Lynne Russell's Blog

P.J. SANTINI REALLY IS "HELL ON HEELS"!

2012-02-25T15:07:00.002-05:00

HELL ON HEELS, as I threatened in the title of this blog exactly one year ago, is here! The book has just been released, and early reviews are cause for celebration. Of course, in this house everything is cause for celebration, as long as the champagne holds out.

And...

I'm blushing. Now you know what I've been doing instead of blogging, and it's pretty much legal with nothing to hide. Except that P.J., while very much my scary alter ego, has introduced me to some bad habits. It was she, for example, who insisted I go ahead and get a Brazilian. But I'd like to point out that mine turned out better than hers, which she calls the half-mowed lawn. Our choice in men is about the same, Ohlala, and I'm going to let that one just hang in the air.

There are other books of this title, but I'm claiming it because as a licensed private investigator I always wanted to open a detective agency of that name, run by and for women. The plot came to me as I worked late nights in deserted TV studios and fantasized about finding something dangerous that someone else had left behind.

Here's the inside story on HELL ON HEELS from Amazon.com:

"P.J. Santini, heroine of HELL ON HEELS has been called "the love child of Janet Evanovich and Elmore Leonard". Quirky and witty, HELL ON HEELS is fast-moving recommended reading for those who crave danger and passion in life, but still want to be home by dinner.

"Welcome to blistering summertime in Buffalo, New York, scene of the crime. 33-year old P.J. Santini, television news reporter and marginally successful private eye, is on a wild ride between men, her certifiable Sicilian family and insufficient funds notices, ever since her husband died on her - literally. But good news, she's inherited the juicy journalistic job of Gerald Sigmund (Siggy), a sleezy investigative reporter who has vanished into thin air. Her first assignment is to find him, dead or alive. She’s also inherited his disgusting office, which holds a secret that’s worth her life. She has no idea what that secret is, or who would kill her to get to it. All she knows is that there’s a bloody finger in the desk drawer, and it lost most of its value as evidence when she threw up all over it.

"Her only comforts are Chianti, 4-inch heels and chocolate. And two men. Fiercely protective Tango Daly is her mysterious, tanned, toned private eye boss, a martial artist with a para-legitimate past tucked lustily into seductive slacks and silk shirts. They play exhilarating mind games when her stilettos get caught in the thick carpet of his office. Upstairs, the place is equipped with more surveillance electronics than Cheyenne Mountain…and a bed with satin sheets.

"Lanky Johnny Renza is darkly handsome in his trademark cream linen suit, and the first boy P.J. ever loved… over and over, all through high school. Now he’s a top-notch, competitive crime reporter who gets away with plenty because he still knows how to hotwire her with fattening food. As her butt is about to get its own zip code, it’s getting harder to concentrate on staying alive.

"Good thing her family and her BFF have got her back. Vicky, her sista who runs Love Your Dog Canine Spa, “borrowed” a client's bloodhound to crack a robbery case. Vicky's got the hots bad for P.J.’s connected cousin, Sandro “The Eel” DiLeo, the guy with the shiniest suits in the family. At Sunday dinner she could suck the honey right off his struffoli. Vicky got hammered at the St. Agatha School reunion and accused Sister Superior of ruining her sex life.

"Nona Giovanna, P.J.'s grandmother from Palermo, is outta control and all in black. Combat boots in winter, hair like Brillo. At Halloween when kids stop screaming they want to know where she got the wig. She speaks English thanks to HSN’s Florentine Jewelry Hour and The Sopranos. While P.J.’s father, a retired cop, runs a cold case operation in his basement, Nona is upstairs setting a bonfire the size of a Buick on the front lawn to get rid of evil spirits.

"Even with all that help, to find Siggy’s killer P.J. will have to get past homicide detective Frank Longoria. His arrogance, corruption and power scare the bejesus out of her. Underneath his Eliot Ness hat, he’s pale and bloodless. When she takes him on, it occurs to her he could be a quart low and she ought to be holding up a cross.

"HELL ON HEELS is the first book of the P.J. Santini series. Her next adventure, HEELS OF FORTUNE, is due Christmas 2012."

WHITNEY HOUSTON...how long do I have to wait to say what I'm thinking?

2012-02-20T10:55:00.117-05:00

Why is it that when people die, they are supposed to become perfect in the eyes of those left behind? I want folks who think I’m an insufferable, self-centered bitch now to be able to say it loud and clear, without hesitation, after I’ve gone to that big Day Spa in the sky. Anything else would be sheer hypocrisy. Yet that sort of miscalculation happens all the time.

Take Whitney Houston, for example. One news organization got so carried away last week it called her the Queen of Soul, which surely came as a big surprise to Aretha Franklin. Houston's story is heartbreaking and tragic, but should this insulate her singing from the sort of honest critiquing that was simmering even on YouTube before she passed? Of course not. Then why, now, should we not call it like we see it?

Dolly Parton Whitney Houston
(courtesy TasteofCountry.com)

Her fans will always think she was perfect. But I still believe if Whitney Houston and a Boeing 767 were revving up in the same hangar, you would not hear the plane. Before she died, I had no problem saying I'd never forgive her for what she did to the classic Dolly Parton song “I Will Always Love You". She obviously didn’t get it, despite her appalling marriage to that loser, Bobby Brown. The fact that her version won a Grammy only goes to show that if a song itself is good enough, it can always be sold to a public that has learned to live without expecting music to be passionate.

But if music isn’t passion, then what is it? “I Will Always Love You” is a ballad, not a German march. It is about a woman's love for a man she can't stay with, and you’d think Whitney could have related to that. When Dolly wrote and released it after her break from country singer Porter Wagoner in the early 70’s - and sang it again in her movie with Burt Reynolds, The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas - she suffered through the words, as a woman really would. In contrast, the version Whitney’s powerful voice delivered was mechanical and without finesse. In fact, it was devoid of any texture at all, if you don’t count yodeling. The only word to describe it was loud. It’s still loud. Stay away from plate glass if you’re listening on a big speaker. On the other hand, Dolly, with a voice so high it's been said only dogs can hear it, was magnificent. She wasn’t going for mass appeal, she was going for heart. And the result is haunting and emotional.

Don’t blame it on Whitney’s strong voice. Loud is not a style. The trick is to use all you’ve got in the right way. Just listen to Etta James, who also just recently passed. Etta lets the passion build. With pipes so potent she could belt out a piece at Wrecking Ball decibels and literally bring down the house, she chose to bring down the house another way. That’s called talent. And respect for the music. Especially when a piece is performed live, you can tell if an artist respects the music or is only using it. Judge for yourself.

Exhibit A: Dolly’s film, the song in context:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_utP1mGoutQ .

Exhibit B: Whitney Houston live (if you have loose dental work, now would be a good time to bite down hard) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IejunkZGh58

Exhibit C: Dolly Parton live http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0vzfjNPjWzI

I wish Whitney well on her journey to whatever comes next, but let’s keep everything in perspective.

THE PRESSURE COOKER THEY CALL VALENTINE’S DAY

2012-02-10T16:12:00.001-05:00

Fifteen percent of American women feel compelled to send themselves flowers on Valentine’s Day. More than half say they’d pull the plug on their relationship if they didn’t receive a gift. Could there be more pressure?

On this day a guy can rack up points that last all year, if he does the right thing, whatever that is. Sign a card. Make her breakfast. Take her out to dinner. Hand over a single red rose, or a whole bouquet. Or an engagement ring – although given my own history, a diamond could be more of a threat than a promise. Whatever he does, listen closely, because it comes with a message.

The first message I remember came when I was 14. My boyfriend, an older man of 16, pulled out all the stops: a teddy bear, a sweetheart card, and another card, the one I didn’t show my mother. It read, “If I said you had a beautiful body would you hold it against me?” Oh yes! For a buck fifty I was sold! For the record - and to my relief, as I had no idea how to handle that situation - he moved away before he could cash in on the sentiment. The message was clear: don’t get in over your head.

Other V-Days have come with other messages. Like the last one in the last spousal relationship. (Yes, there’s been more than one main event, and a couple of sideshows. What can I say, I’m an optimist who’s honest enough to pack it in if it’s going down the tubes and can’t be stopped.) We’d had words the night before. Once again, I had wanted him to make my side of the pizza without wall-to-wall quarter-inch-size pieces of lard, since I try to keep my triglycerides somewhere in the She Won’t Die Tomorrow range. Plus, I might just as well apply lard directly to my Italian hips, eliminating the need for my body to process it, since it’s going to wind up there anyway. I saw February 14^th as the perfect day to forgive and forget.

After three hours’ sleep, I wrenched myself out of bed to prepare his favorite breakfast. I put on music, and lipstick. Glancing in the mirror, I was happy to see I did not look like forty miles of bad road. While the eggs were poaching and the Hollandaise was becoming fabulous, I put a bow on a special bottle of wine and set it by his plate, along with funny boxer shorts with hearts on them and one of my favorite teddy bears, who is in the habit of wearing silk boxers with hearts every day of the year.

We ate in silence. When he spoke, it was to tell me that next time I should buy him a different kind of wine. He went upstairs and came down with a crinkled yellow department store bag twisted around something small and hard, and plunked it in front of me. The act was so indifferent that I opened it mostly out of curiosity. This was a man who had given me Hermes over and over, in bright orange boxes tied with the real ribbon you don’t throw away, so was this a joke? I reached into the bottom of the huge bag and fished out… a jar of wrinkle cream. I was stunned, but not too stunned to get the message, which was this: I calculated that dollar-for-dollar, a good moisturizer is more dependable than the wrong man, and it will yield far better results over time.

The following Valentine’s Day was perfect. I was into the second jar of cream, which I had bought myself.

ROCK ME TILL I FLY...the one thing that can take the sting out of it

2012-01-30T17:21:00.000-05:00

AS WE ROLL CREDITS ON ANOTHER YEAR...blood, corsets and omens

2011-12-31T18:12:00.000-05:00

She's baack! Thanks for hanging in during my absence from this page, while I did some traveling and completed some writing. As we roll credits on another year, it's New Year's Resolution time! Relax, my only resolution is not to make one. I'd rather tally the good things about 2011, which was a pretty decent year.

I did something I'd always wanted, visiting my Italian ancestral home with my boyfriend, also of Italian heritage, former CNN special assignments correspondent Chuck de Caro:

Searching for the volume control

I'd planned to pick up sword fighting, but went with Argentine tango classes instead, which was a spectacular choice. Whatever happens with the dancing, I own a pair of killer high heels. In fact, they've already drawn blood. (Blog posts of March 8 and April 9.)

I appeared in public in a corset, with a handsome escort named Ray...

With Raymond Mantella at the Catwalk Cure

...and on Moby In The Morning's syndicated radio show out of Atlanta:

Moby Carney and beautiful little Gracey

The fact that I bled out and wound up in the hospital sucking up transfusions after a nasty trainwreck of a divorce notwithstanding, there were many more good moments, and I'm here to savor them. I should have known 2011 would be a helluva year when I plugged in my new lava lamp, which a friend said delivered omens if you looked for them, and two hours later this is what it was doing:

I'd like to thank you for the memories with a meaningful thought that consolidates all the beautiful phrases my friends are stringing together this New Year's Eve. I'd like to, but mine is still percolating in a soup of eggnog and champagne that began bubbling late last night. So I'm sending you a phrase from 2011 that's guaranteed to give you the freedom to be yourself long enough to have a good time, accomplish your goals and do all the good your heart desires:

Have a Happy, Healthy, Barely Legal 2012 !

MY WILD FIRST BRAZILIAN WAX... a report from the Front

2011-10-12T13:13:00.000-04:00

The Brazilian wax job: (noun) The cold-blooded ripping out of the pubic hair whose first appearance is a moment of glory for girls passing into womanhood. It’s one of the most masochistic projects a woman can pay good money for. More than once, I have asked a friend the only question about it that comes to mind – WHY? – only to be answered with a wink and a soft laugh. Not much of an answer, but enough to put the procedure in the Dark Mysteries category. And I can’t resist a mystery.

The decision to go Brazilian at last was not entirely mine. The concept had always intrigued me, but I have an aversion to witnessing anyone’s pain, especially my own. Plus, I try to keep the professionals who’ve inspected my privates down to a number you can count on one hand. Also, I have seen (accidentally, of course) porno films in which hairless bimbos look like plucked chickens. But I guess there’s no accounting for taste. I decided to ignore all this and give it a shot; and on a dare from my boyfriend, Chuck, I made an appointment to have it done just ahead of my regular manicure at a salon in a neighbourhood so sedate and proper I never would have guessed Brazilian might be on the menu.

As we drove over together, I considered whether my Brazilian would be like Carrie Bradshaw’s on Sex and the City. When she had hers done, the woman lifted Carrie’s leg and deftly ripped off long strips of wax, causing spasms of pain that sent her into the ozone. I expected Chuck to drop me off, but he volunteered to wait. How sweet, I thought. Next thing I knew he was in the room with me, promising to be quiet if I let him stay. In that moment of weakness, I set myself up for everything that happened next. Given that Chuck is Chuck de Caro, ex-Green Beret, aviator and former CNN Special Assignments Correspondent with a taste for the unusual, I should have known better.

He, I, and the diminutive Korean technician named Jenny, were stuffed into a room the size of a walk-in closet. He glued himself to the wall behind the door and I stripped off my undergear, lay down on the table and tried to forget he was there. I’d knocked down a couple of glasses of Chardonnay beforehand - three, to be exact - which made it easier. Jenny went to work dipping an oversized Popsicle stick into hot wax, spreading it in one small area at a time, pressing a cloth down on top and yanking it off. Eowch! The searing pain brought tears to my eyes. I bit into my knuckle and glanced at my boyfriend, who was leaning back lazily against the wall, hands in his pockets, wearing a huge grin… and my black lace panties around his neck. I laughed so hard I snorted, and Jenny fumbled her waxy Popsicle stick dead center into the contested area, vertical like a battle flag. This only encouraged him. He begged to help, but she refused. Pretty soon he was leaning over the table anyway, positioning my real estate so as to give her a better angle. I threatened to kill him and sliced into his back with my nails to telegraph that message. Off came another chunk of wax, and I yelped loud. He looked over his shoulder at me and shouted, “Push! Push!” Poor Jenny collapsed in giggles, burying her forehead in the sheets.

Undeterred, Chuck stretched out another stretch of my landscape and suggested it had a Korean counterpart: “Wait a minute, Jenny, what’s this? Doesn’t this look like the terrain around Pusan or Taegu?” By now we all were hooting, hysterical. Bored clients on the other side of the door, sitting through their Deluxe Pedicures and Gel Fill-Ins, put down their magazines to listen. As there was no longer any order in our room at all, Chuck was ripping off strips on his own. Just when I thought the battle was over and I scanned for my jeans to get the hell out, I heard him say, “Hold on, there’s a stray! Looky, here’s another one!” And Jenny hunkered down with the tweezers, working with Mohel-like precision. When we finally strolled back out into the salon, Chuck slipped Jenny a twenty and thanked her for the entertainment. Nobody, not one person, looked up. The technicians busied themselves, and the clients pretended to be reading.

My wild Brazilian ride was over. Yet, after all the anticipation and trepidation, I had not had the courage to look at the results. If a single person had so much as clucked…

WORDLESS IN TORONTO

2011-09-06T21:43:00.001-04:00

About the time we reporters think we've seen it all, we open our eyes to something so amazing it makes us put down our magazines. And pick up the camera. And try to form long, impressive, descriptive sentences. Unfortunately none came to me just now, as witnessed on this short video. But I think when you see it, you'll still respect me in the morning.

Stop cackling. The only tough part is the realization that if there'd been twin train derailments or a 50-car pileup or a tornado relocating an entire hamlet, the words probably would have come spilling out so fast I would've had to have my tongue retreaded. What does that say about the nature of news, and our ability to find uplifting words? Whatever it says, it can wait till tomorrow.
Enjoy.
[If the embedded link does not function on your mobile phone, please go to www.lynnerussell.tv ]

IMAGES FROM THE QUIETEST NIGHT IN NEW YORK CITY

2011-09-02T17:50:00.000-04:00

While classy, professional photos of the approach of Hurricane Irene have been shot and published everywhere, I can't resist adding my humble BlackBerry's offering. You can take the girl out of the newsroom... Plus, you know the excitement when you take a picture no one else has - and perhaps no one else wants, but you get the idea - it is a moment in time.

Last Saturday, as New York City digested the ordered evacuation of hundreds of thousands of inhabitants and visitors from Lower Manhattan, a very unlikely calm settled in. As you know, public transportation had shut down, and no planes or trains were moving, either. If you'd been walking near E. 42nd Street and Park Avenue, you would have seen the strangest thing: Grand Central Station was empty. The doors were locked. On an average day, more than 700,000 people pass through that terminal. But in the overcast fading light of Saturday evening, you would have seen only police officers approaching street people camped outside the building, using admirable low-key charm to try to talk them into going to shelters to wait out the storm.

Shopping meccas were deserted. The popular Sephora store on Madison Avenue was prepared for the worst, with tape across the windows and sandbags at the doors.

At Rockefeller Plaza, the summer palm trees had been placed on their sides in anticipation of the high winds meteorologists were predicting.

But folks can get cabin fever, just sitting inside waiting. So they didn't wait, especially the visitors. A lot of them had paid plenty to come to the Big Apple and see the Broadway shows that had been called off, and to enjoy some night life. So whenever the rain wasn't heavy, they gathered where people always go to wait for something to happen in New York, at Times Square.

Then when the rain came down harder and the wind got serious, they moved inside to places like Ellen's Stardust Diner, at Broadway and 51st. It's the place to go, to cheer up. The singing waiters and waitresses all are hoping to make it big as soon as possible. "Thank you for your support," they beam as the diners cheer, "I hope I'm not here when you come back." Most really are very good, but you worry about their chances because in New York there are so many who are very good. Still....

And now at last, I'm able to show you the saxophone player to whom I referred in my previous blog. His rendition of Summertime, slow and sweet on that hot-wet night, was the thing that belonged most of all to Manhattan's mood. He took long pauses, and had nothing but time. Because even in the City, some things can't be rushed.

MEMO FROM NEW YORK CITY...as Hurricane Irene approches

2011-08-27T15:34:00.000-04:00

3pm Saturday 27 Aug 2011

This will be quick, because I'm in the only available computer alcove in my hotel, and it's the most popular Midtown location this afternoon, now that the liquor stores are closed.

It's hot and rainy, and all eyes are on CNN for weather news. At the risk of appearing reactionary when this turns out to have been nothing more than a summer shower, most of us have stocked up on Oreos and wine, and hunkered down for the duration. This better not be more than three bottles of champagne long.

Last night I headed to Times Square, where the usual carnival atmosphere of performance artists and flashy animated billboards was in full swing... with a twist. Fire engines and ladder trucks were planted in unlikely locations, and there was a sort of New Year's Eve communal feeling that seemed to say whatever happens, we're all in this together. That's why I love New York... nobody comes here to be a sissy. Out of nowhere, a low rumble escalated into the screaming roar of a freight train, and I wasn't the only one who imagined a wall of water rushing into Times Square! In fact, it was a monster herd of Harleys blowing through the proverbial concrete canyon, their growls echoing off the brightly lit video screen walls of tall buildings. After that excellent sensory overload, the rain picked up and I strolled back up to the hotel.

The thing about last night that stays with me most of all, and always will, was the haunting sound of a wailing saxophone on a street corner. A lone black musician leaning against a light pole, putting all he had into a soulful rendition of "Summertime"... so slow, it flowed like sweet cream in July.

It occurred to me that no storm could ever change summer in New York. Then he segue'd into a tune I could've sworn was "It's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday"...

TORONTO MAYOR FLIPS OFF THE CHURCH LADY…about time!

2011-07-28T02:05:00.000-04:00

Butt into Toronto mayor Rob Ford’s life, and he’ll flip you off. At least you know where he stands. Then why is the recipient of Ford’s salute so upset to learn that free speech runs both ways? Let me set the scene.

There’s lots to love about Toronto, up in Canada, the country that Americans like to call The Land That Time Forgot. Small neighborhoods with outdoor cafés and restaurants, pubs, green grocers, flower shops, banks, drug stores and really everything you need. A walking city with lots of parks and nature trails. Multiculturalism and all the good cookin’ that comes with it. A public transit system of subways, streetcars and buses that gets you – eventually - just about anywhere you need to go. There’s Lake Ontario, cottage country, sports, culture, U.S. shopping an hour and a half away and the glorious fifteen minutes of summertime. People are friendly, and it’s one of the most laid back cities on the planet. On the surface.

Unfortunately, the mild-mannered, understated British influence also has produced a frustrated, uptight population segment that shies away from getting involved in anything confrontational, yet feels a moral obligation to scold strangers for what it considers unacceptable behavior. It’s Saturday Night Live, it’s the Church Lady! It’s all the righteous, smug indignation without the religion.

For instance, you can get into trouble with the folks for stopping your car too far into a crosswalk. Someone might even slam a fist into the hood on the way by, just for good measure. I know I said they shy away from confrontation, but there’s little chance a Toronto driver is actually going to leave the car to retaliate, it just isn’t done. If a pedestrian pulls a stunt like that in Atlanta, he’s praying his track shoes stay on as he feels the wind whipping around his head from the tire iron that’s closing in behind him.

The rest of your facts: The province of Ontario, where Toronto is located, has had a law against drivers using handheld cell phones in moving vehicles since October 2009. Toronto has had a new mayor, Rob Ford, since October 2010. He’s known for telling constituents that he’s so accessible, they can call him when they need him. He even reportedly answered when he was in the hospital with a kidney stone.

It’s the phone that got him into trouble this week, as he was driving downtown. He apparently was holding it and talking away, in a beige minivan with ROBFORD plates, when a woman who didn’t vote for him spotted him. They both stopped at an intersection, where the woman admits she and her six year old daughter did what they always do when they don’t like what someone else is doing, they gave him the thumbs down. He ignored them, good man, so she rolled down her window and yelled “Get off your cell phone!” At which point the Mayor gave the Church Lady the ole one-fingered salute. Could it be…Satan? This completely blew her circuits, forcing her to drive all the way around the block to regain her compromised composure. When she could finally navigate again, she vibrated on home and made a very minor celebrity of herself on Facebook and Twitter. “He could have said I’m sorry.”

Well, the dust has settled and the police have confirmed they aren’t going to charge him with the phone thing because they don’t issue silly retroactive tickets. But what are they going to charge the Church Lady with, for being an uptight, embarrassing pain in the tailpipe? And what kind of lesson did her child learn about the right time to mind your own business? Zero.

Unless, of course, we take up a collection and send them down to Atlanta for the weekend.....

“Well, isn't THAT special!"

C'MON OVER...you pick the year

2011-07-18T21:13:00.001-04:00

Friendships are hard work. It was easier when we could get in some face time, preferably around a table for an impromptu meal... even in the days before we could afford a real table. Whatever happened to calling up friends and saying “C’mon over, I’ll fix us something to eat,” and actually having people show up? When you finish reading this, you’ll remember what happened.

The tragic truth is that spontaneity has come to be viewed as an indication you have nothing else to do, and that your life, well, sucks. No one stops to think that you may have learned to place a high value on the way you use your time. When you make those calls, the same friends who can't come usually have brought their work home with them, or are leaving town, or already have a weeks-old invitation to go somewhere else. Or the kids have a play date, an organized soccer game or an important social networking adventure on the computer, and bringing along the laptop to go online around all us talkative older people would be too distracting. I would’ve said adults instead of older people, but if there are adults then someone has to be a kid, and the kids don’t know it’s them.

“Okay then, what about tomorrow… or next week?” You detect the whine in your voice, and hate yourself for it. The answer comes back the same.

“Then how about next year?” Now you’re not only a whining loser, you’re being downright sarcastic. Or are you?

What the hell, let's pretend that by some miracle everybody can come! Do you run to the store, skipping down the aisles to pick up whatever looks good on the spur of the moment? You don’t. Because everybody eats something different now, and nobody is willing to call a truce in the diet wars long enough to chill out and break bread together. Oh my god, you eat bread?! You stop dead in your tracks in Frozen Food and try to recall who eats what. More to the point, who doesn’t eat what. Jerry likes bagels but not lox. Megan likes lox but not bagels. As long as the lox is Nova… in which case it’s not really lox, is it? Which one doesn’t eat cream cheese? Who eats no cheese at all? Who eats only Himalayan salt? Food in season? No beans? Tomatoes? Shellfish? Nothing with gelatin in it? Butter, eggs, margarine, sugar?

In the interest of self preservation, you decide on a huge, steaming bowl of pasta with a choice of yummy sauces. As you reach for the spaghetti, you see you must choose between the refined flour, evil noodles you’ve been scarfing down all your life, and the newly popular whole grain pasta. You decide to go with the regular, and take the heat for it. As you unload your goodtime ingredients onto the cash register belt, it comes to you that the pasta is wheat, and who was just saying they were allergic to wheat? Drool escapes the corners of your mouth, and your eyes roll back in your head. The checkout person is squinting at the purple vein that’s starting to throb on the side of your forehead.

You pay for plastic carry-out bags because, insensitive, behind-the-times lout that you are, you’ve been concentrating on your own loser self, completely ignoring the environment and forgetting to dig the cloth grocery bags out of the trunk of the car.

Slumped at last in the front seat, head on the steering wheel, you start the engine. An hour to showtime. It’s clear your salvation lies in simply stopping for takeout. Now who doesn’t eat Chinese?

KIM KARDASHIAN IN THE NEWS BUSINESS and Lynne's School Of The Air

2011-07-09T15:29:00.002-04:00

The day the Casey Anthony not-guilty verdict came in, I’d been waiting all day for something more than an unconfirmed rumor. Then I was slammed with appointments and missed the whole thing. But my friend didn’t. He heard it immediately…from Kim Kardashian.

“Excuse me?” I said, tripping over my own feet. “You heard the Casey Anthony verdict from whom?”

“Kim Kardashian,” he said with a straight face.

I was mystified. It didn’t compute. It was like hearing that either of the George Bushes had won Humanitarian of the Year. I tried to think of a journalist named Kim Kardashian and couldn’t, then I remembered her information pipeline. Still… “You mean…”

“That’s right,” he said with a grin, waiting for the explosion.

“WHAT? Is it legit? How is this possible?”

“One word: Twitter. On my BlackBerry. But then she went on about how she was having a bad hair day...”

“Marone.” There were other things I wanted to say, but that’s all that came out.

Thoughts were ricocheting off each other like pinballs. Mostly they had to do with the credibility that automatically accompanies an idea when it’s published on the internet - even if it’s only one sentence - with no responsible news organization to back it up. But why not, given what we often get when we turn on the news. Anchors and reporters who’ve been in the business five minutes and have no frame of reference are told they have enough to make it work, as long as their powder and foundation hold out.

Then as I watched news reports, I started thinking about the decline of journalistic integrity in general, always dangerous and frustrating for a person who has spent a lifetime fostering accurate and unbiased reporting of the facts, for the sole corny purpose of serving the People’s Right To Know. While it’s often true that capable talent do not have journalistic input and must work with what they’re given, here's a message to the rest: The Oscars have already been handed out this year.

A few hints from Lynne’s School Of The Air:

If you’re a woman, don’t try to fake authoritative delivery by emphasizing important points with repeated crescendos of words that reach decibels so high only dogs can hear it. This doesn’t make you sound involved, it makes you sound like the floor director is under the desk goosing you. And don’t go through your copy marking down where you should do a stage frown. A) Nobody believes it and it looks like you're passing gas, and B) this just causes wrinkles.

If you’re a man, here’s a news flash: Don’t squint and pierce the camera with your eyes in a Larry David Stare-Down. Larry’s much better at it than you are. Plus, you don’t look discerning, you look stupid and confused. Also watch how short you cut your hair. Sheep-shearing it really close so that your ears stick out so far they can change the weather does not make you look cute like a schoolboy. Nor does this make you look more professional. It makes you look like a taxi with both doors open.

Good night and good luck.

NICK'S EXCELLENT ADVENTURE...Signing off

2011-06-27T20:00:00.001-04:00

At CNN's 10th Anniversary Party

Sometimes the things we're positive we are best prepared for can blindside us the hardest. Even when a death is imminent and has been publicly acknowledged.When the one about to take leave has celebrated the life he has lived. When he has talked over its approaching end with his family and planned the last details, right down to choosing music for the memorial, and we have almost accepted its inevitability as the moments slip away.

In the two days since we awakened to learn that our pal Nick Charles had quietly left in the night, I have been searching for words to write and frankly they are not coming. This would probably be a big disappointment to Nick, after all the effort he put into teaching us by example that it ain't over till it's over, and that there's nothing to feel sad about when you know you have followed your heart.

It's just that I keep thinking... Nick, of the golden smile and the famously kind soul. Nick, CNN's extraordinary first sportscaster. Nick, who was diagnosed with late-stage bladder cancer that already had spread to his lungs, who underwent all the treatment he could handle, then decided he wanted to spend his remaining precious moments unimpeded by the side-effects of more chemotherapy. He wanted to be free to "feel everything". And he did, he and his loving wife Cory and five-year-old daughter Giovanna. He went on pushing himself, reluctant to close his eyes for a minute, passionate about traveling with the family and passionate about boxing, calling fights for HBO. This man pulled no punches, he gave it everything he had.

Along the way, it was very important to him that we, the ones he would leave behind, clearly understand that none of us is ever completely helpless. "We have control over the way we feel about each day," he would say. "Do you understand?" And we said we did. Why, then, should we now find ourselves paralyzed in disbelief?

I suppose Nick would say there are some things humans just have to go through, before they can move on. But move on now.
   "But it's too soon," we would say.
    And he would flash that brilliant smile. "Weren't you listening? There's no time to waste."

More on Nick Charles in these blogs, accessible to the right:
NICK CHARLES, FEELING IT ALL   March 7, 2011
ADVICE FROM GROUND ZERO      April   6, 2011

LET'S FIND OUT IF YOU'RE SQUEAKY CLEAN ENOUGH TO HOLD PUBLIC OFFICE

2011-06-18T16:06:00.002-04:00

Yes, you. The question no longer is whether you want to hold public office, but whether you can. It isn’t whether you’d be willing to sacrifice your family and job to become a public servant, to invest years in pursuing a dream to make everyone’s existence better. It’s whether the qualities that make you the life of the party at Happy Hour will give your enemies ammunition to blast you out of their way, torpedoing your personal and professional life in the process. All the good you’ve done doesn’t matter at all. So I ask, and would love to know, how squeaky clean are you?

I discussed this over lunch yesterday with two other idealists who are fearless and successful in their fields, and as passionate about improving the quality of life as I am. One agreed with me that affecting real change is damn near impossible, because politics is awash in pettiness and compromised promises. The other insists it can happen if the message - and the need - are strong enough (timing is everything), and if your campaign is transparent from the beginning. He also thinks we just had our first political strategy meeting, and that soon I’ll be throwing my tiara into the ring. Honey, all the polish in the world couldn’t shine up that little piece of headgear enough to pass inspection.

Could you pass the test? What have you done that anyone might consider illegal or immoral? Remember your enemies have more time, energy and money than you do to fight this battle, so when you make your list, be specific. Do you get questionable gratification out of slowly squeezing the Colgate from the bottom? Are you a damn loafer-wearing sissy who doesn’t lock n load in deer season? Do you stuff the kids into a Ford Fiesta instead of a roomier Flex, for its priapic shape? Remember, it’s all in the eye of the beholder. (For example in the U.K. this week, a taxi driver was forced to remove a little glassy blue Christian cross with rounded corners from his cab when a 15-year-old male passenger thought it looked positively phallic. Hello, when you’re fifteen, everything looks phallic.)

In politics, we know this isn’t really about right and wrong, it’s about using personal life as a weapon to manipulate public opinion when confronting the issues doesn’t work. If you’re the victim, you really ought to be flattered over such a concerted effort to get rid of you, although resigning in disgrace does smart.

This leaves the question of what else should be done with you, if you flunk our little test. What should we have done with Weiner and Clinton? Nothing. Instead of wasting taxpayer money tracking down Tweets, texts and stains on dresses, when the shameful offender is a man we’ll just let your wife handle it. If anybody is equipped to drag you to hell, she is. It’s a gift.

Now that I’ve saved you all the trouble of running, serving and getting booted out, let’s see that list. My eyes are open wider than Ken Starr’s at a naked bicycle race.

I'LL TAKE A CAN OF U.S. ARMY WHOOP-ASS, HOLD THE WEINER

2011-06-06T17:43:00.001-04:00

First of all, let me say that I bear no malice toward Representative AnthonyWeiner, any of his body parts, or hotdogs in general. Furthermore, I freely admit that when the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile stopped by CNN Center one sunny day, I joined the flock of seasoned news professionals who raced down to have their pictures taken in front of it, while the Oscar Meyer Weiner Song repeated on a loop for a good part of the afternoon. Parenthetically, do you know how many times a human needs to hear the Weiner Song to have it firmly rooted in the brain forever? A mere twelve.

Any guess at the IQ of a robber who would taunt this man in a bank?

But here's the thing: what's news to you?

What with Sarah Palin's playing a media version of Are You Smarter Than A 5th Grader? and losing (again), and the media's fascination with Representative Weiner's weiner, are you giving any thought to the extent to which America has lowered its standards? Didn't we used to require that political figures - whether or not we thought they were insane - demonstrate at least a glimmer of intelligence, a small hint that somebody was home? And didn't it used to matter that, somewhere along the way, humor was really humorous? Oh, wait, you say the blow-up over the Congressman's Family Jewel photo is not a joke? Then it falls into another category: the Who Cares? black hole of nonsensical timewasters. The question is, whose fault is it that Americans can't distinguish between comic book material and actual news anymore?

Try discussing this one over dinner. The whole conversation is so silly, it should be over before the mashed potatoes hit the plate. But people are positively dedicated to defending all of this as important Current Affairs. School kids assigned to bring in news items for class discussion are actually printing out Palin and Weiner stories.

Other things are going on in the world, real tests of what a person is made of. Ironically, these also are stories that would catch a kid's eye, as well as reel in a pretty good size audience of the action-adventure crowd. But how much, for example, do you hear about the Army sargeant, a veteran of fighting in the Middle East, who was home on leave and got caught up in a bank robbery in Florida? He was there with his three little kids, and the last straw was when the robber threatened to kill one of them. Staff Sgt Eddie Peoples was thinking as clearly as if the whole thing were scripted, when he methodically protected his children first, and then decided to open that big can of U.S. Army Whoop-Ass you've heard so much about. Msnbc saw a great story and used it. Here's the link:
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/43249972/ns/us_news-crime_and_courts/t/soldier-home-leave-thwarts-fla-bank-robbery/ He's trained, he's smart, he's a great dad, he's decisive...plus, he's cuter 'n a basket of puppies, and I hope he's got a good TV deal waiting when he's finally Stateside to stay. Maybe then someone will know who he is.

MY BUTT HAS ALL-DAY HOLD, AND IT'S BLACKBERRY'S FAULT

2011-05-31T14:16:00.000-04:00

This morning I awakened to a record nineteen new messages on my BlackBerry, three of them urgent, not counting the Victoria's Secret 7-for-$25.50 panty sale. This situation came compliments of the Immediate Information Technology that has replaced both the house phone and the morning paper on my bedside stand. As I do not run a television network, perform brain surgery or work PR for the Administration, it's pretty clear that things have gotten out of hand. There's something wrong when you go to bed at peace with your schedule, then awaken too far behind to get caught up before noon.

As a result, when I got out of the shower I was thinking of everything but what I was doing, and accidentally slathered Aveda hair gel onto my body instead of the usual Nivea, since the tubes are almost identical. Now my butt has all-day hold. Actually, it feels pretty good. Plus, I have to admit it now looks better than my hair, all retexturized and definitely with more style and shine. And it smells of chamomile. If only I could show it off.

I am positive I'm not alone in Overload Zone. I know people who have embarrassed themselves by standing in a parking lot trying to unlock their car with their cell phone. In one case, it happened in front of a cop who insisted on Breathalyzing my friend before she could drive away. As this took place in the Saks Fifth Avenue parking lot, you can only imagine how it stopped traffic.

Nor is this something new. There is serious research going on aimed at explaining and treating this intensifying problem, which didn't happen overnight. The Institute of Corporate Communication in Lugano, Switzerland is examining "the theoretical basis of the information overload discourse...causes, effects, and countermeasures" going back thirty years. That was about the time my mother picked up a red-and-white tube of Minit-Rub instead of Colgate and brushed her teeth with it, as she pondered the difference between software and hardware, and how a person could allow herself to become dependant on a computer and make peace with that, then plug it in one day and blow out the motherboard, when she didn't even know what a motherboard was.

Perhaps the upshot of all this will be a new set of societal norms that will at once address our needs and set us free. Perhaps the rules will change out of necessity to accomodate walking down the street backwards, skirt up, on bad hair days when The Butt can be the only star of the show.

FRIDAY NIGHT BEFORE JUDGMENT DAY...what's on your list?

2011-05-20T13:25:00.000-04:00

According to Harold Camping, founder of Family Radio, an evangelical Christian network based on the left coast, The Rapture - aka Judgment Day - will arrive tomorrow. He wants to know if you're ready.

Hell no, I'm not ready, I've got a million things to do between now and then.
*Don't email me, I don't have time to answer.
*My taxes haven't been filed because I've been sick, but I'm not getting strung out over it, no time for that.
*Most importantly, between now and The Rapture, there's a lot of rapture I've got to shoehorn into my schedule, as I've been letting rapture slide lately, and as we all know it's rapture that makes the world go round.
*Consequently, I won't be picking up my drycleaning, as I won't be needing clothes for the next several hours. After that, god has told me personally that she's trucking in Dior, Guy Laroche and Chanel. Í'll already be wearing my Rapture stilettos, so I'm good to go.

How about you?

THANKS FOR CNN, BURT...It Took A Hedgehog

2011-05-13T17:02:00.001-04:00

Former CNN President Burt Reinhardt

passed on this week, at the age of 91

Lynne, Burt Reinhardt and Nick Charles
at CNN's 10th Anniversary Party

Burt Reinhardt, with his Cheshire cat grin and soft spoken ability to run the tightest ship in the news business, could put the fear of god into anyone who didn't know there was a teddy bear underneath. In the beginning, I was one of those lesser mortals. Not since the seventh grade, when Sister Superior chased my greaser classmate James Gates down the hallway with a pair of pinking shears and lopped off his long hair, had I so carefully chosen my words and tiptoed around the throne of power.

The throne was an office chair and desk across from a deep, cushy sofa that had visitors practically sitting on the floor. He had just taken the reins of CNN when we met on a cool January day in Atlanta. It was his game, and he was focused on it. It occurred to me that, under the circumstances, towering over him in my three-inch heels might not have been the smartest thing. But I had missed the point. It wasn't a simple matter of feet and inches. The awkwardness I felt as I sank into the cushions, chewing on my knees while I tried to answer his questions, was giving him the advantage of time... time to see how I handled it, and to figure me out. This was typical of Burt. His cool assessment and knowledge of his employees went way beyond name, rank and serial number. From that experience alone, and the pleasant conversation we shared, he knew more about me than I'd ever know about him. Fortunately, that didn't stop him from hiring me.

You'll hear a lot now about Burt Reinhard's enormous achievement of molding and developing what frightened competitors had dubbed "the Chicken Noodle Network" into the groundbreaking powerhouse it became; about his running the network in one way or another for almost twenty years; about his impressive, solid news background as a World War II news photographer and beyond. The truth is, he can not be given enough credit for what he did. And he did it with style. He made big decisions to spend big bucks on breaking news all over the world, while he squeezed every dollar he could save out of talent salaries at home, until he had to admit the public really did care who delivered the news. I'll never forget the night Security showed up to take a certain CNN Sports anchor (no, not Nick!) by the arm and hustle him directly out of the building, because he'd been arguing with Burt for so long about the terms of his new contract, that the old one had run out. Point taken.

Intrepid international reporter Richard Blystone said it all when he ventured into an English garden to do a report on the engaging little hedgehog, described as having a soft and tender underside, but a spiny coat and short legs that enable it to roll itself into a ball for defense. Its quills are not barbed like a porcupine's, but they are prickly and sharp enough to draw blood. Richard held one up, looked at the camera and made the inside joke of all time.

"I think I'll name mine....Burt."

FIRST-HAND CANADIAN HOSPITAL REPORT...don't knock it till you've tried it

2011-05-06T20:15:00.000-04:00

I wish I could say you haven't heard from me for a week and a half because I've been lolling in a Paris park, or lounging over espresso in a piazza somewhere south of Milan. You know, Dolce far niente, sweet to do nothing. Instead, I've been very busy being very grateful to be alive... busy beefing up my red corpuscles and rallying every molecule of hemoglobin my body can produce. With the help of two transfusions. And Canadian health care. I want you to know this, because there is so much criticism in the States of any move toward a similar system, and you know I'm not going to lie to you about how it was.

This was an ironic and unintended test of the very Complex Care Unit for which we threw the huge Catwalk Cure benefit bash in February. I blogged about it here, giggled and playfully shared my own corset picture. But as I emceed the proud effort to support this unique unit at Toronto General Hospital, I had no idea that in two months I would qualify as a poster child for it.

I wound up in the hospital after two mammoth stomach ulcers Í didn't know I had (compliments of my domestic train wreck) opened like a tap and I nearly bled out. As I lay there for four days undergoing tests, treatment and observation, I was astonished at the precision with which it all was handled, and the involvement of specialists who actually talk with each other and work together. Not only for me, but for other patients in my room. This was the Complex Care Unit in action. And here's the rest of the story.

I witnessed a broad spectrum of patients - of diverse socio-economic backgrounds and resources, including a presumably homeless man - receiving the same level of excellent medical care with dignity and absolutely no money worries. This was the Ontario, Canada health care system in action. The patients and their families were able to concentrate on the process of getting well, instead of breaking a sweat and grinding their teeth as a mental cash register rang up every time a nurse broke open a new box of Kleenex or dispensed an aspirin, because none of us ran up a bill.

Of course, you don't have to be hospitalized to benefit from the system, and here's one of my favorite examples. As you know, I'm based in Toronto right now. Ninety days after I moved here in 2005, I was eligible for a mammogram, while a dear friend who worked in the health care industry in the States couldn't get one for herself because she couldn't afford insurance. So you see my point.

Say what you want, it is what it is. No system is perfect. Taxes aren't low, but everything in life comes at a price. When tax dollars are spent on medical care, it's the wisest expenditure of all.

ARE TEENS BLOWING IT WITH ORAL SEX?

2011-04-24T02:51:00.000-04:00

Try to tell the current crop of youngest teenage girls about the pitfalls of sexual involvement, and don’t be surprised if they flash their palms and say “Uh, talk to the hand.” This translates to “I’ve got it under control, and BTW I give the best hand job this side of the city. Blow job, too.” HJ/BJ is a staple on a menu that includes pretty much everything but the big ticket item, intercourse.

There are two ways of looking at this. One is: Holy shit, the girl’s a slut. The other is: Well at least she’s not getting pregnant or picking up a disease. Of course if she were pregnant, she could get her own parking space. (I just said that to needle the indignant women who went off the hook over my previous blog on Preggers Parking and the hysterical comments that followed.)

There’s a third angle to the HJ/BJ situation, and I’m thinking this one is terribly important, not just now but down the road, too. It’s the overriding consequence that those two Saturday night specials have in common: They’re both 100% about satisfying the male. The emphasis is entirely on him. Even in the present, that doesn’t sound like such a reasonable deal for a female. But what about the future? Yikes, are we awash in a new generation of men who are growing up comfortably used to slipping down a one-way street to easy sexual satisfaction, and women who see this as a relationship builder that works as long as the K-Y lasts?

I know what you’re thinking, but I’ve got nothing against it. In fact, I giggled through a veiled reference in my book How To Win Friends, Kick Ass and Influence People, in the chapter on target shooting...with an actual firearm. In my own defense, I will quote: “When you have your hand wrapped around a gun, you’ve got total control over something that’s ready to go off whenever you want it to, with absolutely no strings attached. Also, as you try to improve you get immediate results. And it allows you to use testosterone-generated terms like shoot, blast and hammer, and then brag about how well you did.” So you can see I get it.

What I am about to say sounds so mature, I can't believe it's me. The problem is that both sexes are losing something by taking the easy route and not waiting. Girls definitely are forfeiting their built-in right to also expect to be satisfied, to experience that arousing, pleasurable process that we all know is going to happen before he gets his, or it isn't going to happen at all. And boys are losing the opportunity to develop a mature mindset that appreciates the value of thrilling a woman. They'll miss the sense of accomplishment and the even bigger payoff that come from successfully going miles out of their way and doing it right.

But they probably won’t notice these things aren't there when they grow up, because they never had them in the first place. Sex will have become nothing more than an abbreviation, a comma, a text message. And it'll probably take too long.

****How To Win Friends, Kick Ass and Influence People (St. Martin's Press) is available at http://www.lynnerussell.com/ in hard cover with personalization available. Also at http://www.amazon.com/ and http://www.barnesandnoble.com/

YIKES! HAIR COLOR ROULETTE

2011-04-18T14:12:00.000-04:00

Heads up! Difficult economic times have given birth to a new, crafty little Image Secret...which Clairol has accidentally torpedoed.

More and more women – and men – are cheating in the privacy of their own homes… slyly messing with nature, coloring their own hair. For starters, nobody knows they’re doing it (this is especially important to men). Plus, home gaming has an economic advantage: $9 versus $90 for the color and shampoo. Then there’s the gratuity, the money you slip Candy or Cherie when the adventure is all over. It could have been spent on a nice glass of Chardonnay to sip as you lounge in your own living room while the color develops. Or new batteries for the remote, if it’s a guy we’re talking about.

Sounds great… until Clairol gets the dye colors switched! Proctor and Gamble is scrambling to pull 10 shades of Clairol Natural Instincts off the shelves all over North America, because the boxes contain the wrong shade of hair dye. They say the primary color is fine, but the sachets with more dye to be applied two weeks later have gotten mixed up. Since the colors in question go all the way from Light Golden Blonde to Brown Black, you can see the hair-raising potential. The company found out the usual way, from a customer. What I’d give to hear that phone call.

If you’ve bought the product you can return it and pour some more Chardonnay to contemplate your near-miss, now that Clairol’s gone from

“Does she…or doesn’t she? Only her hairdresser knows for sure.” to

“Don’t just enjoy Billy Idol…wear him!”

PREGGERS PARKING POLITICALLY CORRECT... SERIOUSLY?

2011-04-14T12:55:00.000-04:00

How to polarize dinner party guests in ten seconds:

Dare to suggest that reserving the most convenient parking spaces for pregnant and recently pregnant women is both ridiculous and insulting to the rest of us, especially at a mall or a stadium.Warning: For some reason, this position is not politically correct. I don't know exactly when this happened in our society, but it must have been when other pregnant women were looking the other way, tying on their running shoes and packing business documents into their heavy briefcases.

All I said was that I usually park away from other cars, but when I'm in a hurry and I see one of those signs I am thrilled to pull right in, as I definitely qualified a long time ago. Not only did I get myself knocked up, I went through nine full months of pregnancy, eight hours of labor, a hellish unintended natural childbirth because my doctor screwed up, and eighteen ensuing years of nail-biting, edge-of-your-seat childrearing. I say eighteen, because I’m convinced growing boys are on a mission to get themselves killed during that time, and moms are on a mission to see that doesn’t happen. Fortunately, my wonderful son and I both emerged from this drama pretty much unscathed and better for the experience. But if anybody deserves a convenient parking space, it’s mothers who’ve been through it and lived to talk about it.

When I said this, a friend choked on her dessert. Her eyes were flashing.

“You don’t really park there! How could you! My daughter’s pregnant and has another one in a stroller!”

“Congratulations.”

“But what’s she supposed to do?”

“Deal with it.”
"But she's pregnant!"
"I know. She needs the exercise." With the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention identifying obesity during pregnancy as a dangerous trend, I thought I was safe with that one.
“But when she goes shopping she has to get the stroller out!”

“So get it out at a regular parking space. It’s temporary. She’s not sick, she’s pregnant.”

“But she’s eight months pregnant! What’s she supposed to do?’

“Wait a month. Then put them both in a stroller and entertain the rest of us with not one but two screaming kids in the mall.” Okay, maybe I could have left out the part about the screaming, but it’s definitely in the deal and by now smoke was coming out of her ears anyway.

“That’s it, that’s it! We’re not talking about this anymore! Don’t even go there, I will.. not.. do it! This isn’t happening!”

“Whatever,” I said, reaching for some fruit.

I should have known. When I brought this up on my radio show, callers went ballistic in both directions. Most felt if a woman can meander around a mall, she can meander over to her car, at least as well as other folks who don’t qualify for handicapped parking but still could use a break today.

After an unnatural silence, a male friend dabbed his lips with a napkin - looking back, I think he was buying time - smiled, and whispered her an innocent suggestion. ”Maybe she could get somebody to help. You know, maybe you could help…”

I could feel the weather changing again. “Where’s that pie?”

A TALE OF LEOPARD STILETTOS...when good shoes go bad

2011-04-08T12:40:00.001-04:00

I know, it's easy to get us confused, but J. Lo.'s shoes are close-toed

Fair and honest reporting on my brush with Argentine tango, now weeks into the lessons:

Once upon a time there was a heavenly pair of leopard stilettos, specially engineered to be stable during the tango, killer beauty and function together, the dream of every woman. The eager new student watched as the shoes moved other dancers with ease and grace. Their opulent gold lining beckoned her to slide her feet inside. Their clever open toes promised to showcase her flawless Big Apple Red nail polish, and the rest of the outfit wouldn't even matter. Their straps promised to keep her from falling off the heels, always a plus. She knew that over time - hopefully not too much - in those shoes she might be taken for Jennifer Lopez in Shall We Dance?, as she moved in the strong arms of Richard Gere on a sweaty head trip that taught him a lot more than the tango. Did somebody jack the heat up to Tropical? It's roasting in here. Where was I.

Oh yes, the shoes. True, they had lured the novice into an embarrassing advanced class after she first slipped them on, but she forgave them. True, they had led her to actually knee a partner in the groin during a Practica session, but that was an accident. Now, confident enough to display more of the attitude a person needs to strut the tango, she's gotten pretty good at keeping her feet very close to the floor, virtually kissing it with the shoes' gold soles. This doesn't leave much clearance for maneuvering, and maybe the shoes don't appreciate that much attitude, either. Now the sharp stiletto heels have drawn blood, gouging open the same toe twice, carving deep, painful slices. Her disapproving partner said he'd never seen anybody do that before, but at least the blood matched her dress. Another accident. Or was it?

I know it's a fairytale, but it's still true and this way I can shift the blame to the footwear.

ADVICE FROM GROUND ZERO

2011-04-06T14:45:00.000-04:00

"WE HAVE CONTROL...

ABOUT THE WAY WE VIEW EVERY DAY."

These are the words of our dear friend and CNN Sports legend Nick Charles, a man who has always been so much more than just words. But they are of particular value now, because as he feels himself becoming physically weaker by the day, he is becoming stronger than ever in other ways as he fires off these words directly into our consciousness as important information, as valuable truth, as advice from Ground Zero.

To understand that we humans have ultimate control over anything at all - and especially in the throes of the terminal illness that is ravaging his body, that Nick does not feel competely out of control - is to rise beyond the petty concerns of everyday life to a place where the virtues of the moment are all that matters.

Thank you, Nick. I think I understand, and I promise I will try to remember. It's no surprise that this bottom-line, kind truth comes from you. We want you to know we are listening... and that we are proud and grateful.

Wayne Drash's excellent CNN story - the video and the copy - are on the CNN website at

http://www.cnn.com/2011/US/04/06/nick.charles.facing.death/index.html#

THE NEWEST THREAT TO YOUR COMPUTER - and how to slap it down

2011-03-31T18:09:00.000-04:00

Word to the wise: If an official-looking pop-up on your computer screen says Win 7 Anti-Virus - or any other Anti-Virus that you don't recognize - don't touch it. Don't try to close the window, don't even try to move it out of the way. It will be as persistent and threatening as a Sopranos associate, trying to get you to shake hands and even give it protection money, but resist the urge with everything you've got. It's not legitimate, and even if you pay up it will continue to try to break your kneecaps.

It happened to me this week on a borrowed laptop, and it's the latest nearly unpreventable threat. The malicious sucker - technically not a virus, but malware - got past the legitimate anti-virus/spyware/malware program on my friend's computer and hijacked the whole damn thing. While it was working over the hard drive, it wouldn't even let me go online to try to download something to stop it. Taking your computer to a big box store to dump the malware will set you back $200. Or you can use the tips computer genius Tom Hernden down in Tampa, Florida (http://www.cpr-repair.com/) gave me.

First of all, prevention. There's a difference between a virus and malware. All you need to know about this is that you want one good antivirus program, Norton, for example - only one, because they work against each other - plus as many anti-malware programs as you like. The excellent free ones he recommends are Malwarebytes, Superantispyware, Hitmanpro (this has a 30-day free trial, then charges a small fee) and Spybot (effectiveness depends on your understanding of it). FYI, he mentioned two good free antivirus programs, AVG and Avast.

Second, avoidance. If a loser like Win 7 Anti-Virus still finds its way onto your screen, do not engage. Instead, a) Quickly unplug the ethernet cable on your PC or take your laptop offline. b) Hit Control, Alt, Delete all at once. c) The Task Manager box will come up. Click on the Applications tab. Highlight the offender and click End Task. This will slap its Mama and keep it from "delivering". You're letting Windows do the dirty work. That's it. Good luck and take no prisoners.