The Seventies

Gabcast! ewe #34 - The Seventies

This song 'The Seventies' was the final track of our fourth album 'Sleepytime Gal'. The album cover was made up to look like an old jazz standards record. The actual sound of the endeavour inside was not jazzy at all, in fact it was rocky and soulful with a Doors feel. I think this confused the buyer and listener. The other problem which we found out too late was that there was already a Buddy Cole, a jazz pianist from the 30's or 40's or even 50's I guess. It's possible to live that long. Anyways, not only was he named Buddy Cole but he also put out a jazz album called 'Sleepytime Gal' years ago that looked exactly like this one. So we sued. Incredibly we won and that's why you've never heard of the other Buddy Cole, just me.

Ewe Can't Touch This

I can say it now with almost absolute certainty that the person behind the latest kidnapping attempt (see previous post) is none other than Francesca Fiori. Here's my proof. One day during my incarceration I noticed a long black hair on the floor. If you recall, my captors were wearing Maude masks but what I neglected to tell you was they were wearing blonde Tina Yothers wigs, so where did this come from. Exactly.

So one day after a particularly grueling session of a game they called 'Total Wit Destruction' where they would blast spoken word poetry at me, I was given a torture time out, a ten minute nap on a towel on the floor. So I'm lying there pretending to masturbate, the guards are watching a Maple Leaves game on TV and I reach over and grab the hair and slipped it into my pocket. Then I pretended to come and they looked over and cheered and then the Leaves scored and they groaned or it might have been the other way around.

Anyways, I had the hair tested and the DNA was an almost perfect match. That's good enough for me because DNA evidence often lies. The hair came from someone in Southeast Asia which means it's from a wig because most wigs are made from Southeast Asian hair because it behaves the best in high humidity. And since I've thought for years that Francescaa was actually bald this proves it. It may not be the smoking gun but it's close.

I don't want to feed her ravenous ego any more by continuing to discuss her antics but I will say this though. This feud will never end until one of us is dead or worse. It's come to that. Her jealousy over my comeback is obviously consuming her. First it was the physical destruction of my broadcasting studio in Sticaragua, then the repeated cyber attacks under the guise of the terrorist group DESU, and finally the kidnapping attempt and I say attempt because it was. She may have managed to borrow my body for a few weeks but she couldn't take my spirit and that's what's most important, after the face.

Now if you don't mind, I would like to post an old monologue from mine from the mid nineties that has never been on television. I'm feeling a little sentimental and a lot lazy.

Gay Shame

So it’s Gay Pride Day. I don’t know about you but I don’t have enough gay pride to last the whole day. I have about a minute in me, so I’ll make this snappy. Why do we celebrate Gay Pride Day? Because we are proud. Proud of what ? That we are gay. And what is gay? . Two people of the same sex doing it. It’s disgusting. I can barely stop thinking about it, I’m such a masochist. It’s like having Food Day or International Woman’s Day. Preposterous.

Instead of Gay Pride Day, I propose Gay Shame day. After all,there’s a lot more of that going around. I’m full of gay shame, but I’m not self loathing. I wouldn’t know self loathing if it came up and made me a martini, but I would take the martini. Gay shame is what you feel for other queers, the ones who aren’t you or your fabulous friends. One of the great truths that the Dalai Lama taught me is “ All fags hate each other.” Or was that Richard Gere? Now dykes are a different story. All I know is they’re always involved in these torrid little triangles yet they never seem to have much sex.

Gay Pride Day has become a big mall where you can buy anything from cock and ball separators to gay phone cards. One of these things I’d actually use. The only people who really take gay pride day seriously anymore are the interpreters for the deaf. Why wouldn’t they? It’s the best gig of the year. I used to spend every gaypride day giving free foot massages to the gay homeless. Now, it’s the one day a year I do cocaine. Something got lost along the way. Yeah, like half my friends. It’s just become an excuse to get wrecked and have sex with strangers. Which is fine if you’re a Christian or something, you need that one day a year, but if you’re a fag,isn’t it just a wee bit redundant. In order for it to be special, we should be sitting at home in bed reading a good book not passed out in some tricks apartment after falling into a k-hole.

Now St. Patricks Day is my idea of a day because it’s so stupid. Honey, I think about being gay all the time. I never think about being Irish. The thing I like best about St. Patricks day is that on that day, everyone is Irish unless of course you’re gay and live in New York City. So, I propose next Gay Pride Day, let’s make everybody Irish gay. So, that means, any straight person of Irish extraction is fair game. That means John F. Kennedy Jr. is in a lot of danger, but Ted Kennedy isn’t.

One day in the not so distant future being gay will be normal, dull even and Gay Pride Day will just be known as Sunday. It will be the hardest on the lesbians I think because they’ll have nowhere to use their walkie talkies. They’ll all be sitting at home wearing headsets and barking orders to their cats. Fags will get by. After fifteen years of AIDS, we’re tougher than cockroaches and about as fond of the light.

It all reminds me of the night that Tennessee Williams and I were sitting on the balcony of his villa in Mykonos staring up at the stars high on dolls and whisky and I said to Tennessee “ Do you think there’s life up there? “ and he said “ Why would there be? There’s no life here. “ Two days later he choked to death on the plastic top of a neo-synephrine bottle. I guess the lesson here is, drug containers kill.

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The Twenty Two Day War

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

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

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.





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Oscar Fallout Boy

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.




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Barbra Reconsidered

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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