Blogging isn't easy. Stephen (not her real name) makes it look simple. Words flow like magic off of her little flailing digits. Tip-tip-tip-tap-tap goes her key board and after a few minutes VIOLA a blog is born. She's got tons of readers. I don 't know how many readers I have because I don't know how to hook up the visitor counter. I think I'm up to four readers now, not bad for a weeks worth of work and not having any face book friends.
In contrast, my key board stares back at me and dares me to touch it. I really really wish I could TALK BLOG.
Blogging with me is a totally different story. When I'm in the shower, the words fly thorugh my head like a Stephen King novel. If I could TALK BLOG (a new concept) , the stories would be entertaining ,and, funny and seamless. But when it comes time to put pen to paper, or should I say "pinkies to the keys"(?), the brilliant dialogue, the impeccable scene descriptions, the heros and heroines and villains disappear like kids at dinner time (as in: "hey kids time for dinner; where in the hell are those kids, they always disappear at dinner time?") or like trying to find friends to help you move (as in:Hey pal I'm moving this weekend, could you lend a hand; Pal says " Ah, god I'd love to but my dead grandma needs some help with her casket hinges, perhaps next time eh, bud").
For some reason my brain freezes up at blog time. Perhaps it's the pressure of trying to be entertaining enough that my kid's friends won't think I'm a boring old (Did I mention I hate that word?) fuddy duddy.My typing speed is pathetic. I swear everytime I type a letter and look up at the screen and then look back down at the keyboard, the keyboard letters have changed positions. It is impossible for me to memorize that dang thing.
I was really fired up to do a blog. It's like I was really enthusiastic to join Gold's gym. I've found out that exercising the brain is like exercising the body. Both activities drain you. I actually didn't join Gold's gym, My wife (she won't let me give her a phony name, even though I have a reall good one picked out, so I'm relegated to calling her wife) did. I was able to use a guest pass for two weeks. The first week I went three times and did a lot exercising, the next week i went once and did some exercising. Now my guest membeship has expired and haven't been this week. This blogging thing is the same kind of thing. I was all excited at first, three blogs the first week and now I'm down to one for this week, but I've got a good excuse because tomorrow I'm heading to SFO (San Francisico) to eat for three days solid and catch the USC Trojans over in Bear country (Cal Berkely).
I hope I come back with fresh ideas and new typing skills and who knows mabe I'll join Golds Gym for real. See you next week!!
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
"ON THE MOVE AGAIN" (sung to the tune of: "on the road again"
WE are moving on. We moved in to this old house in B.A. (Bel Air and I'm no Fresh Prince), and we were only going to be here for a only a few months, but as chance would have it four years have gone by. But now, finally we are moving to the beach, Marina Del Rey beach, next to gritty, grimey, quirky, artsy, "I'm not richy rich" Venice Beach. Marina Del Rey is the tacky condo capital of the world. I think "tacky condos" is a polite way of saying crappy little sh*t boxes occupied by upwardly social wanna be's with upitty, snooty attitudes.
The number of dwelling units and human density of the place is overwhelming. There are run down condos, slouchy stucco apartments, overfilled garbage dumpsters and dogs everywhere. Everybody has a dog. The smaller the apt. the bigger the dog. There are loads of rusting, hulking, deteriorating buildings built to fall down after a few years of heavy use. Romans and Greeks used large stones and some goop as mortar and their edifices last thousands and thousands of years. I don't get it. The builders of today must pay off the politicos with bribes or something. In ancient times I guess the builders had to build stuff to stand the test of time or they were thrown to the lions for sport.
We are moving to the Marina because the house we live in is falling down and needs to be rennovated. We bought it to tear down four years ago and build a new one, but with the recession/depression, I lost the taste for spending a ton of dough on a new place. All of our furniture is gone for a long time now. Our living room set consists of one worn out slip covered love seat that has been mauled and clawed to pieces by the cats, one folding camp lounge chair and one actually fairly nice ottoman. My daughter would not take the love seat. Hmmm, note to self find someone to pawn it off on. Perhaps a deceptive description of it on Craig's list. There's got to be a sucker somewhere.
My wife is so embarrased about the way we live that she won't let anyone in the house. She greets people at the door and only opens it about two inches. It's like a brush salesman going up to a crack house and asking to see the lady of the house. "Would you like to buy some cleansers, mam?" Lady says"No"!!! Door slams, Gun Barrel comes out of peep hole, "get lost or die, chump!!!". Beware if you come to our old house.
I hate moving. I have to sit and watch my poor wife do all the packing. I have to tape up the boxes. Taping boxes is a lot of responsibility. It's a proven fact that poorly taped box bottoms cause broken heirlooms and lots of arguments about who is going to clean up the mess. But that's just me, I'm made to take on important responsibility. They call me the pointer. My left index finger gets a huge workout by pointing out obvious and not so obvious things that need to get done by the workers (the "WORKERS" are usually my wife, because I like to save money and not hire real packers and movers who make a living at it). But, low and behold we moved some stuff in yesterday, Sunday. One load of boxes in the HOOOOMAIR (rhymes with hair) dang near filled the place. I don't know where the rest of our things are going to fit(the garage, or rent some storage I guess).
Am I missing something or is all of L.A. falling apart? Water mains breaking after only 100 years of service( is water ok to drink out of 100 year old pipes?), pot holes in the street everywhere wiping out $6,000 low profile rims and tires, City Workers standing around and not fixing anything (I guess they are waiting and practicing for furlough day).
We are getting further South in our quest for nirvana. Fifteen years ago we started out in a dusty, meth infested, prison town in the desert. It seems like we are inching our way to move and live in Newport Beach in the O.C. where everything is new and bright and fresh. Where the air is crisp, humming birds hummm, children sing and O.C. wives do their thing. It's a place where homelessness and trash and filth is something you read about happening somewhere else, like Iraq or Kenya or West L.A. . Ah, someday we'll make it to the O.C. For now though Marina Del Rey will do. My new home sweet home.
The number of dwelling units and human density of the place is overwhelming. There are run down condos, slouchy stucco apartments, overfilled garbage dumpsters and dogs everywhere. Everybody has a dog. The smaller the apt. the bigger the dog. There are loads of rusting, hulking, deteriorating buildings built to fall down after a few years of heavy use. Romans and Greeks used large stones and some goop as mortar and their edifices last thousands and thousands of years. I don't get it. The builders of today must pay off the politicos with bribes or something. In ancient times I guess the builders had to build stuff to stand the test of time or they were thrown to the lions for sport.
We are moving to the Marina because the house we live in is falling down and needs to be rennovated. We bought it to tear down four years ago and build a new one, but with the recession/depression, I lost the taste for spending a ton of dough on a new place. All of our furniture is gone for a long time now. Our living room set consists of one worn out slip covered love seat that has been mauled and clawed to pieces by the cats, one folding camp lounge chair and one actually fairly nice ottoman. My daughter would not take the love seat. Hmmm, note to self find someone to pawn it off on. Perhaps a deceptive description of it on Craig's list. There's got to be a sucker somewhere.
My wife is so embarrased about the way we live that she won't let anyone in the house. She greets people at the door and only opens it about two inches. It's like a brush salesman going up to a crack house and asking to see the lady of the house. "Would you like to buy some cleansers, mam?" Lady says"No"!!! Door slams, Gun Barrel comes out of peep hole, "get lost or die, chump!!!". Beware if you come to our old house.
I hate moving. I have to sit and watch my poor wife do all the packing. I have to tape up the boxes. Taping boxes is a lot of responsibility. It's a proven fact that poorly taped box bottoms cause broken heirlooms and lots of arguments about who is going to clean up the mess. But that's just me, I'm made to take on important responsibility. They call me the pointer. My left index finger gets a huge workout by pointing out obvious and not so obvious things that need to get done by the workers (the "WORKERS" are usually my wife, because I like to save money and not hire real packers and movers who make a living at it). But, low and behold we moved some stuff in yesterday, Sunday. One load of boxes in the HOOOOMAIR (rhymes with hair) dang near filled the place. I don't know where the rest of our things are going to fit(the garage, or rent some storage I guess).
Am I missing something or is all of L.A. falling apart? Water mains breaking after only 100 years of service( is water ok to drink out of 100 year old pipes?), pot holes in the street everywhere wiping out $6,000 low profile rims and tires, City Workers standing around and not fixing anything (I guess they are waiting and practicing for furlough day).
We are getting further South in our quest for nirvana. Fifteen years ago we started out in a dusty, meth infested, prison town in the desert. It seems like we are inching our way to move and live in Newport Beach in the O.C. where everything is new and bright and fresh. Where the air is crisp, humming birds hummm, children sing and O.C. wives do their thing. It's a place where homelessness and trash and filth is something you read about happening somewhere else, like Iraq or Kenya or West L.A. . Ah, someday we'll make it to the O.C. For now though Marina Del Rey will do. My new home sweet home.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
DONUT SHOP STAREDOWN
Yesterday, Saturday Sept. 26, was FOOTBALL DAY. The USC (University of So. CAlif. for those of you who don't know what USC is ) Football Team played at home in the beloved Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. It was an at Home Football Game Day. It's a day that thousands (perhaps hundreds of thousands) of us USC fans with kindred souls migrate, like lemmings being called to the cliff, to "Downtown L.A. " to sit on barren, treeless, sun scorched parking lots to participate in the All American pastime of TAILGATING. Tailgating is rite of passage it is every bit of Americana as Apple Pie, Baseball and BMW's.
The pregame ritual is : Haul "Ass" and drive like crazy to arrive at the PARKING STRUCTURE. TO: (1) SECURE A PREFERRED PARKING SPOT BY 10:00 A.M., (2) set up "CAMP", (3) drink beer unitl 7:00 P.M. (4) Stagger to the game, (5) watch it through blurry, bloodshot eyes, (6) anxiously watch the game time clock, (7) be the first to leave the game, (8) hurry back to the parking lot before the game is over to beat the traffic (if you are lucky you might be able to get out of the parking after only a one hour wait), hoping you are sober enough not to get a DUI( it seems as though every uniformed L.A. cop is in attendance, it is a great time to commit crime elsewhere in L.A.),(9) drive home and congratulate yourself on another GREAT day in paradise.
Tailgating is, contrary to popular opinion, both an art and a science. Proper tailgating takes preparation. There are pre-season meetings with tailgate-ees to discuss menus and booze and digital t.v. reception. Discussion about who will bring what stuff and discussions about the other flaky tailgaters who don't bring much of anything....but who cares we are there to have fun and have the best "camp" on the lot. I'm thinking about having tailgating competiton amonst the various parking spaces; best dressed, best food, best liqour, drunkest "gaters".
The four principle "Gaters" in our group all have SUV"S. Of course three of the four have foreign made SUV's that are really station wagons in disguise. No-one wants to call their autos a station wagon, it is so '50's. However, my ride is all American steel, a GM pre-bankruptcy behemoth, an Arnold mobile, it is a H_2 HUMMER or as the French call them a "HOOOOMAIR" (RHYMES WITH HAIR). It is the perfect tailgating vehicle, wide, spacious, obnoxious looking, takes up more than one space. The Chinese now own the right to mfg. Hummers, crazy, huh?
Yesterday was the culmination of all this planning, scheming, and gathering of food and booze (including 6 delicious gallons of MARGARITAS). The day began with me going to the WESTWOOD VIILAGE. HOME OF THE UCLA (YEEECHHH) BRUUINS. My chore was to get a gazillion ice cubes for the sodas, water and BEER, AND TO GET BREAKFAST: consisting of DONUTS. Getting the ice is easy. I mean ice is ice. Donuts however are a different matter. Donuts take thought, especially, when you are trying to figure out which donuts taste best with beer and which donuts go with margaritas, sodas etc. I go the VILLAGE, decked out in my USC finest reagalia, USC T-shirt with mighty trojans enblazened across my expanded chest. A USC hat. I'm USC ALL OVER in UCLA TOWN. I'm not afraid. While I'm pondering my donut choices, I notice this fellow approach the counter and he is wearing wimpy assed powder blue shorts, a white Tee and a baby blue hat with a little baby bear on it. He looks familiar, he's checking me out, i'm checking him out. all of a sudden, I get the premonition: this fellow is the Bruin football head coach, Rick Neuheisal. All of a sudden we are in a stare down. I'm not backing down so I profoundly say: "Got the day off, eh coach?" He says, " Yep, gonna take some time off and gonna have some fun." With my eagle eye stare, I dart back: "Cool". I pick up my box of assorted and quietly leave the donut shop. I know when I'm outgunned. I know how to hold 'em and I know how to fold 'em. It was time for me to move on.
My group got to the parking lot at exactly 10:00 and found to our surprise that on all this huge expanse of parking lot with over 500 parking spaces that there were only 499 spaces left. The place was empty. I was wondering if we had the correct day. Perhaps the game got canceled? Needless to say my fellow "Gaters" were a little p.o.'ed that I made them leave Deer Valley (not the real name) to get to my house by 8:30. Deer Valley is over an hour away.
Early, shmirley, we set up camp, got the digital tube fired up and then sat down....that's all we needed to do, we just sat down...and so the day went....football t.v., tons of margs., my famous light you on fire humongous burritos...more margs. I'm sure you get the picture....all in all, it was a successful day, nobody went to jail that I know of....I wasn't lined up in the Coliseum tunnel by L.A.P.D. and oh yeah, BTW, the USC Football team won.
The pregame ritual is : Haul "Ass" and drive like crazy to arrive at the PARKING STRUCTURE. TO: (1) SECURE A PREFERRED PARKING SPOT BY 10:00 A.M., (2) set up "CAMP", (3) drink beer unitl 7:00 P.M. (4) Stagger to the game, (5) watch it through blurry, bloodshot eyes, (6) anxiously watch the game time clock, (7) be the first to leave the game, (8) hurry back to the parking lot before the game is over to beat the traffic (if you are lucky you might be able to get out of the parking after only a one hour wait), hoping you are sober enough not to get a DUI( it seems as though every uniformed L.A. cop is in attendance, it is a great time to commit crime elsewhere in L.A.),(9) drive home and congratulate yourself on another GREAT day in paradise.
Tailgating is, contrary to popular opinion, both an art and a science. Proper tailgating takes preparation. There are pre-season meetings with tailgate-ees to discuss menus and booze and digital t.v. reception. Discussion about who will bring what stuff and discussions about the other flaky tailgaters who don't bring much of anything....but who cares we are there to have fun and have the best "camp" on the lot. I'm thinking about having tailgating competiton amonst the various parking spaces; best dressed, best food, best liqour, drunkest "gaters".
The four principle "Gaters" in our group all have SUV"S. Of course three of the four have foreign made SUV's that are really station wagons in disguise. No-one wants to call their autos a station wagon, it is so '50's. However, my ride is all American steel, a GM pre-bankruptcy behemoth, an Arnold mobile, it is a H_2 HUMMER or as the French call them a "HOOOOMAIR" (RHYMES WITH HAIR). It is the perfect tailgating vehicle, wide, spacious, obnoxious looking, takes up more than one space. The Chinese now own the right to mfg. Hummers, crazy, huh?
Yesterday was the culmination of all this planning, scheming, and gathering of food and booze (including 6 delicious gallons of MARGARITAS). The day began with me going to the WESTWOOD VIILAGE. HOME OF THE UCLA (YEEECHHH) BRUUINS. My chore was to get a gazillion ice cubes for the sodas, water and BEER, AND TO GET BREAKFAST: consisting of DONUTS. Getting the ice is easy. I mean ice is ice. Donuts however are a different matter. Donuts take thought, especially, when you are trying to figure out which donuts taste best with beer and which donuts go with margaritas, sodas etc. I go the VILLAGE, decked out in my USC finest reagalia, USC T-shirt with mighty trojans enblazened across my expanded chest. A USC hat. I'm USC ALL OVER in UCLA TOWN. I'm not afraid. While I'm pondering my donut choices, I notice this fellow approach the counter and he is wearing wimpy assed powder blue shorts, a white Tee and a baby blue hat with a little baby bear on it. He looks familiar, he's checking me out, i'm checking him out. all of a sudden, I get the premonition: this fellow is the Bruin football head coach, Rick Neuheisal. All of a sudden we are in a stare down. I'm not backing down so I profoundly say: "Got the day off, eh coach?" He says, " Yep, gonna take some time off and gonna have some fun." With my eagle eye stare, I dart back: "Cool". I pick up my box of assorted and quietly leave the donut shop. I know when I'm outgunned. I know how to hold 'em and I know how to fold 'em. It was time for me to move on.
My group got to the parking lot at exactly 10:00 and found to our surprise that on all this huge expanse of parking lot with over 500 parking spaces that there were only 499 spaces left. The place was empty. I was wondering if we had the correct day. Perhaps the game got canceled? Needless to say my fellow "Gaters" were a little p.o.'ed that I made them leave Deer Valley (not the real name) to get to my house by 8:30. Deer Valley is over an hour away.
Early, shmirley, we set up camp, got the digital tube fired up and then sat down....that's all we needed to do, we just sat down...and so the day went....football t.v., tons of margs., my famous light you on fire humongous burritos...more margs. I'm sure you get the picture....all in all, it was a successful day, nobody went to jail that I know of....I wasn't lined up in the Coliseum tunnel by L.A.P.D. and oh yeah, BTW, the USC Football team won.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
HOW I GOT MY NAME: RAM APPACHE
I DON'T BLOG. I DON'T READ BLOGS. IN FACT, I DON'T EVEN REALLY FULLY UNDERSTAND WHAT A BLOG IS.
If it weren't for my daughter Stephen, (not her real name), telling me that I have a fan from a comment I made about Stephen's blog., I would not have gone to this effort. I feel if I can make one fan then perhaps I can make more fans, perhaps millions more.
I'll simply tell my life's stories and give out really great free advice because I've experienced quite a bit of stuff in my 31 years on this planet (actually it's a few more years than that, I have a daughter, JAHKNEEFUR who is that old).
I'm an optimist by nature and hopefully I won't come across as a crodgety, grumpy old (I hate that word, old, every day that goes by I hate it more; if you want to stay on my good side don't ever call me that. Some twerp from Notre Dame found out the hard way, but that's another story) coot.
I'm not P.C. (politically correct) either, nor sensitive nor empathetic. I don't feel sorry for very many peopel, hmmm let me think, no not anybody right now come to think of it.
Every time I think I've seen it all, life throws a curveball at me and right now my batting average is pretty low. I'm normally very optimistic. I wake up every morning (I love early mornings, watching the sun come up, everything fresh and clean) with my glass full, spilling over the top it's so full, by the time the sun goes down and evening and night are upon me, my glass is empty. I can hardly wait to go to sleep so I can have a full glass again in the morning. I seem to be going to sleep earlier and earlier these days. The daylight seems to take a sip from my glass with every waking moment. I've found out in general that people suck and are always taking sips from my glass. My glass is always empty at night.
I'm not a sappy, goo goo gah gah kind of person. Sergent Joe Friday kind of guy; "Just the facts mam, just the facts". I appologize in adavance if I'm abrupt or abrasive, but that's the way it is.
I would like to start this affair off with an irritating event that happened a few days ago. To some people this event might not seem like a big deal, but to me it was enough to push me over the edge. The edge being I'm attempting to BLOG.
SO HERE IT GOES, ONE OF MY LIFE'S STORIES:
A couple of days ago, I received a envelope from the Los Angles City Department of Building and Safety to which I had recently applied for a builing permit to remodel the home in which my wife, mother of my beautiful children, and I live.
The envelope was addressed to one Mr. Ram Appache at obviously the correct address because the letter arrived at the correct address. I opened the envelope expecting to see my name on the application incorrectly spelled which it wasn't. My name in bold print ON THE APPLICATION was correct. MY NAME IS NOT RAM APPACHE!!!!! There fore I am led to assume that SOME BRAIN DEAD, OVERPAID, FAT ASSED, COULD GIVE A SH*T BUREAUCRAT just quickly read the app. and threw some handwritten letters and numbers on the envelope and sent the g-damned thing on its' merry way. Lucky thing I got it. I'm no handwriting expert, but by the way the P's were written, I'm pretty sure the clerk is a woman. If my new name had i's in it, they would have been dotted with little smiley faces. My new identity mother is some City Clerk whose identity will forever be unknown. I feel like an abandoned orphan left on the doorstep of bureaucracy to fend for myself in an uncaring, unforgiving world of endless hallways and cubicles filled by humans looking for their retirement and 90% pensions. Imean for godsakes, couldn't this person just read my app. and spelled my name somewhat close.
With my new identity, I swear before humanity that I will do good deeds and save harmless widows from eviction and good stuff like that. I will have a neopreme super suit made (I recently joined Gold's Gym and I am really buff) that will have the banner and logo of SUPER RAM emblazened on it....I will save humanity from the clerks the world over....
SUPER RAM TO THE RESCUE....it's a bird...it's a plane....no it's SUPER RAM.... SUPER RAM TO THE RESCUE....DAH DAH TAH DAH!!!!
THE BIRTH OF " RAM APPACHE: A GOOD MAN GONE MAD"
If it weren't for my daughter Stephen, (not her real name), telling me that I have a fan from a comment I made about Stephen's blog., I would not have gone to this effort. I feel if I can make one fan then perhaps I can make more fans, perhaps millions more.
I'll simply tell my life's stories and give out really great free advice because I've experienced quite a bit of stuff in my 31 years on this planet (actually it's a few more years than that, I have a daughter, JAHKNEEFUR who is that old).
I'm an optimist by nature and hopefully I won't come across as a crodgety, grumpy old (I hate that word, old, every day that goes by I hate it more; if you want to stay on my good side don't ever call me that. Some twerp from Notre Dame found out the hard way, but that's another story) coot.
I'm not P.C. (politically correct) either, nor sensitive nor empathetic. I don't feel sorry for very many peopel, hmmm let me think, no not anybody right now come to think of it.
Every time I think I've seen it all, life throws a curveball at me and right now my batting average is pretty low. I'm normally very optimistic. I wake up every morning (I love early mornings, watching the sun come up, everything fresh and clean) with my glass full, spilling over the top it's so full, by the time the sun goes down and evening and night are upon me, my glass is empty. I can hardly wait to go to sleep so I can have a full glass again in the morning. I seem to be going to sleep earlier and earlier these days. The daylight seems to take a sip from my glass with every waking moment. I've found out in general that people suck and are always taking sips from my glass. My glass is always empty at night.
I'm not a sappy, goo goo gah gah kind of person. Sergent Joe Friday kind of guy; "Just the facts mam, just the facts". I appologize in adavance if I'm abrupt or abrasive, but that's the way it is.
I would like to start this affair off with an irritating event that happened a few days ago. To some people this event might not seem like a big deal, but to me it was enough to push me over the edge. The edge being I'm attempting to BLOG.
SO HERE IT GOES, ONE OF MY LIFE'S STORIES:
A couple of days ago, I received a envelope from the Los Angles City Department of Building and Safety to which I had recently applied for a builing permit to remodel the home in which my wife, mother of my beautiful children, and I live.
The envelope was addressed to one Mr. Ram Appache at obviously the correct address because the letter arrived at the correct address. I opened the envelope expecting to see my name on the application incorrectly spelled which it wasn't. My name in bold print ON THE APPLICATION was correct. MY NAME IS NOT RAM APPACHE!!!!! There fore I am led to assume that SOME BRAIN DEAD, OVERPAID, FAT ASSED, COULD GIVE A SH*T BUREAUCRAT just quickly read the app. and threw some handwritten letters and numbers on the envelope and sent the g-damned thing on its' merry way. Lucky thing I got it. I'm no handwriting expert, but by the way the P's were written, I'm pretty sure the clerk is a woman. If my new name had i's in it, they would have been dotted with little smiley faces. My new identity mother is some City Clerk whose identity will forever be unknown. I feel like an abandoned orphan left on the doorstep of bureaucracy to fend for myself in an uncaring, unforgiving world of endless hallways and cubicles filled by humans looking for their retirement and 90% pensions. Imean for godsakes, couldn't this person just read my app. and spelled my name somewhat close.
With my new identity, I swear before humanity that I will do good deeds and save harmless widows from eviction and good stuff like that. I will have a neopreme super suit made (I recently joined Gold's Gym and I am really buff) that will have the banner and logo of SUPER RAM emblazened on it....I will save humanity from the clerks the world over....
SUPER RAM TO THE RESCUE....it's a bird...it's a plane....no it's SUPER RAM.... SUPER RAM TO THE RESCUE....DAH DAH TAH DAH!!!!
THE BIRTH OF " RAM APPACHE: A GOOD MAN GONE MAD"
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