Professor B. Worm

SEE YA LATER

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 01:31:00 +0000

There are no words to describe what your tributes (Kim, Savannah, Philip, Fay, Pat, Wandering Coyote and Stinkypaw), comments, and cards have meant to me.

You all were his best friends, confidants and supporters for many years and I thank you all.

I have printed out all of the blogs and am keeping them close.

I open up Charlie’s blog and he comes alive again. We never liked to have our pictures taken so going back over the years of his blog is like his picture album of the last several years. I miss not having the Admiral Pooper Scooper writing.

I would always say ‘see ya later’ or ‘later’ when I would leave the house---never goodbye. I knew the time would come when ‘later’ would mean a lot longer than a few hours, but that was my way of dealing with the reality of Charlie dying. It just wasn’t going to happen now, but of course my Charlie died and it will probably be more than a few hours before we meet again.

Thank You All.

Love,

Martha

Farewell, My Friend

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 02:38:00 +0000

Martha Callahan called me to let me know that Charlie passed away this afternoon.

I was able to talk to him for a little while last week when he was moved to hospice. He didn't want anyone to blog about it until after he was gone. Charlie, being Charlie, didn't want us to fret over him. Martha has asked me to write a little something to let all his friends know.

I met Charlie when I started my blog 6 years ago. He was my first friend in blogland. We bonded over a mutual loathing of Nora Roberts and her writing, if you can believe it. :-) Although we've never met in person, we've talked on the phone from time to time over the years.

During a conversation after Christmas, he wanted his blog friends to know how much you meant to him. He hadn't been able to get out and around for quite a while, and having you in his life became a whole new world. And near the end, during our last conversation, he was thinking of us---people he'd never met in real life---but people who brought a lot of joy to him.

I looked around for an appropriate poem or quote to use for this---something solemn and deep and meaningful. But every time I found a poem with possibilities, I could just hear him snorting into my ear, "what a load of crap!"

So what would Charlie have said? I imagine it would have been something like "See, I told you I was sick!" That would have been more his style, smartass that he was.

There's an old Inuit legend that talks about the stars in the night sky. "Perhaps they are not the stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy."

I want to remember you with that, Charlie.

Tonight I'm going to go outside and tell the stars how much I'm going to miss you. I hope you can hear me.

Godspeed, my dear, dear friend.

If anyone wants to say words in celebration of Charlie's life, I'm sure it will be a comfort to Martha.

Blessings to all,
Attila the Mom

Coming Soon: A Post!

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 21:59:00 +0000

Inspired by my friend Diane at Bibliophile By the Sea, who's so gol' darn organized, I'm attempting to do a recap of my reading for 2011. (Remember when I used to review and talk about books on this scholarly blog?) Well, I’m no longer the spring chicken I was a couple years ago, so it’s taking me much longer to do a post in itty-bitty pieces parts. Especially when my mind wanders away somewhere and I forget what I was doing. Or I suddenly nod off narco- leptic-like onto my keyboard.

Martha thinks I'm so cute when I wake up and there's a perfect impression of QWERTY spelled backward on my cheek: YTREWQ.

A recent photo of me taken by Martha

The point of all this nonsense is I'm working on a post, I really am, and I'll have it up (the post) within the next week. If you don't like book recaps, forget everything you just read. You may keep the photo, though, because I agree with Martha: I'm so damn cute.

* * *

Thanks to Stinkypaw for the graphic. It is neither a photograph nor was it taken by Martha.

To Life

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 19:46:00 +0000

l'chaim

Electrical Greetings

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 20:25:00 +0000

Charlie: "According to my schematic here, blue bulb #29,682 is burned out on the tree angel."

Martha: "You know what you can do with blue bulb #29,682, don't you?"

Season's Greetings to All

. . . And Especially to Your Loving Families

Martha: [*sigh*] "You're going to sit there and pout until I change blue bulb #29,682, aren't you."

Charlie: [*pouting*] "I just want the place to look nice for all my Blogger friends, that's all."

* * *

This is NOT our house--the photo is from the Huffington Post.

Heaven

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 21:47:00 +0000

It’s finally official. I have decided that, once my lungs cease laboring and I leave this place, I’m going to Heaven.

Oh, not the Heaven of the theologians, the allegorists and apologists, the philosophers, the clergy and charlatans and con men because none of them seem to know much more about it than choirs of chubby cherubs.

Nevertheless, I call the place I’m going "Heaven" because I don’t want to confuse. Saying, “I’m going to Turnip after I die,” doesn't make a whole lot of sense, does it. Plus, I truly believe that Heaven exists somewhere in the Universe, much different from the centuries of speculation by the sages.

Since no one has ever been there and back again, I believe I can speculate with the best of them. I mean, who can say that I’m wrong—and prove it?

The best thing is I’ve had a lot of time to construct my vision of Heaven and it has taken my fear of death completely away.

So. What will Heaven be like?

The first stop on my journey will be the Rainbow Bridge to pick up my best friends. (PLEASE read this if you have not.) Jennifer, Fred, Punkers, and Molly are waiting for me there and, when we spot each other, I can't imagine the happiness there will be knowing we will never ever be separated again.

This may sound corny to non-pet people and that’s okay. But to all the theological experts who say animals don’t have souls and cannot go to Heaven, please PROVE it to me. I choose to believe that I will spend eternity with my pets and that gives me something to look forward to as I lay here, waiting.

Eternity: the best weapon preachers have to scare the Hell into us with the assurance we will burn in agony forever and ever and ever and ever . . .

The notion of eternal torture has worked well on me, ever since I was a tiny boy. It has caused me a lifetime of guilt, shame, and fear when in fact the notion is wrong. Wrong, because eternity denotes time, and time is a man-made concept. Heaven won’t have time; there will be no days, years, millenium or schedules to clean the top of the refrigerator. Life will always be in the present.

Living in the present rules out living in the past, which we all do no matter how hard we try not to. In Heaven, there will be no more bad memories, regrets, fear, or sorrow. I will live, for the first time in sixty-some years, totally at peace—totally tranquil and serene, instead of depressed and randomly attacked by panic. I will feel the calm and stillness inside me, indescribable happiness, and that gives me something to look forward to as I lay here, waiting.

And while the dogs and I are hiking through our Heavenly forest and communing with all the animals and birds that live here, Martha will be standing on the path, smiling, her arms spread wide, coming home to join us. . . .

Politics: My First and Last Say

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 23:52:00 +0000

On Tuesday, November 6, 2012 the citizens of the United States will elect a president. Yes, it's almost exactly one year from now, but the mudslinging, lies, and false promises are well under way. I've noted a couple blogger friends testing the political waters—Murr and Jerry—that are normally anathema to a blog. Both Murr and Jerry have excellent perspectives of what needs to be done in this country, and I agree with them, but I have a much different view. It's called reality.

In my very first and very last political opinion, I found this piece of video on Robert's blog and I agree with it 100%.

Caution: This is George Carlin, a brilliant man with a potty mouth. In many of his comedy skits I've found the profanity overdone and unnecessary, but here it fits perfectly. I urge you to listen to the man because this is the REALITY of the U.S.

A Muse Less

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Sat, 29 Oct 2011 23:20:00 +0000

My Muse has packed up her inspirations and left me. Blanche returned to ancient mythological Greece where she rightly belongs, but not before helping this amateur writer write openly, honestly—and sometimes powerfully—about his life.

My life story isn't finished yet, and there is a lot of back-story left to tell. But Blanche and I realized that those stories will not be written. Oh, the ideas are there, and the passion is there— along with the brain fog.

Brain fog, caused by all the drugs I take. The doctors' took an oath to keep me alive and they're doing that. It oftentimes requires strong medicines to keep the machine functioning, but at a high cost: strong side effects. I accept the effects, even though they contend for available brain cell receptors in order to work.

And so I have a faulty memory that plays tricks on me, that makes me dizzy enough to pass out, that makes all things familiar appear to be from Never-Never Land, that causes confusion and forgetfulness—how the hell am I to write anything of substance amongst chaos?

So thank you, Blanche, for being here for me, and along with Rhonda T., making this book almost a reality. I hope you find a nice marble statue to reside in or, better yet, you're somewhere in place and time inspiring someone else to write the best they can.

* * *

Disambiguation, Oct. 31, 2011: Judging from the first few comments, I need to make it clear that Soul Songs will NOT be published in book form because my collaborator, a graphic designer who did wonderful layouts, photos, fonts, and pull-quotes, abandoned the project when we were 90% complete. The book has long since been dismantled (as well as the idea of publishing it), and the essays posted on this blog—most of them rewritten for the better.

I apologize if my brain fog is contagious.

Great Lines

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Fri, 21 Oct 2011 23:44:00 +0000

The opening sentence from The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls:

"I was sitting in a taxi, wondering if I had overdressed for the evening, when I looked out the window and saw Mom rooting through a Dumpster."

* * *

Sophia (left) and Rose (right)

From the Golden Girls, a wonderful TV sitcom about four women of "a certain age"—mismatched roommates to be sure, but it was all about friendship.

Rose, the quartet's worrier and resident dingbat, says to Sophia after the house had been broken into by thieves, "I can't sleep, knowing that strangers can break in here anytime. Do you ever worry about being raped?"

Sophia, with one of her trademark outrageous answers, "Are you kidding? When I was a girl growing up in Sicily, you couldn't cross the street without getting knocked up."

* * *

Eddie the dog, Niles, and brother Frasier

From the TV sitcom Frasier, Martin, a retired cop and the father of two uppity psychiatrists, is worried about his Jack Russell terrier Eddie. "He seems depressed," Martin says, and decides to call in a dog psychiatrist, much to the amusement of Frasier and Niles.

The doggy doctor explains that, since Eddie can't talk, Martin will have to answer the questions to the best of his ability. He asks a couple of benign qestions, while the "real" shrinks snort and guffaw like the little boys they are.

The doctor asks a third question: "If you were Eddie, what would be your favorite fragrance?"

Frasier pipes up, "That's easy—toilet water."

And Miles adds, "Yes, and put that down as his favorite beverage, too."

* * *

Out of 8 billion movies, only one comes quickly to mind. In an otherwise boring movie (my opinion), Steve Martin, sitting wistfully on a bench, says, "If I had a body like hers, I'd stay home and play with me all day."

Amen, brother.

* * *

This is an audience participation post where anyone with an ounce of humor can, uh, participate. I have no doubt that some (if not all) of you can come up with some real screamers. Lettuce have some fun!

Map Stewart, Troubadour

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Sun, 16 Oct 2011 21:40:00 +0000

Michael Anthony Patrick Stewart

This is my friend Map, who lives in Limerick, Ireland.

He's a lucky bastard: He has a beautiful wife, Annette, and three equally beautiful daughters. He sings for a living, mostly at weddings (there's no shortage of those in Ireland), but I think of him more as a modern-day troubadour.

You'll understand why when you listen to this song—to him a work-in-progress, a fooling around at home with a computer, software and a mixing board, but to me an accomplished ballad of yore.

01 Fields Of Athenry by mapstew

Here are the lyrics

To my friend from Charles Michael Patrick Callahan

Coming Soon

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Tue, 04 Oct 2011 21:30:00 +0000

Coming real darn soon to a computer screen near you:

A post.

Four Paws Up for Toronto

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Sun, 25 Sep 2011 03:24:00 +0000

If I could, I'd bring every one of these cats and dogs here to Casa la Dumpa and give them a safe home full of love and laughter. Once, they thought they had that—until they suddenly found themselves abandoned, physically abused, turned out in a strange world they could not survive in by themselves. Some, the "lucky" ones, found themselves in a kill shelter, and even luckier ones were rescued from the shelters by wonderful people dedicated to rehabilitating these little creatures and finding them safe homes full of love and laughter.

Nevertheless, in 2009 forty-thousand dogs and cats were put down—killed—in New York City alone.

Are the puppy mills (and the pet stores who sell the mills' "products" for outrageous prices) solely responsible for pet overpopulation? No. There are the home breeders who hope to make a bundle on a litter of puppies or kittens, and the dumb shits who allow their unfixed pets to roam at night and come home knocked up. Oops, four to eight more unwanted kittens to deal with, what do we do?

Toronto can't solve all the problems of overpopulation, but they're sure as hell on the right track. The city has planted a seed, and hopefully it will germinate in other cities. And towns. And villages. All over the world. Yes, there are terrible things happening all over the globe, humans doing horrible things to humans, but never let us do horrible things to mans' best friends, maybe the only friends we have left.

Eating Lobsters at the Symphony

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Sun, 18 Sep 2011 22:07:00 +0000

I have retired from blogging twice. The first time was December 6, 2010 and I was back posting six days after that. My second retirement was September 5, 2011 and here I is, back again on the 18th.

I must have blogging in my blood along with the red food coloring.

Or maybe I'm determined to stay connected with all of you whom I miss and love.

Yeah, that's it. I miss you. I'm going to blog until I absolutely cannot. When I'm not feeling well (commonly known as "I feel like shit"), I'll just put up my serene photo that says "Resting." That way you won't have to write so many nice things that make me cry. And you're always welcome to take those nice things back or add something like, "You're a big doody-head."

* * *

My friend (and yours) Wandering Coyote has been wandering all over Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island with her mother and aunt. She's been eating lobster like this was their last mating season, and she sent me this postcard between mouthfuls:

(Click for enlargement)

She and I were talking on the telephone (remember those?) last evening and I told her how much the third panel made me laugh; Her reply: "When I saw that panel I instantly thought, 'THIS is a Charlie card!' "

I'm somewhat disturbed by the number of female bloggers who, over the years, have made reference to my antenna or used some other euphemism for my, uh, equipment. In the case of Attila the Mom, "Prong" has sent her into fits of laughter (and some blue comments) for years. What I want to know is, where were you pundity babes when I was young and frisky? I was looking at my high school yearbook not long ago and I know where all those girls were: they were grazing on the football field both for the roughage and to save the school the cost of a ground crew. I must have grown up in an ugly neighborhood.

I'm sidetracked here, so visit the Coyote and her Flickr photos—all 467 of them—of her trip eastward. They're spectacular, from flowers to architecture to scenery to . . . lobsters.

* * *

Please take a moment to visit Savannah and sign the guestbook for Miss Daisy, her mother-in-law who just passed away. Or, as Savannah titles it, Miss Daisy has gone home.

Also from Savannah is this wonderful flash mob video. Ravel's "Bolero" was an excellent choice, beginning with a simple snare drum and growing until the entire Copenhagen Philharmonic was assembled. Notice the parents. teaching their wide-eyed children about classical instruments and music. Thanks Sav—some sage once said, "Imitation is the severest form of flattery."

* * *

Until next time, dear readers, I'll be resting . . .

A Clarification

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Thu, 08 Sep 2011 22:40:00 +0000

My last post may have led some of you to believe that I'm on death's bed having my measurements taken for my urn. Not so, at least for the time being.

Rather, I'm having technical problems with my lungs: they aren't lunging properly. And they're getting worse. It has been a helluva couple of weeks trying to breathe, with no discernible improvement. My inhaler, mist medications, oxygen, and a corticosteroid increase are all less effective—which has me both worried and anxious. Even though I knew this time would come.

The best way to conserve energy and breath is on my back, so that's where I spend up to eighteen hours a day. I read and I nap, so I'm not up here enjoying the big time. I won't be blogging any longer, but I'll leave this post open for comments and you can tweet me @prof_worm. I'll answer comments a few at a time.

In the meantime, I'm resting and waiting . . .

An Anniversary and Dr. Poo

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Tue, 23 Aug 2011 19:34:00 +0000

37 years ago today, Martha got married in Denver, Colorado.

37 years ago today, so did I. Also In Denver.

I don't believe in coincidences, but that one is darn tough to ignore.

When I wished her Happy Anniversary! at the breakfast table this morning she stared at me for a moment and then rested her forehead in her hand like she suddenly had a horrible headache. She had a caged animal look about her and, after regaining the power of speech, said, "Christ, has it been THAT long?"

I was ecstatic to know that, after all this time, I still have an affect on her.

And we're going out, too. In about two hours she's taking me to see Dr. Poo for the results of my colonoscopy.

Now go away, dear readers, because I have to wrap her anniversary present and that'll take about two hours. I'm giving her (actually loaning her) one of my elderly paperback books with a date of 1968. The poor thing has been sitting on the shelf for 40 years just wishing to be read again, so I think it's a really nice gesture on my part to give (loan) it to my bride.

Did I hear someone in the back row mutter cheap bastard?

Odds and Ends, Mostly Odds

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Tue, 09 Aug 2011 22:28:00 +0000

You know, I could begin this issue of oddities with the following couple a thoughts:

1. With Rome in flames and the stock market in meltdown, CNN reported our Great Speechifier speechifying yesterday: "Calling the situation a 'legitimate source of concern,' Obama said the 'good news' was that 'our problems are imminently solvable, and we know what we have to do to solve them.' "

I wish I knew his definition for the word "imminent" because we could all use some imminent good news. I wouldn't hold your breath, though. In 2½ years, he and the Congress have fininshed bailing out the poor banks and made the health insurance companies more rich. Period.

2. The cost of our "wars" in Iraqistan are not included in the budget deficit, never have been, and are not part of the debt ceiling. So where have those billions and billions of dollars come from???

I was so happy when Prince William, on his tour of Canada, congratulated the Canadians for pulling out of Afganistan.

As the U.S. nears its tenth anniversary in that hellhole, however, we lost 30 troops on Saturday fucking around doing fucking WHAT? The Pentagon won't release their names as their garbage-bagged bodies arrived at Dover airbase today. Peace to their souls and condolences to their families and loved ones.

I could begin this issue of oddities with the previous couple a thoughts, but I've decided not to.

* * *

I'm not much of watcher of biopics (although I liked The Last King of Scotland), but I'm looking forward to The Iron Lady due at Christmas (oops, the Holidays). It will be great to see Meryl Streep again and, as a nominee for sixteen academy awards, I think she'll make a helluva Margaret Thatcher.

And if a few Americans watch this film for Streep's performance, maybe they'll learn a little about British politics to boot.

Nah.

Since the movie is a British production, I'm reminded of a question I've been meaning to ask. Is Pinewood Studios still in use?

* * *

Overheard from Sarah Palin:

"If the British had won the Revolutionary War we would all be speaking English now."

Grazie, Sarah.

* * *

Last Saturday, Martha had her oil changed. The oil in her Toyota, that is. Since auto batteries last only two or so years here in the desert, she had it tested. The battery, that is. Sho' 'nuff, it was down to its last few zaps. She grumbled her way over to AutoZone to buy a new one, presented the auto guy with the receipt for the dying battery, and was told a new one would be FREE—she had a seven-year warranty on a battery that lasted two. She was so happy when she got home she could almost have kissed me—she'd saved 80 bucks plus tax.

"See, honey, it pays to save those warranty things," I said.

"Bite me," she replied, too proud of herself to let my tiresome logic get under her skin.

There is a cult of Toyotans similar to owners of Volvos and Saabs: TALL tales abound about the reliability and durability of their vehicles. Why, here comes one now:

"I drove this here Toyota around the desert for 600,000 miles afore I hadta put in a gallon a gas and empty the ashtray. I drove it for another 600,000 miles, but I sold it 'cause the maintenance was too high: gas was up two bucks and the ashtray was full a'gin."

Deer pellets.

While the fixit guys were checking out Martha's car, they found two other problems: the water pump was leaking and something was wrong with the timing belt. That stuff is too complicated for me, but I understood the estimate to make repairs to the complications— $ 1,000. The leaking water pump dumped cold water on Martha's giddiness caused by her battery coup.

UNTIL Monday morning, when Martha Sherlock Callahan remembered we had an extended warranty. She rooted around in the glovebox until she found it and looked at the expiration date. On August 8, 2011, she was holding a warranty that expired on August 10, 2011. After a quick run to the women's restroom she called the dealer and today, August 9, 2011, all repairs are being made under warranty.

And who knows, when Martha gets home tonight she might almost want to kiss me again—especially if I keep my BIG mouth shut.

* * *

Lastly but not leastly, the news you've all been waiting for: the prep for my colonoscopy last week.

I can't BEGIN to tell you how bad the stuff I had to drink tasted, but I'll try. It was like everything I've ever stepped in or had stuck to the bottom of my shoes, liquified and blended with old motor oil. It was pure evil in a plastic bottle. And I truly think Martha was having fun watching me suffer—you know, just one of those harmless ways a girl gets revenge without doing anything overt with knives or ropes.

After drinking 64 oz. of The Stuff That Wouldn't Die, I would rather die than drink that shit ever again. What I might do is substitute hemlock when Martha isn't looking . . .

* * *

[You can now sign into DISCUS with your Google (Blogger) account.]

Gather 'Round la Toilette

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Sun, 31 Jul 2011 23:23:00 +0000

"Oh, that's just an old wives' tale."

I've never thought about it before now, but that's a pretty hefty statement in the sexist department. I mean I've never heard, "Oh, that's just an old husbands' tale." I have to believe that many super- stitions, most disinformation, and the bulk of nonsense originated with men, simply because men are idiots.

Why would a woman, for example, pass this nugget of numbskullery down through her female line:

"Warts on the palm are caused by masturbation." Baloney. Everyone knows they're caused by handling frogs in the swamp out back.

Here's another example of dipshittery:

"If you sit on the toilet too long you'll get hemorrhoids." Baloney squared. I knew a fellow who had a terrible case of hemorrhoids, but I'm pretty sure he got them from sitting on a hard barstool all day long.

Personally, the toilet has always been my friend. Not only have I done my best thinking there, I've always used the quiet time to read and study, uh . . . stock and mutual fund prospectuses. I'm proud to say that our entire financial future has been planned on the can, and Martha will be retiring at the golden age of 97 with a treasure trove of two thousand pork belly futures.

This week, however, la toilette won't be so friendly. Utilitarian as hell to be sure, but hardly a place I want to sit for too long—who knows, I might get hemorrhoids.

On Thursday, dear readers, I will undergo my 326th medical test since 2003—not one of which I've asked for. It's a colonoscopy, and it requires all 45 feet of my intestines to be sparkling clean and springtime fresh. So I must spend Wednesday night and Thursday morning "cleansing" by drinking two litres of terrible tasting liquid and another litre of water.

Cleansing, my ass. Using the scientific theory of massive water pressure, we're talking about an explosion. Boy, is the dog gonna love this one, but I've got me all worked up about it.

Maybe I should take a nerve pill, settle down, and just hope that everything comes out alright.

Mother and Son

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Fri, 15 Jul 2011 21:20:00 +0000

Okay, accuse me of anthropomorphization. Accuse me of anything, as long as it's a long word. But around our childless home our critter is our kid. Go ahead and laugh at me, call me eccentric like the English—I. Don't. Care.

Lousy photographer that I am, I was attempting something artsy-fartsy with this picture. Something along the lines of Michelangelo's Pietà, except Martha is no longer a virgin.

For those who haven't visited this blog before, Martha is on the left and Irish is on the right (he has red hair and freckles around his whiskers).

My two beloveds:

It breaks my heart to think of leaving them behind.

And if there is time for goodbyes, what do we say?

Haboob

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Wed, 06 Jul 2011 23:18:00 +0000

Some of you occasionally blog about the weather in your part of the world (except for my Canadian friends) (*snort*), and I don't say much about the desert, either. I mean, there's really nothing to say when the daily forecast is "sunny and hot," except during the two weeks of winter when the forecast changes to "sunny and a bit cooler."

Last evening, however, was an exception. We had a haboob, a super intense "dust" storm. Watch it roll into town in this silent time-lapse video.

The Phoenix Haboob of July 5th, 2011 from Mike Olbinski on Vimeo.

That isn't dust, folks. It's plain old dirt, which has had a whole inch of rain to hold it down since the first of the year. The only good thing about the dirt haze today is that you can't see the pollution.

Haboobs occur during the monsoon, which is July and August. Normally, we have a dust blow followed by lightning, thunder, and a torrential rainstorm. When we first moved to the desert in 1997, the monsoons were spectacular. But no more. For the past five or six years, the rainclouds quickly dissipate because we Phoenicians have constructed a heat island made of cement and glass. It was 118º (F) the other day; the rain evaporates, the clouds break up, and we're shit out of luck for water.

Here is a still shot of the Haboob, which is an Arabic word:

Okay, that's enough about the weather—I've learned to keep it on the back burner from my friends in British Columbia, Alberta, Manitoba, Ontario, and Quebec.

10 Things I Hate in My Mouth

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Mon, 04 Jul 2011 22:54:00 +0000

1. Brussels sprouts.

2. Dental equipment.

3. The ham-sized fist attached to the dental equipment.

4. Hair in my food (makes me want to puke).

5. Puke.

6. Dirt (as in "a mouthful of", most often from taking a header in the. . . dirt).

7. Soap, for washing it out.

8. The dog's tongue.

9. Someone else's filthy key ring to suck on.

10. Reader's choice. Tell us the number 1 thing you hate in your mouth.

The Pain-o-Meter

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Sat, 25 Jun 2011 23:00:00 +0000

I've been thinking about pain. Physical pain, like Attila the Mom is experiencing (she broke her ass a week or so ago, the poor clumsy thing). Personally, I don't have any physical pain, but I think about it for lack of anything better to do.

Like I was thinking about the pain scale the nurse fills out in the hospital after all the blood is mopped up and the screaming has died down to a low moaning.

The purpose of the scale is to give the nurse and the staff an idea of your pain tolerance before they lay on the heavy-duty pain meds. Nice idea, but it's one of the most subjective exercises I've ever done. And to make it worse, here in Arizona (where we have an excessive amount of pain due to the political climate), the scale is 1 to 10—giving us, and me, an additional four painful choices of pain.

I say subjective because how does one measure one's pain and assign a number to it? I've never had an arm suddenly fall off, so I don't know what 10-pain feels like. Likewise, what's 1-pain? Martha kicking my shin under the table for a socially unacceptable remark?

Have some manipulation, anyone? Drug addicts will always go for a 1. Ex-Marines and other macho men will choose 15. Some sufferers of fibromyalgia will pick all 10, just to be on the safe side.

So what am I?

"I'm between a 4 and a 6."

"You're a 5 then?" the nurse asks.

"Not always. Sometimes I'm between a 3 and a 7—you know, the pain comes and goes."

"That makes you a 5 again," the nurse says, punching numbers into her calculator.

"Okay, but what happens if I hit 7? Do I get a second ibuprofen? Morphine in a drip?"

Honestly, I should be flogged for my full of shitness and messing with the overworked nurses. As a courtesy, I usually just say 5 and get it over with, even though I have no idea what 5-pain is like. Or 3-pain. Or 8-pain . . .

So where do you think you are on the pain scale, dear readers?

_____________________

First, I'm thankful that I don't have pain, other than the usual that accompany old fartdom. Second, are you still my friend, Pam the nurse, or would you like to slap me silly?

Odds and Ends, Mostly Odds

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Mon, 13 Jun 2011 21:16:00 +0000

SYLVANIA

Due to the sparkling US economy, the company Martha works for has gone elsewhere in the world to find business. They finished a large contract in Panama City and have new ones in Brazil, Down Under, and

"Sylvania."

I looked up from my spaghetti and meatballs flambé (that's a nice way of saying dinner was burned) and asked, "Sylvania? Where, exactly, is Sylvania?"

"It's one of those countries near Yugoslavia. I have the address at work," Martha said.

"Do you mean Slovenia?" I suggested.

"Yeah, that's it! Geeze, Sylvania is where Dracula's from," she said, slapping her forehead while crunching on a forkful of spaghetti.

Martha is so darn cute when she's geographically- (and historically)-challenged. I didn't have the heart to tell her that Sylvania is a town in Finland where they make lightbulbs.

* * *

PLANNING

Some dark humor is always good for me, so I'll tell you about my funeral plans—that is, if by chance I die one of these years.

Actually, I won't be having a funeral because I don't do church. Rather, Martha wants to hold a tasteful memorial service, so I've scribbled out a tentative plan for her.

2:25 p.m.: Attendees enter (estimated 3-4) and plop their rear-ends on a folding chair (consider a chair fee if anyone needs two or more).

2:30 p.m.: Opening song.

2:35 p.m.: Glowing testimonials about me from the attendees.

2:37 p.m.: Since everyone is too shy to glow or testify in front of people, then Closing song.

2:40 p.m.: Leavature.

Short, sweet, and out in fifteen minutes. That's the kind of memorial service I like.

You know, maybe I should leave the planning to Martha. She'll know what she wants to do.

* * *

DUMB

Without an iota of doubt in my mind, I live in the dumbest state of all 52 of 'em (Iraq and Afganistan are the two newest). I live in Arizona, where

1. A gigantic wildfire is now burning down New Mexico. After two weeks, the fire is 10% contained.

2. The rainfall for the Phoenix metroplex has been one-half inch since January 1.

3. When it's this dry, most of the cities cancel their commercial 4th of July fireworks displays for fire safety.

4. The Arizona legislature doesn't give a shit about fire safety. This year, it passed a bill allowing the private sale of fireworks to individuals. No firecrackers, but plenty of stuff that flies into the sky. And burns the hands and faces off idiot kids. And start fires, especially if they tangle with all these tall palm trees.

5. Yesterday, the fireworks sales tents were setting up in the same locations where Christmas trees are sold—three weeks before the 4th of July. I wonder if the owners of these tents are members of the Arizona legislature; because of the sparkling AZ economy, graft has been down the past couple years.

6. Dumb.

* * *

Click flick for actual size.

MOLLY

The mood was subdued around here last week with the passing of Molly. Thank y'all from Martha and me for your kind comments. I think we all gave the little critter a nice send-off.

In the middle of the week we received a sympathy card from the vet with this inside: a double impression of Molly's paw print. And then the tears started again . . .

Martha will be on the trail very soon for another rescue dog. There are so many who had "good" homes and then got dumped when the housing house of cards collapsed. The poor creatures are so lost, lonely, and confused, just like Irish was when we adopted him. We'll letcha know when we have a new family member.

R.I.P.—Again

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Fri, 03 Jun 2011 22:11:00 +0000

MOLLY

April 1, 1997 — June 2, 2011

I'll catch up to you, little one, hopefully soon, at the Rainbow Bridge.

This Blog Is . . .

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Sat, 28 May 2011 01:52:00 +0000

She's 5!

noreply@blogger.com (Charlie) — Tue, 17 May 2011 20:49:00 +0000

That's right, this little slip of a thing is 5, as in five-years-old. 60 months, the time it takes most people to pay off their cars. The digit following 4 and preceding 6 (someone check me on that).

So what's so special about this tyke? She can sing. I mean, she can SING. She struggles with parts of The World's Hardest Song Ever Written, but give her a break—she's only 5. The kid has the pipes, no question.

Boy, I'll bet her kindergarten teacher dropped a load when he or she heard the wee one belt out "Mary Had a Little Lamb."

Take a listen.

What's that you ask? Can I sing? I couldn't carry a tune in an iPod, so watch the video again.