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

Friday, January 25, 2013

In TOTALLY over me head here 2

I was going to include this at the end of that last one, but I had to stop because I was about to pass out.

Many years after marrying Chuckie

Oona saw Reds

After which she wrote a letter to Nicks, saying

Thanks to you, I now can love my father

So, you know, there's that.


In TOTALLY over me head here...


Well it's Russian Month again (technically more like 2 or 3 months, but that has no rhythm).
Just like every year around this time.
I don't know why, maybe it's the weather.
Anyways, on your feet, hogs, let's go.

Right, so last year, I was really concentrating more on





This year, we seem to be focusing more on The October 17th Revolution, and the events leading up to it.

Now this also allows us to enjoy a slough of good old-style cinematic extravaganzas (I know, I also didn't even know there was a first vaganza, let alone an extra one).

So we ended up screening, basically back to back

I forgot about the wild divergence between the actual performers and their representations on these old drawn posters...It's almost like they made up the artwork before casting
You can't imagine how fucking HUMUNGOUS this movie was when it came out...with one of the most hideously awful scores ever, the theme of which was played NONSTOP for the next 10 years


First off, these are some BIG assed movies, make no mistakes.
They all have actual Intermissions (something I, for one, wouldn't mind seeing a return to, not like it would ever happen), and at least one of them has a fucking Overture, for crying out loud.
Actually, IIRC, Reds was the last Hollywood release to have an Intermission

Anyways, there's all kinds of wild casting shit and everything, Zhivago is, after all, David Lean, and N&A certainly wants to be.

But, thing is, Reds features, as is known, fucking Beatty

as Jack Reed

and is basically the story of Reed's relationship with Louise Bryant

as portrayed by Diane Keaton

(In truth, I've never been much of a fan of either Beatty OR Keaton, I've never been able to fathom how the two of them could become two of the biggest stars in the world doing one single shtick, him where he just blabbers away non stop while running around flapping his arms up and down and her doing her trademark spectacularly unattractive bewildered and neurotic verge-of-tears thing, but, whatever)

(I should say, I do thoroughly enjoy watching Heaven Can Wait, repeatedly

but at least in that he's supposed to be an eccentric goofball)

And, Reds is actually a spectacularly good movie.
And I'll admit, when it got to that train platform scene, the one on the poster, I got pretty lumpy-throaty type deal.

Anyways, despite them both presenting these timeless love stories against the backdrop of the Revolution, Reds and Doc Z are, obviously, very very different films.
In the 16 years between them, Hollywood changed a lot.
Also, of course, the two directors represented two insanely divergent styles of movie making (although I'm sure Beatty would have been dead chuffed to be even mentioned in the same sentence as Lean).
BUT beyond that, here's where things start to get kind of squirrely.
Now, I'll need you to stick close to me here, it's easy to get lost.

So, OK, Reds stars Diane Keaton, who was Beatty's long time girlfriend, right?

While Doctor Zhivago stars...that's right, (the mind-blowingly beautiful) Julie Christie

Who was also a long-time girlfriend of Beatty's, at least 7 years or so

OK, I'll grant you, the 2 of them together are so fuckin pretty it's a wonder they didn't just explode

Maybe, but hold onto your X-ray Specs, things are about to get REAL fucked up.

As you probably also know, Reds was notable for what was maybe Nicks' last non-self-parodying performance, his Oxscar nomulated (and blisteringly good) portrayal

of the fantastic, one & only award-winning dramatist and poet (and Famous Drunk) Eugene O'Neill

one of my personal favourite writers of all time.

Now, like many Famous Drunks (present company excepted, and we know who we are), Mr. O'Neill wasn't exactly Father of the Year.
Although this doesn't come up in this movie, his track record as a father left something to be desired.
After at least 3 marriages, he ended up with 3 children.
His eldest son, Eugene Jr.

A classicist at Yale, took up the family trade and became quite a notorious boozer himself, committing suicide at 40.

But wait, O'Neill also had a daughter, the lovely (and most funkily named) Oona

Not too shabby lookin either!
So far so good, right?
Wait for it.
Although she didn't seem to have a drinking problem, Oona and O'Neill had a serious falling out.
So serious, in fact, that he totally disowned her when she was 18.
He strenuously rejected her current choice of a romantic companion.
Although she had already dated both (this already blows my fucking mind)

One would certainly prefer to assume she went out with him when he looked like this

Orson fucking Welles, AND

J fucking D SALINGER for the love of Pete, O'Neill TOTALLY lost it when she told him she was in love with, and wanted to marry, none other than

Yeah, I ain't making this up.
Dude was, in all fairness to O'Neill, FIFTY fucking FOUR years old, to Oona's EIGHTEEN.
That's two years older than ME for fuck's sakes.

So, sadly, she and her old man never spoke again.

Oona, sure enough, married Chucks. They went on to have, by all accounts, a close and loving relationship for 34 fucking years.
They had eight children together.
The oldest of whom was, of course, well-known actress Geraldine Chaplin.

Star of, that's right




Fuck me.

I think this is what it feels like to be Rain Man.


Friday, January 11, 2013

Did it fucking sink yet??

SPOILER WARNING: If you don't know what happened to the Titanic, stop reading IMMEDIATELY. Then go eat some fucking Drano or something, I got no time for your sorry NT$5 ass.

Exile has its benefits.
I believe I am the last person on the planet who hasn't yet heard that Gagnam deal. And more than happy to be so.

As you know, I don't really watch TV.
But sometimes while me and The Ranette are having breakfast or lunch on the weekend, I'll flip through the movie channels, as one does.
There's a decent chance I'll be able to scarf down me chapatis and eggs whilst enjoying at least one of:
  • Forrest and Lieutenant DAY-an fishing for shrimp
  • Arnold blowing some fucking thing up
  • Johnny Rambo
  • (At least one) James Bond
  • Tom Fucking Cruise running fast

There's also, as you probably know,  those deals where you've never seen a particular movie, but you've seen one part like 50 times.

That's me and Titanic.
I've never seen it, but I've seen the last 40 minutes or so so many fucking times I can say the lines right along with the actors.

There's no good reason why you can't ride up here with me, I just don't WANT you to

What a pile of shit this is, man.
And hey, while we're at it, how is it I can never get to see the part where she gets 'em out for Leo, for fuck's sakes??

Despite some pretty

Billy Zane just ROCKS, if you don't agree, you're a fucking idiot



the deal, and some OK ones

Around YOUR house he may be known as Horatio Hornblower, but around the Mâṇëy, he's always Rubber Guy from Fantastic Four...since, obviously, his real name isn't spelt in any known actual human language...

Man, the whole deal is just so fuckin goofy.

And then at the end when the old dame is running around on the boat there

NICE fuckin lettuce there, Paxton, you CLOWN, PERFECT match for your character's 70s porn actor name

and you find out she's been sitting on that fuckin diamond for the last 150 years, right?

Alls I can think of, every fucking time, is if I was one of the dudes she married and had like them hundred odd kids with and shit, and I'd worked my SACK off  every day of my life, caring for her, providing for her, feeding and clothing her and our kids, or even just any dude who ever even bought her a fucking tequila for fuck's sakes, and all along she'd been keeping this PRICELESS FUCKING DIAMOND under the mattress, well fuck me, I'd have come back from beyond the grave just long enough to crack her in her geriatric fucking MELON with a fucking OAR or belaying pin

or SOME fucking thing.
Dopey old TIT.

Oh, and the whole blue lippy coldy icey deal?
Fuck you, pal.

That was me about 1/3 of my life before the age of 16, waiting for the fucking bus.
I got through okay.
You fucking FLAKES.

And then, finally, at the end, THIS whole pile of CRAP:

Oh please, fuck you already, is this supposed to be what happens when you die?

A while ago The Ranette noted, quite accurately, that while everyone else is all dolled up For ETERNITY, Jack and his buddies are all still wearing their crappy-assed Oliver Fucking Twist gear.

I explained to her that this is because James Cocksucker Cameron wants you to know that:


And I still have never really heard that horrible fucking song by that horsefaced Quebecer broad, either.


PS My maternal grandmother, the vicious abusive one, came over from fuckin England with her family on the boat that sailed the day before the fucking Titanic. One fuckin day, I swear that's a true story.

Thursday, January 10, 2013

Is there anything I can do? I don't know, is there anything you can do?

My one grandpa used to cut his nails (to an impeccable, manicured finish) with his bone handled pocket knife.

My other grandpa could, and often did, roll a perfect smoke with one hand, frequently while driving an 18-wheeler through the Rocky Mountains.

Me, I can, well...build a Table of Contents from scratch in FrameMaker

Just doesn't quite have the same ring to it, does it?


Who garden? Me garden?

I promised the Wee Irish that I'd post this story.
This is one of two Hoogarden stories I have, the other is personal.
Too personal for the likes of you lot, that's for fuckin sure.
WARNING: The following account entails some pretty oogy shit, and may very well put you off consumption of Hoegaarden for life, if the actual swill itself hasn't already.

So yeah, I've never been a giant fan of the stuff (Hoegaarden witbier, especially in them comically huge glasses, the bar owner's nightmare, that might as well have STEAL ME painted on the side)

not that I'm any kind of beer maven or any fuckin thing, I mean, you know me, the simplicity of my tastes is a matter of record.

Any fuckin ways

A few years back, there was a certain fairly well-known travel show, in which the host, let's call him Kenny, traveled all around the world and basically got hammered on whatever the locals drank.
Not the stupidest concept for a TV show, that's for sure.

So, as it turns out, one year they'd planned on the show coming to Big Stinky for CNY, under the laughably uninformed notion that there would be a host of traditional food & drink-related festivities associated with the occasion.
And, as it further turns out, the show (with which I'd had zero familiarity prior to this, me no TV looking, right?) was actually produced back in Calgary, by this production company at which at least a couple of the creative personnel were old friends of mine.
So the producer, who is married to a guy I used to know, reaches out to me for some ideas about New Year stuff they can put in the show.
And I'm like, uhhhhhhhhhhh...
So after some back and forth it was finally determined that, unless they wanted to have a complete show of some family spending 14 hours in the car driving 60 km, followed by them sitting around the dude's Ma's house watching TV and freezin their asses off for three days, a different theme was perhaps called for.
Anyways, they came a little later, and one of their segments was beer housing, so they went to the Taiwan Beer Factory Pub

And I was in the segment as the (sort of) local host-y type deal.
I saw the final aired cut some time later and they cut out nearly everything I fuckin said, as, you know, they do.
Anyways, old Kenny, like he really pounds it down during the taping.
Like seriously.
And we were hanging out, and I asked him, you know, if he ever got too hammered to work, and what was it like actually taping segments of the show at least partially shitfaced and then watching the footage later.
He said, you know, you get used to it, and at the end of the day, who wouldn't want his job.
But he told me about one time when they had a real problem.

So the deal is, in the Amazonian regions, they have this stuff called chicha, which in some variations consists of casava chewed up by old women who spit the resulting juice into a big jug.
The enzymes in the spit apparently speed the fermentation process, and the stuff turns into wicked powerful hootch over fuckin night or something.
Apparently, making chicha is a popular (literally) cottage industry along the Amazon, with the producers living in huts all along the motorways. When they've got a fresh (!) batch, they hang this flag outside and the truck drivers will pull over and enjoy a tasty beverage or three.
I'm not sure which part of that is the most disturbing.
So they go to do an episode down there, maybe Peru, who fucking remembers.
And they did one segment, and Kenny drinks it, and is OK.
But then they had to go back and do a pickup or something, and that's when, according to him, the problem started.
Not from drinking the Grannyspit High Life, but from mixing batches.

Yeah, if there's one thing you want to be careful of, it's getting gob from ONE ancient old Amazonian crone mixed up in your gut with gob from ANOTHER ancient old Amazonian crone.
Any fuckin ways, shortly thereafter he got so sick they had to carry him back to the van because he couldn't walk.
Spent the next 3 days in his hotel room, crippled by non-stop Dual Axis Projectility.
BUT, and here's where things get interesting, according to him, not only did the horrible shit have the same colour and consistency as the fuckin Hoogarden, it was generally served in them giant Hoogarden plant pot glasses stolen from the bar (see above).

Kinda renders spitting in some dude's beer redundant, doesn't it?

So after that, he was kind of off the Hoogarden.
And after HEARING that, I was DEFINITELY off it me fucking self.

Think about that the next time you're about to dive into one of them steroidal motherfuckers.


Wednesday, January 9, 2013


A guy I used to know, who came from Southern California, used to say

Mexicans are like snow...anyone who didn't grow up with them always thinks they're cool...


Continuity...it's everything

So on the way in this morning, I don't recall exactly why, but I flashed back to being like 13 or so and me sainted Ma catching me with smokes in me pocket.
Or she smelled it on me, maybe, both happened quite a lot.
And as I recalled the incident, I sort of realized that my entire childhood took place against a constant background of me being in trouble with my mother.

Liberally peppered with bouts of being in trouble with my grandma (the hateful abusive one, not the negligent drunken one)

and my sister.

Taking this from the perspective of my current situation, and the ensuing years, something seems pretty clear.

It is, for whatever reason, or maybe none at all, my fate, my destiny

to spend my entire existence on the planet in trouble with a woman.

Not that there isn't progress being made, since when I was a kid, at least with me Ma, I was pretty much always in trouble for actually doing something wrong.

Now, of course, we're liberated from all that meaningless burden of determining causality, what with it just not being applicable.

Which is, obviously, a load off everyone's mind.