Archives for posts with tag: Pacific Design Center

After yesterday’s blog purge I felt a whole heap better.  I can now concentrate on my lumpy testes and getting my life back in order.

I spent 30 minutes virtually decoupling myself from the timid Beast of Westchester.  Facebook, Skype etc.  Of course I forgot that he owes me money from the UK tax refund but hopefully he will just do the right thing and send it to me.

The number of people who read my blog doubled yesterday.  Why?  Very odd.

How exhausting!  The entire thing with him from beginning to end was exhausting.  Relationships?  Who needs them?  Well, I for one would like one that works.  As I said before, we packed a twenty-five year relationship into the last eight months.  I really had no intention of publishing yesterdays incendiary blog but he sent me such a vicious email the only way I could be assured of never seeing him again was to tell it as it is.  He’s an idiot, I was all washed up yesterday afternoon.  I really wasn’t feeling very mean-spirited in light of my testicle problem but he riled me into action and out came Anthony (my angry alter ego) to protect my honor.

After I published the blog I met Sharon and we headed over to the Pacific Design Center where the Weinstein Company were premiering their new documentary,  The Pat Tillman Story.

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Good God, if that couldn’t shake me out of my mad head nothing would.  What an incredibly sad story.

Pat Tillman the sporting star was used in life and death by the US government to support an unpopular war.  As the genius filmmakers made clear, the US Government probably wishes they hadn’t messed with the tenacious Tillman family.   You have to love them, the mother and father are probably the most patriotic, considerate, intelligent people you ever met.  They were the sort of people you want to believe all American are.

Watching their faces as they testified in congress, tangling with the likes of Donald Rumsfeld, Karl Rove and George W at the very pinnacle of government, laughing in the face of the toothless Congressional oversight committee.  It was a ghastly example of how ordinary, good Americans have been trampled and continue to be trampled by their very own government.

I will never forget listening to the young man who saw his best buddy Pat Tillman have his head blown off his shoulders just feet from where he stood.  The blood trickling out of Tillman’s neck like a drinking fountain.

I chatted with that brave young man after the film and was filled with admiration.  I have no reason to complain about anything when I meet a man like that.  He had the best line in the film, he said, “Afghanistan reminded me of Arizona but (pause) the people looked a bit different.”

I do hope that you all get to see The Tillman Story, that you get to meet Pat as his parents and friends remember him and hopefully be as inspired as I was after seeing this remarkable film.  It was very hard not to cry.

Before I went to sleep last night I thought how beautiful Pat Tillman was, not just his beautiful face but what made him really beautiful was his compassion, sensitivity and unusual intellect..a perfect example of how one can never ever judge a book by its cover.

His beautiful face and brutal death make him an example of what a hopeless, desperate, unnecessary war this is.  The waste of life and resources and time and ideals.

Yet, the oligarchs continue sending these young boys to their deaths, profiting from sorrow, emotionally blackmailing an entire nation in the name of patriotism, trading on their love for the American flag and nobody will lift a finger to stop it…this absurd ‘war on terror’.  Such nonsense.

Before I got caught up writing yesterdays blog I had planned to write about the people who rent my Malibu house.  The good and the bad but after I received his vicious email events overcame me.  Here is a snippet of what I will take time writing about at a later date.

The renters.  When it comes to renting the house through VRBO there are far more Dodi, Richard or Jan’s (appreciative and complimentary) than there are Irene, Vikam or Dave’s (unappreciative and demanding).

The good renters love the house and realize that they are getting a great deal for their buck.  They write glowing reviews in the visitors book.

The bad renters, with exactly the same house, same EVERYTHING seem to feel duped.  They think the house is dirty, they complain about the modern art, that the TV is too small.  They complain that there are personal effects in the house, that a hose is not wound properly.  They demand their money back without ever checking their contract.  Worst, is when they break things and never ever like to pay for what has been broken.

They seem to forget that they are getting the house for up to 7 people for $250 a night rather than the houses they can see below them for $3,000 a night.  They also forget that I have rented that house to hundreds of renters and most of them are perfectly happy with their experience of the house.

There is one particularly insane woman in Hawaii who tried duping me…bad move.  As we know very well I am not easily crossed.  Bad boyfriends or bad renters..they are all the same to me.  More about Hawaii woman at a later date.

Listen, the complainers, thankfully, are not as frequent as the those who just love it there.  Who, when they leave, leave a sweet smell behind them, who obey the rules and don’t smoke or throw clandestine parties or break stuff or try claiming that the house was not as described.

It confuses the hell out of me when people just turn on their heels and leave the house without even staying one night.  Thankfully that has only happened twice in the three years that I have been renting.

I slept late this morning, made coffee, took the little dog for a long walk.

Jennie and I had a luxurious conversation.   She is in good spirits about getting into University.  And so she should be, she is a remarkable young woman.

Oh yeah, before I forget…who is Adam Patch you ask?  Don’t worry, I didn’t know either.  Check the Beautiful and the Damned by F. Scott Fitzgerald and you’ll understand the literary allusion.  A 1920s socialite and presumptive heir to a tycoon’s fortune…you’ll see that the timid man and I had more in common than even we realized.

Am I being snippy?

Therapy, collect cheque, Jennie Ketcham for breakfast.

Jennie and I walked the length of Abbott Kinney, found a new collar for the little dog and chatted about our various relationships.  She, of course, has a relationship..I do not.   She is in love and making a TV series and I am off to Paris with a friend.   A friend, nevertheless, who makes me smile.

Last night we saw some cool live music on the roof of the Standard down town..that would be Ryan, Justin and I..then we ate dinner at Bottega Louie.  I ate pork chops.  Somebody sent us a Shirley Temple with delicious cherries floating around in it.

I have to be discreet about the location but Prince and Lionel Ritchie played impromptu performance on another roof in another part of town..it seems that Prince is always up for an unexpected gig, I have seen him perform at hotels and bars and in that huge house he rented with purple carpet everywhere.

The night we saw Prince and bumping into Barbra Streisand in the Pacific Design Center are perhaps my most startling close encounters with celebrity..oh, and befriending Roseanne in Starbucks.

From out of the woodwork crawl all sorts of characters from the past and this week an old friend called after he lost his job.  It was all the more interesting because we had not had a cordial end to our friendship a year and a half ago but time heals and we said our brief apologies and got on with being friends again.

There is probably more to gain from knowing me than not knowing me.

Time is the greatest distance between two people. Tennessee Williams wrote that.  It is time that will end up miraculously mending all the smashed Ming vases that I am surrounded with.  Remember what I said about love being like a Ming vase?

Joan brought me a rather splendid Japanese tea-pot for my birthday that arrived in a huge box from Memphis.  I felt like a five-year old again.  Opening my birthday presents.

This day last year the darling big dog was killed.  Ripped apart in front of me under that truck..she kept on trying to live, trying to stay alive for me as we lay together in the back of my truck..in the flat-bed.  Jennie drove us to the animal hospital on Ventura Blvd and the nurse put her down with a lethal injection as I sobbed my little heart out.

The next day we collected her from the freezer and I cried all the way to Malibu, apologizing to her, reminding her of all the great time we had, crying and laughing until we buried her in a coyote proof hole in the garden she loved.

Sarah sang a beautiful song.  The little dog said his goodbye.

This year has been all about death.  The death of friends, the death of my dog and of course the death of love.   Tomorrow I want it to be different but I cannot be sure.  All I know is that I am trying to be the best man I can be, let go of the past..even the recent past, and forge ahead.