(feeble little hand wave) I'm still here. Barely. Normally at this time of year I have a bad case of spring fever, and can hardly sit still. This year, though, I have a bad case of the flu, and can hardly stir from my sick bed.

Thank the powers that be for wireless web connections.

I've slowly been rebuilding my computer, loading programs, rewriting links and bookmarks and like that. Mostly, I've been sleeping, whining, and drinking gatorade. It is a sign of how lousy I feel that I can drink it and like it. I tried for a glass of wine with the Sopranos last night, and dumped it down the sink, instead.

Now you KNOW I'm sick as a dog.

I've exhausted myself with this entry.

But.

Baseball season is upon us, so all is right with the world.

How many father figures did you have?

Yesterday, I lost another one of mine. My sistergirlfriendgirl's dad passed away. I spent so much of my childhood in her home, that her parents were a second set of parents to me. But, unlike my own, hers were larger than life. They had a pet lion for a while.
Her mother was tall, with an armful of gold bangles half way to her elbow. She had a huge laugh, a talent for flower arranging, and another for needlepoint. She made her own needlepoint patterns. She smoked and wore gold flowered sandals and long Hawaiian mumus. I was in awe of her.

Their home always had a jigsaw puzzle in progress on a table in the living room. There were shelves and shelves of books, and dishes of shells and found objects; there was always something new to discover on a shelf, or a new photo in the collage of family photos in the hallway.

Her father had lily and chysanthemum farms. Acres and acres of purple, yellow, rust flowers under the black shade cloth. In the 60s, if you bought a potted Easter lily, or wore a chrysanthemum corsage, it probably came from their farms. He became a bee keeper by accident when a swarm built a hive in an empty lily bulb crate. He fished and hunted and swore and cooked. Like my own father, he could (and did) build a bbq pit out of an empty oil barrel, some cinder blocks and a piece of wire fence.

Do they even make men like that anymore? I don't think so. Nor women like her mother, although I do my best to emulate her. My home has a lot of elements that I remember or think I remember about hers, too.

Anyway. It's a good thing that I'd put down the better part of a bottle of red when I got the news about her dad, because a couple of hours later the Apple store called to tell me that my laptop was unrecoverable, and they'd had to put in a new hard drive.

It's all gone. All of it. Fuck me blue.

I went to Fairchild yesterday and shot another hundred frames or so. Then I came home and tried to download all the images. But. My laptop wouldn't boot up. Nor could I reinstall the system software. When I took it to the Apple store this morning, the even badder news was that booting off a peripheral harddrive didn't help. Nothing can see my internal drive. It is dead. Fried. Screwed, blewed, tattooed.

Here's hoping that it's only a fried bus cable and the data can be retrieved. Otherwise? I'm looking at suicide.

Well, it's like I always tell other people. Back up your shit, because there are only two kinds of computers in the world. Those which have just crashed, and those which are about to.

Just to be clear: I did not back up my shit. My computer crashed and burned. I am looking at a loss of all my data, my websites, my novel, my Girl's Guide, my 1500 photos, my recipes, my patterns, my e-mail, my music, my freaking life, people. My freaking life. The only bright spot in all of this is that I own all of my software, so I can reinstall it.

I have a number of things on my mind today which I would like to share.

1. Again with the back pack strapped to the chest. No. No. No. Also, to quote the lovely POTES, if it's cold enough for a zipped-up, mock turtle neck jacket, it's probably cold enough for pants.



2. When entering a train, or bus, or other transportation device, one should move on to the center of the car, or take a seat or do something other than STAND IN THE FUCKING DOORWAY! Christ, people, it is not rocket science. It's barely more than breathing. Diagram to follow.

3. ANTM. Jade wins a challenge by kissing a giant Madagascar Hissing Cockroach. Is anyone surprised? It looks like her brother. She also tortured the gently bewildered and speech impedimented Gina with the roach. And you guys got your knickers in a twist when Lisa peed in a diaper? Head shaking is all I can do.

4. Finally, who wants a t-shirt or a coffee mug? I'm thinking, what with my ability to master new things (Pandemonium Midnight Uploading podcasts are available on i-tunes, remember?) that maybe what this site needs is a Cafe Press offering.

I was really shocked to note that Mr. Cassini's death went virtually unnoticed by fashion bloggers such as Manolo and the lovely Dress A Day.

Of course, his obituary was buried below the fold on an internal page in a secondary section in the Herald, not even featured in the celebrity obits.

But, people. Oleg Cassini? He invented Jackie O's style. The coronation inauguration gown? The Nobel Prize dinner gown?


That, people is Style, with a capitol (pun intended) S.

Do you remember the 1974 Matador? Do you even remembe the Matador? It was an incredibly fashion-forward auto design. I don't know of anyone who actually had one, but it was sleek, and racy, and just so so so ahead of its time. Oleg Cassini did a designer edition of that car.



Here's more about the Matador.

Earlier this year, a couple of retrospective books came out about Cassini and the Kennedy years. Every fashion junkie should own them.

There. I feel better now.

My very own Miss Congeniality, the fabulous Centerstage Josephine Baker is featured today on The Daily Puppy.

Check her sweet little self out.

So, why does everybody get so freaking stupid over St. Patrick's Day?

It's not like we all need another excuse to drink. Christ, I never need an excuse, I just need a bottle. And, maybe, a glass. Maybe not.

I mean, really. Cubans who, all year long, vie to out-Cubanisimo each other, show up on March 17 wearing green and "Kiss Me, I'm Irish" buttons.

People who don't know the difference between single malt and chocolate malt wear shamrocks and call out for over-cooked cabbage.

Where were these people earlier this week when it was Purim? Nobody offered me a cookie. Nobody wore costumes to work. Nobody got shit-faced drunk in public, even though that is a tradition of Purim, just as much as it is of St. Paddy's day.

Me? I just grouse and complain and quote Christopher Moltisanti: "Hell is an Irish bar where it's always St. Patrick's Day."*

*With apologies to RJ and MJ, who make wonderful Irish food, and throw great St. Patrick's Day parties, and I'd gladly go to another one. But then, RJ refuses to dye food green, and that, as we all know, is a Very Good Thing.

How many times must we review the rules, people?

Here's a clue: If, even though I have my i-pod at full volume, I can hear every single word of your inane conversation, you are definitely talking too loud. Christ, woman, the nut case who was talking to himself on the other side of me got up and moved because you annoyed him!

Two bodies cannot occupy the same physical space simultaneously. This means, in real life, that you cannot shove your fat ass onto the train while someone is trying to exit through the same door. Let me put it in images you might relate to:
When Larry, Moe and Curly all try to get through the door at the same time, what happens? Right. Moe slaps the shit out of the other two until they move and he can get through the door. Do you want me to get all Moe on your ass, and slap you?

Teenage boys: Nobody, and I mean NOBODY wants to see your skanky underwear hanging out over the tops of your too-big, baggy shorts. (Which, by the way, make you look like you are wearing a skirt. Do you even realize that?) If you have to keep them on by holding your dick all day, well, what's the freaking point. You aren't going to listen to me. You don't listen to each other.

Another thing I'd like to say to teenage boys, particularly the gaggle of them on this morning's train: talking about "raping" your friend's 12-year-old sister is not amusing to me or any of the other adults in the train. I bet the twelve year old sister wouldn't be entertained by this, either. Nor would any of your mothers. Assuming you still have mothers who give a shit about you. Judging by the way you look and act in public, I'd have to guess no.

Next time, I'm going to pants you, and damn the consequences.

I'm walking out to the train last night, and there, crossing Biscayne Boulevard, heading my way, is a guy in a NEHRU suit.

A beige Nehru suit. With tan shoes. Tan shoes with those big, ugly square toes. He's sporting a haircut very much like Johnny Depp in "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory".

Rounding out his ensemble were a pair of euro-trash glasses.

The scary thing was that the guy was absolutely rocking the whole look. If I hadn't been having an unnecessary and unnecessarily loud conversation on my cell phone? I would have gotten a photo for you.

Apple accepted it, and the Pandemonium Midnight Uploading is now live on i-tunes. You can subscribe to it by going to the music store, clicking on podcasts, then do a search for pandemonium. Up she comes. The Pandemonium Midnight Uploading. For some reason (probably my code, again) the artwork doesn't show in the listings, but it will display correctly when you download and play the track.

This is for my family. I know you are out there, reading this blog, even if you never comment. You know who you are. Yeah. I'm talking to you.

The rest of you guys, just skip this one, OK?
I went to visit my mom the other day and she managed to make a whole sentence. Now, while this may sound good to you, it was a heartbreaker to me. What she said was:

"I'm afraid to look at you because I don't know if you're really here."

On the one hand, I'm tempted to think that was a prime example of a million monkeys with typewriters, eventually banging out something that makes sense. On the other hand, it makes a little too much sense for a million monkeys.

The real question, of course, is who did she think she was seeing?

Anyway, the RLA took some photos of us together. I love this one. You can imagine that she's aware of me in this.



In other family-related news, an astute reader sent me a copy of a letter published in the Stuart News, advocating tearing down the old Stuart Department Store to build a parking garage for downtown.

Here's the letter I wrote in response:

My grandfather, Oscar Kanarek, built the Stuart Department Store in 1954, replacing his earlier building (originally Kitching's store). It was built across the street from the railway station (gone, just like passenger service on the FEC railroad). For thirty years, the pink building was a landmark in downtown Stuart (closed with the opening of the Treasure Coast Mall). Many of the other businesses of my childhood are gone too: The Seahorse Drugs, The Pink Pony restaurant, Gay's Jewelers.

I know that my family no longer owns the building, nor do we have rights to the collective memories of the town. However, as a resident of Miami, I now watch as, daily, the historic buildings of this city are bulldozed to make way for bigger, larger, more. One hopes for more sensitivity to history in Stuart.

The Stuart Department Store was a beautiful example of what architectural historians call MiMo, or Miami Modern. It was a particular style, derived from Art Deco, and very much of its time (Mid-Century) and place. The low, horizontal concrete eyebrow was both ornamental and useful in keeping the windows shaded from the tropical sun. The original interiors had organically shaped ceiling areas, wonderful daisy-shaped flourescent lights, terrazo foors. The original exterior had both strong verticals and wide expanses of glass, both elements of MiMo. And, it was pink.

I promised myself that I'd learn how to podcast.

Did I succeed?
Well. Yes. Yes, I did. I just submitted the first episode of the Pandemonium Midnight Uploading to i-tunes. I subscribed, and it found the podcast, populated all the fields correctly (i.e.: the author, the description, the artwork) and opened and played.

Sigh.

I am soooo the Geek Goddess. Sometimes I scare myself. I ate cold pizza for breakfast and sat down in front of the Powerbook and corrected code. I am so hott.

Anyway.

The Pandemonium Midnight Uploading could also have been called Pandemonium Reigns Again. Back in the 80s and up to the mid 90s, the Pandemonium Midnight Uprising was a comedy show that aired on WLRN, Miami's National Public Radio affiliate.

Those were heady days, people. We (RJ was a Pande, too) were just a bunch of people (too old, really, to still be called kids) who got together once a week to record a radio show. Sometimes we went on live, and it was a blast. Other times we did improv, and there were moments of comedic genius. At still other times, there were moments that sank like lead-weighted rocks.

We had no monetary support from anyone. We wrote most every skit ourselves. We did our own production, and post-production.

Sometimes we appeared live. Sometimes the various sub-groups would perform folk music, or musical satire, or comedy or do a stand-up routine.

We had a wonderful time, and true to this day, amused ourselves greatly. But all wonderful times end, eventually. One and then another of us moved away, dropped out, divorced. Gary died. The tapes were lost.

Not too long ago, I found my personal collection of cassettes of shows that I'd taped off the radio. MJ ported them all to CDs, and I've converted them to mp3s and mp4s, and as of an hour ago, launched the Pandemonium Midnight Uploading, a podcast on i-tunes.

That I could write that code, and do the editing required to get these shows broken apart and put back into little bites, would have gotten Gary very hot.

These are for you, Mr. Willson.

Chloe won!!! And the sleeves that ate New York City actually looked pretty on the runway. When they announced that Miss Debra Messing was going to be the guest judge, I just knew that Chloe had to win. Take that any way you care to.

As for Daniel V.? If being first runner up means Michael Kors offers you a job on national teevee? Say thank you, take the job and consider yourself blessed. Because, to be honest, at 24 and fresh out of school? The 100K would be wasted on you, the business you'd start would never survive. Better to be Kors' buttboy for a couple of years and then become the head designer somewhere else.

And Santino? BWAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. You lost, sucka. Nobody offered YOU a job. Nobody likes you. You are an ass-hat. And? That THING with the bat sleeves and the leather knickers? FUGLY. Finally, the music that you wrote, performed, produced, directed, edited, ad nauseum? It sucked,too. Or as RJ remarked: was that music? After a moment or two, it just became white noise and went away.

The best part? The "Whickety Wack" tee shirt that Uncle Nick had on. Where can I buy mine?

As for ANTM?
Well, I predict that Jade will be kept around as long as they kept Camille from Season 2, which is to say, as long as possible because she is soooooo fucking delusional and hateful and just, creepy in general. Not to mention, she looks all pointy like a wet cat.

Gotta go, my lunch hour is over.

I'm working on an enhancement to Girlyshoes. Specifically, I'm adding a podcast. Or I would be if I could figure out where the error is in my code that seems to be preventing i-tunes from being able to find the file.

Anyway, I came home from an hour at the gym with Nic Cage, had my emergency back-up martini from the freezer and went to work on the code.

At some point, I decided that it would be a Good Idea to delete what appeared to be a duplicate folder off my server.

That would have been this blog and most of the freaking web site.

I gave the remainder of the martini to the RLA and spent the rest of the night reconstructing this site.

Please forgive the missing photos in back entries, because I haven't found them on any of my hard drives yet, to replace them on the server.

I'm on the Metromover (which is a Disneyworld-style light elevated rail with no drivers) heading toward the train. I have on my headphones and I'm listening to Meat Loaf (Everything Louder Than Everything Else)* Even through that racket, I somehow manage to hear my cell phone ring (The Ramones: Sheena Is a Punk Rocker). I pull one earplug out, and answer the phone. It's RJ.

Here is our conversation, more or less in its entirety.**
RJ: Where are you?

Me: On the shuttle, we're at (looks out the window) Knight Center. Are you at the station?

RJ: Yeah. The southbound train is delayed. I think it's stuck in Overtown.

Me: Where are you on the platform? I'll catch up with you.

RJ: Hmmm. It looks like the train is coming now.

Me: Are you going to get on, or are you going to wait for me?

RJ: Ummmmmm. I'm getting on. Why?

Me: Well, if you waited, we could talk about the Oscars.

RJ: (pause) I didn't watch them.

Me: WHAT??? How could you not watch them? It's like the movie lovers' religious holiday. Child, how can you NOT watch the Oscars, I mean, other than that it's boring, nobody looked too good and Jon Stewart totally sucked as the host?

RJ: Well, that. And I didn't see any of the movies.

Me: Me, neither. Does it really matter? (Sees train heading south) (Suspiciously) Are you on that train?

RJ: Yes.

Me: Bitch.

Both: Raucous laughter, then hang up.


I meant it, too. Not that. The part about Jon Stewart sucking. I don't get it. The guy is brilliantly funny. How he could have slipped into such mealy-mouthed, poor man's version of the very UN-funny Billy Crystal, I just don't know.

Isaac Misrahi was tamed down to boring. The clothes the women stars were wearing were black, black, chocolate brown, navy blue, beige, ecru, sand and black. Except for the handful of women in various shades of Kodak yellow, which, I have to say, was flattering on exactly none. As for the men, nobody even tried to pull a Johnny Depp and dress with a little out-there flair. Boring. Boring. Boring. Face it, the highlight of the evening was Sandra Bullock showing that her dress had pockets. And she was with Keanu...who just keeps getting stiffer and stiffer and thicker and thicker. It's sad.

Speaking of sad, how sad was it that the message last night was "DVDs bad. Multiplexes good." I could have bought that argument, that movies are an art form best enjoyed on a big screen, in the dark with strangers, if there were still big screens in the dark. But there aren't. There are screens slightly larger than a two-car garage door, in a dimly-lit space with strangers yammering on cell phones, playing with Blackberries and not minding their kids. Even though my big tv is smaller than a one-car garage door, I still prefer to watch movies there.

I do go to the multimegaplex on occasion, I went (with RJ, as a matter of fact) to see the latest Harry Potter movie. We went on a week night, during the dinner hour, and were rewarded with great seats, and nobody but our husbands there with us. If all movie experiences could be like that, I might go more often. Honestly, though, ever since they made movie theater popcorn healthier by not popping it in palm oil, the bloom is off the rose for me.

But I digress. I watched the Oscars, but I didn't enjoy it.

*(Go ahead, have a laugh at my pathetic musical tastes. I'll tell you something else, I love Diamond Dave. Yes. Oh yes, I said it. I love David Lee Roth.)

** My god, but we amuse ourselves. It's sad, really.