My friend and fellow columnist, Dickie Anderson and I drive halfway to Miami before realizing that we had missed our turnoff to Kissimmee.

Worn out and giddy, we eventually find the library near Orlando designated for the writing seminar we've overpaid to attend. We rush inside twenty minutes late, tip-toe to our chairs and begin the arduous task of learning how to sell our books.

One look at the speaker is all it takes for me to gasp. "Good Lord!"

My friend whips around in her chair. "What's wrong?"

"Dickie," I hiss. "Look at the speaker. Does he look familiar?"

She squints into a brow knit. "No."

"Look again. It's Ken, as in Barbie and Ken. Only it's Medicare Ken."

She wheels around and gives him the once-over with her brows now knitted almost to sweater length. A slow smile creeps onto her face.

"You had to say that in the first two minutes of our less than graceful entrance?" Her smile widens. She shows teeth.

Ken prances from one side of the room to the other while slicking back the sides of his silvered hair with whichever hand is not waving around in the air, his voice loud and commanding.

"Put all personal information on your web site. Everything, including winning lottery numbers. Ha! Ha!" He pauses in anticipation of generous laughter. "Dont forget, you WANT people to contact you."

A woman seated in front of us speaks up. "I have thirty web sites with my phone number boldly printed on every one of them."

Ken bobs his head. "That is exactly what I'm talking about, folks." He turns toward the woman. "I'll bet you have sold a ton of books, haven't you?"

The woman, looking embarrassed, twists her hands. Her mouth turns into lizard lips and then she opens her mouth to speak. "Well, I don't exactly have any books to sell but I'm planning to write one someday. Right now, I'm in the phone sex business."

I poke Dickie. "Did you hear that?"

While Dickie stares a hole in the woman she tells me, "That woman is the size of a Barker Lounger." At that, the woman spins around and fixes Dickie with a glare strong enough to cause Dickie's hair to go limp.

It doesn't seem to faze anybody else. Certainly not Ken. His hands are flapping even faster than his mouth.

Fearful that Hotty the Barker Lounger may have freeze-dried my friend with her deadly look, I am shaking Dickie's shoulder when the spin of Ken reaches my ears. "It doesn't matter what business you're in, you can still market your product without it costing you a dime. Just use your on-line address books and those of all your friends."

Soon to be EX-friends, I think. By this time, I'm getting a bad feeling about this seminar, like maybe we're in the wrong room. Before he can try to sell a twin talking Ken to the Barker Lounger to play with on the phone, I whisper to Dickie, "Are you okay?"

Those brows of hers start knitting again and she gives me a creepy look.

"Dickie!" I hiss. "Work with me. You're scaring me."

Her chin trembles. "Did you see the look that woman gave me? I'm afraid to blink."

I glance at some other faces and am amazed to see they're all mesmerized by Ken as though he's the opening act for The Rapture.

Five seconds later we are out the door minus fifty dollars worth of canned hype. Dickie hasn't moved that fast since she was a teenage track star.

"You want to go on back home," I ask gently of my friend who is scared and disorientated.

"Whatever gave you such a fool idea? I'm up for some serious shoe shopping if you are."

Spin, sin or shoes. Smart gals know their priorities.