You know how I am about hair, right? So I wrote about hair for Miista over here if you’re interested.

If not, here’s some more hair.

Just kidding. 65 is old, very old, a time of Medicare, high cholesterol, and a dread of seeing that your shoes are untied and you have to go ALL THE WAY DOWN THERE to tie them.

Last week on my birthday, I wore my discounted Burberry dress to go out to dinner, vaping my MedMen product before leaving the house. The bridge entrance to Long Beach was closed, so we took a different route that had us driving around lost for a quite a while. Suddenly we made a turn and found we were driving into oncoming traffic. I didn’t see my life rewinding before my eyes but I did feel a frisson of excitement: WE’RE GOING TO DIE! I thought for a moment, and it was okay, because I was strapped into my seat-belt and wearing a nice dress. It would be quick and better than being cut into pieces by a maniac (too much crime TV.)

Anyway, we lived to make a u-turn. Dinner was good. The restaurant had huge screens showing 80s MTV videos, including my favorite Pat Benator song, Love is a Battlefield. She’s a warrior in a tube top and scrunched-down boots, shouting, “We are young!!!!”

Being young is really great. If you’re reading this and you’re young, go out and do everything except opiates, and don’t date guys from the internet who will cut you into pieces and throw them in a ditch so it takes law enforcement seven months to find you.

I hate the commercials I keep seeing with grey-haired old ladies tramping through the hills, bragging about how good they feel and how much they still plan to do. Fuck them.

I really don’t want to do anything, and I’m too old to do it anyway. I do want to finish up my time on earth with less mental suffering. So I keep reading about depression and PTSD, every new study, new treatments, new evidence that your very DNA is a portent of doom. I know that rumination is not helpful but I pretend that what I’m doing is “research.”

But now, my “research” has led me to Metacognitive Therapy. The strategy here is to stop the rumination by interrupting it. Not analyzing why you do it or why you can’t control it. When the thought appears, don’t engage with it. Practice turning your attention elsewhere. Simple as that. Also, add more activities to your daily life, limiting your time to churn worries and self-recrimination.

When you’re caught up in negative rumination, your brain is struggling with itself but it thinks it must continue, like it’s a taking the SAT and isn’t allowed to turn it in, incomplete.

My plan is to listen to more music, read short stories, write more, smoke more weed, find some volunteer work with disabled people, make some bad folk art and keep my hair looking good.

I’m still going to think about death because I like the subject. For example, this story of an 104 year old man who wanted to get it over with is so touching and filled with profound questions and insights. David Goodall seems like a great guy who was more than ready to exit. I love his last words before losing consciousness:

This is taking an awfully long time.

Thoughts, advice, birthday wishes, anyone?

I finally got around to seeing The Wolfpack, but I was not prepared for it.

The true story of six brothers, aged 11 to 18, who were imprisoned in their New York apartment by their crazy parents, how could it be anything but dark and disturbing?

Somehow, from the promotional pictures I’d seen, I expected something more ‘quirky’ and lighthearted.

I knew the boys had learned about life from the movies that were their only link to the world outside. They were discovered walking down the street in the lower Eastside, dressed like characters from Reservoir Dogs, by a young filmmaker who ended up making a documentary about them.

Watching the family’s home movies, you see a group of children who are almost like puppies, clinging together with affection and loyalty and in the end, fear.

Fear of their father, a delusional South American devotee of Hindu, who didn’t believe in haircuts or exposure to the ‘poisonous capitalist society’ outside their front door, which he kept locked.

The mother has given up all power to her husband, who doesn’t believe in working but appears to like a drink or three.

The story is also a tale of resilience; the six boys are clearly damaged but somehow thrive. They are smart, sensitive, and loving. They are remarkably curious and life-affirming despite all odds.

But the picture of long-term abuse is just staggering. How does this go on?

It made me wonder how many households are run by little individual Hitlers, making crazy rules that no one has the nerve to disobey. The father here is like a paranoid Charles Manson without the charisma. A total shithead who somehow managed to get an idealistic farm-girl to buy into his delusions and bear him seven children.

The boys have a sister, Krishna, who was born with a disorder that keeps her tied to her parents, evidently.

Free Krishna, somebody!

One thing that startled me during this movie is the intensity of my revulsion for the Dictatorial Father. It is a visceral loathing that I carry around with me, ready to explode. All instances of dictatorial men, in books or movies or in the lives of my friends, trigger a deep antipathy, And by antipathy, I mean I want to kill them.

The Wolfpack father will never have to pay for his actions. All the petty authoritarian husbands and fathers out there will keep getting their way and ruining people’s lives. But why do women let this happen?

My own father left when I was 3 but maybe I’ve blocked out memories of his presence in the home. Or maybe it’s just the injustice of the situation that makes me want to kill these fucking bastards.

Everyone who has a daughter or who is in a position to influence young girls should make a point of teaching them to stand up and say No. Say No and walk away or run away if you have to.

It seems so obvious, and yet we haven’t made it clear.

See this movie for its unique gaze into the heart of darkness or because of the beautiful boys with the long silky hair.

But make sure you pass along the message to never let anyone control you. Ever. No matter what.

My name is Sister Wolf, and I’m addicted to Kim Kardashian.

I write about her at my ‘day job’ but when I’m off-duty, I find I can’t quit her. When I’m out walking with my husband, a dazzling view of the ocean at hand, I’m talking about Kim Kardashian.

This week has been emotionally draining for Kim Addicts trying to keep up with her adventures in Paris. They’re not actually adventures. They’re more like sightings of a rare and horrible primate.

It’s not just me, either, not at all. Each time she emerges from her hotel, there is complete fucking pandemonium. Someone is going to get trampled, mark my words. People are risking their safety to get a glimpse of this creature. She is no longer human, by her own choice. Maybe that’s the source of the fascination?

Her new blonde hair nearly gave me (and the world) a seizure of joyous horror. It was so hideous, so wrong, so absurd, it was a brilliant move on Kim’s part to ensure that all eyes would be on her and not the actual fashion shows she was in Paris to attend.

Boldly reveling in her new image as a blonde bombshell, Kim went all out, flaunting her bare boobs and pursing her tumescent nude-glossed lips, vacant of all expression, striding around with her phalanx of bodyguards through a gauntlet of paparazzi and tourists.

Kanye seemed thrilled with his newly blonde wife, cuddling her amorously and proudly attempting to cup her giant ass in a gesture of ownership. He is one satisfied customer. But fuck him, he is of no importance, except to himself.

Now I’ve come home to find that Kim has bleached her hair even lighter, almost white, after 3 hours in a Paris hair salon. My heart is racing. What the hell is wrong with her and how did she get a colorist to agree to this?

When will her hair break off or fall out? When will she change her expression? When will Anna Wintour take her aside and say, “Kim, you’re killing us. Get a fucking stylist for the love of god!”

I want to make it clear that I’ve only seen one episode of her TV series so I don’t know what she’s like when she’s trying to act like a person. I only know her as a visual monstrosity that I can’t look away from. I am gladly ending that sentence with a preposition, just as I allowed myself to write “phalanx” for the first time in my life.  The Kimmania triggers a giddy sense of unreality where no one has to observe standards or boundaries.

Because Kim is a pathogen. Western civilization is the host. If I’m wrong about this, please explain why. And show your work.

Fine, I am ageist.

Diane Keaton and Goldie Hawn are both 68.

Jamie Leigh Curtis is 55.

These three actresses have all the advantages that come with their privileged positions, but to my mind they are old bags whose faces scare me. I don’t know what I want them to look like. Just not like this.

And yet as upsetting as they are, I’m sure they are full of had-earned wisdom. I know some shit, too. So if you’re not an old bag yet, here is some good advice that you will thank me for:

Don’t overpluck your eyebrows. Your mom is right.
Stay out of the sun.
Stop trying to control people, because you can’t.
Consider red a neutral.
Chanel handbags are crap, don’t waste your money.
Learn how to fake a good smile but only use it for photographs.
Remember that people are idiots.
Hand-wash any clothes you love, no matter what.
Learn to say I’m Sorry and keep saying it, even if you’re not.
Hats look pretentious unless it’s raining.
Everyone’s family is crazy, not just yours.
Never be ashamed of stuff that’s not your fault.
9 or 10 karat gold is no good unless it’s Victorian.
Hair is everything.

Okay, I’m pretty sure that’s all I’ve learned but if I think of anything else I’ll let you know.  Here are some old bags who make it look tolerable: Tempest Storm,  Gloria Pall and Dixie Evans.

And here is ‘Beso’ long wear lip color by Stila.  You need soap to get it off!

Let’s start with the men. Guys, don’t wear your hair up! If you’re a Sumo wrestler, fine, otherwise, never.

This douche above turned out to be the horrible Edward Zero character, but his name is Alex Ebert and he won a music award.  Jared Leto wore his long hair in a bun/pony tail that I wanted to undo in private, no matter how crazy he is.

Robert Redford doesn’t mind looking like a 200 year old tortoise, whereas Michael Douglas still believes he’s a hottie, even after complaining about his wife’s vag.

The men to have sex with were Idris Elba and Collin Farrell. The men to ridicule are the sanctimonious cunts of U2, who made it clear that they supported Nelson Mandela long before you did. You are nothing compared to them and don’t forget it!

Liev Schreiber cried like a baby and someone who was either Puff Daddy or Jay Z was on hand for no discernible reason.

Leaving the men behind, let’s move on to the weirdest moment : Jacqueline Bisset was  a portrait of  proudly un-botoxed beauty who then lost points for being either nuts or drunk. She seemed more bitter than triumphant, but delivered the most uncomfortable appearance since Lauren Bacall’s stroke. In the audience, Jessica Lange’s face-lift registered seething anger at losing to Bisset.

Sandra Bullock wore the worst dress, unless you prefer Julia Roberts in that category. Robin Penn Warren looked like a sleek man, and Olivia Wilde looked like a shimmering pregnant mermaid – gorgeous!

Diane Keaton contrasted her beautifully thick poufy hair with a wrinkly smoker’s face and almost pulled off a certain dignified charm until she sang a Girl Scout song in a crazy little girl voice.

Red lipstick was in short supply compared to last year. Cate Blanchett wore a nice blue-red, Juliette Binoche wore a bright red that was too orangey for her teeth, and Drew Barrymore chose a vivid fluorescent red that may have been MAC Ruby Woo or Beso by Stilla.

Now I’m worn out. What did I forget?

I don’t like Iggy Pop, even though I’m aware of his importance to punk music. Doesn’t he sing the Passenger song? Whatever. He needs to put his shirt on but seems committed to showing off his stringy malnourished physique. Honestly, the man is an eyesore, take him away.

Whereas Australian rap artist Iggy Azalea is a goddess and my latest obsession.

I could look at her forever. The first time I saw her video ‘Work,‘ I was unsettled by its raunchiness and her snarling nasal rapping. But I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Six feet tall with a blond swath of mermaid hair and a huge booty, the sight of Iggy Azalea in skintight white pants on the David Letterman show was mesmerizing.

Would Dave be able to handle a greeting? Would her camel-toe become even more pronounced? Would she give me a shout-out by name? For some reason my husband is immune to her effect, and I’ve stopped trying to make him look at her videos.  That’s cool. He can have Iggy Pop if he wants.

Let’s look at more Iggy Azalea:

People have accused Iggy of having butt implants but I believe this butt is god-given, the better to twerk (part of her stage-act for years, she has pointed out defensively.)

I wish we could be girlfriends and talk lipstick.  Meanwhile, I will worship her from afar. And don’t argue with me until you’ve heard her rap.

I can only look at art or photography. But no nudes or kitsch. No cats, No pictures of food or girls wearing hats. No ironic memes. No selfies. I can no longer wear thongs or socks. I can only eat cookies.

I can’t sleep until I’ve watched two hours of ‘Morning Joe.’ Until Joe and Mika and Willie and their guests have deplored the state of things and gushed about yesterday’s football games.

I can’t stop playing with my hair. I cut my split ends in the car. Not when I’m driving. I can’t pass a mirror without checking to see if my hair is okay. I can barely see because my glasses are too old.

I can only enjoy reruns of Breaking Bad or crime TV. I can only read the New Yorker and The Atlantic. When I hear someone on TV use the wrong word, I am incensed. “It’s ‘repentant’ not ‘pentent’, you stupid cunt!”

None of those Affirmations about how to live apply to me. I have already fucked things up.

But. I am comforted by coffee, jewelry, lipstick, midgets, showgirls, nuns, Indian and Persian Royalty, Cuban and Peruvian photographers, Victorian acrobats and cross-dressers.

I love my bed! If only I could sleep forever and ever.

It has taken several days to emerge from the spell cast by Top of the Lake. I miss the weird atmosphere and the intensity of the relationships.

Now that I’m back in my own world, I’m preoccupied by the creepiness of women who look like old ladies.

I know how wrong this is, believe me. My husband always encourages me to embrace growing old. I know it happens to everyone, you can’t stop time, blah blah blah. And yet it’s so creepy.

Look at Jane Campion and Holly Hunter, 59 and 55 years old, respectively. They are dynamic, vibrant woman and Holly’s hair isn’t really silver in real life. But still. The old ladiness bothers me.

On the other hand, I’d be mad at them if they tried to be sexpots with bursting faces like Madonna. I can’t find a way to be an old lady that doesn’t feel tragic or enraging.

What do you think of Jane and Holly? Is it the androgyny that’s bothering me? They project a ‘Fuck You if You Don’t Like it’ attitude, which I normally admire. Are they saying that they don’t care about being attractive, or are they attractive in a way I don’t get? Would they look better with dyed hair, or is it the length that brings to mind wrinkly old wizards?

I have a week left before I turn sixty. I am disgusted by how shallow I am, but still. I can’t handle it.