Tuesday, April 10, 2007

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.