Naming the Book
I’m __years
old and if you are reading this… both of us know that you don’t give a damn. Do
I need to say that more eloquently? According to Microsoft, the language I used
might be offensive to a reader and what I need to say is… “and both of us know
you don’t care.” Hmmm.
So, here’s
what’s hideous about turning ___ (Besides the number being obviously, shocking.)
(By the way,
for those of you who don’t believe this is an egregious experience you are
either 1) young 2) an alien or 3) lying to yourself or 4) have embraced the
mainstream malarkey (better than saying bullshit according to Microsoft) that
these are the “golden years”.) There is nothing golden about this. Nada. And
the contemporary psychobabble says..age is only a number. WOW. Now that’s real
bullshit. (sorry Microsoft)
Here’s my
experiences with aging.
I can spell
Medicare backwards. I have a cosmetic surgeon on speed dial, and I’m outraged
that no company manufactures the kind of multifarious filters I need for
photos. In other words, there isn’t a strong enough filter for moi. All conversations
invariably have a predictable medical element to them, gym workouts involve a
lot more groaning, there is thinning hair, fatty deposits in unnamed body
parts, thinning hair (did I say that already?) an addiction to botox
commercials, and a terror of forgetting my spouse’s name. (Thank God it’s an
easy one; Joe, as opposed to Bartholomew, or Darius.) Whew!.
So the
question becomes, “what now brown cow?”
I had a
producer pal, who had a theory on how to respond to all questions that asked, “what
are you up to?”. His solutionist response,
“I’m writing a book or working on an album.”
So I guess this
is ACT 3 and it’s book time.
People have been telling me to write a book
about my life for a very long time, and I’ve been considering it for a very,
very, very, long time.
I’m thinking
I’d better get to it before I cannot locate my office (it’s in my home).
Here are my overburdened
thoughts on the subject. My initial thought is I’m not a celebrity so the book
will not sell; I hate writing, and I’ve got the concentration of a tuna with terrets
on quaaludes. (Remember those?) Don’t answer…you will be showing your age.
If I do go
ahead with this, I’m going to need a title. Here are some possibilities.
Originally,
I wanted to call it, “Lost and Found.”
But it’s
being used a lot lately in all kinds of forms, so that’s out.
How about …”
A funny thing happened to me on the way to rehab.”
Or “Good
night, Goodbye, and F off”
Or:
“I’m Writing
This Book to Recoup Some of the Money I Spent on Therapy.”
I like this
title, it’s honest.
My friend
David Malvin wants me to title the book, “If I take my life now, I will never
see Baryshnikov dance again.” (There was a time in my life where suicide seemed
like a really good idea and the thought came to me that if I exited the planet,
I wouldn’t see Mikhail Baryshnikov dance again, so I opted to forgo the
suicide.).” Obviously never went back to that plan.
Or my newest
choice.
“If Drinkin’
Don’t Kill You, the Memories Will”
I heard this
lyric a long time ago in a country western song. Seems very appropriate now. Thank
you, George Jones.
So what’s a gal to do when the gigs and naughty bits have
dried up?
Let the writing begin…….
Will keep you posted.
In the meantime, before delving in….
I’m off to the studio to cut and album. LOL
