Archives for posts with tag: Renters

…to write a film. But, guess what’s getting in the way? YOU GUESSED IT! The lieing twat of Westchester. That was something else he sneered at. My film making. “Oooh,” he chided, “It’s shot on tape.” Yeah, fuck face..shot on tape..went to Sundance nominated for a British Academy award. He really tried to undermine my confidence. Sneery cock whore that he is…

Ok, relapse! That’s what happens. I remember just how ‘ironic’ he is about anyone who tried to achieve anything..like kids or films. I wonder if he can communicate at all with the artists he is meant to represent when he is so desperate to be one himself.

He did make a sort of film. A high school parody. He thought it was HILARIOUS.

How will he ever encourage the best out of his clients? Unless he is getting fucked by them of course.

Wanna know something funny? He loved reading my blog when I was writing shit about other people. It’s a bit uncomfortable now tho isn’t it JB?

Hahhaha.

RENTER ALERT!!!

OK, yesterday, when I got back to the apartment in Hollywood (almost finished packing) there was a vicious note from Viken Douzdjian’s two-bit lawyer demanding his money back for the rental. Viken is a surgeon from Portland Oregon who rented the house for 7 people for $250 a night. He arrived and left immediately because the ‘TV was too small.’ and ‘There was a stain on the carpet.’ Let me remind you again Viken..that’s why it’s $250 a night rather $2, 500 a night like the guy next door or $25, 000 a night like the houses on the PCH. This surgeon from Portland told me to alter a cheque that he had misprinted then recalls the cheque! What a fucking twat. Then..get this..he tells me that he can’t stay in the house of a homosexual.

This surgeon better not be cutting you open if you are gay..cause he hates us gays!

Thank God I keep every email..including the one where he tells me to alter the cheque. Read the fucking contract dick-wad surgeon, homophobic, LIAR.

Viken Douzdjian is a homo hating, rental con-man who can’t seem to read the contract he signed. He joins the Renter’s From Hell Hall of SHAME.

Viken..let me introduce you to Irene Brown from Maud Place Hawaii and Dave Stewart from who gives a shit ville. Dave did the ‘we are Christians and can’t stay in your house’ bullshit.

“There’s PORNOGRAPHY in your house.”  they squealed like pigs after finding some funny postcards in a draw..without nudity I might add . Actually, I thought Dave was gay when I met him. My gaydar went off like an Amazonian dawn chorus. Mrs Dave probably put him through Christian gay-boy rehabilitation…so they could have those ugly kids.

Fuck Christians.

All of you.

Oh yeah, and when I spoke to Viken’s moronic lawyer I tried to make a point about Jews and Gays in the concentration camps and why homophobia should not be colluded with in the same way we have no truck with anti-Semitism.

He thought I was being an anti-semite..not realizing of course that JB is a Jew, my sponsor is a Jew..and so was my GRANDFATHER.

Fucking idiot.

I am in NYC. Alive..although maybe dying…here for fashion week. Hope I don’t bump into the lying fuck face.

The house is rented for the week to nice sounding people from Texas.    They arrive at 1.

I am looking forward to spending what may be one of my last weekends in Hollywood.   I fill my suitcase with favorite things and return them to Malibu.

I am listening to BBC Radio Four, Gardeners Question Time.  One of my favorite programmes, the show was first broadcast in 1947.  My grandparents loved listening to it.  My mother loves it too.  I particularly enjoy listening to the advice of the more elderly gardeners they interview most weeks.  Softly spoken with thick regional accents. Even though I cannot take their advice directly because, of course, my high sierra garden is nothing like the lush, green gardens of England.

This morning they discussed string beans.

I often forget that I can tune in and listen to BBC radio live everyday.  It’s very reassuring listening to British news and opinion, current affairs and of course..The Archers.

Yesterday I trimmed the Bougainvillea around the terrace so one can eat breakfast and look over at the ocean.

I am struggling with my sad head, my achy balls, the move, the renovations and the house sale that I hope to make this year.

As for where next?  God only knows.

The door that regularly opened between me and my creative mind is jammed shut.  Barricaded by resentment.  It is obvious that a life which includes a deep resentment leads only to futility and unhappiness…

I am planning my trip to Australia.  The little dog will have to be in quarantine for 30 days and I fear that he will go mad without me.  I can visit him every day at the kennel but I know that he will hate it.  I would much prefer that he lived with someone he loved here whilst I am away.   Or..maybe I shouldn’t go.

Whilst I seem to report only the most catastrophic thoughts and feelings in this blog I am actually working hard in therapy to understand the consequences of my actions.  As a single man the consequences of watching porn, masturbation, hook ups etc, are few.   However, I had a delicious revelation at group therapy on Wednesday night.  I have struggled applying what I know to work in AA to my sex/love addiction.  I needed a key to unlock this conundrum.  Someone in the group shared that when he read the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous he replaces the word drink with think.  We have lost the ability to drink like normal people.  Becomes:  We have lost the ability to THINK like normal people.

I began to make my way through the Big Book replacing the word drink with think and suddenly began to totally embrace how I could make sense of my sex/love addiction.

Through the pain of the last few weeks as I hurtle away from Jake leaving him somewhere in the cosmos I have wilfully forgotten the solace I get from my commitment to sobriety in which ever form that takes.

Must remember to sweep the paths.

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.

.

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?

Are you OK?

We say that to each other in the UK all the time.  It doesn’t really mean anything, it’s just the way we check in with each other.  I check in with you and you check in with me.  Even if I am not OK I thank you for asking.

When I taught him, the companion, what it meant he played at asking me if I was OK but the effect was still the same.  I felt good, checked in with, placated.

Americans, when you ask them if they are OK, worry that something looks wrong with them.  It worries them, disrupts their day.

So, don’t ask an American if he/she is OK unless you think that there is something wrong.  You’ll do more harm than good.

It’s Monday morning.  I have just been to therapy.

The weekend was a delicious blend of fun, laughter and me feeling better than I have for 8 months.  I am just so happy.  Happy doesn’t necessarily mean well-behaved. I have been delightfully rude.

Ivan Massow is in town, such an unpleasant man who was the ‘source’ in the Caroline Roux article about me for the Guardian.  The source who was too scared to be openly vicious about me.  Anyway, there he was yesterday having lunch, slimeing all over my straight friend Ben.  Who in their right mind gave that man the ICA to run?  WHO in their right mind thought he should stand as Mayor of London? Crazy!

Anyway, supposedly he is sober so I am trying not to hate him too much.

Thankfully he is losing his looks.

Saturday spent nearly all day in Malibu.  Lunch in the Lumber Yard with Jon Aubry.  I went to bed early Saturday night.

Breakfast on Sunday with Will and his dog Rocco.  Stephen popped by at about 11 and then lunch with Sharon Swart.  Delightful.  She attended a flower arranging class and brought to lunch a huge bouquet of roses and hydrangea.

Sunday night Michael and I went to a party in Silverlake.  There was a performance piece for us to watch.  Three 10 minute sections of a larger work about a man accused of burning down his house and killing his daughters.  The first part was indecipherable.  The second and third part, although messy, were much better and had good, strong ideas.  The director asked what I thought..so I told him.  Bad idea.  Nobody wants to hear the truth.

We were meant to meet Jamie Lee Curtis after that party but we did not.

Taka came by late on Sunday.   He is a funny one.   Editor, Japanese..chatty.

Oh, before I forget..the new Malibu renters arrived on Saturday and are very happy in the house.  They are the SWEETEST people from the UK who loved the house the moment they stepped through the door and from whom I have not heard since..no news is GREAT news as far as renters are concerned.

I made a ‘to do’ list for Monday that includes all the boring stuff I have been putting off for weeks but essential if I am going to stay on top of things.

I went to therapy on Saturday morning and shared my good news.  My only worry about therapy is that I am surrounded by so many miserable, desperate men.

It’s now Monday morning and I am positioned at my ‘desk’ at SHLA.  Papers and briefcase open and ready for action.  My list of things ‘to do’ is already half eaten.  THICK lines scored through the things already done.

Listen, I have no idea why I am so happy but one thing is for sure..it has nothing to do with anyone else.  In fact, I was briefly annoyed by the actions of the other last night but after a few seconds ceased to be.  There was a time in the very recent past when the other could ruin my entire evening by being snippy.  Not anymore.

Whenever one has a meaningful relationship one tends to ignore when things don’t add up.  Denial gluing disparate parts of one story into something believable.

I am not annoyed with him..a little disappointed in me.

Disappointed that I have been so desperate to make our relationship work.  Just writing that down makes me feel sick.  That I would have done anything to make another man love, want and care for me.  For the past 8 months I have devoted my time, energy, love and money to a stranger who bust his way into my life after seeing me on TV.  It is a testament to my own low self-esteem just how much I was prepared to ignore in order to feel loved.

I am grateful that I fell in love and really got to know a man, be seen by another man. You may think that I have been foolish but in fact the last few months have been some of the best of my whole life.   I miss him.  I do.  But what I miss doesn’t really exist.  I miss being cared about, thought about, fantasized about, included and lastly, but most importantly, I miss being loved.

Every decision I made these past few months has been inspired by my love for him. Consequently I now have to make decisions based on my needs, my desires and my career.

I have vowed not to work out our stuff here in my blog so I won’t.

All you, my readers, need to know is that I am ok..are you ok?

Before I start today’s rant I must just share with you how beautiful it is in Malibu.  The house is calm, the colours are peaceful and dreamy.  The misty canyon is slowly clearing to reveal the ocean below.

Unusually there is a TV and it’s nice to hear it babbling in the background so I don’t feel so alone.  I woke up too late this morning to go to my therapy group.  Thirty minutes too late.  Perhaps all I need is a TV and a little dog to be happy?  I have been wondering since I returned from Europe what or how life will deliver next.  Obviously if I were in NYC I would be enjoying the tail end of my relationship with him.  Oh, I don’t know.

The insurance man came yesterday to discuss the burglary that happened here in Malibu before I left for Europe.  He was polite and thorough.   A friend popped by to take me to lunch, a young Japanese actor.  We ate at the new Cuban place nearby.

I spent the afternoon imagining how the house might look if I made the essential changes I want to make before I put it on the market this autumn.  I drove down to see how the new road is progressing.  They have already carved out the route and huge yellow earth movers are shifting tons of debris from the 26-year-old slide.   It excites me to see the changes.  Driving up Rambla Pacifico is really beautiful overlooking the northern Malibu shores, past vineyards and the vast Santa Monica mountain range.  As I have said before, the road makes sense of why these homes were built here.  I was sure when I bought the house that one day the road would be repaired so seeing it happen gives me a huge sense of relief.

Went out for dinner with friends last night, they had an elderly black labrador who the Little Dog fell in love with and tried humping.  He had such fun!  Running around their lawn with his new girl friend.

Something funny happened yesterday morning after therapy.  One of my co-conspirators (kinda famous) came up to me and told me that if I ever saw him in public that I shouldn’t speak to him.  That my fame as a sex addict might reveal him as the same.

The news on the TV is all about missing boys, bigamy and bombs.  For many people just like me yesterday’s great news was the over turning of the morally reprehensible proposition 8.  A federal judge declared California’s ban on same-sex marriage unconstitutional Wednesday, saying that no legitimate state interest justified treating gay and lesbian couples differently from others and that “moral disapproval” was not enough to save the voter-passed Proposition 8.

Even though marriage has been small part of my long story I have never really considered marriage between me and another man a possibility.  If I stay in Malibu on the side of a mountain I am never going to meet anyone.

Meeting someone.  Why has that become so important to me?  Why have I abandoned my desire for glorious isolation?  I suppose the very fact that for the past few months I have felt connected to someone has woken in me the desire to share what I have and learn to be a pair rather than a single.  Of course this happened rather too late in the day.  I miss him because he is intelligent and funny and warm and forgiving and when I am with him I feel complete.  A rare combination.  NYC is not far away but I will stay away because he has to make sense of his new life.

I must spend the morning putting the house together for new renters.  The last renters left the house looking beautiful.  Some people just leave a really nice feeling in the house.  It is easy to remember only the bad renters and forget the good ones.  I have been jammed solid with renters this year and most of them were appreciative and delightful.  For that, this morning, I am very grateful.