(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.