Welcome to The Tribe.
Your Humble Ruler, Rajah Cheech Beldone, King of the Gypsies.

Friday, June 24, 2011

Treat me right

You know, I wanted to say that, at my most excellent new job, they treat me so good, why, they treat me better than...I don't know...my wife?
But then I thought about it, and that ain't saying much, there's dudes whose wives I've nicked before that treated me better than that.
At my new job, they treat me...I know, they treat me as good as I deserve.
That's it.

Man, this hump a couple of tables over is fucking abusing the bejeesus out of this shitty NT$50 cigar, and it's just fuckin foul beyond measure, it's nearly putting me off my crappy beer & shots.

Guess I better cut my fuckin hair this weekend, we're getting kind of fuckin nappy here.

I realized with a bit of surprise the other day how much fucking time I spend alone. You reckon I'm out of the house about 60 to 70 hours a week, and, except for the maybe once a month or month and a half that I  meet up with the Wee Irish Fella for a couple hours after work, in that time I'm totally alone.
That should explain some of the fucked up shit that I share with you lot.
It's a good fuckin thing I'm so fuckin entertaining.

Fuck me on skates, that guy's fuckin cigar reeks.

Jeez, I just talked to the Hump Nazi down in Taichung. Never mind, it would just embarrass him.

Lordy, I had to go into my Trash folder to check for an autoresponder from this page I joined. What the FUCK is up with all this Viagra spam??!?
Just goes to show you what crappy marketers those guys are, since anyone who's ever even met me knows I got the complete fucking opposite problem.

It's Friday, right?
You fuckin A, bubba.
You know what that means, right kiddies?
Hell yeah.So this here one is one of those deals where I can't even decide which I like better, the tune or the vid.
Deppsta, Anwar (in one of them late 80's french cut swimsuits, Rrrrrrrrow!), and Faye Motherfucking Dunaway, for fuck's sakes!
(I used to have a pair of those shades, I'd wear them when my girlfriend pissed me off, it drove her nuts. EX-cellent!)

Have a great weekend, babies.

Adjusted expectations

Hey, time for an updated Viewing Report for Ghajini:

OK, so it's what they call the masala genre.
Named for, obviously, the spice mix.
An example would be the all-time classic Om Shanti Om

Containing the unforgettable showstopper Deewangi Deewangi:

In theory, it refers to films wherein standard genres are combined, presumably to attract a wide range of viewers.
In practice, it means that, in Ghajini, just as you're in the groove of this dark, dark, extremely violent, gritty crime thriller, you are suddenly assaulted by an unbelievably obnoxious candy-coloured music video with full on dancing and all kinds of shit, like this:

And THEN it launches into a TOTALLY mental fucking romantic farce featuring, of course, The Girl

Who is, I'll give you, pretty good looking, even taking into account the Jolin-style wonky eye.

But the whole romance line is just MORONIC, and then, next thing you know, we're back to our hero, Sanjay, getting the living FUCKSTEAKS beat out of him by this pretty boy cop with a fuckin baseball bat.
And who ties him to a chair with ropes first, for fuck's sake.

And you know what?
The whole fuckin deal works, in a strange way.
I mean, who am I to argue with the world's largest film industry (and audience)?
Anyways, suffice (it, if you must) to say (who fuckin EVER uses that expression, I sound like such a hack) it all ends up having a weird kind of charm, and I'm still diggin it.

Oh, and don't nobody need to start squealing "SPOILER" at me, I've just described the first about 15 minutes of the film.

Hey, who's up for some mouth watering Chicken fuckin Biryani???

With a side of Dal Makhani??

Damn, that looks good...

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Stream of consciousness my fat ass

Stream of consciousness:
Ostensibly unedited, spontaneous live or recorded performances, as in film, music, and dramatic and comic monologues, intended to recreate the raw experience of the person portrayed or the performer

So this one (semi) Constant Reader, who shall remain nameless, since I know she wouldn't like it if everybody knew what a fucking RETARD she is, refers to yesterday's post as "Stream of consciousness".
Hardly, Ramona.
Cheech thinks long and hard about what he's going to send out to you lot, and has far too much respect for you all to cheapen this venue with some shabby, off the cuff meandering, devoid of theme or purpose.
And DON'T you forget it.

Say, wouldn't some

Tandoori fuckin Chicken

Go down good right now?

Oh hell yes.

Hey, I'm watching this:

As I mentioned the other day.
EX-cellent watch, so far, anyways.
Like I said, loosely based on Chris Nolan's mindblowing Memento, starring our old pal Guy "Leave me alone" Pearce.

You can see the similarities there.

Holy cow, you know, you should never make the mistake of thinking that everyone's mind works the same as yours.
I once had a boss/mentor tell me that one of my worst professional/artistic liabilities was that I always assumed that everyone else thought the same as me.
Case in point.
Yesterday, while I was looking for Doc Savage images, I ran across this:

Pretty definitely NSFW here, you been warned...

I have no idea where it's from, it was in some fuckin Frenchie's blog.
Don't get me wrong, I like it. Quite a bit, really.
But jeez, who would, you know, think of something like that???
Not me, that's for sure.

Mmmmmmmm, how about some scrumptious palak paneer???

With a little rogan josh to go along with???

I think I'm losing my fuckin mind here.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Lunghi, dhoti, paratha, roti...

Yeah, well Subcontinental Madness continues to hold us in its vise-like grip.
I'm still well enjoying the read of that Shambalambahoopdehoop book, or whatever the fuck it's called.
I can see where Count Von Pillowbiter got put off, the guy does have a tendency every couple of pages to launch into these incredibly flaky passages where he analogises on what's going on, in the dopiest hamhanded fashion.
Rank shite like:
There's a truth deeper than experience. It's beyond what we see, or even what we feel. It's an order of truth that separates the profound from the merely clever, and the reality from the perception. We're helpless, usually, in the face of it; and the cost of knowing it, like the cost of knowing love, is sometimes greater than any heart would willingly pay. It doesn't always help us to love the world, but it does prevent us from hating the world. And the only way to know that truth is to share it, from heart to heart, just as Prabhakar told it to me, just as I'm telling it to you now.
Uhhhhh, sorry???
But the parts where he's describing his experiences are still pretty engaging.
Unfortunately, even though he continually paints himself as a tidy cunt, as my friends from the North would say, and even though there are piccies of him out there like this:

I still can't picture him as anything other than a twee little elfin knout thanks to that other piccie, the one on the book jacket:

To quote Kevin Nealon in Weeds:

"No grown man has blonde hair!"

I especially enjoyed the account of Blondie's time spent up north in the home village of his buddy.
He tends to neither lionize nor vilify the Indian folks, despite his deep affection, so I'm still with it.
Unfortunately, as I have mentioned about 18 times to The Wee Irish Fella just this morning, I'm jonesing

like fuck

for some fuckin Indian food.

Which isn't good, considering I'm in the one place on earth where there's no dependable supply of decent affordable Indian chow (as well as being the only place on the planet with no Hebrew jewelers, if you can feature that).

SPEAKING of wood, we've covered the Vanessa Redgrave thing, and mentioned the Diana Rigg issue.

But it occurred to me over the weekend that it's been years since I thought of one of my all time favourite First Fatso Providers.

Yeah, I'm talking about none other than Patricia "Pat" Savage.
I'm not sure why the idea of her garnered Mucho Madera almost any time I thought of her, especially since she was mostly famous for being a female version of her cousin Doc (who, by the way, is looking pretty fucked up in this picture...there's a certain point at which a 6-pack starts looking like you're going Trick or Treating as Michelangelo from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, you know what I mean?).

Anyways, Pat would never fail to get me all fired up, and I'd start to lose the thread of the story, and then I'd have to put the book down and go to the bathroom, etc.

Not like now.

Ahhh, I'll be right back...

Oh yeah, FWIW, I always wanted a whole gang of colourful geniuses to back me up in my adventures, like Doc had...
So far I've had to make do with The Wee Irish Fella.

Oh, and just in case, if you ever have the opportunity to watch the 1975 movie Doc Savage: The Man of Bronze, RUN do not WALK away.
Even though it does have my favourite all time Tarzan in it as Doc, it's just a colossal crapfest, it's hard to believe it ever stuck to videotape.
And no, it doesn't deserve an image.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Big Man Down

It occurred to me three years ago when we lost The Phantom (may he rest in peace) that I've spent more time with, and have a considerably more robust emotional investment in, these guys than with most of my blood relatives.

Anything I can contribute here would just be bullshit.
I don't feel very clever right now.

I'm going to take a couple of days.
For respect.

Friday, June 17, 2011

And they said I'd never amount to squat...

(thanks to the Wee Irish Fella for his usual genius)

Sorts of things up with which we will not put...

Dang, I generated a diamond cutter just previewing that last post.
Lord help us if we ever get into the whole jeezin Emma Peel deal, I'll be posting full time from the freaking Mens' Room.

Listen, man, if you're doing the lunchtime desk nap thing, the fuckin terrorists have won and the ghost of Nixon is walking the halls of the Capitol, just don't fuckin do it, OK? There have to be a few things that separate us from the unevolved orders, right?
Speaking of which, funniest Letterman monologue joke ever:
"OK, as we all know, the opposable thumb separates us from the lower primates. Evolutionary geneticists this week announced that they've now determined that the little finger is what separates us from cartoon characters."
I still crack up every time I think of that.

Shit, man, I mentioned to my wife the other day that a new scouring pad in the kitchen was cute, for fuck's sake...how in the everloving bowels of Hephaestus can a fucking potscrubber be cute?!?!  I think I'm ready for retirement here.

Oh yeah, unless you're standing on a street corner in Baltimore selling the WMD or the Lady Gaga 3 for 2 until Reup, and even then, just maybe, but if I see you with a fuckin ballcap on sideways, chances are excellent I'll just plain kick your ass so fuckin hard you'll be pooping out your ear.
Just saying is all.

Lordy, you know, the middle four or five floors of our building here are our factory, right? Well, I was walking through the lobby the other day and there were like 15 fucking identical looking Filipinas lined up at the front desk, all with the same long hair, all the exact same height, all the same luscious brown sugar colour, all wearing the exact same white T shirts and jeans. Holy crap, I got dizzy just looking at them.
They were like some kind of Sexual Oompa Loompas or some fucking thing.
I actually walked around for a couple days thinking I'd dreamt it.

Finally (for now), just cause it's fuckin Friday (Is it Friday? Oh, baby, it's Friday alright), your old pal Cheech gots one of these for you. I think, given all the recent unpleasantness, we should all just take a deep breath and hearken back to yesteryear, to a kinder, gentler time, before that conniving harridan got her greasy meathooks into him, before the mansion, before the politics, I'd like us all to take a moment and remember when he was our Arnold, just another multibillionaire movie star, who, in spite of it all, was the same deep down inside as you, me, and everyone, a guy who, just like everyone else...

Wanted to be Angus...

Hope the damage isn't permanent

It has, Faithful Readers, been brought to my attention that it's been MORE than a week since Cheech even mentioned either Lesbanistanians OR drawing wood.
Must have shook something loose in the crash.
Anyways, I stumbled across this

And distinctly remember seeing this movie as a young kid and perpetrating major lumber at her numerous nearly naked scenes.

Whatever you do, it's strongly advised that you avoid watching the first Mission Impossible movie after viewing this, you could really really do yourself some damage.

Are my methods unsound??

You know, sometimes I just get so sick of myself...so tired of my company that it just makes my teeth hurt...

Anyways, whoever dropped in here from Iraq, howdy and khosh amadid.
And the dude from Nigeria, you too, but I have to warn you, my fax machine is bust right now.

Thursday, June 16, 2011

Witless Asshole Test

Oh fuck your cultural insensitivity in the pooper already, some things are just about the basic right to carry human DNA.

1. You encounter a situation involving several individuals where normal progress is momentarily impeded. Two courses of action are available to you. You choose to:

A. Stop and wait for the 5 or 10 seconds it takes for the complication to work itself out

B. Immediately skirt around the group of individuals who have elected to execute choice A and insinuate yourself into the heart of the complication in the mistaken belief that you alone are special enough to not be inconvenienced, at which point you compound the complication and exponentially delay its resolution.

2. You're waiting for the elevator (especially on the main floor of a building). You choose to:

A. Stand to one side so that when the elevator arrives passengers can disembark quickly and efficiently and you can then board, with the changeover accomplished in minimal time

B. Stand DIRECTLY in front of the doors. When the elevator arrives, charge straight forward into the car. If there are people on the car, make them move out of your way and further back into the car. If there are people wishing to disembark, make them squirm and twist to get around you so that they can. Bonus points are awarded for registering utter shock and confusion when the doors open to reveal actual people inside the car, and/or for standing as close as possible to the closed doors.

If you answered B to either, you are patently unfit to coexist with others in any form whatsoever.
You don't have the social conscience of a crazed Komodo dragon and in any remotely balanced environment you would have been eaten by your peers years ago.
Further, you exhibit such a staggering lack of rudimentary extrapolational logic that you probably shouldn't be around gasoline or edged implements.
Again, you're basically too stupid to live and your utter lack of any contribution to humanity is ample cause for at least banishment, if not forced sterilisation and life imprisonment.

And I'm getting tired of running into you every morning on my way into work.

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Doppel Gangsters

The Wee Irish Fella reckons this here is me and him.

Could be.
Mrs. The Wee Irish Fella WISHES he wore jeans that tight...

Candy to share

Mmmm, I got some Orange Soda Hi Chews here...

Want one??

Are you an Indian or an Outdian???

(Thanks for your kind words, Ms. Bobcat, actually, I've never met a Taiwan cop who wasn't a sweetheart, unlike home, where I could expect to get pulled over and my vehicle searched once every couple of months, based simply on the way I looked and/or dressed, with even the smallest complaint earning one a good drubbing and a night in the tank)

So they say that after 35, men stop reading fiction.
Well, I certainly fit that profile.
With the exception of once or twice a year when I'll get in the mood to reread an old novel from years before, I pretty much stick to history and biography.
But I ran across this one at the bookstore a couple weeks ago, and it just looked interesting.

Part of what attracted me was the author's story:
He's, apparently "a convicted Australian bank robber and heroin addict who escaped from Pentridge Prison and fled to India where he lived for 10 years."
I just started it, so I'll let you know. Hopefully it will be an enjoyable experience, not like every new novel I've tried in the last 15 years where I get to the end and it's like "Huh? What just happened??"

Oh yeah, you might think, reading the guy's story, that he might be kind of a badass.
But the reverse seems to be the case.
Yeah, no kidding.
About the only thing I can think of is his startling resemblance to a certain A-hole Engrish teacher we all know, you know, the one who looks like Rowan Atkinson with a fuckin ponytail.

Hardly a recommendation, badass-wise.

Oh yeah, the poster at the top, it's from a Bollywood quasi-version of Memento, which sounds pretty fuckin cool, I'll definitely be tracking it down for a watch.

Monday, June 13, 2011

First Blood

(Sorry, this one's been a real bitch on skates to get together, and I lost a couple days to hydrostatic shock or something.)

Well it looks like we been headed this way for a while now.
3 months into my new job with a daily 90 minute round trip commute on the bike through some pretty hairy traffic, it was, one supposes, just a matter of time.
Earlier in the week, as I was headed out of the parking garage after work, I stopped at the (totally blind) exit as there was a stupid fuckin Escape coming through the intersection. Sure enough, this dizzy broad behind me, going way too fast AND not paying any attention to her surroundings, plows right into my leg.
Followed by, of course, the obligatory "Solly, solly, solly." To which I replied as I usually do, "You certainly are."
Anyways, no harm done, except for a big tire mark up the leg of me khakis, but I kind of hated them khakis anyways.
Which brings us to last Thursday morning.
First up, I wake up at, you know, the regular time, 20 minutes or so before the alarm, and the weirdest thing, my left baby finger is fuckin KILLING me, for some totally bizarre reason. After a few minutes, it was OK. Strange.
So I'm on my way to work and this dopey fuckin woman turns into a parking lot driveway at the University on Keelung there, just before Roosevelt, and doesn't see me in the right lane.
So I goes down.
A real cool cop showed up at the scene and informed her in no uncertain terms that she was 100% at fault, her nonstop fervent bleatings to the contrary.
Boy did SHE change her tune, suddenly she's scrambling to bring me tissues to clean up the blood that's all over the place, and insists on driving me to the hospital and back and bucking up for the ER bill, and apologizing all over the fuckin place.
She was, of course, shit scared that I was going to gank her for 20 or 30K for pain and suffering etc.
Which, of course, I didn't.
Final damages, not bad.
The Batmobile, unscathed, miraculously.
Creepy Bit #1:
My little finger on my left hand was hacked up pretty good, right where it hurt when I woke up.
I guess I totaled her side mirror with my left arm, which took a handful of stitches after they picked out the glass.
Me poor arm, that night:

And a couple of major goose eggs on my upper shins, where the bike came down on them.
But fuck me, she totally stoved in me Che Guevera ciggie box, for fuck's sakes.

I was off work that day, and Friday too, still feeling kinda shock-y and shit, all with my fantastic new boss's blessing.
Creepy Bit #2:
Just as I'm getting up onto the operating table in the ER, I get a text, now this is still only like 0830 or so, from fuckin HC, half the fuckin island away, with whom I haven't spoken for weeks, saying "Are you OK?".
Another one of those fucked up psychic episodes she gets.
For fuck's sakes.

Anyways, we all lived through it.
I realized a couple of days later that my paw would have been way more messed up were it not for the now bloodied (Pirated) Oakley Super Tac gloves, Jah love 'em.

And the Batmobile got blooded, so that's good.
I can't trust no vehicle I ain't bled on.
So, aside from my DNA getting spread over half of fuckin Gong Guan, you know, all ended up  pretty good.

Let's get back to work.

On that note,

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

3 fucking hours and I'm already regretting it...

See, I KNEW I shouldn't have engaged those fuckin subterranean lowlife motherfuckers, see what happens? It's like feeding a fuckin street mutt, they just end up following you home and getting pus and all manner of vileness on your shoes from their suppurating lesions. PLUS they want you to fuckin feed them.
I'm seriously reconsidering the part about stupidity not being a felony.

I don't know, man, I'm thinking of inviting my favourite Auntie to visit here, but then I'm worried I'm going to have to start worrying about what I write.
And that's something I really try to stay away from.
I invited my big sister, but that's no biggie because, A. She's so useless on the computer that she'll never be able to find it again after her first visit, and 2. She can't really read all that good.
I'll probably go ahead and ask Auntie, we get along great.
I got one of those weird families where my Ma was the youngest of 4 kids, and was like 3 or 4 years older than the Old Man, who was the ELDEST of 4 kids, so like my oldest Uncle was a WWII flying ace, and Auntie is only 8 years older than me.
She used to babysit us a lot.
I DISTINCTLY recall her telling us that The Beatles were crap, that we really needed to dig the Dave Clark Five if we wanted to be cool.
I have countless treasured memories of visiting Gramma & Grampa's in the summer in Red Deer (where American Graffiti was still going on well into the 70's) and Gramma making the Aunties and their boyfriends take us with them for their Friday night cruises and visits to The Dub in our jammies.
Aunt Di would take us in Uncle Garth's (May he rest in peace) VW, and Auntie would take us in Uncle Ed's Road Runner.
Oh hell yeah.
I don't even want to talk about when they'd take us to beach at Sylvan in the summer. They had actual foot-longs.

Suffice to say that if Auntie's best friend Brenda had any idea the amount of 11-year-old wood drawing for which she was personally responsible, I'd have been on the Hound home so fast it'd have made my head spin.

Oh, did I mention Auntie's hotter than fuck?

(Sorry, Unca Ed)

Wrong 'em Boyo indeed...

Ah, the old jokes are the best jokes

If you can't say anything nice...

Hey, it was a long weekend, I took El Staj to the zoo, so fuckin sue me.

OK, now listen, I really have no intention of addressing whatever fucking white noise is being generated by the cheapseaters down there.
Partially because I'm trying to maintain an air of base civility here, just to prove that I can, and partially because if I start I ain't sure I'll be able to stop, if you know what I mean.
I'm just going to say, first, that maybe you two could go get a room on someone else's fuckin blog, and second, we got a word back home for guys like you who wear cowboy boots.
(CLUE: It rhymes with "shrugstore")

I swear to fuck, this fucking show is going to give me a fuckin embolism, I'm almost done Season 2, and pretty much every jeezing episode has at least one moment that's just like getting kicked in the eggs.

Oh, and as far as Junior Agent Astrid "Aspirin/Asterix/Astro/Astringent" Farnsworth goes,
Her identification as a Lesbianator has reduced neither the amount nor frequency of wood-drawing attendant to viewing of the series.
For whatever that's worth.

Parting thought, cats and kittens:
I know being stupid isn't illegal, but refusal to do anything about it oughtta be.


Friday, June 3, 2011

Any Other Questions?

Bug Night!!

Oh yeah, I forgot, last night was Bug Night.
In case you aren't aware, one night every year, usually in early June (here in Taipei it's ALWAYS Computex week), the fucking mayflies come out in the fucking BILLIONS, to, one assumes, copulate or something.
And last night was it.
It's kind of fun, at first it's kind of freaky because they come in through the screens, around the doorjambs, under the window frames, everywhere, and there's just tons and tons of them.
After the first 20 minutes or so, you sort of get used to it and just start grabbing them out of the air, like 4 or 5 at a time. We sort of celebrated last night, my big daughter was over tutoring my youngest, and we got pizza in and watched my favourite Taiwanese movie.

I guess it's officially summer.

Adventures in the Mysterious East

Hey, it's Friday, let's start with a joke.

How do you know a Taiwanese guy's been in your house?

The tissues are all gone, your homework's done, and everything in the fridge has been made into soup.

I'm killing myself here.

I remember in like 1984 when I was in Hong Kong, some of us from home were over there working on a movie for Golden Harvest, directed by Sammo.

Here he is about to get a shitkicking from Bruce:

Anyways, as is their way, Sammo, being the director, and quite the fuckin wheel in Honkers, spent a lot of time wining and dining us.

We more than once went down to Harbour Park after a big dinner and got on board his yacht to take a moonlight cruise around the harbour, eating fruit and drinking champagne.

No, I ain't making this up.

Anyways, the reason I bring this up? Uh, I forget.
Oh yeah, one night we were at this real swanky resto, and it was the kind of a deal where the dishes are all pricey as fuck and very special cuisine and all, but really the point was just to gross out the unwary foreigner.

So, you know, there was snake (no biggie, I'd had it before, yeah, it tastes like chicken), and all kinds of other crap.

And then they bring out this dish and say its "cat".

And I'm like, well isn't THAT living up to the old stereotype!

Turns out it was actually civet cat, which is the same thing as coatimundi (the animal, not the guy from Kid Creole and the Coconuts), is that right?

Which is sort of a cousin to a raccoon, right?

This was, obviously long before they were using civet cats to crap out coffee beans they could then charge like a billion fucking bucks a pound for (and who was the fucking mental case to first think that one up, huh???).

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Catching up

Jeez, my first Double Dip.
Who says Cheech don't take care of you lot?
Hey, this one got me across the bridge tonight, it's a gooder.

Our old buddies Anvil covering The Who, AND it was on SOA, how's that for a hat trick?
Ignore the vintage Angels footage, unless you're into that sort of thing, in which case enjoy.

So I just figured out my fucking netbook here has a camera.
Here's me, like 2 fucking minutes ago:

This is fucking hilarious, I had no idea that sign was up there over my shoulder until I looked at the picture, I'm pissing myself here.

Damn, I'm pretty.

Hey, speaking of hat tricks, I just heard from my man Stickbag for the first time in months, and he's doing good.
Without putting too fine a point on it, he was going through a pretty rough patch there for quite a while, the sort of shit a guy has to go through alone, and it appears that he's back on top for the first time in a long time.
And Cheech, for one, couldn't be happier, not only is he my homeboy, but he's also the most crackin good C&W drummer and singer to ever drop a backbeat.
Good one, little buddy, keep up the great work.

I love this weather, we're getting into the standard summer pattern of a monstrous King Fuck monsoon every afternoon, so when you come out of work the humidity is like 115%, it's great weather for drinking out.

One leg of my daily COTS (Commute On The Scoot) takes me through one of those areas where they've built right up to the bottom of the mountain, and the whole neighborhood is in a daily neck-and-neck battle with the jungle, just barely keeping it at bay on a momentary basis.  Like if they fucked off for a week, they'd come back to find that the canopy had reclaimed the whole block.
I love that shit, man.

This is pretty fucking hilarious, next table over there's 2 girls, one's a nice looking 30-something and the other is an equally nice-looking Lesbanian who's running her A game trying to get the other one to come play for The Other Team. Meanwhile, the first one has caught my eye at every possible opportunity and given me the Definite Smile. The young Lesbanian, of course, is studiously ignoring my presence.
I should go over and tell her I have no intention of duressing her lapels and that her zoomination is unthreatened. Plus, the Lesbanitron is hotter anyways.

Hey, let old Cheech know how you like the new look for the blog here. All input will be taken seriously.
Unless it's from the fuckin Kraut, him being colour blind, spatially challenged, AND a fucking American.

Meet Gray Rogers

(Edited from original post)

Hi kids, sorry, Cheech had to take a couple personals there.

Hey, I know you were all wondering about the badass graphic I'd added to the header.
Well, let me tell you all about it.
As you know, I always find it a welcome surprise when I stumble across a site where the host is providing examples of their work, and it's actually good.
The gorgeous image you saw above is the work of a Mr. Gray Rogers (actually when I wrote to him I fucked up the order of his names and addressed him as Mr. Gray, so now he thinks I'm a fucking Filipino bartender named Bong or some fucking thing).
But the picture is more than just cool, it's actually one of a (I think) series he did of scenes from Count Zero, easily my favourite Gibson book, and one of my favourite books period.
It also features Turner, one of my (roughly) Top 10 literary characters of all time (there's one, RG).

One of the things I especially love about the picture, sorry, it's called Desert Sprawl, is that although it depicts a scene I've read about so many times I can quote passages verbatim, the picture is nothing like I always imagined it in my mind.

Anyways, thanks again to Mr. Rogers (well now, see, that sounds even dumber than Mr. Gray, fer jumping out loud) for being kind enough to let me use his fine work.
You guys go and visit his site, there's lots of cool stuff there.