Simple Pleasures

Summerrrrtiiiiime and the livin' is easyyyyyy....

There is something about this picture that makes me miss my people. When I say "my people" I mean Brits, Northerners, normal folk. The type of people who get my humour. The type of people who take a plate covered in a filthy tea towel to the chippy for their tea. People to whom I don't have to repeat myself 5 times before giving up and rephrasing myself with words that they understand or slow enough that they get what I am trying to say. I still have my accent, sometimes more than others but as a necessity for work purposes, enunciate better and pronounce my "R's". When I have been drinking or after a recent conversation with a fellow Brit, it can be hard for simple Yanks to follow me.

Back to the picture though, I found it on a hometown website, uploaded by a member of the lady's family and I swear, had I simply come across this picture, with no knowledge of where it was found, I would say that without a shadow of a doubt, this auld lass was from my part of the world. I'm not making fun of her, she reminds me of my Grandma. Here she is, willing to be photographed looking completely unglamourous, curlers in, feet up in her ratty old slippers with holes in and smoking a ciggie in her back yard whilst catching a few precious rays of sunshine. For all we know, it could be a man in drag.

I don't mean to offend any non Brits with this post. Sometimes you just need to be around your own for a week or two until you get sick of the misery and the moaning and the long faces. This picture just aroused something in me (not sexually you sick bastards) and made me miss my family.

D.C. Warmington didn't help with his beautifully written post about his lawnmower either. It made me long for the English summer. Beer gardens, kebabs and the smell of curry carried like a feather on the evening breeze.

Fuck the airlines and their outrageous fares......

Kodak Moments

A milestone was passed in the Waring household today. The child lost her first baby tooth. Luckily, I was at work and didn't have to deal with the frantic screaming and wailing that followed the momentous event. Mrs. Waring did the honours. By the time I got home, things had settled down and the hysteria had been replaced by excitement at the prospect of a visit from the tooth fairy. There was some debate about what monetary value the tooth fairy places on the first tooth and naturally, being a six year old who still believes in Father Christmas and the Easter Bunny, (despite the influence of some smart arse friends), she was full of questions about how and why the tooth fairy does what she does. For a man such as myself who delights in misinforming the uninformed, (you get your kicks when you can), it is like a blank canvas to Salvador Dali.

It's not just me. Mrs. W does her fair share to confuse the issues too. In an effort to persuade the kid not to mess with the tooth after it had been placed under her pillow (makes it easier to find - smart see), she tried to compare it to finding a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest and once you put it back into its nest, not touching it again because the mummy bird will abandon it (?). This didn't make much sense to me either and I suspected (correctly) that she had got into the scotch again. The child seemed very confused, so I left it at that. To try and explain would lead down roads best not traveled so I simply said that mummy was being silly and changed the subject.

I put her to bed and put the tooth under the pillow, read her a story and kissed her goodnight and she asked "how will the tooth fairy get the tooth out if my head is on the pillow?" Dammit! A logical question! Caught on the hop, all I could say was "Its magic, no one knows, go to sleep," I turned out the light and left.

A few minutes ago, the wife came out to me. The kid had called her into the room and expressed concern that she had just been picking her nose and was worried that now the tooth fairy wouldn't show up. She reassured her that it was okay and left. The wimp! I would have told her to stick that under there as well because bogeys automatically double the value of the tooth. I can just see the concerned look on the Kindergarten teachers face as the story was told to the class tomorrow...... But I'm a sick cunt.

Yet Another Post About Cack

Whilst lunching at my favourite inexpensive Mexican hole the other day (and no, that is not a euphemism for going down on a cheap hooker,) I couldn't help but notice the extraordinary length of time one elderly gent spent in the toilet. It's a small restaurant and only has one toilet that serves both men and women, so if someone goes in there for any length of time, a line will soon form, especially during busy periods. Luckily, the place was quite empty and only myself, this old lad, his wife and another couple were there. I usually avoid this particular toilet as it is quite unsavoury and not at all appetizing (although there has been many a time when I have had no choice but to use it), while I think this is generally a good policy it has led to several "photo finishes" upon my return to the relative sterility of the work bogs. But that is another post entirely.

Anyway, this old lad went to the bog just as I was starting to eat my bowl of Posole. They are big bowls of steaming hot soup and usually take me a good 20-25 minutes to finish. I was almost done with it before I realized that the old man had not returned, so he must have been gone at least 15 minutes. I looked over at his wife who was reading a book, seemingly unconcerned by his extended absence. She must be used to it I thought. Another 5 minutes passed by and still no sign of the old geezer, I was getting concerned. How horrible would it be if he had died in there?

I had done a post a couple of months ago about a bloke who died on a bookies bog (still no word on the cause of death in that one) and so I found this situation naturally enthralling and needless to say would have to stick around past the end of my lunch time to find out. After a few more minutes, his wife got up and went to look for him. I was sure she would return screaming for help and readied myself with camera phone, just in case. Sadly Happily, a few moments later they both returned, him red faced and sweating, her shaking her head.

What I don't understand is how can some people possibly take so long in the bog? I'm not going to suggest that he was rubbing one out, he didn't seem the sort, but why the fuck did he go in there if he wasn't ready? I know some people who take like 10 minutes to have a shit. I'm in and out in under two minutes unless it's one of the sticky variety that takes forever to wipe clean. I also know people who can go a day or two without shitting when I'm in there 3 times a day guaranteed. You can put the rent money on it. It's a dead cert.

Whatever you do in the sanctity of your own shithouse is your business (Boom, Boom!) and who am I or anyone else for that matter to question it. But please, when in public places, especially if it's a one stall mexican shithole that serves food of a highly dubious quality, don't hog the bog cause you can be sure there will be someone who really needs to use it more than you do. Play the white man and wait until you are ready.

You Are My Sunshine

Mrs. Waring is in a good mood this morning. She has seemed a little tense the last couple of days, as if anticipating something unpleasant. I've been sick, tired and cranky which probably hasn't helped the atmosphere around here but things are on the up. She seems even more relieved than I am that the unthinkable did not happen, as it well might have done, this morning. My beloved Wigan Athletic avoided relegation from the Premiership, instead sending Sheffield Utd down by beating them 2-1.
She has good cause, I would have been impossible to live with for the foreseeable future had they lost. Ideally, West Fucking Ham would have been beaten by Man Utd and they would have gone down instead. Justice was not however fully served and the Blades were the unlucky ones. Too bad for them. West Fucking Ham will get what they deserve eventually.

On a less important note, today is of course Mothers Day. The one day of the year when wife beaters, misogynists and miserable husbands everywhere buy some cheap chocolates and a card that says "I may be an unloving cunt but I am obligated to buy a card that says I do in fact love you and am grateful for all the chips you make me(expires at midnight)." It's also the day when kids present their mum's with the card made with macaroni glued in the shape of a heart that they spent all day making in school last week and have been trying to hide ever since. It's sooooo cute!

Mrs.W seems content with her chocolates and cards and has gone back to bed, the excitement having tired her out.......did I mention that Wigan won?

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.

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.

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.