Abbot Kinney starts construction of his "Venice of America" Pier
In the early 1900s there were a bunch of piers in Santa Monica and down the coast. Now there's only one.
Santa Monica Pier. I trimmed the sand and sky to make it look bigger. They say Abbot Kinney's was huge.
The other day I went to Venice Beach to go for a walk with Nancy and see The Simpson's Movie [she'd never seen even one episode ever] on the Promenade. She said she thought it was nice the young people have something subversive to watch.
Then came home and watched the Melvil Poupaud movie Le Temps Qui Reste, about this young gay photographer who's going to die. Didier is better looking and clearly works out a great deal more than Melvil but there's a vague resemblance, and the movie ends at a beach in the south of France (another connection? A sign?). Melvil's character won't tell anyone he's dying, but he goes to a sex club to deny his mortality (haven't we all), then breaks up with and tries to get back with his bf, and at another point he wakes up his grandmother Jeanne Moreau and asks if he can get in bed with her. "You know I sleep naked," she says. "I won't look," he replies and climbs in with the ancient but once great and famous beauty who holds him in her arms and --
Didier! C'est tu! C'est Moi!
Okay, so to try and distract myself, went last night with Eduardo to some parties -- he likes to do them all in one night, which I don't suppose is that easy to coordinate, but he picked me up at 5:30 because you can start a nightlife in L.A. before it's dark if you count in travel time. The first party was for Frontiers Magazine at Eleven, a bar on Santa Monica Blvd in WeHo. Cute boys and lots of hot meat-on-stick hors d'ouevres. Another party was downtown in a former speakeasy, now a gallery, over in the old part of downtown they keep backstage behind the nice buildings like Disney Hall and the Cathedral that they keep up front by the freeways.
We were still home by 10:30.
Meanwhile I think my neighbor has a slave. For sexual purposes. Seriously.
Couldn't stop thinking about Didier. Haven't heard from him in almost two days. Put Schwartzkopf singing Der Rosenkavalier -- the final scene, as if you needed to ask -- on repeat play to drown out the sounds next door. Slept a little, probably.
This morning a message from the "Countess" -- she's stopping in town to see some friends and wants to meet! Meanwhile her daughter, my youngest correspondent, is off to Europe to spend time with her father. I just hope she behaves herself.
Then came home and watched the Melvil Poupaud movie Le Temps Qui Reste, about this young gay photographer who's going to die. Didier is better looking and clearly works out a great deal more than Melvil but there's a vague resemblance, and the movie ends at a beach in the south of France (another connection? A sign?). Melvil's character won't tell anyone he's dying, but he goes to a sex club to deny his mortality (haven't we all), then breaks up with and tries to get back with his bf, and at another point he wakes up his grandmother Jeanne Moreau and asks if he can get in bed with her. "You know I sleep naked," she says. "I won't look," he replies and climbs in with the ancient but once great and famous beauty who holds him in her arms and --
Didier! C'est tu! C'est Moi!
Okay, so to try and distract myself, went last night with Eduardo to some parties -- he likes to do them all in one night, which I don't suppose is that easy to coordinate, but he picked me up at 5:30 because you can start a nightlife in L.A. before it's dark if you count in travel time. The first party was for Frontiers Magazine at Eleven, a bar on Santa Monica Blvd in WeHo. Cute boys and lots of hot meat-on-stick hors d'ouevres. Another party was downtown in a former speakeasy, now a gallery, over in the old part of downtown they keep backstage behind the nice buildings like Disney Hall and the Cathedral that they keep up front by the freeways.
We were still home by 10:30.
Meanwhile I think my neighbor has a slave. For sexual purposes. Seriously.
Couldn't stop thinking about Didier. Haven't heard from him in almost two days. Put Schwartzkopf singing Der Rosenkavalier -- the final scene, as if you needed to ask -- on repeat play to drown out the sounds next door. Slept a little, probably.
This morning a message from the "Countess" -- she's stopping in town to see some friends and wants to meet! Meanwhile her daughter, my youngest correspondent, is off to Europe to spend time with her father. I just hope she behaves herself.
If you really must see Grandmama nude, better Jeanne Moreau than Estelle Getty, I suppose.