MORE

Back once again to the hair salon. For a Friday, it seems quiet, but I am not complaining. My stylist is pleased with my grow-out. We agree to keep the chemical formulation the same -- dark chocolate with insanity stripes. She goes to the back room to mix up my hair goop, and I shuffle through the magazines for something to read.

I end up picking More magazine, named, I guess, because if you read this you have MORE FUCKING YEARS ON YOU. It's targeted to women who are 40+ and wealthy enough to give a shit about endless Botox debates rather than deciding whether to serve their kids ramen or air that night. For whatever the reason, as I read, I get more depressed and pissed, although by my neutral exterior you would never know this.

It all seems so desperate in the end, although the magazine wants to be the antithesis of this. Every women in there, they give her age in big bright numbers: Marva, 51!, Kate, 43!, Julia, 63!, Anne, 41! They don't do this in Vogue: "Ashley, 15, Supermodel Who Will Be Relegated To Online Catalog Work By 20!" All the More articles seem to focus on accepting yourself as fabulous in midlife or how someone has created this fabulous existence after some crash-and-burn life event...everything just screams, "YES, YOU ARE GOING DOWNHILL, BUT IF YOU BUY THIS MAGAZINE WE'LL TRY TO MAKE YOU FEEL BETTER ABOUT IT!" Ugh.

It's all so fake, so demographically-crass. Hmm, magazine sales are way down, what's a good target audience? OH! Self-absorbed baby-boomer women who need endless shoring up! THERE WE GO! Pardon me if I am crabby. I understand, someone there might have the intent of trying to show that older women are great, or greater in some ways than the youthful things that get most of the attention and press. They mean for the magazine to be inspiring, sure. But it's like, the more attention you give to it, the more you set it apart, make it obvious that there is a PROBLEM that you should BE AWARE OF. There are real problems and issues with all ages; there is no one time in life where everything is perfect, and every person is different. I hate anyone being reduced to a cliche.

Know what I am going to do? I am going to be a NICHE-FILLER. That's right! I am going to start my own magazine, targeted to the 60+ folks. I will call it RATBAG. It will be a no-holds-barred effort, no-kidney-stone-left-unturned kind of thing. You want some honesty? Let's have some articles entitled, "Whoa! Gray Pubes!" and "I Can't Stand My Snotty Grandchildren And I Ain't Leaving Them Shit" and "The Skin Over My Knees Now Covers My Kneecaps, Kiss Me!" and "I'd Say Hello To You In The Grocery Store But I Can't Remember Your Fucking Name." My models would all come from hospices, and would be giving the finger.

Don't you dare me, 'cause I will DO IT.