Our new CEO starts on Tuesday. The crack PR staff has made his arrival the lede story in the company newsletter. It reads thusly:

"Welcome, Mr. *****. Our new CEO of ********** and president of the **********, officially will become part of the ******** family on Wednesday, July 15. He wants to meet as many employees as possible, so plans are being formulated for an Employee Open House and System visits. Watch for further details."

Yep. That would be wrong. July 15th falls on a TUESDAY. That ought to give him a really good idea of the quality of the staff he's got in that office.

Written, edited, proof read and published. AND sent to me to post on the website, and nobody ever figured out that the date was wrong. Except me. And my friend that I called up to read it to. Of course, we are not PR professionals, so any aptitude on our parts is negligible.

Forgive me while I make rude cackling noises behind my hand.

That's me. I'm a book whore. If its got ink, I'll read it. Here's the summer reading list. It's incomplete, and some of them are already finished, but for the bookworms among you (and you know who you are) this is what's on the current stack.

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (J.K. Rowling)
Fluke (Christopher Moore)
The Sweet Potato Queens' Big Ass Cookbook and Financial Planner (Jill Conner Browne)
Gramercy Park (Paula Cohen)
Absolutely American (David Lipsky)
Benjamin Franklin (Walter Isaacson)
Pirate Hunter: The True Story of Captain Kidd (Richard Zacks)
The South Beach Diet (Arthur Agatston)
Designing Web Usability (Jakob Nielsen)
Macromedia Dreamweaver MX Hands On Training
ColdFusion MX with Dreamweaver MX
Dreamweaver MX Killer Tips

In the case of the Sweet Potato Queens, I've already read all of the others. Ditto for all of Christopher Moore's books. Brilliant, spew coffee from your nose funny work.

The South Beach Diet is working for me, so I recommend it for anyone else who hates the concept of dieting but still needs to lower their cholesterol or drop a few pounds.

I am converting from Adobe GoLive to Dreamweaver/ColdFusion MX at the office, that explains the pile of code warrior texts.

But as you can see, my tastes are eclectic. Got any suggestions?

Here's a question for all of you: why is inane drivel spoken into a cell phone infinitely more irritating than that same inane drivel spoken to a physically present person? And why does the volume go up when delivered into a cell phone?

For the last time, I do not wish to be privy to every detail of strangers' lives. I barely tolerate being privy to those of my friends.

I don't want to know what is missing from your pantry, as you cruise the grocery store aisle with your cell phone attached to your head, asking your significant other if there is enough toilet paper under the sink. Use a pencil and make a list. Then take it with you and check the items off.

I don't want to know what kind of trouble your children gave the baby sitter, or any other thing you need to tell your mama at eight in the morning as we sit on the train going to work.

And here's something else: put your makeup on before you leave the house. Trim your child's fingernails after they get out of the bath, not as they sit next to me on the train. There is a lesson you are teaching them, and it isn't very pretty.

Private acts should be done in private. Don't floss your teeth in a restaurant. Don't piss on the side of a building. And don't teach your children to do it, when there is a public bathroom inside that very building: the lobby to the public hospital.

One of my favorite lines from one of my favorite of Ms. Hepburn's movies was this:

"We're all barbarians."

It was from A Lion in Winter. Rent it. And the next time you feel like shouting into a cell phone, remember it.

So one of the things that I have been doing is loading up our medical forms into a library of PDFs on the hospital's intranet site. This is accomplished in one of several ways. The form can be sent to me as an electronic file, which I convert to a PDF because the secretary who builds the forms can't manage to do that, or I can receive a paper copy of the form from the print shop because they seem to have a deal with the last typesetter in the world, who gives them forms as hard copy to put on a copy machine and then I scan the forms and created PDFs from the scan ( a real fucking pleasure to do, because they are multiple page forms and have to be converted in a "special" way) or finally, sometimes, the print shop sends me files and I can convert them from PageMaker to PDF.

Yesterday we had a department meeting where it was announced with great anticipation and pride that we were going to be putting all our medical forms into wireless tablet PCs for the docs to drag around. Uh, yeah, I have a question.... since I have a stack of 57 forms waiting for me to scan in and convert to PDF because NOBODY, but nobody has them in any sort of electronic format, could you tell me where the forms for the tablets are going to come from, and can I get copies?

Later in the same meeting, it was revealed that we were going to be rolling out the new, great on-line job application program. And what will we be doing with my existing job listings? Will I be linking to somewhere else? Throwing away my page? Re-directing? Anybody? Anybody? I'd like to buy a clue, please.

And then the meeting wrapped with the presentation of the new, improved splash page which it was also announced I was currently producing. I am not. I was not at all involved in the "development" of this new look and feel for my site. The infamous PR department used an outside designer to create the new look. They had been tasked with developing a new organizational structure for the web to make it more marketing driven. They came back with a Photoshop sketch of a new splash page.

I cannot tell you how many times I have pleaded and begged and expounded about splash pages being a total waste of bandwidth and an artifact of first-generation web design which was nothing more than brochure ware.

And there I sit, with the department director beaming at me and announcing that I am responsible for our new look.

If I wasn't on this stupid carb-free diet, I would be stinking drunk.

For whatever reason this morning I woke up in a blue funk. Possibly it was my dreams, although I don't remember anything that would have been depressing in them. Possibly it was the undercurrent of worry I'm living with these days (Mummy has Alzheimer's and Daddy has just been diagnosed with a chronic form of leukemia, and they are both 85 and live hours away from me). It could just be a post-beach depression, as the tan begins to fade and the job regains its hold on my soul.

Whatever. Blue fucking funk. So I did the only thing I could do: I got to the office, booted up the old green i-mac that sits on the desk next to where I really work and loaded up the mp3s. All the Springsteen boots that I could cram on that old hard drive. And I cranked it up and clamped on the headphones. A couple repeats of Badlands ("It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive"), a lost and live accoustic version of Bobby Jean, and an extended Rosalita and Sandy, and you know what? I'm ready to face the world again.

In fact, I'm ready to call my rocker girlfriend and ask if there's room on the tour for me. Just a long weekend, pledged to the church of rock and roll.

And on Friday, I'll do the thing I've done every Fourth of July since 1976: I'll put on Greetings from Asbury Park, lay on the floor and turn the volume up to 11. And listen one more time to Sandy.

I recommend it for you, too.

"The calla lillies are in bloom again, such a marvelous flower. I carried them on my wedding day, and now I carry them for another reason." Or something like that. It's the only impression I do of a famous person. And now, Miss Hepburn has joined the pantheon of the dead.

Well, the village theatre group where she and Greg Peck are now is just going to have the best season ever.

Actually, I do a fairly mean "I coulda been a contender." but that's another story.

I'm stalling here. I do not want to eat my oatmeal and fruit. I do not want to take my shower and dress, and I most certainly do not want to climb on the train and go back to work.

But since when has what one wants to do have anything at all to do with what one MUST do?

Well, we have returned from a week at the shore. I am a lovely shade of golden brown, like a perfectly grilled marshmallow. No snickers, please. And I came home to find that Blogger has switched me to DANO, the legendarily despised and trouble filled new version of my blogging software. This is just what I need.

On the other hand, the vacation was wonderful. I accomplished all my goals: I got tan. I read the new Harry Potter. I slept a lot and then I napped. I shopped. I ate some great food. And I didn't think about my office once. Except when I mentioned that my boss plays golf.

More later, but it's nice to be home.

Gentle Readers,

I'm not sure if I'll be out of pocket for a week, because I'm heading for the left coast, and don't know if I'll have internet access during my stay on the Gulf. I have a suitcase full of bikinis and t-shirts, and a cooler full of boat drinks. There's a copy of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix waiting for me at a local, independent bookseller, so whether it rains or shines, I'll be suitably entertained. We are scheduling a visit to the Ringling School of Art to schmooze the head of the illustration department on behalf of my other half. I've downloaded the Zagat guide for Sarasota and Tampa, and a quick check of the baseball schedules reveals a week-long home stand by the Tampa Bay Devil Rays against the New York Yankees. That oughta be fun to watch. Even though I bet fabric on the TBDR, in the most locked-down secret part of my heart, I'll always be a Yankees fan. If I rooted for any American League team. (Hate the designated hitter rule.)

So know that if I'm not posting, I'm taking photos and making notes of all the annoying things I see. I'll report back when I can. Air kisses on both cheeks, sweeties and don't forget me while I'm gone.

Short answer: no. Unless it's low-fat cheese, because I'm on a mission to lower my cholesterol. This is karma for telling my father-in-law (OBM) not to worry, but to just eat the damn onion ring, because, trust me, something OTHER than his cholesterol was going to kill him first. For the record, I was right, and also for the record, he started enjoying his food again after I told him that. And he did eat the onion rings. But for the first however many years I knew him, his mantra was "Cholesterol, cholesterol, cholesterol." He worried about that like politicians worry about approval ratings. If I used a tablespoon of butter in a recipe that made 12 servings, he got on my case that I was trying to kill him. So I'd break it down: one tablespoon is three teaspoons and that means each serving has only a quarter of a teaspoon of butter in it. Give it a rest. He wouldn't. But there were things he couldn't identify in my cooking, and I never told him that the reason he loved my matzoh balls was because I used freshly rendered goose fat in them. Bwa-ha-ha.

Right. Now, despite the fact that I only make goose-fat laden matzoh balls once a year, and then only eat one, I have been told I have high cholesterol. Since wagging fingers at my gene pool won't do me any good, my doctor has determined that I need to change my diet and exercise more. The biggest change in the old diet is that I have to eat constantly, or so it seems to me.

My idea of a big breakfast is three cups of coffee. I now start each day with a bowl of McCann's oatmeal and a cup of fresh fruit. Then there's a midmorning snack, a protein-rich lunch, a midafternoon snack, dinner and a little something to tide me over until the next day. This is to keep my metabolism busy. It's keeping me crazy. I don't snack. I don't eat lunch. Except, well, now I do. And you know what? It's working. At least, I'm losing weight. I hope that my cholesterol levels are dropping as well as my jean size, but I won't know for another two months.

Wish me luck.

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.