I feel for you, buddy

Oh fuck, do we REALLY have to do this, for fuck's sakes? This movie is older than fucking DIRT already!! OK, OK.

OK, so I was making a reference in another post (under construction) to Tomas Arana, the Hardest Working Dude You Never Heard Of in Movies.
Among his many many notable roles, I referred to him as playing Quintus,

Maximus' turncoat officer in Gladiator

Yeah, that's the AWESOME Sven Ole Thorssen in the helmet, he has his own post coming

Anyways, as you recall, when Johnny Cash suffocates Richard Fuckin Harris,

I was going to make some comment about Henry Fuckin Porter's school principal, but come on, it's Richard Fuckin Harris. For fuck's sakes.

Quintus, who had previously been Maximus's right hand dude, suddenly jumps ship when Commodious

Am I the only one who spent half the movie sniggering like a junior high school kid every time they said his name?
"Heh heh heh, Emperor Toilet, heh heh heh, get it?"

promotes him to the head of the Praetorians.

And, of course, we boo and hiss and everything because he turned bad!

He got Rusty fired!

He made them go kill (the admittedly STINKING hot) Mrs Rusty and Rusty Jr and made RUSTY CRY!!!!!!!!!

OK.

BUT, here's the thing.

Check out EVERY dialogue they have together.

In every case, Quintus' reasonable contributions are met with Maximus being a pissy, contrarian, passive aggressive cunt.
One of those COMPLETE asswipe bosses who takes advantage of every possible opportunity to be rude, belittling, and dismissive, for no other reason than (for the same reason a dog licks his nuts) THEY CAN.

QUINTUS: Soldier, I ordered you to move those catapults forward, they're out of range.
MAXIMUS: Range is good.
QUINTUS: The danger to the cavalry...
MAXIMUS [interrupts]: It is acceptable, agreed?

Uh, sure, whatever you say. You're the boss.

[As the barbarian calls out his cry, his mangy band of barbarians emerge from the forest, shaking and waving their spears and shields, ready to fight.]
QUINTUS: People should know when they're conquered.
MAXIMUS: Would you, Quintus? Would I?

I was just. Making. A comment.

And even after the big fucking battle, after they've routed that last of the hairy Germanaical types from the forest, Maximus is named a giant fucking hero of Rome, and they're at the After Party, General Shitheel still can't be arsed to even be fucking civil to the dude who contributed most majorly to the Big Fuckin Win.

QUINTUS: General!
MAXIMUS: Still alive?
QUINTUS: Still alive.
MAXIMUS: The gods must have a sense of humour.

Dick.

VALERIUS: Back to your barracks, General, or to Rome?
MAXIMUS: Home. The wife, the son, the harvest.
QUINTUS: Maximus the farmer. I still have trouble imagining that.
MAXIMUS: You know, Quintus, dirt cleans off a lot easier than blood. 

Oh really? General COCKSUCKER?!??!?

So, you can see, it's pretty tough to blame Quintus for taking King Toilet up on his offer later on.

In fact, you can even appreciate how he might generate a little more relish at the prospect of removing Maximus from the equation than he might have otherwise.

Of course, when it's time to punch Maximosa's ticket, Quintus fucks up and sends a fuckin redheaded dude to do the job, which everyone knows is a bonehead play, and the rest is, well, the movie.

Raj

One in the head from a boomerang you threw 2 years ago.

First of all, I have to say, I'm about losing my fuckin religion over the zipperheads. Seriously at the end of me chain.
If you get a sudden emergency call from me pleading with you to get over quick to keep me from sticking a lit cigarette in my eye...

I implore you to take it with all seriousness.

Any fuckin ways, that ain't what I really wanted to talk about.
I really wanted to warn you to watch out the shit you say, you won't fuckin believe how it can come back to buttrape you when you least expect it.

So a couple days ago I'm in the middle of heavy negotiations with The Ranette over the potential purchase of certain consumer electronics devices, since her 2 or 3 year old iPod Nano (which she uses at least daily) is well on the road to TU-dom, AND her birthday is coming up in a matter of weeks.

So the decision is being debated as to the appropriate replacement.
The new iPod Nano is considerably improved.

And no, I didn't 'Shop that song onto the display

In one of those weird twists of quasi-human systemization, in many of the reviews, the worst thing they could say about it, the most notable shortcoming is that

"It only plays music, that's all it does"

Now, when I was doing the research, I swear to heaven, the BEST thing about it, at the very TOP of my list, the # 1 benefit was

"It only plays music, that's all it does"

Any fuckin ways, the Ranette, bless her wee cotton socks, as a healthy soon-to-be 14-year-old, is spoiling to maximize her damage, eschewing a simple version update in order to trade up to a complete nother strata of applied technology, to wit, she's all over the fuckin Touch

No Akka Dakka HERE, I've obviously been relegated

Thing is, see, The Ranee, and, to some extent me, aren't' exactly insane at the prospect of her having increased access to the Inskranetx.
Like now, she can get on when she's at home, we don't really see it as being critical for her to check her Gmail when she's halfways home from fuckin school.

You know, it's not like she's me, I got important shit to do on the Afronet...

I know, I know.


So here's where we get to the meat of this post, which will either have you (depending on your personality type, that is, how you scored on the most recently spammed around Which X-Man/Fellowship of the Ring Character/Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle/Nixon Cabinet Member/Beatle/ LifeSaver Flavour/CareBear/Universal Horror Movie Monster/Ex-Husband of Cher Are You??) sighing in relief at the prospect of finally getting to the point, or experiencing a wee letdown because the fun's almost over.

So I'm talking to her the other night, and I say, you know, is it really important that you have more Intronutz access?
And she slowly turns to look me in the eye, and I have this fleeting glimpse into her soul and realize she's been keeping this one back, waiting for just the right moment to play it, like GA's mighty Boxing Glove Arrow

like Rock switching back to his left hand

or the boys

finally crossing streams

she's been waitning for just
the
right
moment

And this is it.

And she looks me in the eye and lets me have it.

Hey, better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it, right?

Looks like I'll be picking up a new iPod Touch before Cinqo de Mayo.

In blue.

Raj

Variety Pack

Yeah, OK, so I got a couple deals I need to get out here.

First of all, you got to love these pigfuckers that have the little Buddha talisman on their motorcycles.

Dear Lord Buddha,
Protect me and watch over me.
As I drive like a stupid selfish ignorant cocksucker and endanger everyone with the misfortune to be driving in my vicinity.


I haven't posted a recipe for a while because, well, who gives a fuck, really?
But this was so extraordinarily fucking awesome, it really blew my mind.
So I had been reading about the various health benefits of yams (as opposed to sweet potatoes, which are actually different things, I never knew that, apparently sweet potatoes are in the Americas, and yams are in Africa and Asia).

We never ate them when I was growing up, I think it's a little too cold for them at home, although you can buy them.
Anyways, I always liked them.
If you know anything about your Taiwan history, you'll know that yams are a notorious Poor Food here for anyone who grew up in the middle of the last century, or anyone whose parents did.
Apparently, when the Nipponesers were running the place

Most of the insanely abundant rice harvest was exported back to the bokoku, and as is pretty much the norm in areas occupied by hostile foreigners, the locals, including the people who grew it, were left with barely enough to survive.
So it was common practice to chop up yams, which grew like mad and weren't sought after by (Little Anthony and) the Imperials, and throw them in with the rice, to get sufficient chow.
Anyways, I was making some fucking chicken there on Sunday,  and I had these yams.
So I made this, and it was so fucking easy, and tasted SO fucking good, I couldn't believe it.
Also, since I only eat bacon about once a month, this was an excellent way to get it down me neck.
It's a fantastic side dish, and yams are way better for you than pudaydas (sorry Wee Irish).
Give it a crack, you won't be sorry.
Here we go

Pan Fried Yams

Bacon, chopped
1 big red onion (other kinds are OK, but it won't be as tasty), chopped coarsely
Garlic, minced
4 or 5 white/yellow yams, peeled and sliced about 1/2" thick
Salt and pepper

Chop up the bacon and throw it in the frying pan. Stir it and get it going.
Once it's sizzling and starting to render out grease, throw in the onion and garlic.
Mix them all in together (right about now it should smell so fuckin good you'll want to stick a fucking pencil in your eye).
When the onion is soft, lay the yams on top of the whole thing, in as close to a single layer as you can.
Salt and pepper generously (actually when I did it, it turned out all the garlic had sprouted, so I also laid on a good wallop of this excellent garlic salt they got in the supermarket here, it's got parsley in it).
Fold the yams into the rest of the mix so that they're all surrounded and covered.
Cover the pan and reduce the heat.
Cook covered for about 20 minutes, stirring about twice.
The heat should be low enough and the pan greased enough that you don't have any sticking issues.
When the yams are soft, you're done.
Try not to cook them too long or they'll just be mush, which is OK but not as good.

You won't believe how good this is, and making it is easier than slipping on fuckin dog shit in the back yard.


Oh yeah, so me & Cisco got into this Dueling 80s Movie Songs deal.
I came up with this one, which I totally forgot how much I liked at the time, as well as really liking the movie (even though, like most other 80s pop culture I was actually about 10 years older than the targeted teen market).
The movie still holds up pretty darn good too.
Some fuckin cast too, really*.

Also, I used to dress like Bender.

Raj

*I totally missed that Andy's old man is played by this fucking guy

who appears in EVERY SINGLE fucking movie shot in Chicago, fuckin John Hughes, gotta love him
CB

Take up thy bed and walk

I was over there>
at the Wee Irish fella's the other day and I realized he had a FUCKING SEARCH  function.
I had NO fucking IDEA you could do that?

You know how many fucking HOURS I've spent looking for an old post by trying like fuck to remember the (no doubt witty but) tangentally related title?

Any fuckin ways, go knock yourself out, see how many fucking times I've talked about Katie Mara in her undergarments, go on.

First five searches are free, on me.

Woo hoo!

Raj

3 and a half minutes of Grace

1990 or 91, I can't remember which, I was (among many other things) doing part time stage grunt work at the local CTV affiliate.That year, the CCMAs were in Edmonton, at the big soft seater.
If you've ever had any involvement with the Ento-tainment inductry in Canada, especially music, you'll know that the CCMAs are a pretty big deal.
I'm pretty sure I was pulling dolly on that gig.
Anyways, as you can imagine, a live TV broadcast of an awards ceremony is a fairly involved undertaking.
So we were in there for a couple of days getting set up and doing practice runs and stuff.

That year, the big huge superstar headliner at the Awards was the incomparable Ms. k.d. lang.
As you may know, this was around the time that she had begun to move past her Psycho Cowgirl style of presentation

And towards a more serious, torchy style more closely approaching that of her lifelong idol, Ms. Patsy Cline

I'm foregoing the expected mention of what a fucking TOMATO Ms. Cline is, due to the fact that she bears more than a passing resemblance to me Ma

If you know anything about Ms. lang, it's that the whole reason she became a singer was Patsy Cline. Like Clapton and Robert Johnson,  Joe Cocker and Ray Charles, or Keef and Chuck Berry, the genesis of her entire career can be attributed to the influence of one person. Ms. lang has actually said in interviews that, as a young performer, she was on more than one occasion, literally posessed by the spirit of Patsy Cline.
(As a side note, if one were ever to doubt k.d.'s resolve and commitment to her life's work, one should forget about it. I've been to Consort, Alberta. Went to a rodeo dance there. If one were to choose the 10 Worst Places to Grow Up as k.d. lang, Consort would be about 8 of them.
Imagine Prince growing up in Harlan County, KY.)

Any fuckin ways, two things you need to know here.

One, at this particular time, k.d. was the biggest thing to come out of Alberta ever. Bigger than Michael J Fox

Bob Goulet

Tommy Chong

and the dudes who fucking cured diabetes all combined.

She also hadn't performed out for some time, IIRC.
So her singing at the show was quite a big deal, sort of a homecoming thing.

The nother thing you got to know is that crews, I mean TV/Film, and to some extent, theatre crews, are notoriously fucking jaded.
You know how, like, musicians don't dance? Because they're too cool?

Sort of like that, your average crew dude will take pride in not being phased by any performance on which they're working.

So anyways, there's all this hubbub going on the afternoon of show day, and among all the other hooha, the various performing acts are going up and doing a quick run through of their numbers with the house band.
And nobody's paying any attention, you know shit's getting hauled up into the rig, road cases are being trundled hither and yon, the air is filled with the sound of hammering and drilling and shit.
And then the floor manager goes out over headsets and radios and tells everyone that Ms. lang is on her way in to rehearse, and when she does so all work is to cease and we're all to sit down (and shut the fuck up, obviously) until she's done.


So everyone stops what they're doing, and takes a seat.


National Treasure Tommy Banks

Who actually knew my old man, called him Smitty, and whose son Tom Jr I went to school with...excuse me while I try and wash some of this fucking AWESOME off of me...

who is, of course, the house band leader, steps to the middle of the stage, and this was just fuckin wildly weird, because, you know, like, the house lights are all up and there's gear and shit all over the place, and there's no audience except this 35 or 40 crew swine, but Tom just walks up the apron and says, straight up,

Ladies and gentlemen. Ms. k.d. lang.

And she comes out, she'd ditched her glasses and goofier haircut at this point and was just wearing a black suit. Pretty much looked like this

Thing is, there was this....deal in the air, I swear to fuck, like the last 3 seconds before a huge motherfucking lightning strike, suddenly the ions in the air became charged.

And she sang.

She sang Patsy Cline's Crazy.

This little lady with the Elvis haircut stood in the middle of that stage and sang this song, in a fucking soundcheck, and it was like she'd been preparing for it since the day she first drew breath.
Beyond talent, beyond technique.
More strength, conviction, and total intimacy with the song as a living, breathing thing, than I'd ever heard.

Or ever have since.

Remember what the guy who plays Sam Phillips

says to John Cash in Walk the Line:

If you was hit by a truck, and you was lying out there in that gutter dyin...and you had time to sing one song...one song that would sum you up...well that's the kind of song that truly saves people

(actually they say Mr. Phillips

never even said that, that John and Luther and Marshal passed the audition with flying colours, but so what)

Well that's what we heard that day.

And the song finished and she turned around and walked upstage to where Tommy was sitting at the piano, put the mike down, gave him a polite nod and probably thanked him, and left.

Dead silence.

I looked over at Hammy, my housemate, sometime drummer, and one of my very best friends (today he's an award-winning TV writer, back then he was just a TV cameraman and smalltown ballplayer).

And he has tears on his face.

And I got tears on my face.

And slowly, like in a dream, one by one, everyone gets up and slowly goes back to work.

I'd like to explain to you why it was such an extraordinary experience, how a girl just singing an old ballad written by Willie Nelson could move this entire group of cynical mutts to awed and reverential silence...but you know what?

Nothing I could say would explain it as eloquently as Elmo the Cook does.

Ms. lang never recorded it, to the best of my knowledge, and hardly ever performed it live.

Raj

Tribe, Cisco. Cisco, tribe.

Well it's always a special day when we meet someone new who isn't begging for a shot to the fuckin gob in the first 15 minutes.

Let alone someone who continues to not piss you off for hours and even days, for fuck's sakes.

Seriously, how often does that happen?
Anyways, I'm pleased to welcome our newest member of the tribe.

Cisco

Unfortunately, it's not all sunshine and ice cream fuckin sandwiches.

He happens to be one of them sons a bitches that actually take their website content and posting duties seriously.
I hate them fuckers.

If you aren't a lame fuckwad, you'll visit his most excellent and richly populated site,

Black Sunshine Media
There's all kinds of cool stuff on there.

Welcome, Cisco, to the end of the road.

Raj

Local Fauna

Saturday I watched this girl get off her scooter and walk away from me.
She was wearing yoga pants.
And either no skivvies or a thong or something.
Because, you know...damn.

I swear, looked like a couple of St Bernard puppies wrasslin under a caboose blanket.

Raj