Tales of nonsense and items of little interest, sometimes true, always poorly thought through. Less sophisticated than most newspapers and magazines.

Wednesday, May 9, 2007

2Pacalypse Now

The Arsonists Anonymous field trip to the zoo ended prematurely

After burning over 800 acres of "chaparral", the Griffith Park fire is largely contained. No animals at the LA Zoo were hurt, no structures were damaged and no lives lost. Much of one of LA's areas of natural beauty however is gone, for a year or two until it grows back. The newly renovated Griffith Observatory was untouched and the precious Hollywood sign remains. Something tells me that if it were forced into a choice between saving rare and exotic animals or the famous sign, the City of LA would be out shopping for Elephants today. There were evacuations, just in case, although none mandatory and probably more for the sake of the TV news crews than anyone else. Don't misunderstand me, I'm sad about it all, the hillside looks horrible today and the landscape behind the Observatory just looks....well, weird. Where I am used to seeing green and brown, now all I see is grey and black. Kind of like my blog.

There are of course many tales and news reports about the fire, but one in particular caught my eye in the LA Times, or rather one sentence:

"Gabriella Parra, 40, and her son, Tupac Otero, 3, fled their Richland Avenue apartment about 8 p.m. while her husband stayed behind."

Tupac? Fuckin' Tupac? Who in the name of G.M.Chrysler would call their kid Tupac? What, Biggie Otero didn't quite have the same ring? Afraid the other kids might tease if you called him Snoop? Ol' Dirty Bastard just didn't do it for you? Come on people, have some decorum. Besides, the kid is 3 years old, meaning he was born in 2003 at the earliest. Tupac was offed back in 1996. I could almost understand if you were the worlds biggest Tupac fan and your kid just happened to be born on the day Tupac died, then and only then you might consider, whilst in a state of epidural induced bliss calling the little angel Tupac but only because you would certainly change your mind later when you came around. But to actually do it. That is some keerrraaayzzeee shit you be smokin' sista.

Now I know that according to some people Tupac is considered the Worlds greatest ever rapper. I don't know much about rap but if he is better than the bloke out of Cameo then he gets my vote too. Tupac was obviously idolized by millions, at least 75 million if you go by record sales, so it's feasible that somebody, somewhere is going to be daft enough to name their kid after him.

In a town like LA, crazy kid names are the norm but it isn't just here. I have friends back in the UK who are calling their kids after all sorts of poor role models. My cousin named his little boy Liam, after Liam Gallagher, the nob head. I know people with girls called Britney, Phoebe, Courtney. If people are intent on naming their kids after TV stars and pop singers, where are the Hilda's or the Vera's? The Norman's or the Englebert's? What happened to keeping family names going in memory of loved ones? ....shit, look at the time. I have put Galaxy Sparkle to bed, she gets cranky if it gets too late.

Tuesday, May 8, 2007

Colour Me Bad

I'm not good with colours. Neither do I enjoy shopping for throw pillows or skipping through puddles. I don't go in for long walks in the forest with a "young friend."

I tried to liven up my blog with a little colour and a fancy font or two but thanks to some kind suggestions and one or two insults, I now know that when it comes to aesthetics I am to say the least, challenged. So it's back to boring old grey. At least it is easy on the eyes.

I have been in bed all day, sick. This is the first time I have called off work sick in at least 6 or 7 years. I had the worst headache all night and a sore throat but managed to sleep most of the day, highly unusual for me. I am thankful that I don't get sick very often, hardly at all, but this one floored me. I managed to get out of bed about 4.30 and feebly took a shower and got dressed as I had class tonight. In utter misery, I dragged my sorry arse down to the garage and winced as I got into the car. The parking situation at the college was its usual clusterfuck with next to no spaces available so I parked in a remote lot, making note of any landmarks and began the trek to the school, cursing and muttering to myself as I went. I must have been giving off ugly vibes as even the Armenian lads were giving me a wide one instead of closing ranks to force physical contact as a precursor to a fight. Up the many steps I laboured and across the footbridge, up some more steps and then some more only to find an empty classroom and the dreaded pink notice informing all suckers that class was cancelled. Bastards.

If this post seems familiar, it is. I think I posted about a cancelled class several weeks ago, due at the time to high winds. Today one can only assume that it is due to the fire in Griffith Park, 3 or 4 miles away. It's a nasty fire and to be fair, Glendale is suffering from smoke and ash fallout as it happens to be the way the breeze is blowing. My professor, in addition to being a boring old twat, is quite obviously a pussy. He is also very absent minded. Last week, he attempted to show the class a video (yes, VHS) about the hiring and firing process. After about 20 minutes fiddle-fucking around with the VCR, he finally got it to work with the projector and up on the screen appeared an episode of Starsky & Hutch he had taped back in '81. He had brought the wrong tape from home. As a consolation, he then passed around his holiday photos from a trip to Moscow he took prior to the demise of the USSR. I firmly believe, having bought the textbook, I could pass the class without his help.

Sunday, May 6, 2007

Yappy The Dog

First of all, let me say that I am a dog lover (if that doesn't get me 100 extra hits from Germany, I don't know what will.) The Waring household has a long history of being benevolent towards dogs, we have always had at least one and Mrs. Waring spent many years devoting her life to rescuing stray or abandoned dogs. In the eyes of many dogs, at least, she is a saint. I just tolerated them, sometimes.

We live in an area where there are many dog owners, I say owners not lovers because most of them keep their dogs tied to a chain around a tree in their yard or let them roam the area shitting on peoples property. Going for a walk round here is about as wise as climbing into the lion enclosure at the zoo to recover your $5 sunglasses, hardly worth the trouble. Besides not being very scenic it is definitely not very relaxing, you never know what is around the next corner. Despite all this, I bear no ill will toward mans best friend. I treat dogs like I treat Armenians, in a friendly but cautious manner. To be honest, dogs deserve better and I would never kick a dog.

There is one exception. Somewhere, not too many houses away, there is an as yet unidentified but very noticeable canine. His name is Yappy. Yappy is on my shit list. Yappy needs to go away, for good. A long walk in the desert would do Yappy, and my sanity the world of good. Yappy, has a big problem. Yappy, as his name suggests, yaps.... a lot. A shrill, high pitched, incessant, fury inducing, sleep depriving yap.

I would target Yappy's apparently deaf owners for punishment for Yappy's crimes. But last time I checked, the law provided for much stiffer penalties for acts of violence commited upon a person than it did for those upon a dog. Obviously, depending upon which State you live in, concessions can be made depending upon the ethnic background of either the perpetrator or the victim. California, I am happy to say is not generally one of them since an unfortunate incident back in '92 when a certain section of society, upset by some amateur video, decided to protest.

Say your prayers Muthafuckaaaaaaa!

This may seem callous and may anger some readers but even Mutley might agree that Yappy has it coming. I know that it isn't his fault. I know he probably just wants to be let back into the house so he can shit in his favourite spot behind the sofa. I know he probably just wants to bark at the telly or tear up the throw pillows. He doesn't know any better. He's just a wittle doggie. Bollocks! Our dog knows not to do any of those things, the shock collar told him so. Besides, his owners would thank me. They just don't have the balls to do it themselves.