To comment or send a message, please email:

Showing posts with label Basil Papademos. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Basil Papademos. Show all posts

Wednesday, March 23, 2016

Newest member of the family...

Me and my girls...
Newest member of the family on the left...
Kawasaki D'Tracker, modified screamer
with powerbomb exhaust.
Loud and lovely...

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

Excerpt from the new novel...

Excerpt chapter:

I’m chaperoning Opium at the jammed apartment of Fil’s father, Max. He’s a dyspeptic old crip who fancies himself an inventor. We’re wedged into his pack rat life, a shabby little place in Christie Pits, owned by the noisy Porkchops downstairs. A lot of incandescent lights are on, red paisley wallpaper. Tables and bed are supported by boxes of third and fourth hand war books every chairborne commando must own. A raft of plastic bags fills one corner. Max always asks about his son but I never reply.

“Filmore P. Mann,” he declares. “Whereabouts unknown.”

Opium picks her way through this overheated overstuffed crap pad, idly scoping tiny soldier figurines and boxes of hotrod postcards. Her black hair is in long pigtails with red plastic devil barrettes. She wears Oxfords, white knee socks, kids training pants and a child-size wifebeater. She sucks on a popsicle while examining Max’s collection of scale model WWII British fighter planes hung from the ceiling by fishing wire.

Max is missing his left hand from mid-wrist. I’ve heard a bunch of different versions how it happened, from an inexplicable cleaver attack to the extremely rare Doctor Strangelove Syndrome, where the hand was removed because it kept trying to tear out his throat.

Currently, he’s using an old fleshtone prosthesis bought at a garage sale after losing his yearly allotment. The losses are down to Max getting boozed up and taking off the hand to play up some drunken gag and forgetting it on the bar.

Pensioned off from the Transit Commission’s ideological purity division years ago, he whiles away his days building dildo attachments adapted to fit onto a universally swiveling mount he sticks over his stump, custom braced all the way to the elbow. His dildo arm is twice as thick as his drinking and smoking arm so he’s ended up looking like a tennis player.

Max’s Friday night visits from Opium have been going on for quite some time─months, I guess. To truly get off, he requires a very specific set up. She must wear her child’s underthings and sit in the oversized wingback opposite, feet dangling as she reads aloud from a dumbed down fairy tale collection, one of those volumes with the pop-up 3D characters. Max playfully menaces her with one of his dildo attachments, making it rev up and down with suggestive zings. She smiles shyly and continues to read, slow and unsure, as a child of five might. After about ten minutes of this warm-up, Max discreetly wacks off under a big coffee table volume full of those grainy old trench warfare photos from Passchendaele and Vimy Ridge. Opium pretends not to notice.

I watch Max fuck around with his latest contraption, the Vual 3400 Dildonator, named after a dearly departed pal who Max claims was built like a Khazar donkey─known among aficionados as the donkey’s donkey. Max has used the mechanism from a reciprocating saw with a massive twelve-inch red rubber dong mounted on a metal shaft. The thing’s thick as the business end of a Louisville slugger. It’s powered by heavy duty cables welded to a pair of 24-volt truck batteries sitting on the floor.

He plans to patent and market his creation through “gentlemen’s magazines.” This new device not only pounds up and down but he’s installed a mini gyroscope to effect random wiggles, waggles and figure eights. Max has been badgering me to ask Opium to take a test drive. Yeah, that’ll work. The chick’s got like a fifteen inch waist.

“Approximates skilled fornication method,” Max brags with a bucktoothed grin as he waves it around.

He hits an On switch zip-tied to his upper arm and the dong begins a slow articulated rhumba. A hollow section in its middle is full of colored plastic beads. They rattle and clatter as a blue-lit greeting card diode plays the Average White Band tune, Cut The Cake. The thing does in fact wiggle, woggle and wondrously worm its way through a snappy little routine. Opium doesn’t look up from her fairy tales.

After a minute or so the Dildonator seems to get stuck and repeatedly swivels to the left. The motor whines as the mega-dong angrily pogos up and down, as if throwing a tantrum. Max hits the Off switch but no dice. The beast howls and dervishes. Its centrifugal force almost throws him out of his wheelchair. Max battles to unlock it from the gyrating base. It’s clamped on tight. He yowls in pain when the thing almost twists off a finger.

The motor bursts into flame, igniting the sparkle-filled red rubber phallus. It quickly liquefies black. Max shrieks as molten effluent runs down to his forearm. I grab the loco dong with the sleeves of my jacket and try to tear it off him. The thing deforms in my hands, its slimy napalm ooze sticking to me and anything else it touches. Pieces of it drip and run onto the carpet. The rug catches fire. I stamp on it but the goop comes up in flaming strings stuck to my boot.

Opium finally springs into action.

“Don’t get water!” I holler. “It’s an electrical fire.”

“So what then?!” she yells from the kitchen.

“Something powder! Baking soda. Anything!”

I grab a dirty towel off the floor and swat at my sleeve, now going up. The dong motor spins and screeches. I duck as it hurls its remaining guts in a wild 360. The distended nightmare glob twists and sizzles, strung between me, Max and his chair. He screams again as more flaming black rubber splatters his face. I try to corral it with the towel. It too goes up, a fiery white flag.

“Hurry the fuck up!” I yell just as me, Max and the rabid dong get hit with a choking cloud of laundry powder. The light blue crystals clump and smoke but finally kill the melted remains of the haywire dildo. The monster buzzes and farts a final time. Opium stands there, empty jumbo detergent box in her hands. She wears an astonished grin. Max shrugs, sheepish, picks at the bits of melted rubber stuck to his glasses.

Saturday, July 6, 2013


Review by Mel Bossa

Mount Royal: There's Nothing Harder Than Love
Basil Papademos
Tightrope Books, 2012

Montreal, late eighties, and Johnny is hooked on junk.
In the "Open city", he struggles to feed his habit alongside a cast of characters which act a bit like a fucked up Greek chorus, and all is pretty tolerable until Tony, their main pusher gets "relieved of his duties" for fronting too many times and coming up short, and good ol' Johnny is handed a pager by The Man and steps into Tony's shoes.

Thus begins a downward spiral for our hero, as he runs from whore, to girlfriend, to potential lover, to mama's boys, to paranoid conspiracy theorist transsexual, to dominatrix, to pretty boy gigolos, trying to keep everybody satisfied and high, and accomplishing this marvelous feet while keeping his own habit on the level.

These adventures of the damned take place in the claustrophobic neighborhood around the Main, in spots like La Cabane, The Bar Fly, The Bifteck, les Foufs, and around old Griffintown and the Milton district. For a Montrealer who still hangs around some of these places, it was simply fantastic to read about these iconic spots in all of their eighties' glory.

The writing is reminiscent of Henry Miller and has all of Burroughs wonderful wit and darkness, but the cool thing about Papademos' narrator, is that he isn't a writer or an artist, and so, there isn't a sense of an outsider looking into the peephole. We are in the room with these people and someone is looking at us. Not the other way around.
Adding to this, is the tone of the novel, which begins with a sort of frenzied despair, and slowly releases into a more melancholic, almost contemplative mood.

The novel ends with the Montreal Massacre, and I loved the way nothing but a few sentences were enough to give me chills.

Now, what about the MountRoyal in all this?
The Mountain is a character is this book. It acts as a temptress, a mother, a sister-in-arms, a vixen, a teacher, and for some, it is the Grim Reaper, come to claim her dues.

The language is sharp, the prose is at times richly poetic, the insights are great and right-on, and there is of course, just enough controversy and sex to quickened the blood.

It depicts a time when Montreal was indeed, an open city, when there was a sense of freedom here...
It really is a snapshot of a time and place worth remembering and this novel should and will take its place in the ranks of those important novels, alongside those books which chronicle the underbelly of cities.

Those books that show us the stained underwear under the million dollar dress.

Saturday, June 15, 2013


It was a great night, big crowd, and an honor to 
perform at the legendary Nuyorican Cafe

With Miss Alyx at the bar of Nuyorican Cafe
on the night of the Bi Lines Book Awards

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Performing in NYC June 28/13 Strange Loop Gallery


home of the BGSQD bookstore
27 Orchard St., between Canal and Hester
in Chinatown
and wear something great for godsakes...

Sunday, May 12, 2013

Bi Lines VI: A multi-arts celebration of bisexual writing...

JUNE 2/13 at the legendary Nuyorican Poets Cafe in New York's Lower East Side...

MOUNT ROYAL: There’s Nothing Harder Than Love by Basil Papademos has been nominated for Bisexual Fiction of the Year by the Bi Writers Association, as part of New York City’s Pride Week.
Basil Papademos has also been nominated as Bi Writer of the Year.

He will be performing at… Bi Lines VI: A multi-Arts Celebration of Bisexual Writing on Sunday June 2, 2013.
The sixth annual event kicks off New York City’s Pride Week at the legendary Nuyorican Poets Café! Doors open at 6:30pm. $10 at the door.

More details coming soon…

Friday, June 8, 2012


Intro & Chapter 1 of Mount Royal: there's nothing harder than love

Anecdote about a parasite creep called Joe Douchebag

The Sphinx, excerpt from Mount Royal: there's nothing harder than love

Biftek, excerpt from Mount Royal: there's nothing harder than love

Excerpt from my next book, a novel-in-progress called: How To Fuck Your Psychiatrist,
coming from Tightrope Books, fall of 2013

AND... Check out the lovely and fetching Rebecca read a passage from...

Just so charming!

Thursday, December 29, 2011

MOUNT ROYAL excerpt: Hockey and homo-erotic masochism

The novel is in its final editorial stages. Scary. No more last second changes. Time for her to get up and walk the walk. C'mon, baby, do daddy proud!

Below is an excerpt from my upcoming novel, Mount Royal.
Johnny, the protagonist, and close friend Slim are talking about the masochistic aspects of pre-1967 expansion era professional hockey, the horrific injuries suffered especially by goaltenders in order to earn what was then a meager living as the often semi-literate bonded serfs of the legitimized gangsters who controlled the game and the men who played it...

from the novel
Excerpt title: Hockey and homo-erotic masochism

Legendary pro hockey goaltender Terry Sawchuk
When a brain-squeezer migraine rousts me around noon, Slim has a tall glass of cool water ready, along with four aspirins. I down it all and she trades me the empty glass for a cup of coffee.
After the beer tent boondoggle last night, Al went home and I returned to the Balmoral. A couple hours later Slim recognized my boots under a stall door in the men’s room. She said she’d called out my name and when I didn’t answer, climbed over. After dragging me back to my place, she’d held my forehead as I threw up then put us both to bed.
She's even returned this morning’s pager calls, letting me get some badly needed shut-eye by telling my clientele there's nothing around right now and I'll get back to them this afternoon, once inventory is re-stocked. I feel a bit guilty letting people go sick but what the fuck. They won't have to wait all that long and exercising one’s patience does build character. Her ministrations complete, Slim shows me an old yellowed paperback. Hockey Is A Battle: The Autobiography of Punch Imlach. Hennessy had bought it for my birthday at the Sally Ann on Saint-Antoine.
“You and your hockey hang up,” she says, studying the cover. “I was reading some of it while you were asleep. This Imlauck guy was a real jerk.”
“It’s pronounced Im-lack and of course he was a jerk,” I defend the legendary Maple Leafs coach. “He had to be. Players then could handle it. Not like the pansies today.”
“If they’re such pansies, why are you so fascinated by them?”
“I don’t love these new guys with their steroids and gay haircuts. What they do is interesting because of the whole S/M, B&D homoerotic element in contact sports but, really, I like the pre-expansion old timers. The guys who made shit money and played hockey cuz they couldn’t do anything else. Y’know, the sort of guys who looked enviously at a plumber or electrician, somebody with a real trade.”
“Okay, so one of those working class tragedies you’re always crying about.”
“I’m not always ‘crying’ about them.”
Slim closes the book and gives me her undivided attention. It’s patronizing but I can live with the way she does it. “All right, Johnny. Go ahead and tell me.”
I sit up and face her to better describe the thing. “Terry Sawchuk is a classic example. He was a brilliant goalie but had a wicked ulcer, like all goalies back then. Who wouldn’t? None of them wore a mask, mostly because it was considered effete. All they had on were some joke pads to protect against these maniacs firing frozen pucks at their heads. Sawchuk and the other goalies, they were always one shot away from death or disfigurement or being left a vegetable. So, him and a drinking buddy of his, a forward called Ronnie Stewart… or maybe he was a defenseman… Anyway, they both played for the New York Rangers at the time. In those days, players  made like eighteen dollars a week and sent most of the money back to their wives and seven kids or whatever. Basically, they were bums on skates. I mean, they lived in fucking roominghouses!”
“Just get on with the story.”
“Okay. So Sawchuk and this other guy, they didn’t want to waste their cash in a bar so they’d buy a bottle of some rotgut and get drunk out on the street. The two of them were boozing in Bryant Park. Y’know, on 34th, behind the Museum of Natural History.”
“Byrant Park’s behind  the main library.”
“Yeah  – one of those massive Gotham buildings. Anyway, they start to play-fight and roll around - but pretty hardcore. Remember, these are tough, semi-literate bonehead hockey players. Stewart accidentally boots Sawchuk in the guts while they’re grappling. That bursts his ulcer and smashes up his liver and long story short, it ends up killing Sawchuk. And he holds the record for the most career shutouts in NHL history. Nobody’s even close and the fucking guy died with nothing, a drunk in some park!”
Slim’s not moved. “They sound like clichéd losers.”
“Yeah… I guess… Dream comes true for small town hoser who gets used and abused by cigar chomping boss archetype. A few years later the player is tossed onto the scrap heap.”
“This obsession of yours, Johnny, it seems kind of regressive.”
“Yeah, I know. Listen, do you think continental European guys are lousy lays?”
She rubs her eyes, running out of patience. “What’s that got to do with Sawcheck and his friend?”
“It’s Saw-chuk – and it’s got nothing to do with him or Ronnie Stewart. It’s this anti-rock’n’roll theory Al and I were talking about last night at that stupid beer tent festival. Don’t you remember? I’ve told you about it before.”
“Yeah, I suppose…”
“Anyway,  the basic idea is that because continental European guys don’t get rock’n’roll and since Nazis were continental Euros and fascism is a Euro concept, that would naturally mean, y’know, they don’t get irony, which means they can’t really rock’n’roll, and that makes them useless lays because a rockin’ and a rollin’ is really just another word for fucking.”
Slim’s had about enough. “Johnny… please.”
“No, I mean it. Seriously, I’m asking what you think.”
Cheeks puffing out, she goes mock cross-eyed for a sec then forces herself to consider the notion. “Um, all right… uh… yeah, I’ve screwed some European guys while I’ve been over there, and some I met here...”
“I don’t mean UK guys, they’re not really European.”
“I dunno… as a group they’re not much different than guys anywhere. We’re talking straight hetero guys, right?”
“Yeah yeah, of course, strictly hetero.”
“Well, most strictly hetero men are pretty mediocre as it is. I mean, some of them are nice people  – or do you mean just their sexual technique?”
“No, not only technique. Anybody can learn that, more or less. I guess whether they get the whole kind of complex structure built around what’s basically attempted procreation. Y’know, the weird irony of there being so much devoted to it - your own energy, the world’s. But it’s not about having children. It’s about identity, libido, ego, fuck, who knows, lots of shit that has zero to do with procreating and in fact, that’s considered a negative result almost all the time.”
“Well, you’ll never wrap it all up in a one-liner. I guess that’s why sex and death are endless subjects and people never gets tired of them.”
I’m not too satisfied with this outcome. “Yeah… maybe…”
“Sorry to poke a hole in your hypothesis, darling.”
I put on a mad professor shtick with a cartoon German accent. “Ha! Zey laughed at me in Prague!”
 Slim smiles with something bordering on fondness. She runs her fingers through my hair. “It’s nice you woke up in such a good mood.” The phone rings. We both groan.

Road hockey: Saint-Henri, Montreal, spring 1990
Doing my Terry Sawchuk impersonation

photo: Dee Lafontaine

Friday, December 23, 2011

Insane Men We Have Known + Loved

Christmas can be a special time, particularly for fathers and sons who share a deep affection for Canada's national game, hockey...

"What do you want?"
"I called to see how you're doing."
"What do you care how I'm doing? When you were living here you never came around so now you're calling from spic land to see how I'm doing?"
"Look, Dad, I didn't call to-"
"I bought you your first car, you know."
"Yeah, I know. It was a 1968 Fiat shitbox with a rotten floor you got off some secretary for fifty bucks."
"So what? I bought it for you."
"Okay, I guess I forgot to thank you. Thanks."
"And you remember the AMC Ambassador? I gave you that car."
"You'd blown the engine and it was almost scrap. Me and Gus and Sam fixed it and it drove for like three months."
"So what? I gave it to you."
"Okay, thanks for that too."
"Y'know, you're lucky I made you play hockey."
"Yeah whatever. I don't need to hear all this again."
"It's the only reason you're not a TOTAL faggot."
"Just out of curiosity. I mean, I don't really care anymore but why DID you tell people I was a faggot?"
"Because you WERE a faggot! And if you didn't play hockey, you would have been a real lube-assed cocksucking whore of a faggot!"
"Okay, thanks for that too."
"You could have been good. Really good. Not great but good enough. Not like Chris Chelios maybe, but look at those faggots Nick Mastroyannis or Chris Ioannou. They weren't any better than you! They weren't any tougher than you but they stuck with it and played in the pros for over 10 years each and made a lot of money and made their people proud. They retired at thirty-five, thirty-six years old with no worries and they support their parents."
"Yeah yeah."
"Yeah yeah? Nick Mastroyannis was all fucking mouth! You remember you cleaned his clock when you were playing for Wexford? Remember that?! After you had him on the ice, out cold, I fucking spit in his old man's face - that Macedonian cocksucker! You kicked the shit out of him and HE went onto the fucking pros and made millions and you became a fucking drug addict! You were good but you weren't smart. You were drafted in the 4th round in the Ontario Major Juniors, for fucksake! Remember?!"
"Yeah yeah, I remember."
"You remember... You stupid faggot - do you know how many boys your age would have given everything for that chance? If you'd played Major Junior for three years -LIKE YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO - you'd have been drafted by the pros for sure. And THAT was when the league was expanding like crazy and they needed good hardnosed players. Hockey is a game of-"
"-intimidation. Yeah, I know. Do we have to-"
"You don't know anything, you moron. You would have been drafted in the first 5 or 6 rounds - FOR SURE! You could have played for one of those new teams then- Anaheim or Colorado or Dallas, brought our game to the American south."
"Oh, Christ... not this again."
"Don't give me your bullshit! I gave you the OPPORTUNITY. I toughened you up. You could have had respect and money and people would have looked up to you. Instead you listened to your stupid mother."
"Leave her out of this."
"She kept you soft, like a fucking girl, like a fucking faggot. All of you, Sam, Gus, Marco - you were all tougher than so many of these faggots who made it to the pros. Any of you could have been good solid players. Okay, not big fancy stars but something better. You could have been the fucking BACKBONE every team needs to win! You could have been the foot soldiers every coach needs to win!"
"Yeah, okay. I've heard all this shit a million times."
"Too bad it didn't get through your thick skull, you stupid asshole. I gave you the best years of my life, waking up in the middle of the night to drive you to fucking Midland or Bancroft in the snow to play good teams so you could compete against the best, become the best. Now what are you doing? Living down there with a bunch of spics and some whore and doing drugs. I hope you're having a great time."
"I am, me and my whore and my drugs, we're living it up. I've never felt better. So are you going to go into the Bayview Lodge or what? Mum can't handle you anymore in the condo. Anyway, she's gonna be in the hospital over Christmas and you're too fucked up to be there by yourself."
"What do you care what I do? Your stupid brother's been pushing me to get out of here, trying to get me into fucking diapers. I'll go when I want to go and don't worry about your mother. She's fine. She's not that sick."
"She's dying, you idiot."
"Dying. Yeah, she's been dying for 15 years. She's outlive us all."
"For fucksakes... Okay, I gotta go."
"Yeah. You always have to go. Thanks for calling."
"Go into the fucking home, will ya? Just do that for her, at least that."
"You handle your women and I'll handle mine, okay? Go fuck your whore and your faggots and do your drugs. Don't worry about me."
"Merry Christmas."
"Yeah, you too."