So Paul McCartney lost his voice and had to cancel concerts? He lost his voice 20 years ago, did he just notice it today? Can he cancel his career retrospectively? Does he really have to reschedule? Can't he just go back to the countryside with the new wife and raise sheep or something?

I didn't think so. But a person can hope.

sitting next to me on the train this morning.

DO NOT PICK YOUR FACE IN PUBLIC!!!!!

Are you fucking mad? Dressed to kill, small child at her side, and she is using an Elizabeth Arden Red Door hand mirror to pull the chunks of dead skin that remained after the last chemical peel off her face. Pulling, picking, scraping and otherwise giving herself a dry facial at 8:30 in the bright light of public transit. Pulling, picking and scraping until some parts actually bled.

EWWWWW. Thanks for making my fucking day. That image is going to stick in my head for fucking ever, no doubt.

Speaking of No Doubt and things that stick in your head, I've had No Doubt's live MTV version of REM's "It's the End of the World as We Know It (And I Feel Fine) rolling in an endless loop for about two weeks now. Probably no coincidence that that's how long the war in Iraq has been going on. But there it is. And I can't make it stop. I've tried actually listening to it but that doesn't make it go away.

Another thing that's been stuck in my head for about 4 years now is an old quote from Diana Vreeland: "Pink is the navy blue of India." I'm not sure I know what that means, but I keep thinking about it. It has made an impact on my fabric stash. My studio is starting to pile up with hot pink and rose and orange and coral and saffron and purple. I keep rearranging the piles and there are all these ideas for how to use the fabric pushing around in my mind. (If they could only get rid of No Doubt) (No, I like No Doubt: I just don't want to be singing It's the End of the World as We Know it for another 6 weeks)

Now I want to make a mosaic on the bottle green wall behind the koi pond that says "Pink is the navy blue of India." In some kind of twirly funky type and pink glass and pottery shards. I can see that wall from my sewing machine. I think it'll be inspirational. Or at least cool.

I'd like to think that what I do has some meaning. Granted, my whole career has been one long orgy of ephemera, but still, I like to delude myself that what I do matters. Somehow. To someone. I've won awards for my work. I have had a photo used as an album cover (for Jimmy Buffett, and that is a whole other story). I have a t-shirt I designed in the collection of the Smithsonian Institution. (Another story, but it was for the Y2K team and went to the technology museum... or was it American History?)

But now, well, the web is even more ephemeral than traditional publications. And since I work for a corporate site, not even a very (literally) Flash-y site, my work tends to be a lot of brochure ware. So what am I complaining about today?

This: verbatim from our employee newsletter, an announcement of Passover services. Read it. Then parse out the second sentence.

Passover celebrates the exodus of the Israelites from Egypt. It celebrates the victory over freedom from slavery. The story is retold at a "Seder," a festive meal in which freedom is raised as the highest deal in the human family. For more information, contact the Pastoral Care Office, XXX-XXX-XXXX.

As I read this, that means that "freedom from slavery" was the loser in that conflict. I also question the use of quotes around the word seder. I have visions of Dr. Evil using finger quotes. And finally, freedom is the "highest deal" in the human family? Can I get a clarification from some religious leaders about what constitutes a deal?

When I questioned the generating department, they conceded an "i", as in the "highest I-deal" in the human family.

But still, how much more disspirited can I get when this is the level of drivel I am reduced to publishing? And my friends and family wonder why I drink.

I don't wonder. I only wonder that I haven't started bringing a fucking hip flask to the office. Do you think I should send this to Dilbert?

Take everybody in charge to a spa. It's my deep felt belief that if you forced all our world leaders to a really good spa, gave them all manicures, pedicures and facials, that you could end warfare. Who can feel like dropping a bomb when they've had their pores steam cleaned with lavendar and sage? Or had their feet massaged with coco butter and exfolitaing salts, followed by a hot towel wrap... well, I should say.

Give Saddam a facial and a foot massage and he'd be putty in the hands of the next diplomat to come by.

Please note: this is what passes for humor. Do not send me e-mail calling me an idiot and a freak. Do not take this to mean that I really believe this is a viable plan for world peace. If you can't stand the jokes, stay out of the blogosphere.

Thanks.

Here in my office (and I use the term loosely to describe the institution) there is a game we play. Who can get out the last e-mail of the day, or the last phone message. Here's how it goes. Just before you leave, say at 4:45, you fire off an e-mail that requires action on the part of the receiver. The next morning, you check to see if the person read the message yet. If not, then they left earlier than you did and you can continue the game by either: sending another e-mail, or calling the person. If they aren't yet in, then you can have even more pleasure by letting them know that you A) work later and B) come in earlier.

It doesn't matter if the job that needs to be done has been sitting on your desk for a week or two. What matters is that you got in the last e-mail of the day.

The spoiler to this game is when the person not only receives the message, but does the work, and sends you an e-mail back with a time stamp of something hellish like 7 pm.

It's almost 5 and I just got tagged. Someone from purchasing sent a report that needs to be converted to a PDF and placed on the web site. If I don't do it now, then tomorrow morning I'll get another nastygram, insinuating that I'm not doing my job. If I do it now, I'll be late for a board meeting on the other end of town.

I'm going to the board meeting. But I'm going to throw a high stick here and tell purchasing that I got their request and will do it in the morning. That way they can't complain. Well, they can, but I responded, so neener neener.

It's the end of the world as we know it, it's the end of the world.....

Or not. Just because America is going to do the unthinkable and start World War III. Or maybe just the Millennial Crusades. You know what? This is just too depressing for me to find any humor, no matter how sick, dark or twisted I let myself get.

I'm going over to my other blog, the PeaceBlog Project, and do some ranting, instead.

Last night: TV was on and I was doing a little hand sewing. I hear Bob Dylan's voice and music coming from the TV. I look up. It's an ad for Victoria's Secret.

I shake my head and check the contents of my glass, but no. I am sober and I am straight and that is Bob Dylan being used to advertise women's lingerie. For the past 30 years my friends have ridiculed me for my lewd fantasies involving me and the Bob. Is it possible that someone out there in advertising land thinks that 61-year-old skank is sexy? And sold the concept to a multi-million dollar industry that is, essentially, selling sexual fantasy? Because, let's be honest, Vicky's Secret makes stuff that barely fits and doesn't last. Bob Dylan? Sexual fantasy? To someone other than me?

Frightening. Very, very frightening. Disturbing, even.

Today on the train, I saw a new low in public grooming. A man. Shaving. Not once, but at least three times during the trip, this older gentleman (and I use the term sarcastically) took out an electric shaver and ran it across his face.

Is he obessive-compulsive, that he needed to do this more than once? He looked pretty close-shaven when he got on the train. Does he have Alzheimer's and just forgot that he'd already shaved? Three times?

I gave him the gaze of arched eyebrow and disdain for public grooming. He gave me a cheery smile. I fished for my camera, but he finished before I could get off a shot.

Bob? Dylan? Victoria's Secret salesman?

What a world, what a world.

Not me, personally. We're doing O.K., thanks. But I'm behind in my fundraising. I'm on the Board of Directors of an AIDS service organization, and it's time for the annual AIDS Walk. On beautiful South Beach.

First of all, you need to know this about me: I do not break a sweat for anybody. I despise "Walks". I don't walk for MS, for breast cancer, for the March of Dimes, for the zoological society.

But I do walk for AIDS. I walk because I have lost so very many friends to this disease. I walk as a member of the team comprised of the Board Members of Care Resource. Care Resource is the oldest & largest HIV/AIDS service agency in Florida. Since 1983, more than 60 million people worldwide have become infected, including 28 million who have already died. 15 of those who have died were friends of mine. Two of those were brothers, and friends of mine from childhood. Scotty and Richard Neail. Others were friends from college. Others from work.

The majority of those newly infected are under the age of 25. Florida continues to have the 3rd highest incidence of reported cases in the nation and Dade & Broward counties rank 1 & 2 respectively in the State. While new treatments allow people to live longer there is still no cure and Care Resource?s ability to meet the increased demands on its resources is strained.

I implore you to support me as I participate in the 15th Annual AIDS WALK MIAMI ? RUN, WALK, BLADE FOR THE CURE on April 13TH. You can do this by joining me on the walk or sponsoring my walk.

Through the support of volunteers and contributors like you, 86% of each dollar raised goes directly to our programs and services offered free of charge to the community affected by HIV/AIDS. The 15th Annual AIDS WALK MIAMI helps finance important programs that Care Resource offers like the Riccardia Family Program, YouthNet, Care Management and Partners in Faith Program.

Please follow this link to go to my Walk page, and make a pledge of support. Any amount is appreciated. Thank you for helping me honor my fallen friends.

Oh, all right. I'll make it interesting for you. The page has a photo of me. A racy! photo of me. And if you all pledge enough money, I will wear what I have on in the photo to actually walk. And if you help me reach DOUBLE my goal, I'll even post photos of me in this outrageous condition, actually walking!! In the Florida heat. On South Beach. In my flower-covered bustier.

Now. Click. Pledge. Raise money.

Lynne

If looks could kill, today I would be surrounded by little piles of ash. I would unleash the sneering face of scorn and death on those around me.

What do you mean the Herald has a calendar of events with information in it that I never gave you for the web? Send me a link to the paper.

I don't know what they would do without me. Can't even find the freaking Miami Herald web site and a calendar. Of course, navigation on the Herald's site could be dificult. After all, clicking on Local Section - Neighbors might take you anywhere. Not just to the section it says it'll link to. And from there, to find a calendar link? Well, you might have to look and read. Much easier to demand that the information be driven right to your fat, lazy nose.

Really. Maybe I should have just stayed home today where I could stay out of trouble.

Years ago, when I was young, single and living in NYC, I discovered that I had been born with an invisible tattoo in the middle of my forehead. It says:

FUCKED UP? TALK TO ME.

I realized that it was there because people were, and people did. I could be sitting on the subway, minding my own business, and the next thing you knew, the freakazoid with the tin-foil helmet was cozying up next to me, explaining about how cats are Martians and are here to control the dogs.

I'd meet someone and we'd date and then it would be like a bad teensploitation film. They wouldn't go away. Or worse.

I'd find myself pinned to the wall by the girl down the hall, telling me that she thought I shouldn't be dating men, and she was the answer to my social problems.

The funny writer would ask (displaying no humor, and a bad sense of timing) what I wanted to be whipped with, once he got me to bed. The tattoo seemed to be particularly visible when I was drinking at the Lone Star Cafe.

It hasn't gone away. Yesterday after work, I hopped on the train and there was an Adam Sandler look alike in the car. And then he lit up a blunt. Yes. A blunt. The reek of reefer filled the car. A few passengers looked at each other. I coughed politely and said. Um? Sir? There's no smoking on the train.

Right. That got his full attention focused on me. WHOOP WHOOP WHOOP DANGER WARNING WILL ROBINSON! Sounding like Adam Sandler in the Waterboy, the guy proceeded to announce to me that he was "a man, who can do what he wants" and that he was "just smoking some weed here, do you mind?" Cause he wouldn't mind if I took myself off to the other end of the car. And then he cranked up his radio to some station that I don't think any one else in Miami can tune in and told me how the world would be a better place if there were more people like the ones on that station. See? He waved the radio at me. It didn't have a view screen, but I said yes, I saw.

He left about three stops later, still dragging on his blunt. It was generally agreed that if he'd only passed the duchy on the left hand side none of the unpleasantness need have occured.

This FUTTM tat seems to be showing up at work now. I was just e-mailed the following:

I am in the process of collecting all the pre-printed Physician order sets that are being used within the (hospital) system. I have been encountering some problems, and after speaking with R*****, she recommended that I contact you. She told me that she had sent you copies of order sets, which you would have on your computer. I am asking if I could have a copy of these so that we can move forward with the building of orders, of which this is a very important part.

OK. So, if the person sent me order sets, which they did -- electronically -- why aren't they on their computer? I just post these things to the intranet. Which begs the question, why not send the person to the medical forms center on the intranet? And why think that I keep everything on my hard drive?

Why? Why me? Why do I have another 15 years before I can retire. I don't think my liver will hold out that long.

Boy, I always hated, just loathed, the works of e.e.cummings. The whole no capitalization thing was just too twee for me. Too fey. And I particularly despised the poem about the "little lame balloon man" who "whistles far and wee." Of course, it is permanently seared into my brain. But then, so is the little satirical poem that Molly Stuckey wrote in high school about our English curriculum.

"Silas Marner, Moby Dick,
Julius Ceasar make me sick.
Page by page I struggled on,
Eyes all bleary, hope all gone
Finals? Yes. On every one
No book or play I read was fun."

I can also recite "The Jabberwocky" in its entirety, which is probably why I can't remember names. There is so much useless crap clogging my synapses, that a major data dump will be required before I can learn anything new.

But this started out as an ode to spring. The orchid trees are covered in purple and lavendar and ivory flowers. The flame vines are blooming (except for the one on my fence). The sky is blue and mild and the air is ... limpid. It is a physical presence.

And I am inside. Working. Sort of. At any rate, I am sitting in an office, in front of a computer, and I am typing. That I am typing a blog entry makes it no less painful to be indoors on a day like today.

Mark Twain wrote something about watermelons. That there is a difference in taste between one that is honestly come by and one that is not, and that the experienced man knows which is better. Same thing about spring days. Oh, the weather could be this beautiful on Saturday, but the joy of being out in it will be diminished by it being legit. Today is the sort of day that demands one play hooky. Take an early lunch and never come back to the office.

Right. As if. Time to actually put the fingers to the keyboard and create web pages. At least I have a window, and it opens.

An open letter to the fine, intelligent members of the illustrious art forum known as EatPoo.com.

Fine. You win. Take what you want. I really don't care. I never did care. It was all about the attitude. Clearly you have me on attitude as well as talent, intelligence, wit, and what ever else it is at which you desire to win.

You want to come to my site and rag on me, fine. You want to continually miss the point of my writings and the humor I display? It is your right to do so. You wish to remain anonymous and post bogus sites and e-mail addresses? Knock yourselves out.

You win. You are all, collectively and individually, better human beings than I. I was a fool not to see it from the very first post. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea fucking culpa.

Now, can we all just get on with our lives and forget about each other? I didn't think so. But this is MY last post on the subject.

A while back I posted about band width poachers, and how they suck. I told the story of how I found out that I had some, and where they seemed to be coming from. A couple of folks offered sugestions on how to stop it. I let it pass.

Recent trolling through my stats showed that it wasn't just the photo of my glamorous red shoes (the ones in the comment window) that was being poached, but my masthead, other photos of shoes, even a photo of my dear, dead grandfather. That one was accompanied by snotty remarks about his "hotness" or lack thereof. Which, in all honesty, since the picture was taken around the turn of the last century, were probably justified.

That isn't what's got my knickers in a twist, though. It is the glee with which the poachers announced that I had discovered the theft and bitched about it. They encouraged each other to steal more images. They ridiculed me for caring. They thought they should "force" me to join their chat group.

And that's another thing. Their chat group, as far as I can figure, is comprised of teenage boys with penis size issues, an average IQ in the mere double digits, and an awful lot of time on their hands, which they use to post lame photos, make even lamer jokes, and beg and plead for someone of the opposite sex to fall into their site and stay. They come from all over the world, which makes me sad for women.

And then there is this: even though they are detestable little creatures, they are driving the stats up on my site. When you open your doors to the public, you can't complain when the public walks in.

First of all, you need to know this about me: I do not break a sweat for anybody. I despise "Walks". I don't walk for MS, for breast cancer, for the March of Dimes, for the zoological society.

But I do walk for AIDS. I walk because I have lost so very many friends to this disease. I walk as a member of the team comprised of Board Members of Care Resource. Care Resource is the oldest & largest HIV/AIDS service agency in Florida. Since 1983, more than 60 million people worldwide have become infected, including 28 million who have already died. 15 of those who have died were friends of mine.

The majority of those newly infected are under the age of 25. Florida continues to have the 3rd highest incidence of reported cases in the nation and Dade & Broward counties rank 1 & 2 respectively in the State. While new treatments allow people to live longer there is still no cure and Care Resource?s ability to meet the increased demands on its resources is strained.

I implore you to support me as I participate in the 15th Annual AIDS WALK MIAMI ? RUN, WALK, BLADE FOR THE CURE on April 13TH. You can do this by joining me on the walk or sponsoring my walk.

Through the support of volunteers and contributors like you, 86% of each dollar raised goes directly to our programs and services offered free of charge to the community affected by HIV/AIDS. The 15th Annual AIDS WALK MIAMI helps finance important programs that Care Resource offers like the Riccardia Family Program, YouthNet, Care Management and Partners in Faith Program.

Please follow this link to go to my Walk page, and make a pledge of support. Any amount is appreciated. Thank you for helping me honor my fallen friends.

Oh, all right. I'll make it interesting for you. The page has a photo of me. A racy! photo of me. And if you all pledge enough money, I will wear what I have on in the photo to actually walk. And if you help me reach DOUBLE my goal, I'll even post photos of me in this outrageous condition, actually walking!! In the Florida heat. On South Beach. In my flower-covered bustier.

Now. Click. Pledge. Raise money.

Lynne

Yesterday was my Siamese cat, Ming's widdle birthday. He was 9. I gave him as much catnip as he wanted. I hope he enjoyed his birthday. I did. I like watching my cat do drugs. Did you know that catnip is more like kitty acid than kitty reefer? Most people don't know that.

That was stimulating, wasn't it? Made you glad you surfed over to Today's Shoes. OK, then, let's change the subject. Let's talk about the weather.

Here in Miami the storm clouds are starting to build up over the Everglades in the late afternoon. The rains haven't started just yet, but it's only a matter of weeks before we have afternoon showers every day. The oranges are just about done with their season, and we had just enough cold weather to set the sugar in the fruit. There are Hong Kong orchid trees in full, purple bloom and dryed up lawns. Every mango tree south of Orlando is in bloom. The wet season is almost upon us. And that means it is springtime.

And that means I have spring fever. I start the work week all chipper and eager and on time, and by Friday, the alarm goes for three snooze button resets. My hair is up, rather than loose, because I have to wash it and mousse it for down, and up doesn't require anything other than a rubber band. My wardrobe has made the transition from a business dress to khakis and a sweater. Hey, at least I took a shower and put on make up.

But I am just itching to go to the beach. To skip work and loiter aimlessly on Ocean Drive with the ladies who lunch. To drink Cosmos early and often. To read cheesy novels while idling in a hammock near the koi pond. Well, it is Thursday, so I only have to look busy for another day and then I can get in touch with my inner sloth.