Hats and Balls

After rigorously going over the submissions for the 'Questions and Queries' column, I have chosen Psychotic Penguin's submission for this first installment because it touches on so many of the issues of today that are ripping our society apart. There is absolutely no truth to the rumour that I took money from said penguin. It was a donation to my charity FindSave which benefits the forgotten spinal bifida children of Patagonia. So without further ado, I will bid adieu and turn it over to ewe.

Dear Buddy,
If a guy gives you a colorful (or, in your case, colourful) rubber ball with his name on it, does that mean he likes you?

Love,
Shaina.

Dear Shaina. First let me say that you sound like a very nice person, notwithstanding your moniker Psychotic Penguin. However I muist advise you against the i in your name. Look what it does to must. It makes me want to pronounce your name like hyaena. That said, if it is actually pronounced that way, then my deepest apologies to you and all your people whoever they are. As to your attack on Canadian spelling let me just say that even though the o u combination is such an irritant to spell check. and Americans it’s worth it.

Now to the nub of your question, the rubber ball with someone’s name on it.. Throughout history the signed rubber ball has been associated with romantic love. From the ancient Sumerians to the modern Sumerians, a man giving you a rubber ball which he has signed has always meant he desired marriage. A sgned black rubber ball that is. A signed colourful rubber ball means you probably just met me as that’s the only way I sign autographs anymore. You see an Aunt of mine who was a hoarder recently passed and left me ten thousand colourful rubber balls and ever since I’v e been trying to get rid of them. Now as to how you forgot meeting me, that I cannot explain. Interestingly enough I do like you but not that way so I guess my answer to your question is a qualified ‘yes..’

My niece Fagette just called. She said she missed me and couldn’t wait to visit me in Toronto. I haven’t told her yet that I’ve moved to Hollywood. I’ll cross that bridge when she shows up on my nonexistent doorstep in the T-dot like she did the last time. She. was very excited because she got a C on her project at school. I told her that marks weren't what counted. That a C was nice but it wouldn’t buy happiness. Popularity does that. So I asked her what sort of press she'd received and she told me that it had been overwhelmingly positive which is never a good sign. I once went to a screening of a movie where people hated it so much they stood up at the end just to show their support. It's only when things are great that people feel that it's okay to criticize.

It reminds me of that time in Hatworld when a top hat named Tim and a rasta hat named Rufus were flying around one day smoking a big spliff and debating whether or not a toupe should be considered a hat. Even Socrates would have needed two boys to solve that one. Tim was pro-toupee, but Rufus said if you start letting in toupees where will it end? Bubble wigs? Glasses perched on the head? Weaves? Suddenly, they were surrounded by a V-formation of blue foam cowboy hats. Their brims drooped. They were obviously drunk. "Oh my god, one's got a hat pin, screamed Rufus ". Tim the top hat remained frozen in the air like a frightened Fred Astaire. Then everything became still, like that moment just before you're named Miss Universe.

Then, something moved across the sun, like an eclipse, and it became very cold. They all looked up to see a hat so big you could stage a high school production of Flower Drum Song on it. It was God. The foam cowboy hats scattered and Rufus and Tim fell into each other's brims with relief and when they looked up the big hat was gone. Now, that’s the kind of God that I can handle. Large, stylish, and knows when to leave a party.


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Fran's Miracle Cancer Prevention

Guess who dropped by for a cup of instant coffee? Sorry. You took too long. It's Fran Wilson and she has a rather interesting story about a visit to her doctor. I'm just going to let the humble homemaker tell it like it is. By the way I'm collating all the 'questions and queries' and will soon have some answers for you. Hang on ewesies while I go through this transtion time. No, not transitioning. I'm not changing sex. 'm moving. Once is enough.

Fran

The other day my doctor, asked me if I wanted to try out this new "preventative" cancer technique he'd learned in England. I was all for it as long as there were no machines involved. I don't like machines. Pain, I'm fine with. It's character building but machines make you soft. That's why I got rid of the robot vacuum.
The doctor assured me that the procedure was completely manual, that it consisted of simple digital,which is Latin for finger,manipulation of the pelvic region. He explained that the movement of a doctor's digits against the womanly wall stimulated blood flow to the area which in turn triggered a mysterious process which completely eliminated tumors before they even had a chance to take root. It was all too complicated for me, so I just kept my lip buttoned and assumed the position.
At first I didn't feel much at all, but then I started to have some localized discomfort, you know, down there, so I asked him what that was all about. He explained to me in his best bedside manner that since the pelvic wall expands one digit for each child and since I'd had five, it was necessary to use his whole hand. That made sense, although why he was in up to his elbow, I still don't know. I didn't ask because I don't understand the science.
Then I went somewhere I've never been before and then I went somewhere else. And then it was over. And I must say, I did feel like I was a better person. Now this is the best part. Free. God bless Canadian health care. You don't get that in the States. When I told my sister Barbara in Buffalo about the whole thing, she said it sounded suspicious. She's just jealous because she knows her HMO wouldn't cover it. He scheduled another treatment for me next week, this time to prevent prostate cancer which apparently runs rampant with older women.


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Tippitoe thru the Two Lips

Since I'm so busy with my move, I've been unable to post as much as I'd like. However, lucky for me, my old friend Weston Esterhazy, tabloid reporter at large and the real Perez Hilton dropped by with a story that will curl your merkin. Let me just let Weston tell the story in his own words.

Weston Esterhazy Reports

Hello, my name is Weston Esterhazy and I’m a tabloid reporter and even though I’m not affiliated with any official media outlets in either television, radio, print or the internet, and don’t have any official journalistic accreditation in either the United States,England, Canada or the Bahamas I do live in Hollywood and I love the business of show and isn’t that what it’s all about.

So onto today’s Celebrity News. I’m walking down Melrose Ave. the other day when who should be coming towards me but Tippi Hedren and her daughter Melanie Griffith. That’s amazing enough but the best part was they were both sporting camel toes. At first I thought it was a trick of the light or a hallucination possibly brought on by the Gingko Biloba in my Jamba Juice but when I looked again, boom, there it was. I was on to a scoop but the only problem was, I didn’t have a camera. I had pure gold and no way to spin it.

Then I noticed Tippi pulling a little camera out of her purse. I started thinking about my dog named Tippi who got lumpy and died. Then I thought, I gotta get that camera. I noticed Melanie was pressing her fish lips against a poster of herself in some movie. “It looks like a good movie.” I say. Melanie looks up and goes, “ It sucks. “ I then noticed the poster was for “Crazy in Alabama.” So, she’s not totally stupid, I thought.

Then Tippi raised the camera to take a picture of her daughter. I knew I had to act. I suggested that I take a picture of the two of them together kissing Melanie on either cheek, and they thought it was a great idea. I could tell they’d been drinking, which is always helpful in my business. The glamorous pair got into position. Then I realized, the way they were posed, you couldn’t see the goods so thinking quickly, I asked Tippi to throw her arm around her daughter. She looked confused. I suddenly realized, it wasn’t Tippi Hedren at all but Janet Leigh.

I knew I had two options. I could either tell the truth and say that I had mistaken Janet Leigh for Tippi Hedren or I could lie and say that I’d mistaken Melanie Griffith for Jamie Lee Curtis. So, I say to Melanie that I’m sorry that I mistook her for Jamie Lee Curtis. And then she goes, “ I am Jamie Lee Curtis you fucking idiot,” really loud, in my face. That’s when I finally recognized her. She’d had her lips done and so it had thrown me.

Then the person whom I think is Janet goes, “ And I’m sure not her fucking mother. So I look at her like, now what, and then I realize with a horrible sinking feeling that it’s not Janet Leigh at all but David Spade. The picture was becoming more worthless by the second.

Suddenly a mud covered Range Rover comes squealing to a halt right in front of us and who should get out but Tippi Hedren herself. She was wearing absolutely no makeup which advertised her aversion to sunscreen and her tan safari jacket which was filthy and covered in cat hair hung loosely on her gaunt frame. Looped loosely around one wrist was a dirty rope which was attached to what looked like some sort of an animal. Then her animal got out of the vehicle. He was a big striped cat, but not a calico, more of an actual tiger really. I was suddenly aware of the camera in my hand and without thinking, I pointed it and clicked. The tiger immediately charged. I threw the camera at the beast but it missed and hit Tippi and she went down like a sack of papery bones. The next thing I remember is waking up under Peabo Brysons hedge wearing nothing but plastic handcuffs, an order to appear in court on the 27th and a cum sock. If you would like to send me money so I can make the court date and find out what charges I’m facing so that I don’t end up like Paris Hilton, then send it to Peabo Bryson, c/o the Hollow and the Tree.


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Sweet Jesus, its about Time

Hello ewesies. Its been a long time once again. Im* going to be honest with you this time and tell you the truth even if its a lie. No tall tales of pirates swooping into my home in the dead of night and then swooping back out in the morning a little kindler, a lot gentler and much much poorer. Even though that did happen, it was the one time and he was no pirate, he was an actor and he did it for my birthday and no it wasn’t Geena Davis.

A few weeks ago I received a frantic phone call from the Kids in the Hall manager Seymour Hessenfop who told me that the Kids were in trouble. He said that they were doing a show in L.A. and it wasn’t working and would I fly in and perform one of my famous monologues. I told Mr. Hessenfop to stop his blubbering and send me the Kids private jet. He laughed and so it came to pass that the next day saw me on an Amtrak train speeding towards Destiny at over eighty miles an hour.

Naturally the show was a rousing success. All the material was new, the boys were on and the theatre was packed every night. I debuted a new monologue where I discussed the tantalizing possibility that Jesus Christ might have been gay. Now all of you long term ewesies will no doubt recall an early post where I discussed the very same topic. Although the monologue I performed here in Hollywood differed somewhat, the seeds were planted here and ewe were there first.

I think it bears mentioning that I was the only one of the Kids in the Hall characters to appear in the show. No Hecubus, no Sarcastic Guy, no Chicken Lady, no Gavin and definitely no Francesca Fiori. No one even mentioned her. Bruno Puntz Jones told me he hadn’t spoken to her in years and that when he did she was so drunk he couldn’t understand her although to be fair, I cant understand her when shes sober.

Needless to say, the moment I arrived in Hollywood, the clamor to keep me here grew until I could no longer ignore it. So I have decided to stay. The wounds I suffered here over my failed marriage to Tandy Porter and the devastating custody battle over the two headed twins that followed have healed. So have the ones I endured over the constant thieving of my ideas including the invention of the smoothie, the idea for the hit sitcom Chasin Raisins and the philosophy of Andrew Weil. Now its not about revenge. Its about getting my face out there. No part is too small. Just this week I had an interview for head waiter at Rancho Coco Loco and it went very well. There was a picture of Lindsay Lohan in the front window wearing a Coco Loco hat on one breast and the one that wasnt wearing the hat looked sad. I think I might have lucked out.
*my apostrophe key is acting a little shifty.

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Danny's Song

In light of today's tragic events at Virginia Tech I thought I would publish the text of a speech my dear friend Danny Husk gave to a conference of vice principals when he was a v.p. himself at Polly Politech. At times like these when all there are is questions, sometimes it's nice to listen to someone with a moustache who has an answer.

DANNY HUSK

Thank you for your warm reception fellow vice principals. It's an honour and a privilege to be your designated speaker here tonight. I love being a vice-principal. Being a vice-principal for me,is not like almost being a principal. I say if that's how you feel then hit the road, Jack. As for all that hero stuff,well that's just the media. I'm just the same Danny Husk that I've always been. I'm certainly not a hero to my wife otherwise she wouldn't have left me. Is it hot in here. It feels hot. Uh huh. Phew. I remember it like it was yesterday. Not my wife leaving me of course,but rather the day that the boy went berserk at school,although I have to admit,I do confuse them. Certainly the shooting was worse but that's not the way I see it. No offence to the dead. It's definitely hot in here. Can we open up a window, oh they don't open. Okay, I'm going to take my jacket off if you don't mind.

(He takes his jacket off revealing huge sweat stains. Regardless, he continues to sweat freely.)

That's better. Now I can think. So, I'm in my classroom before class working out my lesson plan on the blackboard. I still teach. As a vice principal, I don't have to but I like to stay in the game. I teach shop and anger management. So, as I said, I'm at the blackboard and uh, I hear what sounds like popping noises in the hall. My first thought is that someone is setting off firecrackers and we have a zero tolerance policy to firecrackers, so I stop doodling the picture I was doing of my wife having her head ripped off by an eagle and I go to the door and just before I get to it, I hear a series of loud screams. So, I think, oh it's the Drama class and they're rehearsing their upcoming production of "Pulp Fiction" which I look forward to. Then I think okay, Fine, leave me but for a principal.

(He loosens his tie and sweeps back his sopping wet hair)

It's hotter than a whorehouse in July. Jeez. So, I open the door and standing just down the hall is a student named Michael Lipchick. I recognize him from my anger management class. He has a crazed look on his face and he's holding a big gun which he's firing willy nilly down the hall at fleeing students. My first thought is, well he's certainly going to fail and then he points the gun at me and says "Die, bitch." which I think is an odd way to address a vice principal. So I say, uh, "No, Michael, the bitch is my wife" and he laughs and without thinking,I throw my piece of chalk at him. It hits him between his eyes and he puts his hands up to block it even though it's already hit him and then somehow or other,I grab the gun and proceed to beat the living crap out of him.

I'm glad the authorities arrived as fast as they did and pulled me off him because they said if they'd come any later, I would have killed her. I mean him. I guess the best thing that's come out of all this,is that now I no longer have the urge to kill. Thank you Michael for that small blessing but I still hope you don't wake up. Now if you'll excuse me,I'm going to go change out of these wet togs and then bury myself in a good bottle of Grisham. Good night.

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Questions and Queries

In response to the flurry of interest about me possibly starting an advice column, I have no choice but to honour your desires before the flurry becomes a blizzard. From hereon in let this post be known as the Questions and Queries box. Leave your questions in the 'Comments' section and I will check it periodically and choose which questions to deal with and then post the answers later. They can be on any topic from whether to circumcise your dog to what’s the best time to plant Belgian Congo quince or even heavier topics such as “Does making love to a centaur qualify as bestiality?”

For the record, “No.” A centaur is a man where it matters and a horse where it counts. That’s not perverse. That’s just common sense. In ‘The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe,’ the hottest man was the Centaur, Oreius, and the sexiest youth was the faun, Tumnus. Does this mean that I would have sex with a horse or a goat? No. Secretariat is dead. No, seriously. A goat can’t give consent and it’s questionable that a horse can. However a centaur obviously can, at least most of them can. It would be wrong to take advantage of a mentally challenged centaur or a nubile foal but a man like Oreius is a General for heaven’s sake. He knows what he’s doing.

So go ahead and fantasize my questioning friend. If you want to deepen your understanding let me recommend three books by the great writer John Varley called, respectively, ‘Titan’, ‘Wizard’ and ‘Demon’. Inside, you’ll find Human-Centaur love is explored at great length.

Which brings us back to the first question. “ Should I circumcise my dog?” Not unless he asks for it. You wouldn’t circumcise a baby would you? And finally, the best time to plant Belgian Congo quince is never. There’s no such a fruit. There! See how this thing works. It’s easy. Everybody has a question.

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The Seventies

Gabcast! ewe #34 - The Seventies

This song 'The Seventies' was the final track of our fourth album 'Sleepytime Gal'. The album cover was made up to look like an old jazz standards record. The actual sound of the endeavour inside was not jazzy at all, in fact it was rocky and soulful with a Doors feel. I think this confused the buyer and listener. The other problem which we found out too late was that there was already a Buddy Cole, a jazz pianist from the 30's or 40's or even 50's I guess. It's possible to live that long. Anyways, not only was he named Buddy Cole but he also put out a jazz album called 'Sleepytime Gal' years ago that looked exactly like this one. So we sued. Incredibly we won and that's why you've never heard of the other Buddy Cole, just me.

Ewe Can't Touch This

I can say it now with almost absolute certainty that the person behind the latest kidnapping attempt (see previous post) is none other than Francesca Fiori. Here's my proof. One day during my incarceration I noticed a long black hair on the floor. If you recall, my captors were wearing Maude masks but what I neglected to tell you was they were wearing blonde Tina Yothers wigs, so where did this come from. Exactly.

So one day after a particularly grueling session of a game they called 'Total Wit Destruction' where they would blast spoken word poetry at me, I was given a torture time out, a ten minute nap on a towel on the floor. So I'm lying there pretending to masturbate, the guards are watching a Maple Leaves game on TV and I reach over and grab the hair and slipped it into my pocket. Then I pretended to come and they looked over and cheered and then the Leaves scored and they groaned or it might have been the other way around.

Anyways, I had the hair tested and the DNA was an almost perfect match. That's good enough for me because DNA evidence often lies. The hair came from someone in Southeast Asia which means it's from a wig because most wigs are made from Southeast Asian hair because it behaves the best in high humidity. And since I've thought for years that Francescaa was actually bald this proves it. It may not be the smoking gun but it's close.

I don't want to feed her ravenous ego any more by continuing to discuss her antics but I will say this though. This feud will never end until one of us is dead or worse. It's come to that. Her jealousy over my comeback is obviously consuming her. First it was the physical destruction of my broadcasting studio in Sticaragua, then the repeated cyber attacks under the guise of the terrorist group DESU, and finally the kidnapping attempt and I say attempt because it was. She may have managed to borrow my body for a few weeks but she couldn't take my spirit and that's what's most important, after the face.

Now if you don't mind, I would like to post an old monologue from mine from the mid nineties that has never been on television. I'm feeling a little sentimental and a lot lazy.

Gay Shame

So it’s Gay Pride Day. I don’t know about you but I don’t have enough gay pride to last the whole day. I have about a minute in me, so I’ll make this snappy. Why do we celebrate Gay Pride Day? Because we are proud. Proud of what ? That we are gay. And what is gay? . Two people of the same sex doing it. It’s disgusting. I can barely stop thinking about it, I’m such a masochist. It’s like having Food Day or International Woman’s Day. Preposterous.

Instead of Gay Pride Day, I propose Gay Shame day. After all,there’s a lot more of that going around. I’m full of gay shame, but I’m not self loathing. I wouldn’t know self loathing if it came up and made me a martini, but I would take the martini. Gay shame is what you feel for other queers, the ones who aren’t you or your fabulous friends. One of the great truths that the Dalai Lama taught me is “ All fags hate each other.” Or was that Richard Gere? Now dykes are a different story. All I know is they’re always involved in these torrid little triangles yet they never seem to have much sex.

Gay Pride Day has become a big mall where you can buy anything from cock and ball separators to gay phone cards. One of these things I’d actually use. The only people who really take gay pride day seriously anymore are the interpreters for the deaf. Why wouldn’t they? It’s the best gig of the year. I used to spend every gaypride day giving free foot massages to the gay homeless. Now, it’s the one day a year I do cocaine. Something got lost along the way. Yeah, like half my friends. It’s just become an excuse to get wrecked and have sex with strangers. Which is fine if you’re a Christian or something, you need that one day a year, but if you’re a fag,isn’t it just a wee bit redundant. In order for it to be special, we should be sitting at home in bed reading a good book not passed out in some tricks apartment after falling into a k-hole.

Now St. Patricks Day is my idea of a day because it’s so stupid. Honey, I think about being gay all the time. I never think about being Irish. The thing I like best about St. Patricks day is that on that day, everyone is Irish unless of course you’re gay and live in New York City. So, I propose next Gay Pride Day, let’s make everybody Irish gay. So, that means, any straight person of Irish extraction is fair game. That means John F. Kennedy Jr. is in a lot of danger, but Ted Kennedy isn’t.

One day in the not so distant future being gay will be normal, dull even and Gay Pride Day will just be known as Sunday. It will be the hardest on the lesbians I think because they’ll have nowhere to use their walkie talkies. They’ll all be sitting at home wearing headsets and barking orders to their cats. Fags will get by. After fifteen years of AIDS, we’re tougher than cockroaches and about as fond of the light.

It all reminds me of the night that Tennessee Williams and I were sitting on the balcony of his villa in Mykonos staring up at the stars high on dolls and whisky and I said to Tennessee “ Do you think there’s life up there? “ and he said “ Why would there be? There’s no life here. “ Two days later he choked to death on the plastic top of a neo-synephrine bottle. I guess the lesson here is, drug containers kill.

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The Twenty Two Day War

Twenty two days ago I left you with a cryptic blog about going away to an undisclosed location for vague reasons. I alluded to mysterious forces trying to destroy us, the continuing threat of Francesca Fiori and her associate, the elusive Mr. Dr. Robert Young. I even put the blog on an orange alert. What was up you say? Good question. Where have I been for the last twenty two days. Even better one. Why do monarch butterflies all flock to the same valley in Mexico every year? I have no idea. Why you would go somewhere where everyone is beautiful too is beyond me. That's why I roost in Toronto. More moths than butterflies.

So what did happen to me? Did I fall off a roof like Steve Weston and die? Obviously not because I wouldn't be here blogging unless this isn't really me. Did I fall in love and run off with someone? I wish. Maybe I had been trying to dust a 'Best Legs' trophy on a high book shelf at home and had fallen in between the shelf and the wall and had been trapped there for weeks hanging upside down like a curing slab of bacon. It was none of those things. It was far more boring. I was kidnapped and held hostage by a shadowy group where I was tortured for twenty two days. But it all worked out and I'm back, and all is well. Nay! Better than well. Wellbutrin well.

You'll have to excuse me for not getting more upset but it's not the first time I've been kidnapped. I was kidnapped once before by Uday Hussein and ended up having to have sex with him and his father so this was a cake walk by comparison. I don't even know what my kidnappers looked like because they wore Maude masks the entire time. They wanted me to associate the great Bea Arthur with this horrible experience and forever ruin my love of for her. That's how ruthless they were. All I know is there were four of them and at least two of them were women, one of whom spoke with a Latin accent and called herself Alfresca. Naturally I have my suspicions who it was but I can't say until I know more or get drunk and spill my guts. What was their purpose. They told me they were trying to bring about the collapse of civilization by kidnapping it's most amusing members and holding them hostage for twenty two days until they're broken whereupon they return them back to society so witless and dull that their demeanour will act as a soporific on their friends and eventually render everyone around then completely stupefied until we are all so compliant that we can be harvested as food. That's when I thought they might not be who they said they were. I asked them "Why twenty two days?" They said that it was because that was the life span of any given quip and that after that amount of time, it's impact diminished. Then I asked one of the men what this had to do with Ewe and the woman with the accent said "Nothing." and that Ewe was just collateral damage. I didn't believe her because the whole time she was talking she was writing various prices on a tomato with a sharpie.

For three weeks they tortured me. They blasted me with the soundtrack from Dreamgirls, just the men's parts. They forced me to vote for Sanjaya on American Idol over and over again until my fingers bled. The worst was when they made me write a letter to the editor of Entertainment Weekly thanking them for their "absolutely amazing" cover shot of Justin Timberlake that made him look "so real and completely approachable but still super hot." They almost got me there but I held on. That's when i decided to stop breathing. It's a trick I learned from a shaman/trick in Lake Titicaca and anyways it's come in handy a few times over the years when you want someone to leave. You don't actually stop breathing. You just take in enough air to keep from passing out. It drives your captor's crazy because they think you're dead and they don't want that at least not at the beginning. By the second week I was barely conscious. Week three, I don't remember any of it. Apparently I made a video where I talked about how mixed up Britney was and how I wished I could give her a hug and then I hugged the camera and fell into a coma.

During my time asleep I had this dream where I was in a a room shaped like a triangle lying on a triangular bed and Starbuck the beautiful tomboy space fighter on Battlestar Gallactica was sitting in a traingular chair with her legs crossed like a man and staring at me like she wanted to eat me and my firstborn. Then May Pang the woman John Lennon briefly left Yoko for, came through a round door carrying a case of *Coke Zero. She put the case down and then pulled on out one frosty can and tossed it to Starbuck. She grabbed it and popped it open with a satisfying fizz and then downed it in one go. Then she stood up and I could see that she was wearing a huge strap on penis. She began to walk towards me waggling her rubber appendage and that's all remember until I woke up under a hedge in Forest Hill wearing a bloody diaper. I had lost seventeen pounds and looked fabulous. It was all air. I gained it back by the time I got home. Oh well, that's why there's **Coke Zero.

* This mention of Coke Zero was paid for by Coca Cola Limited and it's subsidiaries and may not be used in or of itself as a stand in for any other cola or beverage of a bubbly brown nature including but not limited to Root Beer, Dr. Pepper, Brio, or Tab.

**This mention of Coke Zero was completely unsolicited.

Gabcast! ewe #33 - Be My Barbarian

This song was alledgedly recorded on March 24th 2007 by me after fifteen days in captivity. At this point I had just fallen into the coma so how I managed to summon the energy to record this cri de couer, I have no idea. What I imagined happened was that at some point in the night I sleptwalked to a studio where my captors had assembled my band Mouth Congress at gunpoint and forced them to accompany me while I raged and stormed in my vegetative state. What other explanation could there be?




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Let's Hear it for Sal

Well ewesies, I'm back. I would apologize for the long absence but since the Oscar debacle where I actually apologized for certain comments, that word is gone from my vocabulary. What I will do is fill you in on where I've been though. I'm no longer in the country, the country being Canada, but once again I am unable to tell you where exactly because of security concerns. We all remember what happened the last time when I went away to that country that rhymes with Sticaragua and the RESU Brigade struck. We were all so concerned with Francesca Fiori and Dr. Robert Young that we forgot that there are many other menaces out there. Let me just say that I am safe and sound in body and in mind. It looks like the Gods have finally turned their face back to me and realized what a cruel waste it is that I am not on television, the movies or on the Most Wanted posters.
I can't say what yet but keep your eye on Court TV. There might be a Star Witness role in my future and if that doesn't work out, I have plans to add a potent drug to my rather prodigous alcohol intake and become a complete mess, flashing my shaved balls in public, spitting on photographers for not taking pictures of me and running into traffic dressed as a Ghurka and yelling things like " Anna Nicole is alive and living in Belgium! " or "The tomato is a fruit and a vegetable! Get used to it! " This new Fame is a brave new world and I intend to figure it out before the Gods turn back to another out of control starlet who hasn't done anything in years. If that sounds bitter, it's because it is. My new manager Uli Jewel says bitterness is the new graciousness and that I should act as bitter in public as i can and I should be back on top in no time. I've told him that I don't actually feel bitter, that in fact I'm quite contented but he says that sounds like an excuse and that I should just 'act it' and eventually I'll feel it. It's sort of like how if you smile when you're sad, you'll eventually feel happy. I've taken to taping my mouth down into a frown but all it does is make me look more fetching and intriguing which draws people to me like moths to a flame which in turn makes me feel happy, counteracting the effect. It's a vicious cycle but I told him I'll do what has to be done even if it kills me which he says would be the best career move of all.
Now I don't want to alarm any of you but there have been some ominous developments on the Francesca Fiori front and so I am going to put the site on an 'Orange Alert' once again until I am certain everything is all right. The moment it is I will be giving the all clear. As well, I ran into Scott Thompson the other day and he told me that he will be performing in New York on the 23rd and 24th of March at a club called Comics and that he would love it if you would all come. I asked him if I could open for him but he said "No, he didn't need me this time but that he was sure that there would be something very exciting in the future." It sounded like a brush off so I told him so whereupon he said that I sounded bitter so I guess it's working. I asked him what he thought of my new bitter stance and he said it looked good on me. Maybe Uli is on to something.

Gabcast! ewe #32 - Let's Hear it For Showbusiness

This song was recorded in the late eighties to celebrate all things lurid, shiny and shallow, in other words showbusiness. Sal and I actually wrote lyrics to this song and even memorized them for the recording. The recording of course was done in our usual slapdash manner, this time aboard a leaky yacht in the Sargasso Sea on a Squidding trip which adds a that special Mouth Congress amateurishness to what is essentially one of our most polished pieces. I hope it's not too professional for ewe.



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Backstage Oscar Shenanigans

I think I've been too hard on Ellen. People keep telling me funny things she said and I have no recollection. I think I might have blacked out. At first I wasn't going to drink at all but then someone offered me a martini and so I was stuck. The truth is there was so much happening in the room that no one paid any attention to the proceedings.

First of all there was my dear friend, Costumer to the Stars if Canada had them, Dooley Fiizgerald, whose miniature shar-pei Jelly Roll had recently died. He was, as you can imagine, disconsolate but he managed to put on a brave face, albeit not the one he was born with. "Jelly will always be with me " he said to me tearfully at one point and I patted his knee and said "Of course he will Dooley." Then he reached over and picked up his knockoff Prada bag and opened it up and said "Look" and sure enough there was Jelly Roll nestled in the bottom of the huge bag amongst a pile of hard candies, kleenex and makeup.

"He's not mummified is he?" I asked in a reasonable manner.
"Oh no" protested Dooley. "I got him stuffed Buddy. The very best too. Doctor Desh Bindi. He came highly reccomended from Fermana Pahlavi. He did her yellow anaconda Harvey. He looks fabulous draped around her. They came to the Black and Blue Ball together. Stopped the show."
"Jelly looks different besides being dead and all." I said.
"Oh yes. I had his eyes done. Took off all those unsightly folds and flapdoodles. The poor thing could barely see when he was alive. It's the least I can do for him now that he's dead."
That's when Sal Surroundo asked me if I wanted a martini.

At one point one of Sal's boyfriends, I think it's the one with the tattoo of the skyline of Brampton on his chest, started a fight with the bartender Sal had hired. The boyfriend accused the bartender of putting mix in his drink and it soon escalated into a very loud discussion of what really went into the Pentagon on September llth. The bartender said it was a missile and the boyfriend said it was a bird. The only person in the room who thought it was a plane was Dick Cheney's visibly pregnant lesbian daughter who was visiting Sal. At one point the boyfriend started screaming "You're killing my country!" at which point the bartender said, "I'm American too" and then they collapsed into each other's arms sobbing like drunken Irishmen.

The highlight of the evening was when Peter Spizzie came on to Marco's mother, Bogva, (pictured above) who was visiting from Hungary. Peter is bisexual with a predilection for older eastern european women and younger pacific islander men. Even Margaret Mead couldn't make that connection. Marco's mother must be sixty five if if she's a day and doesn't look remotely like a Fijian boy. She had recently lost her husband on a trip to Hungary. The story was they had gone there on a trip to explore their roots and while they were investigating an old cave where her great grandparents had supposedly lived, the whole thing came down on them, killing him instantly and leaving her with a permanent dent in her head. There was no brain damage except she could suddenly speak fluent Hungarian, had no recollection of her husband and family and was suddenly a complete nymphomaniac. Naturally Marco was having a very difficult time with the whole situation and had recently insinuated himself back into his mother's life as her assistant. She had no idea who he was but they got along famously and he intended to tell her who he was when he asked for a raise. When his mother started making out with Peter in the kitchen he lost it. He threw down his plate of jellied eel and yelled at his mother to remember his father's good name. She just turned around and said "You're fired." then dissapeared into one of Sal's bedrooms with Peter. The rest of the evening is a blur which is where all my best ideas come from.

Gabcast! ewe #31 - Philadelphia Slave Girl

In honour of the unholy dysfunction and gothic drama of Oscar Night, I would like to offer up the most disturbing track that Mouth Congress ever recorded. Sal Surroundo, Barley Vep, Jack Smith and Uli Jewmar all contributed their unholy talents to this demented paean to slave girls around the world. Recorded in a cold cellar in Jack's country home, the entire musical swill was done in one take as usual but with one exciting addition. Before the recording everyone including Uli's actual consensual slave girl Crystal drank a jug of water and so throughout the session we are all fighting the urge to urinate. I think that's what gives the song it's frightening sense of urgency, that feeling that if you can't go, your bladder will explode and someone will eat it.





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Oscar Fallout Boy

My Thoughts on the Oscars

1) Ellen blew it. She has as much chance as hosting again as Mel Gibson.
2) Jack Nicholson should start bleaching his teeth or drink less cheerleader urine.
3) The opening looked like a film made by a slumming actor for a cell phone. They’re nominated for Oscars but they’re human. Genius. Those stars actually had to come in and tape the thing on an off day like they were on some sort of Canadian Awards Show. Humiliating.
4) Ellen was wearing my jacket. I can’t look at red velvet the same way ever again.
5) The most beautiful woman was the model standing behind the Best Cinematography winners.
6) Catherine Deneuve stole the show with her dress with the pierced breast broach. She and her co-presenter, the Japanese actor from ‘Iowa Jima’whose name escapes me looked like they had just had twisted Franco/Japo sex where blood was drawn. It was such a ‘Hunger’moment and definitely too foreign for the room. That’s when I could feel the audience pull back from all the immigrants on stage, even the Canadians which I think affected the reaction to Celine. Next year it will be Ron Howard and Rob Reiner’s year and Debbie Allen will be brought back to choreograph.
7) I say wear what you like but if I hosted the Oscars I wouldn’t wear a dress, at least not the entire show and I wouldn’t wear runners with it. Do Lesbians have to always have to dress comfortably? How come they love to camp and climb mountains and generally do lots of genuinely uncomfortable things like fire people but they won’t wear heels. This isn’t day time television for housewives. This is night time television for fags.
8) Beyonce is the perfect woman. She is cinammon. I want to be a mug of mulled cider and have her put her cinnamon stick in me. Have a field day Freud.
9) There were so many foreigners the crowd was looking like the English people at the Canadian Genies clapping for all the French winners they’ve never heard of and pretending it doesn’t bother them.
10) Pilobolus were magic. It was funny when Ellen said, “They’re naked.” It would have been nice if she’d done it again. That’s not fair. She was funny a few times. The Jews and Gays and boys named Oscar joke was funny but she lost them when she started to dance. And can we agree that black choirs have to go. Even in black churches. Surely they’re tired of all the swaying and the clapping. There are other ways for white performers to ignite a fire under people's seats and I don't mean arson. I mean costume changes and choreography. And by choreography I don't mean freestyle soccer mom frugging after a wine cooler, I mean actual steps rigorously rehearsed under a sadistic gay latin dance master. What's that? My best friend Marco who just dropped by to return my bubble maker, just told me that there weren’t any black choirs on the telecast but I think he’s incorrect. He was drunker than me which proves my point and brings me to my next one.
11) I don’t really watch the Oscars. I talk and judge and drink and laugh with my friends and then I look at the highlights the next day to see if what I think I saw is actually what I saw. It usually isn’t but that doesn’t stop me from pronouncing hither and yon.
12) That being said, the funniest moment was Meryl Streep giving Anne Hathaway and the other one the Prada glare. That’s what Britney needs. Can you imagine her looking up from doing a line off of Paris’s tit and seeing Miss Streep looking at her like that. It would be better than rehab. It wouldn’t stop Paris though. She’d laugh it off, probably call Meryl a hack and keep sucking, not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Gabcast! ewe #30 - John Belushi

Mouth Congress goes down into the muck and slime of Hollywood perversion to get at the root of self destruction. Guest vocalist Gaventry Glossary, known to legions as the Mad Duke of Fuck and my third cousin, downs a bottle of Jack Daniels and heads on down to the Devil's rec room. There the ghoulish bass rhythms of actual vampire Jack Smith and the crazed propulsive beats of Hale Hardy on drums carry Gaventry down even further into the abyss until the entire Mouth Congress legacy hangs by a thread over a pool of vomit. This song cost one of our members very dearly when Gaventry lost control of his voice during a performance in Chi-town and hit a note so high it severed backup vocalist Lynne Shawshank's achilles tendon, ruining her career as an ankle model. The investigation said that it was more likely the shattered glass from his dropped bottle of Jack Daniels but I'm in the business of legend building not CSI. Besides we'll never really know as Gaventry dissapeared soon after never to be heard from again or at least that's the legend. Others say he works in Orilia at Starbucks as a cafetiere. which for a man like Coventry is the same thing.




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Barbra Reconsidered

I’m watching Barbra Streisand in ‘Hello Dolly’ and I just have to say, I adore it. And Barbra is to die and then come back and die again and then come back one more time with embalming fluid in you like in ‘Trilogy of Terror’. Her singing is sublime, her comic touch is as light as air and her hand dancing is non pareil. She’s like a Jungian psychiatrist manipulating her own shadow. ‘Hello Dolly’ is not the poor cousin to ‘Funny Girl’ but the more talented sister of ‘Yentl ’and Barbra Streisand is not just a ‘talentless hag with lighting issues ’as Marco refers to her. She’s a great star, maybe not the ‘greatest’, that’s still Bugs, but when she walks down that staircase to the horny waiters singing the title song I want to be her and if I can’t be her, then I want to be the carpet. I want her to crush me beneath her lace up boots. It’s all or nothing.

My friends all think I’ve lost it. You see I’m a legendary Barbra hatah. How did I, a card carrying gay man get that way? One word, ‘Prince of Tides.’ That’s three words. Two if you say it fast which I always try to. Then came ‘The Mirror Has Two Faces ’which is five words and it deserves every one because it’s two words worse. But tonight I realized, watching Barbra sing “You’re still growing, you’re still glowing, you’re still going strong,” while staring at the old waiter’s crotch that just because something has gone sour doesn’t mean that it once wasn’t ripe and juicy. And furthermore that with the proper care and enough moisture it can be made plump and delicious once again and that if that fails you can train yourself to like sour so you’re never really down for the count. And finally no matter what Bette does, she did start in the baths. That’s good enough for me.

Philosophers would say that my Barbra vendetta was a sign that I’d lost sight of my hate, that I had in fact let my hate out weigh my love. It’s true. I’ve been lashing out at certain celebrities, institutions, rituals, foodstuffs and countries indiscriminately for years now and I have to stop before one of then lashes back. It’s already gotten close. Last year it came to my attention that Belgium had heard about some of the cracks I'd made while working as a ‘popper pimp’* in Frankfurt and that they were thinking of undermining my bid to be the Grand Marshall of next years ‘Berlin Love Ball’ and so I’ve decided to say some nice things about them now, not because I feel pressure from the Hague but because I mean it. Here goes. “Belgium is easy to spell.” There, that wasn’t so bad.

The Bible says to hate only those that hate you and as far as I know parsnips have nothing against me and straight men knitting is not a direct personal attack on my value system but sometimes when you see a man pretending to be a god ruling a city that thinks it’s a country in a dress and ruby slippers you want to drop a house on him or at least a piece of the action.

Speaking of misunderstood divas I got so inspired by Britney shaving her head that I went out and shaved my testicles. Now does that mean I’m having a nervous breakdown? No. However the fact that I photographed them and put them on the internet might. I posted them to the official website of the Royal Family. I hope Liz doesn’t see them because she’d recognize them in an instant. Seven Christmases ago I was staying at Balmoral and I was helping some of the servants out, not that I was paying my way, I just like to help out when I stay with the Royals. They’re so helpless which of course is their charm. Anyways, I played a switcheroo with the haggis when I brought the dish to the table and of course her highness always does the honours and well, you can imagine. I was almost gelded that day.

Fagette sent me an e-mail. She’s doing fine. The man in the car wasn’t her father. It was actually a second cousin she never knew so she is getting closer. As for bartending, she’s teaching herself the classics at home after school. She sent me a picture of a Harvey Wallbanger. Leave it to her to champion an underdog.

*see previous post 'The Bitch is Back'.

Gabcast! ewe #28 - It's a Chevy

Elan Vitale lets fly with his unrestrained love of Chevrolet and all it's fine products. It may be short but it was also shortlisted as a candidate for the school song of the Yoko Ono Institute of Unlistenable Music.




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The Return of Rita

Well, she’s gone. My little handy princess who could re-wire a blender while preparing a smoothie in it, is gone and my call display is still not working. Rita her mother came back early from her week in Phoenix at the Stargate SG-I Convention. A few days after all the excitement at the Council Meeting, the doorbell rang. Fagette was in the kitchen making breakfast and I was lounging about the living room reading the paper.

“I’ll get it.” I called out langorously.”
“It’s okay. I’m closer.” yelled back Fagette. “
“That makes sense.” I agreed. “How close to show time?”
“I’m done.” she called back. A moment later I heard my sister Rita’s croaky voice from the hall.
“ Hi. Are you ready to go?” Then I heard the sound of a plate dropping and I thought, ‘There goes breakfast.’

“Hurry and get your stuff. Didier’s in the car and it’s running ” continued Rita. As if on cue, he gunned the engine.
“But you’re supposed to come tomorrow ” came Fagette’s thin reply.
“Something came up. Didier has a job interview” said Rita.
I came into the foyer, wiping my hands on a tea towel as if I was just doing the dishes. “Hi Rita. You’re early.” I gestured to Fagette who was already picking up the pieces of the broken plate from the floor. “Don’t worry about that. I hated that plate anyway. I think it was haunted”
“I know I’m early but you know how it is. I would have call but we were so busy.”
“That’s okay. Did you meet Richard Dean Anderson?” She looked at me like I’d just asked how her genital warts were doing, which I would never do. I mean how well can genital warts ever be said to be doing.
“Who? ” she asked me blankly.
“Richard Dean Anderson the silver fox star of Stargate SG-I. Did you get his autograph?”
"Oh yeah. No. It was too crowded."
There was no convention. They probably spent the week downtown drinking in a cheap hotel.
Suddenly she bolted out onto the street and yelled at her car.“ Stop beeping the fucking horn!” The window came down and a man who was definitely not Didier leaned out the window and yelled back “ I’m not touching it!” It was true. He wasn’t. “Well somebody was!” she screamed back at him.

She re-entered the house and grabbed Fagette’s hand.“ Where’s your baby powder?”
“In my bag.”
“Get it. We’re going.”
Fagette looked up at me with eyes that were so big and wounded that they would break the most hardened anime mother’s heart. “Do I have to Uncle Buddy?”
“Yes. Your mother needs to go.”
“Ker” she said and started morosely up the stairs.
I turned back to Rita. “So who’s that in the car?”
“Didier.”
“That wasn’t Didier.”
“Yes it was. You just don’t remember ” she said.
“Of course I do. Didier may be many things but he’s not bald.“
“Look it’s Fagette’s dad. We’re trying to get back together, okay.”
“That’s great.” I enthused. “Bring him in. I’d love to meet him.”
“I don’t think so.’
“Why? Is there something wrong with me? ” I asked, knowing how ridiculous the question was.
“He might not feel right talking to a man in a thong” she responded. It was true. My silk robe had come open and my thong and its contents were exposed for the entire world to see. Somewhere a fairy died. I went on. “I’ve been test driving different underwear for various companies to make extra money but if its any consolation to you this particular undergarment is getting a very low mark.”

“I can’t find Uday.” Fagette had come clomping down the stairs.
“That’s all right pancake.” I said. I’ll tell him goodbye for you. Don’t forget your coat.” I walked over to the closet and pulled out the new sheared beaver coat I’d bought for her.
“Where the hell is she going to wear that?” asked Vanessa.
“At a Circuit Party with nothing else on underneath.” Fagette suggested. I silently cursed Marco.
“ What the hell’s she talking about?”
“Nothing. It’s something she heard on a sitcom.”
“Goodbye Uncle Buddy. I had a great time.”
“Me too.”
“Come on. Allez! Let’s go “ urged her mother.
I bent down to hug my niece and smelled baby powder. She whispered in my ear.
“ Call Roble.”
“I will.”
“Thanks for taking her, eh. Will you do it again?” she asked.
“ Absolutely. I need some excitement now and then.”
“ I don’t want to know.”

I walked them to their car but whoever the guy was in the car, her father or not, he wouldn’t even roll down the windows to say ‘Hi’ but to be fair it was a windy day. I didn’t watch them drive out of sight because I didn’t want to be seen crying in public. The last time that happened, the entire city went into a funk. I couldn’t risk that happening again, especially in February, so I went back inside and immediately called a cab.

The End
for now

Gabcast! ewe #27 - Pecker Banks: Brenda Goes Awol/Umbrella of the Ages

Pecker and the gang come back for another visit. Talented weather girl Brenda Martinez goes awol for a live report and the talented man at Versatile Ursula Umbrella tries to save the day with his magical umbrella.




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The Shortest Way Home

It turns out Boti was Roble’s uncle and that they shared the cab we were in. Roble had come to City Hall to pick his uncle up and had been in the auditorium when the commotion began. That’s why he was there to rescue me. Actually I was rescued twice today. I’m getting lazy. It’s my turn now. Uncle Boti, I already thought of him that way, graciously offered to drop Fagette and I off at my place. I said we could pay but he wouldn’t hear of it.

“Don’t be so obstreporous Mr. Buddy. Your daughter must be dropped off immediately. She’s been through such tremendous stress.”
“ I feel great.” piped up Fagette.”
“That’s just the shock talking. I should know. I’ve been in shock more times than George Chuvalo. My god, even in retirement, he’s a punching bag. And she’s not my daughter. She’s my niece.”
“Even better “ he chirped. We are both uncles then. I think we shall be great friends.”
“I think we shall too.” I said.

I stared about the cab taking in all the colourful occupants, There was Uncle Boti, the chess champion of Somalia in the driver’s seat, Vanessa the fierce baby dyke riding shotgun in a cocoanut bra, and in the back on the right, Roble, the fighting film maker from the Horn and the story’s romantic love interest. Beside him, sat Fagette, my niece from the provinces with the work ethic of Cinderella but none of the airs , snug in the middle, a hand on both our thighs, and then of course, me on the left, no description needed, right by the trigger, I suddenly knew that I would know these people for the rest of life. Everyone except the last guy.

“So where do you live my friend? ” Uncle Boti asked me.
“Oh, uh, 44 Ranleigh.” I said, coming out of my reverie.
“ I apologize. I don’t know where that is as I am only been driving for one week “ he replied.
“Okay, we go down Yangtze until we get to Victoria, I mean Charles, then we take a left and we go six blocks, maybe more, it’s about a mile, well you stay on it until you get to Lincoln, where you take a right I think…“
“No no no.” said Vanessa“
“No?” I said.
“I have a better way” she helpfully suggested.
“Um, I think I know how to get to my own home. After all I actually live there.” I helpfully suggested back.
“How long?” she asked snarkily.
“A month.” I replied brightly. She jumped out of her seat and punched the air.
“I knew it. “ She turned around in her seat and thrust her face towards mine and yelled, “Suckah.” Then she turned back to Uncle Boti and began to bark directions at him.
“Turn right at Crandle, go three blocks to Slurry where you go left, go two blocks, turn left at the Bargain Pickle onto Ranleigh and it should be there about three doors in on the…left..”
Uncle Boti looked at me in the rearview mirror for guidance.
“Let’s let the driver decide.” I said.
Boti, a diplomat at heart, began slowly like he was approaching a cobra to kiss on the head.”
“Well, obviously the person whose destination it is, should probably know the most appropriate way to get there but that is not always the case. However that is not to say that the other gentleman doesn’t have a point.”
“I’m not a gentleman. I’m a dyke.”
“Well then in that case, you win.” he said, stepping on the gas,
” I hope everybody’s got their passports and a change of clothes. We might be away for a few days.” I said.
“We’re here.” Said Boti.

I looked outside. Sure enough we were..
“I told you.” gloated Vanessa.
“Actually we’re on the other side of the street.” I countered.
Boti made as if to do a U-turn but I stopped him.
“That’s not necessary Uncle Boti. Fagette and I will just rush across two lanes of rush hour traffic.”
“Don’t be foolish” he said, wheeling the cab around and depositing us on the correct side of the street. .
“At least someone’s got manners.” I said.
“I think someone’s forgetting that I saved their ass.” said Vanessa.
“You should have saved your own. It needs it more.” I replied.
She came at me from the front seat but of course the partition stopped her. She continued to hammer away at it anyway. I turned to Roble to say goodbye.

“Will she be all right?”
“She’ll be fine. She really likes you.”
“I like her too. She’s got a pretty face.”
We both turned to look at Vanessa as she pressed her face against the glass and mouthed an obscenity.
“I had a really wonderful time.” I said, taking his hand.
“Me too ” he said, putting his other one over it like a shell game.
“I’d like to see you again. ” either one of us said.
“Me too ” we both replied.
Then he handed me a card. It was for his cab company ‘The Horn’. “This is the number of the cab company. Call us. There’s only me and Uncle. Goodnight Fagette.”

He kissed her on the top of the head and she kind of bobbled it like a penguin who just got a delicious chill. Then she threw her arms around him and hugged him. The door was suddenly yanked open from outside. Vanessa was standing there laughing.
“I gotta hand it to you, you are one funny motherfu..’
She looked at Fagette and stopped midword.
“ker” said Fagette.
“Well, we must go.” I said.

Vanessa suddenly hugged me. “Take care Buddy. I got your back.” Then she released me and got back in the cab and we watched them as they drove away. When they were out of sight, I asked Fagette a question.
“Where did you learn that word?”
“Rita is my mother’ she replied…

To be continued…

Gabcast! ewe #26 - Lesbians on the Rise

Lesbians are on the rise and Mouth Congress is there to witness all the action. Join us as we join them unless you're them in which case, join us as we join you.




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Vanessa

There was a scuffle at the back of the auditorium and then the door flew open and a couple of people ran out with several others hot on their trail. Over at the mike Ali and the Italian were fighting while Ali’s wife tried to pull them apart. An Ipod went flying over the Mayor’s head and smashed into the back wall. Nelly Furtado’s ‘Promiscuous Girl’ came blasting out. Fernando just stood there in tears as his life’s work blew up in his face.

“I think it’s time to go” I said to Fagette and took her hand and proceeded to try to drag her away from the unfolding spectacle. If she’d been a little older I might have let her stay but she was only ten. Just because I was involved in a riot when I was ten doesn’t mean she can. As I clutched her slippery hand I made a mental note to see about botox shots in her palms the next visit.

When we reached the top of the steps I noticed a group of black thugs hanging out by the door with figure skates looped around their necks. Oh no, a group of ne’er do well pleasure skaters who couldn’t get ice time, looking to blow off some steam on a law-abiding citizen fleeing a racial disturbance. This couldn’t end well. They stared at my bright plumage with envy thinking no doubt about how great I would look whirling around on the ice.

As we passed, one of them said to Fagette “ Yo peewee, is that a balloon you’re holding?” His friends laughed cockily. I spun on my Cuban heel and faced the ‘funny man’. “Oh I’m sorry…Desmond.” I said, taking a stab in the dark.” “I didn’t recognize you. I’m so used to just hearing you crying on the phone.” A couple of his posse sniggered. He took a step towards me. “How do you know my name is Desmond.” Lots of research in the field, I thought but said nothing. He moved in and put his face right into mine, and then whispered two words that have filled Jamaican gays with dread for years. No not gra ma, batti boy, which is Jamaican for faggot. “Sorry” I said “But my name is not Batti although my middle name is Boy and my last name is Ohboy.”

That did it. He pushed me and I flew back against the steps. When I picked myself up he was coming at me with his skates held high, guards off. I braced myself for the Trial. Then suddenly there was a white and brown blur and he went down. Something that looked like the Tasmanian Devil from Bugs Bunny moved through the crowd of thugs knocking them down like bowling pins. The blur came to a stop slowly and as it stopped spinning I realized it was a person and not just a person but Roble Shabirrap the gorgeous and funny cab driver from before. He came over to me where Fagette was brushing me off.

“We meet again.” I said.
“We do.”
“Thank you for what you did. What was that you did? ”
“It’s a form of martial arts derived from the movements of ‘whirling dervishes’. A lot of dervishes were gay so they had to learn to defend themselves much like the slaves of Brazil created capoeira as a form of self defence out of traditional African dance.”
“That’s an awfully long speech to make when someone’s creeping up behind you.” I said. ,
“Excuse me.” He spun once and sunk his heel into the stomach of the encroaching punk..
“So are you a Sufi? “ I asked.
“I am.”
“Is that Muslim?”
“Yes but with dancing and magic.”
“Sounds good.”
And you?” he asked. ”What’s your faith?”
“Lapsed Catholic. You know what they say? Better lapsed than prolapsed.”
He looked at me like my rectum had actually fallen out on the floor. I tried to explain but he put his finger on my lips.
“No time. It’s crazy out there. We have to go.”

He picked up Fagette and then pushed me through the doors. He was right. The madness had spread. If it was chaos inside, outside it was bedlam. We looked around for a way through the crowd. Suddenly a large group of people on skates surged towards us and I almost went down under the flashing blades. Suddenly there was someone with an awful lot of bare pink skin blocking our way and helping me from falling. It was a big bull dyke with a Mohawk, big blue eyes, a giant demonstrative ass and the face of a china doll. The effect was like a beautiful flower growing out of a cinder block. The vision addressed me in a gruff voice.

“My name’s Vanessa. Come on.”
“My names…”
“I know who you are. Come with me.”
“Wait a minute. I don’t know who you are.”
“Do as she says Buddy ” said Roble. She’s a friend of mine. We have to get Fagette out of this.” I noticed that she was trembling and not from the cold because she doesn’t really feel it. My heart went out to her. Then I looked over at Roble who had a far away look on his face as he surveyed the madness. I touched his arm comfortingly. “Are you thinking of Black Hawk Down?”
“No. Come on, let’s go.”

Then Vanessa turned and went into a football stance, screamed ‘Charge’ and then did just that. No one could stand up to her. We followed behind in her wake. Finally we were at the street where there was a cab waiting. The door flew open and we all piled in. Vanessa snapped to the driver. “Let’s get out of here. Move it.” “Yes sir,” said the familiar looking driver. He turned around to greet us and I saw that it was Boti Dhalida the chess champion from the council meeting…

To be continued…


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Disorder in the Court

When we looked back at the mike, a skinny old black man with a forehead you could project a movie on and dressed like Roble was now speaking. “My name Is Boti Dhalidad ” he said. “I am a Somali chess champion.“ A ripple ran through the crowd. “For many years since I have come to this country I have looked for a place to play outdoor chess with my friends. When I came across the table in Portutalia Park a year ago with my friend Ali…” At this point his friend Ali, a goggly eyed Arab man with a wet and droopy moustache jumped up and waved awkwardly at the crowd. Boti gently pressed him back down and a woman in a veil, presumably his wife, smacked him on the arm. Boti continued.

“We thought we had found the answer to our prayers so we immediately sat down and began to play. Many pleasant hours passed until we were satiated at last. Finally it came time to leave and Ali and I were packing up when this gentleman…” He indicated the Italian spokesman. “…came by and told us to move on, that it was their table and so on and so on. I was amenable as we were already on our way but Ali was not. Ali is more excitable as he is originally from Kenya… “ Ali’s wife smacked him again. “… and his wife is from Ethiopia…” Ali’s wife smacked Boti who just smiled and went on. “ Ali began to argue with the disagreeable man and it soon turned into an altercation of a physical nature, albeit with two old men, so no real damage was done. All of us said things that day that we regret…” At this point the Italian put his head down in shame. “… but that is in the past. Now the question is, what do we do?”

“May I? ” said Fernando. Boti stood aside graciously and gave him the floor.
“Why doesn’t everyone share the table?”
The crowd started to babble excitedly.
“What did he mean?” cried a Korean grocer with excema.
“I don’t understand ” shrieked the President of the Functional Schizophrenics Society.
“Is the boy insane?” whispered an expectant Lesbian to her doula.

“Silence! Silence!” bellowed Pearl Jewel. The Mayor banged her gravel. “Yes, exactly. Silence, as Councillor Jewel suggested. ” She looked over at Pearl who pretended to study the edge of the desk. The room settled down and the cuckolded mayor continued. “Thank you. Any more outbursts like that and we’ll have to clear the court.” Oh my god, she thinks she’s a judge. Poor thing’s losing it. Better watch out Madame Mayor, there’s a human truck in stretchy pants who’s got your gavel with her name on it.

“How could we do what you propose young man?” said the Mayor. “It’s always been a 50/50 split. Half and half. That makes sense. How would you divide it into three? It’s too complicated.”
“Why not let everybody have it a third of the day ” he suggested.
“What do you mean?” asked the Mayor. “ There’s only morning and afternoon. That’s two periods not three. It would never work. We must set up a committee.”
“What about if we went from eight to eleven, the Italians from eleven to two and the Somali’s from two to five ” said Fernando.

The Mayor comtemplated his outrageous suggestion as the crowd waited expectantly for her considered reaction. Before she could reply the Italian stepped back to the mike.

“Perhaps the Somali community could play after six ” he said. “Let the Africans play at night, is that what you’re suggesting Sir?” asked Boti, a definite edge in his voice.
“What’s wrong with that?” he said defensively.
“That’s all we need, the park filled with blacks at night ” came a voice from the back of the room.
“What’s the difference?’ yelled someone else from the dark.
“They’ll be there legally! “ hollered back the voice of the first man.
“Who said that?” Pearl Jewel had jumped out of her seat and looked like she was about ready to blow not just her stack but the stack of all her ancestors. The Mayor began to bang her gavel but to no avail. Pearl started to scan the crowd for the perpetrators. Then Victor Picklesly her assistant scuttled over to her side and placed his palm on her tiny arm and immediately all the anger seemed to drain out of her. She sat down and began to play with her Blackberry. Then Victor took his hand off her arm and drifted back to his place in the backroom shadows. The Mayor continued to bang her stupid stick screaming “Order! Order in the Court.”

To be continued…

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They call him Fernando

Finally the case of the disputed chess table came up. The Mayor Susan St. Cyr, a hardworking member of the old liberal guard who had ruled the fractious city with deadly dull diligence for years and had the round shoulders to prove it, got up and read the soul sucking details of the case. Fagette drank it all in hungrily taking notes the whole time in a little notebook. The case boiled down to the fact that for years in the ward in question, a roughly 50/50 enclave of Italians and Portuguese, they have shared the communal chess table in Portutalia Park with the understanding that the Portuguese have it in the morning and the Italians have it in the afternoon. The problem that has arisen is that in the last decade the population of both groups has declined and each side, thinking that their numbers have remained the same and the others have declined, say they should have more table time and thus the tussle.

The leader of the Italian faction, an old man with snow white hair and a beautiful voice took the mike. He spoke sonorously for twenty minutes about how the Italians have always been ahead of the Portuguese in accommodating to the ways of the city from the temporary moratorium on wrought iron in the seventies to the emergency town hall meeting in 1986 on paving lawns and finally the ban on cock fighting in 2006 and that obviously nothing had changed seeing as his ‘esteemed opponents’ were so English challenged that they had to have a little boy speak for them. A gasp went up from the crowd. A moment later after the Portuguese boy translated for them a gasp went up from the old Portuguese men. The dapper Italian tenor finished by saying that since there were hardly any Portuguese left in the neighbourhood now anyway, the Italians should have the table for 2/3 of the day. As he returned to his seat a ripple of unease ran through the crowd.

The crowd suddenly fell silent as the Mayor banged her gavel and called for order. Seemingly surprised that it had actually worked she then fiddled with her papers and cleared her throat one too many times, finally calling the name of Fernando Oliviero to the microphone. I leaned over to Fagette?
“Who do you think that is?” I asked.
“The Portuguese boy. Who else? ”
“Oh of course.”

The Portuguese boy came walking down the stairs towards the mike. Fagette clutched my arm and stared intently at him as he walked by her in his blue bicycle shorts and yellow lycra racing top. I leaned over and whispered to Fagette.
“He looks like he’s about to receive the ‘Tour de France”
“Non, le prix de Nobel.”
“Vraiment? Quelle sujet?”
“Paix” she breathed. “Paix.”

The Nobel Prize for Peace. That’s my girl. She knows that’s the only award worth getting, that and ‘Miss Congeniality’ at Miss Universe and oh sure it would have been nice to have won a Clio for my modelling work in commercials. I came close with the ‘Juicy Mango Jeans’ campaign but the controversy over the bum pads ruined that, even though I was completely vindicated in the end. As for the Portuguese boy, he actually looked like he was receiving the Academy Award for Best Actress but I wanted to spare her that for now. She was obviously the type that would fall for one gay boy after another until she finally got it right. All in good time.

“Uncle Buddy, do you think Fernando looks gay?”
“His name’s Fernando?”
“Yes. Why can’t you remember his name?”
“Because a Portuguese boy named Fernando broke my heart when I was your age and I don’t want it to happen to you too.”
“It won’t. It’s a different time now.”
“That’s what Fernando said. “
“You still haven’t answered my question?”
“Oh that. Absolutely not.” I insisted. “All boys look a little gay. That’s why we can’t be Scout leaders. It’s not the boys they’re afraid for. It’s us.”

The Portuguese boy took the mike and began to speak, enunciating every word like it was a spelling bee. He began by telling the history of the stone table, how sixty years ago when the Italians and Portuguese first began arriving in the city, they settled this part of it and how they had lived together in peace for years until one hot day in June 1968, a love affair between a Portuguese girl and an Italian boy from two rival dance schools erupted into a full scale dance riot. Sixty young men lost their wallets that day and over seventy women had their skirts twirled over their heads by strangers. Many of the dancers suffered severe hamstring damage and up to a quarter of them damaged their knees so badly they would never dance again. After the carnage cleared the leaders of the two dance gangs made a vow that never again would rhythmic movement get between these two basically sedentary Mediterranean peoples and that from here on in this would be a place of sit down competition. So they turned the small stone dance platform into a chess table and the rest is history.

Then he went somewhere no one could have seen coming. He said if it is known to be true that both groups have suffered great population losses then it stands to reason that there must be a third group to have filled the gap and who would that be and shouldn’t they also have a right to the table? The room fell silent even though it was already extremely quiet. Nobody had even thought of what the boy said. Sure, everyone knew that for the last few years thousands of Somali’s had settled in the area but the last census had been a generation ago and so they didn’t exist on paper which is what really matters. And more importantly did they even play chess? Big questions.

The Mayor began to shuffle her papers like big floppy cards. Pearl Jewel looked down at her breasts. Her assistant, a nervous bald white man called Victor Picklesly, looked over at her breasts. I looked down at Fagette and thankfully saw no breasts. She looked up at me and her chest caught the light in such a way that it looked like she was starting to get breasts and I moved my head forward so the light was like before and she leaned forward to see what I was doing which made me lean forward more until we were both leaning right over the backs of the people who were sitting in front of us. We both started to laugh. Pearl Jewel looked over again and wrote something down on a notepad. Interesting.

When we looked back at the mike, a skinny old black man with a forehead you could project a movie on and dressed like Roble was now speaking…

Gabcast! ewe #25 - Hindu Rap

Buddy and Sal Surroundo drop acid and channel two Indian rappers who sing about the Kama Sutra and all things subcontinent sextastic. Rob Voltage and Grooz Patterson are along for the ride and make it fast and fiery all the way down with large doses of peppery guitar and gut wrenching bass topped off with crackling papadums of sonic fury. During this legendary session one of Sal's protege's, a wiry lad with a flair for the beatbox named Pippin, overdosed and ended up applying for a job in a bank and getting it. That was the end of the Summer of Dreads.




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