ewe

Adieu to Ewe

2008-01-10T22:00:00.000-05:00

Hats and Balls

2007-06-20T03:54:00.001-05:00

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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2007-06-01T01:40:00.000-05:00

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Fran's Miracle Cancer Prevention

2007-05-29T16:38:00.000-05:00

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

2007-05-22T14:27:00.000-05:00

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

2007-05-11T18:20:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-16T23:08:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-15T23:36:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-10T23:26:00.000-05:00

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

2007-04-10T01:01:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-30T00:39:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-08T20:03:00.000-05:00

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

2007-03-01T00:53:00.000-05:00

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.

Link

Oscar Fallout Boy

2007-02-27T01:44:00.000-05:00

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.

Link

Barbra Reconsidered

2007-02-20T04:01:00.000-05:00

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

2007-02-18T01:32:00.000-05:00

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

2007-02-17T04:24:00.000-05:00

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.

Link

Vanessa

2007-02-12T23:56:00.000-05:00

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…

Link

Disorder in the Court

2007-02-12T14:20:00.000-05:00

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…

Link

They call him Fernando

2007-02-12T01:50:00.000-05:00

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.

Link

Pearl Jewell

2007-02-11T02:27:00.000-05:00

When we got to City Hall there was already a large crowd of people lined up outside to get in and they were getting quite unruly so I reached down and took Fagette’s hand. It was wet as usual so I wiped it down on my sleeve and then took her hand again. I couldn’t believe that people would line up to see a council meeting. I have no idea what’s hip anymore. It was like the other day when I was walking past the Planetarium and there was a lineup around the block for Laserium although there’s a good chance I dreamt that.

I asked Fagette if she was excited about seeing the Portuguese boy and realized she wasn’t there. I looked around and couldn’t see her anywhere. Finally after looking frantically all over the place I found her holding my other hand. I’d gotten confused when I’d wiped her down.

“Why didn’t you say something?” I asked her in my best loving yet slightly scolding mother voice.
“ I was scared" she said. You go so fast, eh. I thought I was going to fly off.”
“I was worried.”
“I know. I’m sorry” she said.
“It’s not your fault. It’s this crazy crowd. It’s crazy. Why do you think there’s so many people here for a council meeting?”
“No Uncle Buddy, they’re here to skate.”
“Oh my God, there’s a rink.”

I hadn’t even noticed. I sometimes don’t register large sporting structures. I see them as something nice which explains the time I ended up at Maple Leaf Gardens years ago taking a bath at center ice. “We go in this door here.” she said, pointing to a door where a few people were straggling through. That was more like it.

Inside the chambers, it was just like I’d envisioned, an arena style auditorium with seating for about five hundred people, a long table shaped like a crescent on the stage, and a microphone set up about halfway up the steps in the middle aisle. The meeting had just begun and so we hustled over to some seats in the back. There were about sixty people there. Many of them looked mentally ill. I mean who else can afford to take the afternoon off to go watch a bunch of boring people talk about garbage disposal and broken stop lights. It’s probably the highlight of their day, poor things.

“Isn’t this exciting?” I said to Fagette.
“Yes, very.” A disheveled looking blonde woman with six inch roots and a visible egg stain on her blouse approached the microphone and began to speak .
“Look at her,” I whispered to Fagette conspiratorially. “She looks like she got dressed in a shoe.”
“Ssh.. Let’s listen.”

I’d been shushed. I’d never been shushed before or at least I’d never not reacted badly to it. There was still time. I felt a little hand on my neck. Oh my god, she’s trying to strangle me! I looked down and she was looking up at me with the sweetest smile. My hauteur melted. She took her hand away and then put it on my knee and squeezed it like a tiny grandmother. Oh my god, this kid was dangerous. When she took it away I noticed my knee was damp and I managed to not flinch. If my old life hadn’t already slipped away, I would have said that I felt my old life slip away.

The woman at the mike started complaining about a neighbour who lived next door to her. Her neighbour had lived there for years and they hadn’t done anything new like build a fence or a hedge or comb their grass over their yard but she just had a feeling that they were closer. “For God’s sakes it feels like they’re right next door ” she kept repeating. The best part was the entire council actually heard her out, well past the point where a normal person would have pulled out a gun and given her one warning shot. Finally the councilor from Ward 11, Pearl Jewell, a massive black woman with tiny hands and feet, too tight braids and no patience for silly white women had had enough. When the woman started to whine about how she could hear her neighbour talking inside their house when she went out into her yard and listened, Pearl struck out. She stood up and told her to sit down and stop wasting their time and she did, right there on the steps. Fagette and I laughed and Pearl looked up at us and I felt like I'd been slapped...

Gabcast! ewe #24 - Wind in my Belly

The song 'Wind in my Belly' was recorded in one take in the basement of Sal Surroundo's sister Aviva during the Christmas holidays in 1989. The lead vocals are none other than my brother Gaston who was visiting with his fiance Gabrielle at the time. There was a lot of drinking and one thing led to another and before you knew it the weekend turned into one long jam session. Many songs were recorded that weekend by Gaston and Gabrielle. The period was known as the Breakup Sessions because by the end of that weekend they were no longer engaged and Gaston was no longer straight.

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Link

Buddy and Roble

2007-02-10T01:18:00.000-05:00

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. …

Link

Marco's Way

2007-02-09T04:48:00.000-05:00

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.”
“What?”
“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.

Link

The Portuguese Boy

2007-02-07T20:52:00.000-05:00

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?

Link

Fagette

2007-02-06T23:03:00.000-05:00

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.

Link

Uday and Mike

2007-02-05T21:05:00.000-05:00

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.

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Incommunicado

2007-02-05T01:26:00.001-05:00

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.

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Peace in Our Time

2007-02-03T22:28:00.000-05:00

On Friday night this blog was viciously attacked by a shadowy terrorist group known only as ‘Anonymous’. When the idiot barrage first began my first thought was that it was cabaret hag and B-movie star Francesca Fiori and her compatriot, international skin care super-mogul Mister Dr. Robert Young. After all it was only a week ago that this deadly duo had destroyed my new state of the art jungle lair/production facilities. Why wouldn’t they be behind this newest outrage?

But then that night I received a pigeon gram from Miss Fiori herself disavowing any connection to the cyber attack, saying that she would never stoop to such levels, that in fact her hairdresser was a gay man who had lost his right testicle to an angry macaw and her makeup artist was another gay man who had lost his left testicle to, oddly enough, a friendly macaw. It’s hard to tell the difference with a macaw. Then the pigeon said, quote, “So as you can see, I am most aware of this bizarre situation in all direction.” There you have it. A peace offer.

So I took it. I believed her. Why? I don’t know. Call it a hunch. Maybe I’m just tired of war. Maybe it was just because the pigeon had such an honest face. Who knows? So I sent the dirty dove back saying I believed her and wanted peace but with the proviso that Dr. Robert Young must not be involved in this act of terrorism. The bird returned a few hours later saying that she had cut off all association with Dr. Young and that she was a free agent once again and, quote, “Peace, yes or no? Aiiee! I can’t be all day wait for you.”

I had to believe her. This blog needs to be at Peace. There’s too many of you now to play around with war. So this evening as I lay in my hammock in a country I can’t name for security reasons but which rhymes with Bill Gates and I thought about how I was one day from home and how much nicer it would be to arrive home to a blog at peace and as I pulled my guide Ortiz closer to me I thought this is a very long sentence and that I should think about ending it fairly soon and then I thought, no, there’s more life in this sentence and I intend to find out exactly how much more and boy, it's hard to make love in a hammock. So I decided to check the blog to see what people were saying and that’s when I discovered the love bombing campaign that was going on below the posts. I was overcome with emotion and I started to tear up until I noticed a monkey watching me with contempt and I stopped. Then Ortiz slid in behind me and put his arms around my waist comfortingly and I reached down and patted him on the head. He’s a small man but a good one. I decided then and there to accept Francesca’s offer of peace. I looked back at Ortiz sleeping peacefully in the hammock and I thought, “Who the hell’s head did I just pat?” The monkey in the tree began to laugh mockingly.

So there you have it. Peace in our time. How long it will last, only Oprah knows. All we can do now is enjoy this moment or as the great gay poet Lord Compture de Cockhead writes, “Enjoy your Aids.” So true. So in honour of this historical moment I’ve written a little ditty inspired by the immortal words of Lord Cockhead. It’s called ‘Aids Faggot’. It’s message is universal and that’s why I think it will make a wonderful pop song one day.

Aids Faggot

There once was a faggot called Desu
who loved all things Desilu
He wrote a song about Julie
and not about Lucy
And now there’s a hullabaloo.

Enjoy your aids bitch
Enjoy your aids bitch!
Enjoy your aids bitch!
And your syphilis too.

He has a friend called Tom Green
Who thinks the Taliban are keen
And does barrel rolls with stoners on the net
Though he may have one ball
It’s big enough for all
He’s a faggot loving motherfucker with a pet

Enjoy your aids bitch
Enjoy your aids bitch!
Enjoy your aids bitch!
And your syphilis too.

I hope you like the poem. If it’s not to your taste then why not try listening to this song that my old band ‘Mouth Congress’ recorded back in the early nineties during a party at vocalist/producer extraordinaire Sal Surroundo’s beachfront condo. It’s called, “The New Sobriety” and is a discussion of Nancy Reagan’s ‘Just Say No ’ Campaign which was about exactly when and where Ronnie could touch her. Butch Jenkins, probably the sluttiest person I’ve ever known was staying at the place that weekend and after indulging in a little of everything and everyone, he asked if he could sit in on a session. We said sure, not having any idea what was to come. What happened next was completely improvised and never repeated and nobody else at the party even knew that we were recording. This is the first time anyone but the participants involved have ever heard this rare recording. Enjoy your aids.

Gabcast! ewe #21 - The New Sobriety

Butch Jenkins sits in with Mouth Congress and unleashes his Id on the world while Buddy Cole and the gang including Sal Surroundo and Barley Jones go with the raunchy flow.

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Julie Newmar and Dyke Daughters at the SAAD Awards

2007-02-01T19:16:00.000-05:00

Mouth Congress, with the help of guest vocalist Ulie Jewmar takes on the illustrious rise and fall of Julie Newmar. No, strike that, there was no fall. How about the rise and rise of that late Sixties early Seventies star Julie Newmar? That's better. After listening to this eighties cult band rip the lid off of aging actresses there will never be a question again of who was the best Catwoman. In this picture Julie stands wtith her two lesbian daughters at the SAAD awards (Society Against Aging Dykes). It's amazing. They look older than her. Whether that is a testament to good plastic surgery or an indictment of lesbian skin care or perhaps the SAAD awards themselves, it's hard to say. As for La Newmar, if that's what plastic surgery does, then sign me up. Looking human is so last year. I'm so inspired, I'm going to attach some fishing hooks and filament to my cheekbones, then climb up the biggest tree I can find, loop the wire around a branch and jump out. I feel younger already.

Gabcast! ewe #20 - Julie Newmar

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Ulie warms Up

2007-02-01T03:15:00.000-05:00

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Ulie's Five Finger Turnout

2007-02-01T02:21:00.001-05:00

Crazy Drag Queen Style!
Originally uploaded by apartmenttherapy_la.

Ulie is coming.
Jewmar is closing
Five finger turnout
All that's left is the hosing

Ulie Jewmar is Coming

2007-02-01T02:06:00.001-05:00

let me see that thong!
Originally uploaded by TrekkerPanda.

Blood Diamond

2007-01-31T14:44:00.001-05:00

Diamond Age
Originally uploaded by jurvetson.

Dear ewesies, I apologize for such a long time away from you. I know it's only been a few days but for me it feels like an eternity. I can't imagine what it must feel like for ewe. So in honour of this feeling I'm posting a picture of my favourite jewel, an eternity diamond. She was given to me by the wonderful actor Djimon Hounsou after his time in Africa filming that important film 'Blood Diamond'. Let's just say I helped him with his accent in one of my popular shirtless acting workshops. In the picture you can see him clutching his script as I give him a line reading. Some actors don't like that but Djimon insists on it. In fact his entire performance in the movie is a complete imitation of my performance. Now some acting coaches would be upset about this and launch one of those ugly lawsuits which are so common in our suit crazy age but that would only bring attention to me and cast doubt on Djimon's Oscar nominated performance. I'm happy for Djimon and I'm certain that come Oscar night when Djimon strides up to that hallowed stage and accepts his well deserved Oscar, my name will be the first words out of his mouth. I can't wait. I just hope he doesn't out me like Tom Hanks did for his wretched performance in that television movie 'Philadelphia'. Please! The only other worse nominated performance was for Leonardo DiCaprio as that boyish lesbian who is raped by Kate Winslett in 'Titanic'. I'm just glad he wasn't nominated for anything this year. What's that Marco? You're kidding me? My best friend Marco who just dropped in for a cup of poppers just informed me that apparently Leonardo DiCaprio was also nominated for his performance in 'Blood Diamond.' I didn't even know he was in the movie. That's like that time some of us were discussing that Diane Keaton vehicle "The Godfather' and some straight man who was listening in told us that Al Pacino was actually the star. I still don't believe it. All I saw was Diane Keaton, Talia Shire and Morgana KIng. Some people will say anything just to talk to me.

Jewel is not just beautiful but she also sings. She's only recorded one song but it's a keeper. In light of the continuing carnage in Africa caused by man's lust for blood diamonds, I'm hoping that this proof of the intelligence of the most elegant form of carbon wil help stop the illicit trade in these beautiful stones.

Gabcast! ewe #19 - Jewel

A stirring song about hope and beauty by the most beautiful and intelligent jewel in the world.

The True Meaning of Friendship

2007-01-27T21:40:00.000-05:00

I'm still here in the jungle in a country I can't name for security reasons but which sounds a lot like Sticaragua. I tried to fix the bi-plane but it was impossible. Nobody makes parts for bi-planes anymore. In fact most people don’t even believe bi’s of any kind exist but I know better. The truth is it's easier to find components for a nuclear bomb. Three calls. That's all it takes. So I'm hiking out which should take about a week or so.

Because of the accident with my last guide Ortiz I had to I hire a new guide whose name is also Ortiz. Oddly enough he looks exactly like the other Ortiz except he has better skin which makes me think he might be gay but I can’t be sure. We've been traveling for a couple of days now and although our relationship is cordial, it hasn't been exactly what you would call sisterly, that is until today.

We're walking along the river sweating profusely and I suggest a swim to cool off. He blanches beneath his brown skin and tells me that it is infested with piranha and would be certain death to enter it. I told him I once worked in a button factory so I knew all about piranhas. He said, 'Button? Button is just for fasten.” I said, 'Exactly. Everybody uses buttons. One day we won't be using oil but we'll still be using buttons. Then he finally got it. Then we hear this commotion coming from around the bend. Ortiz puts his hand up to his mouth in the international sign of Sssh and I finish my sentence and then go quiet. We hear voices, a man and two women and it sounds like they’re discussing the career of Estelle Getty. They suddenly stop their discussion and then the man yells out, "We're coming around a corner ladies! Stroke hard! Then a boat pops into view. Inside are Beatrice Arthur, Betty White and Rue McClanahan. Just what I thought, a man and two women. Betty and Rue are trying valiantly to stop the boat from running into the opposite bank and Bea is standing in the prow barking out directions. She points at a shallow beach on the opposite side of the river and yells, "There!" That's it! That's the place!"

Ortiz and I duck behind a tree and watch quietly. Bea was the first to alight. She hopped onto the shore barefoot and quickly tied the boat to a tree. Then she hauled it in hand after hand fighting the current the whole way while Betty and Rue tried to help by stroking madly against the current. Finally they got the boat to shore and the other two hopped out. Betty was last. She was holding a golden urn which she clutched closely to her bosom. Then the three of them put their hands on the urn and turned the lid as one. They pulled it off and then turned it over and all this dust and dirt came out. As the dust blew away with the wind and the little pieces fell into the water the river suddenly erupted into a boiling froth as the piranhas went into a feeding frenzy. I realized that it must be the remains of Estelle Getty and that this beach area must have been an important place for her. I guess all those stories about her being a spy for Somoza were correct. As I turned back to Ortiz I noticed that he was crying. That was all I needed. He was definitely gay.

So I said,” Don’t be sad Ortiz. Estelle had a good run. This is a beautiful thing.” He said, “Estelle’s not dead yet.” Suddenly my impulse to ask them for a ride back to civilization didn’t seem like such a good idea. “Perhaps,” I said, trying to put a positive spin on the macabre events, “but she’s not on TV anymore and that’s almost the same thing to an old trouper like her.” He nodded in international gay understanding. As I turned back to watch the three dames get back into the boat to make their return journey, I noticed that the river was now filled with hundreds of dead piranha and I thought to myself, “Via con dios Estelle and Heaven help Heaven.”

Gabcast! ewe #18 - Womyn's Common

In which a group of women squeeze all the joy out of being a woman.

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Mao Tse Helen

2007-01-25T23:36:00.001-05:00

TianAnMenKiss1
Originally uploaded by manifesto.com.cn.

Six Million Shoes

2007-01-24T23:25:00.000-05:00

I can't believe I haven't talked to ewe since Saturday. Considering all that went down it's a wonder I'm still here. It was a squeaker but we did it. We got the chapter out. If it wasn't for the hospitable native family from the jungle who helped me set up my blogcasting equipment in their casino tent that horrible night it would never have happened. Thank you Mr and Mrs. Many Rope Ladders, your son Nose in a Scroll and daughter Green Onion. If you are ever in my neck of the woods and wearing clothes, do look me up.

Testing done on the soil of the blast site showed traces of leather, glue, sweat and paint. It was just as I feared. Francesca Fiori had used her biggest card yet, the six thousand shoe bomb. Not actually six thousand shoes, just the power of. It is believed that she possesses a bomb with the power of six million shoes. Let's pray it's just a rumour. I can't promise my reaction would be measured.

But enough of all this sturm and drang, what has happened, has happened. In the end we will prevail because it is the will of ewe that I do. Francesca and Dr. Robert Young can huff and puff all they want but in the end, all they will be is out of breath. And just because I don't have a state of the art production facility, doesn't mean I can't entertain you which bring you to this picutre my friend Dominic did. I think it's very sad and that makes me feel hopeful.

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Waiting for Imelda

2007-01-20T22:53:00.000-05:00

Well, what can I say? All my greatest fears have come true. My beautiful state of the art production studio has been completely destroyed. You and I know who did it but my lawyer who luckily escaped the the conflagration has advised me that due to a little something called 'burden of proof' I should remain silent and let him pursue revenge, I mean justice through legal channels. (brief pause) I can't remain silent in the face of such overwhelming cruelty and spite. You know who you are, Francesca Fiori. One day I will have my revenge, I mean justice but until then I will remain above the fray. Luckily I stll have my cell phone, a pack of matches and a mirror and through a technique calle 'faint hope' technology I will at least be able to provide you with at least an audio version of chapter three. Sure it's not high definition HDTV quality video but will have to do for now. Perhaps it's for the best becaue I must admit that I'm not at my best visually at the moment but my voice is as youthful and diamond bright as ever. So sit back, close your eyes and enjoy chapter three of my bestselling autobiography 'Buddy Babylon.'

Waiting For Imelda

When I woke up the next morning, Tino and I were in each other's arms. Fely was nowhere to be seen. That was to be expected. I'd paid her, and she'd done her job, and now she was gone. I was under no illusions about hookers. I began to dress quickly. Suddenly, Tino shrieked.
"My wallet is gone," he said. This was bad. But then it got worse.
"The magazine that I was reading is gone!" I shrieked. "I had the new ‘People’. You people won't get the new ‘People’ for months. This is a disaster. We've got to find that whore."
There was a knock at the door.
"Buddy, are you ready? It's time for the photo shoot."
It was Ronald. This was just like that time in Montreal with Rolly. Life keeps repeating, just like chili. And sitcom plots.
"Coming," I said, and got up. I looked at Tino. "I have to go. I'll meet you later tonight at the Bird's Nest, about midnight," I said. "We'll get my magazine back. And also your wallet." And with that, I was off.
The shoot was uneventful. I went through the paces, like a pro, but my mind was constantly on Tino and the coming confrontation. I don't know what excited me more - sex with a soldier, or a catfight with a hooker.
At the end of the shoot, when we were all leaving, I noticed a heavily tanned, dark-haired man with a reptillian handsomeness, talking to the photographer. When I looked closer, I realized it was George Hamilton. Ronald immediately brought me over to meet him.
"Mr. Hamilton, it gives me great pleasure to introduce the new face of Juicy Mango Jeans, Mr. Buddy Cole." I extended my hand and shook his leathery paw.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hamilton. I've seen all your movie." There was an awkward pause.
"So, it seemed to go well today," he said.
"Yes, they were very professional for a third world crew," I said archly.
"Have you had much experience in the Third World, Mr. Cole?"
"Does Canada count?"
"Canada always counts," he replied. Damn his charm. "I know Margaret Trudeau."
"Who doesn't?"
"I had no idea she was married. Anyway, have you been modelling long?"
"No, Mr. Hamilton, I'm new to all this. I'm an ingenue, a bottle of just-uncorked champagne. How about you? Got any bubbles left?"
"Oh, one or two," he said smiling. I couldn't believe it. His charm was getting to me. I hate it when people I want to hate turn out to be likeable.
"You must come over to Malacanang Palace one of these days, to meet Imelda. She loves what you're doing for the ass of her pants. Believe me, she notices good work. Well, I'm off to supervise some slave labour." He flashed me a killer smile and sauntered over to the door where the very same blonde man in the yellow Jaguar waited. They exchanged a few words and left. What was this?
That night, Ronald and I met for drinks in the lounge of the hotel. I used it as an opportunity to ask him things that had been on my mind for a long time.
"Why couldn't you have said goodbye to me at the end of the 'Prettiest Feet' tour?"
"I just can't say goodbye. It's the English in me. Besides, I knew we'd meet again.
"I see you're still with Dianne. She still hasn't found him, has she?"
"That's why we first came here. I personally don't care if we ever find him. I just want to have Dianne back. I was told there was a faith healer here who could cure her of her obsession. We went to his place out by Smokey Mountain, and he pulled a lot of black gunk out of her stomach, but she never let go of that cursed rock." Ronald looked sad.
I realized that Ronald Coleman was just like his movie star namesake - debonair, honourable, refined, gracious, and yet world-weary. It was as if the name came first and his personality just grew into it, like plaster filling a mold.
"Buddy, I was upset with your behaviour in the limousine on the way in from the airport."
"What do you mean?"
"It was callous when you threw the egg back at the little boy."
"I thought I was being funny," I said.
"Well, you weren’t. Do you realize you make more money in one day as a model than that little boy will make in his entire life? Do you realize that when he turns thirty, he will be old? Of course, you're gay, so you too will be old by the time you're thirty. You're in another country, Buddy. Open up and let it in."
"I had sex with a Phillipino last night," I offered. "Actually two. A guy and a girl."
"Oh, Buddy," he said wearily, getting up. “The shoot tomorrow is at ten. Don't be late. Imelda will be there." He left. Wow, I'd finally get to meet Imelda. I'd never met a dictator’s wife before. I wondered if you could tell just by looking. But why was Ronald so angry with me? Was I really an ugly foreigner, no better than an American tourst looking for a Mcdonald’s in Paris? I vowed to make it up tonight with Tino. I'd pay for everything.
At midnight, I walked into the Bird's Nest. Tino was already there, making time with another girl.
"Buddy, this is Juanita. She's a friend of Fely. She says Fely has not been in tonight."
"Why would she be? She has my magazine. You could get a lot for current issue of ‘People’ on the black market. She's probably partying with the Sultan of Brunei by now."
"Fely not a thief. Fely is good girl," defended Juanita.
"She stole my magazine," I reminded her.
"And my wallet," chimed in Tino.
"Fely say your cock too big. You hurt her. She go to doctor," blurted out Juanita.
" Look, it's not my fault the socket’s too small," I defended. Tino glared at me.
"Look, Juanita, we just want to know where Fely is. We're not going to hurt her," said Tino bringing some masculine calmness to the exhange. I knew what to do. I flashed a five hundred pound peseta note. Juanita's mood changed considerably.
"Fely is a bitch. I never like her. She stay upstairs, room six."
"Juanita, here's five hundred more. Tell mama-san we want to go upstairs with you."
"I do that," she said. She whispered something in mama-san's ear, and led us upstairs. We walked down a dimly-lit hallway that reminded me of a bathhouse which was strangely comforting.. We came to room 6 and listened at the door. We could overhear a girl talking inside.
"Canadian man have big ugly cock, they hurt me. Phillipino men are poor. I like rich Chinese like you." This was the place. It sure sounded like Fely.
We pushed open the door and barged in. An older Chinese man sat on the edge of the bed holding a picture of his dead wife, crying while a girl was masturbating him. She bolted up. It wasn't Fely.
"Get out, Joe!" She started throwing things at us and yelling in Tagalog. Mama-san came upstairs swiftly, followed by two goons who rather rudely escorted us out of the club. Outside, as we picked ourselves up, I whirled on Tino.
"That bitch lied to us," I said. "First Fely, then Juanita. You can't trust a whore."
"Don't call Fely that."
"Are you getting sweet on her? Listen, keep your eyes on the prize, Tino. We can't let our emotions get involved. From here on in, we're Navy SEALS."
"I think I love her."
"And I love you!" I blurted out.
"No you don't," he said.
"No I don't," I agreed. Whoosh, that was close.
"Look, we can't do anything else tonight," said Tino. I know where there's a cockfight." "That sounds like fun," I said, brightening. The evening wouldn't be a total waste after all.
We hopped into a jeepney and rode to the outskirts of Manila, near Tino's base. The cockfight was taking place in a nearby scrapyard. When we got there, there were about sixty men of various ages, some as young as fourteen, all gathered around a circle made of tires. Everyone appeared to be drunk. I was the only white person. But the incredible amount of alcohol consumed by everyone erased all barriers. The crowd greeted us with warm embraces and smiles. We were all just drunken men, preparing to bet money on animals that would tear each other to shreds. I felt charged with primitive bloodlust.
Tino and I took our seats on the fender of an old rusted-out jeepney. It was at the end of the program, and the second fight had just finished. Everyone was girding for the final battle of the night, a bout between the champion rooster, John Wayne, and the contender, Bruce Lee. The owners brought out their cocks. They beamed with pride as they held them up over their heads, and the crowd cheered for their favourites. Everyone placed bets with the guys running the fight, who circulated amongst the crowd. The metal talons which the owners made the roosters wear on their claws flashed. Very deadly stilleto heels. A big light attached to a noisy portable generator flickered on and off overhead, as the ‘Theme from Rocky’ blared over a tinny loudspeaker.
Tino bet on John Wayne and I bet on Bruce Lee. I always supported the underdog. John Wayne seemed to have the biggest support but Bruce was clearly a contender. John Wayne swaggered out, all macho bluster. Bruce Lee went into a crouch and uttered a high pitched shriek. John was unfazed and held his ground. Bruce immediately went into a flip and came down behind John. John got confused.
That was all Bruce needed. He slashed John Wayne's back savagely, and feathers and blood sprayed the ring. John lost all pretense of acting tough and started shrieking and flapping his wings. Like a chicken, really. Bruce would have none of it, and coolly pecked half a dozen times at the Duke's head. He fell to his knees, or whatever they’re called on a rooster, and his crest fell. The crowd was stunned. John hadn't even gotten in a peck yet. His owner ran into the ring and bent down. He put his mouth over the bird's beak and began to blow in and out. Slowly, John came to. He stirred and then jumped up, reinvigorated. The owner ran back to his place, and the fight resumed.
Bruce, who thought it was all over, had gotten cocky, and didn't see John's recovery. He never knew what hit him, as John ruthlessly slashed at Bruce's chest with his claws. Their talons locked in a death grip, and they rolled around in the ring, each pecking each other's head. I put my hand on Tino's lap. He was hard. I felt like Ernest Hemingway at the Running of the Bulls. Finally, the birds pulled apart. They both appeared mortally wounded. Their heads slumped against each others shoulders. Then they fell to the ground and died in each other's wings. All bets were called off, and the crowd dispersed. - deeply disappointed.. Tino and I went back to my hotel, where we fell immediately asleep, spoon-fashion, in our clothes.
The next morning I found myself posing in front of a camera once more. There was so much going through my mind that I found myself phoning in the performance. I couldn't concentrate, thinking about the articles I hadn't read in my ‘People’ magazine. In the middle of one particularly lacklustre pose, there was a commotion at the back of the studio. Immediately, the atmosphere in the room changed, and everyone's backs stiffened. There were men with guns, followed by a flash of scarlet and turquoise. And then, there she stood, Imelda Marcos. She was beautiful. Ageless. Richly dressed. Morally bankrupt.. The Queen of Hearts. I looked into her eyes and felt a mixture of terror and awe, the perfect conditions for performing. Suddenly my body became a supple wand of energy. I began to pose with bravaura.
Imelda had been joined by George Hamilton, who hung on her every word. They sat at the back and gossiped and giggled, completely ignoring me. I kept waiting for a break so that I could meet her, but the shoot went on and on. Imelda never once looked over. Then abruptly, surrounded by her guards, she got up and left. George lingered. I couldn't believe it. Who did she think she was, some dictator? Supposedly, she had hand-picked me for the gig and now this is how she treats me? I spoke to George.
"An introduction would have been nice.”
"I know, and believe me, Ma'am is very anxious to meet you, but she has a lot of responsibilities right now. We're off to Unacao Island tonight, and she has a lot of packing to do. But trust me, she loves what you're doing. She saw yesterday's contact sheets and she's thrilled."
"But she didn't even look at me. She just stayed at the back and gossiped with you. I'm sure it was interesting. What were you talking about? Who's In, Who's Out. ."
"Buddy, if it's any consolation, you're In."
"That’s good, because your friend Imelda is Out! That kind of rudeness will never be In. It must be true what the rabblie is saying in the streets, that she's gone mad. Anybody who could turn away from what I was just doing in that photo shoot had to be insane. With manners like that, you know it's close to the end. Mark my words, the Marcos' regime has as much life left in it as your skin, George. This shoot is over!"
"Yes, I know. We got everything we need. You'll be going home in a couple of days."
"I'm still storming out." And so, I did. I was always true to my word.

Gabcast! ewe #16 - Waiting for Imelda

In which Buddy Cole discovers the true meaning of cockfights.

Link

Orange Alert

2007-01-20T22:04:00.001-05:00

Hotline
Originally uploaded by splorp.

Hang in There Baby

2007-01-20T21:52:00.001-05:00

I managed to find an old bi-plane hidden in the jungle so I set it on auto-pilot, climbed onto the wing and took off. I'm almost there ewesies. I can't wait not just because of the blogcast but I need some moisturizer pronto. This wind is killing my skin.

Originally uploaded by Desmo Dave.

Almost There

2007-01-20T21:20:00.001-05:00

Sunk
Originally uploaded by Robby Garbett.

Don't worry! I"m fine. A word of caution however. Don't wear heels in a boat with a paper bottom. Who knew boats could even be made of paper or that my feet were the same size as my horses? I'm still determined to do the videocast however. It takes more than a sunken boat and a dead guide to hold me back. Hang in there ewesies. I will prevail.

My Horse Loses a Shoe

2007-01-20T20:54:00.001-05:00

Mount Rainier Train
Originally uploaded by moliere1331.

I had a little accident on the trail and one of the horses, well mine actually, slipped on a rock while crossing a shallow river and wrenched her ankle so we've been forced to abandon the horses and hop a train. I blame myself. The guide, said she wasn't ready for high heeled horse shoes but I insisted. I just thought that she'd look a lot better with a lengthened calf. The truth is she did but the problem was, since I only had two horse heels, I could only put them on her back legs and the result was that I was pitched so far forward that my ass was actually higher than my head. I’m convinced that this is why my guide actually rode behind me so actually it was his fault.

After the incident the guide wanted to shoot him on the spot but I intervened and suggested that she be given to a local village as a gift so that's what we did. As we walked away from the village, I heard a shot and wanted to go back but my guide stopped me and said, "Buddy, It takes a family to raise a child but it takes a village to eat a horse. So true.

Despite this minor setback I vow that I will still make tonights first video blogcast as promised or my name isn't Charles "Butterick" Cole.

Into the Breach

2007-01-18T23:46:00.000-05:00

I can't put it off any longer. I have to tell you what's been going on. I'm going to be away for a little while but that does not mean that I won't be blog-vigilant. I will be posting regularly from the road using the newest satellite technology. The reason for the visit is muliti-purpose. The part I can tell you about because it directly concerns ewe is that on Saturday if all goes well, I will be snug and secure in my new state of the art production studio deep in the heart of a country I can't name for security reasons.

Well, my worst fears have come true. It appears that Francesca is not alone any longer. She has joined forces with none other than Dr. Robert Young the cosmetics magnate who made billions off of a formula for ashy elbows and knees I scribbled onto a napkin and then sneezed into. Yes, this is the kind of person we're dealing with. A ruthless predator. A shark. Someone who will stop at nothing to get to the top. Someone I would have no understanding of. He's a very mysterious individual, who has never been photographed except one picture of his ear. So that’s not a lot to go on. You ask, “well what did he look like Buddy?” After all you knew him. That’s the thing. I can’t remember. He has this ability if you can call it that where you immediately forget what he looks like the moment you leave him. Even the camera forgot him. It could only remember his ear. That picture was a full on face shot. I took it.

So number one we don't know what we're looking for. Number two, he has vast sums of ill gotten money, Francesca's threat suddenly has some bite. My question is ‘Why’? Why this animosity towards me, someone who has always tried to do good even when evil was all around. The only answer I can give you is simple. They hate beauty. After all it's me who was wronged. I could be sitting pretty right now but all because I had a cold and wouldn't use my sleeve I'm rotting in a third world hellhole accused of a crime I didn't commit. Well, I'm not in an actual third world prison but it feels like it. I should be silent. I’ve said too much. I don't know how far their plans have gone but all we can do is continue to build this wonderful world that is taking shape around us and hope for the best. I'm off. I have to saddle up the horses.

Dave Foley Drops By

2007-01-18T17:26:00.000-05:00

Dave Foley just dropped by. Turns out he's got a new home on the web too. It's at a place called SuperDeluxe. He loves it. There's no poker allowed. It was great to catch up and gossip. He told me a horrifying story about a very famous movie star he knows who has a thing for horses which explains all the westerns he did. He left us a delightful link showcasing his love of hard science. Indeed.

Sweet dreams

2007-01-18T00:29:00.001-05:00

Originally uploaded by Bruce Hastings.

Naomi Judd:Hepatitis in the Key of C

2007-01-17T23:35:00.000-05:00

I just got off the phone with Naomi Judd. She's such an inspiration. She's full of vague hepatitis pain and she' s still up making a bundt cake for Wynona because she's going on the road. What? There's no restauarants on the road. No greasy spoons? No McDonalds? No roadside pie stands? I'm sorry but I just get so upset when I see elder abuse. We had a big laugh about her recent appearance last week on Larry King. She said 'quote', he was an old dear even if he was a bit of a stuffed shirt.' That's swearing Naomi style. I'll tell you one thing. She sure doesn't understand the internet. I told her I was going to post her interview and her song of courage 'Hepatitis in the Key of C' and she said why would you mail me my own songs. And I guess she does have a point. Why, exactly.

Gabcast! ewe #14 - Naomi Judd: Continuing to Inspire

Naomi drops by Larry King to have her self love reaffirmed by the curmedgeonly pair of suspenders.

Gabcast! ewe #15 - Naomi Judd: Hepatitis in the Key of C

Naomi tells her story of hope and affirmation and reaffirmation and eventually rereaffirmation.

On the Dance Floor

2007-01-17T22:33:00.000-05:00

After all that soul baring, I think we need to dance. This little number was written and performed by my dear friend Tedwig Dunn. Wig for short. That's him in the picture. He's not actually a drag queen. He's actually the straightest man you could find but one night we both got all dolled up for some charity and paraded about the city handing out buttons. Of course we got rolled but we collected eghty dollars for the United Way.

Gabcast! ewe #13 - On the Dance Floor

Babylon Two:The Bitch is Back

2007-01-17T21:30:00.000-05:00

Ever since I first decided to expose myself online I've been in a state of grace. The more I pour my heart out to you the bigger it gets. Blogging has, not to put too fine a point on it, saved my life. If it wasn't for this blog I would still be dodging dell phones from Miss Allanah Stewart. Oh who am I trying to kid. I never worked for Allanah Stewart. I should be so lucky. That woman is a saint. Met her once in a ski tow lineup in Gstaad. She got knocked down by a group of queue marauding Italians. She just picked herself up, said "Gracia" and let the T-bar whisk her away. The truth is I never worked for anybody. I was selling poppers at a sauna in Frankfurt. Not even Berlin. And it wasn't even for me. I worked for someone. I had a popper pimp. It's part of the German social safety net. It was originally a program started for male hustlers when they got too old to shake it but now it's been outsourced to the Turks. Most of them live in Germany anyway so it makes it alot easier. So I guess I did work for someone after all.

So there you have it. The whole stinking mess. Do you like the stink? I do or at least I did, that is until I found Blog. I think if Jesus were alive today he'd be blogging. Not that I'm comparing myself to Jesus or any of the apostles even though I would definitely have been one if I'd been alive then. Absolutely. The moment I heard this Jesus character was in town I'd be all over him like a dirty robe. More wine my lord? May I wash your feet? Oh! I'd love it. And I'd be funny too so he'd want to keep me around. I'd have definitely had a chapter or two in that stupid book. Not that I'm attacking the good book, it's just that when I look at it's numbers, sometimes I get jealous. Maybe I should have put pictures in 'Buddy Babylon' like the Bible did in the First Edition.

My point is, I am just so excited about the next gabcast, I can't tell you. There's only one wrinkle. I shouldn't. Well, you deserve to know. Okay. I've been having some difficulty retrieving my e-mail and I have a feeling it's a little more than general network fluctuation. I received an e-mail marked 'urgent: chita's health update' and I thought, "Oh my God, something's happened to Chita Rivera." I mean she is getting up in years and even though the tumbler still looks good, there's not much drink left. So I opened it up and an avatar of Francesca Fiori suddenly filled the screen. She looked at me with hate in her eyes and eye shadow, and said " Good luck on your gabcast Gabby" and then it dissapeared. Gabby? That is so lame. That's why I'm not that worried. She's obviously losing it. However we must be prepared for the worst. I'm going to have a drink. Why don't you join me.

Get Ready for Chapter Three

2007-01-17T13:38:00.000-05:00

Just a little reminder that on Saturday, I will be gabcasting chapter three of the ongoing series, "The Missing Buddy Babylon". I can hardly bear the excitement. I can't imagine how you are all feeling. After all, I've already lived it and I survived. I have no idea how ewe will fare. So girdle your loins and set your right brain on hilarity because you'll need all the lobes you can get. What do you think of the picture? it was a photo taken by an animated friend of mine. I thought he meant effusive but apparently he meant actually animated. Perhaps this is how he sees me. I know what you're thinking. Buddy, you look a little cartoony. I'm fine with that. Believe me I've been called worse than a cartoon. Must be off. Have to meet Sal for a meeting on a possible new album. Legs crossed. Buddy.

Enjoy Your Cookie

2007-01-16T05:05:00.000-05:00

I know who k_batti is. It's not a computer program. It's none other than my arch enemy Francesca Fiori. I was supposed to follow that link she left the other day for 5,000 dollars but I was too clever for her. I recognized a certain familiar tone to Miss ._batti. I let ewe all think that I had fallen for her ruse but that was just a counter ruse to get her to let her electronic guard down and when she did I swooped in and grabbed her cookie and foiled her plans. Suffice to say the last few days have been trying as I try to upgrade the site, post provocative new episodes and fight off constant electronic attacks from Francesca Fiori and her gang of teenage hackers. I know how she keeeps those young ones glued to her side. She may think she's Pamela Smart with an accent but she's really Fagin after a bad sex change. After all Brazil is the capital of tranny wizardry. I'm just saying she looks a little hard. Maybe she's just aging badly. I don't know how that must feel. I know some of you may enjoy her outsize antics and overreactions to absolutely EVERYTHING!!!! See how she gets me. But this is war. I'm not asking you to choose yet but it might come to that. She sent me a comment marked 'only for my eyes' and one day perhaps I will share it with you but at the moment I don't want to cause any alarm. Besides the language is so scalding I must keep this monstrous missive marked me. As I contemplate the bitterness that has grown between the House of Cole and the House of Fiori I can't help but think back to the old days when Francesca and I were, if not friends, not unfriendly, and I wonder if there could actually be a truce one day. In hopes of this development I am posting excerpts of a concert that two friends of mine attended of one of Miss Fiori Puntz Jones' concerts. The m.c. is Sal Surroundo.

Gabcast! ewe #11 - Chester and Jason

Long time lovers Chester and Jason get giddy with it in anticipation of a performance by Francesca Fiori.

Gabcast! ewe #12 - Enjoy Your Cookie

Francesca Fiori sings a heartbreaking and ballbreaking protest song about our outsurced world.

Pepper Pot

2007-01-16T02:31:00.000-05:00

I would like to direct your attention to the far left. Can you see it? The new link to the podcast. Now I would like to direct your attention directly to your left, to the lady in the peignoir who is so excited about the podcast that she's thrown herself onto a filthy bed in a sleazy motel because she's too excited to stand. Did I say Lady. She's actually one of my dearest friends and sometime guest vocalist Dalia House. Funny story. We actually lived in an actual house together during many of these very recordings. I love this picture. Dalia had just recorded some farting noises for a song and she's celebrating by rolling around on the bed. And that's exactly what you should do when you listen to the next track. It's called 'Pepperpot' for obvious reasons and it's quite possibly one of our most under rated performances. Completely improvised of course, it's a textbook example of what happens when the Delta Blues meet Blue Peter. Sal and I had a great time. Lots of give and take. Me taking. Him giving. Then me taking again. And then I would give. We were joined by our regular lineup that included the idiiosyncratic guitar genius Adolf Diller, our loveable and groovesome bassist Yum Yum and on drums, the shaggy haired poet of tympani, Tim Pani. This is the twenty third song of our second album 'A Piece of Life.' It's a celebration of sex, love and sex.

Gabcast! ewe #10 - Pepperpot

A trip into the funkidiculous featuring Sal Surroundo.

,

Podcast Celebration

2007-01-15T22:22:00.000-05:00

Today was another cause for celebration. Ewe has made another leap. As you can see ewesies, I've upraded the old girl for you. I've added a little something called RRS or RSS or SSS or something with a lot of s's that will allow more people to find us. ( clapping hands together like the best cheerleader in the squad) Everybody say YAY! As well, I made it available to podcasts. Yes, you heard that correctly. I am now podcasting. Sure, the only pod I'm casting to is a school of dolphin off the coast of Catalina but dolphins are gossipy creatures and every celebrity goes to Catalina. It's only a matter of time before our audience is in the double digits. I hope we can handle the ride. You probably noticed that I just used the we word. That's because I've been thinking about all you who have been there from the beginning. Lana, Anonymous aka Orestonio,, Bi-Polar Bear,Carlos, and the newbies Guysterrules, mrratman, a_LIster, sandman,and of course k_batti the computer program. Her visit may have been brief but her impact will be great. Thankss everyone. (extra s courtesy of RSS) I would break open bottle of champagne but there doesn't seem to be any left. Liz loves her champers. So instead of champagne I burned my plastic patio furniture. I won't be needing it anymore anyway. From now on it's bamboo or nothing. Speaking of Liz, she's finally gone. The Lord of the Exchequer called. They forgot their password to the Royal Mint. What a relief. Don't worry. She'll be back. Slut, I mean Salut!

Grabbyhandy Cops a Royal Feel

2007-01-15T03:13:00.000-05:00

Liz is still here if you can believe it. She's been here since New Year's Eve. It's one thing to have a queen overstay his welcome but it's another when it's a Queen. You'd think someone would notice that she's gone like maybe England but the truth is, no one's called, not even the exschequer. She's putting up a brave front but I can see it's affecting her. To cheer her up I'm posting a picture of her in her prime with some grabbyhandy stage manager of some sort who was backstage when Liz was getting ready to address Parliament. Looks like he thought he could cop an easy feel. The problem is, he was right. The Queen's a tart, there's no nice way to put it but I love the old gal. I just wish she'd go home.Gabcast! ewe #9 - A Queen's Lament

It's late at nght, there's no more booze, the drugs are wearing off and all you've got left is the music. Oh look, more drugs. Yaay!

Bare

2007-01-14T23:24:00.001-05:00

This is a picture of Sal at a recording session in the late eighties. He never wore a shirt when he recorded and went everywhere with an extremely tall bass player called Tally. That's him in the background. Sal was a sweater, one of the best in the business, and the control booth as anyone knows is the hot seat so he chose to wear as little as possible. What can I say? It worked. LIsten to this little ditty recorded by the one take wonder Eddie Farce, also know as Pillory Delue, Bryan Billingsley, Scratch Simpson, Wesley Flap and Tom King. In it Eddie bares his heart about blue balls and Sal, knowing there's magic in the room, backs off and lets Art take the floor. I hope you enjoy this as much as I. If you become too emotional, feel free to leave a request in the comment room for Rebecca Fleck:Grief Counsellor at Large. She's always there for you. Take it away Eddie.Gabcast! ewe #8 - Bare

A Wig

2007-01-14T19:20:00.000-05:00

Gabcast! ewe #7 - A Wig

A song about the enduring appeal of wigs. In this undated photo I'm wearing a little number from the Eva Gabor collection. It was known as 'Downtown' but on me it looked more like 'Trashtown'. If Eva knew what sights that particular number saw, she might never have started her line. My feeling is that wigs are children. All you can do is raise them the best way you know how and then let them out into the world to find their way and if that means me then so be it. At least the carpet matches the drapes. Look at it this way Eva. It could have been worse. It could have ended up on Zsa Zsa's head. I can just see the two of them in the afterlife fighting over one of Eva's wigs like an alternate world Dynasty. I know what some of you are thinking. That sounds like a nightmare. All I can say is, one man's hell is another man's heaven. At this point I would like to apologize to all the victims of Abu Ghraib but to be fair, the next time you find yourselves stacked up like cordwood try not to look so damn hot, As for the wig, it was a huge hit. I wore it for a gig at the 'Silver Dollar'. I also wore ripped tights, white cowboy boots, a halter and a chain mail jock. Sal wore nothing but a Japanese yew and a coke scowl. It was scandalicious. The best part was the audience. Those seven people never forgot that night.

Beverage

2007-01-14T18:59:00.001-05:00

the perfect martini
Originally uploaded by berbercarpet.

Gabcast! ewe #0 - Beverage

'Beverage' is another of the collaborations that were so much of a hallmark of 'Mouth Congress'. We rarely rehearsed and almost never performed and generally never even wrote anything down so it was very difficult to reproduce the right sound onstage. We made up for it by wearing lots of costumes which naturally we would remove until at the end of every show pretty much everyone on stage would be nude and I would be mounting either the drums, the drummer or the speakers. This technique allowed us to remain fresh or years. Some might even say that if 'Mouth Congress' were to return that they would be fresher than ever. I may be biased but I can't disagree. Cue 'groundswell of popular opinion demanding a comeback'. LIke Testicle Delight, it comes from the same album, " The War on Flowers', available soon from 'Super Greatest Lady Records'. As you listen , close your eyes and try to imagine what it was like that hot Summer of Like when beverage choice was so limited, a world before Snapple, Fruitopia, Infused Green Teas, Pomtini's and even the juice which changed the rules of the beverage world, 'Tropicana'.

Lady Photographer

2007-01-14T01:17:00.001-05:00

Originally uploaded by .ruzz.

Gabcast! ewe #0 - Lady Photographer

This was an experimental piece created entirely in the studio by the legendary producer behind the band, Sal Surroundo, a refugee from Malta who landed in Toronto in the eighties out of nowhere and helped launch the 'Summer of Like' with his 'Coming In' party on the rooftop of Vaseline Tower. This Yoko Onoesque classic is a reflection of the times, a period when we 'flowers' were wilting on the vine and sometimes the vine got a little woody. Marco says to leave it there. He says I'm treading into 'hot' water, treacherous female waters where no man can survive not even me. Marco also says that's him in the song and that I'm hardly even in it. That may be true but what he forgets is that I brought the drugs.

Water Nymph

2007-01-13T23:45:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-13T23:16:00.001-05:00

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

2007-01-13T04:31:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-13T04:00:00.000-05:00

Gabcast! ewe #1

Re-Cap

2007-01-13T02:03:00.001-05:00

Threesome
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

2007-01-13T01:10:00.000-05:00

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.

sweet dreams

2007-01-11T00:45:00.001-05:00

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.

Morning Wood

2007-01-10T14:06:00.001-05:00

morning wood?
Originally uploaded by Tanworkboots.

Good morning.

Jesus Muhammed et Moi

2007-01-09T23:00:00.000-05:00

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

2007-01-09T22:48:00.001-05:00

ANDRES
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

2007-01-09T22:39:00.001-05:00

Richmond bridge 2
Originally uploaded by Denisfox.

This will help those less metaphorically inclined.

let me build a bridge

2007-01-09T22:28:00.001-05:00

let me build a bridge
Originally uploaded by .:auro:..

This is the bridge I promised.

Banana Protest

2007-01-09T13:54:00.000-05:00

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?

The Story of Ewe

2007-01-08T22:26:00.000-05:00

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.

My Friend Bob

2007-01-07T01:54:00.000-05:00

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.

Magical Glory Hole

2007-01-06T01:30:00.000-05:00

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

Rebecca Fleck: Grief Counsellor at Large

2007-01-06T00:43:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

mrbuddycole.blogspot.com

Ask for Rebecca.

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

Flight into Danger

2007-01-05T19:10:00.002-05:00

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

Flight Into Danger

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

end of chapter one

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

Fallow Fields

2007-01-04T00:41:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

Indian Winter

2007-01-02T03:22:00.000-05:00

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

Liz Gets Real in 07

2007-01-02T01:50:00.000-05:00

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

Liz's Story

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

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

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

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

Turkey in the E.U. Now

2006-12-31T04:05:00.000-05:00

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

Public Service Announcement

2006-12-31T03:39:00.000-05:00

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

ding dong the witch is dead

2006-12-31T02:46:00.002-05:00

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

happy hannukah mel

2006-12-29T04:23:00.000-05:00

Let's face it. Mel hasn't been the same since the last Lethal Weapon. And when you look at Danny Glover is it any wonder why. You wouldn't dare step out of line. Go back to Danny, Mel. You need him. He's black, he's been arrested for protesting and he lives in San Francisco. That being said, Apocalypto is Oscarific.

No Jewels

2006-12-29T03:58:00.000-05:00

You know what their problem is don’t you? Big hats but no Jewels. They'd look much happier with a ruby and a sapphire in the front of their turbans. Then they'd really look gay. Oh please. Look at them. Osama is such a queen. Those big brown eyes. The way he swans up and down those hills. He wears his gun belt like a sash. Miss Taliban 1006. What do you think drives a man to live in a cave with a bunch of sweaty young soldiers? I’d sell my imaginary child for just one weekend with the mujahadeen. And then there’s the target, the twin towers, America’s phallic symbol. Actually two, America’s so butch. And what about Mohammed Atta, the ringleader, the first pilot. Look at the torment in that face. That clenched jaw. Those pinched lips. If he’d only loosened that jaw and used his mouth the way Allah intended we wouldn’t be where we are today. He was in the cockpit with the pretty one. Holding hands no doubt as they hit the buildings. He didn’t want those towers to come down. He just wanted to make them touch. I’d page Doctor Freud but he’s a Jew, why ask for trouble.

Bi for Now

2006-12-29T03:38:00.000-05:00

Just a little something to keep the straight men from straying. Buddy's is a place of all persuasions. All I ask is that you let me persuade you. These were two girls I spotted on the streets of San Jose, Costa Rica. What can I say? They made me pull out my camera. And later when I pulled out my camera, they slipped me 6,OOO pesetas. Bi for now. Buddy Cole.

Scott Thompson's Labyrinth of Lies

2006-12-29T01:03:00.000-05:00

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 giant pale one. 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.

exhibit one

2006-12-27T04:43:00.000-05:00

Your honour. I rest my case. Butterick Cole.

iranian gay wedding

2006-12-27T03:29:00.000-05:00

This is a picture of my friend Hadim's gay wedding in Iran. It was very hot. When the mullah pronounced them husband and husband, the trap door opened an they both fell into a gorgeous pool whereupon they took off their clothes down to their speedos amd kissed madly. Suddenly everyone started pushing each other into the pool and before long it was like an orgy. You can't see the pool below them because the American censors cut them. They took my film at the border and then returned them cropped. They don't like anything positive to be shown about the regime. The only bad thing I can say about the wedding is that the whole time I was there, there wasn't a condom in sight. The best part was the caviar. It was like dirt. It's amazing because I know there's a caviar crisis now what with the sturgeon being driven to extinction faster than the sophisticated gay man but somehow those queens got thieir caviar. Now by sophisticated gay men, I don't mean those botoxed ninnies on tv yodelling on about where to put the couch and whether you should highlight or lowlight. I don't care what you do with your hair. Just don't imitate mine which brings me to the real point of this post. Conan O'Brien. That inbred ginger Yankee has stolen my hair. Sure he's always had some lift in his do but recently it's taken off. And it happened right after my appearance on his show. I remembe because I had gone on to plead for the return, safe or otherwise, of my beloved corn cob doll, Cornygirl. Sadly Cornygirl has never returned. There's been no body found so there's always hope. Anyways, I don't know what to do about Conan. We've been friends for years and I've already just ignited a feud with Courtney Cox and Jennifer Aniston, not to mention David Arquette and his sister Alexis. The last thing I want is more bad blood. I'm not going to sue for now but my lawyer is straining at the leash. He smells a lot of money and more importantly, moral vindication for me. Would love your feed back. Buddy.

the perfect day

2006-12-27T03:22:00.000-05:00

Clive Owen's Feet

2006-12-27T02:52:00.000-05:00

Finally. A recent picture of me. Did I say recent? I mean decent. I'm still looking for a suitable recent photo. The problem is the good ones are all indecent. It's insane. I'm getting better looking. It's something to do with being half french. Catherine Deneuve for example you can still picture having sex and it's not revolting. And it's not because of the surgeon's skill either. Well a little here and there but nothing outrageous and all in Brazil naturallement. Those doctors learned from the best. Nazi dentists. The Boys from Brazil. I just saw 'Children of Men.' Good movie. Maybe even great. The problem was it detoured so far from the original by P.D. James that I got all squinchy and academic and kept thinking "That's not the way it happened in the book." That's the reason I haven't pubished anything since my autobiography 'Buddy Babylon' from Bantam Doubleday Dell: Trade Paperback Edition. Sometimes I wake up in the night and I think " It was never in hardcover." It hurts. The best thing about the movie is Clive Owen. He should have been James Bond. Daniel Craig is not Bond. He's more like a circuit boy. He looks so gay. Fake tan, steroids and crystal dick. I don't know what people were seeing when he walked out of the water in his speedo because I was seeing nothing. I've always felt that critics, male and female, by and large don't see a lot of dick. This proves it. I hate to be racist but Blondes can't be Bond. The words are too similiar. It's confusing. Even I as a blonde accept that. I'm no Bond. I'm more the Supervillain. But back to Clive. Not only is he in every frame looking like a hot Welsh hangover but he's in flip flops As an admirer of the male foot and particularly Clive's I was cheered by this. I think it was a crime however that even though he was almost barefoot for half the movie there was only one closeup. All through the film I kept imagining him as James Bond especially the parth where Daniel Craig has his testicles smacked about by the man with the leaky eye. Although Mr. Craig did acquit himself admirably I thought his feet over acted. Clive's feet would have been so much more expressive.

balance of power

2006-12-25T00:17:00.000-05:00

Years ago I briefly hosted a talk show set in the lobby of a hotel. It was called the Lobbylogues. Actually it only lasted one show. The interview was with Jason Priestly who was in Toronto making an American movie. This is the interview.

buddy
(to the studio audience of three)

About a year ago, I became involved with Saddam Hussein in a sexual situation. It was wrong and it totally upset the world power balance and I'm sorry. I'm sure there will be no long term geopolitcal damage done. There. Now let's move on. Tonight''s first guest is Jason Priestly. He used to be on Beverly Hills 90210 but now he's known mostly as a friend of the " Barenaked Ladies" but to be fair he's done some good stuff. That thing with William Hurt. Look. Things just didn't work out. Tell me about it. He's stil sexy though. Scruffy. He's unshaven because his career is in the doldrums. His career is in the dumps because he doesn't shave. It's a vicious circle. Ladies and gentlemen,please welcome Jason Priestly.

A surly unshaven Jason Priestly enters and sits down in a chair.

buddy
So what big American movie are you in?
jason
It's called " 99 Crackers Drive ". It's about this pedophile who wins the lottery but it's not about his pedophilia. It's just about a man who gets lucky. It's so refreshing.
buddy
I agree. There's already so much negative pedophilia stuff out there. They don't need to add to it. We know already. Let's see what else this person might have to say.
jason
Exactly.
buddy
So,what American city is Toronto standing in for this time?
jason
Chatanooga.
buddy
Really. And how did Toronto do?
jason
Amazing. One of the actors was from Chatanooga and he said that it was just like it. He said it was eerie.
buddy
Tha's a good word for Toronto.
jason
No. Everyone's been very nice. And your crew's are great.
buddy
I don't find that.
jason
No. I had a wonderful time.
buddy
So,have you every had sex with someone who was under age?
jason
No,of course not.
buddy
So you don't believe in research.
jason
There were other things about the character. He also was a student of Finnish and played the lute.
buddy
I was abused as a youngster.
jason
I'm sorry. How old were you?
buddy
Thirty six. He was ninety. That's fifty four years difference in age. He's lucky one of my brothers didn't kill him. By the way,sorry about the mixup with hotels.
jason
No problem. I just wondered why I wasn't staying here at the Park Season's where the show is taped?
budddy
It's haunted.

(turns to the camera)

buddy
We'll be back after this.

We never came back. They pulled the plug at the commercial.

Theme Song

2006-12-24T23:39:00.000-05:00

What did you say?
What did you do?
What’s your sign?
Does it relate to ewe?

What did you think?
What did you feel?
Do you like dancing?
Are you for veal?

How was your week?
How was your month?
How was your year?
Were you a cunth.

How can I make your life better?
How can I make it taste sweeter?
How can I be a better host?
A proper journalist at my blogging post.

Are you a ho?
Do you love bacon?
What’s your sign?
Are you taken?

Do you hate France?
Are you a mason?
Elaborate please.
Or I’ll go off like Jason.

I love to listen.
It’s in my soul.
Tell me your story.
Banality for all.

How can I make your life better?
How can I make it taste sweeter?
How can I be a better host?
A proper journalist at my blogging post.

A feud with a friend.
A mother with AIDS
It’s a forum for healing
We don’t give out grades.

It’s your life.
Get living.
Talk to me.
I’m giving.
I’m hotter than
Jeremy Piven
You’ve got me and I’ve got Ewe. .

Giovanni's Room

2006-12-24T21:47:00.000-05:00

The first person I ever knew who killed themselves was a friend of mine called Giovanni. It was way back in the Eighties when I was trying to be a professional tap dancer in Toronto. I ran the colour wheel at the Clinique counter in Eaton's by day and studied tap at the Toronto School of Tap by night.

Giovanni was a cobbler who lived across the hall from me in my building. He was basically straight but I've always been open minded that way. We had a brief liason which ended very soon after he re-tapped all my shoes but we'd stayed friends. We'd you know get together every couple of weeks for some coffee and cobbling.

Giovanni's problems began as so many people’s do, in France. He and his girlfriend Sophie were over there on a romantic holiday and one night in the city of Brest he ate a bad mussel and suffered minor brain damage. I'd warned him before he left not to eat the seafood but he thought I'd meant sailors. It was a Monday night and they'd ordered room service in their hotel room and and after it arrived he ate the treacherous bivalve and then after that, he ate the bad mussel. It was exactly eight o'clock which is significant because from that moment on he always thought it was Monday at eight o'clock. He was completely normal in every way except for that one thing.

Everything was fine for a while until Melrose Place came into the picture. Monday at eight o'clock. He loved that show. He just couldn't handle it when it ended at nine. And no one had VCR"S at the time. You were a slave to the TV schedule. It was primitive. Monday from Eight to Nine was great. The rest of the week he just kept asking why it wasn't on. Very annoying. I mean sometimes you just want your shoes sucked I mean fixed. We finally got one of the first VCR's and put Melrose Place on a constant loop which shut him up for a while but then one day it broke and he just lost it. He was never the same.

About a week before he died Melrose Place was cancelled. One night he called me and we had a long conversation about the show and what he was going to do now that it was over. He was very concerned for Heather Locklear. He didn't want her to do anything else after. He kept saying "I don't want her to sully it." So I told him if that had been the case before then Heather would have never done anything after Dynasty and we would never have had Amanda. That really got to him and he calmed down but then he suddenly said that he was going to kill himself and hung up. I had a bad feeling but I couldn't put my finger on it. Experts on suicide say that when someone is thinking of killing themselves they often send you signals thru odd behaviour such as singing in public or getting a perm. There was nothing like that but still,I was uneasy.

A couple of days later on a Friday he called again and said that he was going to do it that Monday night at eight o'clock. When I hung up I had that same bad feeling. I wanted to call back but I didn't want to be an alarmist. Besides it was Friday. I knew I had three days to figure out what to do. Then I remembered that it's always Monday at eight o'clock with him so I immediately called him back and his machine picked up. It was Giovanni saying, "I can't answer the phone right now because I'm not here. I mean I'm really not here. Don't bother leaving a message. Goodbye forever." Now I was really starting to get worried. I didn't know what to do. Finally I just opened the door and walked across the hall to his apartment. I opened the door and there he was. Sprawled on the floor between the bathroom and the hall with blood pouring from his mouth,an empty bag of shoe nails at his side and his hair all frizzed out in a hideous perm. It was awful.

I understand why he killed himself of course. I've felt like that but I would never kill myself. If I was ever feeling suicidal, I would find some other way to relieve the tension, some sort of displacement activity, like a hard game of tennis or shooting a horse. Better him than me.

After he died I found I couldn't tap any more. Every time I would slip my shoes on I would see Giovanni lying on the ground with that hideous perm and I'd have to stop. So I decided to go into modeling instead. It worked out very well. You may not realize it but I ‘m a huge star in the Phillipines. But truth be told, every once in a while when I see someone tapping their finger on a table or banging a metal garbage can lid rhythmically the old hunger comes back and my feet begin to move of their own accord.

Mary Christmas

2006-12-24T21:08:00.000-05:00

I'm just going to let the picture shriek for itself

jaw cancer

2006-12-24T15:11:00.000-05:00

Here's a poem I wrote. It's about a friend of mine who defeated jaw cancer by meditating on the image of the mascot from the 'Just For Laughs' comedy festival which I've included in case you too have jaw cancer. The concept is a lot like the blue dot which has helped so many people the world over win the lottery or get their car out of hock. Here's the poem. It's an inspirational little jingle called 'Jaw Cancer'.

Jaw Cancer
Why did you attack my jaw
There are so many other jaws in the world preaching hatred and intolerance and other bad stuff and you attack me
Have you no mercy Jaw Cancer
Yes,I admit I might have loved my jaw too much
But is that any other reason to take my beloved jaw
Don’t you know that I use my jaw for my living
I’m a talker and I talk with my jaw
When I first saw the lesion on my jaw I at first thought that a mosquito had bitten my soft cheek which is the sweetest part of a fish so why not a human being but it was not a mosquito bite,
It was Jaw Cancer
LIttle did I know that jaw cancer was creeping up my jaw
I love to hold my jaw at this position and it gives me great pleasure to know that that the line is as straight and as strong as a Hollywood Matinee idol and when I hold my face at this angle there is not a hint of a double jaw or a wattle anywhere in the jaw the neck the throat or anywhere else in the environs of my face
Because I’m reciting this poem right now obviously I’ve defeated jaw cancer otherwise I would not be able to do it
Ha Ha Jaw Cancer
I laugh in your face and that includes your Jaw
I've defeated you Mr. Cancer
With a little help from my friend the mascot from Just for Laughs
Merde mon ami
Mangez someone else's jaw

2006-12-24T15:04:00.000-05:00

What the heck? Oh no. Now I have to apologize to my dear friend Jennifer Aniston for publishing this picture without full Hollywood authorization. I feel awful especially with all the trials and tribulations poor Jen is going through what with Brad so happy with la Jolie and Vince running off with a stripper. Jen, you are an inspiration to me. You remind me of Jesus and look what he did. Food for thought. Chin up girl. Vince was a ho anyway. How do I know? Two words. Ma. Drid. I've said too much. Now, the picture of Genevieve.

ignore the man behind the curtain

2006-12-24T14:56:00.000-05:00

As you probably already know that last picture wasn't my niece and sister but Courtney Cox, her mother and her husband David Arquette holding their newborn. As you probably guessed Courtney and I are dear dear friends and she sent me this picture with the express instructions not to share it with the world. Courtney. My deepest apologies. Contrary to appearances, I still treasure our special showbiz friendship. Accept this photo of me turning down a nomination for a Nobel Peace Prize as token of my regret. Your loyal friend. Buddy Cole.

2006-12-24T14:49:00.000-05:00

That picture of Doris was so refreshing that my heart chakra just opened up as wide as Oprah's and I feel moved to share with you a shot of my niece Genevieve being held by my sister Claudette. If I'm getting too intimate too quickly I blame it on the season. I just can't stop sharing. Call me Santa Cole. Enjoy. Buddy.

corrections

2006-12-24T14:42:00.000-05:00

I meant to to post a picture of a cold and frosty martini by using the URL method but no such luck so here's a picture of Doris Day which is almost as refreshing.

cold light of day

2006-12-24T14:22:00.000-05:00

Good morning world. Buddy Cole here. I thought I would leave you with something refreshing to help you through your day as you rush about buying last minute christmas gifts. I have none of those worries as I got all my christmas shopping done in one fell swoop with the publication of this blog. People have been clamoring for this for so long that I finally relented and gave people what they wanted. Moi. This is my gift to ewe. A little explanation of my unique spelling of you. You see, I would spell it like a normal human being but the good people at YOU TUBE have copyrighted the letters Y, O and U. Luckily I own the copyright on the letters E and W so I cobbled them together to spell EWE. How did I come to own these letters? Well, pull up a stool and let me tell you. My mother left me them in her will. It's proven to be quite a legacy. Anytime anyone uses them I make a penny. It doesn't sound like much but remember E is a vowel and there are only five of them and sometimes six. And everyone loves W. Why? Because all questions start with a W and people are such a curious lot. This is the reason I don't have to work and can travel the world spreading good will. So that's the story. Now you know why my home is called EWE. This is the reason my posts tend to ramble. The more I write, the more money I make. Well I'm off to visit the old folks home with a pitcher of martini's. Bi for now. Buddy.

twas the night before christmas and all through the house you could hear them all blogging, the ewes and the mouse.

2006-12-24T05:26:00.000-05:00

As I sit here by the fyre contemplating the crackling logs and swilling the last of the Bombay gin and savouring the last olive on the tree I cant help but reflect on the past year and I'm reminded of my first post ages ago on the twenty third where I mentionded that I had been away for awhile doing 'good works' and you're probably wondering where I've been and Im tempted to tell in the words of one cyndi Lauper but 'I wonder why. Oo. Oo. Oo. Oo. Hic. I don't want to toot my own horn in this time of humility. Let's just say I was doing the work of our Lord. For now let's just rememember in this holiday season that even though the French will always be insufferable, they are also so damn sexy it's un-american. this really is goodnight. buddy.

Too Gay

2006-12-24T05:09:00.000-05:00

That last picture although not sexy is in hindsight pretty gay. I think I need to post a picture of Mary Magdalene to really seal the deal with the Communitee. That's not a misteak.