Magical Glory Hole

With regards to Rebecca Fleck: Grief Counsellor at Large, although not to to downplay the usefulness of therapy, I find that a weekend of pretend slavery works just as well. Let me explain. Years ago I was having money troubles and so I was forced to take work anywhere. To make a long story short I ended up working in Medellin Colombia on a modelling shoot for some drug lords and I was kidnapped and held for a weekend by even worse people and the entire time I was in captivity I never once thought about money. For what it's worth, that's my story. By the way, this picture is shot through the same magical glory hole where we first saw the beautiful Indian brave.

Rebecca Fleck: Grief Counsellor at Large

In order to pay for the upkeep of this blog I have been forced to take in some sponsors. The first sponsor I'd like to introduce you to is Rebecca Fleck: Grief Counsellor at Large

Hello, my name is Rebecca Fleck and I’m a grief counsellor. I’ve been a grief counsellor really since I was nine years old. I used to charge other neighbourhood kids a hug to console them if something bad happened like if a pet died or they got stuck in an old refrigerator. We lived near a reservation not that that’s significant. Anyway, I think what really got me into the compassion field was having very large breasts and being a Jew at a very young age. I used to do a lot of car crashes and I worked in an AIDS hospice for a while which was grim. Lots of show tunes and very slippery floors. I do a of work with the victims of high school shootings which is extremely rewarding

Working with the kids is a hoot. Some of the kids, they don’t want me to be there. They say go away,you smell like piss. I say that’s death. But they’re too young to know the difference. But I don’t give up. I give them my card. I say call me. I give them my e-mail address. I say let’s meet in a chat room on AOL. They say, Go home you freak or we’ll call the FBI. , I tell them they’re in denial. They deny it. Four out of five kids today are time bombs. That’s no exaggeration. Statistics don’t lie.

Even though the victims of school violence need our counselling, the shooters themselves need our love too. I like to grief counsel them especially because it’s such a challenge. So often they’re such hard cases just because they’ve killed. They’ve been through a lot too. After all,they saw it all. I was the only person who could make Kip Kinkel cry. I know I could have reached Eric and Dylan. Those poor babies. I was at Columbine. I counselled the boy in the window. I have to be honest, a bit of a cry baby. All the kids were marvelous though. Columbine was the big one. We’ll never see it’s like again. I’ll never forget those kids. I made a lot of friends. Some of them still write me. Terrible letters,really. “ Filled with so much pain. So much rage. Some of them even threatening to kill me or even to eat me. They say “Don’t call anymore.” or “I’ll bet you taste like shit you old hag.” One young killer from Canada no less, said to quote, “ Get a Life.” I have a life,” I wrote back. “Have you cried yet?” He never replied. One day it will just erupt in him years from now maybe at work at a dead end job and everything’s fine and the next minute there’ll be lots of dead people around him.

So if you or anyone you love has been through a trauma recently, from a haircut gone wrong to finding a dead body in your bed, let Buddy know and we can talk. My ears and breasts are always available. Remember, studies show that talking to someone makes you feel better and doing it with your face buried in a pair of giant breasts is even better. You might think that that’s what friends and family are for but tests show you need a stranger for real catharthis. I can be reached at...

mrbuddycole.blogspot.com

Ask for Rebecca.

It's Buddy again. I hope that this blatant intrusion of commerciality into ewe isn't too offputting but sadly the times demand it. By the way, have you thought about purchasing the first installment of my autobiography "Buddy Babylon." It may not have sold like hot cakes in it's initial release but at least it's never been in a remainder bin. You could say the same thing about me.

Flight into Danger

As I sit here on the terrace of my pied a terre in Toronto basking in the 13 C sunshine, I can't help but feel a shiver of supernatural dread. Not since Gina Lolobrigida brought her collection of costume jewelery to the Home Shopping Network has there been such a sustained period of warmth in this chilly land. I remember when I was a boy growing up in northern Quebec, snow drifts so high that kids were constantly getting lost in them. Every spring when the snow melted there would always be at least two or three children who had gone missing that winter found thawing by the side of the road. We called them kidsicles. This ,combined with all the dog poo poking it's way out of the snow, made for quite an odeur in la belle province. So in honour of our warming world I would like to present you with a story set in the tropics. It's actually the missing section of my autobiography 'Buddy Babylon' but it was not included in the book because my editor felt that the revelations contained therein would have shaken the geopolitcal moorings of the world. Now enough time has passed and I feel the world can handle what I have to say. I will release it chapter by chapter like an old time stripper. So here goes. Chapter One. This is me removing my long gloves.

Flight Into Danger

"Could you please bring your seat back up," said the gaily accented French-Canadian airline steward on Air Canada Flight 765 to Vancouver, the first stop on my journey to the Philippines.
"I'm sorry, I'm very nervous," I said in French. "This is my first time on a plane."
"Don't worry, I'll be here to hold your hand if things get rough," he said, squeezing my crotch. I felt safer already.
"My name is Gaetan Dugas. What's yours?"
"It's Cole. Buddy Cole."
"Are you from Quebec?"
"Yes I am."
"I'm from Quebec City, the capital of all Quebec," he said in a high tone.
"Well, I'm from St. Hubert sur la Lac, the capital of all Pork."
"Gotta go, I got a show to do," he said switching back to English. Then he went to the front of the cabin and started gesticulating with his hands while someone off-screen did a narration on a microphone. It was something to do with belts, masks dropping from the ceiling, and floatation devices. It seemed to be about S&M which totally turned me off so I ignored the demonstration. I would rather die than put on a leather mask.
All of a sudden the plane began to move. My heart leapt to my throat. Soon we were hurtling down the runway like a supermodel sprinting towards a multi-million dollar endorsement deal. The plane kissed the air and the sky lifted us up into her bosom. Delicious.
After we were airborne for a while, Gaetan returned. "Coffee, tea or me?" he said and laughed. I just looked at him. "Perhaps a cocktail?" he said stressing the word "cock".
"I'll have a double vodka mar ... tini," I said, holding my fingers together close to his crotch in the universal symbol of a tiny dick. "Straight up and very dry." He didn't acknowledge my slight, and like a true professional, walked away with an air of authority. I settled in with a good book, "All About Rhoda" by Peggy Hertz from Scholastic Press. It's my favorite book. I have probably read this book a hundred times. It's gotten me through so many dark days. I guess it's Rhoda's spirit, or maybe it's just Peggy's prose. Whatever. I cling to it like a drowning man clings to a dolphin.
I felt something stir in my pocket. It was Cornygirl wanting to look out the window. She had never been on a plane before. Gaetan returned with the martini and noticed the turmoil in my pocket.
"Looks like you got ants in your pants," he said. My patience with Gaetan was close to zero.
"Mind your own beeswax." I snapped. He walked off looking hurt.
I took Cornygirl out of my pocket and held her up to the window. I could tell she was thrilled by the vista. I don't know what I would do without her. She was my best friend. Well, of course, there was Marco, but they didn't like each other, which made my life unbearable. I thought about Marco and I, both of us tucked inside our silvery birds, flying in the sky towards modelling assignations in radically different corners of the world. I missed him, and Kate and even my family whom I hadn't thought about for a long time. I wondered what was going on back at the farm. After all I'd seen, I wondered if I could ever go home again.
The martini hit me with double force because of the altitude and the quaalude Carma Norma had given me and I fell into a deep sleep. I dreamed that I was going down a tropical river on a raft. I was wearing nothing but a pair of Juicy Mango Jeans and camouflage face paint. The shore was lined with paparazzi snapping pictures of me and shouting "Fabulous!" and "Give us a smile, Buddy!" I sensed that I was journeying towards something evil, or worse. The raft began to move faster and faster and soon we were engulfed in rapids. The paparrazzi had disappeared and I realized that we were going over a waterfall. Then, just as the raft sailed over the lip of the falls and shot out into the abyss, I woke up in a sweat. Well, a glow.
The cabin was dark and everybody seemed to be asleep. I needed to relieve myself, so I hopped over my seatmates legs, and made my way down the aisle. I found the washroom and opened the door only to discover Gaetan bent over the sink, being ushered into the mile high club by what appeared to be the pilot. Gaetan saw me in the mirror and beckoned me in. I shook my head no and closed the door quietly. I wanted to know who was flying the plane. I put my ear to the cockpit door. I could hear nothing, so I gingerly opened it. The pilot's seat was empty and the co-pilot was asleep in his chair with an opened bag of chips on his lap.
Who was driving this thing, I thought. I debated over whether to wake the guy, not wanting to intrude, but also not wanting to die. I figured the plane had to be on auto-pilot or something. That's how most people drift through their lives. Why not planes? I decided to shelve my fears and return to my seat but just as I was turning to go, I saw a sight more horrifying than the ballet feet in Natas's apartment. A big plane was coming directly for us!
Without thinking, I hopped into the pilot's seat and began pressing buttons. The first button I pressed turned on the stereo and the joyous sounds of "You're the One That I Want" filled the cabin. But even the combination of John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John wasn't enough to stop the oncoming plane. It continued on it's deadly course towards us. The second button misted my face with Evian water. Leave it to a gay pilot. The plane was almost upon us. It obviously wasn't about buttons. I suddenly espied what looked like a steering wheel. I grabbed it and pushed it forward. Our plane went into a steep dive, and the other plane narrowly flew over us, so close I could actually see the face of the person at the wheel. It was Marco Nagy. He looked terrified. I realized he was in the exact same situation as I. He recognized me and blew me a kiss, and away we went, two silver birds almost crashing in the night.
I had saved everyone's lives. But now we were plunging to the ground. I looked over at the co-pilot for help but he was still dead to the world. It was up to me. I gradually eased the wheel back up and pulled us out of our dive. When I had the plane steady, I switched the auto-pilot back on and returned to my seat. I decided not to wake the co-pilot. He was obviously useless. I passed Gaetan coming out of the washroom. He looked like the cat who'd eaten the canary.
"That was the best orgasm I ever had. It felt like we were going to crash."
"Not this time," I replied mysteriously.
The captain stumbled out. He saw me and made a pathetic attempt to straighten up.
"Well, Steward Dugas, that toilet seems to be working pretty well now."
I thought about telling them what had happened, but then I thought, fuck it. I didn’t need the paperwork. Besides, my bladder was about to burst. I pushed my way past them and then had the most satisfying piss of my life.

end of chapter one

Be sure to tune in next week for chapter two 'Pushing The Manila Envelope'. If this has whetted your appetite for my tales please feel free to hop on over to E-Bay or Amazon or Alibis or any of the other fine internet chains to purchase your own copy of 'Buddy Babylon' from Bantam Doubleday Dell.

Fallow Fields

It seems like everywhere you look in the media today, gay people are having babies. The only place gays aren't having babies it seems is in real life because none of my friends are doing it and I'm certainly not having any children and I'm your typical gay man. Like any man though I have the desire to plant my seed and watch it grow but unfortunately all the fields I plant are fallow not to mention callow. That's why I decided to adopt an imaginary child.

She's seven years old and her name's Sarah. I named her after that classic tv movie "Sarah Big and Tall" because she's just over six feet tall. She's a handful. She hates school and lately has refused to go. She wants to be home schooled which I'm completely against. I knew a girl who was home schooled and she was a cannibal. She never learned that other people weren't food. So I told Sarah that if she didn't go to school she'd never learn any social or occupational skills and end up being a common streetwalker. She said if it was good enough for me it was good enough for her.

I'm a very strict dad. I don't believe in corporal punishment per se but take Daddy's martini and you will get pinched. The best thing about imaginary children is that they are so easy to take care of. You can leave them for months without food or water and when you return, all they ask for is a bit of toffee.

I used to leave her occasionally with female friends, you know for that feminine perspective, until this one weekend I left her with my friend Naomi, a single court reporter with no children just entering menopause whose cat had recently died. A perfect storm. When I got back from my holiday she wouldn't return Sarah so I had to call the police. They sent in a swat team but only one man returned and he'd been raped. After that even the bomb robots wouldn't go in. Finally I grabbed the bullhorn and managed to persuade her to exchange Sarah for an imaginary husband and the standoff ended.

Later that night when I was putting Sarah to bed, she asked me where Mummy was. I told her the truth, that mummy had died in a mysterious plane crash in Peru. She said she was glad and that even if she were alive she'd want to live with me. (choking up) That's why you have kids. I asked her if she missed not having a mother and she said, " No. I miss having a father." I said nothing. I figure there's got to be someone in your life besides yourself you give the last word to.

Indian Winter

Just something beautiful to look at. This is actually the view from a magical glory hole at the back of an old wardrobe I bought from a retired choreographer at a yard sale in Palm Springs.

Liz Gets Real in 07

Happy New Year to everyone. Now that it's over I can tell you what I did. I spent it with one of my dearest friends in the world. You know her as tthe Queen of England. I know her as LIz. We had a wonderful time hacking about the bush at Balmoral with the corgi's or sitting around a roaring fire with mulled wine sharing stories about Margaret. Last night, New Years, Liz got a little into her flagons and became very serious. I thought I would share her story with you. This is what she said in her own words.

Liz's Story

Recently,while accidentally on purpose monitoring my family's telephone conversations,I overheard my son Edward talking to a gentleman friend in New York about barebacking. I was completely staggered,as you could imagine. Riding a horse without a saddle is terribly dangerous. The steed could come to a sudden halt and before one can say Christopher Robin,there's another Christopher Reeves. Or is it Reeve. I never know. Edward's friend spoke about some sort of circuit where everyone goes au naturale, and barebacks,apparently. I don't know what circuit he's referring to but Ascot's certainly not on it. The English are not meant to be nude in large groups, which is why the Holocaust for us would have been not only horrific but embarrassing as well. There's nothing wrong with thinking about barebacking. I think about it all the time. I think about having people killed, too. Certain members of the press. Elton John. Diana, again. But we don't, because I can't have any fun. It's the law. I'm not even allowed to ride a horse like a regular person. We must ride side-saddle. It takes away all the enjoyment of riding for a woman. We're afraid the only position a Queen may straddle is a political one.

Heaven knows, it's been a difficult year what with that horrible Queen movie with that dreadful Helen Mirren creature desparately trying to humanize me. No I didn't cry on camera when the D word died. So cut off my head. I won't be the first relation to suffer that fate. Maybe I didn’t cry but I did look sad. I addressed you in a sweater. I refrained from using the B word. Buddy you know I've changed. I came about on the love that dared not speak it’s name and gave a Knighthood to Ian Mckellen, even though he wanted to be Dame. But this barebacking thing has got me all in a dither. It's just so unnecessary.

I admit that I used to bareback all the time when I was a young girl but that was before we knew the dangers. Nanny would wake me in the dead of night and we'd sneak out to the stables,me in my bare feet and Nanny in her wellies. I'd always ride Daedalus, a huge black stallion with the bloodlines of a champion. We'd ride till dawn and then I'd put him away wet. I still think of Daedelus late at night when I'm alone in my big bed with no one around but the Corgis. I think about riding him bareback over the moors wearing nothing but a tiara and we think and we think until we fall asleep.

And with that she did just that. I covered her up with an armful of corgi's then wrapped myself in an ermine cape and fell asleep on the floor with my head on a snoozing bloodhound. Goodnight. Sweet Dreams. Buddy and Liz

Turkey in the E.U. Now

This is a picture from my last trip to Turkey where I attended a symposium on Turkish Wrestling. It was life changing. So let me get this straight. In Turkey gorgeous men slather themselves in oil and then wrestle each other in open fields wearing nothing but leather pants and they're not in the E.U. yet. It's a travesty of justice. Turkey in 07. Brussels, are you listening?

Public Service Announcement

Just a reminder this New Year's Eve to make sure that your windows are securely locked so that your children won't open them during your drunken revels and tumble to their almost certain deaths. It would be a terrible way to greet the New Year unless that child landed on someone who was about to kill you and knocked them out, and then bounced onto a bush and got up without a scratch. That would be a fabulous New Years story. The problem is, it's usually 'Hundreds Die in Disco Fire." Happy New Years.

ding dong the witch is dead

Well i'ts over. Saddam is dead. I have to admit I have mixed feelings. Let me explain. Years ago, before just before 9/ll I was in Afghanistan. I don't really remember why. All I know is, somehow I got UNICEF to pay for the whole thing. I was disguised as Miss Fariza Shaloub, the beautiful daughter of a Yemeni chieftain, with flashing eyes on her way to Mecca. Whenever I travel in the Middle East,I always travel in drag. Mostly because it's so easy. Throw on a burkha,some sandals,a bit of kohl and you're good to go. That's what I love about the veil. You're beautiful just because you say you are. It's like being Barbra Streisand.One morning at the open air weapons of mass destruction bazaar in Kabul,I met a man. He was bidding on a nuclear suitcase bomb and I was haggling over a crystal decanter of anthrax. Our eyes met over the table and like a good Muslim girl, I looked away. When I looked back he was coming towards me,his mustachioed mouth pulled back over his teeth in a snarl. I was smitten. He told me his name was Uday, and he asked me if I wanted to go for a ride. The next thing I knew there was a solid gold pistol pointed at my head and all I could think was, "Rich too?" Then suddenly we were in a helicopter in Northern Iraq, whipping across a "no fly zone" and dropping water balloons on U.N. Peacekeepers. That's when I realized who he was but then I realized that we were heading straight into the side of a mountain, and just before we hit, it suddenly opened up like Batman’s cave and we darted inside like Robin’s tongue. Uday landed the whirlybird on a giant pillow and I realized that we were inside one of his father's secret underground palaces. That night, after a sumptuous feast of something that tasted a lot like tiger, we watched the South Park movie on a giant television. Uday roared at the Saddam parts. After the film ended, Uday turned and looked deeply into my brown contact lenses. I bowed my head modestly. His hairy hand reached for my veil. My big hennaed hand stopped it. He stared at my hand suspiciously. I had no choice. I bowed my head again, but his time not modestly. That's when Daddy walked in. I stopped breathing,well through my mouth. The Butcher of Bagdhad came up behind me,lifted my burkha tenderly and then began to roger me savagely like a pirates peg boy. The three of us came together and then collapsed on the pillows in an axis of evil. As I lay there like a spent Yemeni whore,I thought to myself,well,at least for the next few minutes,there'll be peace in the Middle East. So there you have it. My conscience is clear. All I'll say, is that things were going pretty good in one man fight against tyrannny until the Americans came in and screwed things up. Let History be the judge and let me write it. Buddy Cole.