I am probably one of the only people you'll ever meet who loves to be surveyed. I'm always screaming when I see poll results: "Who ARE these people? Why didn't anyone ask ME what I think?" Well, darlings, last night was a dream come true for me. The phone rang while I was prepping for dinner. (No, not dressing, chopping and dicing and prepping to cook) It was a survey about my bank.

The voice on the other end sounded plump, cute and all of eighteen. I envisioned a college student working for her tuition, as opposed to just putting up a webcam and taking money from perverts. Not that there's anything wrong with that. And, let's be honest here, something I would have entertained as a viable means of income during my college days. It would have come under Fields' First Law: It is immoral to allow a sucker to keep his money. But I digress. The truth is more likely she was some 89 year old grandmother in a cheap mobile home doing this to keep from eating cat food. But to me, she sounded like a sweet young thing (hereinafter referred to as SYT) and I immediately decided to help her earn her keep for the night.

The survey was all about my new MINI credit card: the kind you're supposed to snap on your keychain and use for everything. I did snap it on my keychain. And I am using it. The SYT asked me if I was using it. I said yes. She asked why. I told her because it's cute.

She asked if I found it convenient. I told her yes, especially when going to concerts, because post 9-11, regular purses are frowned upon, if not downright disallowed in concert venues. I have taken to carrying one of these (except in a lovely green wool plaid, not logo. NEVER logo). And I asked the SYT if she was familiar with the product. Then I launched into a whole detailed explanation of the purselet, the contents of it when I go to a concert and why it is just the best thing in the world. I could hear the SYT's fingers just flying on her keyboard. That made me so happy.

Then the SYT asked me if I wanted to be entered in a drawing to maybe possibly win money. Well, who says no to money? Not me. I said sure. She asked me for an e-mail address. I gave her my webmistress address and encouraged her to visit Girlyshoes. "You can even sign my guestmap!" I was just as cute and chirpy as she was.

But then, the phone visit was over, and she had to go back to cold calling and getting hung up on and I had to finish my chicken stew.

This should probably go to the rants section of my site, and not linger here in the blog world, but you know, it's on my mind now.

What happened to car washes and bake sales and even those horrible candy sales and wrapping paper sales as a means of teaching children to work for their money?

Back in my day, which was, granted, somewhere along the year God invented dirt, if the school band needed money to go to a marching band competition (and lord knows, THAT wasn't very likely in my high school), all the band members got together with the sponsor/teacher and went to a gas station and held a car wash. The cute girls stood on the side of the road in their bikinis, holding hand made signs offering to wash your car for a buck or five.

There were plenty of dusty cars, and much more splashing and bonding and general horsing around and everyone had a great time and money was made. Earned.

Maybe the band mothers baked brownies and cookies and you held a bake sale on the school grounds or out side of the local grocery store.

In any event, the students did something to earn the money they were asking for. But no more. If I see one more group of kids standing in the middle of traffic, under the watchful eye of their personal Fagen, holding out a cup asking for spare change, I am going to just lose it.

I've already started offending little Boy Scouts when they hold their little mitts out at the grocery store and ask for change. (Not even the decency to sell yummy cookies like the Girl Scouts.) I'll squat down to get eye to eye with them, and then I'll tell them, that , no, they won't be getting change from me because the Boy Scouts of America don't allow little gay Boy Scouts and that kind of prejudice is unacceptable to me and my money. And the adult in charge just looks daggers at me and has to explain.

But this begging thing has gone too far. It was one thing when it was a bunch of hunky firemen holding out a big rubber boot. Gimmicky, clever and infrequent. But the weekly barrage of begging children, asking for money for new soccer balls, or uniforms, or what ever is just too much. And half of these aren't even school sponsored, they are community-based leagues.

Well correct my crabby ass if I'm wrong, but if Mommy and Daddy are putting their kids into an after school sports league, isn't it their responsiblity to buy the freaking soccer balls?

And what about standing in the middle of US-1? What responsible adult thinks sticking teenagers and even younger kids in a busy 6-lane intersection is a good idea? With their hands out, asking for spare change.

I say no. Even the bums under the bridges offer to wipe a filthy rag across my windshield in exchange for a quarter. You want to teach kids the value of money? Make them work for it, not beg for it.

Yesterday's Metrorail ride provided me with one of the strangest visions ever. There was a disturbed young man, talking to himself with passion and vehemence. That in and of itself is not unusual. However, this particular young man was doing so in American Sign Language. It was apparently quite a heated conversation. I was transfixed, but didn't want to be rude and stare. Good thing I have great peripheral vision.

Then in the evening, as planned we went to see The Bob.

He didn't touch a guitar during his set, just stood at the electric keyboard in a wide-legged, Jerry Lee Lewis type stance, and banged out some fierce boogie woogie. He never ceases to amaze and delight me. The arena was less than half full, since the main show was the Dead, and the Deadheads were all out in the parking lot carny getting their highs synchronized.

These are my notes:
Scenes from a Dead Show
The scent of patchouli hits you as you enter the arena.

The middle-aged tie-dyed stoners sucking face, no -- tongue wrestling in the row in front of me, pausing to watch their hand trails.

A sea, a veritable sea, of tie dye.

Hemp jewelry. LED buttons. A beach ball, and then another and another, each larger than the last.

Tie dyed heads on cell phones, taking pictures of the crowd, just talking through the show.

Road worn Dead carnies from the tent city along side the arena.

Bad hair style and fake boobs, a no-longer-young woman skips through the audience with her teen daughter pushing along in front.

Leathery, stretch-marked bellies exposed between halter tops and low rider jeans. Grey pony tails and matching beards.

Babies with ear plugs and a very pregnant woman in black.

Tattoos. Lots and lots and lots of tattoos, but not so much body piercing.

Repeated shouts from around the arena: "See you in Tampa", "Tampa next", "I'm gonna skip Dylan tomorrow."

Do-rags and hairy shoulders. An Uncle Sam in full regalia. Top hats, Cat-in-the-Hat hats, jester hats with tails and bells, Rasta crocheted over sized tams.

A firecracker.

The word SKANK floats across my consciousness. A mullet in a tie-dye button up camp shirt.

And the "dancing". I'd forgotten about the Deadhead dance. Both feet planted firmly on the floor (I guess cause they're so stoned they'd fall over if they moved one or both) knees bend, tusch out, a little bounce... very much like Beavis and Butthead danced. This dance, which they all do, has much more in common with davening in an Orthodox shul than it does with anything I consider dancing, even if it's just basic shake yer groove thang.

I still dislike Deadheads.

Someone out there, and you know who you are, has linked to my site from the Data Lounge. Whether you linked to a shoe photo or to something I wrote, I cannot tell from backtracking my logs.

I know that the link came out of the Gossip forum, but sweeties, I am just stumped as to what it was that ya'll found amusing. Well, of course, everything, I'm sure. But.

Was it my lame list of things about myself where I tell about the time my girlfriend and I were mistaken for drag queens at White Party? Granted it was dark, and the gentleman who asked was old, but we still think that women being mistaken for drag queens is a fantastic compliment. I mean, how fabulous DID we look?

Was it my photo essay from Dining by Design?

Please, just tell me.

I just checked the Dylan site and saw the set lists from the other side of the country (without the Dead, thankyewverymuch) and just about died. He's hauled out some old stuff that he hasn't performed in years. Like, Desolation Row. Like, Visions of Johanna. I suppose it's just too much to hope for that he'd play either of those again in such a short span of time, but hope I will.

I also see that he's being billed as the opening act for the Dead. Oh, puh-leeze. Bob? Opening for ANYBODY?

Of course, there's this little teaser, which I'm sure is just to keep people like me in our seats, once The Bob leaves the stage: Bob will be sitting in with the Dead on part of their set.

And big deal. I'm there for the Bob, and nothing else. Christ, do I sound crabby today or what...

Going to see The Bob tomorrow night, even though he's on a bill with the (remaining) Grateful Dead. I've never been a huge Dead fan, and early on decided that I really dislike Deadheads. In fact, it was the prospect of being in a room full of them (albeit a very, very, large room) that had me hemming and hawing about actually going to the show.

Then I realized how old that made me feel and sound, and immediately got on line and bought the tickets.

It was my experience in college that Deadheads always had the very best audio equipment, but all they ever played was the Dead. They universally wore plaid flannel shirts, hiking boots and too much patchouli. Men or women, it made no difference. They tended to be pasty, ill-looking vegetarians, too. I have never had reason to update this opinion of Deadheads, either.

And, worst of all faults, aside from the tragic fashion sense, was their obsession with all things Dead.

As someone with a healthy obsession for all things Bob, one could easily assume that their obsession would only endear them to me. It did not. It does not. There is a fine line between obsessed and crazy, and for me, Deadheads tend to fall to the other side of that line.

Case in point: a vacation many years ago to the island of Nantucket. The host was an old-money preppie. He had two suitcases. One contained his Izod shirts and khaki shorts, and the other contained nothing but Dead bootlegs. This was all he brought for a long weekend house party. Nothing but Dead bootlegs, and he wanted us all to listen to the various drum solos from a pair of shows in Dusselburg, to compare and contrast the 15 minute solo on each tape. I thought I'd have to push pencils through my eardrums to escape.

I, yes even I, will pack something other than Bob or Bruce for an extended weekend with guests who might not share my obsession. And that's the difference between obsessed and crazy.

I wrote the following as a comment on The Tart Speaks' site. But maybe it bears repeating. Sheila was talking about the beach and in passing said something like if you don't get the beach, skip this part.

Well boy howdee, I get the beach. I spent major chunks of my life, sitting on it staring out into the distance wishing I were elsewhere. I spent other major chunks listening to Jimmy Buffett, an artist who definitely gets the beach.

I understand the beach. I grew up on the coast. When you face the ocean the world you know is behind you and the rest of the world (that is to say, infinite possibility) lies before you. I would stare at the Atlantic and think about what was across the water. I imagined Paris, but it was really the Ivory Coast. Does it matter? Periodically flotsam would wash up to toy with me. A champagne cork overgrown with barnacles. A glass globe from a fishing net. A wine bottle from Portugal. A piece of lava from some unknown and unseen underwater volcano. Fragile purple mollusks that only appeared after a hurricane, brought from some great depth or distance.

And you, gentle reader, do you understand what draws us to the shore?

Our correspondent in New York fills us in on la Reina's funeral. Complete with photos. It is a much better story than the one that ran in the Miami Herald. Check it out. But then, Ms. Jodi is one of my favorite bloggers.

So there I am, Friday afternoon. I'm leaving the office and I think I look pretty sharp: wearing a silk dress, matte gold sandals and carrying my briefcase. I walk up to the turnstile at the train station and I see that one of the three 'stiles is wrapped in yellow and black police tape. It is clearly out of order. But the spider web of yellow tape is interesting to me, so I slip my pass into the slot, enter the station through another turnstile and then turn my trusty Nikon to the yellow web.

HOLD IT! You can't take pictures here. Put the camera away.

You gotta be kidding me. I look up to see the elite Wackenhut guard looking at me. He repeats his orders. There is no photography allowed on the trains, the Metromovers, the platforms or the stations.

I ask since when? And he gives me a look of pity, as though I am the simplest of the simple and smirks, "Since (and then there is a long pause, as he cannot recall the exact date of what he is about to cite) since 2001, when they had the September Nine One One terrorism."

And taking a photo of a broken turnstile is a security risk? I'M a security risk? Is this a new law, part of the Patriot Act? I ask him.

And he says, that no, it isn't a LAW, it's a POLICY.

Well, fair enough, I say. Where is it posted? Or printed? Or publicly noticed?

And that's when he threatened to call the Metro Dade Police to "explain it" to me better.

Gentle readers, you know me. A challenge like that? To call in the police to do what, arrest me? For violating a policy? I checked my watch. Too late, the husband is already on his way to pick me up from the station and I really don't want to get into it with him: No, honey, don't pick me up at the train, come and spring me from the slammer, I was taking photos of broken turnstiles and it turned into a dangerous breach of national security.

So I let the snaggle toothed Good Ole Boy win that round. But I'm still steamed.

Blue skies over Miami. Clear and hot and not as sweltering as you'd think. I have an absolutely empty calendar for the next two days. I'm going to go and try to buy a nice little used car to drive to the gym. It's all I want. A gym/beach car. Big enough to hold a) the most excellent dog Nails and/or b) a friend and/or c) my gym bag. I'm looking at a Volkswagen Cabrio. Hey, if it's going to the gym or the beach it has to have an open roof, y'know?

I also have this on the agenda: loafing around on the float in the pool.

For the past 30-odd years I have scrupulously avoided the sun, for obvious reasons. I live in South Florida. I'm very, VERY pale skinned. I did not want to look like a well-worn baseball glove by the time I reached the age I've now reached.

And then last year, I had an epiphany, of sorts: if I got tan now, it would no longer be premature aging. So I attempted a tan. My husband told me it was a useless endeavor, as I was so pale, I merely reflected the sun light. I achieved a beige.

This year, I have a definite tan line, a two-tone butt. I'm thrilled. And with obsessive application of this particular wonder cream, I am neither leathery nor flaky.

OK, well, so the skin isn't flaky.

That's it for me, I am off to float.

New stuff! I got the "one hundred things" bug and started with books, which led to movies, which led to another hundred movies. Then I started on the list of live music I've been to see (not counting symphony orchestras, plays and operas) and from there I've started up the hundred totally lame and random things you'd probably rather not know about me. That list isn't live and probably won't be for some time.

But go on, click the links. You know you want to.

You know, every now and then something happens, randomly, that just makes you happy to be in this place and this time. It just happened to me, not five minutes ago. One of the guys from the office on the south side of the building wandered in and said "Manatee sighting." Huh? What do you mean? "I mean, manatees in the canal below our office."

I was out of my seat in a shot and across the hall, nose pressed against the window. Yep. There were two manatees, slowly cruising up stream. A larger and a smaller. I immediately identified them as a mother and calf. Of course, the calf was the size of a Volkswagen, but a calf, nonetheless.

They swam upstream for a while, and then they turned and headed back the way they came. There we were, half a dozen computer geeks, all lined up and smiling at the very randomness of nature in the tropics.

I have a mango in the refrigerator for lunch. I saw manatees. The sun is filtered and hazy today, but from my side of the building I can see the skyline of South Beach.

Hey... it's a great life, if you don't weaken.

One of my favorite Traveling Willbury's tunes. Played it on the way to the 'rents' house and found there a pleasant surprise.
Daddy is looking a little better, and eating a little better. Mummy could string a whole sentence together, coherently. Of course, it was totally delusional and angry, but it was a sentence. By the evening, we were back to disjointed words, strung out to sentence length.

I also got to go out to a movie with my brother and sister in law. I figure I haven't seen a movie with my brother since we were teenagers. He couldn't remember the last time, either.

We went to see "Pirates of the Caribbean." What a hoot. Now I love swashbucklers, anyway, and I'd watch Johnny Depp read the phone book, but this was just a delight.

There's humor, of course, and fabulous special effects, but it is Depp's movie.

What an underrated actor. Everyone talks about how he can play the odd characters, but nobody recognizes his gift for physical comedy. The opening scenes are reminiscent of Buster Keaton. (And I will never forget the compelling version of the "Oceania Rolls" (Charlie Chaplin, Gold Rush) he did in "Benny and Joon".)

Where was I? Right. Physical comedy. Depp's said that he fashioned the character of Jack Sparrow on Keith Richards and Pepe le Pew. It is clearly so. From the squared shoulder, lead-with-the-pelvis, I'm not-so-drunk-that-I-can't-walk walk, to the dangles of beads in his hair, to the smudgy eye-liner all the way to the squint and flopping wrists, Depp has Richards pegged. And it works, beautifully.

Orlando Bloom, the bleached blonde Legolam (whoops, sorry, Legolas) from "Lord of the Rings" makes a lovely, and I do mean lovely, straight man slash love interest. Geoffrey Rush does a fair turn as a skanky bad pirate. But the movie belongs to Johnny Depp. There are times he's not on the screen, and you just want those moments to end, so you can watch Depp some more.

Definitely a see-more-than-once flick.

And then, yesterday, I got to spend time with my cousin. We went shopping, which was more like an improv comedy routine as we trolled the clothes.

All in all, it was a good weekend. And I've been promised that this weekend coming up, I can just hang in my own home and not answer the phone. Can it get any better?

Having had a long weekend with only a short family visit with the other side of the family last week, it's back on the road for us tomorrow. Going to see the 'rents.

I really don't want to go into this here. But. My mother was one of the smartest women I ever knew. She ran the family business in partnership with her father and brother and my dad. She could tally an inventory sheet in her head, faster and more accurately than anyone else could run it through a calculator. She did the New York Times crossword in ink. Over breakfast. With no mistakes. She was a volunteer (in her "spare" time) at the library. She read voraciously, and taught me to do the same. She taught me to cook, and was as skilled in that as anything else she turned her hand to.

All of that is past tense now, but she is still with us. In body, if not in spirit. My mother has been stolen by Alzheimer's disease. She can't read. She can't cook. She can barely feed herself. She is mean. She is a pod person, but she lives in my mother's body.

I have to go visit her this weekend. I'll take my husband and my dog, because she remembers them and loves them both. Although, to be honest, sometimes she thinks the dog is a cat.

For those of you who have been, or are being affected by Alzheimer's grip on someone you love: my condolences. It sucks. I read a great book this spring about one woman's struggle with her mother's case. I recommend it, but be forewarned, it is a hard book to read. Eleanor Cooney's "Death in Slow Motion."

And my father is ill, too. When I was a kid, there was nothing he couldn't make. Nothing he couldn't do. Nothing he didn't know. I'm not in the least bit sarcastic when I tell you that I worship the water he walks on.

He taught me how to fish, and how use shop equipment, how to read animals tracks, how to make an orange into a squeezable juice container, and how to figure out almost any mechanical problem.

He was never a large man, but to me he was (and is) Paul Bunyan. And now his disease is turning him into a frail little old man. That, more than anything is what makes me sob into my pillow at night.

Tomorrow I'll go and visit for the weekend. I would rather be on the beach. I would rather be in Paris. I would rather eat fucking glass. But I love these two people more than any words could ever begin to express, and so I'll go and listen to the person who is not my mother anymore tell me the same stories she tells me every time she sees me. I'll spend the day in the kitchen, cooking and freezing food. I'll spend time with them, because in the end, that is all we have left, and a precious fucking little of it, at that.

On Monday, there was a very funny Dilbert. It was especially funny to me, because I think it came from a story I sent to Scott Adams.

Here's the story, what do you think?

I while ago, I sent a request to the infamous PR office, asking for all the newest, most up-to-date information about our satellite facilities, because I knew for a fact that what was on the web was out of date.

A week later, via interoffice mail, they sent me their response. They had printed out my own web site, and sent it back to me, along with a floppy disk of the downloaded files. All clipped together with a bulldog clip.

Yeah, I'm still speechless over that, but it always gets a rousing laugh when I tell the story at web seminars and conferences.