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

Friday, August 2, 2013

Know when it's time to pack it in

Yeah, well, it's like this.

Although you wouldn't know it from the recent glut of posts, I think it's a pretty safe bet that I basically got nothing left to say.

And don't see that changing anytime soon.

So, you know, we're going to shut her down for at least the time being.

We'll stay up, for those of you who haven't really scoured all the archived stuff, and to provide a badly needed quick reference for any of you who occasionally need to check the correct spelling of "fuck".

But as far as new content goes, it ain't going to be happening.

Thanks, as always, for your generous support.

See you around.


Monday, July 1, 2013

Don't bring me downnnn, man

Hey, you know that green foam that they use when they're making flower arrangements?

Bizarrely enough, it's actually called "florist foam", what do you know?

Anyways, and I really can't tell you why, at all, but...

I find it extremely depressing.

I'm not kidding, I just look at that shit and I get TOTALLY depressed.

How fucked is that?


Love this fuckin town

So a couple weeks ago, I'm driving in, at like, you know, 0820 or something, and it's fuckin PISSING down raining

I'm going along by the Water Department there, behind the Technology University.
Pretty busy road, especially during rush hour, and all curvy and shit.
And sure enough this DIZZY bitch pulls away from the curb in her fuckin Camry or whatever, without even PRETENDING to shoulder check, RIGHT in fuckin front of me.
I slams on the binders, of course, and just barely stop in time to avoid bouncing off her back passenger door, as I let loose with a multicoloured torrent of bad language and ill wishes.
Now if that's where the story ended, well, there'd be no post, since that kind of shit happens all the time and don't really warrant mention.

But, just as I screech to a halt, I experience simultaneously, a shove from behind and hear the unmistakeable sound of scooter fiberglass crunching on scooter fiberglass.
Now, note that I've just had about a liter of adrenaline squirted into my system, and am, at the moment, about as close to

as I'll ever be able to get.
So I swing me head around to look over my shoulder, again, with my Friendly Meeting Strangers face, you know

And there's this young university kid there, with his skinny girlfriend on the back of his scooter.
And he looks at me and goes

" Sorry, sorry."

But the thing is he's really sorry, not scared or freaking out or anything.
And then he reaches out and pats me on the fucking shoulder for the love of fuck.
I'm kind of struck dumb.
Because, you know, it wasn't really his fault, could have happened to anyone.
Any fucking ways, I take off, you don't want to be standing still in the middle of rush hour traffic in the rain, with, how does it go, tens of thousands of crazed plastic wrapped celestials headed straight up your behind at 60 to 80 klicks.

But I get to the next light, and the kid's right beside me.
And I look over and he sees me, and I (sort of) smile and hold up my hand and say
"It's OK, it wasn't your fault"
And he grins and nods.
And the light changes and we go.

As Brother Cisco would say, Respect, kid. Respect.

Little fucker.


Tuesday, June 25, 2013

SPEAKING of shit Mohawks...

UPDATE: I'm pretty sure Bo-Nose wasn't all that tickled at my comments, so he had "his people" 86  the original video to which I had linked.
Well fuck you, Hewson, I got fuckin Paint, so, you know, neener neener.

Don't worry, nobody expects you to sit through the whole fucking thing...

But look at these bastards.

Bono, you turd, what's the deal with your HEAD?
Honestly, you see a hairdo like that, pretty much means a guy's about to get escorted by Tom Hanks and Boomer Morse

for an appointment with Old Sparky.

Don't get me wrong, I really liked him in Popeye

and he was pretty good in that one with Matty and Bumfleck.

But this is just kind of embarrassing.
Ironicallistically enough, for everyone who made fun of Dave when he went bald at like 23

he's definitely got the last laugh.
I mean he's still looking pretty fucking sound, really.

but the others?
I mean, you know, crap.

Fucking Adam and Larry Mullen Jr. look like

a couple of old lesbanian PE teachers that are counting down the minutes until they can retire to the Saltspring Islands and sell cappies from a wagon at the Saturday Artisan's Market in their LL Bean boots, while scowling at all the men.


Monday, June 24, 2013

Caution is advised

Nothin wrong with a good Mohawk.

Just a word to the wise, though.

You may be going along, happy as a pig in shit (I remember when The Ranette was about 7 or 8 and her telling me how lame she thought the "H" on the end of Winnie the Pooh was,

her exact words were "Who do they think they're fooling, anyway??")

Any fuckin ways, you may be cruising, thinkin you're Rockin the Hawk, as cool as it fuckin gets, like, say,





or even

And then SUDDENLY, with no warning, you suddenly realize to your horror, you're sporting Reggie Warrington Shitlocks.

And nobody, NOBODY, wants that...


Over Lunch

She heaves a big sigh and looks mournful.
"What's the problem?"
"Oh, you know, it just seems so unfair." she says.
"Uh, to which exactly of a possible mungogingillion things are you referring?"
"Just that" she says "it seems so unfair. I love physics sooo much..."

"Uh huh?"
"But it just won't love me back!"
A moment's pause.
"I know, sweetie, I know. It's like going out with a German girl."

Anytime you can legitimately deploy a Billy Bob quote, you know you're on top


Friday, June 14, 2013

Yeah? And?

So there's this guy, he was with Che through all of the jungle campaigns in Cuba.
They were together through the most grueling parts of the whole revolution, living through a bunch of seriously harrowing battles with the Federales, skin of their teeth-type stuff.
This dude, he really proved his mettle as a fighter and hardcore revolutionary, and Che apparently had a lot of respect for him.

And, of course, they had shared this extraordinary series of life and death experiences together.
Anyways, so the story goes, several years later, when Che is a world famous diplomat and everything, there's some kind of commemorative function at El Capitolio in Havana, and a bunch of these guys are reunited for the first time in years.

And this cat is standing talking with Che and a few other guys, and they're reminiscing and everything, and, you know, they (with the notable exception of Che) are all Cubanos, easily among the most effusive and expressive people in the world, and this guy is telling a story about him and Che, and he has his hand on Che's shoulder, and he's talking and suddenly Che stops him and goes

"Hey. Hey. Hey!"

And the guy stops and kind of looks around, and goes


And Che goes

"What's the deal with the hand?"

I don't know, I just love that story.


Thursday, June 6, 2013

How it looks from here

Aye caramba.
You know how it goes, niños mios.

One minute you're Don Gato from the Grotto.

Suddenly you turn around, and you're felino non grato*...

Yeah, no shit, amigos.

As Santos David de los Diamantes would have us remember....


*¡Muchas gracias, Estofadino Irlandés!

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Missing Question

One that got left off.

21. To whom would you attribute whatever skewly infinitesimal vestige of meaningfulness to which you currently lay claim, if only on a good day?

Excellent question.
In no particular order, let me run the Roll

The Ranee
The Ranette
The Wee Irish
The Crown Princess of Croatia, BFF for Fucking Perpetuity
Señor Vegas
Lil Bro Cisco, of course
Dr Funkenstein
Karlos the Jackal
Divvo the Insane
The Bobcat
Red the Minnesota Squarehead
Ginny (love you baby, lots & lots)

Gator Hunter Double-K
Tiger Mikey
Presley You Fucker You
Daveblackwood.com the Actual Person Rather Than the Digitally Distributed Web Sight

TomHill you Psychotic Bastard
Simo Nanaimo

Paulie Chicago
Remission Girl

Jonathan P Fortigurnius Esq

And anyone else I fuckin neglected to mention as a result of inattention to detail...

Without you guys, I'd just be a fucking noise.
And I love the standing fucksteaks right clean out of you all, man and boy.




Had to happen sooner or later, I guess

Well, I guess I got a gig, any fuckin ways

Bol'shoye spasibo to Brother Cisco for all the kind words.


Jeez, you almost had me there...

It's no secret to anyone here, I think, that

1. Summertime here in Big Stinky means 2 things. You start buying beers one at a time or they just get too fuckin warm, and, most important, pretty much every woman between the ages of 12 and 490 starts walking around in the beloved S3 (Super fucking Short Shorts), the ones I've said before that are like "Sorry baby...them ain't shorts, em are underwear with pockets"

2. We got no beef with that. Whatsofuckingever.

And, as I think you know, on a general level, the success rate here of S3 is astronomically higher than in most other places you could name.
For whatever reason, it's just a terrific combination.
But now, see, then it gets squirrely.
And they do some dumbass shit like this.

Wait, you're wearing these...garments that expose pretty much everything between your goodies and the sidewalk, and then you...what???

Wear fuckin nylons?

Well what?
In the fuck?
Is the point in all that then???

I swear, sometimes I'm really sure I come from a different planet than this one.


Tuesday, May 28, 2013

You one STANK bitch!

For the love of FUCK.

This nasty old slapper at the next table has this fucking NEWK-ular cheap perfume just fucking rolling off her in fucking waves...

Fuck me, I can feel it collecting on my fucking TEETH for the love of fuck.

I got to keep a smoke going non-stop, just in self defence.

They should give out fucking tickets for this, seriously.


Saturday, May 25, 2013

How does this fucking happen?

OK, I can get that people get old.
Happens to most everyone.

Sometime or another.

Well, almost everyone

What I want to know is, and why nobody told me, EXACTLY when in fuck did Jonesy

Turn into

Lance Fucking Henriksen???


Chicks dig scars 2

Yeah, here:


Friday, May 24, 2013

Chicks dig scars

So it's like 1989 or something, the band I'm in is doing a 6 nighter out in the end of town where I grew up, at The Saxony Hotel Tavern, known locally as The Sax.
I got about 15 different stories about this place.

Anyways, we were two days in, and our sleazeball coscksucker booking agent

calls me and says the place is cutting us down to one set a night (and, of course cutting our pay in half) and bringing in these other fuckers to do the second set.
So it looks, in effect, like we're fucking opening for these bumwads.
These other fuckers are this shitheel outfit with a frontman who looks like a portly Diamond Dave and dresses like the dudes from ABBA

and a chick singer, and they do like Janis Joplin and Bob Seger covers and shit

But the real shitty ones, not the cool ones like Katmandu or Her Strut or R&R Never Forgets

Seriously cheeseball stuff.
Practically a fucking showband for fuck's sakes.
I'd tell you their name but there's a good chance they're playing at your local Travelodge out on the Interstate.

Anyways, the fucking agent says we're getting busted down to a set a night because the Bar Manager thinks we're too, now get ready for this...

What the fuck EVER that means, we had no idea.
I mean we played, like, Zep

and Joe Jackson and Credence and Crazy Horse

and shit.
So so who knew what the fuckin guy was talking about??

Anyways Greaseball McScumbagger tells us we should consider ourselves lucky that they didn't just can our asses, and that if we "clean up our act" that we might get 2 sets Saturday night.
Which is, of course, total horse hockey, because fucking Murph and The Murphtones will never give up their spot.

So, you know, we did the sensible thing, the Big Picture, career minded thing, the mature thing.

We went home and learned Sid's version of My Way.

And finished our Friday set with it.

Just before we started, the drummer looked at me and mouthed "Wreck the kit?" and I said, you know, Fucking A, Bubba.

So we did the Big Ending and he started kicking his shit over, so I, being a supportive rhythm section member, joined in and started whacking the kit with me bass and all.
At one point, the singer Dog Boy grabbed a medium sized crash and flung it at me like a Frisbee.
Naturally, I held up my bass to defend meself.
Or maybe I tried to Hank Aaron the motherfucker into the bleachers, who remembers?

Either way, I met the edge of the cymbal square on and the resulting impact left a deep longitudinal gouge in my bass that you can still see today just south of the pickup.

Also, my wireless unit, which was gaffed to my strap, got squished. But it still worked.

And we finished and walked off, leaving the Velourtones with a semi-destroyed drum kit and everything.

As we passed them I had the distinct pleasure of paraphrasing The Killer

to the lounge lizard singer, and said

Follow that, cocksucker

Surprisingly, we weren't asked to finish the week.

However, in two months the place flipped managers and we were back doing another 6 nighter.