Saturday, February 10, 2007

Buddy and Roble

Today was the day that I promised to take Fagette to City Hall to see the Portuguese boy fight for the rights of his people to play chess outdoors at a stone table. Keeping in mind Marco’s wise words of tough love at breakfast the other morning I decided we should go shopping first. It was important that we displayed the correct look for such an august occasion. This was her first introduction to democracy in the purest sense. I’m still not sure it works but I’m willing to put it to a vote.
Shopping for Fagette was impossible. It’s easier to buy uranium for Iran. All she wanted was one more pants/dress outfit exactly like the one she’s wearing in the picture but in a different colour, she didn’t care what. I didn’t know how to respond to that. How can you be vague about colour? It’s like not caring if you live or die. I care so much I bought a sensational pair of orange Capri pants, these boxy patent leather shoes with Cuban heels the exact colour as the Pope's Mahnolo Blahniks and a flaming pink nubbly top from Garganzo. Take that death! Plus I just had to. It gave the child such joy. On the way to City Hall in our sharp new outfits, well hers just looked like she’d done her laundry, we got a ride from an incredibly sexy cab driver called Roble Shabirrap, originally from Somalia and presently from my dreams. He used to be a film maker in his country before it descended into anarchy. As I looked into his dark bedroom eyes reflected in his rearview mirror I knew that if I got within a foot of him I would descend there myself. He said he was quite big in the Horn of Africa, that he made a movie about a camel that cried that was seen all over the Horn. Said the word horn about eight times. Kept repeating it like Tom Green. He was dressed in the loose white pants and the long white shirt with socks and sandals combo I like so much and I mentioned to him how much I liked his look. He said he was only wearing his djullaba, that’s what he called it, because it was laundry day and that was all he had to wear. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not he was so dry. He complimented Fagette on her unique way of dressing and pointed out that it was a variation of what he wore, a long shirt/dress over pants. She beamed as her dangerous idiosyncrasy was validated and my heart sank as I knew I’d lost her to the world of common sense. Then he told her that her name meant ‘precious flower’ in his native language and I thought she was going to die. I thought I was going to be sick I was so turned on. He’s probably married. That type always is. I sure wish I got his number. Probably has a little daughter himself. The bastard. …


Friday, February 9, 2007

Marco's Way

I’ve just put the little one who’s not that little but still small comparatively, to bed and I’m grabbing this moment to say hello. It’s the first chance I’ve had. I’m exhausted! It’s true what they say about parenting being the hardest job. I know it’s only been one day but it’s one of mine. It started off with Fagette making the best breakfast ever; your choice of eggs, bacon with maple syrup, chevre, foie gras, fresh figs, mimosa’s, caviar, the Sunday New York Times even though it was Thursday in Toronto. We ate in the living room which I would never have done before with the old rug. It was liberating. In the middle of breakfast, the doorbell rang and it was my friend Marco. He hadn’t dropped by in the morning for ages. It felt like old times. “Marco” I said, “ You haven’t dropped by in the morning like this in ages. What’s up?” He looked at me for a long time, like someone had ripped out his faculties and replaced them briefly with a case of pop and then restored them but with the memory of what had happened fully intact.
“Buddy”, he said, “ I have bad news.”
“Fagette, throw another cake on the griddle.”
“Aye aye monsieur.”
“Marco what is it? Is it your health because your health is all we have. Without our health we’re Russians.”
“Buddy your words are deep and I hear them believe me but this is more important than my health. It’s about your health.”
“Fagette, make Uncle Buddy another Mimosa and your Aunt Marco one too and don’t skimp on the vodka.”
“There’s no vodka in a Mimosa.”
“Just do as I say.”
She scampered off gratefully.
“Now what’s this about my health?” I asked.
“Oh. You don’t look good.” He replied.
“That’s it? That’s all you got?”
“Okay, you look like shit.”
“You’ve been looking a little rough lately.” He said. “Everyone’s been talking.”
“That’s crazy. I’ve been away. I haven’t gone out in months.”
“We’ve noticed.”
Fagette came into the room with the drinks.
“Fagette honey, the adults need to talk..”
She slunk out of the room like an obedient dog. That might be a problem. I went to take a big swig of my drink. and Marco put his hand on my glass. “Perhaps Fagette’s right. Vodka doesn’t go in a mimosa.” I pulled it towards me but he held fast. “But the champagne is okay though right?” I asked.” “Of course” he said ” It’s a mimosa. It’s not orange juice. Just remember, nothing hard till after dark.. I just want you to keep those blonde looks of yours so that people can enjoy them for longer that’s all. This isn’t an intervention. It’s just me Marco talking to you Buddy and all that history and all that implies. No need to turn this into World War 11.” He was right. World War 1 was awful. We didn't need another one. I agreed to his terms and called Fagette back in the room but she had disappeared.
Later after Marco left I went looking for her and found her in her room reading the manual for my new phone. She promised me she would help with the call screening function. I hated to disturb her when she seemed so happy but I wanted to make sure she was okay with what she had heard. I sat down on the stool by the bed and asked her if she understood everything that was going on and and she said, “Rita is my mother.” I nodded and then I asked her if she liked Marco and she said she didn’t know yet because she couldn’t get the picture of him pooping on the carpet out of her head. I really must tell her the truth. Besides it’s moot already because the reason for the lie was because of my fear of what Uday might do but my fears were for naught. They've become inseparable. In fact I just tucked her in and she was brushing him. I reminded him that my bed was still open and he looked at me like I was a Nazi doctor come to take his nuts. Oh yeah, already did that.


Wednesday, February 7, 2007

The Portuguese Boy

The first thing I noticed after her mother Rita peeled away was that Fagette was coatless so I rushed her inside where it was warm and toasty, well, cold and musty. I’d been airing the place out you see because I’d been experimenting with smoking the last few months as I watched my bar slip away and finally go under and so when I got back from my trip to the nameless country I realized my place smelled like Ava Gardner’s trailer after a visit from Sinatra.
She wrinkled her nose so I blamed the smell on my friend Marco who had being watering my plants when I was away. She said “It’s not that. It’s merde.” I said “Excuse me. Marco may smoke and that’s bad enough but he sure doesn’t take dumps on the floor.” She said, “Are you sure?” and she pointed towards the living room. Sure enough, there was a big steaming pile of poo right on top of my award winning white shag rug. Darn cat! I looked up and saw the little rug murderer lurking on top of the book shelves staring at Fagette with malice. She asked me if I had a cat. I said “No. That was Marco. I’m very sorry.” Look. It’s easier this way. Uday has to meet her on his own terms. I’m just going to keep her away from the walls for the first few days.
When I went to clean up the mess she insisted on doing it. I said “I couldn’t”. She said “I want to.” I said “Make sure you brush up, never down.” Rita was doing something right. As Fagette worked the dark wet excrement out of the long white fibers I asked her if I could run a bath for her. It sounded like something that a young lady would enjoy in a Jane Austen novel after being chilled to the bon while mucking out a stable. Turns out she was not cold at all. Her body temperature is enormous. She pours out heat like a Franklin stove. I wondered if that was an evolutionary adaptation to her mother never buying her winter gear or just part of her genetic makeup. I’m certainly not like that. I’m more of a conduit. I only heat up when I’m touched.
As she worked, we chatted easily. I found out she was quite disappointed with the fact that I no longer owned a bar. She told me she wanted to go into the hospitality business which upset me so I said ,”Please don’t be a hooker,” and she said, “ No, a hotelier. I want to own a bar like you and I want to call it Fagette’s.” That got to me and I thought about letting her stop working but then I thought that there was still a little more to get out so instead I suggested she try some baking soda and vinegar and her eyes lit up. The vinegar fumes really got her talking up and soon she was confiding that her father is either this guy from the Rock Machine who put a pin from his Remembrance Day Poppy through the eye of a guy who used it to wink at my sister or he’s thirty other guys.
Eventually we gave up on the rug though. There was nothing for it but to throw the damn thing out. Oddly enough I felt glad. As I rolled the monstrous thing up and handed it to Fagette to take out to the garbage, I felt a lightness I hadn’t felt in years . That rug had been holding me back. That’ was the problem.
Later we ordered Swiss Chalet and watched television. She really loved ‘Intervention’. It was the one with the bulimic girl who vomits into plastic bags hidden everywhere in her apartment. We both thought the woman was ridiculous and that the whole plastic bag thing was a put on. Then later when she was in the bathroom she made pretend vomiting noises. It was hilarious.
But the thing she liked the best was the local news. There was a report on tension between the Italian and Portuguese communities over a communal chess table in Portutalia Park and she got very interested in the story especially with this boy who was heavily featured. He was a handsome lad about her age with perfect hair who was a spokesperson for the old Portuguese men fighting for control of the table. Most of them didn’t speak English so he was their mouthpiece. He was quite impressive and Fagette was completely enamoured. There’s a council meeting about it tomorrow and she wants to go. I think it might be fun. Anybody who knows me knows that I’ve always wanted to get more involved in municipal politics. Oh my God. What am I saying? What have I got myself into?


Tuesday, February 6, 2007


This is my niece Fagette. She's going to be staying with me for a week. I don't know what I'm going to do with a ten year old girl. All I know about little girls is that they like to dress up in striped dresses and run around swanky hotels. She's staying with me because my sister Rita, her mother, is going to a Stargate SGI convention with her current boyfriend Didier or at least that's what she said. She just showed up this morning at my door with Fagette. First of all she's soaking wet. It's not raining. In fact it's minus twenty. Then she launches into this insane story about how she just won this contest where she gets to go to a Stargate CGI convention for a week in Phoenix and she can take a friend and when she says friend, she gestures incredibly dramatically behind her at this old car parked on the road and she says, "You remember Didier?" Of course I remember Didier. He was practically the first man my sister had been with who didn't have a record. He was memorable because he was actually a bit of a nerd. The problem with these nerd types is that their history is either clean as a whistle or they have thirty bodies buried in the basement. My sister's romantic record is checkered to say the least. She's been married four times and has had almost as many men as your average gay man which for a woman is disastrous. It's disastrous for us too but we just don't know it till it's too late whereas a woman knows it when she's doing it. This can make for very bad sex or very good sex if you know how to work it.

So back to Didier. The car window rolls down and he pokes his head out and in the thickest french accent yells out, " Allo Buddy! " i say "Allo Didier. Ca va?" but he's already thrust his head back inside and rolled up the window. Then he begins to gun the engine. So then Rita thrusts Fagette towards me and I take her hand which is wet. I struggle not to vomit. Then Rita says Take good care of Fagette. She loves you." At this point I need to say that I've met her exactly once and she was three. It was some drunken party my sister threw and Fagette made me drinks all night. As for my sister I've only seen her a half dozen times my whole life. I come from a family of twenty three children. I can't be expected to keep track of everyone. I can barely remember my parent's faces. When I close my eyes I just see Wilford Brimley and Betty Buckley. Then she turns back and says, " Remember. She's named after you." I go, " What? I thought it was an old family name. I thought she was named after mother's brother,Fagette." and she says, "That's just a coincidence. See you in a week " and then she runs down the steps even though there aren't any and gets into the car and they roar off. There is a long silence and then Fagette slips her hand which is now dry into mine which is now wet and I feel her recoil and I think. This might work.


Monday, February 5, 2007

Uday and Mike

Well I'm home and am I ever glad. When I left two weeks and change ago to open my state of the art production facilities deep in the heart of the jungle in a country I can't name for security reasons there had been no winter. I arrived back to the coldest day of the year. Minus twenty and bitchy. My apartment was stunning as usual but an icebox. The first person to greet me was my black cat Uday. He had been boarding at record producer/music impresario Sal Surroundo's downton condo and even though he was treated like a king there as evidenced by his new Uncle Sal tummy he had no access to the outside and thus no way to kill. This is hell to a cat especially one named after Saddam Hussein's psychotic son. He was wearing his favourite t-shirt from CNUT and he looked amazing. I'm not one for dressing up animals but when they put it on themselves, well then that's a different story. After a session of man/cat wrestling cum lovemaking which left both of us sweaty and confused I left him passed out on the floor and tiptoed quietly out the door.

Then I headed on over to the bar , the bar I used to own but now just frequent. My favourite waiter in the world Mike Killdeer was there. He worked for me before when I owned the place. I'm gone but he's still there. There's no hard feelings. I had other priorities which we'll get to eventually. Mike has been a waiter everywhere in this town and done everyone too. Let's just say he's sat on more faces in boystown than stools. I'm afraid I can't say that. He's also been Hiv positive for years too but I've never heard him complain once, about anything. That may be because he's worth a hundred and seventy million. HIs grandmother was Cree and was one of the original investors in Lakota topical analgesic. She made a fortune when she sold her shares and left it all to him when she died at forty. He's never stopped working though. It's not because he 's cheap even though he is, He says it's because he'd die if he did. I understand. That's why I never started.

He was fresh from having his cheeks, which have been ravaged by *Hiv related facial wasting, plumped up with the latest filler and he looked fabulous. Of course I'd say that about anyone who was coming towards me shirtless and holding aloft an ice cold martini, well maybe not Charlotte Rae. What am I saying? That actually happened once and I enjoyed the encounter immensely. Anyway, he said he was thinking of getting liposuction on his **buffalo hump too and fat injections into his buttocks which are dissapearing faster than the Antarrctic Ice Shelf. So I said why don't they just take the excess fat out of your back and put it into your ass. It's gotta be cheaper. He really perked up at that. I should get a commission.

The rest of the night passed in a blur which is exactly what I needed to put all that had happened in the last two weeks into perspective. There had been the total destruction of my jungle blogcasting studio, the loss of Ortiz the first, the encounter with the surviving Golden Girls, a tender love affair with Ortiz the second, a bi-plane crash, a boat sinking, a horse execution, meeting Julie Newmar and finally the terrorist attack by 'Anonymous.' Truly it had been a memorable fortnight. And now here I was back in this cold northern town with no money, no job, no lover and I felt great because I was drunk but mostly because I had ewe. I mean that seriously. Two weeks ago there were roughly fifteen regular viewers. Today there are roughly two hundred. And according to my stats man Vladimir, tomorrow we will pass the Two Thousandth Visitor mark. That's more people than died in Vietnam.

*the term used to describe the hollowing out of the cheeks of hiv positive people on the hiv drug cocktail also happens to the buttocks
**the term used to describe the fatty deposits which accumulate in the backs and neck of people on the cocktail

Gabcast! ewe #23 - Blue Square

Sal Surroundo, Barley Jones and Victor Vep clown around on the set of 'Blue Square' a popular Canadian children's television show set inside a television set.



Since I'm going to be travelling today in very trying circumstances and away from any form of cyber link I thought I would re-post my review of Pan's Labyrinth in honour of the upcoming 'Oscars'. It's like a re-run but with the spelling mistakes fixed. I wrote it at the beginning of this adventure when I didn't really think this whole blogging thing actually worked and that no one was actually there. It was like pleasuring yourself in front of an open window for two months and then one day realizing that overnight an apartment building has sprung up right in front of you. Now you don't have to close the curtains but you do have to spell them correctly.

For those four of ewe who have already read the review just press the 'NEW' clip to hear a snippet from my favourite radio show. "Pecket Banks and the Morning Zoo"

Gabcast! ewe #22 - Pecker Banks: Stupidest Bitch of the Morning.

Pecker, Santos, Linda and the gang deconstruct sex with a brother, anal, and pig noises on the Morning Zoo.

A Review of Pan's Labyrinth

I just got back from a screening of 'Pan's Labyrnth by Guillermo del Toro. The movie is sort of like a fantasy for people who hate fantasy. They can't just accept it on it's own terms like Harry Potter. It has to have a Civil War with sectarian violence in it. A flying car is never enough for those people. The movie is stunning but oddly enough, for all the deaths, not particularly moving.

But forget about the movie for a second. The best part was I saw Scott Thompson there. He looked exhausted. His hair looked crispy. Obviously going through some sort of career crisis. He was with two other guys. They all looked drugged. The girl in front of them who was obviously a big fan complimented Scott at one point. She said he had a good energy and that his aura was swirly. He said 'Swirl This!' How rude and not even original. Shelly Hack said it in 'Cathy Diamond:Lawyer at Large.' I took his picture with my cellphone and he got all lemony snickety. He actually put his hand up like he's David Hasselhof or something. I thought I could sell it to Defamer. Com or TMZ but neither of them were interested.

HIs friends were far more compelling. One of them, I think he was a Brazilian because he hated the movie,he kept sighing all through the film, you know how they're never impressed by anything, anyways, right when the little girl is being chased by the ghoul with eyes in his hands the Brazillian starts blowing the one who's not Scott. It was lucky I was there to document it. The picture quality is bad but it was pitch black in that theatre. I had to use my superflash which almost got me kicked out. As for the film itself, it was a little bloody for my tastes.

The movie is about a little spanish girl who loses her father in the Spanish Civil War. THen her mother gets pregnant with a general type high up in Franco's regime and they move to the country where he is fighting rebels. She imagines an alternate world where a hideous faun tells her that she is a princess of the underworld and not human and that in order for her to regain her crown she has to do all these horrible tasks whee she meets grotesque CGI characters. At one point she's told a hundred times by the giant faun not to eat any food during one task and the first thing she does is eat some grapes. Then the creature wakes up and eats two fairies. This is where I thought the violence became gratuitous. Just because you can show fairies being eaten by demons, doesn't mean you should. This alternate world is how the little girl copes. I get it. I have an imaginary friend who's always ordering me to do horrible things too. If it was up to me I would be magnanimous 24/7 but he has other plans. He's more of an enabler by now really but I'm addicted.

So back to the movie. Tthe stepfather who's gorgeous of course becuase he's evil iis fond of shaving, sewing up his own wounds and shooting people at close range. Actually everybody loves that. If people weren't being shot in the head, they were being stabbed through the cheek or menstruating, I mean going into labour which I suppose is a form of menstruation. Call it extreme menstruation. "Spoiler Alert!" It ends with the little girl getting shot by her stepfather and you don't really mind. I mean the faun told her a hundred times not to eat anything. And grapes? Who risks everything for two grapes? It's not like they were olives. Then again who shoots a little girl?

Sidebar: Mexico must be awfully grim. My friend Graziella Fortunato who teaches English Literature online says Shakespeare never even killed a child. She says that no children die in Shakespeare. Sure some of them were pretty young like Romeo and Juliet but they weren't virgins which is key I think.

The ending is both sad and happy. The little girl dies but she gets to be a princess in hell. Sounds like my last relationship . Bonsoir. Buddy.