They call him Fernando

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gabcast! ewe #25 - Hindu Rap

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




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Pearl Jewell

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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Buddy and Roble

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


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Marco's Way

I’ve just put the little one who’s not that little but still small comparatively, to bed and I’m grabbing this moment to say hello. It’s the first chance I’ve had. I’m exhausted! It’s true what they say about parenting being the hardest job. I know it’s only been one day but it’s one of mine. It started off with Fagette making the best breakfast ever; your choice of eggs, bacon with maple syrup, chevre, foie gras, fresh figs, mimosa’s, caviar, the Sunday New York Times even though it was Thursday in Toronto. We ate in the living room which I would never have done before with the old rug. It was liberating. In the middle of breakfast, the doorbell rang and it was my friend Marco. He hadn’t dropped by in the morning for ages. It felt like old times. “Marco” I said, “ You haven’t dropped by in the morning like this in ages. What’s up?” He looked at me for a long time, like someone had ripped out his faculties and replaced them briefly with a case of pop and then restored them but with the memory of what had happened fully intact.
“Buddy”, he said, “ I have bad news.”
“Fagette, throw another cake on the griddle.”
“Aye aye monsieur.”
“Marco what is it? Is it your health because your health is all we have. Without our health we’re Russians.”
“Buddy your words are deep and I hear them believe me but this is more important than my health. It’s about your health.”
“Fagette, make Uncle Buddy another Mimosa and your Aunt Marco one too and don’t skimp on the vodka.”
“There’s no vodka in a Mimosa.”
“Just do as I say.”
She scampered off gratefully.
“Now what’s this about my health?” I asked.
“Oh. You don’t look good.” He replied.
“That’s it? That’s all you got?”
“Okay, you look like shit.”
“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.

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The Portuguese Boy

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


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Fagette

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.


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Uday and Mike

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

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

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

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

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

Gabcast! ewe #23 - Blue Square

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





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