Goodbye Old Friend

This week has been a rough week for me and probably not much fun for our dog either. The week started badly for both of us. We have both suffered, although me more than him. He got sick at the weekend, apparently after eating something that did not agree, and spent the next couple of days in what you can assume was a fair amount of discomfort. It can't have been very nice for the poor animal. There was one slightly amusing moment when one morning I woke at 3:00am to the sound of running water. It seems that Mrs.W, upon smelling dog shit in the house had gone to investigate, apparently in the dark and barefoot, and having inadvertently stepped in said shit was now attempting to wash it off. She only had herself to blame, it was foolish and shortsighted to embark upon such a treacherous mission in darkness. In fact, a largely overlooked and little known paragraph from the private, personal diary of Thomas Edison confirms that one of the motivating factors in his research and subsequent invention of the electric light bulb was a similar experience involving his beloved Great Dane "Morris" and the non too coincidental disappearance of a three week old leg of mutton that Mrs. Edison had been nagging him to throw away for several days.
Anyway, to cut to the chase, our dog has been shitting like a goose. Normally this amuses me as I am not the one who cleans it up since I had a line or two added and notarized as an amendment to our marriage vows, but this time it was not quite so amusing. My blue leatherette beanbag, after which this blog is named, is a total loss. Quite what it was doing out in the living room anyway, I don't know. I didn't put it there. We had some friends staying with us recently and I assume that it was removed from it's usual home in the record/spare room to make way for them and just did not get put back. Whatever the reason, it's irrelevant, it's gone, history, the bin men took it on Tuesday.
To be fair, I hadn't used it in quite some time. It may surprise many of you to learn that I have at various points in my life used, but rarely abused any number or combination of illegal (or at the very least illegitimately obtained) substances. Not that I condone or advocate this behaviour, especially if you are a teenager or a minor, but me and the beanbag had some good times. Many an enjoyable evening was spent with the beanbag (not counting that night I found out that we had rats - that wasn't pleasant at all). But, like that old worn out pair of undies that serve no purpose other than comfort, or the sweat and curry stained t-shirt that you sleep in (removed only for sleep naked night), it's hard to say good-bye.
The shit, if it can be called shit for it had no texture, it was really just foul smelling water with a fine sand like grit in it, had penetrated the seams of the leatherette and undoubtedly tainted the small polystyrene balls contained within. The purpose for which it was intended, relaxation, was no longer attainable. Any future use would be ill advised. All I have is memories. The first time I listened to The Verve's Urban Hymns, Radiohead's Kid A, that fuckin' killer Droog mp3 that I downloaded. Good times.

I may buy a new one, one with real beans inside it, the kind that do not absorb the odour of dog cack, or one with a washable cover. It's not the leatherette that was the problem. Normally you can't go wrong with leatherette, you can wipe off most spills and accidents. It's the seams and the stitching that you have to worry about, or whatever is underneath. I don't know, the time may not be right, maybe give it a month or two, try and find the right one for me. I shouldn't just rush out and get a new one just to help me cope with my loss, wouldn't be prudent, might be under filled or not as durable. No, I shall wait for the right one to come to me. I'm not interested in someone else's cast off either, I want my own, one that I can mould and shape, make it my own. A beanbag is for life not just for xmash. I'll probably go with leatherette again. There is something about it, looks like the real thing, feels like the real thing and from a distance or in a photograph could easily be confused for the real thing.

The wife suggested that I change the name of the blog. I don't think I want to do that but am open to suggestions. I know that readership has dropped lately due to lack of posts, but the ones that are left are the ones that matter. Anybody?

Waring a Bit Thin

Getting back into blogging after taking a bit of a break is like squeezing yourself into a new pair of latex undies, one would think. You have to ease yourself in bit by bit, take it slow, easy does it. On the other hand, a liberal sprinkling of talcum powder doesn't seem to help much and once in, it's hard to get back out.

Three poor quality posts this week equals my output for the past three months, a barren spell by anyone's standards. I was suffering a period of creative dullness, barely bothered to even notice what was going on in the mad, mad world around me let alone sit down and think about it. One thing that I have noticed is that the historic Pantages Theater in Hollywood seems to be having electrical problems, specifically with their neon sign. Over the past few weeks it has spelled all of the following:

ANTA ES
PANTAG
P NTAGES
TAG S
P T ES
PISSFLAPS

Funny how nobody noticed.

Okay, I made the last one up but the others are true. It's interesting to note that the only letter that seems to work consistently is the letter 'T'. I have made a mental note to document any further problems with the sign with pictures which I will submit to Museum of Neon Art for an exhibition of poorly maintained signs.
I have also observed that the smell of piss in the rear doorway of the old KFWB studio on Yucca has become so bad that even the homeless have abandoned it. The smell is due to a floor mat that was left there when the building was vacated and has subsequently been urinated on by the entire homeless population and full contingent of passing clubbers in Hollywood. If asked, most nomads would say that any port in a storm will do, but on a recent stormy Friday night the dry yet stinky doorway was noticeably free of unwashed vagrants. I've pissed in many a doorway whilst staggering home from the pub, usually Horace's Shoe Shop as it was recessed way back from the street and away from passing police cars, many other people did too and it smelled fuckin' terrible but this is far, far worse than the worst piss smell you could imagine. It is noticeable even across the street and with the right breeze, the other side of Vine St. So come on Johnny G Rant, Honorary Mayor of Hollywood ( I know you read this) get your act together and clean the fucker up, the cold nights are coming and the homeless need a home.

KFWPEE more like.....(childish giggles)

Tired

A restless night last night, scared that the Shrek dream would return to haunt me, I spent the night tossing (yes, very funny) and turning. It's strange though that only the bad dreams are really memorable. I can't remember the last good dream that I had beyond the Olympic shitting dream of a week or so ago (still no reply from the IOC by the way).

Somebody should invent some kind of dream capture device, possibly a hard hat lined with tin foil wired to an old Polaroid camera. On second thoughts, a Polaroid may not be practical due to the cost of the films, although you could probably pick up the camera from a charity shop for next to nowt. If anyone is interested in working on such an invention, I am willing to split the proceeds. We could perhaps apply for some kind of grant from Richard Branson or Prince Charles. Free money is the best kind of money and ideal for gambling with as you don't incur any personal losses. The hookers don't seem to mind either, money is money to their sort. We could use our winnings from the gambling to buy the hat and the tin foil. Email me if you are up for it.

Speaking of twats (Branson, Charlie), I'm extremely annoyed at my dentist for failing to do a filling when I first told him about it over a year ago. I told him again six months ago and he told me not to worry, then on my last check up a couple of weeks ago he decided that it finally needed doing. So I go in yesterday and after the normal pre-dentalwork routine (cough and drop etc.) he starts to drill away. After a minute or two of poking around (ha-ha!) he informs me that I now need a fuckin' root canal, the sadistic bastard. This will be the 2nd one this year and comes at a time when I can ill afford the expense.

I have always had my suspicions about dentists. They can tell you practically anything, and just like plumbers and car mechanics, they more or less have a license to print their own money. Up until a couple of years ago, I didn't go to a dentist for about 7 years and when I finally got over the fear and went in for a check up, all I needed apart from a good cleaning was one filling to replace an old one that had fallen out. So why then, in the two years since I started going again have I needed more work done than in the 7 previous years of not fucking going? Call me a cynic but I think he's taking the piss. I will be removing him from the xmas card list if he's not careful.

Never Going To Sleep Again....Ever

I really don't feel all that comfortable talking about it but need to get it off my chest. It's quite disturbing. I've been thinking about it all day and not in a good way.

I mentioned it to Mrs.W when I got home from work. She laughed at first but it seemed like a rather nervous "you scare the shit out me sometimes" type laugh. She has good reason.

Another odd dream last night. I've been having a few lately. I have not been taking my medication as prescribed because it was making it hard to wake up in the morning. I was taking it right before bed so I wouldn't forget but decided to try taking it in the morning instead. I'm always rushing in the morning though and sometimes don't take it. I am blaming the dreams on this change as the alternatives are not acceptable.

Last night, or rather this morning right before I woke up in a cold sweat, feeling very very ashamed indeed, I dreamed that I was giving Shrek a blow job........ There I said it. Laugh all you want to, you callous bastards. Just put yourself in my shoes.....It's a very uncomfortable feeling waking up knowing that you just fantasized, albeit unwillingly, about blowing a cartoon ogre. I'm not gay, I'm not gay, I'm not fuckin' gay!!!!! I don't have a thing for green ogre's with Scotch accents either.

Shrek wielding his weapon....the brute.

This is bad. How the fuck do I ever sit with my daughter and watch Shrek 1, 2 or 3 ever again???? What do I tell her when she asks to watch the fucker? I will have to lie to her. I can't tell her the fuckin' truth can I? Why couldn't it have been Princess Fiona? Or even the donkey for fucks sake? At least then I could laugh about it.

I was going to blog about my weekend in San Diego. Took a couple of nights off from the club as the day job had thoughtfully organized a meeting in SD and was paying for the weekend in a hotel for the family. Nothing much happened though outside of me getting rat arsed on Friday night and feeling extremely poorly on Saturday. Besides, the Shrek dream this morning took the shine off things.

Dream A Little Dream

The other night I dreamed that I was an Olympic gold medal winner......in shitting.

It was a new competition that was causing quite a stir. Competitors were strapped, pant-less into some kind of bondage harness on the end of a rope swing. On the ground below the swing was a bullseye like target with 3 rings, the outer being worth 50 points, the next worth 100 points, the inner ring was worth 200 points and in the center was a bucket worth 500 points. The object of the competition was for the "athletes" to swing from one platform to another and to poop whilst in mid-swing. Needless to say, your score was determined by where the turd landed. I won by nailing three straight buckets for a perfect score, a world record.

In the cold light of morning, it seems fairly unlikely that this kind of thing would ever be accepted into the Summer Olympics as it is way too exciting for them. There may be a chance in the Winter Olympics but it might be too cold for it.

The more I think about it, the more it intrigues me. It would require a great deal of skill, muscle control and mental preparation. Timing would be paramount, meals would have to be carefully planned and the use of performance enhancing drugs such as stool softeners and laxatives would have to be stopped....... I'm obviously going to have to put some serious thought into this before presenting it to the IOC.

Okay, so you waited for over a month and all you get is another post about shite. You have a right to be disappointed but admit it....you missed me.

I have lost about 23lbs, missed a dental appointment, read zero books and have so far failed to find an acceptable alternative to bacon. Enough of me, what have YOU been up to?

Israeli's, Tennis Balls and Fake Cripples

I'm a bit annoyed this morning, mostly with myself.

Last night someone, an Israeli, wanted to make a bet with me that Israel would beat England today. Hesitantly, because England have been a bit shit lately, I agreed and as is the Israeli way we began to talk money. He started off at $1000 and I told him to fuck right off because a) I don't have $1000 and b) even if I did I would not be putting it in the hands of Steve McLaren. I suggested something a little more reasonable like $50. He would not do it!!!

What the fuck is wrong with these lads? If I had agreed to the grand he probably would have taken it and I would have theoretically been $1000 richer this morning. I say theoretically because there is no way the fucker would have paid up without, shall we say, a little pressure. I just don't get them. Their perceived value of things is way off. I see them all the time at the club, they will happily drop $500 on a bottle of vodka but will go to extraordinary lengths to get a $5 discount on admission. They will show up dressed in expensive designer threads and stand around outside for a hour or even two, waiting for someone they know who works there to get them in for free. It's all fuckin' flash and talk with fuckers from that region of the world, big fuckin' talkers. They want to argue, get in your face, push buttons but then play the race/religion card quicker than anyone when things go south. Like I said though, I'm more annoyed with myself that I didn't grab his hand and shake it as soon as he said "put your money where your mouth is."

Tennis Balls
I've been working hard on a creating a new image for tennis balls, or at least finding a new use for them. After doing some research I have concluded that there are only three main purchasers of tennis balls. Tennis players, dogs (or dog owners) and people who use zimmer frames. You don't ever see a tennis player using a walking frame and you never see a walking frame user playing tennis. Similarly, it is extremely rare to see a dog doing either and the thought of a dog doing both at the same time is just silly as they are really only interested in chasing the tennis ball. You could argue that a dog owner might be either a tennis player or the user of a walking frame who gets extended use out of their old tennis balls by throwing them for their dog but I would say the you were stretching things a bit.
Apparently you can also use tennis balls for breaking into some older model cars but I'm not sure the industry would want that particular activity to be the focus of an advertising campaign. So I'm struggling with this. If anyone has any ideas please share them.

Mister Waring! Can We Have Our Balls Back?
Puuuhhhleeeeese?

Absolutely No Use For Tennis Balls

Fake Cripples
One of the few things that annoys me more than a fake cripple is getting stuck behind a real cripple in a narrow aisle at the supermarket. This isn't about real ones though, it's about fake ones, people who do it for either financial gain or because they are just lazy twats and in some cases, both.
I see this lad last night in a wheelchair, he's obviously not right as he is having a loud argument with himself about religion. Anyway, this lad is wheeling himself along in the wheelchair using his legs and feet. If he can use his legs and feet to such a degree why does he need a wheelchair? Is it his back? Can he just not stand up straight? Am I judging him too harshly?
I once saw some bloke on crutches standing at the bottom of the freeway exit holding bit of cardboard which said "Cripled(sic) Please help". Later that day I swear I saw him running for a bus.

A Very Sweaty Arse Crack

Fuck!

It's been two fuckin' weeks since my last post. What the fuck has happened to me? I was turning out regular posts 3 or 4 months ago. Okay, they weren't much cop but at least I was making the effort. I need to sort my shit out and get back to the matters at hand. The stuff that nobody else seems to concern themselves with, that few are interested in and that make absolutely no fuckin' difference to the lives of the majority of the population. The stuff that (my) dreams are made of.

I took last week off from the day job, time to relax, to sleep in until at least 7am or just to lie around spread eagled across the sofa pumping my fist to the morning weather girls on telly.
Actually, I took time off to try being a Dad for a week seeing as it was the younger Waring's last week off from school and to hopefully get some shit done that I never seem to have time for, like blogging. Turns out that it was the hottest week of the fuckin' year here in LA and to be honest, it was fuckin' miserable round at the noticeably non-air conditioned Waring house. We got out and did a couple of things like see a film or two and went down to the Aquarium of The Pacific in Long Beach but other than that, it was a week spent sparring with the missus and just trying to stay cool. It was too fuckin' warm to blog and my mood did not suit anyway, so I purposely left it alone. Enough said.

Speaking of the heat, it's cooled off considerably and could be described as "quite a nice evening" in these parts. A cool breeze and a celebratory bottle of wine (my first for some time) conspire to make life tolerable again.

Speaking of the heat, last Saturday lunchtime I took the sprog to the pictures to see "Underdog", a festering turd of a movie - avoid at all costs, it has Jim Fucking Belushi in it for Bogs sake. Anyway, we go over to Alhambra, where at noon on the corner of Atlantic & Main it is 104 fuckin' degrees hot and some poor cunt is out dressed in a Spongebob costume holding a sign that says "HONK IF YOU WANT TO SAY HELLO"......

Don't Do Drugs......

I don't know why, maybe it was a bet, a dare or maybe someone was desperate to lose weight or something but I can think of no good reason to do this to myself. They were not advertising anything but were stood outside a car dealership so maybe they were just trying to attract attention to it. I got there at noon, entered the cinema at 12:15 and came out at 2:00 and they were still there. There was also someone in a Garfield costume (although they were gone at 2:00pm) a Genie (from Aladdin) and someone in a neon green dinosaur costume all holding the same sign. As usual, I was left with only questions....no answers.

Speaking of losing weight, I am on a diet stroke healthy eating stroke exercise binge once again. I need to lose a pound or fifty and get myself into some kind of shape if I am to ditch the wife and attract a quality replacement. That said, I did not need the added, unexpected bonus workout that I got last night. It was the first night back at school after taking the summer off, I enrolled in a Human Relations class which should be a fuckin' breeze and keep my 4.0 GPA intact, thank you very much.
I may have mentioned before that parking at Glendale College is a fuckin' nightmare, traumatising to say the least. You buy a parking permit but yet there is nowhere to park, fucking racketeers is what they are. Anyway, they sorted it out by building a shiny new multi-storey and advertised the benefits to no end. So I show up and fuck yeah! No problem, I pull into a space on the sparsely populated 5th floor of the garage....very nice! I follow the signs for the lift and notice with little surprise that the lift shaft seems to be lacking doors and indeed, a lift. The bastards have rushed to complete the parking structure in time for term so that they can sell more fucking parking permits but have not yet added the necessary accessories that would actually make it conveniently accessible.

Normally, 5 flights of stairs are no big deal but the location of the parking structure, atop a very steep grade indeed, adds a good 100 (steep) steps from the college itself up to first floor of the garage. The journey down is a treat but the return is a right bugger. I had to stop half way up to almost throw up and my legs were like jelly. Imagine my delight as I practically crawled, wheezing and spluttering to the top just a the free shuttle bus pulled up......bastards!

Also, as a result of the diet/excercise/arse sweat lifestyle change, I have made a radical choice to change my underwear of preference. More later....