Gay Malibu

Paid in Full

It rained steadily all night.  This morning the sun is shining.

Yesterday stayed in almost all day.

Dinner at Frank’s Whitley Heights apartment.   Very little traffic on the 10.  There were ghastly British people who Frank had met randomly at another party.  I left early.   Food was good though.  He made some sort of Brazilian coconut chicken with rice.

Parking in Hollywood is shit.

I like Frank..even though his slimy British friends just wouldn’t stop talking about how much they had drunk the night before.  “So Duncan, why did you come to LA?”  I told them that Los Angeles had more AA meetings than any other city in the USA.  They looked baffled.  After a difficult moment of silent processing the Brit said, “Each to his own old chap.”   He really did call me old chap.

Before dinner this black kid from the deep south sang/warbled/yodeled a prayer.  I looked at my feet in HORROR.

Met JA at Soho House.  Drank espresso.   Miles arrived looking very dashing.  Saw Eugenio Lopez and told him about Steve Martin‘s book.  He was DELIGHTED and reported this to his friends.  “Steve Martin has written pages in his book about meee…tell them Duncan..tell them.”  I told them the Getty story.  Eugenio was with an older gentleman and a slobby boy whore who he scolded for putting his feet on the furniture.  Eugenio was wearing a black sequined jacket.  Seemed delighted that Martin had written about him.  Who wouldn’t?

I was going to hook up with some random dude from Grindr but he didn’t turn up on time so I left and we all (dogs) curled up alone in my big white bed.

Oh yeah, I forgot, Jerome (my next door neighbor) rented his house this weekend to a young couple who threw a huge, ornate wedding…could almost be described as baroque.   The ceremony took place in the garden.   You could hear the dreary, clichéd classical music…a good third of a mile away.  All the obvious shit mixed in with random film scores.  They probably couldn’t tell the difference between Ennio Morricone and Pergolesi.   Idiots.  A disparate group of badly dressed men and women gazing admiringly at this bride and this groom about to be locked in matrimony.

The dogs started barking during their vows.  I didn’t do much to stop them.  I didn’t want to hear their fucking vows broadcast over my quiet valley.  Obnoxious white, straight people.  A coalition of the entitled.

The party continues there today.  A simpering European party/events planner slimed around to the house like a huge slug..apologizing in advance for the noise.  Thank God this is a random event.  Events planners btw are always the worst kind of gay and always the dullest human beings on earth.  Who the fuck would ever find an events planner interesting?  Oh yeah, I remember.

JB sent the money he owed me.  Deal done.  Goodbye JB.

A fit black guy contacted me on Manhunt.  He wanted to fuck.  He asked if I was good.  I replied..does it matter?  Do I care if you think I am good at fucking?  I cum you leave.  I won’t be reading the reviews.




The day started out well enough.  Happy, creative and calm.  Then, after a nasty conversation with the bank, an unrewarding chat with my lawyer and a scary call from my doctor I was hit with a wave of resentment and fear so overwhelming and debilitating I was sent into a paroxysm of fury.

Before I knew it I had written a whole blog about Jake, more revealing than anything I had written before.  More detail, names etc.

I am not going to post it.

I just want to forget about him.  I just want him out of my fucking head.

I rue the days he contacted me.  Lied to me.  Slept with me.  Text me.  Traveled with me.  Relied on me.  Lent on me.  Loved me.

A tsunami of emotion that, THANK GOD!…this morning has subsided.

I cried with joy for the release of the Chilean miners.

There was an interesting piece in the NY Times.  The journalist was amazed that none of the miners were prescribed antidepressants but wanted cigarettes instead.    It says a great deal about how deluded Americans are when it comes to the insidious use of these terrible pills.

Alberto Iturra, a psychologist who worked with the miners, talked to them, sometimes several times a day, to sort through their frustrations and depression.  After first sending down nicotine patches, officials later sent down cigarettes to the miners, most of whom were smokers.  Still, Dr. Iturra said that doctors never ended up sending down medication for depression.

So,  late afternoon, Ashley dragged me out of the house to the Getty to see A Conversation with Frederic Tuten and Steve Martin.   I pulled on some old Helmet Lang black pants that now fit me once again.  I have lost so much weight.  I wanted to wear an old tweed suit but I couldn’t find the pants.

I’m not really familiar with Tuten’s work (I knew vaguely about his Lichtenstein connection)  although after I met him I realized, or rather we realized that we had met before many years ago with Freddy Hughes.  They both read excerpts from their respective books.  Tuten’s by far the more interesting although I am going to read Martin’s first as he has written a fictionalized account of the era I was most connected to the art world.

There was a lively and entertaining discussion after they had both read.  The moderator was really bad.  TERRIBLE.  Thankfully these two men were more than capable of entertaining a huge football stadium with amusing anecdotes and bon mot without the intervention of a  moderator.

After the Q&A we all ate a rather delicious dinner together.

Ed Moses, nice to see him.

Ironically the passage that Steve read from his book was a fictionalized description of Art Collector Eugenio Lopez’s house and dinner party.  Eugenio’s name in the book becomes Flores rather that Lopez.   Details included: Eugenio’s legendary lateness for his own events.  The art.  The meticulous renovation of that amazing house.  Christian, the house boy/assistant who lives with Eugenio, was described as wearing black leather.

“Do you think he’ll appreciate the description of his house?”  Steve asked.

“The house yes, the house boy no..”  I replied.

“Oh..”  Steve’s eyes widened.  “Black leather?”

Saw Bettina Kourek who had organized the event and Jonathon from Lead Apron.  Amongst other saw Kevin West and his new boyfriend a psychologist called Justin.  Very sweet couple.  It was good to see Kevin.  He is the West Coast editor of W.

We arrived home to two very excited pups.  I brought them both a huge plate of Kobi beef that was going to be thrown out after the event.  The little dog was THRILLED.

art Love

Stevie Wonder

Frank and Willie

I spent the night in Hollywood.  Had breakfast with John but didn’t go to therapy.  I had the dogs with me and wasn’t going to leave them in the car whilst I was inside getting my head fixed.

Finally, just three months late,  summer is here and despite all the drama of the past months I find myself feeling positive, upbeat, fearless.

I described it yesterday to Frank as no longer being possessed.

Frank and I had dinner with friends in Beverly Hills.  We sat next to Stevie Wonder..which was kinda wonderful.  As they were eating their desert he and his friends sang to each other so we were treated to an impromptu performance.  This is LA.

My friends are film finance wizards from the UK so, after we deconstructed the British Film Industry, we talk love lives.  They were fascinated by the Sex Rehab show.

Two women with very differing pathologies.  One said that when ever she falls in love she becomes unrecognisable.   The effective, fully functioning business woman becomes needy, obsessed and emotional.  Huh..I nodded a lot as she described the symptoms of obsessive love.  The other woman couldn’t be more different, trusting her man to the point where she becomes suspicious of any man who asks her randomly what she is up to.  She, of course, is very happily married.  The other not.

Dinner was BETTER than therapy.

I ate a small cobb salad.  They very kindly paid for dinner.  So sweet.

I spent the day in Malibu being that handyman I had wished daily would just come with a screwdriver and do all the things I had been putting off ever since I first got here four years ago.

I put up a mirror in the bathroom, a shelve in the hall and a hat rack too. I hung curtains over the double doors and whilst I did all this Ashley cooked the most delicious breakfast which we ate on the back terrace.  I had scrubbed the huge, wooden table with vim and a scrubbing brush like a mad man until it was a delightful silvery grey color.

This morning I filled the truck with books and draws and cushions and the remainder of my shoe collection and here we all are at the house.  It’s 80 degrees.  The dogs are slumped on the marble floor…panting.

This morning we ate breakfast in the Farmer’s Market on Fairfax and Third.  Ordering scrambled egg and sausage…the deal is you sit down and they call your name when it’s ready.  They called my name very loudly.  I was aware that some people thought they knew who I was but having my name operatically yelled over the terrace confirmed their suspicions.

I chatted with a young fan.  He was adorable.

Anyway, very excitedly expecting my box of meat and veg from Jennifer’s organic delivery service.

P.S.  Forgot to mention that I went to the Prism opening (vernisage).  The gallery belongs to my friend Jared.  I had a lovely long chat with Stavros Niarchos about Spetses and the Russels and Engenio Lopez.  Bumped into Degan Pener who wants me to write something about art for The Angelino.   Saw Kevin from W but he was frosty.  You can’t win them all.

The problem with Prism is that there is no frisson.  It needs to take itself seriously rather than be the gallery ‘toy’ of two rick kids.   Remember going to Tracy Emin‘s White Cube show?  There were a thousand people in Hoxton Square..even class war demonstrators?

Where’s the audacity?  The verve?  Those boys need to cut a dash.