Last of the Independents

In the 1980s disc jockeys played the music of bands signed to indie record labels instead of major record labels.

I liken this to self-publishing a book circa 2015 today. Major publishers aren’t willing to take a chance on a great work of literature so they routinely turn down books they think won’t make millions of dollars for the house. James Patterson and other writers of so-called formula fiction do get book contracts with Random House and other publishers.

I say: take a chance on the last of the independents. Be not afraid to read a self-published book that is well-written not cobbled together with poor grammar and dangling sentences or run-on streams of paragraphs.

My other two books are self-help books I hope to publish within five years. I have a fourth non-fiction book I’d like to bring out too.

Today: mainstream publishers aren’t willing to take a chance on first-time authors. I urge readers of books to take this chance on first-time authors.

I’m most taken by Kim Gordon’s traditionally published memoir, Girl in a Band, because she limned the downtown New York City music scene that paralleled my own stint as a disc jockey on the FM radio.

It comes down to making beautiful music on your own. Self-publishing a book is like producing an album with an indie record label.

Most people would rather read a book Nicole Richie or Kim Kardashian wrote.

I say: give your hard-earned money to ordinary writers not celebrities who make millions just by rolling out of bed.

The whole indie do-it-yourself ethic is alive and well and thriving.

Why not join in?

Fifty is the New Funny

I want to do a comedy routine about recovery at mid life.

A reporter for Yahoo Health interviewed me for an article on dating with a mental condition.

A lot of so-called normal guys are a few bricks shy of a house if you get my drift.

I’d rather date a person with a mental illness who’s normal than an allegedly normal person who’s effed up.

This might be why as I continue into my fiftieth year I’m suddenly interested in the inner beauty of a person.

At the same time I see the beauty of getting dolled up to go outside. I learned some tricks this weekend about making up your mind as well as your face. The inner core of our belief and our outer beauty should be in synch.

My joke is that a bathroom mirror should come with the instructions like a fire scene: Stand Back 500 Feet.

Try this and see if as I did it does the trick. Deborah Harry of Blondie fame was quoted in a book that women view ourselves microscopically. Yet at 50 we can’t afford neither emotionally nor financially to obsess about every line, wrinkle, and pore.

The simple solution is to stand back from the bathroom mirror at least two feet. This does the trick nicely when you’re looking at yourself. Like any work of art (and every human being is one) we need to view ourselves from a distance. This is for most of our day how other people view us. I doubt a lot of people enter or invade what’s called our personal bubble closer than two feet to our bodies every day.

Yes: the simple solution is to stand back from the bathroom mirror at least two feet. This works wonders in changing how we view ourselves. Like I reported in here before a makeover is also a special effect when a woman turns 50.

Other simple strategies come easy too:

Cleanse your face at night and apply moisturizer at night. Now is the time at 50 when a woman benefits from using moisturizer and broad-spectrum sunscreen in the morning and moisturizer at night.

The makeup artists who wrote The Makeup Wakeup also championed applying moisturizer. It can instantly wake up our faces.

What I find funny and with pun intended is that often the solution(s) are right in front of our face.

I so will not do expensive lasers, injections, and other treatments. I think it’s egregious of magazine editors to fuel the flames of their readers’ worries about getting older by showcasing anti-aging products in features.

Step Away. From the Mirror. I guarantee you’ll like the results.

Torrid

Getting on and off the bus is something else. The bus arrives late–a crowd storms the exit door to leave.

I waited on a friend in a Barnes & Noble. Everyone coming through the door was beautiful. I wore a blue Sperry hat, blue cropped chinos, and my svelte Nike training shoes.

I go into Sephora before the shrink’s visit, not after. A makeup artist chose a blush for me called Torrid.

At 50 my attraction to Manhattan has worn off. It’s not the playground of my youth. I go there to shop for clothes. Like the sleeveless blouse I bought that reads: You Are My Favorite Daydream. It was my version of a mid life reinvention: a Coachella persona.

We all want another person’s eyes to light up when we enter a room. I serenaded my friend in a Brazilian restaurant.

The night ended. The Greenmarket vendors had folded up and gone away.

The moon rose like a communion wafer, host of a dream swallowed whole.