Okay, But I Wasn't JUST Whistling "Dixie"...

I barely escaped Alabama alive. 

Not that I was a fugitive from a chain gang.

And not that I'd transgressed the local customs and left one step ahead of an angry mob toting buckets of hot tar and sacks of goose down. Quite the contrary; so many people offered me so many unsolicited greetings in so many unexpected venues -- in the grocery store, on the street, in the Mens Room -- that I was in a constant state of politesse-induced panic.

It wasn't even the workload, which after the first week was manageable enough that I had time to walk around, gawk at things, and perspire like a Yellow Fever patient.

It was the food that was killing me. It was the delicious, delightful, deadly food. 

Now I'm no expert on the cuisine of southern Alabama, and for all I know there were a multitude of hippie communes selling sustainable kale wraps out of roadside stands woven from hemp stems. I just know that every edible thing I found in the downtown area was salty, fatty, fried, and fatal. Which was also my experience the first time I came to Alabama back in 2003 to write Frankenfish, and I found myself asking the same question:

How is anybody alive in this state?

The way they eat, you'd expect to drive across the border and see nothing but bloated corpses bracketing the highway, the landscape permeated by an eerie silence broken only occasionally by the angry caw of two crows fighting over a length of intestine. 

I'm not saying the barbecue isn't tasty, because it is, and if you sit inside at a place like Moe's, or Dreamland, your clothes will smell like smoked meat for a week afterwards, so it's like they're sending you home with a doggie bag for your nose.  But everything's fried, and vegetables are surprisingly hard to come by as a side dish, except for grits, which I suppose is technically a vegetable, since it's made from corn. And butter. Actually, I'm pretty sure the Four Food Groups in Alabama are corn, butter, pork, and frying medium. 

I got so desperate for roughage that I actually ordered that classic Power Lunch of the Mid-80s Woman Executive, the chicken Caesar salad, even though I wasn't wearing one of those silk blouses with a pussy bow. But after one or two bites I dropped my fork, because it was too salty. It was, in fact, the saltiest salad I'd ever had. I daresay deers who live for a nice big salt lick would have taken a single taste of this Caesar salad and gone, "Ehhhh...No. My blood pressure..."

But aside from retaining water, I had an enjoyable time in Mobile, writing dialogue for a gifted and famously eccentric actor, even though I packed a small bag thinking I'd be there only three days, and wound up staying for three weeks. Me and the old ladies at the coin laundry next to the Whattaburger got to be quite chummy.

Unfortunately, the Unwritten Rules of the Rewriter prevent me from saying much about the experience, although I do delve into a little more detail in the upcoming podcast, because those aren't susceptible to Google searches.

Anyway, I'm back, and apologize for the blog blackout. And to make up for it, here are candid shots of the cats' excited, adoring faces when I walked through the door after my long absence...

Travel Day

Getting out of the apartment for the first time in a couple of months and flying cross-country today. That usually goes smoothly, right?

People Let Me Tell You Bout My Best Friend

Mary was supposed to be home today, but last night the doctors found another problem they want to correct, so she's undergoing a second, relatively minor, procedure today. Here's hoping she'll be released back into the wild on Saturday.

In the meantime, this is my fifth day as the sole adult in the apartment, and I'm beginning to feel like Bill Bixby in The Courtship of Eddie's Father, except nobody's dead, I don't have a Japanese widow to do the housework, and Eddie is two cats.

Two depressed cats.

She's Alive! ALI--Well, I Don't Wanna Oversell It

Another quick update: Mary survived the operation last night (I realize that's an overly dramatic way of putting it, but don't judge me. We all have different ways of coping with stress, and mine involve striking histrionic attitudes from the Junius Brutus Booth playbook.)

She's suffering through some vein-poppingly intense pain, if her groans, white knuckles, and glaze of perspiration are any indication, and reportedly has enough screws and plates in her leg that she's setting off airport metal detectors from her hospital bed, but the procedure was a success. Or so I was told, and I choose to believe it's true, because given any other option, my brain will illuminate such grotesque and hideous alternatives that it'll make EC's Vault of Horror look like Marvel's Millie the Model. (I'm thinking of offering a line of custom t-shirts, with inspirational sentiments such as: "Choose Gullibility", or "I'm Fearless (Because I'm Oblivious)". Available in Sleeveless, Cap Sleeve, and Raglan Baseball T, sizes S to XXL.)

State of the Yeeee-OWTCH!

Well, things have gone South, Sideways, and To Hell, all in one awkward, but awe-inspiring motion -- the sort of thing that could only be pulled off by a Cirque du Soleil acrobat who's been drinking between shows.

On Friday, Mary slipped and fell on the stairs to the ladies room at the Chinese Theater (during a screening of Wonder Woman -- O Irony, thou cruel mistress), dislocated her ankle and fractured three bones ("a hat trick!" as our friend Dr. Alice observed). So rather than watching Gal Gadot kick ass, we spent most of the evening in the Emergency Room, where they relocated her ankle to a better neighborhood, applied a cast, and said, "Yeah, you'll need surgery."

The weekend passed slowly, relieved by moments of eye-rolling terror when it looked like Mary was going to fall off her crutches (again, on the way to the bathroom). Monday we consulted an orthopedic surgeon, who was of the opinion that her ankle had been set improperly, and she needed immediate surgery. So it was off to the Emergency Room again, where Mary spent four hours in an uncomfortable chair in the Waiting area, then another seven hours on a gurney in a hallway. It was a cruel test of endurance and after awhile I couldn't stand it anymore, so I started to pretend I was watching a David Blaine TV special.

And that's where things stand. I'm heading back to the hospital, where the surgery will (we're desperately hoping) take place this afternoon. I'll update as soon as there's news and a wifi signal I can steal.  In the meantime, prayers and good wishes gratefully accepted.

Crap! Our Blog's a Teenager!

Yes, today is the 13th blogiversary of World O' Crap, and in honor of this statistically unlikely occasion, I've mixed up a Luau Daiquiri* and lifted a toast to Sheri (s.z.) Zollinger, who began it all with this post back in 2003.

I'd say more, but I've been up since the pearly dawn, walking to and fro (actually, fro and to) a local, but not conveniently located, auto repair shop, and cruelly extending the suffering of our car through artificial means, because the stupid thing didn't have the foresight to sign a living will or a Do Not Resuscitate order. Also, Jeb Bush signed a law that made me do it.

Anyway, I racked up a good six miles on foot, according to the GPS in my phone, and the demented shrieking in my lower spine, so I'm just going to sip my cocktail, and thank everyone for sticking with us through our incontinent infancy, our terrible twos, our fairly adorable elementary school days, our precocious, yet dangerously hormonal tween years, and now what promises to be our flat out insufferable teens.

Parental discretion (and cocktails) advised.

[Oh, what the hell. Here's a flashback to an old Dr. Professor Mike Adams, Ph.D. column, because somebody linked to it and it's getting a lot of traffic today for reasons that escape me. Enjoy!]

*2 oz. white rum

3/4 oz. fresh lime juice
3/4 oz. fresh orange juice
1/2 oz. vanilla syrup
Tools: shaker, strainer
Glass: coupe
Garnish: edible orchid (sub with a lime wheel if you don’t have an orchid or aren't unbearably twee)

Shake ingredients together in a shaker with ice. Strain into a chilled glass and garnish.

Super Belated Happy Birthday Funtime Explosion!

Annnnnnnd...we're back.

What did we miss?

Nothing?  Are you sure...?

Yes, it's a trick question! We missed a hugely important birthday! But we'll get to that in a second...

First of all, let me apologize about the service outage. Due to various circumstances beyond our control (which poses the question, who does control these circumstances, and frankly I don't know, but I suspect it's that smug guy from the opening credits to The Outer Limits), our Internet (and TV, but now we're just whining) was discontinued for a week and replaced with more 19th Century pastimes, like harvesting toenails, and staring down the cats.

This was a particularly bad time to be run off the Information Superhighway and into a digital ditch -- not that there's necessarily ever a good time to be cut off from all humanity like Charlton Heston in The Omega Man, although at least he was visited by photophobic albinos on a nightly basis, so I'm pretty sure I win. But in this case I had some work that was pending, and which I could neither do, nor, even if it had been done, submit. So there's been a frantic effort around here to catch up, the kind where all the action is undercranked and scored to Yakkity Sax.

But that's no excuse. Well, I mean it is, it's just not a very good one. So let me get to the first and most pressing piece of old business: the belated birthday of Wo'C contributor Keith.

Keith, as you know (and if you don't, I invite you to sample his many fine wares under the "Keith's Cogitations" tab to your right), has been contributing to the blog since 2011, when he watched two-thirds of the Danny Boyle film Sunshine, then quit because it got hard. And who can blame him? Certainly not I.  Because while I do make it a point to finish every bad film I start, I've had years of training in this sort of thing (readers of Better Living Through Bad Movies can attest that each review in the book comes with a disclaimer: "Movie watched by professional viewers on closed course. Do not watch this at home".)

Since his debut Keith has authored everything from advice columns to book reviews (The Phenix and the Anix is one of my favorites), to eulogies (Thomas Kinkade), and taken on such big league lunatics as Alex Jones, Ted Nugent, and the blender full of strawberry daiquiris that is the inside of Peggy Noonan's skull.

He was also kind enough, when I emailed him badly typed birthday wishes from my phone and a promissory note for a future post, to suggest some celebratory eye candy. So without further ado, I present...

The Birthday Boyd!

So please join me in wishing Keith a very happy, and very belated birthday. We now close with the traditional...

Sexy Birthday Lizard!

Mass Extinction Event, Or Just a New Podcast?

Sorry about the lack of posts lately. I made a resolution to do better this year, but our Internet connection has been off, due to a problem with the technology; that technology being the replacement of the barter system with money (I've been attempting to pay AT&T for TV and Internet service with chickens and voluntary seasonal labor on the CEO's massive pyramid-shaped tomb).  Anyway, we're hooked back up to the Matrix now.

And speaking of transitions, we've got a new podcast out -- the final ASSJam and the first Slumgullion, so it's kind of a cross between a Comic-con bull session and the K-T Extinction boundary. (Why is the show now called The Slumgullion? Listen and find out!).

One Last Sort Of ASSJammy Kind Of Thing 

Starring Jeff Holland and Scott Clevenger 

They thought they were recording the pilot for their new show. 

Jeff and Scott have been Star Wars fans since before it was A New Hope. 

This is the first time they’ve spoken about The Force Awakens. 

That’s all you need to know. 

WARNING: Bad words, shameful secrets, and spoilers ahead.

As Jeff warned me when the episode went live, we geek out to a degree never seen before, and have the MOST EPIC STAR WARS CONVERSATION EVER.  Please click here to check it out.

Normal blogging will resume on Monday. Possibly Sunday if I can get the cats to cooperate.

Rebooting the Franchise in 2016

Yes, this year was pretty much like beating myself on the skull with Maxwell's Silver Hammer.

So...Before we exit the year in a safe and orderly fashion, I just wanted to give the final birthday shout-out of 2015 to Wo'C lurker Jacquie, whose natal anniversary was December 29. In the past she's requested such toothsome ladies as Eliza Dushku or Charlize Theron for her (cheese)cake, but I think we should go out on a classic note, so here's Coleen Gray, who I just saw at her loveliest in the great (but unlovely) film, Nightmare Alley:

Happy birthday, Jacquie!

This past year hasn't been all bad, but it sure started off rough, with one loss after another. Totaling up the butcher's bill from last New Years Day, we'd recently lost Riley; Mary had recently lost a couple of organs, several tumors, and her job, and we nearly lost the apartment. But thanks to the many wonderful Crappers who rallied to help us, we were able to keep a roof over our heads (or at least an acoustical cottage cheese ceiling which does little to muffle our upstairs neighbor's nightly attempts to stage a one-man version of "Stomp").

Things were hand-to-mouth for most of the year, but toward the end of summer Mary got a job which, while it doesn't pay much, allows her to help people and make the world a little better, and that makes her very happy.

Then Moondoggie, who's been lonesome for a very long time, found a small, black, difficult to photograph friend...

And also a taste of karma, since it turns out that Moondoggie's back fat is to Shadow as Riley's ass was to Moondoggie...

And now it looks like Mystery Science Theater 3000 is coming back for a new season, and since Mary and I met twenty years ago at a screening of MST3K: The Movie, she's has decided to take this as an omen, or a portent, or maybe just a hint, and declare a reboot of life for 2016. So please join us in a toast:

May the coming year be a good reboot, like Ron Moore's Battlestar Galactica, and not a crappy one, like the 2014 Robocop.

Happy New Years, everyone.

Speed Birthdating!

Crap, I better post something before this blog turns into Brigadoon.

First, a seriously belated thanks to Sheri for the lovely birthday post, with its glimpse into the dark mind of Jimmy and his psycho-sexual fixation on MOR, the meat so thrifty it won't even spring for an "E". I'd never heard of this poor man's SPAM and certainly can't vouch for its flavor, but based on the image in the post below, it's apparently an effective prophylaxis against puppy love.

And thanks for the many kind and thoughtful birthday wishes in the comments, especially because I've been so criminally dilatory this month about celebrating everyone else's birthday. My only excuse is that I'm in a lot of pain, and while that's nothing new, my reaction to it is.

In the past, I've been able to slog through most of these episodes with a sparing use of painkillers, a liberal application of corticosteroids, and a daily refrain of "This too shall pass." But this time -- maybe because I'm getting older and my bony infrastructure isn't bouncing back as fast as it once did -- the bum disc was accompanied by depression, exhaustion, and a pervading sense of What's The Point?  I probably should have fessed up about this earlier, rather than just leaving the blog out to rust in the yard, but I know so many people, many from the Wo'C community, who are dealing with so much worse -- chronic fatigue, constant pain, even homelessness -- that I felt like an insufferable wuss for whining about this in public (rather than in private, to Mary, who probably, now that I think of it, would have appreciated you guys taking her shift for once).

Anyway, I had an epiphany on my birthday, realizing that such an occasion, especially at my age, should be a time for reflection, frank self-assessment, and a renewal of purpose. And if I am as honest with myself as I strive -- however imperfectly -- to be, I must further acknowledge that I'm not likely to enjoy the results of any of that, so I should just gorge myself on Zebra Cakes and Meister Braü instead.

Unfortunately, the Dollar Tree was out of both, so I've no option but to make up for lost time with a mass birthday bacchanalia, retroactively recognizing all the unremarked natal days in reverse order, starting with...

November 5: Li'l Innocent!  Graceful wordsmith.  Gifted illustrator. Two discrete skills that don't often go together. But while Li'l may have perfected this unlikely union, she didn't invent it, because Chef Boy-ar-dee® beat her to it:

You can make German Pizza by adding sliced knockwurst and sauerkraut (rinsed and drained). Then sprinkle generously with caraway seeds.

That's the key, people. Everyone knows about the rinsed and dried sauerkraut (I like to blow dry mine, then tease it with a rattail comb to give my German Pizzas more loft and bounce), but don't be stingy with the caraway seeds!

November 1: Chris Vosburg!

"Engineer" Vosburg, as he's known around these parts, is a longtime member of the commentariat and an occasional field reporter for Wo'C.  He's a font of Hollywood trivia -- both the locus and the metonym -- and a rich source of fiber and anecdotes about Catalina Island, baseball, Dutch rock bands, print-making, and many other fields of dark and mysterious magic.  He also knows his Star Trek (which I know because he was kind enough to listen to the Star Trek podcast I was on, and live-blog it in the comments), so I think this would be an appropriate entree for his personal feast day:

You will be charmed with these dainty little puddings--

I imagine Russell Crowe as Maximus in Gladiator holding up a fistful of glistening suet to the crowd in the Coliseum and bellowing, "Are you not charmed?"

But frankly, the Atora looks less like a pudding to me, and more like the Horta from the TOS episode Devil in the Dark.

I realize it's a nerdy comparison to draw, but Chris will get it.

October 18: KWillow!  Not only is K a delightfully smart and snarky commenter, she's also one of the nicest people I've ever had the privilege to know, kind to cats and people, and an all around good soul.  I almost feel bad, knowing what's coming out of the kitchen for her...

There's a famous soul food joint in Hollywood called Roscoe's House of Chicken 'n Waffles, which I'm ashamed to say I've never gone to, because whenever I've walked by there's always a huge line (also why I've never had a frankfurter from local institution Pink's Hot Dogs) and because Chicken and Waffles has never struck me as a particularly harmonious pairing. But Waffles and Mushroom Soup?  That's a classic. Waffles and Pimento-stuffed Olives? Who didn't grow up gorging on that every Sunday morning after church? Add drained, flaked tuna, and you've got a dish that'll throw a birthday party on your tongue. Or, if not, at least the cat will eat it.

October 11: Anntichrist S. Coulter!

What can we say about Annti that hasn't been said over the past 13 years? In fact, I believe it was she who inspired the whole birthday party tradition at Wo'C (certainly it was her nic that "inspired" [if that's the word I want and I'm pretty sure it's not] Sheri to celebrate each natal anniversary with an increasingly scary photo of Ann Coulter; probably because Annti's birthdate is hard by Halloween).

Annti is a rara avis, unfailingly empathetic and generous on the one hand, fluent in fifty different dialects of paint-stripping profanity on the other.  The kind of person you only meet once in a lifetime, if that, and one who deserves a tasty and decadent treat in honor of this, the anniversary of the day when she slid through the proscenium arch that is the cervix and began to strut and fret her hour upon the stage.  But since she's going through some particularly hard times at the moment, I think I'll spare her the gorge-hoisting fare and just make do with a Florida Green Anole, because we've gotta have at least one...

Sexy Birthday Lizard!

And, oh, what the heck, let's toss in some Charlize Theron while we're at it...

And finally, we come to the last but not least of the missed birthdays, not least because I missed it first:

October 4: Dr. BDH!

In addition to cracking wise in the comments, Dr. BDH is Wo'C Chief Medical Officer, and as such keeps things bustling at the House of Pain.  So who, I ask you, would be better equipped to whip up an antidote to this:

A Thaw and Serve Salad! And since Doc no doubt spent many a nerve-wracking hour in medical school removing wrenched ankles from bulb-nosed cadavers, I'm sure he can extract this handy fruit salad tray without touching the sides and making that horrible buzzing sound.

And with that, I think we're back on track. So please join me in wishing a very happy (and in most cases, very belated) birthday to Li'l Innocent, Chris V., KWillow, Annti, and Doc.

State of the Blog

They've been testing the fire alarms all day. There's a speaker in every apartment, and they produce a noise so abusively shrill that it feels like the business end of some sonic weapon designed by the DoD to dislodge Manuel Noriega from the Vatican embassy in Panama, and it's made Moondoggie and me as nervous as cats. This is, of course, a first for him, but a fairly accurate snapshot of my daily demeanor, so I figured I'd just sit here and try to block it out, while I catch everybody up on what's been happening. Or not happening.

And...it seems like only part of this post (roughly the first paragraph) is appearing. Oh well...From a storytelling perspective it's always better to show than to tell, so I guess we'll let that be the overture to this symphonic bitchfest: massive computer problems! Pardon me while I see if I can find where the rest of my post went...

Please Stand By...

Is There a Dark Mark Over Our House?

Sorry for the paucity of postings, but we're having (yet another) difficult week. Mary's dad died on Monday.

I'll just quote my brother-in-law's brief biographical sketch from Facebook:

Major Richard Brubaker (retired) passed away on Monday. He was a veteran of WWII and the Korean Conflict. He also served during the Cold War where he studied photos of Cuban Missile sites. He was a prime example of what is called "the Greatest Generation". He always thought of others. His family and friends always came first. He will be missed.

It took the Grim Reaper 93 years to catch up to him, despite a wealth of opportunities, starting when Richard fell down a well in Kansas as a small child and got stuck, which is apparently a thing that happened regularly in the nineteen thirties, at least according to Radio Days.

He fought in the Pacific, aboard the U.S.S. Saratoga. After the war he joined the Air Force, went through Officers Training School, then served in Korea, and flew as part of some truly hair-raising surveillance flights during the height of the Cold War.  He was a good storyteller and I always found it frustrating that he wouldn't talk about those experiences much, and when he did it was always a brief, funny anecdote with himself as the butt of the joke. 

He was endlessly kind, hilariously self-deprecating, and quietly badass.

R.I.P., Dick.

Small Crap Warning

I apologize for the lack of posting this week. Mary's dad is in the hospital, proving that it doesn't rain but it pours (and by "rain" I mean "golden shower"), so we've been all at sixes and sevens, which sucks because I'm not exactly sure what that idiom signifies, but I think it means we're winning at baccarat, but losing at life.

Anyway, good vibrations and well wishes are appreciated, and we'll be back as soon as we can take one deep breath without getting donkey punched by destiny.

Should Auld Acquaintance...

Much like Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally, I don't really get that song. However, if someone asked me to describe what the song means to me, I would just refer them to our beloved Crappers. (A friend who only dropped by on Beast Blogging days once asked me if that wasn't kind of mean, calling the readers "Crappers"?  I tried to explain how whenever the target of a post by s.z. or Scott would show up in the comments, they'd inevitably try to shut us down with the old "this blog is aptly named World O' Crap," -- so often, in fact, that when Scott and s.z. held a poll to see what we should call ourselves, "Crapper" was the clear, bird-flipping winner.  Scott informs me, just for the record, that the Continental-sounding "Crapier" came in at number two.)

I want to echo Scott's comments and add my own words of gratitude. This past couple of months has been a roller coaster of emotions. There are days when I feel like I have lost too much, and then there are days when I realize that classic and yet, somehow kind of crappy Xmas movie It's A  Wonderful Life really got it right when they said, "Remember...: no man is a failure who has friends." I'm kind of assuming the same goes for a woman.

Much thanks for all your support in this last year. Now, let's kick 2014's butt outta here and hope for better times for 2015--for us all!

Moondoggie's one hope is that I never, ever, put a hat of any kind on his head, ever again.

Crappy New Years!

Jane Greer wishes everyone a very Happy New Year, and wants to assure you that she has no plans whatsoever to playfully blow on your coals and heat your pants up to the temperature of a pizza oven, then play you for a sap. Nor is she even thinking of drawing you into an elaborate scheme to double cross her gangster lover, only to set you up as the fall guy while she slips across the Mexican border with a fortune in stolen bearer bonds. And absolutely under no circumstances does she intend to remove the hour hand from this clock, slip soundlessly into your shabby furnished room as you toss your meager belongings into a suitcase and prepare to blow town, leaving the little two-timing snake behind, and stab you in the back, then replace the hand and let it tick innocently away as the baffled cops search for a murder weapon, even though that would be the perfect crime and therefore something even you, the hapless victim, would have to admit is a pretty swell way to start the New Year.

As for us? Well, even without the satisfaction of a police-baffling murder-by-clock-hand that we would totally get away with, unless we were thwarted at the eleventh hour by a Nero Wolf, or a Miss Marple, or a Philo Vance, the new year is starting off better than the old one ended. And that's kind of a big deal around here, because as you probably saw from this post, the last half of 2014 turned wildly turbulent for us, before abruptly giving up and just corkscrewing into a cornfield.

But it's January 1, 2015, and surprisingly, we're still here. The rent is paid for the month, the internet is still connected, we haven't been forced to place our stuff in storage and seek refuge on a friend's couch, or try to find a home -- temporary or otherwise -- for Moondoggie, and that is due entirely to the generosity and kindness of the Crappertariat.  We were in a desperate situation, facing certain homelessness, and you guys came to our rescue -- both active commenters whose names would be familiar to any Wo'C reader, and secretive lurkers who surfaced only long enough to launch a donation, then slipped silently beneath the waves again.

I can't tell you how grateful we are; not only for the financial help, but also for the touching notes we received -- a humbling and welcome reminder (for those times when I start to get a little cynical from too many trips to Townhall or WorldNetDaily) that the people who read this blog are so much nicer, smarter, and more empathetic than the people we write about.  And on that subject, I'd also like to thank our Special Correspondents who've lent their talents to keep this place hopping: Bill S., Keith, Hank, and especially Our Hostess (as Doghouse Riley often called her), Sheri, the inimitable S.Z., whose return to posting here is the best thing that's happened to World O' Crap since Jeff Gannon.

Here's hoping 2015 is a better year for all.  And while I'm no Chuck Workman, I'd like to end 2014 with our own Oscars-style In Memoriam reel, so here are Riley and Moondoggie in their one foray into feature films: A Cat's Guide to Grooming:

Happy New Year, everyone.

I Guess We Need a Telethon For Fail

I’ve started, stopped, and started this post over again about a dozen times so far, and if this were a movie we could establish that fact with a single shot of a wastebasket overflowing with crumpled paper, and the sound of another sheet being ripped from a typewriter platen and wadded up to join its fellow failures. Or, depending on the period, you could go with the less static visual of a hurled inkwell exploding against the wall in a black starburst, then dripping slowly down the yellow wallpaper while the frustrated author weeps, and clutches at his Byronic locks.

But you can’t get away with that anymore, because nobody’s going to sit still for a ten minute scene of some guy pursing his lips and holding down the Backspace key. I guess the point I’m trying to make is that this is proving to be a painfully difficult post to write, in no small part because it may be my last for awhile – not that I’m planning to leave in a huff, but because I suspect the huff is planning to leave without me.

Okay, this may be the absolute worst set-up for a clip ever. Let me start over again. Again.

As most of you guys know, things have been on an inclined plane around here for the past few months, with both Mary’s and Riley’s health deteriorating simultaneously (which I referred to as the “Elliott and E.T. Effect,” to the amusement of neither one). Not surprisingly, the rate of southward descent seems to have increased since Riley passed away in September, which makes me think that she was our own little household goddess, warding off evil spirits and keeping the wolf from the door with the searing power of her sidelong glance.

Mary's surgery solved the one major health problem we knew about (and the one lurking issue we were afraid of; yay for Early Detection). But she's in constant pain from the neuralgia in her jaw, making it an ordeal for her to eat, and often impossible for her to talk (we basically communicate through pheromones, Clan of the Cave Bear-style gestures, and text messages); which is a bit of a handicap for a teacher, or would be if the school district hadn't informed her that she was out of a job.

She's planning to appeal, but it will probably be 60 days -- at earliest -- before she gets a hearing, and in the meantime, she's on unpaid suspension (with loss of benefits -- we're so lucky they didn't pull this before the surgery).  

Moondoggie tried to help with the mound of paperwork the District sent by laying on it, but the legalese sent him into a fugue state.

I wasn't overly panicked, since I had an assignment lined up that was supposed to start on November 28 and would have picked up some of the slack, but it kept getting postponed, and tonight I was told it's been pushed to the end of January. Which means we facing eviction at the end of the month -- and where we'll go, I honestly don't know. Also, AT&T is turning off the internet service tomorrow, but with all my kvetching and wheedling, that may come as a relief to some people.

So things are, frankly, desperate, and we're forced to come hat in hand and beg for help. Even worse, the only hat I could find is a mesh trucker cap with felt moose antlers from Bullwinkle's Family Fun Center in Tukwila, WA, but I guess beggars can't be choosers. 

I'm very sorry about this; I know we couldn't have picked a worse time of year, and if you're not in any position to help, I completely understand, please don't worry about it. If you can help -- with anything at all -- it would be a life saver. You can click the button on the top left, or, if you're not Pals with Mr. Pay, drop me an email at scott.clevenger - at - gmail.com and I'll send you our snail mail address.

Thanks for listening.

Medical Center...In Color!

I just got home from the hospital and wanted to post a quick update on Mary's condition: she appears to have come through the surgery very well, with none of the nasty surprises or possible complications we were dreading. I saw her in Recovery and later when they brought her to her room, and while she wasn't spoiling for a lively exchange of views, she did seem to be in good spirits. Except when I made her laugh, which is apparently contraindicated, but hey...I gotta be me.

Moondoggie, predictably, is a basket case.  I found him in the same place we'd left him this morning, lying in a funk by the front door, as though he'd developed Sudden Onset Lassie Come Home Syndrome.

Thanks to everyone for the good wishes; I know they were a big boost to Mary's peace of mind. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get something to eat (thanks to my friend Laura for bringing over hotdish), take something for my back (which, after nine hours in a waiting room chair has been reduced to bone spurs that jingle jangle jingle), then spend the rest of the evening scritching the cat.

Time for some candy...

Operation!

I always hated this game, although in the past my objections were purely aesthetic. This time...it's personal.

My sister and I actually had and played Operation (because there were only seven TV stations -- eight if you count UHF channel 52 which showed Speed Racer and Gigantor, but successfully tuning it in required a lot of minute and frequent adjustments to the rabbit ears -- and we had to do something until As The World Turns was over) but I never really enjoyed it. I'm naturally anxious, so I lack a steady hand, and that buzzer (which alway sounded in my head like a scream) just sawed through my nerves like a blunt electric knife. On the other hand, with the success of Ouija at the box office, this might be an opportune time to pitch my take on Operation as a new torture porn horror franchise ("Helpless man is dismembered alive by snotty children").  I imagine the trailer climaxing with a great, chilling image: an eight-year old girl shows the victim his own femur while mirthlessly intoning, "Ha. Ha. Ha."

Anyway, remember yesterday, when I said it hasn't been a good week and is about to get worse? Here's where I make good on that promise...

Mary has been suffering from a variety pack of health problems, which seem lately to be increasing in severity and decreasing in manageability (although her degree of Fahrvergnügen appears to have stabilized) and tomorrow she's going in for major surgery. How major will depend on what they find (apparently it's part surgical procedure, part scavenger hunt) and naturally she's nervous about it, as am I. Hell, even Moondoggie has lost his usual sang froid and is clinging to her lap like an insecure lamprey.

So any good thoughts and well wishes you can send her way would be much appreciated.  I'll try to update this post tomorrow, once I know anything.

The World O' Crap Audiences Are the Greatest Audiences in the World

Mary and I want to thank you guys from the bottom of our hearts. Granted, that's the really gross part of the heart, where atherosclerotic plaque gathers in pools of lipids, foamy macrophages, and cholesterol crystals, making the foundation of your romance organ all slimy and weird-smelling like the floor of a pork rendering plant. (This is why I never give out those heart-shaped valentines, because it seems like kind of a mixed message.)

But today the quagmire of semi-liquid fat has been forced out of our lower hearts by high pressure gratitude. Thanks to your generosity, we've hit our fundraising goal and can pay the vet (who started treatment yesterday morning solely on the basis of our paltry deposit and my shaky-voiced assurance that "I know some people who I think might help us."

And you did, and we couldn't be more grateful, at least not without developing dangerously enlarged hearts. So thank you very, very much.

S.O.S. For C.A.T.!

You know me, I like to open with a joke, especially when there's bad news involved. But right now I've got such bad news to deliver, and my hands are trembling so violently, that it's a struggle just to work the keyboard, so please forgive me for stumbling straight to the point:

Riley's in the hospital, and she's not coming out unless we can raise $980.

I realize this is exactly the same thing I'd be saying if she'd been kidnapped and was being held for ransom by Mexican drug traffickers or Quebecois Separatists, but our vet is actually a nice guy, so I'm not going to alert the FBI. Instead, I'm coming to you and begging for help.

As some of you probably remember, Riley's health started to falter last September, and after a battery of tests, we found out her thyroid was on the fritz. But she responded to the medication, enduring a pill tossed down her throat twice a day with weary fatalism -- especially when Mary followed it up with a few of the treats she loves so much. But Riley's brain is a sophisticated pattern recognition system, and if we ever screwed up the sequence, she would demand we make it good, e.g., Mary administered the pill one morning, then came back a little later to find the treats untouched and Riley piercing her with a disapproving stare. Mary looked around and realized the pill had fallen out of her mouth, and Riley refused to touch her reward until Mary did it right.

"I like treats, but I deplore sloppiness."

But about a month ago she started losing weight again. We spent all our funds, Disposable, Discretionary, and None of the Above, on a new round of tests, treatments, and special foods. Mary even learned to give Riley thrice-weekly subcutaneous fluid injections, and again, she seemed to rally.  But about a week ago she gradually stopped eating, and her weight has dropped, from a high of 13 pounds a couple of years ago, to just under six.  She became very wobbly, unable even to jump onto my lap as I worked at the computer, and in the past couple days she's stopped purring entirely, which is the most telling and heartbreaking change, because she would normally start to idle like a Harley the instant you touched her.

So after a sleepless night, we wrapped her in a towel (no pet taxi this time, because she hates it) and took her to the vet this morning, expecting to be told the worst. In fact, as we waited for an agonizingly long time in the chilly examining room, I began to wonder how I would break the news to you guys, since many of you have known her for years, going back to the days of our old domain at world-o-crap.com.  But the doctor surprised us by saying there was a reasonably good chance to save her.

We saw the estimate, and Mary, who'd been bravely, but barely holding it together, broke down in tears, because even if we gave up on food, gas, and internet and spent every cent, it still came to more than we have in the bank.  There didn't seem to be any option; our only choices were to let her continue to starve to death, or have her put to sleep.

I said, without thinking, "Maybe the World O' Crap community will help us," and she looked at first startled, then faintly hopeful -- enough that she agreed with my desperate and potentially very stupid decision to admit Riley to the pet hospital.

So that's what's been happening. We just got home a little while ago; Mary is cuddled up with Moondoggie, and I'm sitting here, throat dry, palms damp, heart pounding, hoping that you guys, who have been so kind to us in the past, will come to our aid once again.

If you can -- and I know times are tough, and completely understand if you can't -- please click on the button at the top left.  Or, if you're not a Pal of Mr. Pay, email me at scott.clevenger - at - gmail.com and I'll send you our snail mail address. Any little bit will help.

And thanks for listening.