woke this morning; there was a bite in the air. I cannot stay in bed all day. I can’t do it. I have to do SOMETHING productive. Make lists. Write.

Apparently, if you threw a cat onto a 15th century funeral pyre the cat represented the devil. When I was a child I had a recurring nightmare that I had thrown a kitten into a fire.

December 19, 2006 – Tuesday

Deal or no Deal

I urge you to work with me to deal with this problem as best we can.

December 28, 2006 – Thursday

Sydney

Sydney New South Wales Australia

I visited the dentist and had my teeth cleaned. I made further appointments to have a small filling in a tooth on my upper jaw and replace a broken veneer.

I have no expectations for New Years Eve. What ever happens, happens. May go to bed, may watch the fireworks.

January 6, 2007 – Saturday

The script is coming along very nicely. It is better than I expected. Works well.

Decided definitively that I am going back to London to live as soon as I can.

When I walk the streets I am inspired, alive, able.

January 7, 2007 – Sunday

FRUIT BATS

It is cloudy again today but deliciously warm and humid.

I pressed the button and off it went for only God to determine the outcome.

Every night I watch the bats in the sky, huge fruit bats flying haphazardly in the twilight. Streams of them, black flapping chattering to each other all the way home.

January 10, 2007

Rap

The Book Kitchen, Surrey Hills, Poached eggs.

What will be will be.

Last Days

Book Café, Surrey Hills, Sydney

Last night Ben’s girlfriend Jasmine and her mother prepared Persian food and we sat and ate on their balcony discussing Lebanon and Iran and watching forked lightening dance over the sea.

February 2, 2007 – Friday

Kevin Zegers

Had meeting with my agent at Urth Café flushed from his trip to Sundance.

May 17, 2007 – Thursday

Isabella Blow

There is a large John Lautner house out on the PCH for sale it will costs who ever buys it 33 million dollars. At night it looks like it has been carved in amber.

Death:

I have one very funny picture of Isabella and Jay Jopling in my photo album. He looks bemused and she looks like an alien in mourning. He looks young.

KB wrote yesterday:

Good-bye Isabella Delves Broughton nee Blow.

Melanie threw a dinner for me with Mickey Wolfson and others came too. My new best friend Wendy A had lunch in Malibu with her and Barry Levinson and others.

Seeing a great deal of Joe who made moving effortless and wonderful. In fact he is making my life all that much nicer by being good to me.

Bought euphorbia and aloes and agaves.

No Shame in My Game

January 25, 2010 duncanroy 44 comments

Whilst cooking lunch yesterday I bent over and herniated one of my disks. My spine gave out and I am now laying supine in a cloud of white linen and little dog waiting for the pain to subside. Symptoms include: Shooting electric spasms in my legs. Laboured breathing. My balls ache. It is Impossible to make the most simple move without the most excruciating pain. So, this is what getting old is all about? I went into a terrible shame spiral as I was forced to ask Cooper to help me perform the most simple task.

Instantaneously crippled by SHAME and spine failure.

Shame, Resentment and Fear. The three ugly sisters who regularly cripple this particular Cinderella.

It’s interesting how a deeper understanding of toxic shame has given me a greater insight into all things–especially writing fiction.

Watching my adaptation of Dorian Gray again last night with Cooper (I was in bed sweating from the flu and squirming in pain from my herniated disk) I realized how much more evolved it could have been.

My contemporary adaptation of Oscar Wilde’s only novel Dorian Gray is a deeply flawed movie.

If I had had the understanding that I now have../understood Dorian Gray’s shame and Lord Henry Wooten’s subtle manipulation of it. If I had comprehended why Dorian, in turn, heaps shame upon Basil Hallward.

We collectively determine what is shameful and who we think ought to feel shame . Shame is subjective.

Sanctimonious people, self-righteous people, religious people, are all very eager to heap shame on whomever takes their fancy.

My mother’s shame began as a young 16 year old girl when she had me-out of wedlock. To make matters worse my father was a Persian! My mother was hustled out of dodge by my vitriolic Grandmother to a Catholic mother and baby home where she was forced everyday, by nuns, to perform menial acts of attrition and atone for her sins.

I was born into shame. I have perpetuated it at my leisure. I was oblivious to how shame had shaped my life until I started dealing with my sex issues.

For what should we legitimately feel shame? Should I feel shame for being gay? Should Natalie Octomum Suleman (Natalie is her birth name) feel shame for having all those babies? Judging by what is written on my comments page the answer would be a resounding YES.

There is a disturbing connection between Natalie Octomum and my mother who, 50 years ago, was shamed for the same thing..for giving birth. They were both called selfish, irresponsible, their actions cast as shameful and both punished by society.

My mother’s character might not have withstood a barrage of outraged press attention when I was born. She may have come off as surly or defensive when in fact she was just scared and confused. After refusing to give me up for adoption–for which she was branded selfish and irresponsible she had the audacity to ’sponge’ off of her parents and the state before she got a job. Of course, nowadays her actions would be understood and her decisions supported by a helpful social service rather than being told how her behavior was shameful.

The mother and baby homes run by nuns have all been closed down. We would be outraged, in the UK, if we heard that heavily pregnant young girls were scrubbing floors by way of Christian punishment. My Mother was considered by her shamed parents as both criminal and wrong-just like Natalie Suliman. Times change however and wounds heal.

It’s a bit late to punish Natalie Suliman so why don’t we keep her in a holding pattern of shame? The babies are born and by punishing Natalie we merely punish every one of those children, creating a stinking cloud of shame that will linger for the rest of their lives. This is OUR part in the shame game, we perpetuate shame as and when we feel like it. My mothers actions in the early 1960’s are scarcely shame worthy in contemporary Great Britain. In fact most British people would not think Natalie Octomum should have shame heaped upon her for her actions. She is perceived as a macabre American sideshow where ‘freedom’ breeds freaks like Natalie and people like me who end up on Dr Drew’s Sex Rehab.

Natalie, in my eyes, is neither criminal, wrong, selfish, irresponsible or cruel. Unless her children are not being loved or cared for…and one assumes with so many prying eyes on Natalie Suliman an unwashed kitchen surface would be enough for child protection agencies to be summoned..then she should be allowed to get on with her very own brand of American ‘freedom’.

Hey, America, I don’t give a damn that Natalie accepts public handouts. Sounds like some of you want her to feel shame for accepting welfare. It stinks when I read that some of you don’t think that she is capable of rearing those children when really none of you have any evidence to the contrary. None of you know how capable she is of limitless love. None of you.

As my therapist friend Sean M is want to say: There’s No Shame in My Game.

Finally an artist who inspires: Allison Schulnik who is presently showing at the Mark Moore Gallery in Santa Monica’s Bergamot Station. I am persuading all of my friends to buy her work. It is amazing. A real figurative painter who uses great globs of paint with such dexterity and precision, so sculpturally and with such poise that I stood before the work salivating, hankering after Frank Auerbach, De Kooning and oddly Corot. I immediately called Kay and Amanda and insisted that they buy something whilst Allison’s work remains affordable.

Categories: Hollywood

Disney Land

October 28, 2009 duncanroy 4 comments

The photographs from the last depression: thin people holding onto life. Today’s depression: the morbidly obese-holding onto life. Jenny saw larger guests who couldn’t squeeze the turnstiles at Disney Land. She saw a woman dipping a huge turkey leg into a vat of mayonnaise. How are these people meant to survive or fight any revolution? They are already dead men walking. Like geese bred for foie gras but with no healthy liver to spread on brioche. These people have nothing, absolutely nothing to look forward to.

Loaded with anti depressants they smile haplessly-their lives stolen from them by corporation and successive governments. Looked upon by the rich as no more than deep pockets that have to be emptied at any cost. In Disney Land animated parlance these people are held upside down by a duck or a cow and shaken until every last penny is dislodged from the rolls of fat that keep these people slow moving and slow witted.

They are, as Chateaubriand said, no more than canon fodder-economic cannon fodder-regarded as expendable in the face of enemy fire. The enemy is the very government for which they proudly vote. They are at war with their own survival. Forced to deliberately fight against hopeless odds with the foreknowledge that they will suffer extremely high casualties.

These people are kept stupid, fat, fearful and in debt. Easy to control when (or if) they ever come to their senses. Feed them cheap food. Refuse to educate them properly. Tell them the terrorists are coming and hike their interest rates. Then, just when they think they have a Sunday moment to themselves hit them with religion: the easiest way to keep them in check. In shame. Shame, as the Catholics found out, is a wonderful tool to control those who will not bend to your will.

Even the middle class, with no more that 7 days of paid holiday per annum to look forward to, finally go insane and end up in rehab for 6 month having the time out they should have had incrementally as the years passed.

This lie of Eden, this garden of painted, plastic fruit and false promises. How delighted the bankers must be that they dodged the bullet, that no one is coming after them. They watch gleefully as the crumbs they leave behind are fought over by lawmakers for basic human rights like healthcare.

The banker is hugely paid to take risks with the money of those for which he has no regard. Why bother with healthcare? They don’t deserve anything! Those fat foolish fools. Go on..let them die young, die miserable deaths, send their sons to war. Force their daughters to suck on the cock of humanity. Take away any hope they might once have had and give them more pizza. Send them 5-foot sandwiches made of tasteless, mass-produced, processed ingredients. Pizzas the size of cartwheels. Over charge them for the pizza, charge them interest on their credit card used to buy the pizza and when it poisons them refuse to treat them and let them die.

Incidentally-it took me an age to understand why Americans thought we had lousy food in London until I realized that they didn’t mean the taste..they meant the size of the portion. The taste was meaningless. A hearty meal is a huge plate laden with food-any food will do.

I read today that there are more homeless teens on American streets than since the great depression. They are squatting foreclosed homes, they are selling their young bodies and they are numbing the pain with drugs. It could be Brazil or Romania but it isn’t it’s the country that genuinely believes that the rest of the world is jealous of it. Listen to Arni S, Governor of bankrupt California, brag about having the best fire fighters, the best hospitals, the best policemen etc. But, nobody is jealous of you. Not any more.

In London, whilst the economy roared, the government invested in roads and schools and hospitals so that now, during the down time, this prudence means that the people scarcely notice that times are tough. The British do not live in fear of illness because they have free healthcare and know that if they are unemployed we have collectively vowed to take care of them. The British are relieved that their children will and can go to any great university without being saddled with $500,000 of debt. They enjoy publicly funded art-of which the people are inordinately proud.

When I was last in London people briefly moaned that their house prices had gone down in value by 5%. I chuckled as my house in Malibu has devalued by 35%.

Meanwhile, the President of the United State-leader of the ‘free’ world and his First Lady are building a victory garden at the White House. Victory over what? Victory over the people who did not complain as the risk taking, MBA educated, Wall Street bankers who were rewarded for the greatest heist in US history? Hurrah! Victory! We got away with it! A double whammy. The hedge funders sing joyfully: We lined our pockets with war profits and then we just took what we needed when we became too big too fail. And, lol, we did it right under their big fat noses by threatening catastrophe on both occasions. First by the terrorists then a destroyed economy.

The bankers sing: Let them eat pizza, and 24-inch subway sandwiches and genetically modified, carcinogenic turkey legs dipped in mayonnaise and call it haute cuisine whilst you are at it.

They cry joyfully: I’m off to see Ivanka Trump get lavishly married in a dress styled after Grace Kelly’s in a marquee..a marquee that may be used in years to come to house some of the legions of placid, homeless obese standing in line to fetch water, food and anti depressants-unable to dream of better times-unable to dream at all.

Categories: Hollywood

Wrinkles

October 17, 2009 duncanroy Leave a comment

Justin left for Aspen. I Walked around the charmingly pretty houses of Whitley Heights. Mediterranean pastiche, mostly. A few modern additions but rare and sensitively done.

I looked in at a couple of empty homes. I wondered if they had been foreclosed on. 1 in every 135 homes in the USA is now in foreclosure. Whilst the banks are saved the people are not. It is a sickening thought.

Credit default swaps, sub-prime, hedge-fund, derivatives. Like pure mathematics these products are distinguished by their rigour, abstraction and beauty.

They are perfect lies.

When I moved here I expected to lose everything. I expected it. It’s that kind of place. Everyone wants what you have. Everyone. Once you get a handle on what this country is no one in his or her right mind would want to stay. A squirming mass–maggots feeding off the carcass of humanity.

I had no idea.

I came for an adventure. I had no idea what that adventure would be. I severed all financial ties to the United Kingdom and set myself adrift. There are high seas to negotiate right now. Perilous swells. Huge storms ahead. I can feel it. This is not catastrophic thinking. Just look at the evidence.

Homeless, jobless, desperate. The people will galvanize sooner or later. They will think as one: the change that they have been promised (that still has not been delivered) will be fought for. The Berlin Wall is a great example of how the state finally gives in to the will of the people. The state and the corporation are as one–tethered in a ghastly dance of death. Revolution, when it comes, is always fearless. The people will learn to die to save themselves. Not in some God forsaken Bagdad souk but on the streets of Tampa, Chicago and Albuquerque.

No left no right no up nor down. Once chaos is upon us money and contract have no meaning. The baker reigns supreme. It would take one harsh winter to kill off the soppy populace.

They brought it upon themselves.

Communism, fascism socialism: all have failed, as will capitalism.

Saw commercial for our VH1 show. It was exciting. I have a lot of wrinkles.

Categories: Hollywood

Jan Moir

October 16, 2009 duncanroy 1 comment

Just seen all the furor about Stephen Gately. Even though Jan Moir is a bona fide cunt we must not lose sight of the fact that there is a crystal meth/sex epidemic sweeping the gay community, that new HIV infections in gay men are increasing insanely and syphilis is back with a vengeance.

There is no debate what so ever about the way we treat ourselves. Any criticism by straights is considered homophobic and any attempt at healthy debate by those of us who care passionately about our collective mental health is described as self loathing.

It’s easy to slash at Moir’s ugly mug it’s not so easy to look at her crude message and learn from it. Some of what that ghastly woman hinted at may be true. It’s a pity that we weren’t having that conversation first.

I recently put grindr on my iPhone and had to take it off within a week as with gaydar/manhunt/adam4adam etc. I became immediately addicted to the endless stream of available men within meters of wherever I was. We are NOT like straight people. We behave quite differently and it does us no good to pretend otherwise.

I have learned a great deal about shame based behavior in therapy and as a community of men we are particularly vulnerable.

Certainly from my experience as a drug toting slag I ended up feeling soulless and plagued by shame.

Gately may not have died because of excessive drug use, sex addiction etc. but many gay men are. Perhaps we need to start getting honest about what is really going on in our community rather than let the Daily Mail read between the lines.

10:20 AM

September 6, 2006 – Wednesday

Canyon Barbie

38 dogs on Runyon Canyon today Sept 3rd 2006. For some odd reason these blogs are out of sequence.

I mopped the kitchen floor with bleach.

6:30 AM

August 14, 2006 – Monday

Threat Level Reduced?

The anti Muslim frenzy that the governments of the US and UK have been working tirelessly toward seems to be complete. I am at lunch in Vauxhall London with columnists from the Sun and the Daily Mirror-two highly influential British newspapers. There is also a political editor from The Times. There is a storm raging outside the house (thunder and lightening) and one inside (fire and brimstone) over the chocolate tart and chicken legs. Suddenly in my secular country people are diving along religious lines. The truth is being rewritten, I am told that the Muslim guys who were shot and arrested in Forest Gate are child pornographers/drug dealers/ black marketers. Suddenly the blacks are ‘just like us’ and the Muslims need to be ‘taught a lesson’. Now it is the Muslims who are stealing our tax pounds by claiming social benefits-even though I thought that last year it was the Muslims who had higher achievement levels in schools and ran small businesses with aplomb. Last year it was black people and asylum seekers who lived off of our white generosity-now it is the Muslims. How the fuck did intelligent people like the guys I was with yesterday suddenly become so blinkered-so incredibly malleable?

OK so, the innocent Brazilian guy gets shot in the head by cops eleven times at close range in a crowded subway. The Forrest Gate guys get shot and arrested and later released even though the ‘intelligence’ that had been collected over several months proved without doubt that these guys were manufacturing chemical weapons. Now we get this-the arrests of the men who were supposedly going to blow up planes with liquid bombs. Did the intelligence guys get it right this time or were they manufacturing moon shine? Perhaps they got hold of the mobile Weapons of Mass Destruction units that Saddam supposedly had? In fact those people arrested last week are slowly being released. Did you know that? But, in the mean time, chaos reigns over us. Hand luggage banned. Scary men with sub machine guns in the airports. What are they going to do with all those guns? Who are they meant to be scaring? Certainly not terrorists or insurgents. They are scaring us.

I am more scared by the British police than a Muslim with a backpack. However, I refuse to be intimidated by the anti-Muslims. I suddenly understand what happened to people’s minds in pre war Germany–how people were manipulated to hate the Jews. It is happening before my very eyes! At some base level we are all tribal beings–thankfully we here in the UK do not know which tribe we truly belong, we kinda get along with each other. WE always have. Yet somehow we all realised at the same time that the muslims were our enemies. Suddenly we are outraged that we do not want the muslims to steal our way of life-to take our social benefits and if they do they should be fucking ‘gratful’. “Because the way I see it.” She spluttered over her paella, -”WE feed them and they have the audacity to hate us.” Correct me if I am wrong, I replied, I thought that most of them were very well paid. I thought that they were angry because people were hating them for no good reason. Killing their fellow muslims abroad. “Are you with us or against us?” That’s what George W said after 9/11. Some people in this country are taking this question very seriously.

Even if it were true that the Muslims were taking our generous social benefits can we really expect to buy the loyalty of these people? Does $30 a week buy the loyalty of an asylum seeker? The friends I ate lunch with yesterday were sure that these parasitic Muslims were out to get us even though we were so god damned generous. They refused to make a connection between our behaviour toward their fellow Muslims abroad and their anger against us here. My friends are under the impression that we were all living in harmony before this happened. They refused to believe that the strengthening of a BNP (right wing) party in the hearts of the Muslim communities was frightening to those people. Anyway, I thought that we had a wonderful low unemployment rate. I thought that we were striving collectively to beat race hate? I thought that we believed in the politics of inclusion? This new political landscape seems very foreign to me. Yet, I live in the USA and it is not so foreign to me there. Perhaps we have a diet of American TV for a reason-perhaps Friends and Ally McBeal have made us think that all Americas are funny and tender and inclusive and thoughtful like the girls in Sex in the City-that at the end of a busy day they take stock and make amends. No. This is a big fucking lie.

All afternoon I heard not one solution from my friends. I just heard hate. When I asked about solutions there was a terrible silence. After all, we know about ’solutions’ in Germany and Yugoslavia. We know about Rwanda-about Soweto. These ’solutions’ become increasingly more popular to people when they are manipulated to hate those they share their community with. We have seen concentration camps in the last twenty years in colour on our very own continent.

It was clear to me that we are creating/have created an environment where the people of the white ‘generous’ world will agree to any action taken against Iran or the so-called axis of Evil or Muslim world. We are being prepared to hate so that a war becomes inevitable. The innocents are forgotten-we are forced to forget or to reconsider how innocent they really were. The Brazilian was wearing a heavy jacket and carrying a back pack (lie). The Forest gate men were child pornographers. saddam had waepons of mass destruction. Do not think about the children under the rubble or the point blank horror of the Brazilian electrician. Do not consider the terrible loss of life everyday on the streets of Iraq. Think about this: we are running out of resources at an alarming rate. Who controls those resources? Who has a trillion dollar debt? Who is making a fortune from all of this? Who will profit from our fear? From the death of innocents? From the death of our own evolved culture?

I suggest that our threat level be increased to its very highest level. Why? Not because we are scared of liquid explosive allegedly planned to cause havoc in the skies but because the very people we think are our friends are quietly and determindly with perfect white teeth are eroding our culture and the things we hold dear.

1:32 AM

July 30, 2006 – Sunday

Lebanon

My Dear Friends, Colleagues and Acquaintances,

today 21 small children were shattered into tiny pieces as they hid from terrible bombs that rained down in Lebanon.

Your president in the USA and our Prime Minister here in the UK are yet again united against the world in not demanding a cease fire in the Lebanon. We cannot and must not tolerate this situation for one more moment.

My friend Karim who was in Speilberg’s film Munich is trapped in his home town of Beirut. He is frightened and unable to leave the country. He is a good man, some of you know him. In both countries today there are good men who are not full of hate for strangers, but this will change. These wars will make benign men like Karim hate other men. This is the tragedy of our age.

I urge you to do everything you can to stop this terrible carnage in Israel and the Lebanon. It is wrong. It is dangerous. It is a vile preamble for US domination in the middle east and a manipulated attack on Iran and Syria.

I urge you all to do what ever you can to help these beleaguered people in both Israel and Lebanon find a hasty peace. I urge you to call your representative in government to register your protest. I urge you to see this conflict for what it is, that these people are dying to justify attacks on a third nation. That Jews and Arabs are killing themselves to provide a smoke screen for a US/UK agenda in the middle east.

Only a few months ago Beirut was beginning to emerge as a confident democracy, there was hope for the future after many years of despair.

Did we blame the Irish people when the IRA bombed London for 20 years? Did we level Dublin because of the actions of some maniacal Irish? No, we fought a war against terror even though Irish Americans supported the carnage on our streets in London by donating money to Noraid.

I urge you, my friends, to help stop this destruction, end these lies and save the lives of more young children who will undoubtedly die. I urge you to look into the faces of your own children this evening and imagine how the parents of the tiny, shattered bodies in Lebanon are grieving today.

No more crimes against humanity. No more lies from our leaders. No more blind faith. No more biased reportage.

Please.

Duncan

5:12 AM –

July 29, 2006 – Saturday

My Baby Drink Red Bull

My friend Randle Mann-yes the poet-he’s one of only three men who can make me howl with laughter. Gary D my casting guy makes me laugh like a lunatic. My LA friend Dom is the other person who can keep me laughing my head off all the time (constantly) I am with him. He’s a PR and I dont know how he puts up with half the people he works with.

I am still awkward and shy with most people–so consequently everybody thinks I am confident but its all a genius cover up. Ever since I went to my first gay bar when I was 17 I was crippled with shame. Gay bars are terrible places to grow up-especially 20 years ago, in London..shit..how did I survive? Not only the shame but AIDS how come I never got that? Everyone else did. Probably because I was a terrible prude and refused to have one night stands and refused to have sex just for the sake of it.

I have no idea why we treat ourselves so badly.

Gay bars do not have to be so horrible. I went to two opposite each other in Dallas with JBC a few years back, one was a typical techno bar and the other was full of line dancing cowboy types. In one it was dark and stainless steel and the music was pop/dance/hard the boys and men kept their eyes averted because if they looked it might be perceived as an invitation to have sex, which might precipitate a snub. In the other bar the lights were on, the men were dancing to be seen, there was no embarrassment. The music was understandable like the moves on the dance floor. Men stood proudly like men welcoming any attention that they might get rather than scurrying around like cockroaches in the semi dark, too air conditioned, techno environment where any human contact or intimacy was reduced to cock and mouth and ass.

I remember Neil Bartlett saying once that if there were a gay ghetto he would move there. I love gay men at their excessive best. I love that they can, how ever macho they might appear, dress a room with individual style, deliver a brain splitting, catty remark and be that OTHER that I love.

When we lived on Fire Island in The Pines all the fancy muscle queens had twin poodles or miniature Italian grey hounds. The men carried them around on their bulging biceps or the little creatures would step out on bejewelled red lizard skin leads. I admit it I used to SNEER! I did, I am ashamed. Now, I hanker after those days because those very same men have traded in their little dogs for babies. Wombs all over the west coast are currently being rented to grow babies for gay men.

Why do I find this phenomenon so difficult to stomach? The two single men I know who have tried to have a baby seemed like such egomaniacal workaholics how would they ever make space for a baby? What is the point of getting a baby just to hand it over to a nanny on a daily basis? I asked my friend but he reacted badly, it seems that even a hint of gentle questioning is perceived as a full-blown attack. “Why shouldn’t I have a baby? Straight people can do it so why cant I?” “Straight people have been getting things wrong with kids for years-why cant I?” “I want a baby!” “Where’s my BABY!”

It feels to me like we are planting tiny little legal/emotional time bombs all over the gay ghetto-for what? I don’t have an answer for all of this. I just have questions that seem to upset people when they are asked. I don’t want to stop anybody having anything but the explanation for the ubiquitous gay baby is this: Of course I can buy a baby-its the American way. “Its like buying a house.” I pointed out. “Exactly!” My friend threw his hands up in the air. The irony was lost on him. Another man was boasting that his baby was white and therefore more expensive. (When he left the table his friend said that the mother was a crack whore in san antonio). Another man I know was furious that the surrogate mother of his twins had miscarried them, he said that she was a ‘bitch’ that she was ‘unreliable’.

I have always suspected that gay men in the USA, knowing that the Christian right want them gone, disappeared-think that if they make a relationship, buy a nice house, furnish it elegantly and have a baby, THEY (the Christian Right) might not realise that they (the gays) are there at all. Holding their baby toward the church gay men seem to be saying-”Look, were just like YOU!” “We can sit on the school board and be just like you.” “Look at our picket fence it’s just like yours.” “It is the American way!”

When did we decide that we wanted to be just like them? When did we opt for invisibility rather than the benign freak show that has formed my aesthetic and thinking during the past 20 years? I do not want to be like THEM. THEY are not my people but increasingly the baby owning gays are not my people either. Who are my people? European, free thinking gays? Perhaps. Peter Tatchell gays? More likely. Alternative queers? Absolutely.

I am not invisible. I do not subscribe to the notion that Brokeback Mountain was good for us and why do we have gay film festivals anyway? I do not believe that, especially in the USA, that we can integrate in any meaningful way without losing out on who we are.

In the 101 café a couple of gay men are holding their blond, blue-eyed baby above their head for all to see. My friend said, “That looks like an expensive baby.” Surely that child will ask one day, “Where’s Mommy?” Where the fuck is Mommy? Well, darling blue eyed boy we bought the egg from an unknown woman in Texas and paid for an unknown womb in California-so there is no Mommy but don’t worry darling you are loved and that should be enough. “What? What do you mean there is no Mommy? Where is my MOMMMY!” The perplexed gay couple might say: “Straight people were doing a lot worse than this for years before we started doing it.” It is a lame answer and they know it. This morning over pancakes, as they toss the delighted child from father to father they are not thinking of the spotty, disposessed teenager with a gun in his hand demanding answers.

Perhaps the child will not be like me and will not ask a million difficult questions about what sort of woman could do that. What sort of woman has a child and does not want to know it? What happened to that woman to make her give up her baby? Perhaps this blue eyed, expensive, white kid will have had so many chemical solutions every time he asks a difficult question that his questioning nature will have been removed completely. Perhaps Ritalin or Prozac will do the trick? There will be no time bomb questioning-no desperate moments of desire to understand from the woman that bore him what sort of woman she was.

All I know is this: I remember the first time I saw into my father’s eyes, even though it was a photograph and he was long dead, I remember how I breathed a final sigh of relief that at last I understood who I was and the questions that had driven my emotional life were finally answered. I had recognised myself in his eyes and where I had come from. The look on his face in one photograph relieved me of the burden of that nagging question.

The last time I was at The Abbey in West Hollywood with Randle Mann we saw two perfectly manicured, perfectly pumped and tanned men and their 6-month-old baby. They went to the bar and ordered drinks. I could see the bar man pinch the babies cheek. What does he drink? I imagine him say.

Randle and I looked at each other and howled with laughter.

“My baby drinks red bull.”

2:18 PM

September 16, 2006 – Saturday

Fat Kid

I slept until 8.30 this morning. Not even the morning sun pouring into my bedroom woke me. Disorientated by how late it was I started the day by checking e-mails, which, I never, ever do. The squirrel was in the Bird of Paradise tree outside my sitting room pulling seeds out of the huge pods. He was making a terrible racket. Chattering away to himself.

There were more that 80 dogs on the path today. SO MANY PEOPLE. I really dont like to share the Canyon with that many people. I like the few odd die-hard who get up at six and watch the sun break over Los Angeles. I was wearing a red Buddhist punk hoody, red seems to attract a great deal of attention. I received many nods and unsolicited greetings. I passed the man who pushes his bike without his shirt on-he has a creamy natually defined body. He looks but does not acknowledge.

I never take a phone or an ipod up the mountain. I need to experience it raw. It is still hard to get up the steep bit without a break but I am really noticing a difference. I feel lighter. I cant feel so much fat on my back over my kidneys but perhaps I am just kidding myself. Next week I start working seriously at the gym. The fact of the matter is: I am happier when I get to walk my walk, meditate and write my blog. At the start of everyday I feel as if I have achieved something. You know, I kept a diary for over 20 years. A written diary. A Smythson’s leather bound diary. I had Red calf, black calf, natural pig skin colour. I had a marbled one from Venice. I stopped writing my diary because, when I got sober, I wondered why I was doing it-and it was cumbersome to carry and then when I got here stupid people thought that it was a bible.

I passed the Russians with the blue-eyed dogs; they were rabbiting away in Russian then one of them said in English, “So Armageddon is finally coming.” Like he was expecting his aunt, aunt Armageddon. It certainly feels pretty doom-like at the moment. We get on with our daily lives but something else is determining our future. Maybe there really is a conspiracy of powerful Jews? Maybe Elvis is still alive? Maybe Freddy Star really did eat a hamster?

More OUTRAGE from Muslim clerics because the Pope quoted some odd Persian from an ancient text. Come on lads get some perspective. Who gives a fuck about the Pope? He wears Prada under his cassock.

At the start of my walk I saw an incredibly tall, svelte, young couple with their morbidly obese son. They were in their early thirties, athletic. He was 9 years old and a tub of lard. He was complaining about the smell on the canyon. They were reassuring him that everything was going to be ok. I thought to myself, Oh how sweet, these two are really helping their child. It must be tough, but as a family they are trying to get him in shape. I set off on my walk. On the way down the Canyon I pass the two athletic parents walking on all fours like dogs. The child is nowhere to be seen. They were walking on all fours like dogs. Stretching out their perfect, athletic limbs. Half a mile behind them, dawdling along is their huge son. Alone, fat, abandoned. What can I say?

Dammit, I always forget to mention the half-naked elderly man who I have only seen once crouching in the undegrowth wearing a dog collar and rubber shorts looking like an unloved, abandoned dog. If I was (when I am) a lonely old man, I might be tempted to think that someone might adopt me if I pretended to be a dog without a home.

Yesterday, I wrote, I read, took care of business and did more itunes organisation. I chatted to Erik the writer about Valentine. I checked out the Bonhams Sunset sale but there was nothing there worth buying. I saw Paulo, he needs to take me out for lunch sometime soon. Danny O dropped in for a cup of tea. I was meant to be seeing Gianni but Virgil swung by so I had to blow Gianni out at the last moment.

I really think that Virgil might be married. He is so secretive. Remember Quentin Crisps unattainable big, dark, man-kind of dumb but loveable. That is Virgil. He does not know his 10 times table. He eats KFC every day. I asked him what he talked to his best friend about and he tells me the conversation VERBATIM. It wasn’t very informative. He is a huge, gentle, light skin black guy in his mid 40s. He watched me make a salad dressing and when I poured it onto the salad he asked what I was doing. He had never, ever seen anyone make a dressing before. Do not be surprised my homies, this is the USA. Even my more sophisticated friends would not know how to make a salad dressing from scratch. The young ones think, ‘why should I?’ and the older ones think, ‘We never eat at home’. Virgil is a big sweet man. I asked him to take me to South Central LA but he scoffed. He told me that his nieces boy friend and the father of her baby had blown his head off with gun in front of them all.

Dont worry Virgil, I know people like that in Whitstable.

4:21 PM

September 11, 2006 – Monday

We Are All Americans Now

I was on the mountain by 8am. 24 dogs. Only two hours later than I usually go yet the Canyon folk at 8am are radically different from the earlier crowd. Instead of my usual bunch of single minded, introverted business people focused on their morning walk at 6am today I saw more people, fewer dogs but all of them seemed to be playing out their breakfast dramas there on the hill. I said a rousing ‘hello!’ to the cute boy in the hat-he was so taken aback that he nearly fell over. I stopped and talked to Jeff the dog walker with his seven dogs. Poo bags tied to their collars. I saw a trainer berating his trainee. I saw a woman with a dog strapped to her chest in a papoose. For the first time ever up there on the dusty Runyon Canyon path I saw a mad person running up the hill insulting people. He offered me his card, when I declined he said, “I’m writing a novel! Say good morning to Barbra Streisand when you get home.” I bowed my head in embarrassment. Did he think that I was Jewish? “If you see Michael Moore, put a bullet through his head.” He ran off.

The woman behind me was shocked by his behaviour. I stopped to talk to her. Gabriella, Italian brought up in Paris. Firm hand shake. Cute dog. We both agreed that the world was a more dangerous place since 9/11. I wonder how many people across the world will be celebrating this day rather than mourning this day? How many people across the world had sympathy for the innocent of the twin towers the day it happened who now celebrate that fateful day? It is a sad shame. As the years pass the complex politic that came to such an appalling conclusion that day is being revealed. It is as if the US wanted to show the world in the years since 9/11 exactly why it SHOULD have happened. What is this war on terror? What do we expect to win when we say that the war must be won? We cannot win a war against an ideology or a philosophy.

Both the US and the UK had no plan to win a war when they marched triumphantly into Baghdad. We were told that Saddam had Weapons of Mass Destruction. They planned to topple Saddam, find the weapons, win the hearts and minds of the Iraqis and take the oil. TAKE THE OIL. If we had left the day after Saddam was deposed the jubillent Iraquis would have given us the oil for free! Where once the people of Iraq were pleased to see us now they hate us. They hate that an innocent 14-year-old girl is raped and murdered by American soldiers along with her innocent family then their bodies burned. If a white 14 year old girl had been gang raped by foreigners, her white five year old brother and parents shot in the head in Bethnal Green or Brooklyn what reaction would we have? I tell you now that the streets would be raging with the rightful fury and indignation of those frightened residents. Yet, if the people of Dahuc complain or protest or demonstrate they are accused of being Insurgents or Terrorists and risk their lives to say it how it is. What new FREEDOMS have the US and the UK brought to the people of Iraq? The same freedom the people of the US enjoy? The freedom to be poor, fat, uneducated and lazy? Is this how we express our divine right to freedom?

When the trial of Saddam is done will the people of Iraq reflect on what they gave up? When the US chop off his head will they see just another Iraqi bending to our white will or are they going to cheer? Who will cheer more than Saddam as he goes martyred to the gallows?

George W Bush, like a priggish child, complains that his fellow citizens have to buy oil from folks who ‘don’t like us’. They don’t like us. Why don’t they like us? We have DEMOCRACY for goodness sake and FREEDOM and our girlies don’t have to wear that silly scarf and can get pregnant when they are 13 years old and take drugs and join gangs and live a godless life without spiritural guidence. If we do well we can afford premium cocaine and drink ourselves silly. We can imprison our grandparents in stinking old peoples homes. We can can give our children prescription drugs so that their inquisitive natures are dulled. People of Iraq vote for freedom, for democracy, for decadence.

The day after the Twin Towers fell La Monde declared that we were all Americans now. After the cruel and divisive invasion of Lebanon I saw a placard outside the Israeli embassy that read, ‘We are all Hezbolla now’.

10:08 AM

January 24, 2007 – Wednesday

The Queen

I killed a mosquito this morning. I slapped it against the wall with a pair of yesterday’s underpants. It exploded all over the place with my fresh red blood, blood it had just sucked out of my foot. I am sitting in the Book Kitchen waiting for Zoë, Anita and Teddy so that I can order my poached eggs. Last night Zoë’s landlord’s Ross and Renata cooked us dinner and their highly entertaining children (Dom 6 and Nick 10) amused us with made up jokes and mayhem.

I spent the afternoon with Anthony S in his rather nice Woollarha house watching The Corporation, which is a very long documentary essay about the history, excesses and fight against capitalism. Susan Sarandon’s voice was very irritating. I was moved by the description of the Bolivian water riots. Decided to make some changes in life when I got back to UK-am already not leaving too much of a foot print but could be leaving less. Anthony’s gruff, rich, stepfather arrived in the middle of the film and Anthony turned it off as if we were watching pornography. We continued watching only after he had left the room. After the film we ate sweet things in Jones The Grocers then I drove home.

Two weeks ago I saw Steven Frear’s film The Queen. I didn’t really want to see it because I find anything to do with Diana very, very disturbing and, like Brokeback Mountain, did not want to risk bawling my eyes out. Anyway, I had to see it as I am a BAFTA voter and take my voting very seriously. The experience turned out not to be as painful as I thought. Helen Mirren was great but I really wouldn’t expect anything less. She is an English Character actress who has worked with really outstanding people–Peter Brook for instance. Pretending is what our actors do best. Pretending to be Tony Blair and The Queen shouldn’t be that hard with a voice coach and a good wig. In fact I thought that Mirren’s range within her role of The Queen was rather limited, she spent the entire film pulling one face, a perplexed look of gentle concern. Like she was gazing into the middle distance desperate for answers. Do people really think that HRH is like this? Do they think that HRH is a sweet, benign little old lady? Do they think that Cherie Blair provided fish fingers and comic relief to her husband and children and is capable of feeble thinking as written by Peter Morgan? Did he forget that she is one of the most highly regarded Barristers in the UK?

This my HRH The Queen evidence:

I saw her once at Smith’s Lawn shortly after I left prison and could see her suspenders quite clearly through her boucle skirt. I saw her on TV crying when Blair took away her yacht Brittania. She did not cry when the rest of her people were crying at the death of Diana.

Strangely, some years ago I was invited to a gruesome, Conservative Party Dinner and Dance held at the cavernous Kings Hall in Herne Bay. I sat next to the ex Mayor of Canterbury. I can’t remember his name but he was a kind, small old man of simple taste and brain. I asked him if he had ever met the Queen. To my amazement he told me this story about HRH The Queen.

In his Mayoral capacity he had to greet the Queen upon her arrival in Canterbury with the Lord Lieutenant of Kent and sit in the car with HRH and Prince Philip for the duration of an official engagement. It was a freezing cold, winters day and The Queen arrived by Royal train at Canterbury Station for some Christian event at the Cathedral she is, after all, the head of the Anglican Church-nothing between her and God. The train arrived late and one of the equerries or Ladies in Waiting sprinted over to the Mayor and his party giving him the heads up that HRH was in a filthy mood as she hates being late for anything. A few moments later a very grumpy HRH got off the train, leapt into her car refusing to stop to speak to wheel chair bound constituents who had been waiting in the cold and wet for hours. The Mayor begged her to stop for a moment to speak with her subjects. “Do we have to?” She moaned. At the Cathedral she met the Arch Bishop performed her function then the worthies retired with her to the Arch Bishop’s home. At this point the Mayor had to present HRH with a book as a present from the people of Canterbury. When he handed it to her she said, “Not another book!” Dismayed the Mayor, a very simple man, said, “It’s a very valuable book Ma’me.” The Queen looks at Prince Philip and says, “Oh valuable is it? That’s good, we’ll sell it when we lose all our money.” The Queen and Prince Philip then have a fit of laughter at their ‘joke’.

The mayor was neither impressed with the behaviour or attitude of The Queen or her notoriously rude husband.

I met Paul Keating (ex Prime Minister of Australia) this week. He has the most famous HRH story of them all. The back touching. The faux pas. International outrage. He was pottering around at his house. Paul Keating is definitely one of my heroes.

Katherine Phillips, my occasional friend, had lunch with HRH in Scotland but was thrown off the table for having a cold, “Has that girl got a cold?” HRH said. Now, I don’t know if this last story is true but worth retelling anyway.

So, I saw Frear’s movie The Queen and I thought that the Royals came off rather well. What really happened at Balmoral may very well have been a lot less calm and openly hostile to the memory of our Princess Diana. The Princess, which The Establishment worked so tirelessly for us to love in their gruesome soap opera was dead. When she died I will never forget how they wheeled out those old, bitter Queens to defend the Monarch, St John Steevas and that hump backed monster historian who has the history show on TV and The Moral Maze. It all makes me feel sick. Yet, do I subscribe to The Establishment, The Corporation or The People?

When Diana was killed in the car accident and the flowers started piling up outside Kensington Palace Princess Alexandra sneered at them wondering if the poor had better things to do with their money than spend it on the memory of Diana.

Like The Corporation The Monarchy will go to any lengths to protect its power. So, The Princess is killed in a tragic accident. Within hours The Establishment seeks to disable our memory of her and refocus us on the good works and youth of The Two Young Princes Harry and William. It takes time but finally we embrace them once again. We do so eagerly, as we are told to do. But as hard as I want to forget I will never forget that morning when I woke up and, like so many people, believed that I lived in a country that had assassinated it’s ‘people’s princess’ regardless of whether it was true or not.

October 7, 2009 duncanroy 1 comment

Notes on a Scandal

Yesterday, in the hotel dining room, there were a sweet couple who are visiting Toronto for the weekend to get married. One was a very young, very tall, strapping jock and the other a much older, smaller, Jewish man who did the talking for the both of them. An odd couple. A pair that I would never even had pegged for a successfull date let alone as lovers or as married but there you go, they were obviously very happy and excited by the prospect of their ‘big day’.

After an hour of quite baldly intrusive questioning I determined that they were getting married for all the ‘right’ reasons. They loved each other. They were committed to each other. They wanted to celebrate their union in the company of their friends and family. They were not concerned to have retirement/health/tax benefits. This is Canada so that is already part of the deal. In the USA the gays who bay for marriage seem to think only of what it means to them fiscally.

Why is it that US gay political figures have not advanced the rights of gay people in any meaningful way during the past 20 years where as we in the UK (with our deliciously out gay, joint toting cabinet ministers) and Canada, South Africa, Australia and across Europe gays have equal rights? The tactics used by American gays are obviously not working.

My gripe, ultimately, is with the gays and not the withholding ’straight’ majority. The majority are just that: THE MAJORITY. Using the gay marriage stick to beat the straight donkey just makes the old mule stubborn and refuse to budge.

Gay activists must make many lawyers accross the US very rich indeed. Demanding things from the entrenched. Making headway then having it all taken away. You can get married, you can’t get married. The wailing of the gays. Stop asking to get married because you are doing it for all the wrong reasons. AND you are pissing them off or worse delighting them every time they flick their tails and repeal your meagre reforms. I know that it may seem an odd question but given that you can’t and wont be able to any time soon in any way that equalizes your financial/inheritance situation. Why do you even want to get married? I want to know. The Toronto boys would have been perfectly happy with a get together on the beach with their family. All they wanted the world to know was that they were in love.

My concern for gays in the US is that they just want to be like ‘everyone else’ that they refuse to acknowledge their obvious difference and embrace and celebrate it. The middleclass gays that determine the gay agenda are committed to the politics of invisibility. They want the right to get married not because they love each other GOD FORBID but because they want to be just like them (straights). Gays want to get married, have children, and live in elegant houses just like them. Sit on the school board just like them. The middle class gays with heterosexual aspirations want the trappings of the lives their parents had, the comfort and middle class normalcy and when they get it genuinely believe that the OTHERS might not realizes that there is any difference between them and us.

Huh?

There is a huge difference, no matter how much we hide in fear from their reproachful eyes. We are different. However much we love ’straight acting’ ‘100% masculine’ we will always be evident in the way we walk, talk, dress, play–it is time to acknowledge that we are the ‘other’. In accepting who we are we can then stop demanding from the majority that they respect us. Nurture us. Give us permission to be just like them.

I have no intention of being anything other than what I am, I will not pretend to be more like them so that they can tolerate me, or worse ignore me because I have made such a great job of pretending a life that they have prescribed.

I have made a choice to live in a ‘free’ society. I have made a choice to commit to the freedoms of the USA. Yet, from my meager bluff overlooking the sea I don’t think that many people in the US are free at all. How can you be free when you live in fear? When you weigh so much that your ass can scarcely fit into a car, when you cannot identify the flora and fauna around you?

As I tour the US and the world with Dorian I listen to the way gay artists make work-although most gay artists are only eager to talk about money–and I am fascinated by how little new drama for this huge audience is being made. Where as once we were thrilled to have our stories told, the language and locations of gay life revealed–now we are perfectly satisfied to see ourselves on Desperate Housewives. Yet, ironically, mainstream gay and lesbian product is being made but it is not allowed at gay and lesbian film festivals. Gay and lesbian film festivals are not allowed to show Notes on a Scandal or Transamerica because the distributors of these films don’t want to be ‘pigeon holed’ as if amazingly they cannot embrace both kinds of audience. As if showing these films to gay audiences will some how devalue their product? This is unbridled homophobia and we collude with it. We have little or no respect for our own culture so whilst the distributors get away with willful homophobia then gay film makers are not going to show or make work for gay audiences because they understandably feel that their work will not be taken seriously by those who hold the purse strings.

When gays devalue their own culture when deferring to the mainstream they become a lot dumber in the process. We have traded our rich culture for the mindless thump of our clubs and bars, spend our money on drugs and alcohol yet if prodded pretend that we are just like them, no difference at all. The similarities between Quentin Crisps 1940’s London and present day USA are startling. The attitude of gay men that by being different we ruin it for the rest is all too common.

I see men my age at bars in West Hollywood at the big cock contest, or men older and more powerful than me who will only sleep with straight guys. What have we become? I almost want to buy a wig and paint my nails, after all, drag in its purest form has always been an effective act of aggression.

November 30, 2006 – Thursday

Bond/Borat

I am climbing Runyon Canyon at 8am with Scientologist Joe K the man who sells dog ties who I met on the mountain with Hillary two weeks ago.

It is 6.30; I have looked at the list of films picked for Sundance. Dorian is not one of them. I was really dissapointed. When did I start hankering after Sundance? When did it become imperative for my film to exist anywhere other than where it is meant to exist? AKA went to Sundance. Should it have even been there? Some might say that my being there was a wasted opportunity. I had no idea how to make it work. I went with the absurd SM as my ‘manager’. I was frustrated. What a calamity. Bobby, my tiny little agent who wore a crash helmet in her kitchen because she kept bashing her head. My lawyer was the only one who seemed to care. The more I think about it the less tragic the memory becomes. It was absurd. It was a farce. It makes me laugh. Peter arriving with his friend/manager in the snow in a broken car to share the stage with me at the Egyptian. The ‘manager’ latterly ran off with Peter’s woman. What is with this ‘manager’ thing? Here, you be my brain. You make my decisions. I can’t think without you. When did I ever not think for myself?

What is for Dorian now? I imagine that we will do the lesbian and gay film circuit, which I have always loved. They have always looked after me. Made me welcome. That is all I ever wanted for any of my films. All I wanted was to reach out to that audience.

Every time I make a film I start again. Find the true path. Every time I do anything creative I am enriched. I am in pursuit of beauty. Money is only useful to acquire beauty; access to beautiful people, places and things. It is all I have ever been interested in. Even when I was in prison I found beauty in the soaring, dramatic halls of Wormwood Scrubs. These rooms were a quarter of a mile long. At night, working on the wing, the last one out on the landing, I walked the long gantry listening to the individual lives of each man behind his wood. I thought, this is the most beautiful moment I have ever experienced. Even though I was occasionally frightened I was usually delighted, inspired and full of hope. Was it just because I was so young or because I was not drinking or because I had been living a lie for such a long time?

Every time I make a film I start again from beginning to end. I start again. Tossing the coin into the air and see where it lands. Heads or tails?

Last night I had a very unsatisfactory massage. Michael went to see Casino Royale at the Chinese Theatre. I saw Casino Royale with Hillary and Dom last weekend in the mall at Century City. I might have liked it had Danny’s suits been tailored correctly but sadly they aren’t. In Love is the Devil he was remarkably suave. In Casino Royale his suits don’t fit, his collars are unstarched, he looks like a squat bouncer from a provincial night club wearing a bad watch. The iconic image of James Bond turning to shoot the gun at the audience at the very beginning of the film was frankly absurd! The Bond sillhouette is usually the finest example of old world elegance. The film makers traded elegant, refined and dangerous for Danny Craig dressed as a French onion seller in baggy trousers unable to perform a model turn or even convincingly point his gun. Sadly, there were too many shots of Danny running. Daniel Craig is no Gazelle, he runs like an old fashioned athlete pulling a strange, determined face. His blue eyes as wide as saucers, the veins on his forhead standing out like a tube map. James Bond should run effortlessly without breaking a sweat. None of this, however, is Danny’s fault. There seems not to have been a discerning eye overlooking this film. No taste. No style. And as for the leading woman’s hair at the Casino–it looked like a hat from a jumble sale. In lieu of anything else to applaud about this film we applaud Danny’s indisputable acting ability but acting is not what Bond is all about, Bond is a high camp British cartoon character. Since when has it become imperative for filmmakers to humanize cartoon characters? How long will it be before Scoobydoo suffers from a bout of postmodern angst?

Another cartoon character in the cinemas this winter is Sacha Baron-Cohen’s Borat which, unlike Bond, is very stylish and on occasions simply genius. I now understand what early cinema audiences loved so much about Chaplin. Borat the tramp, the fool, the clumsy could so easily have been a series of dislocated skits but instead this cohesive, stylish, funny film made me feel something far beyond what I ever expected. Both Bond and Borat are peculiarly British cartoon inventions but where as Bond has become another victim of the New British Laddist Movement sinking in the quicksand of postmodern reality Borat turns out to be the most unlikely hero of them all.

Categories: Gay, Rant Tags: Dr Drew, New York, Rehab

EATING

November 1, 2009 duncanroy 6 comments

As a Brit living in the USA I simply don’t understand how a waiter could read when a customer has finished eating. We, the British, fastidious about table manners indicate when we are finished to the staff by placing the knife and fork together the tines and blade pointed away from us. This clearly indicates that the diner has finished eating. This is not the case in the USA where diners finish eating and leave their cutlery strewn all over their plates. Hence the ghastly, “Are you still working on that?” or waiters swooping down and snatching plates before the last mouthful has been finished. My other pet peeve: we were taught to finish everything on our plate. This often solicits a raised eye brow and an ‘ironic’ comment about you having must really hated dinner. The ‘tip compliment’ is the crudest device of all. When the unsolicited compliment about the hat, baby, hair, teeth etc. comes I immediately deduct 5% from the expected tip. It is crude, undignified and irritating.

Categories: Rant

GAYBIES

November 12, 2009 duncanroy 4 comments

Earlier this year, young gay men and lesbians and their friends violently protested outside the Mormon Temple on Santa Monica Blvd after it was revealed that the LDS had paid for damning, dishonest advertisement that scared the general public into voting against gay marriage in the state of California. People felt compelled to march on the streets. It was a heartening sight. Bringing the city and traffic of LA to a roiling standstill. Governments are filled with fear when people march on the streets. It is very effective. Weeks after the event, hope that a young, fearless leader would emerge from the attacks on the LDS did not materialize.

Another missed opportunity to parley genuine outrage into political leverage.

The gay community lacks any kind of secular leadership. The politics of invisibility reign. Sadly, the invisigays determine the political landscape and are as unwavering and intransigent as any Born Again. They are blind to other possibilities. Hung up on the notion that if gays can get married, have babies and retire behind a white picket fence THEY might not notice we exist.

President Obama has left the door wide open if the gay community wants to accept Civil Union as the way forward but the invisigays have set their sights on Marriage and nothing less will do. The invisigays arm themselves with the lackluster ‘separate but equal’ argument against civil union. They hook their marriage cart to hate crimes and refuse to engage with any other argument for change.

As dozens of young gay men and women, inspired by Harvey MILK, escaping from people like Rick Warren (and Christians like him) flock into their local big cities in search of cherubic Dustin Lance Black (and boys like him) what can they expect? They can expect gay bars and nightclubs and happy hours and gyms and free condoms and? And what else? A gay church maybe? What If they are looking for political leadership where do they look? If they are looking for moral guidance or evidence of who came before them or what battles were fought…what can they expect to hear? Currently LA invisigay aspirational thinking is this: Abandon negative ideas and anger, keep your abs hard and after a few well placed naked pool parties, learn to ape straight culture by buying a baby.

Max Muchnick, creator of Will and Grace is very rich and ‘married’ to attractive lawyer Erik Hyman and as well-connected as any gays can be in Hollywood. Max recently penned an article for the Huffington Post about his motherless daughters. Children made thus: eggs from appropriate donor (white women can charge more for their eggs), womb donor, sperm from either or both of the gay couple = a $300,000 baby and Mother/women erased permanently, effortlessly from the picture.

Max complains that at LAX he had to explain to a security guard that his daughters had no mother. No mother? The security guard asked politely. How did the babies…happen? Max is outraged. Isn’t it evident to you that my husband and I are GAY.

There are pictures of Max and Eric awkwardly holding their babies in the LA Times. ‘There is no mother.’ Max boasts. Therefore, no hope of either of those little girls understanding where they came from or what kind of woman could rent room in their womb or sell their eggs. No one to explain how that could have happened. Would Eric and Max want their own girls to sell their eggs and wombs or be written out of their grandchild’s history?

Other gay men with motherless children explain patiently to me that because their children will be so loved they will not have to ask such uncomfortable questions like: WHERE’S MOMMMY?

Gay men are spending hundreds of thousands of dollars to create ‘families’ regardless of the outcome. The marriage/baby aping of straight society smacks of the’ politics of invisibility’. If we get married, have children ‘they’ might not realize we are here, ‘they’ will have to treat us ‘normally’.

What are we meant to aspire to in 2009? What are we teaching the next generation of gay men and women?

At a West Hollywood party recently a invisigay father made a pass at me. It set me to wondering if his marriage meant anything at all–a marriage that others had fought so hard to get. Newly married, surrogate babies on the way and making a pass at a comparative stranger. When I put this to him he was visibly shaken. He told me that he felt bad, that I was making him feel bad. Worse, I said, than having had sex with me then going home to his newborn? He said, well, straight people do it. I laughed. What kind of straight people do we want to be? The kind that cheats or stays loyal? The kind that blows his family apart with infidelity, or the sort who honors the vows of his marriage? Do we, in fact, just want all the trappings of marriage and babies and behave like we always did?

Reality TV/Performance Art

November 13, 2009 duncanroy 9 comments

Getting up in the morning to a camera shoved in my face totally validated my existence. It was the one component of being on Sex Rehab that I hadn’t reckoned on. As soon as I had my microphone pinned to my shirt I felt alive. It was the thing that I missed the most when I left the Pasedena Recovery Center and the one element of making the show that I felt ashamed to admit.

I thought often of Andy Warhol during the three weeks that I was in the show. I dressed accordingly. Picking unusual and colourful shirts and pantaloons. If ever there was evidence of narcissism in my life this was it. Obviously I kept quiet about it. I didn’t want anyone to think that my intentions were not 100% honorable. The other unexpected bi-product of being filmed 24/7 was to tell the truth. I might have altered a few things–simply because I wanted to protect myself from unwanted attention when the show was over but 99.5% of the time I was truthful. That, in itself, was a revelation. Telling the truth, being true to oneself and being of service to those around me governed my experience.

The women taught me a great deal. Obviously I had a great deal in common with the women. We had similar stories. Similar dealings with men. There was a pecking order amongst the women that went something like this: The Playmates looked down on the porn starts, the porn stars looked down on the prostitutes but the Playmates had been, at one time or another, prostitutes. It was a fascinating dynamic.

My relationship with Jennie blossomed when we both realized that neither of us would ‘miss’ being in treatment; that we would do the work and unsentimentally move on. The others, within a couple of days, were already projecting to the end of the experience and talking about how much they would miss us. Of course, by the time it ended Jennie and I were the ones who would miss the experience most.

The moment I met Jennie I realized that she was born to be more than the woman she was. Infinitely talented she, like many women, only expected so much from her life and it was a joy to critique her writing, her painting and encourage her to free her thinking. It was a joy to see her flourish and as her friend to this day I continue to watch her grow. Occasionally I am really jealous that I had not met a man like me in similar circumstances when I was her age who would have taken the time–but, the truth is I met many men who spent hours trying to help me and I pushed them all away like the petulant child I am apt to be.

I have always existed at the edge of society gay and straight. Outspoken, sober and eclectic my complicated life was fashioned about me like a force field that kept only the most tenacious from getting to know me. I had deliberately and successfully made low budget, gay art films for gay art house festival audiences all over the world. I used the language and locations of my gay, rarified life and suddenly here I was thrust violently onto a reality TV show that millions would see and hear me speak the most unpalatable truths.

The saddest part of being on the rehab show has been the untamed anger of the more entitled of my gay breatheren. Petrified of change, scrutiny and self awareness. Bristling with sanctimonious fury they tell me in no uncertain terms to mind my own business. To stay out of their underwear. The majority of the gay media will not even acknowledge my existence on the show. The party boys who control our gay press do not want to go near sobriety or sex conduct. It is all too confronting and worse–may lose them precious advertising revenue.

Did I think that I would one day try to spread this sex addiction message? No. When I was out there balls deep in popular gay bar/club culture getting what ever I wanted could I have imagined a healthier life? No. Did I give any of this a second thought when Joe and I buried our 100^th friend from AIDS complications? I did not. Was I just as imperious and entitled as the men who now routinely brand me homophobic and self loathing–yes I was. But the truth is we live in evolving times. Our understanding of unhealthy, destructive behaviours has become more astute. We cannot continue to live in the same way just because we always have. GBLT: A coalition of the unwilling. Gays hating Bisexuals, damning trannies, ignoring lesbians. Who are we?

Categories: Rant

Levi Johnston I love u.

November 17, 2009 duncanroy 1 comment

I am really very excited about seeing Mr. Levi Johnston in Playgirl magazine. Just previewing his phat hairy pits was enough to get the blood rushing to my loins. He is, after all, the ideal husband. Dumb, sexy, provocative.

Levi, guilessly picking his way out of a life littered with Christian fundamentalists, arrested drug fucked mommy, republicans, bible study, GOP, McCain, Hannity, Palin praying on her padded knees. Never looking back. How effortless was that? Their snide remarks like water off a sitting duck’s back. He just keeps on moving. He appears with Kathy Griffin on Larry King (whiskey on her breath and cheap perfume). He is confident; he never looks askance as the gay man dressed in Kathy Griffin’s old body paws at the young boy with cheap innuendo. He just sits there patiently for the moose to come then with stealth he just blows us all away.

Levi is my hero. 19 years old. Giving us exactly what we want when we want it. Want damning Palin gossip? He got it. Wanna hear the truth about Bristol? He’ll tell you. Want to see his perfect butt? He gonna show it. Oh Levi. Only in America could you become such a star. You are the patron saint of US Weekly. The divinity we non-Christians have been waiting, longing for. A regular St Sebastian (lite) already smite with arrows.

I think I may be in love with you–and I know that you wouldn’t care. You are modern enough to realize that me loving you, lusting after you cannot possibly hurt you. You would spread your cheeks for me as long as I didn’t touch your pink rose bud. I just know it. Unlike the puggish, too perfect Taylor Lautner you, my darling, are quietly aware of your masculinity. Taylor, go fuck yourself. Levi would whip your bubble butt. Then rape you Wasilla style with the butt of his rifle. Oh…maybe not.

Levi..you are a flirt, a seducer, a media sex God. When you ain’t St Sebastian you are Helen of Troy, when neither of the above you are simply Levi. The boy who wouldn’t lay down and die. Refused to be used. The clean-cut kid who took hold of America and savagely kissed us all with your plump, teenage lips. Drowning in our lust. The boy who can’t say no. The boy we all wanted or wanted to be.

Sarah Palin is praying for you Levi. I am praying for you. Your peers are praying that you make a fortune. That you get the girl. That you love every second of your fifteen minutes. After all, you can always go home to Alaska..if everything goes tits up. Your people are Christians folk-they’ll forgive you-they’ll forgive anyone anything as long as you give yourself to Jesus. It’s in their DNA. It’s the fucking LAW.

I think, yes I am sure…I love you.

Categories: Uncategorized

Thankyou..

November 27, 2009 duncanroy 12 comments

To all of you who wrote to me yesterday, I thank you. So many moving emails and messages, each one lending hope not just to me but also to every reader who may struggle with addiction.

Some people may think that this is easy to share so publicly what is usually such a private condition. I assure you all it is never easy to reveal the secret life of an addict yet, if I have learned anything during the past 13 years of sobriety it is this absolute truth: we are as sick as our secrets. Every secret I keep holds me back from a shameless life.

I wanted to share a few paragraphs from the emails I received yesterday. The ones that so precisely describe my own condition and seem to affect so many other people.

“I am living without TV and Internet at home right now, and Duncan, it is a pleasure! That was my addiction, 10 hours a day or more. The TV on, watching anything I could record, on my laptop doing really nothing.”

Internet and TV addiction. Zoning out on either means that I can no longer have a TV in my house and have to severely limit my Internet use. Inertia and procrastination. It may seem odd to some of you (especially as I am a film director) but both TV and the Internet grip me from the moment I come into contact with them. I don’t particularly care what I am watching-indeed when I lived in NYC I would watch the Home Shopping Network or QVC deep into the night. Why QVC? Because commercials irritated me and the HSN/QVC don’t have commercials. To put your minds at ease: I was never compelled to buy a Princess Diana Doll or a cover all face powder but I loved the passion of the sales men and women. In a complicated world their simplicity beguiled me.

“As for sex… I had plenty in college like most people. I enjoyed it, now, being 27, the only sex that i crave is with someone I am in love with. I have not been in love in 4 years. The hooking up scene to me is old. Plus it helps that the gays in this are all superficial bastards. If you do not look like an Abercrombie model, they have no interest in you. One thing that has boggled my mind is the increase of bare backing! Why would anyone, not in a healthy loving relationship, want to expose themselves to a health threat that could kill em. It is just crazy.”

Bare backing–the scourge of gay community. Formerly the preserve of a few fetishistic ‘bug chasers’ bare backing (unprotected sex) is now de rigueur in the gay community. Commercials for anti viral drugs featuring Abercrombie type guys convince a generation of young gay men that HIV is no different from diabetes and can be managed with drugs-albeit expensive drugs that one is required to take for the rest of ones life. Thankfully, I am HIV negative and want to keep it this way. However, many men my age are ditching their condoms and their caution for ‘manageable HIV’. It is a travesty that the drug companies are allowed to go unchallenged by the gay community. Our politics have been high jacked by the gay marriage debate so issues of health and mental health are simply ignored.

“I just turned 46 last week and out of those 46 years, I was a sex addict probably 30 of those years. I have been sober from drugs and alcohol for the almost 12 yrs. I don’t want to get into detail, because I am sure you know the drill. Needless to say, I acted out constantly. I had no personal life and didn’t really see a LTR in my future. This addiction made drugs and alcohol seem like kids play.”

This, sadly, is the email that I get most from most gay men, the story that I am most personally familiar with. Trading the idea of a long-term relationship for a life of sexually acting out. It is our greatest problem and remains totally ignored by the gay press; the straight press yet needs the most attention. It is the secret that we are sick as.

As I found out from my gay brethren we are utterly unable to have any kind of meaningful discussion about our sex conduct. The gay press has totally ignored my presence on Sex Rehab for this reason. I expected it. Yet, if this unhealthy sexual behavior were not killing us, making us miserable I would not have appeared on the show. It is essential that our voices are heard and heard-by each other.

The last email I want to share with you comes from a startlingly handsome 21 years old.

“I never knew u were a sex addict as well. Its funny because I have been struggling with porn addiction also, I felt the same way when I came to America, used masturbation to help me cope.”

The gay men who are most threatened by the message of healthy sexuality are those who believe that it is only the unattractive, elderly or somehow impaired gay who want to wreck it for everyone else. It is obvious from our pornography, our clubbing, our drugging, our hook up sites, our literature, and the incidence of newly diagnosed syphilis and HIV infections that our sexual behavior needs scrutiny.

I am not in the business of taking anything away from anyone. However, it would be irresponsible of me not to at least try and reach out to a community that I love and have served loyally as an artist all my life with a message of hope.

PS Thankyou Dr Drew Pinski for sharing my blog with your Twitter followers. It made all the difference.

This Shameless Blog

November 30, 2009 duncanroy 36 comments

Luna just returned from her garden adventure, skipping up the path.

Sadly, this may be my last winter in Malibu. The house is FOR SALE and I want to leave by the end of June. You know where I’m off to.

Yesterday I spent time chatting with my friends in New Jersey and Charlotte NC. I had dinner with Emily and helped her assemble her bed and watched Sex Rehab with her and the dogs.

BTW I apologized to the camera assistant and the Rehab tech.

I really loved episode 5.

OK. A little controversy:

There has been some debate/consternation on these pages about my views on the ‘politics of obesity’.

Firstly let me tell you that I have a huge compassion for those of you who wrestle with your weight and the consumption of food. However, let me make my point once again:

Both ‘sexual politics’ and the ‘politics of sustenance’ are in many ways very similar.

BTW I am 54 days sexually sober.

Today I wanted to write about Jennie but..

December 3, 2009 duncanroy 47 comments

Yesterday opponents of gay marriage celebrated a decisive vote in the New York State Senate, where a proposal to legalize same-sex marriage was defeated 38 to 24.

DOMA, Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, Prop 8, etc., etc. are all still alive and kicking. Gays in the USA face a bleak, uphill struggle for basic civil rights and as unpalatable as it is for me to admit this to my largely straight, female audience we only have ourselves to blame.

My friend Peter Tatchell the UK gay rights activist wrote to me recently when I asked him what gays in the USA should be doing – or what they were doing wrong said,

“It sounds most depressing in the US. But they have to sort it out. The only really serious LGBT direct action group in the US is the radical gay Christian movement, Soulforce (part of the LGBT Metropolitan Community Church). They focus on challenging homophobic churches. If they could apply their direct action tactics to the wider LGBT civil rights struggle, they could be very effective.”

After Maine, many gay rights activists speculated that lawmakers around the country would be wary of supporting same-sex marriage legislation. While a CBS/New York Times poll show that support for gay marriage is growing, Maine served as a reminder that most Americans still oppose the idea. According to a recent survey by the Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life, 53 percent say they don’t think it should be legal.

We are left these options: education through the marketing of GAY (I would rather spend millions on marketing than lawyers), coalition (as in Harvey Milk’s preferred method) or (my personal favorite): DIRECT ACTION. This means that where ever we face inequality, homophobia, hate crimes or murder we act decisively in huge numbers and demonstrate at the location of any of the above-much like we did at the Mormon temple in Los Angeles after the Prop 8 ratification.

People are getting angry, look at Justin Bond’s (popular award winning radical performance artist) recent twitter response to the New York state No vote. I think he perfectly articulates what a growing number of us feel.

“From now on “friends” can’t let “friends” hang on to the delusion that they are compassionate if they idly watch their henchmen run the show.”

“As if by saying they care it makes it true. FUCK THAT! Stand up to the bullies in your churches, on your streets, in your government.”

As usual it’s the men who face discrimination every day, simply by putting on high heels and make up who are VISIBLE enough to take a stand. The trannys who fought at Stonewall were the bravest because they had nothing to lose. It’s funny because the preferred ‘drag’ of contemporary gay men is the greek muscle warrior–however most of them are too apathetic to fight. Ironic?

There are a huge number of silent gay men who simply sit around and passively wait for change. They do NOTHING to make change happen apart from making endless excuses and apologies for their apathy. I had a long email chat with the erudite, gay Mickey Rapkin senior editor at GQ magazine who expects change through quiet lobbying.

I wrote: Things ain’t changing whilst people are being dignified. Does direct action scare you? Does risking your life for what you believe in appeal to you? Are you ready to smash windows? Ask any European and they sneer at the US gays for being meek, for not fighting. What happened at Stonewall changed things. What needs to happen is not going to be comfortable.

He was dead against any kind of direct action. Upon further enquiry his ideas about marriage differed wildly from mine. He said, “No one is forcing you to get married. Marriage is about economics, not religion. It’s about tax breaks. That’s something Republicans should certainly understand.”

Let me make it very clear what I think about marriage. If marriage is our aim then marriage is a commitment between two people vowed before God. Vows that include monogamy, honesty and love.

Many gay men that I speak to think that marriage is merely a contract and not a bargain made with each other before God. I believe in the sanctity of marriage. If marriage is simply, as Mickey says, a contract then a civil union will do just as well.

Are we gay men ready to look at our sexual conduct? Our morals? Are we prepared to commit?

I don’t blame Mickey Rapkin for being frightened. In my opinion he is simply deluded. The government and the church rely on his muddled ideas and complacency.

There are others in the community who get momentarily excited about change but they too fall by the way side. When I interviewed Perez Hilton earlier this year he was excited about the march on Washington, but what happened to his enthusiasm? Again, I read what he writes on twitter and there is little or no follow up. He has millions of Twitter followers that he can marshal to influence politics like he does record sales but he does nothing consistently.

All I know is that I watched in awe at Peter Tatchell marched all over the UK wherever there was injustice and took direct action. He made things very uncomfortable, not just for the government but all the complacent stay at home gays who would rather watch TV than engage with real choices.

Direct Action is the next logical step.

Categories: Christmas, Rehab

Feelings are not Facts

December 17, 2009 duncanroy 30 comments

You know, it’s easy to get depressed around Christmas time. It’s easy to feel sorry for yourself as others are so obviously having a good time. Take away the booze, the drugs, the porn etc. etc. and what are you left with? It’s not just about what I can’t do it’s more about what I won’t do. Invitations are left unanswered. Parties unattended. Why go out when I can throw my very own pity party?

This Christmas is miserable for other reasons. My malaise is the countries malaise. Diffident people, unresolved policies, a new President who arrived with such hope and is not delivering. The undeserving bankers partying on the taxpayers dime. ‘The have’s and the have mores.’ Do you remember Bush saying that? I read about whole families in homeless shelters and growing incidence of hunger in the world’s richest country.

My friends are becoming more frustrated and less patient. I only hope that their frustration leads to dissidence and activism. Listen, this is not my fight. This is not my country. Why should I care? Well, I do.

This week I wrote about sexual fluidity and my usual detractors came at me with the usual arguments. One writer challenging my assertion that there is more sexual fluidity than we like to admit posted a link to an interesting piece in the New York Times.

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/07/05/health/05sex.html?_r=2&pagewanted=2&;_r=1

I think that it is worth reading. Rather than proving his point that most men are one thing or another or gravitate toward one or other end of the sexual spectrum it proves only one thing: we tend to ask men the wrong questions about sexuality if we want to hear the truth.

Bisexuality is not the point. Sexual opportunism amongst men is the point. Most men, initially, are simply not honest when asked about their desires, fantasies or experiences. Of the hundreds of men I have spoken to about their sex conduct–when they finally feel safe enough to tell the truth, the truth is always far more complicated and often more harrowing for them to admit.

Our personal and evolving sexuality is far too complicated for most humans to own up to. Sexual honesty is further complicated by the hysteria whipped up by organized religion.

Sexuality is simplified by those at either end of the sex spectrum who are sure (for the time being) of their own desires and cannot be aroused by anything else. These people are in the minority. For the sexually opportunistic when sex options become available those options are gravely considered. Hence the problems many men face with the internet and the availability of previously unseen or considered (often illegal) pornographic images. Men trawling for pornographic images on the internet start by looking at ‘vanilla’ type images but very quickly find themselves looking at and aroused by images of sex acts and sex scenarios that they may never even considered previously. Why do they look at them? Because they can. Once the door is open to this world of taboo it is very hard for most men to close it again.

How many men who are languishing in prison today, their lives destroyed, for looking at illegal images would have ever sought out those images if they hadn’t had the internet? Once, not so long ago, before the internet those criminals might have thought about those things–maybe. They might have had terrible desires or feelings but feelings are not facts.

Feelings are not facts.

Is it only a matter of time before the leap from an imagined world to reality?

The internet takes us very quickly to places that we wish we had never been. From the safety of my own apartment I can explore the darkest reaches of my own mind.

Most of us never have the guts or the inclination or the opportunity to make real what was previously a fantasy. The moment we step from fantasy into reality we create another life.

Tiger Woods will tell a reporter that his wife and family come first. This scene is played out endlessly on TV to confirm that Tiger Woods is a liar. No, Tiger Woods did not lie. Tiger Woods really does believe that his wife and kids come first but he Tiger, like so many men, has multiple lives and like many, many men he compartmentalizes those lives. He has his real life of wife and children and his fantasy life of hookers and escorts. Because of his power, position and social mobility he gets to act out what is usually, for most men, a fantasy.

I serially cheated. I had two lives. My real life with my lover and the discardable life of quick hook ups.

‘It meant nothing’ means something.

I was acting on my most basest desires because I could. Because I had no morality? I balked at writing that but actually I mean it. I had no code of conduct. I had no guiding principles around my sex conduct. I found myself at the mercy of my desires. Is this peculiar to me? No. One does not need to have had a traumatic past to become the victim of one’s desire–just ask Tiger.

Sexuality is not as dull as gay or straight or bisexual. It is infinitely more interesting. My detractors want you to believe that sexuality is simple. That they have the answer for all of you–that you are one thing or the other.

The truth is that until we can all honestly, shamelessly tell our sex stories we will never really know.

Categories: Dogs, Malibu, Self Sufficiency

Chic with Dick

December 28, 2009 duncanroy 13 comments

The phone rang at some ungodly hour last night and a very methed out friend of mine called to say that he was having a relationship with a porn star. A ‘chick with a dick’. Worse, he said, he wanted to become a ‘chick with a dick’ himself. He then spoke to me as his ‘other’ incarnation, which was very disturbing as I really thought I was speaking to another person. When he became ‘her’ he sounded like he’d been snorting helium.

He sent me a link to a porn sight where I could see his ‘girl friend’ in action. I declined to open the link even though I was very, very tempted.

Then, quite coincidentally, I received a very angry email from Pater Tatchell, the British human rights activist denouncing Quentin Crisp as a homophobe and misogynist. Pater writes:

“Quentin Crisp was a contradictory, infuriating figure. Although astonishingly brave and defiant as an out gay man in the 1930s and 40s, he was later defiantly self-obsessed, homophobic and reactionary. Quentin denounced the gay rights movement and slammed homosexuality as ‘a terrible disease’; adding that ‘the world would be better without homosexuals’. Quentin disparaged homosexuality as an illness, affliction, burden, curse and abnormality. He regarded himself as ‘disfigured’ by his gayness. He never spoke out for gay rights or supported any gay equality cause.”

I was taken aback by the fury of the email simply because the description of Quentin by Peter was so incredibly off. Quentin may have been a very muddled old man when it came to expressing his political views but he was very much a product of his age and time and should be viewed as such. It seems churlish to denounce Crisp simply because he never overcame his shame and self-hatred or learned a contemporary gay polemic.

Shame blighted Quentin Crisp’s life and one can never underestimate the damage toxic shame can cause.

Toxic shame is an all-pervasive sense that one is flawed, worthless and defective as a human being. It is more than just a fleeting feeling of unworthiness; it is an internal sense of falling short. As John Bradshaw says, “A shame based person will guard against exposing his inner self to others, but more significantly, he will guard against exposing himself to himself.”

I have an enormous amount of respect for Peter Tatchell who has routinely risked his life and health for the sake of his beliefs–a little like Quentin Crisp. Peter and Quentin have profoundly influenced my thinking during the past 30 years–even though they come from such politically diverse places. Quentin may have said some very stupid things but what he did empowered boys like me to be true to themselves.

Finally, dear readers, let’s chat momentarily about the banks. I think we can all agree that the banks have fucked us over?

Can we?

The loyalty most of you have toward the banks will never be reciprocated. They don’t give a damn about you. The last thing the banks need is another wave of toxic assets. By cynically creating my very own I may do myself a favor.

Before the banks behaved so abominably I would never have thought so irresponsibly. Now, frankly, I don’t care. They have shown utter contempt for the trust that was placed in them by ordinary, working people.

If any of you are foolish enough to believe that the credit rating system will not be recalibrated then think twice. As soon as the banks are ready to do business again they will manipulate the credit rating system, that you all seem to blindly respect, to suit themselves.

Lastly…

Apparently, according to NPR this morning, scientists are working on a pill for people who feel socially excluded.

Bring it on.

HOLLYWOOD ADVICE

December 31, 2009 duncanroy 10 comments

To all the young men and women who arrive in Hollywood looking for stardom, this post is for you. It’s not the in-depth advice I give to my students at UCLA nor as involved as the serious conversations I have with young actors I meet daily at coffee shops all over Hollywood.

I genuinely want to help a legion of unprepared youngsters before they arrive in California. To help them avoid the traps that so many young people fall into when they arrive here expecting to ‘make it’ in the film industry.

Hollywood is not for the fainthearted or for the under prepared.

Read this:

Film INDUSTRY.

Show BUSINESS.

Remember these two important words: INDUSTRY and BUSINESS.

The youngsters who make it Hollywood, those who make movies of any kind are naturally inclined businessmen and businesswomen. These serious men and women want to do business with the like minded and make it their business to sort out the winners from the losers.

Business. Money. Industry.

Young film maker/actor/actress there are a few things you urgently need to know.

Firstly, if you live outside of the greater LA area don’t even think about packing your bags unless you are:

a) Invited by a reputable agent/manager.

b) You have thoroughly researched your move to California before you arrive.

Too many people arrive in LA thinking that life here is just one long episode of Entourage punctuated by Entertainment Tonight type red carpet appearances. They believe that they will be ‘discovered’ in an instantaneous ‘America’s Got Talent’ kind of way and become household names within a year of moving into what is one of the most heartless cities in the whole world.

Remember this: You Will Not Be Discovered.

Let me say again: Don’t come to LA and expect to be ‘discovered’. It won’t happen. Oh, actually, you will be discovered but not by the people you expect to be ‘discovered’ by or in a way you’ll be writing home to mother any time soon.

It is sadly true that for every young, good-looking boy and girl who arrives in Hollywood there is a predator waiting to fuck you. They will mercilessly lie and cheat you out of your integrity and your virginity. This post, I hope, will help you keep your dignity and your virginity intact.

These perfectly charming predators (with fabulously important jobs) will show you their huge houses, take you to premieres and parties but the outcome is always the same: Another suitcase in another hall.

You will be totally washed up in no time at all if you fuck anyone who promises you anything.

Even people who should know better end up having clandestine dinners with well-known married producers discussing projects that will never, ever happen.

Of course there are some aspiring actors/actresses who think that blowing the occasional producer in their hot tub is a perfectly reasonable trade. Indeed, they may think that it is the driving force behind Hollywood’s star making machine. They site Marilyn Monroe as the archetypal ‘career for sex’ arrangement. This reciprocal arrangement is both rare and undignified. It seldom leads to anything other than STDs and a stint in the rooms of AA.

If you feel you have acting talent think about acting classes before you get to Hollywood, any advantage you have over the thousands of willing hopefuls who arrive in LA everyday will get you closer to your goal. If, say, Brad Pitt is your hero, study his life and how he got to where he is today. This information will help you decide if Hollywood may work for you. If you genuinely want to be an actor or actress be sure, well before you get here, that you have researched the industry you want to be a part of.

Read Variety and The Hollywood Reporter. From these two publications alone you will learn everything you need to know about Hollywood, the way it works and what is being made and where.

Get yourself a copy of The Hollywood Creative Directory and read it.

If you want to be a film actor research the directors you like, find out who produced their films, the casting directors who cast them and what they are doing next.

If you want to be a TV actor learn the names of all the casting directors at all the Networks.

See how you can get close to the people you want to do business with.

My low budget film making students at UCLA laugh at me when I tell them, yet again, to precision bomb when making decisions about their careers. Carpet-bombing is expensive, risky and often misses the mark.

EXAMPLE:

I tell actors to print 500 head shots, buy 500 envelopes stamp and address all of them to all the usual suspects then reserve all but ten and put them directly into the trash. At least you get the satisfaction of throwing them away rather than some bored assistant. With the ten reserved headshots take them directly to people that you want to do business with. It works, it really does.

I used to say to actors, “Never take no for an answer.” I don’t tell them that any more. I reserve that particular bon mot for directors and producers.

Remember, actors/directors, you are the only asset at the company you are about to create in your own name.

To make your dream come true requires tenacity, an encyclopedic knowledge of the film industry and a keen sense of direction. Life in LA can be very lonely. Maybe you are surrounded by many friends but you will not be able to trust any one of them.

Nobody but you wants you to succeed in Hollywood.

If you have been kicking around LA for a year or so waiting tables, don’t have an agent or a manager and have not been seriously considered for any sort of acting role in a legitimate film production: go home. Most roles being cast in Hollywood today are for actors between the ages of 35-45 years old. Go home have a decent life then, if you you are still hankering after Hollywood, return when you are 35.

Frankly, you will have more chance of making it then.

Up In The Air

January 8, 2010 duncanroy 33 comments

On our way to Paris via New York. Trips like this will be impossible once the goats and hens arrive so I am cherishing the opportunity.

The young man sitting in front of me reclined his seat with such force I nearly lost my teeth. When I asked him very politely to recline gently, he refused. He told me that he could not think of any reason why he should.

Now, had this been Delta I would have expected such rudeness but Virgin America? No, not here, not on my countryman Richard Branson’s airline.

It is exactly this attitude of entitlement that has turned the great United States into a third world nation run by arrogant, corrupt, entitled politicians/bankers with little consideration for each other or anyone else. The attitude of indifference politicians have for the people percolates throughout the nation.

The man who rammed his seat into me might have said, very simply, “Oh I’m sorry, I should have considered that.“

All would have been well.

That’s what we would have done. The British. We apologize immediately when we know we are wrong. This young, foolish man decided, at the point of enquiry, to attack me. A very silly thing to do as I am now jamming my knees into the back of his seat.

There is a notion that any apology, owning up, making amends etc. is a sign of weakness and it pervades American culture. The stress this self-righteousness causes and ignorance it generates shortens lives (Americans statistically live less years than anywhere else in the developed world). It keeps them poor and makes people across the world uniformly hate them.

I moved to the USA for a reason–I believed that one could be truly free. Sadly, I don’t believe that any more. What changed my mind? Hurricane Katrina changed my mind when I heard how folks treated one another-the government ignoring the devastation. The Bailout changed my mind when I saw that the Wall Street elite would never be punished for their mindless avarice but instead became richer and more entrenched. Lastly, the attitude of those around me who blame the unemployed for unemployment, the homeless for being homeless, who don’t see the benefits of socialized medicine, who ignore how many children are being killed not only in places like Afghanistan but also in their own country due to poor health care and nutrition.

The young man sitting in the seat in front of me had no idea that he represents to me everything that is bad about this great country. That he would inspire an essay that will ultimately embrace the socialist thinkers of my youth.

I am proud to come from a country that may (or may not) pay higher taxes yet one can get free healthcare, an education and rely on those about you to give a damn.

What happened to America? What happened to the America I aspired to? Did it even ever exist? Was the Brady Bunch a myth?

It breaks my heart to see that today whole families are now in homeless shelters. The soup lines of the 1930’s have been replaced with food stamps. The evidence of extreme poverty is merely disguised. Even my Russian taxi driver noted just how many homeless people there were on the streets of LA-yet, even here amongst the homeless exists a dumbfounding arrogance.

A friend of mine devoted his holiday to helping the homeless by working a homeless shelter and delivering blankets to those who lived on the streets. He reported that occasionally the poor would throw back the blankets and demand money, they would say, “We don’t want blankets, we want money.” The same people would insult and degrade the people who doled out free food.

Poverty and homelessness does not necessarily engender humility. Why should it? Perhaps when a man loses everything he only then begins to fight for his life. I imagined, incorrectly as it turns out, that there was a community of homeless on skid row helping one another to survive. Just as I naively thought that there would be a community of actors helping each other in Hollywood.

Hasn’t history taught us that when we work together we can overcome adversity? Ah, history-another American casualty.

I have, of late, started to think of myself as an old fashioned socialist. Like Michael Foot or Tony Benn. I have been remembering their rhetoric and rereading what they believed. I read and I believe Tony Benn. I trust him.

Five questions Benn insists should be asked of any powerful person: What power have you got? Where did you get it? In whose interests do you use it? To whom are you accountable? How do we get rid of you?

I remember when I was 13 years old my stepfather mocking a badge I wore that said solidarity with the miners. He accused me of not knowing what the badge really meant. He was right, I didn’t really know. I wanted to know. All I knew absolutely was that there seemed to be some unfairness in the world and it needed to be addressed. I saw that there were people, unlike my stepfather, who refused to believe in absolutes, who understood the world to be more convoluted, complicated, chaotic than I had been taught.

So, my solar energy investment is just not an investment in me but in the planet. The goats eating the brush for the well-being of the environment. Pumping spring water into the vegetable garden to benefit us all.

The psyche of the British has been unmistakably molded by years of thrift after the Second World War. We have a desire to make do and mend, to bargain hunt, to work an allotment, restraint. Frugality is still perceived as a virtue.

The people of Great Britain, France and Germany all live with elements of socialism that run hand in hand with capitalism. I can assure you that the sort of socialism we in Europe live with works.

What in capitalism is ever ‘too big to fail’? When did it become ’socialist’ to care about our fellow man?

In a country that routinely says it devotes itself to Jesus where is that Christian teaching evident?

The airplane is getting bumpy and hopefully the silly boy in front of me will have gone to sleep. I am going to forgive him. That’s what I do-I forgive. I can’t imagine him being able to do the same any time soon.

Tulip Bulbs and Timothy Geitner

January 19, 2010 duncanroy 9 comments

So, I was thinking about humanity. I was thinking about Haiti. I was thinking about looters being shot after being saved from the rubble. I was thinking about fresh water. I was thinking about scrabbling around for stuff when the big rain comes. When the big shakedown comes. When they breach the great Fairfax divide and claim what they think is theirs.

I was thinking about John with his pump action, his house on the Beverly hill and how he underestimates the will of the people. We learned to live with nature, we never tamed it, we never will. We must never fear God’s big rain, but always fear the will of the people. John said that ‘cream always rises’. But when the anarchists come with another set of rules, a different cream will find it’s way to the surface.

(I remember at Monkton Wyld School waking up at midnight and skimming the thickest cream off of the milk from the churns into aluminum pans and onto cold apple crumble. The only time we could get at the cream was at the dead of night for midnight feasts. At a different boarding school I remember bad boy Mark Machin waking me at 3 in the morning with a dead pheasant he had poached. He said, “Cook it.”)

With rampant inflation just around the corner I wonder what can save the banking system? Still tinkering rather than overhauling, clinging to what they know like so many old school soviet politbureau. The toxic assets are still on the banks books. What could have, would have happened if these banks were allowed to fail? Some people think-the end of the world.

Did the world end when the Romans lost control? When tulip bulbs lost their value?

Money is an abstract notion. It only has value if and when we decide it has value. It can be manipulated, reinvented, withdrawn…

The banks should have failed. It is the way of capitalism and by steering away from the inevitable, by altering the true course we merely delay the eventual dashing of the good ship Capitalism on the rocks of time.

This ship will still sink and the world will not end. Their world will end. The world of Bernake and Geitner.

Revolutionary change is hard for some, exciting for others. It is essential for our evolution.

Cautionary tale number 1:

Two years ago I bought a painting at auction for $50. When it was first sold at a smart New York gallery in the 1970’s it sold for $50,000. During the 80’s the gallery owner died. The market and cache around her artists and their work crashed. Their credibility failed. With nobody to support the abstract notion of what this art was worth, no longer championed by the powerful gallerist, the stable of artists drifted back into oblivion.

Cautionary tale number 2:

In 1593 Carolus Clusius, a Dutch botanist planted the first tulips in Holland for medicinal purposes. Clusius planted a small garden of tulip bulbs and once they blossomed his neighbors begged him to sell them. Carolus refused. This, understandably, created a huge demand.

So, one night, his garden was broken into and the bulbs were stolen. The thieves created the Dutch Tulip Trade. Tulip bulbs became a commodity and determined the wealth of the nation.

Tulip bulbs became so valuable that they were not planted for fear of being stolen and the entire economy of Holland was based upon their value.

Then, quiet suddenly, the tulip trading business crashed due to bad bulb speculation and an inability of growers to produce enough bulbs to meet demand thus ruining many, many businessmen.

Tulips lost their value and people began to plant them again.

The world did not end.

Love and Let Love

January 24, 2010 duncanroy 28 comments

Can one of you please explain to me why American’s hate Natalie Denise Suleman- more commonly known as Octomum-so violently?

I don’t get it. Does her fecund nature offend you? Her fetal abundance? Of course, her ability to produce that many children in so many cultures in other times would be applauded. Here, however, helpful ‘Christian’ women threaten her that if she refuses to do things their way she risks having her children removed from her. Ripped from her breast like so many Inuit children were in the middle part of the last century.

I can think of far worse circumstances where children are allowed to fester unaided.

There is a meanness of spirit, a petty mindedness and an unfathomable desire to remove from this woman something that obviously makes her very happy.

There are many myths that surround Octomum, the worst being that she remains on welfare. This, from what I can gather, is no longer true but even if it was..What of it?

My friends say that she is selfish and selfish seems to be the word that is most often leveled at Natalie. Yet, isn’t having a child always selfish-and also extraordinarily selfless? The issues seems to be, for many, money and responsibility. Natalie is also, they say, irresponsible.

Well if only we could take children away from their mothers based on irresponsibility and selfishness-there would be millions of orphans. Millions and millions.

While other women are waiting for the perfect moment in their career and financial security to have a child they often miss the boat. Natalie just didn’t seem to give a damn. She was going to have those babies and nothing was going to stop her. Even though, it turns out, she did not expect even 50% of the embryos to take.

Sadly, many modern couples are faced with an inability to naturally produce children. Either they have waited too long placing their career above starting a family or they simply can’t get pregnant. In about 15% of cases an infertility investigation will show no abnormalities.

“It’s becoming more and more important, in terms of what studies we do, to focus our efforts on the physiological effects of stress and how they may play a role in conception,” says Margareta D. Pisarska, MD, co-director of Center for Reproductive Medicine at Cedars Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles and editor-in-chief of the American Society for Reproductive Medicine News.

There must be a certain jealousy surrounding Octomum, her effortless ability to not only produce but also to singlehandedly raise and provide for so many children causes consternation amongst married couples that find it almost impossible to raise even one child.

My initial disgust, since rationalized, was for the doctor who implanted so many embryos inside Natalie or that the science for helping the desperate, infertile couple had somehow been skewed to provide one woman a meal ticket, publicity and children for all the wrong reasons.

Now, whenever I am forced to think about Octomum, I think about her growing tribe of children who will, undoubtedly, learn to love and support each other in such a way as only a large family can. I am envious that I did not grow up with my 11 brothers and sisters, as Natalie’s children will. My gentle envy, unlike the rampant jealous hatred of her many detractors, does not make me want to break open her life and steal what is hers. Regardless of how I might have felt then I now wish her all the best.

“Jealousy is always born with love; it does not always die with it.”

Rouchefoucauld

2:24 PM

August 29, 2006 – Tuesday

Goodbye Whitstable

It is a blustery, bright late August day by the sea. Today I woke at 6.30 and started the packing process. I am taking the cushions I bought at Ralph Lauren and my red shoes from Asprey. I have packed millions of books as I miss them terribly when I am in LA. I am a bit worried about the weight of my bags but perhaps they will not notice at the check in. I dread the airport. Frisked by rude, agressive men. The police with the guns. The stewardesses who behave like gestapo. Horrible. I am leaving tomorrow but am staying with Phil and Moffy in Worlds End tonight. Phil is going to paint my portrait. I think that we may rent a house together in LA next year. I know exactly which one I want–the one in Hermits Glen. I love that house off Wonderland Avenue. How do I feel about returning to LA? Well, I have to work with a writer and whip My Funny Valentine into shape for the casting process. I think that it will be very funny by the time I finish it. I have to finish Dorian. I have to start my secret adaptation. Lots of real stuff to do when I get back.

So. This morning I walked up Whitstable High Street eating a marzipan candy bar holding a glass dish I borrowed from Delia at Wheelers. When ever I leave Whitstable I look at everything in the town as if I may never see it again. I look at the houses and the shops and I bumped into so many people I knew. I looked in on Billy Childish (Tracey Emins ex b/f) to see if he was there in his studio–he wasn’t. I saw Veronica with her grandson who looks like a very young Richard Green. His eyes are wide over his nose just like Richard. They called Richard Green FROG at school because his eyes were so far from each other on his face. They called me Bleached Nigger at school. That was because I had very long, afro hair like my mother.

There are MILLIONS of lesbians in Whitstable. I think that there must be a Tipping the Velvet convention on at the lesbian beach huts on West Beach. I call it the lesbian shanty-town. During the summer hundreds of lesbians live in the beach huts and cook tofu on calor gas stoves and show off their hairy arm pits. They have wild children with unbrushed hair. So many lesbians live here. I sold my last house to a pair of very rich lesbians. They were not very nice and accused me of killing their cat. They were always drunk. They moved out and told everyone it was because I had made their life so uncomfortable—in fact it was the other way around. Joe and I had lesbian neighbours on Fire Island. They looked like men. The men looking lesbians have an attitude I find quite difficult. I always thought that a gay couple and a lesbian couple might get on but in fact the lesbians we lived next door to in The Pines had the same attitude toward us as a homophobic male. They can be quite sneery. I had a lesbian friend who used to visit me in prison but stopped because she became a lesbian separatist and could no longer have anything to do with men–she even stopped her milk being delivered because he was a milk MAN.

I stopped in at the Deli for a coffee and sat outside on Harbour Street and ate a lemon tart. How do I feel about not being here? How does it make me feel? How is it to be back in LA? I like my little flat. I like the smell of the jasmin and the garden and the small collection of art I have there. But it is September here and that is my favourite month. I am only in LA for a month then I go to Sydney to write. There is no anchor. Phil could be an anchor. She is so wonderful. Important woman. She has no agenda and has always let me be the man I want to be rather than the man they think I am.

I finished my coffee and made my way home. I should have taken my bike then I might have I would have taken a longer route home and stopped in on Lottie who was like a mother to me when I was a boy. She has MS and I think that she might die very soon. I did not go to say good bye because I dont like goodbyes.

The goodbye party I threw yesterday was great fun. Phil and Clare and Carol and Jennifer and Anna and Mikyla and Easterly Jason and Tino and Rob and 5 children all came from London to say goodbye and I made a huge cassoulet and crab cakes and tiny prawn tarts with béchamel sauce. Then we ate strawberries, meringue and cream-Eton Mess. It was obvious to everyone just how important Phil is to me and we spent all day being very close. The women talked about Clare being outrageously dumped at the alter last month by her policeman boyfriend from his greek stag do. The girls who have columns on the Sun and Mirror were eager to pillory him for her but she declined their offer. We also talked about my ex friend Suzanna A who we believed might have a penis. We were being very rude about her. I told everyone that when we were on holiday in France last year I hade chanced upon her in the bathroom washing it but it had retracted into her vagina like a tentacle. That is the penis she fucks her friends and relatives with.

It was so wonderful having everybody there to say goodbye to me. I loved holding the baby which I did all afternoon and I gave her-rather grandly-a Jeff Koons print I had bought ages ago in NY. Every baby should have a Jeff Koons. They are such a great bunch of friends. Good friends–kind friends. I have been through the mill with plastic friends of late–the sort of friends I have in LA on the whole are work friends and the friends I have here I have not valued. Recently I made up my mind to open my heart to them. Open up my warmer side rather than being so austere. It really works. That new openness may be all about 9 years of sobriety.

After lunch and a walk we watched Welcome to the Dollhouse and then everybody left when night fell, after the glorious sunset. I was in bed by 10.30. The children had woken me at 4.30 that morning. They had been camping in the garden and the rain had woken them up so they decided to cause havoc. Children can be unwittingly destructive-the loo had to be repaired and the back door handle. Everything needs to have the tiny, black finger prints washed. Thank God they were not criminals. Thank God my cleaner is coming tomorrow.

When I get back to LA I am looking forward to buying my Vespa and cruising the streets of west Hollywood. When I get back to LA I am looking forward to my Saturday mornings with Dom. When I get back to LA I am looking forward to the sun on my back and Runyon Canyon and the spectacular views over LA.

little soldier

August 9, 2006 – Wednesday

soldier

my little soldier friend Luke just left. it is quite late. he is so sweet and polite. he kills people in iraq. that is his job–like thousands of others. he is not liberating–he is at war. he is not doing what we were told they would do by our government. he told me that he killed an eleven year old boy who tried to shoot him because his father had been killed by british troops. today I had to deal with shit film people in LA–my job. let’s make a film about war, about mass migration about 9/11. let’s make a comedy about-FUCKING HELL. The suits where I work are not used to people like me with an opinion. JD and HK sitting in their office jerking off over girls on their lap tops–name dropping because that’s what we do for a living. I do not have to shoot an eleven year old boy in the neck because I have to save my own life. My friend Luke is only 19. I may include what he said in a script some day-that’s fair game isn’t it? Today they wrote about me in the newspapers-I was mentioned in the Evening Standard. They were saying that I (Hollywood Director) just moved to Whitstable. That is so funny. They think I just moved here. They don’t know that I am already meeting the sons and daughters of my high school friends who never moved away. They don’t know the contempt I have for most of the people I meet in LA. Let me tell you one decadent moment from my Hollywood life. I was at the private house of a well known actor. I was waiting in line for the bathroom sandwiched between two other well known actors. A young girl started flirting with one of theses well known guys. She was drunk, she said she would do anything for these guys. She was their biggest fan. Anything? You’d do anything? The girl nodded brightly. So one of these guys who had been waiting in line for the bathroom for some time took a piss in the girl’s mouth whilst the other recorded it on his telephone. Luke is already being briefed about Lebanon. The cards are already stacked. Tonight another girl will let a famous man piss in her mouth. when I get back to LA I will go to Hyde and try my luck with a gorgeous actor. Tonight I rearranged my dining room. tomorrow the gas man will come and read my meter. yet again I am torn between my two lives. my two selves. betwixt what is right and what is wrong.

3:47 PM

August 6, 2006 – Sunday

Budd House Summer Party

The Budd House Biennial garden party thrown by Charlie Parsons and his partner Lord Alli is always a delight. Set in the grounds of their 17th Century home in 25 acres of perfect Kent Sussex rolling down. I refused to eat all day as I knew the food would be excellent and wanted to eat as much of it as I could. I took my friend Melanie de Blank who wore an Indian soufflé of shot silk black currant pants and a heavily embroidered mid length coat. I wore a brand spanking new Dolce and Gabanna raspberry, silk velvet jacket and linen trousers and violently pink shirt remembering that it was Diana Vreeland who said that ‘Pink is the navy blue of india’. The party includes a huge fun fair (no waiting for anything) including a helter skelta, carousel, bumper cars and candy floss. There was a hot air balloon-taking people on short rides above the house. I have only ever been to that house during a party. Of course I had a good look around. Their home is so comfortable and gracious and reflects so well on the owners. You can tell so much from where a person lives and how they choose to decorate and the things they surround themselves with. I had a sponsor in LA who had a huge-I mean thirty foot-crystal octopus in his hall. It was rather cold and grandiose-a bit like my ex-sponsor.

Guests at the party included John Reed the Home Secretary with very, very good looking special branch who whisked him away far too early after dinner. It was amazing just how many people he travelled with. Who could not consider themselves important with that sort of coterie? We met Peter Mandleson (no special branch) wearing cricket whites who still maintains a lofty hauteur. Mandleson does not walk-he glides. Sadly, it was not the time or the place to challenge either of them about Blair sucking Bush’s cock-although I was tempted. I think that special branch would have removed my plate of hot smoked salmon; man handled me into the balloon and cut it adrift.

There were other politicians there (Valerie Amos who looked stunning) as well as the Mitcham and Morden labour party members who arrived in a coach and were having a whale of a time. There were many entertainment industry people reflecting both Charlie and Waheed’s stella careers in TV. Michael Foster, who changed into a very nice Etro shirt in the lane behind his Mercedes in the car park, told me that he had sold his company recently-who can’t be impressed by Michael’s tenacity? I was so pleased to see him again as when we last met I had been rude to him-it was years ago at the premiere of Mortal Kombat in Edinburgh so I took this opportunity to apologise. It is terribly important to make amends. That moment has haunted me for ten years. I was drunk and fucked up and nasty and that night ended up face down in a puddle of my own (I hope) vomit. I had been very rude to Joelly Richardson too that night asking her where the lebian bars in Edinburgh were because I told her she looked like a lesbian-I go red just thinking about it. It was such a relief to finally say a big heart felt sorry to Michael.

The great thing about making amends is that after you have truly offered them, it is then up to the person to whome they have been made whether they accept them or not-but that bit is nothing to do with me, the accepting part. What one cannot do is make any amends expecting a good outcome, some people will never be able to accept an apology but that is the way the cookie crumbles. Keep your own side of the street clean. It is the truly meaning part of any amends which makes any apology important. Saying sorry when you do not mean it is very bad indeed for ones spiritual well being.

I saw Guy M who told me that Jamie P my ex is now two years clean-that made me very happy. Jamie now lives in New York and works his CA programme. When I remember the chaos of our violent, drugged relationship it makes me feel very sad. I still have scars on my back from our fights. Yet, it was that relationship that shook me to the very core of my being and eventually got me clean and sober. I remember day after day praying to be relieved of the obsession of JP. It was because of that intensive praying that I learned one of the great secrets of recovery-to be brave enough to hand over any fear, anxiety or obsession that I may have to the God of my understanding. I leaned that if you have a guiding principled, higher power in your life-one has perspective. Eventually! It all takes time. I am still working it every day. As I sit here and write I know that I am kept safe by my benevolent higher power-what ever may happen to me in life or death.

It is apparent to me that most people live in a world of petty resentment and greed. These people do not have any God in their life and quite frankly, they scare me. I am not saying that one has to be a saint. All one has to do is try and follow a simple set of principles. God knows that I fail.

Other naotable guests included Julian Clary who looked portly in a grand sort of way-we have never had much to say to one another. I spent most of the evening talking to my friend Rob and the delightful Paul O’Grady aka Lily Savage who I will have lunch with this week. He loves oysters. He is such a tower of strength; he has had two heart attacks in four months. Paul talked honestly about how being seriously ill had scared him. You know that Paul/Lily has been so much a part of my life since I was a young gay man living in London and going to gay bars. He used to work in the Elephant and Castle pub which held amateur drag nights which I would never, ever miss. There was one drag artiste called Rose-Marie who only really sang two song (I Who Have Nothing and My Boy Lollypop) and as many dresses. Rose-Marie had exceptionally long arms and was not a very attractive woman and an even less attractive man. When she sang Lollipop she would throw lollipops into the audience. Sadly, Rose-Marie was murdered by some young boy she picked up. Lily used to work in that bar and thought to himself-I could do better drag than that. He sure did. The Vauxhall Tavern every Sunday Lily was there and I am sure he did the Two Brewers in Clapham. Adrella, The Trollettes and Regina Fong-why drag was such a huge part of my gay entertainment I do not know but it was theatre in our bars and I loved it. Regina/Reg was in AKA, just a little part-he died last year.

There were the usual Kent queens who I did not speak to and they me. They are so funny and ugly and STUCK. Of course I have been an ass but to keep hating me after so much water has flowed under the bridge-it is absurd and says more about them than me nowadays. Much to the amazement of people who do not know me very well I really find it hard to hold a resentment. Those Kent queens have made it their lifes work.

Even though they were giving me the cold shoulder I met many, many people. As well as John Reed the Home Secretary there was John Reid, Elton Johns ex-manager off to the Hamptons for a month. Beverley Knight is charming and was thrilled that Joni Mitchell once owned my home in LA. There were at least five TV presenters and news readers-I saw one of them and his boyfriend in the sauna looking very sexy. We had a grand time finding the chocolate fountain, which was hidden on a lower lawn by the ha-ha. We dipped strawberries, pineapple and profiterioles into the liquid chocolate and watched the moon come up over the Kent countryside.

Melanie and I left at 1 and were in bed by two in Whitstable. Today Phil H and her daughter and the Piettes (all five) are coming for lunch so I had better get my apron on. Cooking lunch in Whitstable for 10 people on a barmy sea side Sunday. I love it.

PS Melanie cooked the lunch-she can’t stand anyone else in the kitchen. It was an Italian feast of roast potato and rosemary and garlic and three huge chickens which we cut into quarters. A delicious salad of rocket and various green leaves. Strawberry’s drenched in clotted cream and vanilla sugar. We set the table in the garden then at 9 that night when the tide came in we all swam in the absurdly warm water.

10:45 AM

July 23, 2006 – Sunday

two 29 year old men

I know this guy, 29 year old guy who was addicted to smack. He was in the Neptune tonight, he had a black eye and a grazed head. He was reeling around, out of control. He was pleased to see me because, he said, “you listen.” He hadn’t seen me since Christmas and then the summer before-so this was the third time we had met. He told me that he had told his brother about me. We sat down in the pub and talked about his drinking. He had got the black eye last night-he couldn’t remember how. He told me that his father had died drinking. “I was only eleven. Look at me I am a grown man and I want to cry.” I urged him to cry. Instead, he stood up and threw his beer on the ground outside the pub and kicked a car. I followed him and he sat down on the steps over looking the last of the sunset. He is a tall and handsome man, he has bright, intelligent, sensitive, brown eyes. He knows that I drank–that I was a drinker. He listens to me when I urge him to choose a life rather than a slow death. He listens for a moment, apologises then asks me for three quid to buy another beer. Meanwhile my friend Karim is trapped in Lebanon. I spoke to him yesterday-he is another strong, intelligent man. He is a head strong actor. He sounded scared. I hate this-this terrible thing that is happening. I hate the lies and the double standards, I hate that my innocent, good friend is trapped in a war that nobody wants.

9:07 AM

December 15, 2006 – Friday

Time is the greatest distance between two people.

Anyway, enough of the aptly named Self’s.

Thankfully my shrewd investments may make this year my most profitable yet my ‘profit’ of course would scarcely pay for the mixers at one of Jay’s parties!

Today I counted 27 dogs on Runyon Canyon.

April 8, 2007 – Sunday

Finally

Whitstable,Kent.
Wavecrest B&B

I am sitting on the balcony overlooking the pale gray/blue sea. I have been in England for a couple of weeks but have still not overcome my jet lag. Part of me seems absent without leave. I slept in a bed on the plane from LA. It was very odd. I decided to open the B&B for Easter. I hung the freshly painted sign and made the beds with new linen and made a trip to Somerfields to get bacon and eggs. This morning I cooked the eggs and bacon for my guests. They were a nice couple from Stratford; they worked for Carlsberg-good folk from the Midlands. She ate a bacon sandwich but he ate the full English and I was pleased as they left too much on their plates yesterday.

A bee is trapped in my bedroom and keeps bashing its face into the glass. The front of the house is gleaming white as after the guests paid me I took a mop bucket full of soapy water and a stepladder and washed the shiplap. I used a dishcloth on the boards but in fact I should have mopped the front of the house but this idea only just occurred to me.

Rather a lot happened since I last wrote my blog.

So, as I am back in Whitstable with no real plan to return to LA I shall start my walking and writing routine once again. There are no 7am AA meetings here. There are no mountains. I began smoking again three weeks ago. Have stopped this past three days.

The Oscars, lets start with them. They were very dull this year. I spent the few days before the big day and the day after with Todd Eborly the Vanity Fair photographer. Todd very kindly dragged me willingly from one obscure party to the next. We originally met at Eugenio’s house at some function although I may have met him with Samia at Art Basel in Miami. I think we met this time at the Robert Wilson after show party. Amazingly, ever since I had my run in with the ghastly Doug Christmas I bump into him everywhere and it was at the Ace Gallery that Robert had had his show. I first met Robert Wilson in Paris when I was 19 years old. He didn’t remember me but we discussed Philippe Chemin and his girlfriend (now his wife) Robin who apparently are still together.

It was because of them that I (apparently) fell out with Samia all those years ago-a resentment that the old ferret had held onto for 25 years. After ten years a resentment has more to do with the person who bears it than the person it is about. Anyway, Robert asked me what I thought about his show and as I had not seen it I made some clever, non-descript remark that amused Todd. Met Darrel Hannah and a bunch of uber gays. Doug Christmas and I looked at one another suspiciously across Eugenio’s huge drawing room-past the Twombley and the Warhol’s.

Two days later Ronnie Sassoon, Todd and I watched a huge Jeff Koons, green metal elephant craned high into the blue LA sky reflecting the palm trees and dropped into place in Eugenio’s newly landscaped garden whilst his maid fed us Mexican food and the curator of his collection danced like a demented pixie in the street in a black satin Balenciaga rain coat and fedora. It was bright but bitterly cold. Ronnie and I wrapped ourselves in cream cashmere blankets.

Engenio has bought a bunch of bronze spiders that look like they are by Louise Bourgeois but in fact are just tat. When I asked Richard Squire at our lunch with Joe Townly and that sweet lesbian he hangs out with why Eugenio would buy such rubbish Richard replied that it was really none of my business as Eugenio was, “Richer than God.” Joe and I, to this day, laugh about his answer.

Soho House opened in LA for their usual Oscar fortnight in a huge house quite close to where Eugenio lives. Ate lunch there with Ronnie and Todd. Given much free stuff. The night before Oscar night snogged Sharon there again. Met Amy Berg who was nominated for an Oscar for her documentary about child abuse. Met Hillary the real producer of Children of Men who was furious that her picture had been ignored by the Hollywood establishment. She dashed furiously about Soho House followed by three assistants who trailed miserably in her wake.

The Diane von Furstenberg/Barry Diller party at their sprawling Bel Air estate was very pleasant. I met Paul Allen and Shirley MacLean. I ate lunch with David Hockney and discussed the camera obscura. Helen Mirren was adorable and I was happy to have had the chance to meet her. I flirted a great deal with a realtor called Chris from Malibu and have met him twice since then. Dennis Hopper and I reminisced about Romania. He had just seen Coppola’s new film-an art film. Dennis was deliciously confused. Rupert Murdoch, David Geffen and other powerful men as well as the prerequisite fashion crowd who were horrendous. Tamara Mellon and her fat, gay, best friend who is some how related to Joan Collins sat with her ex husband. Oswald Botang was there with his bunch. There were a few film stars and a cute waiter as well as some delicious boy from Sydney. Todd and I stayed till the end. I will prob never go to that party again so I was determined to squeeze every moment out of it. Paris and Stavros were also at Barry’s garden party dressed in almost middle aged, sensible clothing, they looked like a perfectly normal young couple.

However, at Paris Hilton’s birthday party the following night at her ugly little house she transformed into PARIS! the celebrity with crop top and trashy hair. I am convinced that she has two homes, one for trashy Paris and one for chic Paris. Her birthday party was only worthwhile as one got to gaze loningly at Stavros who is not only incredibly beautiful but also the most charming man alive. Paris’s trashy house is full of portraits of her and terrible people but Todd, John Dewis and I had our pictures taken by a company who make 3d laminated fridge magnates. We spent more time in the valet parking than the party.

Spent the Oscar awards at Dede Gardener’s (runs Brad Pitts production company) and her husband’s beautiful house in Hollywood. As the ceremony unfolded there was much talk about Brad Gray and Brad Pitt and their involvement with Scorsese’s The Departed. All too convoluted to explain here. Their child is adorable and her house is packed with great stuff and marvelous art. Great vintage wallpaper in the bathroom-huge silver cranes dance against a pale blue landscape.

I spent time at Soho House and did not go to the Chateau Marmont.

Very sweetly Damien (Hirst) invited me to his show at Larry Gagosian’s and the party afterwards at the Bar Marmont. There was a very odd moment when I found myself with Damien and Arnold Schwarzenegger. I didn’t say much. We just kissed and that was it.

Spent a good amount of time with Maia, Damien’s wife. She was wearing a white pleated leather dress by Jil Sander.

I met my friend Justin the model at the after party and we headed over to Eugenio’s when we tired of Damien’s crowd.

Met Lynn Wyatt and a bunch of elderly, stick thin socialites at some gay rich boy’s Hollywood house. Dominick Dunne and others there. Fried chicken-apparently he cooked the food himself. Todd took wonderful photograph of Lynn Wyatt by portrait of Betsy Bloomingdale.

Ronnie commissioned Todd to take pictures of the Singleton House by Neutre, which she has restored. It was very beautiful but I am afraid not nearly as beautiful as her own house, which is so stunning, I cannot begin to describe it. It was so beautiful it made me cry. Actually, the Singleton House is ruined. I cannot beat around the bush and as much as I love Ronnie she has ruined that house with sunken bars and huge non descript rooms. There, I wrote it.

My film premiered in London to a bunch of sour faced gays and lesbians and five baby celebrities-the Geldof children and some band front man. This is exactly what happened to AKA. Sneered at by UK gays. If I had been a Mexican or Japanese they would have loved it but as I am home grown I tolerated their pursed lips and arched eyebrows.

I couldn’t care less about them. Two days previous my good friend and occasional lover Danny Ross was killed on an LA freeway so all I could really think about was his sweet face. That night I erased his number from my Blackberry. I was numb. Stayed with Sharon Marshall in Brixton. The girly self help book that she is writing with Tara PT strewn over the dining room table.

I have stayed numb ever since I heard about Danny. His death has made me angry and despondent. Nothing really matters.

Since I have been home my cousin Caroline came to visit me, her huge, sad Irish eyes and long fingers in my kitchen. She wanted me to remove any mention I made about her father in my blog but I refused. Nothing will make me censor the truth in these pages.

I bumped into my brother Martin; I walked The Kings Road with Joe. Phil and I could not sleep so we sat up into the night drinking tea and giggling.

I have lost a bunch of weight and last night a man I know from London drove here and stayed over. It was a fruitless exchange. My head was with Danny on the freeway, thinking about his body smashed to pieces on the cold hard road. I thought about his smile and delicate kisses. I could not stop thinking about how much I wished I had made time for him the day before I left LA but instead I was finishing a film for a bunch of piss elegant, precious gays who did not deserve my time.

I know that Dorian is flawed, like an unfinished work of art. It is art. I know it.

I know that my film is sort of broken to pieces but I love it. I know what I have to do to fix it but I can’t. It’s too late. I am angry about the death of my friend.

April 9, 2007 – Monday

Flint

Whitstable. April.

I walked from my house on Wavecrest to Janet Street Porter’s house half a mile away toward Seasalter. She has attached an ugly wooden fence to the sea wall since the coastal defense agency raised the height of the beach.

I only saw two dogs. The beach is much brighter than it was. They spent last summer trucking tons of new stone onto the old beach filling the gaps between the new wooden groins. They used a whole forest of timber, I wondered if it came from a sustainable forest.

From the train the new beach looks beautiful but the new stones are mostly flint like a Deal or Dover beach rather than a Whitstable beach. The stones on a Whitstable beach are small, treacle and honey colored pebbles. These flint rocks are huge and difficult to walk on. This has caused much consternation to the dog walkers and weekend strollers. People collect the larger flint pieces and stack them up for others to see. The spring tide had obviously been very high as there was a ribbon of black, dry seaweed swept onto the new pale shore.

I walked back into town and bought a free range corn fed chicken that I am going to cook for Cathy and Rufus. I stopped in at Wheelers and drained a cup of tea. Mark Stubbs the genius chef arrived, as I was half way through my cupper. I sat in the parlor at the back and finished my tea and flicked through the Whitstable Times. Mark Stubbs is the chef at Wheelers and I have known him and his delightful family since he was a teenager. I have seen him evolve into a fine chef. He understands how to take risks with flavor, he knows how to set something onto a plate and make it look delicious. He is a master because he cares.

Most of the shops on the High Street were closed, as it is bank holiday Monday. I had promised Cathy that I would make bread and butter pudding as per Arabella Boxer’s recipe. It requires that I use stale French bread. Thankfully Dave was in the deli and gave me a heap of stale brioche so I will use that instead. My God, what a change! When I first started making bread and butter pudding 15 years ago it was impossible to buy a vanilla pod on the High Street let alone stale brioche from a friend.

I felt sad in bed last night. I kept thinking about Danny. I am a long way away from my LA AA. I received e-mail from one of the morning gang, urging me to come home. It cheered me up tremendously.

I have no idea if I will be moving into my Malibu house when I get back as I have heard nothing from Kelly. I may just stick around in London. I have everything I need here.

The house next door has been renovated so mine looks spectacular. I got used to living next door to a derelict house. I am almost pleased that I am staying. The plot at the end of the garden has been cleared and looks like the building work is well underway. It is good to be grateful for the world around you. I try to and see the best in everything. However, when I get ill I tend to have a very bleak outlook. Jet lag, a cold and a long way from an AA meeting made me feel despondent.

I wish that I had my Premiere tonight I would feel like I could rise to the challenge.

After a few years in the USA with their can do attitude I am dumbfounded by the petty attitude of the British. The ones I know–but mostly I don’t. They say sneeringly, “Oh you art directed your own film.” As a sort of put down. Why should this be? Of course I want to art direct my film. I would shoot it and edit it too if I could. Last week, my head full of cold I was in no mood to defend my film. This week I am.

October 18, 2006 – Wednesday

resident alien

Too sick to climb the mountain this morning, I stayed in my bed until Angela the cleaner turned up with her huge smile. I asked her to iron the pillowcases and wash the windows.

What a load of bollocks.

As fate would have it Monday was Danny Gallagher’s funeral so I took my life in my hands and decided to go to the wake, which was happening up at the Marine Hotel in Tankerton. When I got there I realised that there was not much building, plastering or plumbing going on in North East Kent that day as every builder, plasterer and plumber for miles around had found themselves a black suit and was now eating pork pies in the paved area at the back of the Marine. Saw Ronnie R (antiques dealer) who owes me £100. Poor Stuart A (plasterer) was given a very hard time when I arrived his friends raised a huge chorus of light hearted jeers as I had once very loudly told all of his mates that I thought he was one of the best looking men in Whitstable. I think that crown now belongs to Andy R (electrician) who although a bit dull is very cute.

I stayed all of twenty minutes.

Finally I made my way home but not before three other people had told me the Barrett/Hewlett story and how Sharon Osborne was fixing it at X Factor.

They made me a delicious pot of tea and biscuits and gave me a lift to the station. They are such good people.

On the train back to London I met Ben the mechanic. HE was delicious. I am always meeting cute boys on the train to and from London.

Bed by 10.30, woken at 11.30 by Piers making midnight supper in the kitchen. Crashing around with pots and pans.

Drag Queens and the Church of England.

December 1, 2009 duncanroy 22 comments

In the early morning I worked a paper round. Waking at 5 in all weathers to walk the streets delivering papers. I loved the smell of newsprint in the newsagent, the smell of burning paraffin.

In fact, I would do anything I could NOT to be at home. You know why. All of you.

When I was drinking I would listen to torch songs and pray that he would come, that’s the kind of God I have–one who listens to Judy and Barbara.

Duncan Ivan and Christopher 1982

The Times, January 2, 1901

July 18, 2006 – Tuesday

PARIS

Bad Gay.

I have lent my apartment in LA to a friend. I hope that he looks after it. People have very different ways of living than I do. I have a new bed. Hope that he does not stain it.

Bad Gay.

So. This bad gay has to kiss his secret love on the lips–adieu.

Stop the Bus!

December 24, 2009 duncanroy 25 comments

Christmas Eve in Beverly Hills last year was a mass of heaving bags, frantic women and dissolute men. This year there was scarcely a soul on Rodeo Drive. ‘Deck the Hills’ Beverly Hills tacky shopping slogan-hadn’t worked. Tim, Amanda and I walked briskly from shop to shop nere another shopping bag to be seen.

In the spirit of Christmas Past I was wearing a pair of black cashmere pantaloons with pink socks and buckled shoes. I had both the dogs with me. All eyes on Duncan. It is possible to be a chic farmer–as Martha Sitwell proves. I am so sick of dressing DOWN. Bland, dreary jeans, meaningless sweats: how can a man of any sexuality express himself sartorially?

Women, for that matter, don’t seem to have it any better. Note the tribes of identically dressed club girls waiting in line on Ivar. Shivering, tiny, rectangular micro-mini dresses and boucle crop tops, emaciated spikes of pink/brown flesh once born as arms and legs.

Since my rehab experience I am having a cris de coeur. A real one. A bone fide cris de coeur. Well, not so much a crisis of the heart but of the cock. A cris de pallique!

I am having an unplanned, unwanted, unloved revelation about my sexuality. I really don’t know if I am gay anymore. I think I might not be. Genuinely. I am having a MOMENT about my gayness. Somebody wrote on some board somewhere, “If Duncan Roy doesn’t like gay sex–he isn’t gay.” Well, as it happens, that might be true.

Lets face it; my sexual relations with men are based on recreating earlier abuses. I seldom get excited–if ever. I don’t get no-satisfaction. Perhaps if I trained myself to be present during sex with men but…even…even that seems like nonsense. I just don’t enjoy men. I lay there wondering, unengaged, what the hell am I doing here? Out of body. Thinking about Delia’s thick bean and bacon soup.

Wearing pantaloons does not make you a gay. Nor do pink socks.

There’s something about dressing up, wearing wonderfully exotic clothing that makes me feel complete. Frankly, at my age, I can wear what ever I damn well please. I could wear make up if I wanted–and have been considering it.

I don’t want to be a star cross dresser rather a star-crossed lover of beautiful things. After all, there’s a tranny deep inside of me–who’d like to be deep inside of you.

Somewhere along the way I became confused, disillusioned or just plain bored of GAY. It used to be fabulous; it kept me coming back, the mere spectacle of GAY…but now look…it’s crazily banal. The bars, clubs, private parties are all the same. The same ghastly narrative, the same Benny Hill type chases, the same miserable, vacuous queens. I didn’t sign up for that. I signed up for glamour and individuality.

Would any of you mind if I just stopped the gay bus and got off?

Yesterday, I found myself in conversation with a woman whose life I had been at the periphery for many, many years. We met at lunch with Amanda and Tim and, as so often happens, we had both been caught in the same social cobweb. But, whereas the spider had already sucked me dry–my friend is in the process of being eaten alive.

I am incredibly attracted to a certain kind of woman as I am attracted to a certain kind of man. However, a man’s intellect does nothing for me. I don’t wake up thinking about his brain–I wake up thinking about his cock. His story is a means to an end. A woman’s story can, and often does, lead to intimacy.

Okay, more of that later. Some other day. More will be revealed etc. etc.

I voted round one for the Academy Awards. My personal shortlist (films I had seen) was three times longer than 2008. The Academy will be thrilled to hear that I took my voting duties very seriously this year.

The best actor category was the hardest vote to cast. Gordon Levitt from 500 Days of Summer left a lasting impression–but really, that was IT. So much easier to vote for the women! There seemed to be real choice. The role as written for women hasn’t gotten any better but women seem to have fun with their performances. Whilst the men seem imprisoned by introspection the women are having a fucking blast…think Up In The Air.

Finally for Christmas! My Christmas cheer:

If you have the chance, time or inclination do please check out Fanny Cradock. Fanny, a 1970’s TV chef of the British snob variety became a ‘camp ’ legend, rude, funny and disparaging she predates Simon Cowell by thirty years. Fanny had all his savvy but in those genteel days was fired for being a bitch whereas nowadays she would be given a pay rise.

My Grandmother couldn’t stand Fanny because she’d wear long sleeves whilst say, stuffing a goose.

I always wanted to create a mid-century modern TV bitch type character based on Fanny Cradock but Justin Bond got there first with his Kiki in the award winning show Kiki and Herb.

Johnny Cradock after eating a freshly made doughnut once said, “Mmmm, delicious. I hope all your doughnuts taste like Fanny’s”

Love/Sex Addiction

January 11, 2010 duncanroy 20 comments

So, I meet this guy. He’s age appropriate, he’s sober, he has a great sense of humor and we CONNECT. I mean…we connect intellectually. After a few hours I kinda know that (if I wanted to) I could really make this work, that he could easily be the one. We spend a couple of days together, we eat dinner, we get closer. It feels GREAT.

So, if everything is so fucking PERFECT why does meeting this special someone make me feel so damned vulnerable?

Let’s try again.

So, I meet this guy, he’s cute and funny and sober. We connect immediately and I can’t stop thinking about the future. No…DUNCAN ROY..stop thinking! Stay here and now. Be present. Isn’t that what you wanted all along? To fall in love? But, like loving the little dog I am suddenly bound and gagged like Houdini. I begin to talk myself out of a beautiful time. I can no longer move freely. I tell myself that I can…I can be easily wounded.

When the big dog was killed I called my mother and cried. Later, I felt sick that I’d called her. I felt so embarrassed. I called my MOTHER sobbing. My Mother hates dogs. What sort of person calls the most hard-hearted person in their life expecting sympathy? I felt like a FOOL. Who would I call if this went wrong? My Mother can’t take a love affair between two men seriously! Say, for arguments sake, I fell in love with this man…what would happen if he left me? YOU SEE! I am already writing the final, tragic chapter.

What happens when I fall in love? I am as fragile as a Ming vase. I want to stare into their eyes, kiss their lips. I want him right here right now. I want to be we. I want to be a line in a popular love song. I don’t want to raise goats on my OWN.

The worst of being an addict is that I can so easily transmute from sex to love addiction.

Today’s big GRIPE:

Why do so many gay men around my age have topless pictures of themselves on Facebook? Let me tell you.

Most gay men suffer from Peter Pan syndrome. Forever teenagers, these identical looking men-beards, tats and manscaped pubes seem unable or unwilling to grow up. They behave like pre-pubescent boys, screaming around the world in half naked gangs looking for the next big cock.

I used to care that these men had no respect for monogamy but now I can’t be bothered what they do or don’t respect.

When we are not objectifying each other we encourage others to objectify us. We demand objectification. Gay men are in a constant state of sexual red alert. We advertise our bodies rather than our minds, constantly comparing our pecs our lats etc.

Let me tell you lads–this is why nobody takes us seriously when we want them to. If you want equality, put your shirts on.

Start taking yourselves seriously and grow the fuck up.

What about the guys who don’t want to take their shirts off? The guys who don’t spend hours in the gym? Are we expected to compare and despair? No, prepare to be ignored lads. Prepare to be marginalized.

This is exactly why we will never have any kind of political leader. Remember Harvey Milk? I mean, who would vote for Milk now? His teeth are bad, he isn’t in the gym 24/7. Who would want to fuck that queen? Our message has been lost amongst the lotions, hair dyes, gym clothes, and food fads that really motivate the community.

There is a terrible fascism that pervades the ‘gay community’, racism, and ageism-it’s all there. Sadly, due to our ingrained sense of entitlement, there is little or no regard for the similarities-only the differences. Which means, that when the chips are down, we are never ready to fight together for our common good.

Funny thing happened after an AA meeting last night. A gay bloke was squirting hand sanitizer over himself and others after having shaken a stranger’s hand-the same guy who had been describing shoving his tongue up some random ass the night before.

Yay! Vote no on ‘Prop 8’.

Get On Your Knees and Pray

January 17, 2010 duncanroy 17 comments

There is a storm brewing over Los Angeles and it seems also to be brewing in my heart.

I really need to connect with my 12-step brethren. I am experiencing a disconnect. My head is thumping and I know that this isn’t brain cancer just anxiety.

I know what to do–all I need to do is get on my knees and pray but I am scared of using up my only option.

I have a million things to do tomorrow. Cooper arrives from NYC so maybe we can do those things together.

I have to take action rather than let life wash over me. Yet, I feel tired–exhausted. Keeping optimistic in profoundly pessimistic times is exhausting.

I think that you can tell, dear readers, that I am under the weather.

So, this week I have goat shelter, garden plan and solar decisions to make. I have to prepare the house for rental and get the sofas that need repairing out of the house. I have to call the bank and respond to various requests that have been left unanswered.

I think that the idea of a relationship weighs heavy on my soul. I can’t go though any sort of misery again. I want joy in my life and to share the projects I have with another interested party.

Haiti is a ghastly mess. The images and news reports from the Caribbean are harrowing and add to my sense of helplessness. It reminds me daily that a large earthquake in LA could cause the same sort of terrible catastrophe. I have made several charitable donations and am shocked that Rush Limbaugh has urged his listeners not to give to any charities suggested by Obama. What kind of racist monster is he? Where is the compassion?

Dr DREW

October 10, 2009 duncanroy 1 comment

DR DREW

Runyon Canyon before dawn. 6 people 4 dogs-including my own.

At dawn there is nobody to objectify. There are no model/actor/waiters jogging along the dusty paths, their tight abs begging to be admired.

The only man with his shirt removed was an elderly Russian man stretching before the rising sun.

Since I last blogged 3 years ago so much has happened. My Film Dorian Gray came and went. I moved from Hollywood into a large, rambling house in Malibu then moved back to Hollywood again. I succumbed to a dog, then another. I stayed put in LA for three years waiting for the promise of adventure and big money but none came.

The adventures I expected were film related, but when the adventure finally came 6 months ago it was TV that called, the worst kind of TV. The kind I never dreamed I would be part of. When opportunity calls in a city geared to entertainment who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?

Reality TV is plagued by inarticulate, orange, primped and prone to excessive dramatic exposition. Highly regarded by the masses usually ignored by people like me–I still don’t own a television. An email arrives one day wondering if I might be appropriate for a show about sex addiction.

Looking at earlier blogs it is now apparent that I was gripped by sexual compulsion. Hook ups, intrigue, pornography, excessive masturbation, etc. etc. I was fast becoming a parody of THAT gay man, who in is 40’s, should certainly know better. Trading a life of intimacy and love for the merest possible moment with many men and some women.

I have never been shy of owning up to my frailties. I spoke openly about my drinking and drug taking that caused me to get sober some 12 years ago. I had habitually written the most terrible truths about myself. For the longest time, however, I had reserved my startling insight for others and been unable to tell the truth about the fact that was now totally defining my life: I could not say no to any opportunity that came my way of a sexual nature. Increasingly I was plagued with shame, isolation and self-doubt.

The house in Malibu imprisoned me, the Internet made me lazy and self obsessed. I looked, day after day, at the same Internet sites. Like an alcoholic drinking at home alone I could not persuade myself to leave the house and live the life I had committed to when I put down the booze and the drugs years before. I stopped living any kind of reasonable life.

The sites usually included scenes where straight men performed sex acts with each other for gay men to videotape.

They became a cast of friendly faces who would go on holiday with one another before cumming over each other. The men in these videos were ‘regular guys’ ‘straight men doing not so straight things’ they would be interviewed about their straightness before performing acts of unspeakable homosexuality.

I began to question why I was watching these images. What I was learning about men together from these images and increasingly began to doubt myself for watching. Watching at any time of day or night. Watching, hoping that new characters would be introduced like to a soap opera. Watching and wondering and longing.

As time passed and the weeks and months and years flew by trapped in the beautiful house I finally admitted that I had a problem and decided to get some help. The help was swift and sure. It came from other men and women similarly trapped and shamed. It came with almost immediate results. I was immediately liberated from the shackles of active sexual compulsion. Liberated but not cured. The lure of the Internet, of the flirtation, the seduction is more powerful than any drug. Managing sexual compulsion is like managing an eating disorder or compulsively spending money. The solution for sex addiction is sex. The solution for an eating disorder is food. A healthy relationship with food or sex or money for an addict like me is not easy.

6 months after I sought help the invitation came from Dr Drew to appear on his sex rehab show and after a great deal of trepidation I said yes to an experience that would change my life.

The Big Dog

October 11, 2009

Runyon Canyon 8am.

Many dogs, did not count exact number. Fewer people. Overcast but from the top of the canyon I am able to see the ocean through the light mist.

On the way up I overheard an industry type talking with his female friend about our VH1 show. It was oddly satisfying. The last days of anonymity. I don’t suppose people here or in New York will see the show. Few of my friends watch that kind of TV, even if I am in it.

The little dog scampered through the dry brush hunting for small mammals. In London we had the privilege of Battersea Park. Dogs unleashed charging around the huge, manicured lawns. In Whitstable he explored the beaches, in Paris the Tuilleries and the Jardin des Plantes. It really was a magical time for the Little Dog. After all he has been through.

The Little Dog was found behind a trashcan in east LA. 8 months old, his eye badly cut, his paw broken, traumatized by cruelty. Thankfully he was nursed to health and not murdered at the pound. When I first met him he was angry and distrustful. My friends urged me to get a less damaged dog but I recognized in him what had been so badly lacking in my early childhood. He was desperate for love. For three weeks he barked at me and pooed in the house and peed any time I would go near him. Then one quiet night I lay on the sofa and he hopped up beside me and our great love began.

We have had quite an adventure. We drove to New York and back (twice), visiting the Grand Canyon, Albuquerque (where we smuggled him into a hotel room), Memphis (where he ate at the interstate barbeque) and other cities along the way. We arrived in New York to frozen pavements and new snow. The Little Dog loves cities, he checks every path and every bush. He screams like a child when he sees a cat or a squirrel and leaps acrobatically at pigeons. He doesn’t appreciate being taken to a dog specific park, he sits beside me looking at the other dogs disdainfully. Once, in Tompkin Square Park he caught a rat but when it squealed he let it go.

The reason we drove to New York rather than take the plane, as we do now, was that at that time I had another dog. A beautiful Boxer/Pitt originally called Maggie but became my Big Dog. She arrived a month after The Little Dog. The three of us carved a life for ourselves in Malibu. Maggie was the most sweet, intelligent, funny dog. Everybody who met her immediately fell in love with her. She loved the Little Dog and taught him how to hunt, routinely catching lizards and gophers and squirrels. She really was a remarkable dog. She would go to any lengths to find a thrown ball, and if there were more than one she would herd them with her huge paws until they were just where she wanted them. The little dog and the big dog were inseparable. They would spend hours patrolling the huge Malibu garden then come home at dusk and lay happy and exhausted by the roaring fire.

She would have loved Whitstable but God had other plans for us.

On June 30th at 7.50am she was killed by a truck on Franklin Avenue. Unable to control her urge to catch squirrels she leapt across the road. She didn’t get killed on the way over. She was making her way back to me. When I saw her on the other side of the road I asked what she was doing? She tried to make her way back but the truck, unable to see her, tangled her in its wheels and scraped her across the road. From her face to her waist she was fine but below her waist she was torn to pieces.

She was desperate to live and held on until we got to the animal hospital but the vet could not save her and my darling Big Dog died in my arms.

We buried her in the garden in Malibu. My friends came from all over LA. Paul dug the hole and Sarah sang a beautiful lullaby.

I think about her every day. I remember her velvet brow. I miss her in the evenings in Malibu when she would fearlessly chase away the deer and the coyote. We both miss her. I had never been so sad, not when my grand mother died, not when relationships had ended. I cried solidly for a week until I had no more tears.

The most important thing the big dog taught me was to go into any situation with my tail wagging and if people don’t want anything to do with you not to take it personally.

Some day soon we will find another dog for The Little Dog to play with but when the time is right.

Categories: Gay

Tudor Sweating Sickness

October 29, 2009 duncanroy 1 comment

October 29th, 2009.

The flu. Oh God. A week before the show airs and I get the most crippling kind of flu-shivers, giddiness, headache, severe pains all over my body, exhaustion. Hobbled like an old man, with Jennie, into the Extra interview which is taped on Victory Blvd Glendale. Hindsight? Good idea? Must remember not to do interview when ill. Really need to be in one’s own body to do interview. I did my blustering, inchoate best. Internal monologue: Remember to say the word healthy rather than normal when referring to sexual activity. Make salient point about Elliot Spitzer and Larry Craig. Remember that there is no cure for addiction. Remember. Remember! Actually, I totally forget everything. The modern opera that plays constantly in my head overwhelmed me. Oh well, that’s what you get for being interviewed with a 103 degree temperature. Chicken soup?

Last night my tee shirt and sheets were drenched with sweat. I peeled them off and lay panting in the inky black Hollywood night. This morning I do feel a little bit better but the backs of my eyes ache and I am covered in the light mist of transpiration. Thank God it is not the AIDS or Tudor Sweating Sickness. Tudor Sweating Sickness-a deliciously fruity disease that gripped the United Kingdom during the reign of Henry VII. Sweating Sickness was distinct from the Black Death. The Black Death, incidentally, the Jews were blamed for causing. Must have been fun to have been Tudor.

“The disease began very suddenly with a sense of apprehension, followed by cold shivers, giddiness, headache and severe pains in the neck, shoulders and limbs, with great exhaustion. After the cold stage, which might last from half an hour to three hours, the hot and sweating stage followed. The characteristic sweat broke out suddenly without any obvious cause. Accompanying the sweat, or after that was poured out, was a sense of heat, headache, delirium, rapid pulse, and intense thirst.”

Gosh, maybe I have got Tudor Sweating Sickness. I love that the disease begins with a ‘sense of apprehension’.

Yesterday evening Justin and Eric came to visit. As ill as I was I still managed to stumble out of bed and cook the most delicious pork loin. I baked it in the oven with fresh thyme and Dijon mustard. I roasted potato and turnip and boiled some peas. Wholesome food will help anybody overcome the misery of any illness.

Feeling at best a little vulnerable and at worse castrated I will not now launch into my practiced tirade against those of you who don’t know the ingredients of pasta or how to make jam or why a pastry board in a Victorian kitchen is made of marble.

I took a tour of the old Governor’s Mansion. Our guide asked if anyone could think why the table had a marble top. There were a dozen or so women in the group, each of an age to have cooked unnumbered meals, but not one of them could think of a single use for a slab or marble in the kitchen. It occurred to me that we had finally evolved a society in which knowledge of a pastry marble could be construed as “elitist,” and as I left the Governor’s Mansion I felt very like the heroine of Mary McCarthy’s Birds of America, the one who located America’s moral decline in the disappearance of the first course.

Why oh why are people so lazy about making food properly? Buying ingredients, preparing and serving. I love cooking. Taking care. Using linen napkins. Why should these delightful experiences be abandoned or exchanged for fast food? Eating on the go? The TV? Yes it’s true–I don’t have a TV. Don’t know what Extra is. Never seen it. Didn’t know who Drew was. Never saw Celebrity Rehab. I was busy making cassoulet and pressing my huge Edwardian tablecloth.

I am going to get dressed and walk the dog. It is his birthday tomorrow.

Categories: Gay, Rant

Sirens screaming through the streets

October 12, 2009 duncanroy 2 comments

Overcast, drizzle. Chilly.

Sirens screaming through the streets.

When the dull, lifeless cloudy days come to LA the American’s say–‘remind you of home?’ Well, no, it does not remind me of home. Cold, bright, winter days–lawns sparkling with frost remind me of home. Sultry August evenings strolling through freshly harvested fields of wheat remind me of home. Bracing walks by the sea remind me of home.

At breakfast, in Brentwood, with the lads a waiter (who usually ignores me) sheepishly asked if I was that guy from the TV. I had a flush of amusement, excitement and fear. It had to happen sooner or later. Just not now. Not yet. It was too soon. VH1 are doing a sterling job of marketing the show. Twittering, Facebook and black and white commercials play endlessly now. Black and white commercials imply that this show might have to be taken seriously. Dr Drew is ‘serious’; the confessions are ‘serious’. The condition is Sex Addiction and we need to take sex addiction very seriously indeed.

Whilst I might take sex addiction seriously my co-revelers at yesterdays benefit for the housing of aged gays and lesbians did not.

I had not been to a gay event for some time, probably because ‘they’ know that I have a withering disregard for most gay events.

Jennie and I decided to go together. We arrive to the leaden thud of vintage disco. We walk the red carpet. Beyond the red carpet lay shrimp skewers, a silent auction with, amongst other things, tickets to Ellen and Melissa Etheridge’s guitar. Beyond the red carpet half naked boys are selling raffle tickets and there’s a huge spackled house filled with 30 ‘professionally designed’ sofas and jars of spiced lemons. We are advised NOT to sit on the sofas, to admire the spiced lemons from a respectful distance.

We saw Rosie O’Donnell who is a giantess. We tormented the shirtless boys, one of whom is called Lenny and comes from Wisconsin. He moved to LA to fight in cages. I told him that Jennie was a cage fighter. We did not buy any raffle tickets.

We ate the shrimp skewers and engaged, as best we could, with the other guests. Finally, we met an Austrian and his boyfriend who were funny and engaging. They were almost identically dressed.

They, in turn, introduced us to their friends. I began to really enjoy myself.

Jennie had to leave so I left with her. I changed and drove back to the party. It was then that my new friends noticed that I didn’t drink and began looking at me curiously. Why don’t you drink? Did you have a ‘problem?’ The word falls on me like an anvil.

A gay who doesn’t drink = damaged goods.

I want to fit in with them but it’s really HARD. I just yearned for my sober breakfast buddies who understand me. I was told later that I really had no chance of meeting a man if I didn’t drink.

We ate dinner at a lesbian owned tex mex spot. The food was cold and uninspiring.

By the time I left Here! Bar in West Hollywood it was half past midnight and I was way past my expiration date. My new friends were going to a house party where they would pour tequila down male model backs and drink it from their asses–or something like that. Where porn stars would wander around with erections. Where landscape gardeners and their friends would fuck in hot tubs until dawn.

What kind of gay man wouldn’t find that alluring? Sadly, not me.

Palm Springs

November 10, 2009 duncanroy 2 comments

I jerked off today. First time in ages.

Watching the show reminded me of how alive I felt when I didn’t masturbate. I didn’t touch my cock for three weeks. If I masturbate I look at porn. It disturbs me that the majority of the men I look at are identified as ‘straight’. The websites that turn me on are not even straight guys having sex but just talking, naked. Waiting. Anticipation.

At the airport to New York I found myself looking around. Airports/stations/the streets. We are all equal on the streets.

New York was great fun. I stayed in the East Village, as usual, with Dan and Eric. There was no time to take the lil dog so I sadly left him at home with Hillary and Eric.

Delta sucks. Bad seats, miserable flight.

My driver to CNN was from the Dominican Republic. He asked about the sex rehab show. He chatted about how hard it was to be monogamous–but regardless of how hard it was he felt that he honored his partner by not sleeping with other women–even though (he told me) it would be very easy.

“She deserves it. She deserves that I don’t sleep with other girls. It’s hard man. Very hard.”

Joy Behar, seen her on the View. Like her and her political brusqueness.

At CNN I met Drew, we hugged. He looked shell shocked after the death of his father. I was amazed that he continued doing press but there he was soldiering on. We met Joy Behar who was a friend of my host Dan. She was great fun but tried to put a comic twist on the whole sex addiction thang. This comedy approach failed rather as it’s difficult to chat about sex rehab and not want to cry your heart out.

Saw Anderson Cooper. Cute but TINY. We nodded gruffly at each other like men do.

After the show (which can be seen on CNN website) I met with the VH1 publicist who told me that most gay media outlets were not interested in covering the sex addiction issue. It infuriated me. Sitting on the floor taking screen grabs with his phone of his Housewives of …. Client was a slim gay boy/man/guy. I started in on the publicist about how important getting a sexual health care message was. Although, actually, I think that within the gay community this is more of a mental health care issue. I reminded him that incidents of Syphilis were up 500%, that bug chasers were no longer an elite group of fetishists but increasingly young gay men were deliberately infecting themselves with HIV.

At this point the gay publicist guy starts berating me for being ignorant, that I was lying.

Either in denial or just ignorant this man and men like him are killing other gay men. I am so tired of meeting gay boys who are incapable of thinking beyond their pecs. Who cannot or will not join the dots.

Drug companies marketing AIDS suppression drugs advertise to the gay community with pictures of sexy half dressed young men. The message is clear: we can behave like we always did–as can you. HIV is just like diabetes! It’s nothing. You’re going to be FINE. If you get infected…so what! It’s all going to be OK.

High on crystal, back room, multiple partners, self hatred, sexy advertising: it’s a lethal cocktail resulting in only one outcome: HIV positive and a life shackled to expensive prescription drugs.

HIV gay men are slaves to drug companies and will be for the rest of their lives. Living in a delusional Peter Pan existence they get infected with HIV sell their souls to Pfizer and drown their sorrows in alcohol, crystal and so many rancid hot tubs. Staving off the day when old age (40’s) or side effects finally get them.

Really missed the lil dog for the rest of the weekend. Really missed him.

Flew home to LA. Justin picked me up and we drove to Palm Springs to Rudi and Jake’s housewarming. Lovely house full of so many men. The smell of cocaine and vodka on their breath. The zombie like attention they paid to Justin. The gay parade the following day was like some parade stored in a box marked 1976. The rainbow floats blared: I am what I am. It’s raining men. Gimme, gimme, gimme a man after midnight. The same songs, the same costumes the same shrill applause. This community is stuck.

I began to have a physical reaction to it. I began to close down. I began to pretend I wasn’t there. I could feel myself dying.

The ‘a’ gay zombies bumping into Justin–the new meat. Pushing me out of the way to paw at his tattoos.

We slept in the bunk beds. Our hosts blacked out and ended up in the hot tub with 8 others. In the morning named underwear on the kitchen floor where it stayed until we left that evening.

After the parade Justin and I went to the Ace hotel where there was a ‘best butt’ contest. It reminded me of a cruder version of Butlin’s holiday camp from the 1960’s. The guys from the previous night were now wearing Speedos and drinking more vodka and snorting more cocaine. They cheered the best butts. They rehashed the experiences from the night before which were indistinguishable from the stories about the night before that and many, many other nights all over the world with so many, many men. They asked me dumb gay zombie questions so that they might get to Justin. I refused to be engaged. I didn’t, couldn’t speak. When they could they asked Justin the same zombie questions that they hoped would allow them to see his chest, squeeze his nipples. Eat new meat. Finally we made our escape.

The large Palm Springs house that Sonny and Cher once owned was deserted. A chill wind swept off of the mountain and over the terracotta tile, the granite work station and the azure pool. The ghosts of too many parties inhabit this house.

We drove home.

That night I lay on my big white bed and counted my blessings.

Categories: Rehab Tags: Jennie Ketcham, Rehab

The Road

November 12, 2009 duncanroy 1 comment

Runyon. 6am. Cloudy. The sun breaking through over down town. Luna’s first walk up the canyon. She’s just an 8-month pit mix puppy. She is white with amber eyes. Her elegant pink rabbit ears stand proud from her pretty face. Not at all house trained we are in the beginning stages of teaching her how to piss out side, not jump up, stay focused on my call, poo in the grass and not on the side walk. A great deal of work, yet, I must admit, I love it.

She is a really happy dog and I hate having to discipline her but Pit Bull (whether mixed or not) tends toward willfulness. It is for her own safety that I firmly make the boundaries clear showing her love when she gets things right or learns another lesson.

They are sleeping now after their long walk. We are going up to Malibu this afternoon to walk more.

With Luna on my mind I had little time to process the events of the past few days.

I have not been looking at pornography, masturbating outside of my plan nor objectifying. As odd as this sounds to most people it is very freeing for me.

Jennie flew off to New York yesterday, which leaves a great gaping hole in my life. She really is a good friend and we are honest with each other in ways I could have only hoped to dream. Her dog and Luna didn’t get on very well when they first met which caused some anxiety.

I am having a great deal of what next thoughts. I have no idea what life holds for me but really, in many ways that is none of my business.

Earlier this year I fell for someone but kind of fucked it up–like I do. I really don’t know how to make relationships work. I have such huge expectations. Expectations are, as we all know, resentments waiting to happen.

Saw The Road last night with Justin which I really hated. Post apocalyptic USA. So bleak! Could humanity be so after a disaster? Eating each other? Hunting each other? No hope. No order of any kind. Are we really prone to this? Were the dark ages like this? No. That was a myth.

The rise of archaeology in the 20th century has shed much light on the “Dark Ages” and offered a more nuanced understanding of its positive developments. Other terms of periodization have come to the fore: Late Antiquity, the Early Middle Ages, and the Great Migrations, depending on which aspects of culture are being emphasized. When modern scholarly study of the Middle Ages arose in the 19th century, the term “Dark Ages” was at first kept, with all its critical overtones. On the rare occasions when the term “Dark Ages” is used by historians today, it is intended to be neutral, namely, to express the idea that the events of the period often seem “dark” to us because of the paucity of artistic and cultural output, including historical records, when compared with both earlier and later times.

The Road was a living hell. It betrays us all. Insisting that at our very heart we are only capable of cruelty and selfishness. It is reductive and inchoate. As a filmmaker I really wanted so much more from the father son relationship. I wanted more. The father sentimentally making his son visit what ‘was’. Stealing him away from the safe bunker. Teaching him how to be cruel. I didn’t bother sticking around for the director interview afterwards. I left Justin there. With one bullet left in the gun this film was left irritatingly unresolved. I loathe hopeless movies.

Reality TV/Performance Art

November 13, 2009 duncanroy 9 comments

good night bad night

November 13, 2009 duncanroy 2 comments

What a day! Breakfast at Cecconi with John and Jamie. Climbed Runyon with dogs. Prada book launch party. Saw Miggy, hung out with Yves Behar the man who designed the $100 laptop. Delightful Swiss gentleman. Brett Easton Ellis told me he had seen Sex Rehab–it made my night! Met Diana Ross’s daughter Tracii. Altogether delightful evening.

Drove to (lovely) Michaeline’s wonderful mid century modern house for dinner and had a ghastly time with born again gays. The usual narrow minded, prescriptive bullshit. Friday night drunk, offensive, ugly film producer and his sexually wayward boyfriend. When I slept with the ugly producer’s boy friend last year he neglected to tell me that he was a couple. Lying queen. Dull financier gay in attendance. I wish I had stayed at the party. I left before they sat down to eat pretending that I had to make sure dogs were okay.

I left them to their crab cakes. Left them to their dreary film ideas. They were the kind of gay men who blame everyone else for their woes, who refuse to believe that bisexuals exist (even though Michaeline is bisexual) and a banker who is thrilled to be making money out of the economic collapse. They deserve the mess that they are in. They really do.

Escaped! We are all at home now chewing bones and lapping water. Since Luna arrived the lil dog is suddenly obsessed with chewy bones. Never was before.

Tim/Amanda

November 16, 2009 duncanroy 6 comments

Amanda invited me back for Christmas day. I accepted.

I loved seeing Tim. I always do.

In bed by 10.30pm. Up at 5.30…etc. etc.

DOG BITE

November 18, 2009 duncanroy Leave a comment

Complicated past few days. Trannies. Dog bites. Shady friends. Shady tenants in Malibu house. Gardeners who do half of what is agreed then expect the full amount to be paid. Why do they do that?

Todd’s dog bites uninvited friend of friend in house and worries about insurance. Calls 50 friends for advice. Finds suppositories in friend’s wash bag. What a fucking BORE.

Breakfast and partial lunch at Chateau. Breakfast with a British writer who wants to write about child abuse. He also advises minor members of the Royal Family on how to become celebrities. I have no truck with British aristotrash–however broken they are. I simply don’t trust them. He could have been a journalist or worse special branch-our FBI/CIA. He bought me huevo rancheros for breakfast. Stuck around the hotel for 12.30 partial lunch appointment with Israeli addiction specialist–far more interesting than the British man with an uncertain novel.

Thrilled by this: I am going to meet Levi Johnston tonight at GQ man of the year party. Will post pics if I can get them. Fuck Clint Eastwood, Paul Rudd and the Hangover boys. I am gonna meet my Pricilla from Wassilla. Just try stopping me.

Trannies, stolen cars, straight men who like it hard up the shitter. These are a few of my favorite things. Actually not but this is what happened: Drunk straight man ‘friend’ of ours picks up tranny who fucks him then steals his car. LMAO!! Reminds me of a film by John Walters.

Luna has been house trained but still bites holes in the truck upholstery. Any ideas how to stop her chewing? I may have to put a big bone in the car. Two big bones. One for each dog.

Lunch with Dan at Pali House. ok steak. Not great.

Must choose outfit for tonight. Dior I think.

Paris In The Spring

November 28, 2009 duncanroy 13 comments

Luna just ate my favorite scarf; my beautiful Etro scarf that everyone compliments is in tatters.

Oh well, just another thing. I have so many things. Addicted to things–buying addictively will spring into action the moment I put down the booze, the drugs, the sex the food etc. I can’t seem to do anything healthily! I think, ‘I must have.’ and nothing gets in the way of that thought. Greed, selfishness, immaturity. Am I alone with this? Judging by the way people are now in debt and losing their homes–I am not.

I want to share an embarrassing truth about shopping: I love sofas and I love 70% off. I just can’t help myself! A bargain sofa. I can’t resist it. A BARGAIN. I used to live in a two-bedroom house in Whitstable and there were sofas in all 7 rooms–even the kitchen! Essential place to snuggle as a goose roasts in the Aga.

My goal, when searching for a place to hang my hat, has always been this: ONE ROOM WITH A PERFECT VIEW. The last house had 7 rooms with a view over the ocean. This present house has 5 rooms with a perfect view. I’m getting there. I’m heading in the right direction, just four more rooms to ditch. Everybody else seems to be swimming in the opposite direction! Everybody wants more and I want less. Enough already.

My ‘I must live in one room’ theory is based on my fear of knocking around a huge family house and not having a family. Everywhere I have ever lived is set up for an imaginary family of 8. A family of 8 who dine together, who play backgammon by an open fire in the bleak mid-winter or swim in the ocean on an August afternoon returning to piles of soft, sweet smelling towels. In every house I ever owned there are stacks of plates, silver wear, pots and pans and rooms for unborn children. If I had only been able to make a relationship happen then perhaps all these things would have been relevant. Instead they sit in unused piles in well-equipped kitchens.

Extended families of friends used to suit me fine but of late I have preferred solitude.

I used to cook exotic feasts from Morocco or Iran but recently I have not bothered. The mandolin bought to slice potatoes for gratin dauphinoise is buried at the bottom of the draw, the blender bought to liquidize thick butter bean and bacon soup sits unused, the heavy casserole which should be out every day boiling stock or poaching chickens sits dusty on the fridge. I tell myself that one-day, one-day when that prince comes, he who may appreciate the joys of home cooking I will bake again!

At this moment that seems very unlikely.

Yet, I am still buying things for an imaginary family of eight who beg me to reprise my pineapple upside down cake.

Now, of course, it is just the sweet darling dogs and me and I suppose that is how it will remain. When I finally return to Paris, where I want to live out my last years, I will sell everything and start again. In that scenario there will indeed be just one room, one plate, one fork, one knife.

During the day I will have a silver topped cane and a tailored coat with a velvet collar. I will sit on the grand boulevard and drink thick black coffee and smoke untipped Gauloise.

This outcome, when written down seems deliciously glamorous. For now, in Hollywood, this is the way I want it to be. Just me and the dogs, one less scarf and a dream of Paris in the spring.

Categories: Dogs, Rehab

Jennie..

December 4, 2009

I spoke with my Mother today. It was nice to hear her voice. We have not spoken for ages and it tends to be like that–months of no contact, then a flurry of emails and phone calls. I must admit that I have been keeping my distance from her during the past few weeks as the Sex Rehab show airs. Hearing her voice brings up a great deal of…a great deal of…a great deal. She sounded happy about the show.

Whenever I write I wonder what my Mother might think and then that begins to get in the way of the writing. I have to write freely and honestly and without shame. I can’t do that with me imagining my mother looking over my shoulder shaking her head.

I received an email today from some stray reader who suggested I was being passive aggressive with Jennie about our relationship. I have not been reading what she writes about me but I can guess.

When we were in rehab we were pretty much inseparable, but rehab is not real life. We really helped each other in there. I could not have done it without her. When we left rehab we moved into the same building and see each other most days, when we don’t see each other we talk to each other and when we don’t talk we text.

There was a golden moment when we were best friends but then something happened that was totally beyond our control.

A couple of months after we left rehab, my darling Big Dog was hit by a truck in the street immediately outside of the building where we live. I saw her pretty much torn to pieces in front of me. She lay on the sidewalk hanging onto life. I ran upstairs and woke Jennie; she drove my truck to the local pet hospital with The Big Dog and me in the back of the truck. She stayed with me as they put her to sleep. I begged them to help her live but they could not save her.

The following day I buried her in the garden in Malibu.

One might think that this would have brought Jennie and I together in a deeper way than we had been previously but actually the opposite was true. I simply could not bear to be near any of the people who had seen me so destroyed by grief, as I was that day and the ghastly days after. In many ways the tears I shed were not just for The Big Dog but also for every time I had not cried when I really should have. I could give you a million examples. For relationships that ended badly, for ungrieved deaths, for lost love, for a shattered childhood. I sobbed uncontrollably for a week.

So Jennie saw me like that and afterwards I couldn’t look her in the eye. Every time I pass the place where my darling Big Dog was killed, I am flushed with the same feelings. Every time I see her I remember that day. I revisit the same emotions and it is too overwhelming for me. It’s not fair on her but it’s the truth.

Time passes and the memories fade but not that one. It stays as fresh in my mind as if it happened yesterday. I think about it every day and it tempers my relationship with Jennie, Eric and Hillary. But it is Jennie who is most hurt by my distance and inability to connect.

Personally, I think we have a good relationship. It is not without it’s complications and petty rivalries but we are close in a way that an ex husband and ex wife are. We have shared a remarkable experience and a tragedy. It’s not her fault that I reacted so badly. I just did.

I don’t want any of you to think that I don’t love her because I do and I am so proud of her achievements and her courage to step away from porn and Penny Flame and the money she made and forge a life beyond that cesspool. I’m sorry that I can’t, at this moment, give her more than I do.

Arizona

December 7, 2009

Luna, who eats everything she possibly can whenever I am vanished from her immediate view, surpassed herself today by eviscerating the packaging of my new beard trimmer. Saves me the trouble I suppose.

We are in Malibu and it is raining torrentially. I love it here on the side of the mountain when it rains. Sitting in a cloud. A waterfall gushes through the property and I poke at it with a stick like I did when I was a kid. Any brook or stream I chanced upon. Everything is sodden. Within a week the hillside will be covered in lush grass and wild flowers and it will feel like I live, for at least a couple of months, in the French Alps.

The lil dog has damaged his dew claw. He is dolefully licking at it avoiding the rough and tumble he usually enjoys when he is here with Luna. Sometime when it is quiet at night and I am walking up the drive I can hear The Big Dog padding behind me and I reassure her that everything is going to be okay. I know that if there is a heaven then she’ll be waiting for me. Speaking of which–that image has totally broken the dream I was having in the car home from Phoenix yesterday. In the dream I KNEW that the ghost of my grandmother was living in Luna so I was being extra nice to her. Odd?

I had a lovely time with Joe in Phoenix. My friend Gabe invited me to a 9-course dinner he threw at a gallery in down town Phoenix so I dragged Joe with me. Gabe is only 24 and very, well, he’s very Italian and devised a huge dinner of gooey burrata and rolled pork and polenta with beef sausages and pasta stuffed with butternut squash and it just kept on coming until we were STUFFED and it was 2am and we headed back to the Biltmore Arizona hotel and to our room through the village of Frank Lloyd Wright inspired cottages. The air was crisp and clean. The beds were huge and comfy. I slept like a log.

The following morning I was forced to buy a paper cup of drip coffee for $5. The Biltmore coffee shop of horrors.

The hotel was full of people who obviously watch the show and sort of, kind of wondered if they knew me from anywhere. They were all bull built manly men. In other times I might have sought out a little company but I am committed to my circle plan. Hotels, Stations, the streets I bid you all adieu.

We had a delicious brunch at the Royal Palm Hotel on Camel Back Road. DELICIOUS breakfast–very reasonably priced. I had home made Brioche (lemon scented) French toast and chicken sausages. Gabe was very funny and lifted me out of a ghastly depression that started after I hacked a huge irreparable hole in my beard.

Must briefly mention that I received my first (sort of) hate mail yesterday that I thought about posting. It occurred to me that whatever people may or may not think of me good or bad I have to not take any of it personally. In it’s essence it was accusing me of being a fraud, that I wasn’t really a nice guy, that I was in fact cruel and heartless. Of course I agreed with everything he/she wrote. As much as I am vulnerable and sensitive I am also angry and resentful. He/She suggested that I could never be available to all the people who wrote to me and of course–he/she is right. I can’t. I can only do my best and just being on TV seems to be enough judging by the huge volume of messages of hope that I receive everyday. I welcome your messages of hope because they lift my spirits.

Did not watch the show last night. Had no real interest. It kind of retraumatizes me all over again watching the therapy. A journalist interviewed me from New York Times about Dr Drew. However much I tell anyone who listens that I think he is a great guy and the show really helped I suddenly had a moment where I realized that I am also supporting the artifice that exists around ‘reality TV’. I have kept quiet about the chronology having been wildly altered. The introduction of the ‘sexy’ trainer deliberately to titillate Phil and James. Kari Ann’s continued inclusion in the show even though she was thrown out after the first week. Drew’s recycling of Jill’s lines when he began to flounder.

I am so glad I did not make Sex Rehab in England for if they do throw me under a bus at least it won’t be a London bus.

Seen so many depressing films lately, The Road, Up in The Air etc. Films that seem obsessed with trying to articulate our isolation. I have no idea what the solution is for that. We have collectively painted ourselves into a corner. Contrary to what everybody else thought of Up in The Air I loathed Clooney’s measured performance–all teeth and pomade.

It’s bloody freezing over here in Malibu. I am going to drive home and make a hearty stew. My balls ache which makes we wonder about cancer…again.

I came here to write but it’s far too cold. Will head back to Hollywood soon. Luna just picked up a glass bowl and smashed it on the terrazzo floor. Bad Luna. Bad dog.

Fuck Angry

December 9, 2009

I climbed Runyon. It didn’t shift the feeling of rage that shook my body after a curt little note from Adam at the American Foundation for Human Rights.

I met Adam after the Precious event at the Chateau Marmont. I showed some interest in the human rights work he is involved in. I offered to help. We became Facebook friends. I offered to take Adam to lunch. Adam said he was available after Thanksgiving. I emailed him once again today.

Adam replied that he didn’t have time to meet to discuss the Foundation before say, February. He is ‘stressed’ too stressed, apparently, to think that maybe somebody like me could actually help. Adam will be appearing, however, in a choir, carving pumpkins and decorating his Christmas tree with ‘friends’ and ‘family’ during the holiday season. Adam, as you can imagine, is ‘single’.

Before I launch into this I just want to remind you that I have devoted my life as an artist and filmmaker and now TV personality to serving the gay community. My last gay film, The Picture of Dorian Gray–a reworking of the original text by Oscar Wilde–was either the opening or closing night film at 5 major gay film festivals around the world and played in over 300 others. This film followed in the footsteps of 5 previous films. When Jimmy Kimmel said publicly, mockingly that he had not heard of me my response was why should he? He doesn’t go to gay film festivals but there are many thousands of us who do. Before becoming a filmmaker I made theatre primarily for a gay audience. My credentials as a bone fide, committed, gay artist and cultural aficionado are without doubt.

I watched the promotional video on the site of the American Foundation for Human Rights. The gay men at the heart of the Prop 8 human rights case were dressed anonymously, the lesbians like a man and a woman. The representative for the Foundation earnestly telling the rapt audience that they were going to find ‘justice’. The straight lawyers from ‘across the political divide’, already married to heterosexuals, were coming together so that gay men and lesbians who ‘deserved’ equal rights could get married just like them. As usual, they spent time invoking and quoting and channeling the ubiquitous Dr. Martin Luther King, as usual ignoring the irritation this causes black men and women who are loathed to let the gays appropriate their tireless martyred hero.

Why should that be you wonder? Why should the black community want to hold so preciously onto Martin Luther King? Why do they feel that their struggle is so different to ours?

Well, for a start the gays can’t muster enough of a consensus to find one man or one woman who speaks their truth or to their condition. There is no face to the voice that whines and complains. I suspect the black community loath comparisons between their struggle and ours because we so rarely struggle. Because they really did struggle: appalling, life threatening, daily, no reprieve, at the back of the fucking bus struggle.

If you take time and look at Dr King’s timeline scarcely a month passed when he was not actively risking his life for equal rights, where he marched in hostile neighborhoods, where he calmly faced a sneering, Glenn Beck type media.

When he was assassinated there were riots in 130 cities, 20,000 people were arrested. There were riots in 130 cities.

Dr King galvanized his community as a leader could galvanize ours. Where is our fearless leader?

When did the gay men you know really fight for equality? When did the gay man you know last risk his life or risk being arrested or simply hand a leaflet to a person outside of WeHo or Chelsea or your cities gay ghetto? When did he take real risks for what he believed in? When did he let someone who never previously met a gay man know him so that that someone could put a face to the notion on the ballot before he/she voted?

Every time we say Dr Kings name in regard to our struggle we choose to overlook the history of slavery, emasculation, lynching, rape, child abuse, murder etc. etc. But mostly we choose to ignore our own dirty little secret: the appalling racism that exists in the gay community. Let me say it again: we simply overlook this most shocking fact. Endemic RACISM in our own community.

According to a 2008 study, racism against gay Asian/Pacific Islander men leads to socially and contextually prescribed sexual roles for that may also contribute to the practice of unsafe sex among this group.

According to a 2000 survey conducted of LGBT African-Americans in nine U.S. cities, a third of respondents reported negative experiences in predominantly white LGBT organizations and with white LGBT persons in bars and clubs.

In 2005, Les Natali, the owner of a gay bar named Badlands located in San Francisco, was criticized by the city’s Human Rights Commission who determined that thirteen instances of racial discrimination by the staff occurred. Examples include refusal for entry by African-Americans, white patrons being served first even though African-Americans were first in line among others.^{Badlands was picketed by a diverse group of community activists over several weeks to bring attention to the situation and a group, And Castro For All (AC4A) was formed that has continued to promote dialog about racism in LGBT communities.}

In 2006, there were reports of verbal attacks on gay Latinos by gay whites in The Castro district of San Francisco. John Mendoza, a protest organizer against racism in the Castro, said he was told by a gay white male to “go back to Mexico, you fucking wetback, where you belong”.^{A rally was staged in response.}

Drag queen and performance artist Chuck Knipp has been criticized by anti-racism advocates for his character Shirley Q. Liquor. Knipp performs his act in blackface, and makes comments about blacks and black culture which some people consider offensive. Several protests have taken place and Knipp has canceled several of his shows.

Some LGBT media outlets have been criticized for not putting a racially diverse representation of gays and lesbians in their works, like magazines such as The Advocate and gay-themed television series such as Queer as Folk.^{Shows such as LOGO’s}Noah’s Arc^{utilized more gay people of color in their casts.}

The late photographer Robert Mapplethorpe produced a work called The Black Book which many gay, African-American artists have called fetishistic, racist, and demeaning.

Thought you might not know that stuff. Think you might hesitate before quoting Dr King next time?

As usual this Human Rights Foundation is merely a money making machine for more over paid lawyers. Lawyers and more lawyers feeding off of the carcass of our community. Using the same old routes expecting a different destination.

Why is it so difficult for us to find our own Dr King? I want my own brave, eloquent gay leader? Can we get ourselves a leader who galvanizes our community? I very much doubt it. Unless he’s a porn star of course or Ellen.

Another thing. When I walk the streets in my gay neighborhood I get pestered for cash all the time by pro gay marriage beggars. Can we spend our communities money wisely–I suggest we spend it on pro-gay aren’t we fab type advertisements, on outreach, on being visible to people who might not know who we are but hold the deciding vote? So, when and if the time comes we are known, that our faces and stories are known beyond our gated community.

I am sure Adam is a very nice boy. I am sure his friends and family will appreciate his ‘time’ during the holiday season. I am only sorry that, as usual, there seems to be no time for those of us who have engaged successfully with changing the law in our own country without pissing off a community that suits a comparison but not a shared culture.

Some of us want to get involved, feel included without being shoved condescendingly to the sidelines by prissy queens who seem, by their Facebook profiles to know tribes of identical men with identical, mediocre hair cuts and manicured histories and no idea what it is to be risky beyond snorting crystal and barebacking.

P.S. I had a dream that every man I ever objectified lay in a pile of naked, rotting pink and brown tangled limbs. Every man I ever slept with, fantasized about, intrigued with. Every man from straight college man dot com, from Sean Cody dot com, Corbin Fisher dot com-they were all there. Rocky, Max, Tucker, Rider, Sean. A mountain of dead bodies, a heap of pristine white underwear, blue jeans, teeshirts, huge piles of expensive sneakers. Every man I ever wanted, however briefly, a useless, decaying memory.

Henry Higgins

December 18, 2009

Today I want to write about being fucked in the ass by a woman wearing a strap on dildo whilst whispering filthy things in my ear. That happened on Whitstable beach 15 years ago. The woman is now a lesbian of the sexual opportunistic variety and now lives here in LA. Whenever we meet we look at each other coyly because some things are better left unsaid, unexplored, unrevisited–which does not seem to be a real word. I have never been so turned on. I was never ever so turned on again. It was far too scary a prospect to admit that this was what I wanted. It wasn’t MEN at all. I wanted a lesbian with a dildo to fuck me so hard I couldn’t sit down for a week. That’s almost heterosexual, I think.

Some of you will be delighted to hear that Jennie and I are scarcely talking. Her and her best friend Eric–my ex best friends–can now be found ensconced in his apartment, night after night watching Mad Men and baking cookies. When I first introduced them he told me that he had had fantasies about her as Penny Flame–that she was one of his ‘girls.’ Now she bakes him cookies for Christmas.

I had a dream about Jennie: that she was fucking me in the ass with a dildo but she was crying. It was making her cry. I begged her not to cry like I tried to placate my mother when she cried.

So, Jennie and I drifted apart like many other Hollywood romances. She was the first porn star I ever met. She is so damned strong and competitive and sure of herself. She helped me and I helped her—it was pretty equal. My dog was killed and she drove me to the hospital. She was stuck in the valley and I helped her move.

I complained to John this morning that I felt the help I had given Jennie was disproportionate and that I deserved more than this. More than to be excluded from Jennie and Eric’s love nest. I was complaining over Panatone French toast in Cecconi on Robertson. I dipped the toast into vanilla flavored crème fresh.

The irony was not lost on me. John called me Henry Higgins and laughed. He calls me Henry Higgins when I begin to resent those I help. This isn’t the first time I’ve found a flower girl on the street and made a bet that I can turn her into a world-class ingénue.

We laughed because life is good, the sun is shining and I don’t want to watch Mad Men with Eric and Jennie any more.

December 19, 2009

When I gave up taking cocaine and drinking I remember that friends would call at 3 in the morning on my house phone. I’d say, “Why the hell are you calling so late?” They’d mumble back that they were ‘drunk’. At 9 the following morning I would return their call. They’d say, “What the hell are you calling so early for?” I’d reply, “I’m sober.”

These people were my ‘lower companions’ and my house was always full of them. They were a tough crowd to convince that I was going to stay sober. Slowly but surely they all vanished, off to different parties or on some occasions dying alone in their rooms, needles in their arms. Lower companions are neither your social or intellectual or financial equals. They are people you only indulge within the context of your addiction.

The halcyon days of early sobriety. Clean sheets and brushed teeth. I got sober October 1st 1996. How I loved that first autumn and winter of my sobriety in London. Flying around town in that cute little green Porsche those other men said I drove like a handbag, living in that glorious house in Kensington and wearing wonderful clothes. Within two years that would all be gone. Those were the tough lessons of early sobriety.

Lesson one: Whatever I have right now is ENOUGH and enough is all I need.

Sex Rehab finale airs on Sunday and not a day too soon. Oh you ungrateful gay! How can you be so ungrateful? Nobody knew who you were before Sex Rehab! Now people know who you are. The stinking wind of semi-fame, fame for no good reason, fame for fame’s sake blows over me at night and wakes me gasping for air. Duncan the obscure. Could you have sunk much lower than reality TV!

Oh yes I could. I have. Much lower–but on who’s scale? People seem to think that those of my ‘co-stars’ who made pornography are pretty low on the unfathomable scale. Nah, they are just performers, wandering minstrels who offer vagina rather than lute. Their acting skills have kept me calm when the demons are upon me.

According to some, when one agrees to appear in reality TV, one surrenders any claim one might have had to integrity or dignity. Is that true? Even an obvious aesthete like me? I am a fucking dilatant! I am on life’s grand tour sampling what culture a country has to offer and this is America’s cultural phenomenon. Reality TV! How could I NOT have been a part of it? I commissioned a great portrait of myself by the artist VH1.

Back to today’s theme: Lower Companions.

I tried yesterday and the day before to reach out to Jennie but she ignored my calls and emails. I wanted to avoid the scorched earth policy I usually enact in these situations. I did not/do not want to lose my temper; I did not want to disguise my pain with anger. I did not want to hurt myself. So, I wrote a blog.

Yesterday’s blog caused my usual commentators some consternation. ‘I will never read another word you ever write!’ One woman scrawled. ‘Poor Jennie! Poor Eric.’ They bawled. Let me tell you something, blog readers/commentators. I enjoyed deleting those pathetic comments.

That’s how far I sank. Hankering to be let into the Jenny and Eric club? Are you fucking kidding? Their shrill laughter and bad skin. Over-lit kitchens and badly cooked food. That’s how far I sank. Swimming in the sewer with Jenny and Eric. Come on pornstars–bring it on!

I turned and said to Anthony Rendlesham, my alter ego, the Lord, “Get behind me, Henry Higgins! You are a stumbling block to me; you do not have in mind the things of God, but the things of men.”

So that was the state of my scrambled mind yesterday. That and dog issues to deal with and lawyers late at night.

Can you remember a time when all your closest friends began to die all at once?

Yesterday afternoon, after a long walk on Runyon with Isaiah, who wore tight brown boots and a pompadour, Joe stopped by. Beautiful, sweet adorable, bright-eyed Joe.

Joe asks me the most exacting questions. He was asking me what I was like when I was his age. I told him that by the age of 24 I had become a nihilist. That in 1984 we were four years into an AIDS epidemic that would go on to kill millions and millions of people but at that time just seemed to be killing my friends.

Nihilism is sometimes used to explain the general mood of despair at the perceived pointlessness of existence that one may develop upon realizing there are no necessary norms, rules, or laws.

I realized what had happened when I first met Joe and his gang of friendly young friends. The revulsion I felt. These beautiful young men gathered around me talking and having fun and I felt nauseous. I called my therapist Jill and she said, “How old did you feel?” And I said, “Not like I was a child…more like in my early twenties.” And I saw that I had never ever talked about being left behind by my tribe who had all died while I had not. That there were so many funerals and tearful farewells with boys just like Joe. With friends who one felt abandoned by–even though they had died and I had not.

One day you faint when the gardener cuts his finger, the next you’re wrapping the dead, emaciated body of a young man in a turning cloth because nobody else will do it.

I asked Joe to imagine a world where he watched all his young friends die of AIDS. Every beautiful man he knew and loved dying in the most harrowing, ugly way. Regardless of income. Plagued by shame.

I don’t want to hear ONE criticism of me or my life. I lived through a fucking plague that killed all my friends and I survived. Survive to be excluded by people like Jenny and Eric? Fuck that.

Busy Being Free

December 20, 2009 duncanroy 36 comments

Paris 2009

I have not seen the final episode of sex rehab. I may not. It merely conflicts with the experience I had whilst I was there.

My memories of being in Rehab are wonderful, but wonderful is not real life.

Perhaps it can be? Maybe that’s the point? Or do I trade in tragedy like some trade carbon credits?

Don’t expect some elegant summation of the past two months because there is none, not from me anyway. I have written everything there is to write.

Since we set those sleepy doves free for the finale of Sex Rehab I have been traveling. I went to England, to my hometown of Whitstable, and sat outside Dave’s deli drinking delicious espresso and eating custard tarts. In her famous oyster bar my old friend Delia Fitt opened native oysters and I reacquainted myself with friends who had a place in their heart just for me. The Little Dog and I have been to New York and Paris and taken a ship across the English Channel so he could sit on my lap. I stayed in Battersea with my friend Melanie and I walked all over London for a month losing a ton of weight.

Life was not without it’s challenges.

Whilst I was in Paris I called my dear friend John, bitterly complaining as I had seen a young man in the Tuileries who had shown interest in me. I had walked away. It was infuriating. Is this what my life was now–to walk away from the main chance? Walking away from sex was not going to be as easy as walking away from drugs and alcohol.

I was in such a beastly funk. I called him so that he might congratulate me for doing the right thing. I wanted a fucking AWARD. He asked me where I was and I gruffly told him that I was in Place de la Concorde.

He said, simply, “Look around you, Duncan.”

I was standing in one of the most beautiful places on earth. I had forgotten momentarily to enjoy the greatest benefit of sobriety, to be present right here and right now.

My funk was instantaneously lifted.

Before the gift of sexual sobriety I went into every situation with an intention. The intention was not to have a great time but to meet, intrigue, seduce. Once that was gone, once the intention and the damage that thinking causes had been revealed I could truly enjoy myself.

I don’t want you to think that I sit around indulging the tragedy. I don’t. I am looking for all of the beauty that life has to offer. Every day!

When I got sober from drugs and alcohol I was delighted by the simple pleasure of feeling the autumn breeze on my face.

I have seen many people die of the disease of addiction but as I tried to explain to someone today, each death re-confirms that I have chosen life and I must take it and live it. Every death, every relapse another man has reminds me to stay sober.

I have a very short memory. I need to be reminded…over and over again.

My public rehabilitation is over. The show is done. The cast and crew have gone their separate ways. The relationships forged whilst in rehab are now to dust and that is only right. We are no longer performers in a show–we are in life.

I am alive because I set aside my preoccupation with death and with some gift of courage and with a stroke of love, forgave myself. I have lived in so much fear all my life! Now, I am certain, it does seem feasible not to be afraid.

And what of these ugly sisters: Shame, Resentment and Fear. No, no more. Thank you.

The future seemed so uncertain, but I don’t live there anymore, not tomorrow or yesterday.

As for films and novels and the like, there is a backlog of them just waiting to be written. They were waiting patiently whilst I concentrated on beating you all up with my past.

So, let me make you a promise: there will be no more films, novels or poetry that examine and re-examine my traumatic past.

No more collusion with the past.

Tomorrow I am going to write about other things. I am going to write about life!

Off The Grid

December 21, 2009 duncanroy 33 comments

My ambition this year is to make the house in Malibu fully self-supporting.

I bought the Malibu house two years ago after selling the property I had owned in Whitstable for nearly thirty years.

The Whitstable house was a slim, 1880’s, three floored, terrace. Clad in white ship-lap it looked over the Swale and I would sit on my wide, all weather balcony watching the sea crawl over the long, shallow beach. Sea Gulls wheeling over the ocean, huge cargo boats on the horizon.

The Malibu house could not be any different. Built in 1972 the house was originally one large family home but had been divided into two apartments in the mid 80’s.

Frankly, it was the ugliest house I had ever seen: Big Sur interior meets Scandinavian sauna. Acres of dark wood, bad carpet, virulent yellow paint and stained glass windows. When I moved in I threw away thirty clinking clanking wind chimes. The downstairs apartment, where I originally moved, was beautifully proportioned and very cozy but upstairs, where I now live, had towering ceilings and mahogany Shindleresque detailing.

By far the most beautiful aspect to the house was the view over the Pacific. I traded cargo ships for schooners and sea gulls for pelicans. In February, every year, the great hump back whale migrates across my view.

The house is either ‘wonderfully isolated’ or ‘terribly isolated’ depending on who you have visiting. It was made more isolated in 1984 when a portion of Rambla Pacifico, the road that leads directly to my house, was destroyed in a landslide cutting off hundreds of people from their homes–mine included. Thankfully, this April, the road will be rebuilt after 26 years. So, instead of a 7 minute drive through the Santa Monica Mountains from the Pacific Coast Highway it will take two minutes.

Why, you may ask, did I buy the house in the first place? Well, the house may have been ugly and isolated with no direct road from the PCH but the three acres of garden was an oasis beyond description. The moment I stepped into that garden I realized that I would have to buy the house.

A long drive, planted with palms and lavender and fruit trees, leads past a deep fish pond to a wide granite path weaving through grandly planned terraces stepping from the top to the bottom of the property. Under a canopy of Brazilian orchid trees the paths are dappled with sunlight.

In the spring, after the heavy rains, waterfalls gush down rough-hewn gullies and then a miracle happens–the arid mountain is transformed, becomes lush with wild flowers and green grass.

There are fruit trees planted all over the property and my first year in the house I harvested bananas, plums, grapefruit, figs, lemons, mangoes, guava, oranges, necatarines, peaches, walnuts and tangerines.

There are foxes, coyote, deer and bob-cats. There are hummingbirds, hawks, and quail. At night huge white owls feast on gophers and field mice.

I pride myself on knowing the names of trees and shrubs where ever I live. I could tell you the name of every species that makes up an English hedgerow. I knew nothing of native Californian flora and fauna so I threw myself into learning what was what in my new garden. I found Rye, Coast Live Oak, Black Live Oak, Baby Blue Eyes, Morning Glory Wild Lupins and California Poppy to name but a few.

With my possessions arriving from Whitstable I had to make upstairs livable.

The first great simplification! I painted everything in the huge, upper apartment a pale cream, covered up the stained glass windows, painted the kitchen cupboards a pale blue gray and one accent wall a Sottsass pink. I hired migrant workers and planted empty parts of the garden with native grasses and drought resistant cactus and the like.

My furniture arrived from London and seemed to suit it’s new home.

My friend Maury Rubin who owns the legendary City Bakery in New York moved into the apartment below and I got hooked to the Internet and the parameters of my Malibu estate.

Today, instead of abandoning Malibu I have decided to move back into my home to enact the second part of this Californian story of how the west was won and hopefully I can take you all along with me.

My intention is this: to get off the grid, to be fully self-supporting, to grow vegetables and graze goats on the property. I want chickens and a pig. I want more than fancy fruit. I want tomatoes and onions for chutney and green vegetables to keep me moving. This year will be the year of the great growing and cooking experiment and we’ll throw some personal drama into the pot no doubt–but this year is about growth of the natural and the personal kind and it will all begin on January 1^st 2010.

I am quite sure there is a community of market gardeners and goat owners only moments from my house and to whom I am going to reach out and make this dream come true.

I have no idea if I am even allowed to do any of this–or what laws I may break or if any or all of this is possible but that’s what this new blog is for: to bring you along as my trials and tribulations unfold. I know that you’ll help me, you’ve helped thus far. Let’s have another adventure shall we?

Malibu Hill Billy

December 23, 2009 duncanroy 26 comments

Fresh linen sheets. I love when the cleaning lady comes. The fresh smells she leaves behind her. As soon as she arrives I am forced into action. Clearing, folding and stripping. The first week she came she broke an 18^th century plate. I was sad but I didn’t really care–my attitude toward other people breaking my stuff is that at least it was used and enjoyed.

There are some exceptions.

I lent a 12-inch Venini handkerchief vase to Korda Marshall when his then wife Felicity had her baby. They returned it in pieces. The vase would be worth $11, 000 now. I wrote to him recently asking him to replace it. He ignored my email. Korda is head of Warner Records UK.

I loved that vase, it was a gift from Matilda, Duchess of Argyle and I had carried it from Ardfern in the Scottish Highland all the way home to Whitstable on a bus. When Richard Green and I first opened the Whitstable Oyster Company we filled it every day with fresh cornflowers. Of course it could never be properly replaced but occasionally one chances upon one at an auction and would love to buy it.

Still winding down from Sex Rehab. It feels odd not to have somewhere to go on a Sunday night. I suppose I have the same feeling of loss that people have described to me here on these pages. I liked revisiting the Rehab even though it frustrated me. I liked to remember the process.

So many unexpected doors have opened since I started writing this blog. Another literary agent contacted me yesterday and I am going to take meetings with them all when I go to New York next week. I like literary agents. They are very different from Hollywood agents. Hollywood agents are like Wall Street traders: crude, indifferent.

I found a short story about the Twin Towers that I had written last year. I found the first chapter of my novel. I diligently sent them off to the nice agent and now all I have to do is stay out of the result. After I do the work; it’s none of my business what happens next. That’s why I have God in my life to deal with the things over which I have no control. I used to be one of those guys who worried about when he would hear back, when they would read it, see it, make a decision. Thankfully I am delivered from that particular hell.

I discovered some 13 years ago that my tearing my hair out would not alter the result.

There is absolutely no point in fretting about the outcome. What will be will be. I’m not saying that I wasn’t relieved/upset to find out that I had got the grant, was HIV negative, he wasn’t interested etc. etc. But I saved the feeling for after the fact rather than before it.

The house in Malibu is vacation rented to people from Hawaii who arrived at midnight the day before yesterday. In the morning I received a flurry of text messages and calls from them claiming that I had scammed them, that the house was nothing like I had described it. It quickly transpired that they were calling from somebody else’s house. The following morning, after some testy phone calls, the Vacation Renter called me to apologize for their foolish mistake.

I am just happy that who’s ever house they were describing never came home.

Goats from Santa Barbara. Must buy goat. Why goats? Well, brush clearance for a start. The house is situated in the highly flammable Santa Monica Mountains and every year I have to pay $3000 to have the brush cleared around the house. The last fire stopped 150 feet from my front door. Goats eat brush.

Also, Birria is a delicious Mexican goat dish. I love eating goat. I get to drink goat milk. Do you remember eating that delicious braised goat on that private, secluded beach with Philippa and Louise on Patmos? A truly memorable meal. A man in a shack with a pot of boiling goat. Delicious.

I have even thought about becoming a vegetarian but I think the deal I will have with myself is this: If I have grown it or bought or bartered for it from the abundant land then I can eat it. By the way, I am including vacation rental income in this equation. I don’t expect to survive on half a pound of plums and a mango.

I wonder how much goats cost? I have to make these calls on January 1^st. There are over 50 goat-grazing services in California so I don’t think that the acquiring of a goat will be much of a problem.

I have already located a woman who helps plan and plant vegetable gardens. I have a meeting with her in January so will report then. Many people have written to me offering advice and I will get back to you as soon as I can.

My lease here in Hollywood expires in April so I have until then to get things into order so I can move back and fully take the reigns of my new Malibu Hill Billy life.

Christmas 2009

December 25, 2009 duncanroy 21 comments

Christmas Eve with Amanda Eliasch, Tim Willis and Kay Saatchi in Beverly Hills.

I wore a tweed waistcoat.

I chattered with everyone.

It was a great night.

I was the last to leave.

Amanda cooked dinner for twenty.

We ate turkey, beef, brussel sprouts, assorted roasted root vegetables.

Every scrap was eaten.

The dogs ate beef bones.

I told other guests about my self sufficiency plan.

They were delighted.

Also discussed Health Care debate and—unsurprisingly–reality TV.

Kay Saatchi wore a red silk Marni dress and took many pictures. Tomorrow she is going to Arizona.

Luna was the belle of the ball. Everybody loved her.

The Little Dog found a boy to trust.

They both ate tons of beef and turkey.

Earlier in the day Kay, Jerome (French cultural attache) and I took Kay’s Mustang onto Rodeo and drank hot chocolate bumping into Sharon along the way.

We were way laid by the 50% off Prada sale and Ralphs to buy Cranberry juice.

That morning I fretted for an hour about what to wear. Finally opting for a tweed waistcoat and cordroy trousers.

No jacket–just a shawl.

Once I arrived, formally, that night I wore birds in my hair. Pulled two stuffed birds off the Christmas Tree and made the hat.

As I said, I was the last to leave. No traffic at all on the way home.

Christmas morning 2009 Kay made eggs, bacon and roasted tomatoes. We set the table in the garden and ate breakfast in the Californian sun.

By the way, my presents included these fab highlights: 1. A cashmere covered hot water bottle–I opened it and it smelt just like they used to when I was a boy. Rubbery.

2. A pair of scull socks from New and Lingwood.

3. Several scented candles.

4. A promise of sobriety.

I spent most of Christmas Eve with Tim. We have a great deal to remember together. Trips to Greece, Scotland, Yorkshire, a particularly drunken toga party on Patmos when we both fell through a plate glass coffee table.

We remembered Issie Blow, who he was with for two years.

I love how Tim gets on so well with Jack and Charles–Amanda’s two grown boys. Jack showing his love for Tim by customizing a pair of kicks for Tim’s Christmas present.

Tim’s delicious present from Amanda: a frock coat by Paul Smith. He looked divine. By Christmas

Mid-Day Tim had been totally made over by Ms Eliasch. Again.

Oh, I am all over the place. My chronology is ruined.

Tim and I love giggling about how RUDE we had been.

I love Tim.

By the time we got home the dogs were exhausted! They went straight to bed and we all slept like logs until the alarm went off on Christmas Morning. I went to a 7.30am AA meeting which was TERRIBLE.

After Kay cooked breakfast I met Jake and his wife for Finnish rice pudding and licorice.

I must have received well over 200 Christmas text messages and emails and tweets, calls and Facebook messages.

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!!

Aubergine Mille Feuille

December 27, 2009 duncanroy 40 comments

Sometime I wake up as if from a nightmare but the nightmare is the day ahead.

Someone commented yesterday that they would rather read about sex than money. Yet, the same issues spring from both. Shame, fear and resentment. When I hang out with my very rich friends I come away feeling like I could have done better.

Most of my rich friends were either born that way or have handsome divorce settlements.

As the New Year approaches I am beginning to worry about what comes next – even though I know that the universe has and always will look me after. I want more. Yet, what do I do to get it? I enjoyed the relatively simple occupation of Reality TV. Just be oneself and do the work of being oneself.

The conundrum I have always had in sobriety–how can one be ambitious yet with gentle optimism hand over the reigns of ones life to God? How?

Dinner with Anna last night. She cooked linguini and aubergine mille feuille. Delicious. I tried wearing a huge, Russian inspired ensemble but as it turned out there were only four of us at the table and I felt like a bit of a prat.

When I got back to the car Luna had spent the hour tearing apart the rest of the passenger seat. Very distressing.

I must confide in you, dear blog, that I am trying to be optimistic about self-sufficiency. I would prefer to be doing it with some one. Being on one’s own and making another project happen on one’s own can be very, very depressing.

So, as well as becoming self-sufficient I may stop paying my mortgage. The house is worth 30% less than what I paid for it. Perhaps, like many Americans, I should negotiate a reduction in principal. Yet, the only way to do that seems to be to force the hand of the bank by not paying ones mortgage.

It’s a miserable option.

Categories: Dogs, Malibu, Self Sufficiency

Chic with Dick

December 28, 2009 duncanroy 13 comments

He sent me a link to a porn sight where I could see his ‘girl friend’ in action. I declined to open the link even though I was very, very tempted.

Then, quite coincidentally, I received a very angry email from Pater Tatchell, the British human rights activist denouncing Quentin Crisp as a homophobe and misogynist. Pater writes:

Shame blighted Quentin Crisp’s life and one can never underestimate the damage toxic shame can cause.

Finally, dear readers, let’s chat momentarily about the banks. I think we can all agree that the banks have fucked us over?

Can we?

Lastly…

Apparently, according to NPR this morning, scientists are working on a pill for people who feel socially excluded.

Bring it on.

Goats and Chickens

December 29, 2009 duncanroy 14 comments

The good news: I can keep goats and hens on the property in Malibu. I spoke with a very polite lady at the Malibu Council code violation department.

I was expecting a very long conversation, instead, it was very short.

“Can I keep three goats on two acres in the Santa Monica Mountains?”

“Yes.” She replied, adding. “You can keep 3 goats on your property as long as they’re 50 feet from anything humanly habitable.”

Silence. She cleared her throat.

“Is that it?” I said, expecting more. “Yes.” she replied, “that’s it.”

“I think I may very well be in love.” I murmured. She giggled like Marge Simpson.

The last vacation tenants just left the property leaving a rather unpleasant egg smell behind them. Perhaps they were vegetarians or something. There was orange peel on the paths and some child had broken a faucet that cost $85 to mend. I shall take it out of their deposit.

This morning, after breakfast with John and the others, I started my list of things to do for the New Year. Suddenly I was thinking about yield per acre, chicken coops and chevre.

Malibu house. The dogs just love it here. Luna spends hours exploring the garden–just like the Big Dog. I missed darling Big Dog so much today. Jerome left pictures of her in the mail box that I could not bear to open. They remained unopened since Christmas in a large pile on my desk marked ‘urgent things to do’. I thought I better look at them.

It made me feel sick with grief when I saw her sweet face.

I wish I felt that way about my grandmother.

Anyway, I spoke to a very eager sounding vegetable garden planner, my architect and a lady who lives near Sacramento about buying goats. Our call was dropped so I’ll call her again tomorrow. She is a ‘grazing service provider’. I met the plumber at the house who mended the faucet and tomorrow, first thing after breakfast I need to make a list-like call Lewis for instance who will reconfigure downstairs so I can start living there in April.

There is just so much to do! I just need to do it.

At breakfast I confided in John that all my life, my real career has been the maintenance of my addiction and anything else I got up to was a hobby. Making films was a hobby, making theatre…a hobby. A distraction from the disease of addiction.

My primary purpose has been the pursuit of selfish pleasure.

Today, I have only good news to report even if Luna trotted out of the long grass covered in ticks. Everything was very dealable with, not nearly as scary as I expected–and I never once had to take a nap.

In Consultation

December 30, 2009 duncanroy 9 comments

Miserable day in LA. Misty British rain rather than the fat tropical raindrops we usually have.

One of my readers suggested that I contact a goat rescue if one indeed exists. And, blow me down; one really does exist in California. I’ll call them tomorrow.

This is no time for self-pity, however.

My father died when he was only 53 and I like to remember that on his deathbed he would turn, at last, to God.

I’m so glad that I have a God in my life who I trust will show me the way, regardless of whether the route is treacherous or not. To put ones life in God’s hands is not for the fainthearted.

As we were leaving we complimented the chef who was also lunching but on a plate of boiled hen heads.

Drama

January 5, 2010

I attended my first acting class this evening in a squalid theatre on the east side. Sixteen of us, two of us were over the age of 35, Mary-Elizabeth and me.

As I sat listening to the instructor I was so frightened it almost took my breath away. I had an allergic reaction to the fear. My throat closing, my face flushed, my knuckles swollen.

I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want anyone to see how clumsy and inept I am.

Yet, after a few minutes, I began to feel comfortable and after 30 minutes I was totally at peace. The instructor encouraged us to make fools of ourselves and I relished the opportunity. The instructor told us that we would feel insulted, that we shouldn’t THINK. He told us to ‘go with the feelings’ he insisted that we didn’t manufacture jokes. That we learn to cut each other slack. The youngsters didn’t know how to do that–to look after each other. Mary-Elizabeth and I knew how to make space for the others because we came from a different time in space.

After the first 30 minutes I could no longer hear the internal critic–you know the one-the one who tells you you are a bad writer, bad person for trying. He looks at me knowingly, with my grand mothers eyes, wanting to know who the fuck I am to think I can TRY. Who told you that you could TRY? Could fight back? Could make art? Who told you?

WHO?

The others were very cautious of me. I liked that I understood their caution. I understood them. They were so frail and sensitive. Not the two old farts. We weren’t frail or sensitive. We were just having fun. You could see that they were sniggering at me but I just didn’t care.

I was having a blast.

Some of them, the others, some of them sparkled, some of them were just lousy. I knew immediately that I was lousy. I knew I was bad but I didn’t care. I didn’t have any shame whatsoever this evening.

Tonight the class was about freeing my soul not tethering it to shame.

We poured out onto the cold street laughing and happy.

An Edible Garden

January 7, 2010 duncanroy 12 comments

The first wave of solar appointments came and went. I have to remember that they are sales men and women and their primary interest is to make the best possible sale.

They do not necessarily have my best interests at heart.

My electricity bill for last month was only $45. The highest bill this year was $120. I don’t use very much electricity. Apparently the price of electricity in Malibu compares very favorably with other providers in the greater Los Angeles area. My electricity is from coal fired generation and produced in Utah.

I don’t like using a clothes dryer and line dry my washing, I don’t have AC or a TV.

I have two main considerations when deciding upon which sort of solar solution to invest. The first is aesthetic; I don’t want an ugly system on the roof of my house. The roof needs replacing anyway so I have decided that I want black shingles rather than the tan already there. This will camouflage the solar panels and give the house a ‘Tudor Japanese’ appearance.

The second consideration is far more complicated. Do I really need solar when my electricity bills are so low? If I had solar would I use more electricity? Would I get air conditioning? Would I use the dryer? What sort of mega wattage should I get?

As I said, it’s hard to get independent advice from sales people.

The first company I met with was called ‘Phat Energy’ and, as the name suggests, they are aiming to have cool solutions for all your Solar needs. The two guys that turned up seemed impressively prepared with figures and plans. Yet, if I am honest, because they were first company I met with they were at a little bit of a disadvantage.

Phat Energy provided a plan for an ‘off the grid’ scenario and a ‘pay back’ solution. The former is as it sounds, I generate electricity to cover all my needs. The latter essentially means that you make electricity during the day that pumps into the grid then at night I buy electricity if and when I need it.

The ‘pay back’ solution seems most sensible. I might very well turn a profit using this scenario.

After all federal and local grants, tax credits and rebates one can expect a 50% reduction on the initial cost. This makes solar a very affordable solution.

Still, at approximately $20k this capital investment will take 10 years or more to pay for itself.

I asked them to consider letting me pay them over three months. They balked but I urged them to consider it.

The younger of the two sales men from Phat was very persuasive. However, it made me smile when he tried to factor the increase of house value when making my decision. I laughed. Nobody is selling anything in my neighborhood and house prices have diminished by 30%. In my reckoning this financial situation/crisis may last for the next 7 years.

Ultimately the decision is largely a moral one. I believe that every house in Southern California should be generating electricity so I should put my money where my mouth is.

The second sales man, Alex, from Suntrek a company based out of Irvine. An ex-professional baseball player Alex explored the property thoroughly and creatively offered alternative solutions from water pumping to cooking. His visit was largely to assess the site and discuss my needs. Equipped with knowledge from the earlier conversation with ‘Phat’ this blue-eyed sales man quickly understood my needs and, he concluded, I will be hearing from him shortly.

The rest of the day was taken up with a visit from David the architect who will reconfigure the interior of the house-so I get to have another bedroom and use the space more efficiently. Hard on his heels the contractor pitched up, he will be building the goat and chicken shelter. Finally the guys from ‘An Edible Garden’, Julianna and Kevin.

Julianna was reassuringly posh and Kevin reassuringly gay. I liked their attitude and responses to the site. They spoke my garden language and I am going to very much enjoy working with them during the coming year. During their three hours at the house we discussed, amongst many other things, a timetable of events. These events included when and what crops would be planted, critters, irrigation and site preparation.

My friend Jennifer and her children arrived and we sat around imagining all sorts of jams, chutney’s and preserves that I might want to cook with excess produce.

Julianna and Kevin were particularly impressed with the natural spring at the bottom of the property, which will provide free water for the crops and will be pumped using a solar pump directly into the vegetable garden.

So, the Malibu house adventure has begun.

A Wild Ride in NYC

January 10, 2010 duncanroy 9 comments

Roque couldn’t meet me in the morning so went for a brisk walk down the Bowery in the cold wind. I walked to my barber on Rivington St but he and his wife have moved to LA. That, as we say in England, is a ‘result’.

Dogs do not, initially, like cold wind but get used to it after a bit and scamper along happily. The Little Dog has become very grumpy of late, he shouts at bicycles, motor bikes and skateboards and I am sad to say–the morbidly obese.

It would be easy for me to take issue with everything in the world just like the little dog but I really don’t have the energy. Again, this is exactly why I don’t have a TV–it just irritates me. This morning Dan had his TV bleating whilst I was trying to write and Michael Steele was boasting about how much money he had in the bank. Why would the chairman of the Republican party be boasting about that?

One of the greatest lessons I have learned during the past few years from my elderly friend ‘Coach’ (79 years old) is how to deal with negativity. He says, “Don’t take things personally, even when they’re meant personally.” It’s great advice. I am rarely rattled by personal insults or attacks and my belief in God keeps me safe from those who want me to know how much they disapprove of me or my lifestyle.

Hanging around the rooms of AA for many years has taught me so much. Mostly how to grow old with dignity, to understand the rigors of getting old. I used to fear infirmity but I am at peace with that too and whatever time may bring. Old age will hopefully come to us all. I know that many fear it–and they have every good reason. We do not treat the elderly with any great respect.

My mother never allowed my Grandmother to go into a home and visited her every day until she died age 96. Thank God for free health care as the poor woman spent the last 6 months of her life in hospital after a massive stroke.

Perhaps my mother would have made different decisions about my Grandmother’s life if she’d have had to think about how much keeping her own mother alive would cost.

If keeping my grandmother alive would have bankrupted my mother would she have pulled the plug?

Free health care, affordable education. Human rights. Not privileges.

The book deal that I came here to sign has been moved forward to Tuesday.

Lunch with Joan, Alexi and Dan at Café Cluny. Lots of fun. Bought a pair of shoes in the 70% off sale at Marc Jacobs. The sales guy in the store was so beautiful I told him that he was breaking the law. How can being that beautiful not be illegal?

Last night Dan and boyfriend Eric took me to an avant gard happening in the West Village that was, rather annoyingly, a pretentious load of old tosh. We stayed for the first half and left. Took a cab to Joe’s Pub where we met the gorgeous Lady Rizo.

Ate dinner with Lady Rizo and others at Bowery bar, my burger was very poorly executed, then headed over to DUMBO to see her perform at Galapagos. She really is a remarkable performer.

In bed by 2.30am. A perfectly lovely evening.

Expectations and Resentments

January 15, 2010 duncanroy 8 comments

I woke at 5.30am and made my way to JFK. My driver, a jolly chap from the Dominican Republic, saved us from smashing into the back of a reckless driver weaving all over the freeway.

I am suddenly OVER Virgin Airlines who have managed to lose the Marc Jacobs sunglasses they told me they found last week when I arrived.

I am sitting next to a very effusive Jewish girl who is typing and organizing and eating and reading prayers out loud, asks the same questions repeatedly and is THOROUGHLY irritating but funny. My expectation is to sit next to a cute, quiet male who will speak when spoken to and not read prayers out loud. My resentment stems from this unrealistic expectation.

I expect to get to the airport and have my sunglasses waiting for me. God has other plans.

Last night had dinner with Dan and Cooper at Prune on 1^st street. Delicious baked marrowbone (a la St John’s in London), pot au feu and trifle. Without a doubt I am falling in love and have to be incredibly careful that this love does not become a dangerous obsession. Remember what happened last time? Expectations and Resentments.

I spent a great deal of time seeing old friends whilst in NYC and meeting some new ones. I saw Daniel R briefly and met up with the last of the book agents. Very nice man who I found myself explaining my circle plan.

I am being remarkably well behaved. I am not flirting, intriguing or altering my route for the wrong reasons. I see and immediately own up to the men I objectify.

I spoke to another man with a dog in the street called Chandler who then later found me via this blog. Thanks! Keep in contact.

I called John in LA who is in the doldrums. We Sex Addicts, what a glum lot we can be. Saying that, I had a very healthy time in NYC. I enjoyed spending time with Benoit and being around his book launch and his boyfriend. I enjoyed what I heard in the rooms–especially from our compulsive brethren. I related to other men who spoke movingly about multiple, on-line identities. I felt as if I had a greater understanding of my addiction so am less at the mercy of it.

I am going back to LA to get on with the goat and chickens house that needs built ASAP. I am having a final meeting with the solar guy and waiting on a price and timetable from The Edible Garden.

Mudslides

January 21, 2010 duncanroy 10 comments

The Cloud Gobbled Us Up

The rain just keeps on coming. Folk are being evacuated over in Flintridge for fear of mudslides.

I paid my water bill yesterday and I asked the gentleman there if the Los Angeles County Waterworks harvest rain water. He didn’t know. He didn’t ‘think’ so. He said, after some thought, “No, we don’t harvest the rain water.”

During the worst of yesterday’s storm the trees were bent double, the rain was smacking into the house horizontally and a waterfall pounded under the drive. Perfectly normal, I might add, for Whitstable but noteworthy for Malibu.

One storm after another smashes into Southern California and will continue to do so until Friday. After the storms pass we will have a few days of glistening palm trees and clean air affording views for miles around then the black LA dust will start building up over everything all over again.

I am guessing that this winter will be very wet. Very, very wet.

Anyhow, the Democrats lost Massatusetts. It didn’t come as any great surprise. I imagine that it suits the White House as they now have a really good excuse not to do anything other than maintain the Bush status quo. Obama will have an even better excuse after the midterms when the Dems lose both houses to the Republicans and the arguments get easier. I am surprised we don’t all just start talking about terrorists again. It’s so much easier than discussing healthcare or equality for the gays.

Today Obama is ‘all up in my grill’ screaming at the banks–more hollow words from a president who sucks on the cock of the banking/insurance industries.

The problem with New Agers is that they don’t get back quickly enough. I am still waiting for the goat shelter to be built-so I can buy the goats. I am still waiting for the fencing man to get back to me and the gardeners with their plan. The only people who get back in a timely fashion are the solar guys who all want to sell $40k solar systems.

Sometimes I have a waking nightmare that by buying goats and chickens and creating a kitchen garden there is something oddly Michael Jackson about me. It was just a fleeting thought.

Post Sex Rehab Thoughts

January 29, 2010 duncanroy 10 comments

Beautiful, clear days after the big rains came and went. I am in Malibu with Cooper. We are cooking, walking and gardening. He has found a garden bench where, one day soon, the goats will roam. He sits there and reads quietly, leaving me up here in the house to write my novel and call Verizon to add telephone services-a most frustrating task.

Sean, the goat and permaculture guy arrived yesterday afternoon. He was much younger than I imagined. He arrived with a black eye and a big smile and I knew immediately that he would be the ONE. The ONE who would build the goat shelter, re-fence the property and redistribute the spring water into where the vegetables will grow. He looked enviously at the spring and pushed his fingers into the soil and told me how lucky I was.

Sean explained how he intended pumping water to the terraced vegetable garden using a solar powered pump. He explained how to deal with gophers and raccoons. He explained how we would mulch the land and work with the subtle California seasons to our best advantage.

He wandered the property in awe and in turn it sprawled out before him at it’s lushest best. His property, Sean explained, is rockier and dryer. Everything is so green, here on the mountain, at this time of year. The days are occasionally hot but mostly overcast. Still, at 68 degrees a whole lot nicer than grey winter days in London or Herne Bay..or Margate.

Sean has chickens, goats and, interestingly, a small horse that protects the goats from the coyote. My neighbor Trevor, who lives near the PCH, is worried about my keeping goats and chickens because he seems to think that they are impossible to protect.

The great thing about optimistic Sean was that he came up to the house without getting lost, armed with solution and solution is what I need. As he was leaving I told him that I was excited to work with him, he grinned and said, it was going to be easy as everything I wanted he had just completed on his own property.

Last night hung at Amanda’s. Delicious risotto. Great company.

Amusing post Sex Rehab anecdote: I am minding my own business at the luggage carousel at LAX waiting for my luggage when I notice that a bunch of 14-year-old girls have recognized me. In fact, about fifty 14 year-old girls have noticed that I am waiting for my luggage. Unable to escape I cling to one of the nearest fellow traveler for support. “Help me.” I say. There is a frenzy of prepubescent window tapping and photo taking when out of the melee a teacher approaches me and asks, “Are you that guy from Sex Rehab?” My voice is cracked and tiny as I tell her that I am. She then calls over the girls who ask for autographs and photographs. But, I’m thinking, I’m a guy on a show called sex rehab-surely you shouldn’t want to have your picture taken with me.

3:57 AM

July 28, 2006 – Friday

DORIAN GRAY-THE PROCESS

I showed Dorian Gray last Sunday. I like to show my most arrogant friends who have little regard for me because I am sure of a truthful opinion. Thankfully they loved it. My friend said that I had taken all the best bits of the novel and made it come alive.

I dont think that people in the US will get this film. Whenever Americans see it they ask a million questions without waiting for the answers that exist in the film. When I show it to Europeans they get it immediately. Theres nothing bad about this-its merely cultural. A question of a different sort of education. The history of ideas that informs a European viewer is quite different from an American. Roland Mouret the fashion designer and long time friend said-well you KNEW that that was going to happen didnt you? Frankly, I didnt. The constant explanations required in US movies dampen and distort the narrative. The simplest explanation is all that is required, I am told this all the time. The problem with Dorian Gray is that it is novel about complex ideas and even more complex solutions.

When I decided to adapt Dorian Gray I was fascinated by two things, firstly the earlier, unpublished version of the book that was serialised in the Lippincott Monthly Review grabbed my attention. In this version it is perfectly clear that Basil is gay. He tells Dorian that he could never love a woman. He is explicit about his desire for Dorian. His obsession kills them both. The second, compelling reason for making this film was just how much of myself (and the description of my dead father) that I saw in Dorian. In fact people who have seen earlier cuts have told me just how Davids performance at the end of the film is just like ME. Obviously this was going to happen-David needed to morph into something quite unlike his role in 7th Heaven. He starts the movie like this but very quickly it becomes evident that he is changing-what he changes into is me.

Like AKA there are very highly stylised elements in Dorian Gray, the split screen the use of words on the screen-the constant references to art and artists. The film is deliberately arty and to that end I think is better suited to playing in galleries. How do we gage the value of an art film? I have no idea.

I am not frightened of this film being labelled as gay because I am and there are themes in both the movie and the book. However, it is more literary than gay. It was made for those of us who read and love the novel. I had to make a crucial decision at the beginning of my adaptation-do I make a film for people who think that they know the story or who definitely know the story. Even people who have read the novel are unaware of the age of Sybil for instance-she was 15! They are unaware that the story was written over an 18 year period-the time it takes a boy to become a man. Dorian, as played by David Gallagher, is a slim boy. We did not attempt to cast an obviously beautiful boy because beauty is subjective. For some I would never have chosen a beautiful enough boy. Beauty is subjective. Youth is indisputable.

Who is Gabriel? The most obvious and controversial departure from the original text is the character Gabriel. I was captivated by the line-’poisonous influence of his own nature’. What did this mean? Instead of passing this by I decided to introduce us to the human form of the poisonous influence a character called Gabriel, a rent boy who may or may not have known Oscar, a traveller in time. Gabriel is Dorian’s poisonous influence-the voice of the ‘other’.

I was really worried that the final abstract chapters of the novel that chart his decent into hell would not work but we shot them anyway pretty much as they were written. In fact, these chapters work the best of all. The abstract decent into hell suits film perfectly. It is the earlier, dramatic part of the film that works more traditionally. Getting people to care, introducing them to the characters.

When we adapt a great novel we have to bring something of our own lives into the equation. It is not good enough to tell it as it was written but actually to reveal what it says about the way we live our lives now.

There has been so much discussion about what David will be like as Dorian Gray. Unanimously people who have seen his take on Dorian love his performance. They understand that they are looking at a remarkable young actor who holds the entire film together with understated, elegant performance. I love to look at David, it is apparent from the way we shot the movie that we needed to fetishise him. I needed to fall in love with David so that every frame of the film is devoted to revealing his beauty-just as Basil Hallward reveals Dorians.

Every element in this film adaptation of Dorian Gray originated from the words of Oscar Wilde. I wrote the adaptation in Sydney Australia-where I love to write. It took three months to sketch it out, to stay true to the original. Now we are making the sound track and Laura Karpman has found every musical reference in the book and is reinventing it.

It is a most exciting time.

3:54 AM

August 3, 2006 – Thursday

Chris P and Sebastian Horsley in London

Sebastian Horsley’s Birthday Message to me this year:

Happy Birthday cocksucker. Hope it’s your last

Are you amazed that you have arrived at middle age without having syphilis?

Is it a terrible shock that you are getting too old to die young?

From now on I don’t want you to do anything that you don’t want to do. Except grow old. After a lifetime of defeat we shall become senile delinquents.

So big boy. Stay Youthful: Watch the posture. Dress young. Keep your hair on. Hold it all in. Improve the bad bits. Avoid the daylight. And remember…There is only one real way to avoid getting old. hang yourself while young.

I met Sebastian Horsley in Edinburgh when I was 22. HE looked like a pop star. I was in a show ‘devised by actors’ and directed by Neil Bartlett called PORNOGRAPHY-a Spectacle. Ivan Cartwright, Robin Whitmore and me telling the audience through the medium of mime, physical theatre and contemporary dance what sort of sexual antics we got up to. We sang and danced and stripped and simulated sex and talked about the history of gay sex in London. It was Neil, at this time, who introduced me to Teleny-The Diaries of a Marianne, pornography attributed to Oscar Wilde. In my retelling of the story of Dorian Gray it is this book that Henry Wooten gives Dorian Gray rather than A Rebours (Huysmans). Teleny’s stories lingered with me for many years and so it seemed perfectly natural to use them in my version of Dorian Gray.

The show played at The ICA in London, “Now there are 4 queens performing on the Mall.” Neil used to say. We pulled in the punters, packed houses every night. The queens loved us although it took me a bit of time to get up to speed. I was petrified of the leering audience. Each night the others would try and assuage my fear by massaging me. That sort of stuff never works. I just get even more anxious. I over come my fear by having an almighty row. And, until I had a huge row with Neil, the director, I was dreadful. After the row with Neil, however, I found my performance and pretty much stole the show.

Ivan Cartwright is a wonderful, glamorous northern drag queen. He used to look like Bianca Jagger, a seasoned performer, he was well known for his cult stage show in gay bars and arts centers performing alternative drag-not Judy, Lisa or Barbra for Ivan. Oh no, he came on as Imelda Marcos flinging shoes into the audience. More disturbingly, for some of the audience, Ivan did a cracking Myra Hindley.

Whilst we were on tour in Nottingham we went to the Nottingham Ice Rink (Home of Champions) where Ivan was going to teach me and Robin how to skate. Ivan was wearing a short black boucle skirt. After a while of us screaming and falling on to the ice we started attracting altogether the wrong sort of attention. It was obvious to everyone else on the rink that the very gay cast of PORNOGRAPHY-a spectacle was there; they didn’t appreciate our gayness-they began to circle us threateningly on the ice. Ivan whispered to us both to slowly start moving toward the exit. Tearing our skates off we were chased out of the building by a hyterical, Nottingham, homophobic mob. We fled through the front door. 6 yards behind us they were gaining ground-we could hear one particular girl’s voice screaming vile abuse at us. Hearing her shrill, youthful voice Ivan suddenly stopped in the doorway, rounding on them all with such a fierce model turn that they stopped abruptly, as one, in their tracks. In the face of this magnificent drag queen the ugly mob stood silently. Robin and I hid behind Ivan. The poorly dressed, screaming girl fearlessly took one step toward us. She spat on the floor and screamed at Ivan, “You are a fucking QUEER!!” Ivan, gathering himself up like he was performing his finale at The Black Cap, slowly raised his hand, pointed a bony finger at her and said,”My dear girl, I’ve heard what you’ve had to say about me-and what you say is correct. I am a fucking queer! Now you listen to ME! I shall tell you something about YOU. One day, young lady, you will have a child and I shall tell you now-that child will be GAY! Undoubtedly, my dear-you will learn to love that gay child-as my mother loves me.” It was like a spell had been cast. The mob looked at her appalled, the girl’s eyes widened in horror. She stood silently for a moment then she started crying. Ivan swept out of the building. I know in my heart that the girl had a gay child. I know it. Ivan’s powers were legendary.

We went to Venice together a few months after the show-him in full drag. I don’t mean bad drag I mean-really chic. We were in Harry’s bar and a Texan started propositioning him, which Ivan let happen for many, many drinks. I sat on the edge watching a far better spectacle than the one we had been performing. Toward the end of the night the Texan said to Ivan, “You’ve a very deep voice honey, have you got a cold?” Ivan let out a drunken screech, “It’s a lot worse than that daaarlin.”

Ivan did not come to Toronto with us on tour. Sadly, he stayed in London. Things got very bitter and twisted in Canada. I really thought I was a huge STAR by then. We were performing in the Poor Alex Theatre, which was tiny. I was only ever wearing black and kabuki white make up and pearls and drinking for England. There is one particularly bad picture of me taken at this time-it is almost worth scanning. Remember I had only just come out of prison. I was insane! Poor Neil really did a brilliant job of dealing with me. He was a saint.

Until we got to Toronto I had never met anybody with HIV or AIDS. I stayed with a couple of good looking young men who were both positive. Then, to be positive was as good as dead. It was terrible. I never looked back to see if those men survived, a couple of years later every man I had met in NYC was dead.

Anyway, we are in Edinburgh on our UK tour of freezing theatres and I meet Sebastian. He was working for and being rodgered senseless by the famous, married ex con, murderer Jimmy Boyle. Jimmy ran a gallery there in Edinburgh and though him I met Richard DeMarco the gallery owner and Dione Henderson the art collector. They were so sweet to me. So, after the tour ended I moved to Edinburgh and the next chapter of my life unfolded as a gallery assistant. I moved into a huge apartment with Dione and her three children. I loved Edinburgh, walked everywhere, getting used to the smell of the brewery. I love a city with a mountain in the heart of it.

It was in Edinburgh that I met Jay Jopling for the first time. He stormed into the Demarco Gallery, he was wearing a poncho and demanded to know where Joseph Beuys was. When I told him that Joseph was at home in Germany Jay was FURIOUS. He didn’t believe me. I just stared at him. “I want to talk to Richard (DEMarco)?” he screamed, I just looked at him, looked at this great big charming crow of a boy flapping around in his poncho and smiled. That was the beginning. The usual gayness happened at some point but it might have been after the dance floor ecstasy moment we had in a gay club with DM and LJ and MN in Kent of all places. Dancing to Pink Cadillac. Riding in the back-cruising down the streets-spending all your money on a saturday night. Pink cadillac. Until Jay got really famous we were really good friends. When I had my nervous breakdown it was he who collected me from the hospital. When he had his first Damian Hirst show it was me he dragged a head of the crowd and said “Look at the titles-they are genius.” I was so proud of him. It was at my house that he and Maia Norman came weekend after weekend. Maia left him for Damian Hirst. Jay was a real friend and my first real friend lost to celebrity.

I know that his other friends grumble about being left behind or abandoned but that is what he always wanted, the life he bargained for. I really don’t blame him. I am really happy for him. I am! Despite the art connections and the poncho-Jay never really made it as a a Dandy, he is brilliant businessman.

Sebastian Horsley, on the other hand, is a true dandy. He wears three piece suits with chatreuse lining. The knot in his tie is as big as a fist. I have seen him lose his wife and battle an addiction to crack cocaine. He and I were with each other the night they buried Diana of Wales. It was a dark night in London that night. He is a loyal friend who writes a sweet note every time we meet. I have pictures of him swimming with sharks, fucking a woman with no arms or legs, being crucified in the Philippines. I remember him wild eyed on crack storming the streets of Soho hunting for prostitutes. I think he is perfectly normal.

Sebastian lives on Merde Street in Soho. On his front door are the words. THIS IS NOT A BROTHAL, THERE ARE NO PROSTITUTES HERE-which is total lie. There are always prostitutes there-in Sebastian’s bed. I think that it was in Merde Street that I hid from a gang of skin heads. Ivan had persuaded me, before a performance of PORNOGRAPHY, to dress in high heels, a mini dress and a long black wig and pose in Berwick Street market whilst he took photographs. I have no idea why-this behaviour is simply a result of hanging out with a man who likes dressing up in women’s clothing, eventually you get in on the act. “Exhibitionism is a drug and by that time I was taking lethal doses.” (Quentin Crisp) Anyway, as usual we had to run away from men who take exception to that sort of thing. “The roughs are coming!”

Sebastian Horsley

Recently, I took a genuinely normal boy to meet Sebastian-my very sweet friend Chris P the TV actor. Chris is a an utterly charming boy. Previously I had taken him to The Colony in an attempt to delight him with a glimpse of an alternative London. My experiment failed. Chris thought that the Colony, the great beating bohemian heart of London was horrible. He didn’t like it. He looked scared. He was not interested in the art or the charactors dressed in huge jewels or zoot suits. Those people in that tiny room shocked him, he was unaware of the history of that room. In that room the greatest art dramas had been played out, that Francis Bacon held court there, destroyed the confidence of his boyfriend publicly in that room. Go see the film: Love is the Devil if you want to know more about The Colony.

So, Chris and I are shopping in John Pearse on Merde Street. I bought a pink linen shirt. You know who John is? He made The Sargent Pepper uniforms for the Beatles. John owned a shop on the Kings Road called Granny Takes a Trip in the 1960’s. As we were on the same street, on the spur of the moment I wickedly decided to introduce cautious Chris to Sebastian. Chris is 5′10″. When Chris met Sebastian, 6′5″ tall wearing a lurid tie, his raven black hair swept into a huge bouffant in his rooms in Soho, he was struck dumb. He looked at the pictures of the crucifixion, the limbless woman and the sharks. He was visibly distressed when he saw the nails that been nailed into Sebastian’s hands during the crucifixion. He was appalled when I told him that Sebastian had fallen off the cross. Chris noticed the gun by Sebastian’s bed. “What is that for? Is it real? Why do you have it by your bed?” Sebastian, picking it up to show us the real bullets said, “I don’t believe in unprotected sex.”

5:12 AM –

July 29, 2006 – Saturday

My Baby Drink Red Bull

I have no idea why we treat ourselves so badly.

Randle and I looked at each other and howled with laughter.

“My baby drinks red bull.”

11:02 PM

GAY BASHED
Category: Friends

I had not seen Jono for months. We met ten years ago in Covent Garden the day that HRH the Queen and I were having lunch at the Ivy. Of course, I was not at her table. Nor were Chris Eubank (charging his mobile phone) or Torville and Dean (too much make up) but we were, all of us, still in the Ivy that strange summer lunch time in the mid 90s. Jono was 20 years old and had-still does-the hugest most magnificent smile. He was selling throw pillows with Mao and Marx silk-screened on to them. He originally comes from the Pacific Rim and his long, aquiline nose on his face reminds me every time I see him of those huge heads on the Easter Islands. I think that I was still with JBC then and lived in Kensington.

Anyway, after the obvious cock showing and gayness we settled into a periodic friendship which usually meant that I saw him getting out of limousines with Elton or Patrick. Two things have tremendously endeared me to Jono; the first is purely selfish-he likes me. The second; a young boy over dosed and died in his bed beside him. Jono dealt with it so compassionately and well, dealing with the boy’s family and friends.

There was a Scottish boy who killed himself who used to hang around with that lot. He was from the northern most part of the isles up there in the Hebrides. He escaped the bleak north of scotland by joining the army. I met him on a train and after the usual gayness we became friends. He was always so well dressed-so careful. However, he got in with the wrong gay crowd and one day he told all his friends that he was going to kill himself, said his goodbyes and then took enough drugs to kill three Scottish squaddies. I digress.

So Jono and I met up last Tuesday night in Soho, he was wearing a trim cut shirt and tight beige pants-Dior I think. We ate sashimi and I told him all my LA stories and he told me all of his world traveller tales. Like normal people are with rats-Jono is never more than six feet away from a celebrity at any time-they gravitate toward him so his stories are always fascinating. Art dealer and artist wife-he’s gay etc.

We wandered to café Nero to drink latte and as we were leaving a very cute, young boy passes us on Old Compton Street, the gayest street in the most liberal capital in the world. We both looked at the boy and agreed that he was cute. The boy reacted very badly and started asking us what we were looking at. I said-you, of course. You are very cute. He was FURIOUS! He started swearing and calling us queers. Well I tell you that in all the years that I have lived in London this has never happened to me.

Actually, it wasnt really happening to me. It was happening to Jono who was then grappling with this boy in a sort of pathetic argy bargy. The boy let Jono go and walked on and we were indignant but something began to overwhelm me. I was furious, absolutely furious. We kept a pace with the boy and suddenly he grabbed a bottle from a table and rushed at Jono. I grabbed the lads hand, made him drop the bottle which smashed on the road and then I took the back of the boys neck slammed his face into a parked car and beat his head with my fist. Aparently I was screaming “How dare you.” Anyway, the boy and I had more posturing on the street, including me creaming at him, “Go sell your ass in another part of town.” Then I went to Soho House for a strong coffee.

I was elated. He eventually ran off. Of course, it was like we had had sex with the boy-and he with us. He wanted the attention of gay men or he wouldnt have been there. He simply did not know what sort of attention he was going to get.

I said good-bye to Jono and gave him numbers to call once he gets to LA. Jono is one of those for life kind of friends.

11:33 AM

What was I thinking?

Sunday.

My body craved the daily walk up Runyon Canyon that I denied it this morning. My thighs hurt from the leg work out at the gym. Took the bus from Labrea to Doheny along Sunset. Walked down hill from Sunset to Santa Monica. The bus is the university bus so it has fewer mad people on it. Less amputees and hunchbacks, fewer old men singing religious songs. The bus along Santa Monica Blvd is the worst for that kind of freak show. Once I saw a man with his head bandaged in loo roll, a wad of loo roll stuffed in his mouth. He could have been Matthew Barney making some sort of site-specific artwork I suppose but I doubt it.

When I lived in Santa Monica I took the Blue Bus all the way up Wilshire to the agencies. I had meetings with teams of agents from CAA and Endeavour and ICM and all the usual suspects. When AKA happened I never expected the positive reaction and was totally unprepared. Unprepared for the BAFTA nomination. Unprepared for the applause. It is what people come here to LA wishing, praying for and I did not know what to do with it when it was offered to me. You should have seen their agent faces when I told them that I had taken the bus. This was EVIDENCE of insanity.

It should have been a wonderful time after AKA but it was a terrible stress. It was the only time in my life that my enemies had to work over time to keep me down. They were so desperate they ended up revealing themselves. It was good to know that I wasn’t a mad paranoid fool. I had evidence that people did not want me to get on in Hollywood. Threatening e-mails, anonymous phone calls to agents and double-dealing. It was funny that these people were going to all this effort-you know I cannot blame them. They have their reasons but it is true that what goes around comes around. We all pay for our cruelties in the end.

I went from being totally ignored in London, being told that nobody would be interested in my film by Paul T at The Film Council to having all the major talent agencies chasing me. They were tenacious. Even after I had signed with Endeavour one agent drove all the way to Santa Monica to beg me to change my mind about the agency I had signed with. She said to me, in an attempt to persuade me to sign with her, “We have so much in common-we both like being fucked in the ass.” Another, hearing my ambitions to make low budget films warned that I would “..end up like Ken Loach.” I heard all of their best agent lines and was unprepared for them. I laughed at their rehearsed speeches. If I had that time again would I do it differently? Of course I would! I lasted all of one week with Endeavour.

One smug agent thought that my big black leather Smythson’s Diary that I sat beside me during our meeting was a Bible and calling in the assistant to bear witness to her wit asked me what chapter I was reading. I looked at my diary and said carefully, “September?” The assistant watched her boss squirm for a moment then offered me a coke.

Much of what being successful is, is knowing what to do when opportunity is offered to you. I didn’t. I accept my own part in that disaster. Thank God I have never truly desired more than I could have. The concept of ‘enough’ is alien to most people. I am a single man. How much do I need? Do I need a huge house to kick about in on my own? That would just make me lonely. I think that my house in Whitstable is too big for me. It only really comes alive when it has a family in it. That is what it was built for-a family. Children running and screaming up and down the stairs.

I sat in on my 11.45 log cabin AA meeting but I was twitchy and felt odd once again to be there. It did not feel the same as the ones I go to in London. I did not feel safe there. Spoke briefly to a brit who wants to use in his hotel room. He may call. I did my duty. I reached out to another alcoholic. I am working my steps with my sponsor. I am doing what I can at this moment.

Claudia collected me from Starbucks and we ate a nasty lunch in a cafe on Cahuenga. We talked about Eugenio as usual. What a life he leads! I am glad not to be pimping for him anymore. Dragging boys up from Hyde or The Abbey to the ten million dollar mansion with Richard for EL to impress with his art and drugs. What was I doing there? What did I think could possibly be the outcome of such a friendship?

I napped in the afternoon.

Made dinner for Victor and Ken and Ken’s wife. We ate two courses then played backgammon. Lovely evening.

When they all left I settled down to write this. I thought about something that has been haunting me for months maybe years. I never understood why Jay Jopling and I fell out. It has always been a mystery to me. He was once my close friend-then I was ignored. One day, last year, I was with a woman who admitted to me that she had lied to him about me. She admitted to me that she told him lies that I knew would have upset him greatly. Jay is a loyal man and will not tolerate disloyalty. SHE destroyed our relationship. I suddenly missed him. I missed him being my friend as he had been and now never would be-even if that woman called him tonight and told him the truth Jay and I would have missed out on so much together.

I remember JBC telling me that our relationship would only work if we ignored what people said about us. My relationship with JBC lasted seven years.

Must go to bed.

October 13, 2006 – Friday

Frieze

Moffy stayed in bed yesterday ill with the ‘flu. Poor darling, all limp and pale like a rag doll. I sat on the lilac sofa and wrote my article for Blackbook and filed it by 12 o’clock.

When Nick left we gave each other the hugest hug. I kissed him on the neck.

Missed buying Ryan McGinley’s pissing boy by ten minutes.

I did not see Samia, which was very odd. She was there but we curiously missed one another.

Ended up, of course, at Soho House with Nick Moran for late egg and chips. Night bus home.

September 20, 2006 – Wednesday

Gay Gene

Yesterday Steve the beautiful actor came with his huge car and we drove to Bonham’s to collect my new desk. When I got it home I was so excited because I had to rearrange my sitting room to accommodate it. I LOVE rearranging; it is and has always been my greatest pleasure. I filled the draws and set out my lucky desk creatures: my lucky bird, my lucky cow, my lucky Jesus, my lucky saint. It is, I am certain, the gay gene that determines that I know how to scatter cushions and place ornaments in such a way that when Greg Yeardye popped over last night he said: “You have such great taste.” Thanks GY. Darling Phil used to berate me for talking about home décor rather than deal with any problem we might have. Even when I was in prison my cell was perfectly clean and rearranged and the other prisoners would stop by and hang out.

September 25, 2006 – Monday

“You Must be Very Excited”

Many folk acknowledged us.

I appreciated her honesty, her candour.

Even better than all of that: I can shoot the film in England if we so wish.

Keeping a secret is so bloody difficult; this week I have drawn blood biting my tongue.

They said, “Never be frightened to ask. If you don’t know-0ask. Keep asking.”

Before she died Vera called me and she said with unusual pessimism, “Duncan, I think that we are living in an increasingly evil world.” I hoped that she was wrong about that but look around you.

Look at what the corporation is doing to our lives.

October 1, 2006 – Sunday

Warren Beatty and Annette Benning

Today is also my stepfather’s birthday; a hideous coincidence.

That night I could not wait to get into my bed.

No walk on Saturday. Will picks me up at 7am for 8am AA meeting. After meeting I drive with new sponsor (who is a fucking DREAM) on impromptu trip up PCH.

Communists like John Reed and Louise Bryant?

Bennett just gushed incoherently over Warren for an hour after the film ended. A more sycophantic interview I could not have imagined. This was a totally wasted opportunity.

Met Craig Emmanuelle. Met the guy who directed Fly Boys and his wife who produced North Country.

Had long, constructive chat with Sharon on the way home.

In bed by 1.30am.

Fuck you Tyra

November 24, 2009 duncanroy 19 comments

It is really hard not to look at pornography. It’s really difficult when you wake up at 4.30am with a troubled mind not to use porn like you might take an Ambian.

Being sober for 13 years, sadly Ambian is out of the question. I have no option other than to sit with uncomfortable feelings until they go away–or climb Runyon with the dogs.

(If only my life were an opera.)

You see, I was born to be fearless. I was born to take risks. To be an artist and a gardener and a butler and a saint.

So, when I wake up in the morning and I don’t masturbate to porn–I choose life. I choose not to throw a warm blanket over my feelings and start the day raw.

Jennie and I walked Runyon yesterday. It was beautiful up there. It is always beautiful up there looking down from Mulholland over the great, gasping city of LA.

Oh yeah–fuck you Tyra for not having me on your show–but actually I don’t care, she’s too tabloid–even for an attention hound like me.

Categories: Dogs, Gay, Rehab Tags: food, Malibu, santa ana

Anthony my Acerbic Grunt and Eroticized Rage

November 29, 2009 duncanroy 60 comments

Malibu November Garden

It would take twenty years for me to know how to deal with my anger and then quite suddenly–it would be gone.

Pat Carnes says, “Anger and sex can be fused in such a way that it is self-perpetuating, self-destructive, and once ignited, independent of culture and even family.”

There are always consequences for my rage.

After my rage–I think about sex. I go online and look at men. I masturbate. I want to be close to them.

Who is Anthony? Anthony, caged deep inside of me, only stirs when I feel embarrassed, vulnerable, besieged or when I need protecting from the conspiring world.

When he leaps forward to defend the helpless child I used to be, my accent, posture and face completely change.

As I found out in rehab the solution for my anger turns out to surprisingly simple.

So I say firmly but politely, “Anthony, I can deal with this situation. Thanks, I can handle this.”

I had three great revelations in Sex Rehab and this was the first. More will be revealed.

Categories: Rehab

Fashion/Prison

December 11, 2009 duncanroy 14 comments

Everything falling: today’s theme. The unusual sound of rain falling over Hollywood, Luna falling off of the bed at 3am and having to be helped back up. The little dog burrowed beside me. I think his dewclaw has fallen off. He looks more comfortable. As for claws or nails or rain or cats and dogs falling–the little fingernail that fell off after my Big Dog was killed has finally grown back. A full seven months it took.

My therapy session yesterday with Jill cleared my muddy mind.

People ask all the time about the clothes I wear on the show Sex Rehab. The sunglasses I wear are either Paul Smith ($65 on sale) or Tom Ford ($350 not on sale). Let me put your minds at ease: I usually spend NOTHING on clothes and keep them forever (I still wear a Romeo Gigli suit I bought 25 years ago), wearing them well after the moths have eaten them. The secret, of course, is buying beautiful pieces and developing a specific style. I love the cut of my Dior pants, the theatrical kick of a Vivienne Westwood jacket…and her accessories–my favorite sweater full of moth holes is a Westwood classic. I used to wear tons of Helmet Lang before Gucci fired him. I bring out the Lang for special occasions. I have a beautiful Helmut bondage cardigan that I am going to wear today.

I love talking to you because you remind me…

My favorite designer is Rei Kawakubo for Commes des Garcons. Oh Rei, how I worship you–I worship Japanese designers: Issy Miyake, Yohji Yamamoto, Rei. REI! Every time I wear the navy cardigan I bought in Paris from your hidden store on the Rue Saint-Honore people jump out at me! They notice the elegant detail, they want to know where…who…how?

Well people, the secret is in the search and the timing. I never buy anything unless I LOVE it. Every season I buy just one item at the full price to enjoy the experience, having it served properly, having it wrapped beautifully. Then for delicious bargains, getting to Barney’s or Fred Segal at just that moment when sale items crash from 40% off to 70% off.

If you arrive in Hollywood with a suitcase and a dream then you have come for one thing and one thing only–the film industry. The most handsome boys and the most beautiful girls from all over the USA. The prom kings and queens who sparkled in their High School musical all end up here. From all over the world, writers, directors, producers–they too turn up in LA sooner or later. Some of them end up leaving as fast as they came, others become waiters or waitresses looking to be discovered and for a select few there will be a place at the table. It’s the same thing in Paris. The streets jammed with hopeful, hopeless lovers of fashion. As I would arrive in Hollywood years later in search of the studio–I arrived in Paris aged 17 totally in awe of the big fashion houses, worshiping at the iron gates of St Laurent as I would the gates of Paramount.

Paris! What an amazing adventure. Apart from reinventing myself as Lord Anthony Rendlesham, I also illustrated for fashion magazines, styled for photographers (where r u Jim Greenburg?), formed opinions about haute couture, prêt-a-porter and ‘tendance de la mode.’ I went to every show every season, met every designer: Karl, Yves, Chantal, Emmanuelle, Angelo, Thierry, Jean-Paul…I watched elderly women with soft voices cover an entire couture frock with 14 lbs of tiny jet beads. I learned how to sew a cuff onto a sleeve, a collar onto a blouse, a placket, a peplum, to drape, a toile, organza, interfacing! The language of fashion became my language.

These are the languages I learned during the past 45 years: fashion, cuisine, film. I can speak all of them fluently.

It was in Paris that I met Fred Hughes, elegant mercurial Fred Hughes. His slicked back hair and beautiful apartment on the Rue de Cherche Midi, his paintings by Girardot , his linen sheets, his vetivert. He showed me how to take cocaine and heroin. You know, I was such a prude. I didn’t have sex ever with any of them. Now they are all dead.

Fashion, take it as seriously as you want to take it. I love it as much as I love cooking and film making.

Within a few years I would learn an altogether different language: the language of prison. I can speak that fluently too but I seldom get the chance. Thankfully.

I read about Bernie Madoff in his medium security prison yesterday. Harlene Horowitz, who lost her Brentwood, Calif. home and other assets in Mr. Madoff’s Ponzi scheme.

“For someone who lived so high, he can’t be happy in his surroundings,” she says.

It struck home forcefully. Not because I agree with her but because if Bernie is anything like me then he’ll be doing just fine. He’ll be making the best of it. He’s a survivor. Bernie Madoff is cushioned from the reality of prison by fantasy. The same fantasy that persuaded him he would never get caught. I know what that feels like. I know what it’s like to be in prison, treading carefully, never looking anyone in the eye or speaking unless spoken to.

Lower Companions

December 19, 2009 duncanroy 43 comments

When I gave up taking cocaine and drinking I remember that friends would call at 3 in the morning on my house phone. I’d say, “Why the hell are you calling so late?” They’d mumble back that they were ‘drunk’. At 9 the following morning I would return their call. They’d say, “What the hell you calling so early?” I’d reply, “I’m sober.”

The halcyon days of early sobriety. Clean sheets and brushed teeth. I got sober October 1^st 1996. How I loved that first autumn and winter of my sobriety in London. Flying around town in that cute little green Porsche those other men said I drove like a handbag, living in that glorious house in Kensington and wearing wonderful clothes. Within two years that would all be gone. Those were the tough lessons of early sobriety.

Lesson one: Whatever I have right now is ENOUGH and enough is all I need.

My last but one blog before I pack up my twitter bag and change my blog direction.

Back to today’s theme: Lower Companions.

Yesterday’s blog caused my usual commentators some consternation. ‘I will never read another word you ever write!’ One woman scrawled. ‘Poor Jennie! Poor Eric.’ They bawled. Let me tell you something blog readers/commentators. I enjoyed deleting those pathetic comments.

That’s how far I sank. Hankering to be let into the Jenny and Eric club? Are you fucking kidding? Their shrill laughter and bad skin. Over lit kitchens and badly cooked food. That’s how far I sank. Swimming in the sewer with Jenny and Eric. Come on pornstars–bring it on!

I turned and said to Anthony Rendlesham, “Get behind me, Henry Higgins! You are a stumbling block to me; you do not have in mind the things of God, but the things of men.”

So that was the state of my scrambled mind yesterday. That and dog issues to deal with and lawyers late at night and the reckoning–which is Polish for cheque please!

Can you remember a time when all your closest friends began to die all at once?

I had breakfast with John and whilst we were eating Benoit emailed me and I was flush with pride. Then, in the afternoon, after a long walk on Runyon with Isaiah who wore tight brown boots and a pompadour, Joe stopped by. Beautiful, sweet adorable, bright-eyed Joe.

Nihilism is sometimes used to explain the general mood of despair at the perceived pointlessness of existence that one may develop upon realizing there are no necessary norms, rules, or laws.

I realized what had happened when I first met Joe and his gang of friendly friends. The revulsion I felt. These beautiful young men gathered around me talking and having fun and I felt nauseous. I called my therapist Jill and she said, “How old did you feel?” And I said, “Not like I was a child…more like in my early twenties.” And I saw that I had never ever talked about being left behind by my tribe who had all died and I had not. That there were so many funerals and tearful farewells with boys just like Joe. With friends who one felt abandoned by–even though they had died and I had not!

One day you faint when the gardener cuts his finger the next you’re wrapping the dead, emaciated body of a young man in a turning cloth because nobody else will do it.

Do you remember Danny and Evan? Do you remember how much they loved each other? How they couldn’t bear to be apart? How kind Evan was and how beautiful it was to hear Danny tell Even how much he loved him. Evan looked just like Joe and was just as full of hope. They both lay screaming in separate hospital beds surrounded by nurses dressed in body suits. Danny was screaming because he didn’t want to die. He was too young. ‘I’m too young.’

I asked Joe to imagine a world where he watched all his young friends die of AIDS. Every beautiful man he knew and loved dying in the most harrowing, ugly way. Regardless of income. Plagued by shame.

I don’t want to hear ONE criticism of me or my life. I lived through a fucking plague that killed all my friends and I survived! I survived. Survive to be excluded by people like Jenny and Eric? Fuck that.

And I never talk about it because I can’t. It’s not my tragedy–it’s ours.

Categories: Malibu, Rant, Self Sufficiency

Romance and Finance

December 26, 2009 duncanroy 10 comments

I find myself, like the rest of the Christian world, in limbo. The dark, dark days between Christmas and New Years Eve.

Woke up at decent hour. Fed dogs raw meat their Special Christmas Treat and apparently very good for them. They seem to love it. Long walk around Hollywood wearing my red shoes. Seems to cause consternation to some passers by. Red shoes, yellow socks.

Not wearing my waistcoat–we don’t say vest in England unless referring to an under garment.

Watched Another Country before I went to bed. Cried buckets of tears at the end. That movie still speaks volumes to me. I wonder how Rupert feels if he ever sees it? Him looking so beautiful. What must any of those actors think?

It reminded me, of course, of being in love when I was young. Yet most people must think of first, young love after watching that movie.

You know, I have been in love. Real love. The sort of yearning love that hurts so much you want to die. I’ve felt that. Oh bugger. I loved you so much! I loved you in spite of my worst fear. I wanted you to love me back–so badly.

‘That’s a deep sigh.’ He said. “Falling in love with a man is so exquisite. Every time I feel this way I don’t know if I can carry on.”

Fred Hughes, I just wanted to write a moment longer about Freddy Hughes. Remember, I met Freddy in Paris when I was still a teenager and he couldn’t have been much older than 30. He was running the Andy Warhol empire. Chic and funny he captivated me with his charm, not his life. I didn’t really understand his life until I arrived in New York and lived with him in that remarkable house on Lexington.

I spotted Robert Dupont on the street as Kay, Jerome and I were drinking hot chocolate on Christmas Eve. Either Robert or his twin Richard was Freddy’s real boyfriend–I was the secret affair. I am always the affair, the secret obsession outside of a marriage. Always the mistress, never the bride. Wanted to mention Freddy because I was remembering men I had loved.

The year I met Freddy he was diagnosed with MS. Toward the end, wheelchair bound, he was so angry with everything and everyone. I don’t want to die like that. I am aiming for peace of mind–to die in peace.

After my morning bath I called my friend and fellow philanderer Toby Mott to tell him that Kay Saatchi had bought one of his paintings. He was thrilled. We chatted about money. He had never been paid for the painting by the gallery who sold it but was simply thrilled to have sold it to Kay and really, he said, didn’t care about the money. Very British. Very bourgeois.

Montesquieu summed up the French approach to money more than two centuries ago, observing that ”money is estimable when it is scorned.” The Bordeaux nobleman and philosopher was very, very rich.

Where ever there has been a ruling, aristocratic elite an artificial shame is constructed around the discussion of money.

I remember my Grandmother and Mother both chiding me for wanting to understand money. “Discussing money is vulgar.” my grandmother would say. As a consequence of my never being allowed to discuss money (like sex) I now find it almost impossible to define my value, to monetize my success, to have a sense of what I am worth.

I lament my Grandmother shushing me when I first showed interest in money.

Whilst my ‘class’ were blushing about money the rich weren’t having any qualms at all and talked about it all the time.

As I found, during my years as an aristocrat, if one can talk freely about money then one may understand how it works and how to acquire more of it. If one is persuaded that conversation about money is shameful then we may never know how money works and lose it to those who do.

When the rich say, “I’m not the slightest bit interested in money. I just don’t pay any attention to money. It’s rather vulgar.”

They lie. They lie. They lie.

Goodbye Tim!

January 3, 2010 duncanroy 11 comments

I met Tim Willis on Sloane Street, London 25 years ago. He was with his then girlfriend Isabella Delves-Broughton. I don’t remember meeting him that day.

He does.

I remember the first conversation Tim and I had was at Celia and Andrew Lyttleton’s frescoed apartment in Ladbroke Grove. I remember showing him the invitations I had just had printed for my play The Host starring Lady Georgia Byng who would later become Mrs. Danny Chadwick and after that Mrs. Marc Quinn. She is now probably best known for writing the Molly Moon children books.

Tim was unimpressed with the invitations.

I was prolific in those days, writing, making plays and living my life between London and Whitstable. Tim was unusually unjudgemental for one of the new elite who were making names for themselves during that time in London.

Remember, I was only a couple of years out of prison for a huge, unpaid credit card debt. The story behind that debt had, the day I had been sentenced, appeared in every British newspaper. I was christened: The Lord of The Lies by the News of The World Sunday tabloid and that title, unlike the one I had assumed, tended to stick.

Pretending to be Lord Anthony Rendlesham was the defining moment in my young life. It set me on an unintended course the night I told that 4-word lie to the man I told it. I wonder what happened to him? Dermot Verchoyle-Campbell.

By the time I met Tim I was just ordinary (as the press loved to call me) Duncan Roy but he didn’t seem to mind how ordinary I was. We were both social misfits. The others came from good pedigrees and were gearing up to take their places in the British social stratosphere. Their roles already defined.

Unusually his heterosexuality had offered him a rare social mobility. The girl he was with that day on Sloane St went on to become Mrs. Detmar Blow and invigorate the world of British fashion. Today her legacy, after a tragic suicide, is still evident as Alexander McQueen, John Galliano, Stephen Jones and Phillip Treacy are testament.

Although homosexuality offers the same kind of social flexibility (as I found out when I told my big lie), I was disinterested in the ‘gay lifestyle’ on offer to me at that time in London. I knew a few other ubergays but we were frosty with one another as all of us wanted to be the only gay pet around. Mario Testino, Patrick Kinmonth, Johnny Shand-Kydd were three other ‘about town’ gays but, as I said, they were all pretty disinterested in me. I had had a brief affair with Patrick when I was Lord Rendlesham.

We had discovered Peter Doig’s degree show at St Martin’s Art School and I bought one of Doig’s paintings that Peter then stole from my house whilst I was in prison.

Craigie Aitcheson the minimalist painter of crucifixes and Bedlinton Terriers accused Patrick of handing me over to the police when they were looking for me. He squealed, “Look, there’s the man who handed his gay lover over to the police.”

I had, of course, explored everything gay in London but it simply never inspired me enough to keep me going back.

Tim was really the first person I met whom I could share my wonderment with. One was encouraged, when in a huge and ancient houses, to take everything for granted but with Tim I could behave like a tourist. Ooing and arring about what we discovered there.

A few years later after Jay Jopling discovered Damien and the new British artists, all of our lives would change irrevocably. We would no longer be living in someone else’s shoes, delighted by other older peoples choices, and would ride the British New Wave.

Meeting Kay Saatchi the other day at Amanda’s I now have a far more complete picture of what was going on when I knew Jay Jopling. I certainly remember Jay telling me about meeting Charles Saatchi. That Charles had discussed the possibility of running the Saatchi gallery on Boundary Road and how Jay had scoffed (to us) at that idea. At the moment that Charles was offering Jay a job, Jay had other plans, he knew, and said as much, that Charles would ultimately work for HIM. I am, and have always been, in awe of Jay’s balls. Who wouldn’t have accepted to work for Charles? Only a man with massive ambition knew exactly what he wanted and exactly how to get it.

It was at this time that Jay would bring a harem of girlfriends to my tiny cottage on Island Wall in Whitstable. But that was all to end the day he met Maia Norman with whom he would fall deeply in love. Visits to Whitstable became rare as they ensconced themselves in his house on Shakespeare Road in Brixton. The last memorable Jay visit was with Danny Moynihan, Louise Jackson and Maia. We would take ecstasy, drive to a ghastly local gay bar and dance to Pink Cadillac. I think we may very well have had a rather wonderful orgy that night but Maia and Jay ended up alone as he was loathed to share her. The events of the next few years proved deeply unsettling. Maia would leave Jay for Damien and break his heart.

Jay submerged himself in the international art world, making huge amounts of money, marrying a girl he did not love and ending up in locations he loathed.

The last time I sat alone with him he told me how incredibly bored he was seeing the same faces day after day, the same gossip, same conversation and hankered after a the life he had at the edge of the world.

I will never, ever not love Jay. He was the one who looked out for me when I had my stint in hospital and collected me when I was discharged. He, for the longest time, was an occasional lover if no other pretty blond girl was available. He was an inspiration to a legion of young artists and remains so, something they all aspire to: a show at one of his many galleries.

I watched from the sidelines as he and Lily Allen publicly shattered the vestiges of his marriage.

The truth is, I couldn’t bear Sam Taylor Wood because she wasn’t Maia. It wasn’t her fault; she’s a perfectly nice girl. Not a very good artist.

So goodbye Tim, have a safe flight back to London. You make me remember the life we shared with this extraordinary cast of characters. I miss you when you are gone. You are a good friend.

Suicide Pact

January 14, 2010 duncanroy 7 comments

I thought I was leaving NYC today but I made a mistake so I’m actually leaving tomorrow.

People who want to kill themselves become very determined once they set their mind on it.

Issie must have tried 5 times before she drank the weed killer.

4:46 PM

December 28, 2006 – Thursday

Sydney

Sydney New South Wales Australia

I visited the dentist and had my teeth cleaned. I made further appointments to have a small filling in a tooth on my upper jaw and replace a broken veneer.

I have no expectations for New Years Eve. What ever happens, happens. May go to bed, may watch the fireworks.

7:56 PM

January 6, 2007 – Saturday

The script is coming along very nicely. It is better than I expected. Works well.

Decided definitively that I am going back to London to live as soon as I can.

When I walk the streets I am inspired, alive, able.

5:22 PM

January 7, 2007 – Sunday

FRUIT BATS

It is cloudy again today but deliciously warm and humid.

I pressed the button and off it went for only God to determine the outcome.

Every night I watch the bats in the sky, huge fruit bats flying haphazardly in the twilight. Streams of them, black flapping chattering to each other all the way home.

January 10, 2007

Rap

The Book Kitchen, Surrey Hills, Poached eggs.

What will be will be.

Last Days

Book Café, Surrey Hills, Sydney

Last night Ben’s girlfriend Jasmine and her mother prepared Persian food and we sat and ate on their balcony discussing Lebanon and Iran and watching forked lightening dance over the sea.

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