My mentor, Eugene Massin, has died. I am, of course, consumed by guilt for not having visited him at his studio for a couple of years. I am, of course, consumed by guilt for not having called him lately, either. This was the man who taught me, well, frankly, he taught me everything that was ever of use to me after I got out of art school.* He taught me the difference between looking and seeing, and I don't believe that there is a more essential skill. He taught me how to draw. Really draw. How to make a line that was lush and delicate at the same time. How to lay a pencil mark on paper that spoke volumes about light and shadow and texture and skin. How to draw.

He taught my husband how to teach art, although neither of them knew it at the time. He taught us all to respect our work, to see the majesty in our calling. The first time I told him to keep his marks off my drawing, he tousled my hair and told me I was going to be an artist, after all. He taught us to question everything, to absorb it and to process it and to put it back out with the marks of our own hands, our own souls.

He was a giant. He truly loved to teach and to be surrounded by his students. They kept him vital. And he gave us something that cannot be put in words.

Physically, he was huge, or seemed to be. If Michelangelo was around the Grove in the 70s and had needed a model for Moses, he would have chosen Gene. He was patriarchal in the biblical sense of the word. His presence was such that it filled any space he happened to occupy.

And now, there is a vacuum. We, his students, must strive to fill that void with our own works, in Gene's memory and honor.

Another memorial service. Crap.

* OK, I learned one other thing of value in college, and this from my film professor: The action goes where the interest lies. Yeah. That'll straighten everything in life out, if you just think about it and follow it.

It's mango season here in the sub-tropics. This means only one thing: total strangers speak to each other and offer up the juicy globes, freely and without constraint. You get on the train, and there, walking up and down the aisles are people trying to give away mangos. Children set up card tables on the side of the road, and sell the fruit for a quarter. I have been known to slip out under cover of darkness and leave bags of them on my neighbors' doorsteps.

That's because if we don't we will be drowning in mangos. Mangos are luscious and fragrant, until they hit the ground and immediately rot. I think they start the rotting process the nanosecond the stem detaches from the fruit and it begins its descent. Then the stench of rotting fruit is unbearable and inescapable. Entire neighborhoods reek of rotting mangos, since so much of this city was fruit groves prior to development. There are clouds of fruit flies hovering beneath the trees. Blue jays and squirrels take up permanent residence until the end of the season. From my four trees (three varieties doncha know: two Haydens, one Smithfield and a Keitt) I have made: mango jelly, mango marmalade, mango daiquiris, mango margaritas, mango bread, mango chutney, chicken with mango, green mango chutney, green mango pickles, frozen mango, and green mango pie.

The only salvation is that mangos fruit every other year. This year I have too many, next year I won't have enough. But even then, in a month, when the trees finally give up that last, sweet, fragrant fruit, I'll be out in the yard, looking up and asking: Any left? One more? Please?

And now, because maybe YOU have too many mangos, here's a little something for you.

Mango Upside-Down Cake

2 cups ripe mangoes, sliced
2 tbsp. lemon juice
1 tbsp. butter
1/3 cup brown sugar
1/4 cup shortening
1/4 tsp. salt
3/4 cup sugar
1 egg
1/2 cup milk
1/2 cup milk
1-1/4 cups flour
2 tsp. baking powder

Pour lemon juice over mangoes and allow to stand 15 minutes. Melt butter in 8-inch pan or casserole. Add brown sugar and cover with a layer of mango slices. To prepare the cake batter: Cream the shortening, add the shortening, add the sugar and cream together, then add beaten egg. Sift dry ingredients and add alternately with milk. Pour over mangoes and bake 50 to 60 minutes at 375 degrees F. When cake is done, turn it out upside-down and serve while still warm. Serve with whipped cream or a lemon or lime sauce.

Hey! Check this out. The lovely Jodi sent me this link. Another person who thinks in Dylanese and takes pictures of other women's feet. Too scary to contemplate, but in an infinite universe, where anything CAN happen, everything MUST happen.

My sistagirl dragged my sorry ass to an aerobics class Saturday morning. Early morning. 8:30 in the morning, to be exact. She got me by telling me about the music: "It's all, like, BeeGees, and disco and totally '80s. Just twist a bandana around your forehead and find some spandex and it'll be great." And I was all, like, yeah! That WILL be fun.

What drugs were flowing through my bloodstream? I hated aerobics classes in the 80s when I could still do them, before my knees just crumbled into bone meal inside some post-sell-date cartilage. I hated disco. I still hate disco. I spent the late 70s and early 80s pogoing at punk bars, and to this day have never once, not even for a minute done the Hustle.

And I went to an 80s revival aerobics class. Somewhere in the middle, as I was blowing like a aged cart horse trying to run the Preakness, and folding up with my head between my knees so I didn't pass out, I started cursing my friend. The disgustingly skinny, cute and preternaturally perky instructress kept bouncing past me and saying things like "Keepin' it movin', good work there in the back."

If I'd have been able, I would have cursed her, too. As it was I could barely lift my hands to shoulder lever to flip her the bird when her back was turned.

I'm going back tomorrow. But that class will be yoga. I am a master at the corpse pose.

This just came across the old ticker. Gregory Peck has died. I'm glad that he was able to see that his portrayal of Atticus Finch won AFI's number one slot as the all-time best movie hero. He was. The character was.

Just watched "Vanilla Sky" and Atticus as played by Gregory was the hero's archetype for fatherhood. Well, that just put me on the floor in a big ole pile of wet kleenex. And (this is for you, Lilly) so was the scene where Tom and Penelope re-enacted the cover of Dylan's "The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan"

How come nobody ever re-enacts album covers with me, huh? I could do a mean "Whipped Cream and Other Delights."

And David Brinkley has died, too. But the truth is, David never did it for me. I had a crush on ole Chet. And to this day I can't hear Beethoven's 9th without getting all warm and fuzzy, thinking about the black and white nightly news. Of course, that was back in the day when men were men, and newscasters were really reporters and not talking heads. And the news was really news, and not some carefully crafted spin or the celebrity burn-out du jour.

Speaking of celebrity burn outs, I had an OJ spotting the other day. Well, I think it was an OJ spotting. It was a big white SUV with heavily tinted windows coming out of OJ's driveway, anyway. And it followed me for about a mile before I turned onto my own little street. Whee.

I'm zooming through the trilogy from Mississippi's finest: The Sweet Potato Queens. This is wonderful stuff and I'm only jealous that I didn't think of it first. Instead, I will just have to become a Mango Queen. Big thanks to my sistagirl Jean Anne who turned me on to them and who is just all set to become the Boss Queen of the Mango Queens, it being her idea and all. For those of you not yet clued in, the books are: The Sweet Potato Queens' Book of Love, God Save the Sweet Potato Queens and the Sweet Potato Queens' Big Ass Cookbook and Financial Planner.

Just finished the Damon Runyon Omnibus, from whence comes my new philosophy of life: "Nothing between humans is ever 3-1. All of life is 6-5 against, just enough to keep you interested."

Also on the just finished pile is an amazing, amazing first novel, "Cloud of Sparrows" by Takashi Matsuoka. I see over at Amazon that he has another book coming out in September, and I just can't wait.

But of course, the number one beach book will be released on the first day of my week-long beach vacation, so I am all ready for 7 glorious days on the white sands of the Gulf coast, with a suntan-oiled copy of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

Life is good, no? Or at least better than the alternative.