Making Human Soup In A Wetsuit.

I've always wanted to surf. Since I was a kid I always thought it would be amazing. I love the water and when it's warm, I can't stay out of it. So when it became apparent we were moving to LA I vowed to myself that I would finally give the sport a shot.

I went to The Rider's Shack on Washington Blvd. and starting looking at all the wetsuits. My coworker Dave Vasquez told me that out of all the stuff you will buy, the wetsuit is the most important. You will change boards as you get better but the one thing which will remain constant is your comfort and mobility in the water. Spend a little more suggested Dave. So I went looking.

Eventually the fellow working in the shop got to me and made several suggestions and asked which price range I was looking in. Unfortunately, there was nothing really in my price range in my size so I suggested that he just show me some good suits and that I would try them on and see how a suit should feel. I took the three he handed me and entered the bohemian dressing room which was really just a Mexican blanket hung on a rod.

Unzipping the suit and taking it off the hanger stopped me in my tracks. These were all front zipper suits and nothing at all like the rear zipper suits I had worn before. This was proving to be as confusing as the first time I tried to undo a girl's bra. Eventually I got the suit off the hanger and started sliding my feet down inside each wetsuit leg. Good god this thing was tight. Dave said to err on the side of too tight than too loose as every suit will relax after a couple of wears and after getting wet. He told me to be sure there was no air pockets. Air pockets? There's no room for air in this thing at all. I sure hope there's a testicle pocket because at this rate castration may be in order to get this thing on.

I should mention that I have an issue with my shoulder. Something weird, maybe an old injury or maybe just old age. I discovered this quirk one day while pulling on my fins before heading out in my float tube to do some fly-fishing. Whenever I pull too hard towards me while reaching towards my foot I experience a minor dislocation. I takes me to my knees every time it is so painful.

My heels just wouldn't pull through the opening at the end of the leg. I pulled hard and sure enough the old injury reared it's ugly head and sent me to the floor in pain. After a few seconds of breathing like a woman in labor I got my foot through and the wave of pain subsided. I was now covered in sweat as a byproduct of the warm weather, the pain and the strain of getting this damn suit on. Sweat was not making this any easier. Everything was sticking to everything. This was rock bottom and I knew it. This was my version of an obese person getting stuck in a theater seat.

It took around ten to fifteen minutes to finally get the suit on and zipped up. It was a little long in the legs. The knee pads just reached the tops of my knees. I showed it to the guy who was helping me and he agreed and started looking for a suit in medium short size for me. I'll slip out of this suit and try on one that he brings me and that should be that.

I unzipped the suit and tried to pull out my right arm. It wouldn't budge. Hmm, maybe I'm supposed to pull out my left. Nope. That didn't work either. I double checked that there were no additional zippers to undo. Nope. Damn it's hot in here. I could feel the sweat building up under the suit and along with it a small modicum of panic growing in the back of my mind. I'm sure I missed something. I zipped up and down again. No dice. I was stuck. I frantically reefed on my arm while pulling down on the front of the suit. I was stuck, tired and over-heating. I was making Human Soup in my wetsuit as sweat was now pouring from every nook and cranny of my now sopping wet body. If this kept up, they'd find the dehydrated corpse of a panic stricken Canadian in this ramshackle dressing room. I had to suck up the pride and call the guy who got me the suit. He started hauling on the front and on the left arm while I tried to get my right arm out. It took a good solid minute before I was free. I was so exhausted I hesitated for a moment to try on another.

When it was all said and done I found a suit I really like but it was a little too expensive. I'll look online and if I can find it or something similar for less, I'll order it. When I try it on for the first time I'll be sure to have at least one person and the jaws of life too extract my pasty white ass from the suit.

Be warned Dave. If we go surfing together that person may be you.

7 Ways You Can Tell You're Living In Los Angeles At Christmas.

1.) You're still sweaty after trading your Parka for a hoody and only need to wear it when the sun goes down and there are no Santa Ana winds blowing.

2.) You wake up, look out the window every morning and see a massive sign advertising, "Holly" and "Wood" overlooking the city. Marketing knows no shame.

3.) The bad area of town isn't just where there's nothing but strip malls and low rent housing but where white people never return from and this includes Santa Claus. Sorry Du Shawn, Santa refuses to come to Compton.

4.) Fat retarded assholes who are busy Christmas shopping and are driving Jaguars hit cars in parking lots when backing out of their space and blame the parked car.

5.) On shopping for a present for yourself, you experience shear panic when you realize you may be trapped in the wetsuit you are trying on and then almost pass out in the change room because it's 23 degrees.

6.) Your Christmas booze bill no longer exceeds your costs for food, presents and travel.

7.) You can buy liquor, groceries and guns in the same store from a guy in a Santa hat.

World Wide DOES NOT mean California!

 

Look at little Ping Po Ng above. He sleeps so soundly on that concrete stair. Oh Ping, you are truly a little wonder wrapped in clothing styled by Genghis Khan himself. Although it appears that little Ping is either acting or performing an almost impossible act he is doing neither. Ping, you see, has developed the ability to sleep anywhere at any time through good old third world attrition!

My children do not have this ability.

Why would the children of some jet set, Los Angeles, Schmooze-bot 5000 like myself need it? Surely there is no circumstance in life that would require to sleep in such a manner. That is unless California does not qualify as World Wide.

"Wagner, just what the shit are you on about?" you ask yourself. Well, we hired a moving company called World Wide Overseas Moving Service to move our personal effects down here to the sunny State of California. Now, I know that California is not "Overseas". That is, unless you count Trout Lake in East Vancouver which was almost directly south of our place. It's much less a lake and more a puddle that junkies and homeless wash their stinky welfare cheque asses in. I did, however think that California lay somewhere is in this wide world and therefore our move would qualify as "World Wide". I was an idiot.

When I asked Karen Slater, our contact at WWOMS how long it would take to ship our stuff south of the border she stated it could take anywhere from three to fourteen days. Today is fourteen days since they picked our stuff up. Her response yesterday when we emailed here about the whereabouts of our household goods was, " I still do not have an answer at this stage we are waiting for confirmation when driver is to load.  Operations thought your shipment was loading late last week but the vanline has another driver picking up."

We have nothing in our beautiful apartment. Well, we do have some grocery bags and some small stuff that we bought and we also have an amazing HD DVR and over four hundred channels of viewing goodness. Now if I could just plug that HDMI cable into my brain I could see what was on television as my TV is sitting in Vancouver... somewhere.

This brings us back little Ping. We are all sleeping in one large blow up bed. Oh the comfort! I love feeling everyone else's movement and I love, LOVE being kicked repeatedly in the junk by my three year old. Unlike Ping, my daughter cannot sleep on concrete stairs. She can barely even sleep on the blow up mattress and by extension this means that neither can I. So every morning when I wake at half past six as the California sun  shines through the curtainless windows and burns a whole through my eyelids I drag my tired, ill-rested ass out of bed and make coffee on my espresso machine. Espresso machine? Yes, I packed it in the car and drove it down knowing I would need it in short order and that life would be insufferable without it. Yes, I was a LA ass-bag before I even moved to LA.

I guess this is the one thing that has gone horribly wrong with our move. It was the one thing outside of visa approval which hinged purely on the performance of another and in this case that other has dropped the ball.

World Wide Overseas Moving Service. You are neither, world wide, over seas, moving at a rate which is acceptable and you most certainly aren't showing me any service. Kiss my ass. Kiss it long and kiss it hard.

Walt's House.

Sunday showed up and the weather was crap. The furniture hasn't arrived and the shopping is done. We really have no idea what we still need and what the heck is happening until our stuff shows up. We have the rudimentary items. We can cook and bathe etc. but as far as actually living a normal life things are still a little crazy.

My mother-in-law came down to help with the kids while Lisa set things up but as mentioned above, nothing is here to set up. What would we do with our Sunday? One word...

DISNEYLAND!

Disneyland lies around 50km south of Los Angeles in the city of Anaheim. It takes little time to make the trip and if one stays on the freeway Compton can be avoided. Of course, a bullet filled side trip could always be made if one liked taking their life in their hands or if they wanted to be jumped in to the Crips or the Bloods depending on the exit. We drove straight through and made it to the resort area in under forty minutes.

I hadn't been in over thirty four years. Miete has never been. I think I was more excited. Entry fees paid we boarded the shuttle bus and headed in, I was well ahead of the others as I hurriedly entered the gates.

I have to say, it's a classy operation from start to finish. No detail is overlooked and no one element does not represent the Disney image. Now, whether or not that image is untarnished and is as puritanical as the Disney corporation would have you believe, should bare some examination. From our experience though, it was a fun platter with a side of awesome.

We did the classics with a few exceptions due to long lines. Pirates, teacups, and Dumbo. Peter pan and Pooh bear went over like gangbusters. Miete lost her mind when we happened across the 'meet the princesses' exhibit. They were awesome and let's face it, they're pretty and are wearing the full princess gear which matches the movies they represent. What's not to like? Belle was her favourite and was definitely the warmest.

After the Pirates of the Caribbean, which was a little too intense, dark and loud for the little girl we took a ride on Winnie the Pooh. This was another big hit. Bright colours and fun animatronics and as we exited we saw Tigger, Eeyore and Pooh bear all dressed in Santa hats. Kapow. Hit number three.

Waiting in line was only semi-eventful. The actors needed a five minute break and so they took off for a water and to probably take the wicked leak they desperately needed. Before they returned, the small latino kid in front of us did a triple gainer and smashed his melon on the concrete hard enough that I felt it in my feet (no kidding). His mother immediately picked him up stating that he was fine. I figured he was concussed. I guess this is why they make great boxers.

Miete, unlike myself when I visited the Magical Kingdom as a child, loved the dressed up mascots. I remember losing my cool most horribly when Donald Duck came near me. Miete ran to Pooh, Eeyore and Tigger and hugged each one in turn and giggled like a mad man every time. It was super cute.

We hit another couple of rides on the way out including Casey Jr.'s Circus Train. I thought it might be an anti-climax but I was so wrong. Miete pumped her arms like the wheels of a locomotive the entire time and sang along with the song.

As if the day was awesome enough we ran smack dab into the middle of the Disneyland parade as we left. All the princesses were on the leading float then Woody, followed by Gepetto, Jimminy and Pinnochio. Buzz Lightyear was followed by twelve reindeer and then low and behold Santa. It was pure awesomeness and allowed us to avoid the expected meltdown on the way out.

Back in the shuttle bus and to our car we headed out. Miete was ruined. Normally unable to sleep in the car she was out inside of ten minutes and stayed out even when carried upstairs and put to bed.

I'm not sure how we'll top this. She pretty much is living the dream.

Crenshaw Bloods, LADWP and Time/Warner.

Well, by the mere fact that I am here to write this you probably have ascertained that I survived my second trip back to Blood controlled, Crenshaw. The second run out to the hood wasn't nearly as bad as the first as I knew exactly where I was going and I had my duck below dash level skills well polished.

I entered Baldwin Hills Mall through Macy's. How could Macy's do me wrong? The security guard at the base of the escalator noticed me right away and acknowledged my white presence with a, "Hey, how you doing?" I guess white dudes just don't make it this south east and they bare acknowledgment. Up that escalator as fast as possible without crowding anyone and with a whole lot of staring at my feet. As I made my way through Macy's I actually made my way through the racks of clothing like a total pussy. No main thoroughfares for my honkey ass. Here I am exiting Macy's looking at a relatively empty office and thinking it's my destination, SoCalGas. That's when I ran into a long line stretching out of the actual office I was heading to.

So it's me looking like a small piece of eggshell in a chocolate cake staring at the ground and making way for anyone and everyone who is leaving the SoCalGas office through the double door which has one of its doors locked. I look up for just long enough to notice that you can't see any of the tellers through open air. They all stand behind two inch bullet proof glass. Great. At least the tellers won't be able to shoot me.

Please. Please let me get the whitest Latina. Maybe she'll take pity on my cracker ass. Nope. No dice. I get the hefty sister with a bad attitude. I walk up to the window to meet Mrs. T, Mr.T's less friendly sister.

"Hello. I was told to come here with two pieces of photo ID because I lack a SSN. I understand there's a deposit." I say.

"Hmm, hmm." says Latisha.

I slip my driver's ID and passport through the small slot at the bottom of the bullet proof window. She looks at my passport with a "oh hell no" look on her face, opens it up and then realizes it's Canadian. Instant attitude change. This is not the peckerwood that oppressed her people and made them pick cotton. We did not steal her people from their homeland and enslave them. My people did not sell them as assets or otherwise.

"No problem, we'll get you set up and put the deposit on your first bill. It'll be easier to pay that way."

On leaving Crenshaw I regret not bringing a Canadian flag to fly from my antenna.

On a side note:

To set up our electricity after the SoCalGas account was as easy as anything. ID. Deposit. Done.

To set up our Time/Warner Account was even better. ID. "I'll take a shitload of channels please, Ma'am." Digital phone line with unlimited free calling nationwide and to Canada and Mexico, Internet and HDTV with a HD DVR, the Sports Package plus full HBO and Showcase all for $130/month. That's $30 less than in Canada and for a shizznit load more.

They show up on Monday to install all that is needed to access the craziness of over four hundred channels.

A Morning in Crenshaw

The lady on the phone from Southern California Gas  said the nearest location was at 3625 Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd in Crenshaw and I instantaneously shit in my white boy underwear.

I had no idea what the words, "racial divide" really meant until I crossed La Brea Blvd. heading east into Crenshaw but it became quickly evident that I was the only cracker this side of the city. My snowflake ass soon grew uncomfortable as it became seedier and seedier. I passed shops called African Book Market and salons advertising Cornrow Extensions. Yes, there was plenty of fried chicken joints as well so albeit an old racist joke the stereotype holds true.

I got to my destination or at least where the GPS said the office for SoCalGas was. I parked around the corner, hid the GPS in the console and walked back around the corner to the address as quickly as I could. It was a derelict building with bars across the windows and doors and a tattered Obama poster reading Obama: Freedom to Change.

Well fuck you, SoCalGas. My honky ass is running back to the car as quickly as these white and much slower than black feet can carry me. Into the car and around the corner onto Crenshaw Blvd and back up MLK jr. Blvd. to Rodeo. Back across La Brea and I was starting to relax. When I arrived back at the studio to start my day I noticed that though the lady on the phone had told me 3625 MLK jr. Blvd. I had written down a different address from the SoCalGas website.

Goddamn it all. I have to go back tomorrow morning.

Social Security Mutants

FREEDOM! I scream the words of William Wallace as I pull out of the Econo-lodge parking lot. Good riddance you bastards.  I look at the scoreboard in my head and it reads:

Wagner 1 - Econo-lodge 0

You see, in the end I pulled a quick one on them and am calling it a small victory. It's pathetic and sad but something which takes the sting out of paying nearly seven hundred dollars to stay there. I dropped one of my room keys down the elevator shaft at work yesterday and only returned one as I checked out.

Suck on that Econo-lodge!

It's eight in the morning as I pull across the street and get a coffee before heading to West L.A. and my first goverment office to apply for a social security number. On arrival, I find parking and enter the large building which houses a bank and I head to the third floor. As I walk through the doors and into the waiting area outside the social security office I am greeted by a sight I will remember for ever and the inscription on the Statue of Liberty runs through my head:

Give me your tired, your poor. Your huddled masses...

Looking up at me like a newly uncovered gang of stowaway Tamils hidding in a shipping container is an assorted cast of what Lady Liberty was talking about and they all want a damn social security number. It's frickin' twenty after eight and I'm sixth in line. I take my place in line and pretend to not listen to the banter of those around me. Here's a quick run down of the cast:

Pepe The Texan: The self-proclaimed and appointed leader of the group. Pepe assigns each person a number as they walk through the door and then proceeds to tell each in turn who is before and after them. Pepe is on disability which is evidenced by the large sole on his left shoe. He is on disability due to a bad car crash where he drove his car directly into a power poll, wrapping it around it. His claim is that not wearing a seat belt saved his life.Sure it did Pepe. It saved your life and made it much easier for you to run in circles. Pepe is pissed off at the government for not giving him his disability cheque on time before the Thanksgiving holiday and therefore he wound up sleeping in his truck.

Henta the Persian: Henta is a larger lady there with her silent husband who has obviously just given up speaking altogether because of the futility of trying to get word into any conversation with his chatty wife. Henta complains to everyone around her about how cold it is in the waiting room (23 degrees) and how her sore hip bothers her. "I take medicine still hurt" states a moaning Henta. She and the neighbour to her left talk about learning English.

Papita: Papita made the crucial mistake of entertaining the complaints of Henta but seems to rather enjoy being in the presence of another women and one which speaks poorer English than she does. Papita has been studying English after hours for three years and still speaks like Manuel from Fawlty Towers.

Stinkatron: Stinkatron enters nearly last of the core group of crazy people. She is crazy. She is unwashed and she smells like a football team after a hard mid-summer practice. She keeps asking everyone where she can get number. Pepe tells her the numbers are inside and that the doors don't open till nine. Stinkatron doesn't get it and looks worried.

Bruce: The only normal person. Bruce is a Californian and has to be there for some benign reason but is unfortunately trapped in the tractor beam of bat-shit crazy and coked out Pepe. "Sure, sure... yeah that sounds tough." says Bruce in the hopes of assuaging Pepe. Damn it Bruce, don't you know the "I got a call" trick. Open your phone and ignore that mental guy.

More and more people push through the door as it gets closer to nine. There's a serious crowd now. I'm starting to fear that the order Pepe has set forth will simply dissolve the second those doors open and a mad rush ensuses. The doors open and a security guard with a gun comes out and announces the expected conduct when we enter. He states that there is no food or drink allowed on the premises. Oh, and in case we have any weapons we should leave them outside as well.

Pepe is telling people that if you need to fill out a form they're on the right as you enter the door and that you should fill one out first and then take a number. He is either totally stupid or incredibly crafty. I head to the number line, take on (number 3) and then hurriedly fill out my form. As I near completion my number is called and I go to the window. The elegant older black lady who must have been a real looker in her day and who's coworkers refer to as, Miss Marie processes my request. She also tells me that the Department of Homeland Security has fouled up my visa and list my first name as Gordon Kelsey with no middle name. She puts in the request to have it changed and informs me that it will take ten to fourteen days to have my social security number and card sent to me at Sony's address.

I'm happy to see the government is as incompetent south of the border as it is north.