…although it took him long enough. Like all criminals, it required his getting caught in order for him to come clean. But at least he new when the jig was up, and he couldn’t hold out any longer.

Tonight, I read Bernie Madoff’s confession (pdf file). A “How I Did It” treatise. Yikes. It’s relatively short, but in his own words and pretty straightforward. Word on the street and in the news is that he will go away for a long, long time; likely for the rest of his life.

I will confess that this particular fate is one that I am sure would kill me. I mean…you’d really have to be stupid, or astonishingly arrogant, or both, to bilk people out of billions without worrying that one day, the Ponzi scheme would come crashing down (as all Ponzi schemes eventually do).

This crime was so huge in scope, I think they should rename it to “Madoff scheme,” and let poor Carlo Ponzi rest in peace.

Then I think about the opposite of the Bernie Madoff confession: the OJ Simpson non-confession. I don’t mean the murders back in 1994 (although the jury’s still out on that, pardon the pun). Rather, I refer to the latest unpleasantness in court last year, where a staunchly defiant Simpson maintained his innocence in the face of compelling evidence to the contrary — right down to and including the point when the jury convicted him on 11 of 11 counts.

I mean, really. Crumbs all over your shirt and you didn’t raid the cookie jar.

Still other convicts just can’t help theyselves. It wasn’t the drug conviction that made me read this twice. Yowza.

No voice, that is. Whatever this plague is that has chosen to follow me around in various incarnations since last week, it’s now settling in the exact area I need it least:

As many of you know, I am no stranger to voice problems, although the trouble was long ago. Still, I’m a little skittish when it comes to laryngitis — it led to surgery all those years ago, and I don’t ever want to repeat that delightful experience.

So, no talking (teaching) for me today. I’m sure the choirs will be thrilled. All I know is, this February is one for the record books. Sheez.

Fink, rocking the mensis horribilis.

Ugh.

Photo credit: health.com

…then my day is made.

As anyone who knows me already knows, I think about aging. A lot. Probably too much. I also tend to bristle ever so slightly at those who wave me off and say, “Aw, just enjoy it. Be who you are and don’t worry about what you look like.”

“We’re considering middle age now to be about 40 to 65 years of age,” [physical therapist Margaret] Herning said. “People are living so much longer.”

Although people may think and even act 30, their bodies won’t do what 30-year-old bodies can do, experts say.

Even people in top shape need to recognize they’re not kids anymore, says Dr. John Morley, chief of geriatrics at St. Louis University School of Medicine. “You cannot be at 50 what you were at 30.”

The things we used to do without thinking about it become a little more complicated, a little more painful, a little more difficult, and we become aware of our need to make changes…At this point in life, whether it’s 50, 51, 55, a lot of things change,” [Morley] says. “And those changes can take you by surprise.”

And how. But some people continue to defy the odds. Look at Susanna Hoffs of the Bangles. She and I are the same age. Hmm. Of course, she has an infinitely larger resource pool for plastic surgery than I do, but she looks wonderful all the same.

I know. I’m starting a fund. Save the Fink’s Face. Please contribute. I covet your generosity in my time of need.

All right, back to augmented sixth chords. As you know, my life is a friggin’ party.

Fink out.