Archives for posts with tag: Elizabeth Hurley

I didn’t tell you about New Years Eve.  We, DL, LM and I… drove to Cold Springs, Upstate New York to the elegant country house of ace fashion PR Kelly Cutrone.

A beautifully decorated cottage, marquee in the garden, 3 delicious courses for dinner including wild Salmon and filet mignon served by charming staff.

Amongst Kelly’s 50 plus amusing friends included the delightful director Lloyd Kramer and his wife.  Lloyd directed Liz and Dick with Lindsay Lohan.   We swapped bad actress horror stories.  He told me about her and I told him about Liz Hurley.  You should have been the fly on the wall.

After dinner we all watched a wonderful firework display.

Anyway, here are the pics and vid from that night:

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At the risk of having my site hacked I am going to write about Les Hinton, his wife Kath, their friend Sharon Marshall and my relationship with The News of The World.

After I made The Method with Elizabeth Hurley I was a boiling bag of resentment…not unlike I was after I received Jake’s vile email last August.   I had been bullied, mistreated and maligned by Elizabeth and my only revenge was to sell my story to the highest bidder.

I had been on the front cover of the NOTW myself after I was found guilty of spending too much on my credit card and not paying the bill.  I rather enjoyed the attention.

It is quite easy to sell ones story if the celebrity you are pissing on is famous enough.

My agent contacted all of the relevant tabloid British newspapers and we negotiated the best price with News Corp.  I was offered The Daily Mail for the same price.  I was assured that The Daily Mail was a more ‘classy’ decision but I was not interested in ‘classy’.  I was interested in, as I said, revenge.

I was on vacation in Sydney at the time, Sharon Marshal was assigned to interview me.  We met in a smart hotel in Wooloomooloo.  Sharon is an attractive brunette who became, after the event, a great friend.  The NOTW flew me to London from Sydney for the weekend.  I told my story, they paid me the money.

Justice was served.

Elizabeth wrote to me.  She said, “I hope you enjoyed your thirty pieces of silver.”  I replied, “Actually, I really enjoyed my sixty thousand pieces of silver.”

When I returned from Australia Sharon invited me to stay at her home.

Sharon lived in Vauxhall at the time with Kath Raymond who was dating Les Hinton and would later marry him.  The entire cast of this current controversy were at their wedding reception:  Rebekah Wade and Andy Coulson.

Kath worked for Gordon Brown as a ‘special advisor’ whilst dating Les Hinton.  One didn’t need underworld contacts to get information with Kath working so closely with Gordon.  Also, however outraged Gordon and Sarah are now their links to News Corp are just as suspect as anyone elses.

Sharon now works with and for soap operas which is ironic given what she used to do.

I texted Sharon after the Milly Dowler scandal hit offering condolences, she texted back, ‘terrible times.’   Her loyalty obviously and quite rightly remains with her friend Kath and she must be torn between her old life and her new.

Sharon long ago turned her back on the NOTW, she ended up disgruntled enough to write a book called Tabloid Girl which was her way of stuffing her ex bosses.  Read it, it’s fun and insightful.

The NOTW is no more…until risen again as The Sunday Sun.

The establishment is dancing the streets.  They are free of the tyrannical Murdoch, the ocker scoundrel.   The dirty old man.  Prince William cheered, threw his hands in the air, when he heard the news I am told by very good sources.

It amuses me to see Jarvis Cocker wipe his ass on the freshly murdered newspaper.  Our relationship (the British) with this widely sold and read ‘newspaper’ is confused.  I am sure that, like most other celebrities, Jarvis has benefited from the newspaper as well as suffered.  I don’t believe that he hasn’t ever bought a copy or read a copy when salacious details of people he doesn’t know were made public.

Les Hinton may very well cop some jail time for his erstwhile ex-boss.  Kath may lose their upper east side apartment.  Wade et el are being hounded as they hounded, their drawn faces peering incredulously from chauffeur driven cars.

Karmageddon has arrived at News Corp.

Hinton’s profile is about to get a lot higher over his role in the scandal that brought down Rupert Murdoch’s News of the World. As a Murdoch staffer for more than half a century, Hinton spent a dozen years running News International, the British unit of Murdoch’s global company, including while the phone hacking was taking place at News of the World. And it was Hinton who told a parliamentary committee in 2007 that he was “absolutely convinced” that the illegal accessing of phones was limited to a single rogue reporter.

If Elizabeth really had broken up with Arun a few months ago as she claims..why is she having clandestine meetings with Shane Warne in hotel rooms rather than in her Kensington house?

I wonder if Arun remembers my dire warning for him to run as fast as his little legs would carry him when Elizabeth introduced us.  Much to his chagrain I sat him down like a good brother and told him that no good would come of knowing Elizabeth…only public shame.

That was when we were filming The Method in Romania when she was publicly toying with him to the amusement of her snotty friends and family.

Dressing him up in Mao collars at Richard James.

Shagging him in her trailer…you know the story.

I wanted to write a bunch of stuff about Elizabeth being a sex addict but I wrote a thousand words and then the computer crashed and it all vanished.  I can’t be bothered to write it again.

I was reminiscing about the first time I met Elizabeth and she was laying on the floor of her sitting room…her legs apart, her lips pink and swollen.

I wonder if she remembers telling me about her whipping club in LA?  How she loves to ‘take a man in hand’.  I wonder if she dominates Shane?  He looks like the sort of man who needs to be dominated, coerced, his power stripped from him by a woman, a good..strong woman like Elizabeth.  And..of course, we never mention the lesbian interlude.  Know about that?  I do.

I hear that she was in San Lorenzo last week looking a bit worse for wear.  Drunk.

I wonder who is looking after the kid?

The problem with Elizabeth is that she is a mere actress/celebrity when in fact she was born to be a high priestess or warrior princess, acolytes tugging at her skirt.  Gladiators hand-picked from the forum to pleasure her.

Poor Elizabeth!  She’s the straight equivalent of a gay ‘power bottom’.

Elizabeth!   Go and sort yourself out at Sex Rehab.  You are one of us!  You control every straight man within sniffing distance with your pussy perfume, the intoxicating scent of your vagina.

Oh, I have seen it with my own eyes warrior princess!

Until you get yourself a kingdom I’m afraid it might be rehab for you dear.

On an entirely different note…do you like my new socks?

I can always tell when JB has had a particularly social weekend because on Monday morning there are people googling him.

It makes me happy that he is out there meeting people, enjoying his new gay life.

He deserves it.

He really is a very sweet man.

I hope that he is happy.  I do.  I hope that he has consigned me to the past and made his peace with the ex-girlfriend.

My fantasy is that he has met a man who he can love and settle on.   He can do what I have attempted to do but have failed.  It was that particular line in his last email that hurt me most, the way he derided my ability/hope to make a successful relationship.   Mocking me.  Though it may be true that is the last thing you want to hear from a man who you love.

He is out there having a blast.  He will attract wonderful people into his life.  For him, the dark days are over.   One thing is for sure: he isn’t going to make any of the mistakes that he made before.  How do I know this?  Because he is a sensible guy.

Today, I wish him all the best.

Okay, this is the deal:  my ticket to London is now booked for the 17th.  Why has this taken so long?  Because I had to make everything secure here before I went home.   I mean emotionally as well as practically .

I don’t want to bring a troubled mind into a situation that requires absolute focus.

I need to get well.  I need to recuperate.  I need to go where the love it.

So, I have been going to meetings, dealing with my STUFF.  I got into a palava before dinner on Saturday night with a rather unpleasant, drunk lesbian but rather than write about what happened I think I may just try to forget all about it…unless it bites me in the ass.  Drama included Ellen (yes that one) a vile decorator and her equally vile gay son.

If I get particularly moody this week we may just consign this to history.

Decorators?  Who needs them?

Bumped into David Furnish (Mrs Elton John) who can scarcely conceal his loathing for me.  He is Elizabeth Hurley’s great friend so this is totally understandable.  I don’t mind my pariah role.  I am who I am, flaws and all…yet I know that I am not just my flaws.   As I have said before..in society we need our devils and our angels.    It is a role that I own and have undoubtedly made my own.

Barry is here from Whitstable on his way to Australia.  It’s lovely having him around.   We are going into Beverly Hills this afternoon.

Rained heavily all night, today the sun is shining.

The weekend was spent largely with Gabe.  He cooked lunch here on Saturday and the four of us ate grilled pork chops, brussel sprouts and bacon with crushed walnuts and some wonderful kale.

We picked passion fruit (I am going to make passion fruit creme brule) lemons and figs from the garden.   We peeled the figs, reduced them in balsamic vinegar and made a cherry and fig compote to eat with the chops.

Dinner at SHLA on Saturday night (bad food) and Chateau Marmont (good food) for brunch the following day.  Saw Marilyn Heston.  Everybody is very excited about Miami Basel.

The weekend was very social, lots of fun..amusing celebrity sightings and a good deal of flirting.  I like my life right now, returned to normal…I have much to look forward to.

On Sunday afternoon I lay by the fire at Soho House reading the Observer, chatting with friends, eating home made cookies and milk.  In bed by 8pm…exhausted.

Script notes arrived from JA.  Will attend to them this evening.

My watch cost more than my car

After it’s six month epic repair my gold watch finally came home from Boucheron.  The Mec, designed by Solange Azagury.  Bought after seeing it on her husband at a party for Bella Freud.

Sparkling rose gold and new black leather strap, the small gold button that had popped off for no reason last year was finally repaired, the scratches erased.

I bought the watch with the money I was paid by The News of the World when I sold my Elizabeth Hurley ‘tell all’ story after the making of my film, The Method.  My sweet revenge for her appalling behaviour, the treatment of me and others and general vileness.

Most of all I sold that story because it galled me daily that a talentless witch like Hurley could steal a paying job from a real actress.

Going into that project I rather stupidly thought that I could give her the benefit of the doubt and coerce a performance out of her.   When she told me rather grandly the first day of shooting not to direct her because she was a ‘a celebrity, not an actress’ I really had nowhere to go.

A grueling 3 months followed.

The keystone cop like producers Brad Wyman and Donald Kushner were not interested in making a film, rather they were busily conning money out of the British tax system, which at the time had an incentive designed to help the British Film industry but had been so bastardized that films made in Romania with American producers armed with dodgy budgets..qualified as BRITISH.  The BUDGET for The Method that the government saw was no way translated into what the local Romanian crew were paid..about $100 a week.

I told Will Self about this terrible con which, during the time it was operational, must have funneled as much tax payers money out of the country into American bank accounts as it would have cost to pay for several new British hospitals.

Will was appalled.  Deborah Orr was appalled.  everyone I mentioned it to was appalled but nobody did anything about it.

Thankfully Gordon Brown finally put an end to this theft overseen by the worst kind of British film producers.

If you think I have been nasty to Jake..read what I wrote about Elizabeth.

The Architect stayed over last night.  It’s not happening again.  I am waiting for him to leave as I write.  No sex.  I cooked dinner.  He smokes really hard.  He makes a kind of gay purring ‘ah ha’ when he means to say yes and his perfume and shoes are CHEAP.   His hands on me in the night caused pain in my skin his attention was so unwelcome.  He was all over me like a rash.

He just left.

I may be a perfectionist, as Jake said,  but when I loved him..Jake was my perfection.  I simply loved touching him, kissing him, rubbing his head.  I loved him laying beside me.  I loved his smell and his eyes and soft mouth.

Which makes his treachery that much worse.

I hate him perfectly like I loved him perfectly.  For a short while the search for my illusive man was over.  For all his miserable flaws and inappropriateness and unavailability I loved him.  I really loved him.

They ask me privately:  How then, if you say you love him, can you treat him like that?

Anyone who asks that audacious question has never truly been in love and I pity you.

My perfect hatred for him is built like a leaden, black as night, tar wall between what is and what was.  A black tar wall erected between me and him so I never yearn for him, never cry for him, never love him ever again.

It is the only way I know how.

When I think of all the arguments I have heard for why he was not right for me I am dumb-founded by how pedestrian they are.  LOVE, love when it comes should be fought for!  I tried every thing I knew to keep him and when I failed, when I failed I couldn’t be his friend.  Listening to him tell me about other men.  Listening to him reveal in every sordid detail of who fucked who, how many times they came.  The rides home to Washington Heights.  Those despicable stories are etched into my brain.

The drinking and driving.  The man he slept with for over one year who never let him know until it was over that he had HIV not just risking Jake’s life but the life of his girlfriend!

I really loved him and he tormented me with what he did with others.  He tormented me because he saw that love weakens me.

This morning, after the architect left I opened all the windows and doors.  I stripped the bed and I wept because I miss the familiarity of my lover.  I miss you so much and I never get to tell you.  Instead, I have to tell you that I hate you.  That I want my money back.  That you betrayed me.  I don’t want to tell you any of those things.  I want you to know that I miss you, that you left something indelible that I try every single day like an idiot savant scrubbing a tattoo out of his skin…to forget.

 

It was a piss poor, irritating day yesterday.  Nothing, it seemed, was going to rescue me from the thankless groaning of harassing renters and the yearning I have to get home.. and quickly.  I left my card in the ATM and have mislaid my beastly driving license.

All in all it was pretty ghastly until I went to therapy at 8pm where I sat with my peers and bathed in our shared misery.  Suddenly I felt a whole heap better!   There really isn’t anything more exhilarating than listening to those who have had a worse day than you.

Look, I could sit here and write about my financial woes.  I could entertain you with the menopausal ranting of Irene from Hawaii or I could just let it go.  The worse a person complains and harasses the less likely I am to deal with a situation.   It’s just the way I am wired.

Many years ago I made a very bad film in Romania called The Method starring Elizabeth Hurley.  It was not the best experience of my life (probably one I would rather forget) but it seems I am not going to be afforded that luxury.

The chaotic making of The Method has inspired the Producer of The Method to write and direct a film about the chaotic making of The Method.  The premise is thinly disguised.  I was prepared to be irritated but after having had a look at the trailer it all looks rather fun.  Anyway, I am looking forward to seeing it and am sure that the press will come knocking once they realize that his film is based on our experience of creating what must be one of the worst films ever made.

It heartens me to think that out of strife and stress art can be made.  I am not at all worried by how I may/may not be portrayed.  I am merely flattered that the very enterprising director/writer moved a mountain to make a film based on our shared experience.  We know how difficult that can be, don’t we?

Time passes and tightly held resentments lose their steam.  Fruitless anger, the spirited defense of nothing worthwhile, all this ultimately becomes the secret joke we tell ourselves in later years.

There is June Gloom in LA which makes the light very English, all the colours in my house come alive when the sky is gray.  Apart from our gray British skies I miss just how damned rude we can be.  All these years of living in polite America!  I am looking forward to the bawdiness of my country men.  Rapier wit coupled with a good wank joke.

I love that we can both be extremely polite and totally vile within seconds.

The first book I ever bought with my own teenage money was the collected works of Hogarth.  Bawdy.

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 who 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 Bonham’s auction house where I saw a pale wood 50’s desk with really elegant legs that I had somehow 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 Griffiths 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.

Aleksa Palladino

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 Siddall, 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.

Danny, another young Whitstable boy, was badly hurt in a 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.

You know, when those judgemental people look at me at those swanky film parties they don’t 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 devastatingly 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.

10:07 AM

September 17, 2006 – Sunday

http://www.saverunyon.org

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.

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 rustic 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 honorable 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 Robertson 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 coordinating 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 rustic 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 development 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 polystyrene oyster trays being blown all over the ersatz 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 harassment.” Who put the ass in harassment?

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 Sheppey 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!!

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. Disoriented 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 don’t 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 naturally 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 can’t 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 undergrowth 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 Bonham’s 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.

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 hose pipes 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. That’s 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 Tracy 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.

10:38 AM

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.

8:42 AM

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 Bonham’s 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. 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.

9:46 AM

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 overlooking 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 to 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.

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 skull 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 dragonflies. 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.

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 jubilant Iraqis 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 spiritual guidance. 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’.

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.

1:59 AM

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.

8:16 AM

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.

Barney’s 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 inappropriate 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.

8:26 AM

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 antiperspirants. 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 Joe Townley 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 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 Baja. 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. Baja 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.

8:41 AM

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.

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. 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.

8:14 AM September 6, 2006 – Wednesday

Nicole Richie

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 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 I’m fat?”

1:17 AM

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.” They 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 bulimia. “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 its 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.

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). He occasionally forgets to flush the toilet leaving the lid down so when I lift it…

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.

Joe Townley 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.

10:33 AM

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, understandably 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, 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.

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 trying to cause trouble in my life. Amazingly, he told Hilary that I had stolen Sebastian Scott‘s cheque book. 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 lies about me. Such dull, unimaginative lies.

Bought gloves in Barney’s. Had polet roti in cute restaurant near Barney’s. 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.

11:27 AM

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 alongside the Magritte, some work an 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.

10:46 AM

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 disappointed. 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 title sequence of James Bond turning to shoot the gun at the audience at the very beginning of the film was frankly absurd! The Bond silhouette 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 forehead 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.

11:40 AM

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.

4:02 PM

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.

8:30 AM

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 chimney breast.

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?”

9:19 AM

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 holidays 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 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.

10:00 AM

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 Clare Staples 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 Metcalf 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.

10:24 AM

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.

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 Joe Townley 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.

.3:22 PM

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?

9:22 AM

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.

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. 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.

8:55 AM

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.

11:12 AM

November 13, 2006 – Monday

Harry Bellefonte

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, 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 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. Even though the civilians 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 surprise 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 Weisz 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?

1:27 PM

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 nondescript 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 Christie’s 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, blatantly 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?

11:32 AM

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 jubilant 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.

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.

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 throughout 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.

9:28 AM