Saturday, January 13, 2007

Water Nymph

Gabcast! ewe #4 - Water Nymph

This was the B-Side from the single. Although it never per se took off it was not really the fault of the music. You see in those days people didn't even know that there was another side to a single so they never usually turned them over. I shiver to think what Jennifer Hudson could do with it.

testicle delight

Gabcast! ewe #0 - testicle delight

The first single off the first album I recorded with the eighties cult sensation 'Mouth Congress'. The album was called 'The War on Flowers' and it was a war believe ewe me. In those days testicles were all we had. The lead vocals are handled by my best friend Marco Nagy who has a well documented love affair with the bouncy delights. This is his cri de coeur. Hundreds of people in the testicle obsessed nation of Mali agreed where it went to number one.

Gabcast Celebration

It's forty minutes after I just heard the playback on my first blogcast and I can still barely move. I, Buddy Cole, a confirmed Luddite, joined a service, embedded a flash player, configured the settings, chose the correct preferences, typed in the right password and then actually made the recording, all without the help of a tech savvy family member, a hunky electronics whiz, a butler or an outsourced tech worker in Mumbai. Factor in the the fact that all this took place after a vicious fight with my best friend Marco over Pan's Labyrinth, four martini's and a crying jag and I really do deserve another martini. I would have read the story but it took me six takes with this one already. . I must say the gabcast embed, that's what I call it now, sure looks pretty, like a futuristic jewel. It would look nice in the middle of a purple turban. Oh my god, I'm thinking about costumes. I haven't thought about a hat in years. I must go. I have a milliner in MIlan I need to call. She'll just be getting up. Goodnight Pierre. Goodnight Carma. Goodnight Tupac.

Gabcast Re-Cap

Gabcast! ewe #1


Originally uploaded by Carrie Taylor.

Last Friday in the post entitled 'Flight into Danger' I promised you chapter two in the missing section of Buddy Babylon the following week and that's exactly what I've done. But before you jump into the story let me fill you in on a few details of what's come before. When chapter two opens, I have just won a pretigious modelling contract to be the bum ofl 'Juicy Mango Jean' in Manilla and on my way there I singlehandedly avert a mid air collision without taking credit. Upon arrival I am met at the airport by a character from my past whom you might not know if you haven't read my autobiography 'Buddy Babylon' from Bantam Doubleday Press and available from Amazon, Ebay, Alibis and other outlets.. The man is Ronald Coleman, a sauve older sophisticate with a silent chauffeur companion called Dianne who harbours a dark secret. Together these two guided me through highs and the lows of my teenage years when I first tasted fame after winning the "World's Prettiest Feet' contest. I now take you to the teeming slums of Manilla in the Phillipines when Imelda and her hubby what's his name ruled that tortured land. Enjoy.

Pushing the Manilla Envelope

The first thing I noticed when I got off the plane in Manila was the heat. It was like an oven. The second thing I noticed was that everyone was brown, with the exception of one distinguished looking gentleman towering over the crowd. He was wearing a white linen suit. It was none other than Ronald Coleman.
"Buddy, welcome to Manila." he greeted me striding over in his confident manner.
"I don't understand. Ronald, what are you doing here?"
"I'm the President of Marketing and Advertising at 'Juicy Mango Jeans'. After your reign, the quality of feet in Quebec declined precipitously. The last straw was three years ago, when a woman with a plantar's wart won. That wasn't the Pageant I knew."
"So how did you end up at Juicy Mango Jeans?"
"Through my friend George Hamilton, who's a close personal friend of the Imelda herself. You'll get to meet them all soon, Buddy. But now, let's get you to your hotel."
We got into a limousine. Dianne was there. She looked exactly the same. She sat in the back, still cradling the rock. It looked smaller than before, worn down by the obsessive rubbing of her hands, like polished pebbles in the surf.
"Hi, Dianne," I said.
"Dianne says hi back," said Ronald.
As we drove through the impossibly crowded streets, I stared out the smoked glass window. It was bedlam. People were living everywhere - in shacks made of cardboard, under umbrellas, inside disgarded luggage, in chicken coops, in holes, under crates, and even in apartments. We got caught in traffic, and I rolled down the window to get a closer look at the chaos. Instantly, like ants at a picnic, I was surrounded by little urchins, thrusting forth candy, peanuts, mangoes, trinkets, and something called balut. The cries of "Balut! Balut!" rang through the streets like the wailing that summons Muslims to mosque.
"I'll have some balut," I said. I loved the name. It sounded exotic. Ronald gave the boy a peso, and the boy handed me a large egg.
"It's just a pickled egg!" I said, pissed off. "We have these in every low-life bar in Quebec." I threw it back at the boy.
"Actually, Buddy, it's a hard-boiled fertilized duck egg, with an embryonic chicken inside."
"A chicken? How do they get the chicken inside a duck egg?"
"It's one of the many mysteries of the Phillipines."
"Like a ship in a bottle," I said.
The streets were filled with decrepit cabs held together with rope, smoke-belching buses, and strange elongated jeeps painted wild colours and adorned with mirrors and baubles. They weaved in an out of the traffic with abandon, while the passengers hung on for dear life, like monkeys on zoo bars.
"Those look like fun," I said to Ronald, pointing at the jeeps.
"They're called jeepneys," said Ronald. "After the Second World War, the Americans left behind their equipment, and the Phillipinos, being a resourceful people, turned them into the world's most colourful mode of public transit. Of course, now, they're all new vehicles, and mostly made by the Japanese. Ah, the irony."
"They look like giant jewellry boxes on wheels," I said. "What do they speak here?"
"Tagalog, but lots of people, and certainly everyone in the fashion industry, speaks English."
We got stuck in traffic again. I stared out the window. Mixed in amongst the automotive rabble was a sleek yellow Jaguar. It stood out amongst the other vehicles. It was on the other side of the street, coming towards us. I noticed a woman carrying a pole from which a cluster of unmatched sandals dangled. She was trying to sell them to passing cars. It was the most pathetic thing I'd ever seen. She could have been twenty. She could have been fifty. Her eyes were at least a hundred.
The Jaguar continued cutting through traffic. It suddenly burst through a knot of jeepneys into an open space. The sandal seller chose this moment to stumble, and she fell into the path of the yellow car. It rolled over her body. The Jag screeched to a halt, and a man got out, shaken. He was white, about 60 years old, with fake blonde hair and dressed in a very expensive suit. He stood over the woman's body while people gathered around. After what seemed like many minutes, a police car pulled up, and two policemen got out. They went up to the blonde man and began to chat. The woman's body just lay there. At one point, all three of them laughed. And then the blonde man pulled out some money, handed it to the police, and drove away. The cops put a blanket over the body, flipped it over, picked her up like a sack of rice, and put her in their trunk. Then they drove off. The wound closed, and the street returned to normal. I felt sick. I asked Ronald what had happened, and he told me it was best not to know. We fell silent.
Ronald dropped me off at the hotel, and after checking in, I decided to take in the town. I headed to the seamy side of town, which means I walked out the door. My first stop was a bar the bellboy told me about, called 'The Bird's Nest', where very young girls from the provinces showed all for Phillipino guys, Japanese businessmen, American G.I.'s, Australian nationals, and German sex pigs. The place was packed. All the men sat very close to a stage, at eye level. The show began with an MC coming onstage and singing Anne Murray's "Snowbird". My icy Canadian reserve began to melt. Then he brought out the main attraction. About twenty tiny impossibly beautiful girls came out, like a box of Laura Secord assorted chocolates. Each one smiled sweeter than the one before. They danced in bikinis and colourful pumps.
I cruised the room, looking for my prey, and I spotted him. A stunning Phillipino jarhead in his early twenties. Drunk, and already with a tent in his pants. I was smitten. I noticed him staring at the most exceptional girl, a dark brown Phillipina in her early teens. Unlike the other girls, she could dance. She looked like she had been around but wasn't jaded yet. Our eyes met, and I poured it on. Strippers can never resist the appreciative gaze of a gay man. My marine noticed and glanced over at me. Our eyes met. Electricity! She looked at him and their eyes met. Electricity! I looked back at the girl. More electricity! Then the lights went out.
"What's going on?" I said to the person beside me.
"It's a brownout, mate," said a drunken Australian. "Happens all the time. They don't have enough electricity. It'll be back up in a mo."
I was disappointed. I thought it was because of us. The lights came back on. The girls were off the stage and were now walking amongst us, mingling with the men. An older Pillipino woman, the mama-san, circulated the room, setting up liasions. The dancing girl came up to me.
"Hello, you are very handsome, Joe." All white men were called ‘Joe’, as in ‘G.I. Joe’.
"Thank you, but my name is Buddy."
"Very beautiful name. My name Fely. I come from province. You want to have date with me?"
"Look, Fely, you know I'm not interested in your honey. I'm interested in the bees. You know what I mean?" I said putting my lips in a beesting pout.
"You are bakla?"
"If that means do I like men, yes."
"Ah, which one you like?"
"That one over there," I said, motioning towards the jarhead.
"Ah, you pay me, I fuck him, you watch?"
"Something like that. Here's five hundred pesos. Bring him over for a drink."
Moments later, I was making the aquaintence of Tino Tolentino, a soldier in the Phillipines army on a four day pass. He was very polite and his English was excellent.
"So, is this your first time in Manila?"
"No, I'm stationed here. But I've been to Hong Kong, Djakarta, Tai Pei, Tokyo, Halifax, and San Diego. But originally I am from Nueva Vizcaya in northern Luzon province. My dialect is Ilocono and I like America rock and roll music."
"Me, too. I love Donna Summer."
"Hey, you forget me, boys? Not nice. You buy me drink. Buy me big drink," Fely said in an animated manner.
"Oh, sorry. Tino, this is Fely. She really likes you."
"Hey, I work here," she replied and smiled broadly.
Tino and I flagged down the waitress and bought her two drinks. She downed them both quickly. They were probably water, but she pretended to be woozy anyway and snuggled up to Tino.
"I noticed you on stage," Tino said to her. "You are a very good dancer. Like Tina Turner."
"Yes. I dance very good. I study dancing at the Betty Hall School of Dance."
My ears perked up. "Betty Hall? You don't mean the stand-in for Ginger Rogers who parlayed her friendship with Ginger into a lucrative career as a dance instructor and started a series of Betty Hall Schools of Dance all over America in the fifties, and then who was sued by Ginger for using her unauthorized image in posters and literature for the school, resulting in Betty losing everything? Yes. The last I heard of Betty Hall, she was collecting tin cans along Sunset Boulevard."
"She alive. There are Betty Hall school all over the Phillipines."
" She must be a hundred by now. Does she teach you personally?"
"No, I am teach by bakla dress like her. Betty only does exam. She say me have talent, going to be a big star," said Fely.
"Just like her," I thought aloud.
"I like you both because you are not German," blurted out Fely. "German have big ugly cock, hurt my pussy. Australian have big cock, too, but they drink much, so sometime don't get hard, which is good. Japanese have most small cock but they are cheap and have cold feet. Chinese are dog. I don't talk about. But I like you. You are handsome Phillipino man. And you are strong blonde American."
"Actually, I'm Canadian," I asserted insecurely.
"Canadian? 'Sometime When We Touch.' Dan Hill," she exclaimed.
"I love that song," said Tino.
She began singing the song. Tino chimed in. Their voices grew in volume. Others joined in, and soon every Philippino was swept up in the scmaltzy sentiments.
"Sometimes when we touch,
The honesty's too much
I want to hold you till I die
Till we both break down and cry
I want to hold you till the sun begins to cry."
At the end of the song, everyone burst into applause, and went back to negotiating sordid sex. An hour later, we were back at my hotel room. Tino and Fely were lying together on the bed. Fely had her clothes off and Tino was licking her small breasts. He had an erection, very visible through his uniform. I was making them both drinks from the mini-bar.
"How's it going over there, kids?" I called out.
"Very good, Joe. Give me drink," said Fely.
I handed her a screwdriver, and gave Tino a San Miguel beer. Tino took the beer and lay back on the bed. He stared at me with a big grin.
"This is the life eh, Joe? Rock and Roll. Jim Morrisson."
"I knew him," I lied. "We partied together once after one of his shows. Me and him and a dog named Blue."
"The women are very beautiful in Canada, no?" he asked.
"Sure, some, yeah."
"Not more beautiful than Philipina women!" shrieked Fely.
"No, no one is more beautiful than Phillipinas," said Tino, calming her by stroking her hair. She curled up next to him and arched her pussy at me. I winked at it. It winked back. Tino began to pour his beer on her breasts and lick it off. The incredible heat in the unairconditioned room flared. Fely stared at me over Tino’s shoulder. I looked at her with annoyance and flashed a five hundred peseta note. She knew what I meant.
"I have idea. You both fuck me both ways. Make both hole happy." I sat on the edge of the bed, my thigh touching Tino’s.
"Well, that's an interesting ... I mean, what do you mean? Both of us making love to you at the same time? I don't know. Tino, how do you feel about that?"
"I guess. Maybe it could be fun. I get the ass," said Tino.
"Deal," I said, and took a hundred pesos from Fely. Well, this was not exactly as I had planned it. I was certainly going to need some music. I turned on the radio. To my delight, the song playing was "Seasons in the Sun" by Terry Jacks. More Canadian pop. Somehow the familiar strains of this maudlin tale of dying young was just what I needed. It's urgent Rod McKuen prose, coupled with the thought of Tino only a mucus membrane away, filled my penis with blood and I performed with the aplomb of a seasoned cocksman.
After it was over, the three of us fell apart, panting like animals. Fely and I both curled up on either side of Tino, and he showed his acceptance by embracing both of us. Like this, we fell asleep.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

sweet dreams

sweet dreams
Originally uploaded by Elan Photography.
A picture of a happy polar bear after a night getting his globes warmed in the sling at the Black Eagle. If only it was this easy to save the polar bear, I would provide slings for the entire Arctic but no one is listening to me. YET! Good night.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Tuesday, January 9, 2007

Jesus Muhammed et Moi

I want to tell you about a dream I had the other night. I was in an ESL class and one of the students was Jesus. He wasn't actually learning English. He was just trying to get rid of his accent. I think it was for a part. I really don't know why I was there. I think I was just trying to meet foreign guys. Anyways Jesus was exactly the way I've always pictured him. A wiry balding black guy with a beard and a lisp. So he introduces me to this guy sitting next to him called Muhammed who's starting a new religion called Islam. So I ask him how that's going and he says that one day his religion will be bigger than Christianity. I look over at Jesus and he just rolls his eyes. Then Muhammed asks me if I'm married and I say "No. I guess I haven't found the right girl yet." Jesus rolls his eyes again. Then Muhammed leans in to me and says. "Don't worry my friend. She's out there somewhere." And Jesus goes. "Oh yes and the seafood at Red Lobster is flown in fresh every day." We both laugh and then the instructor tells us to be quiet and I wake up.

You're probably all wondering what did Muhammed look like in my dream? I mean that's the question of the day isn't it? Well. Let me see. He was fairly tall, about five eleven five twelve with black hair. Hmm. Oh, he had a beard. Um. Oh it's so hard without drawing a picture. Let me see. He had a muscular build but not like the kind you get from the gym. It looked more like the kind of body you get from yard work or battle. His eyes were brown I think. Good strong jawline. A bit of a unibrow. Nice lips like two petulant figs. A prominent nose. I don’t want to offend anyone but it was quite Jewish actually. I remember also he had big feet and hammertoes. I remember this because I actually commented on them in the dream because I also have hammer toes and I remember saying that it was hard for me to find proper shoes. And he said that it was the same with him and that's why he always wore sandals. And I said that's not because everyone else in the region does and he goes, "No that was my idea." Then Jesus sticks his feet out and goes "Perfect size sevens. Aren’t you jealous?" Then Muhammed rolls his eyes and then he asks Jesus why he’s wearing high heels and Jesus says "It's not what you think. My plantar fasciitis is killing me and they're the only thing that will give me relief."

I have no idea what it means. Maybe you can help me figure it out.

Dream Man

Originally uploaded by P!ndaro.
I don't know who this man is but I know I dreamt about him last night.

A Real Bridge

Richmond bridge 2
Originally uploaded by Denisfox.
This will help those less metaphorically inclined.

let me build a bridge

let me build a bridge
Originally uploaded by .:auro:..
This is the bridge I promised.

Banana Protest

This is a message to all those naysayers who say I don't particicpate in activism enough. Here is a picture of some friends at an anti banana protest. We were protesting the suspicious popularity of bananas. Can anyone say conspiracy?

Monday, January 8, 2007

The Story of Ewe

When I first approached by the leaders of BlogWorld to throw my hat in the blogging ring, my initial impulse was to say 'No.' I was living the high life in Hollywood as Alanah Stewart’s assistant and I’d seen what stardom had done to her. Why would I want that? So I said that if I returned to the public eye then I wanted total creative freedom, complete carte blanche. Of course I thought they'd say No but to my surprise they said fine. So I said I needed more. They said I could own the blog, do all the work and make no money. That tempted me but I held firm. I said I’d need dancers. They said Classical or Hip Hop. I said both. They said Word. I was about to give in to the increasingly sweet deal but then I managed to grab hold of myself and I said that I had to think about it in Paris. They said "Fuck you!" I said Bon Voyage.

Halfway across the Atlantic in the middle of an anecdote I was relating to Sting’s wife, Trudy Styler, in which I talk Yoko off a ledge only to discover it had just been an art piece,something very strange happened. I suddenly became incredibly bored with myself. I,Buddy Cole had finally become tired of me and all my crazy antics,the assassination attempts, the suicide attempts, the comeback attempts. Boring! I decided as an experiment to let Trudy talk, you know, to see what she had to say. I decided for the first to actually listen to the other person. I mean how much harm could she possibly do? Turns out plenty. She started to go on and on about a crock pot that she bought for Elton John’s boyfriend David Furnish that Elton loved so much he brought it with him on the road and called it Betty. I thought I was going to die of death. I realized that I might as well have been talking to a non-famous person.

Then I thought, ”Why not? After all,you don’t have to be a celebrity to be a bore. So I turned very slowly to the nobody on my right and introduced myself. It turned out her name was Mrs. Stella Voldonski, a Polish widow from New Jersey who was going to visit her heartwarming son who would give her a reason to live. I became swept up in her story. I could tell Trudy was dying to be drawn into our web of commonfolk warmth so I selflessly introduced Mrs. Voldonski to the aging carry-on. It was like I'd been doing it my whole life. Before I knew it the two of them were yakking away about pilates and I just sat back and listened until I fell asleep.

The next thing I knew, we were landing in Paris and as I said goodbye to Stella at the baggage carrel I noticed Trudy berating an elderly Algerian porter and it reminded me of how much I liked raisins. I realized that was the first time I had thought about myself in hours. That had never happened before. If I hadn’t been t thinking about me, what had I been thinking about? What was the opposite of me? That was the question. I racked my brain and came up with a cure for AIDS. I tossed it aside for later. My brain said rack lower,so I started to masturbate. Higher,it said. I began to pinch my nipples. “No!” it screamed. “Rack your heart! Rack your heart!” So I did. And it hurt. And that’s when it hit me. The opposite of me is you. That would be the title of my blog. Sure I'd blown it with the Overlords of Blogworld but I knew that with help from you there would be a place for me. And as I've already explained in a previous post called "The Cold Light of Day", I couldn't spell it the regular way so welcome to Ewe. A place for Me.

Sunday, January 7, 2007

My Friend Bob

A lot of people think I just hang out with homosexuals because I'm so good at it but that's not true. I have a lot of straight friends and not just girls either. A lot of my friends are straight men.

My three favourites are all named Bob and for years now, every Tuesday night we've had this ritual where they come over to the home I keep in the suburbs to bond. This Tuesday night was no different. I set up the ping pong table, threw a couple of two-fours in the fridge, and slipped into something more comfortable, overalls, workboots and a miner’s helmet. Bob was the first to arrive. He had just had a terrible fight with his wife, and was in need of a shoulder to cry on. "Buddy," he said, "you're the only one who understands." He was right.

Before we had time to dish about the fight,in walked my other friend, Bob. He was already drunk. He drinks because no one understands him. "Buddy," he said, "you're the only one who understands." "Have a drink," I said. "Bob," Bob said. "How ya doin'? Good to see ya." Then they embraced, in the way only two Bobs can. They shook hands. The doorbell rang again. "What is this, Grand Central Station?" I said. They laughed, farted, and sat down.

I went to the door. It was Bob. He looked great. I told him that he must have been cheating on his wife, he looked so good. "Buddy," he said, "you're the only one who understands." I knew he'd like my mother.
"Time for ping pong," I said, and ushered them into the games room.
We played for hours, drinking constantly and talking dirty. I worked up quite a glow. Bob won. He always does.
We presented him with a trophy and then celebrated by doing a victory lap around the table, just like the Olympics. Then I suggested a drinking game called "Flank and Eddie". There's no rules. You just drink as much as you can. Bob won. He always does.

So I picked him up off the floor, threw him over my shoulder in a firemen’s carry and then carted him upstairs, where I deposited him in the guest room. As I wiped the vomit off his face I thought to myself that he was having the best time of all.

When I went downstairs again, Bob and Bob were still playing "Flank and Eddie". We laughed about Bob getting so drunk and then Bob produced a joint. We saluted it with that good old college hurrah. The joint seemed to take Bob's mind, pure and simple. He jumped up and began to tell a touching story about his grandparents first coming to this country, and his grandfather's reaction upon first seeing a streetcar. He started to imitate his grandfather crying and then he started to actually cry and then he went "whoops" and fell right down.

So I lugged him upstairs and laid him out beside the other Bob. They looked like twins. When I went back downstairs, Bob was chug-a-lugging bourbon. "Bob," I said, "you have a drinking problem." "Buddy," he said, "you're the only one who understa..." Honestly, straight men can make a Tuesday feel like a Wednesday.

So I carried him upstairs, and laid him out beside the other two. They looked just like Little Joe, Hoss, and the other one. I felt like Pa Cartwright because he always drank his boys under the table. Next week, Bob is bringing over one of his friends who I've never met before. His name is Robert. I can hardly wait.