For the second day in a row, I was infused with dread over a simple event. This one took all of 5 minutes and was physically painless. The psychic toll was, however, deep. I had to have my picture taken at work today. This was an official head shot that will be used for our web site and any other time someone desperately needs to see me before they're sure if they want to do business with the company. The last photo I had taken was about 5 years ago, stiffly posed and very formal. This was supposed to be candid and informal. We were admonished to wear something business casual, solid colors only, please, and to bring a suitable outfit to change into if the weather was too warm to wear what we would be photographed in. I thought about bringing in a down jacket, hat with earflaps, and giant wrap-around scarf, but decided that was a tad unprofessional and might push our poor, suffering marketing folks right over the brink. I got to chat with the photographer, his lackey (who handed new film to the artiste when his camera ran dry), and a guy whose only apparent function was to make me talk in a relaxed mode while the camera whirred away right next to my head. The topic he chose was my two daughters and how they get along. I was still ranting long after the stunned photographer had put his camera down. I wonder how a grimace will look on the web site.

Music: Revival by Gillian Welch. Also Joan Baez's version of Elvis Presley Blue, by Gillian Welch. I really don't like the Joan Baez version - slow, dirge-like, no snap, crackle or pop.

Movies: Charade. On mute all evening. Still a great movie. Cary Grant fully dressed in the shower - doesn't get much better than that.