Blog/Post

I would never consider myself a foodie. Or a snob, though some may. But I like to give thought to what I put in my mouth. One reason why I'll never understand people who succumb to dental advertising. 

"Let us fix one molar and the second one is free. Now only $499."

That said, there is little or no attraction to a "restaurant" that presents itself with a sign like this. Situated in a strip mall, in the dirtiest, windiest side of Palm Springs, off Vista Chino. Ms. Muse and I had a good laugh when we spotted this.

Bar/Food? What kind of bar? Was it beer and wine, or did they have a full liquor license? Vodka? Gin? Whiskey aged in used shoe leather? Begging the next question, what type of food? Mexican? Italian? Or, as the veneer would suggest, Trailparkian?

The low hanging fruit on this one is delicious.

You can imagine how shocked we were, when on a return trip from the local Lowe's to replace some rocker light switches, we looked in the direction of the Bar/Food establishment, wedged between a Happy Ending Massage Parlor and a decidedly-downscale sketchy liquor store, there was a LINE!

Not an Apple iPhone 18 introductory type of line, but close to 40 people that extended all the way to the Vaping Emporium and the Second Hand Sock Store. Astonished? Absolutely. Our curiosity was piqued. 

With computer in hand, Ms. Muse took to clickin' and clackin.'

"You're not going to believe this, but Bar/Food is actually called Paul Bar/Food."

I guess the sign store ran out of S's and apostrophes.

"...aaaand (she added with emphasis) it gets 5 star reviews on Yelp."

With that, our inner journalists rolled up their sleeves. People were raving about the incredibly friendly atmosphere, the congeniality of the owner Paul, and the amazing cuisine. A deeper dive into their website revealed a cozy, New York style steakhouse kind of vibe. Leather booths, dim but inviting lighting, and a mahogany bar that could rival any found in West Village or Hell's Kitchen.

In a chat with one of the neighbors, we discovered the 105 year old decorative bar counter once belonged to the grand hotel that is now occupied by the Desert Regional Medical Center. Apparently Paul, owner/host/impresario wisely bought the bar and hauled it out of its dusty, scorpion infested storage.

Bar/Food — Paul Bar/Food — had all the necessary ingredients for further investigation and an adventure in local idiosyncracies. 

Not a fan of waiting in line, we arrived at Paul Bar/Food ten minutes after the doors officially opened. We were late, and there were a good twenty people in front of us. And soon there were twenty people behind us. Fifty or so people, all waiting to enjoy the Paul Bar/Food experience.

Who were these people? Snowbirds from Wisconsin, older folks from LA, tourists, and older gay couples who were locals and more than willing to regale us with their take on Paul Bar/Food. The waiting in line experience was a party unto itself (albeit without the benefit of alcohol which was prohibited from leaving the front door) and included an appearance from Paul. As we waited in line, he charmed us with his quick Bronx wit and eventually shuffled us into the place which looked just like the pictures on Yelp.

We were seated at the 50 yard of the bar, prime real estate location at Paul Bar/Food. And before we got our appetizers, we were sharing drinks and stories with the lucky patrons on both sides of us. It was only later that we found out that we had stumbled onto one of the desert's true culinary gems.

Do yourself a favor and stop in at Paul Bar/Food. Just don't go when we do, the line is long enough as it is.

The Year of Living Mendaciously

You kids, and by that I mean anyone under the age of 50 who might still be in advertising, will not remember this but at one time this industry actually had an award that meant something -- The Clios.

Even people outside our relatively small -- now much smaller -- industry knew of the Clio. It was our poor stepchild version of the entertainment businesses' better known awards, including the Oscar, Emmy, the Grammy, the Tony. 

No one ever actively sought to win the the EGOTC.

Way back in 1991 the Clio took a fall. A fatal one at that. At the black tie award show  in NYC, things quickly fell apart, for logistical and cocaine-related reasons. The emcee bailed. The teleprompter went black. The salmon was dry. And eager and perhaps overly ambitious ad people rushed the stage to grab a Clio award and scurry off. 

It was a free for all. An embarrassment for the people putting on the show. But an even bigger one for the hacks who couldn't win an award for their work, but felt entitled to take one for their mantle.

It was a participation award before there were ever participation awards.

Last week, as you probably know, President Haventaclue got his much coveted Nobel Peace Price (SP intentional) Award from Venezuelan Opposition leader Maria Machado.

You can see our voracious 289 lbs. Peace-a Rat here...

She literally just gave it to him. I'm pretty sure that's not how this works. But then again, I'm not sure how anything works.

Keep in mind this comes on the heels of our convicted felonious "president" vocally supporting the murder of a US citizen. Which comes on the heels on the violation of international sovereignty laws and the kidnap of a foreign leader. Which comes on the heels of bashing NATO. Which comes on the heels of his withholding the release of the EPSTEIN FILES!!!

As many pundits have mentioned before, there simply is no bottom to this man. Nor is there is any visible signs of a spine amongst the craven GOP "leaders" who will do anything they must, except govern, to take home their Clio -- re-election.

Think about this. He gloats about his secondhand and completely worthless unearned Nobel for allegedly "solving" 8, 9, 13, 574 wars, between combatants who are still flying drones and lobbing mortars over disputed borders.

Trump has no borders. The man who stood before a microphone and like a 14 year old junior high school bully said, "We (I) have the most powerful weapons on Earth. No one can take us."

Translation: "I can take what I want. And always have."

And yet we are to believe this lecherous, mushroom-dick philanderer has never touched and forced himself on underage girls at a private island in the Caribbean far away from prying eyes and laws about statuary rape?

Even Joe Isuzu is rolling his eyes.

_____________________________________________________________

This blog post was written before the insane Dear Jonas You-Hurt-My-Feelings Letter. WTF, America?

 

God bless

I have retreated to the desert. Possibly for 40 days and 40 nights like my semitic ancestors did 3000, 4000 or maybe even 5000 years ago. They didn't have timekeeping tied to any atomic clocks back then, hence the ballpark numbers. Which, by the way, might also explain the birth of Hannukah.

"Morty, you said the oil would last 3 days."

"No, I said two days max. Maybe if you weren't futzing with the blintzes, we'd have more oil."

"You ate enough of them Schmuley. And you took the last of the sour cream."

"Go shit in your hat."

And like my ancestors, I seem to have wandered. But yesterday, another beautiful day in Palm Springs, I had taken my dog Lucy out for twice daily constitutional. She's like a Play-Doh factory that's open 24 hours a day. 

As we were leaving the grassy knoll along the northern side of the Dessert Regional Medical Center, I noticed a man on a bike slowly tooling down East Mel Road. Just as Mafioso like to sit against the back wall in restaurants, I like to keep eyes on what's coming. 

As I reached the corner of Mel and Mira Leste, the man on the beach cruiser pulled alongside me.

"Excuse me, I don't mean to interrupt your morning, that's a beautiful dog (I've heard that for the 5782nd time), can I ask you a question?"

At this point I sized him up, gauging the threat level. In case you didn't know there are many strange people out here. The summer sun is not to be under-estimated. Not only for the effect on the skin but also what it does to one's brain.

"Do you believe in the existence of god?" he asked.

I had only had two cups of coffee by this time, but I could feel the adrenaline surge and ignite the Hitchensonian part of my temporal lobes. "Let's go" I thought.

"No I don't, why do you ask?"

"Wait, you see all this, the mountains, the sky, the stars and you don't believe in god? How did all of this get here?" he posited.

I studied his brown rotting teeth as he droned on about god, the creation, the cosmos, and of course Jesus. And like all believers he could offer no proof of their existence. He was not inarticulate, so I engaged him for twenty minutes or so.

"Well who made all this? It had to have been created by God."

"OK, but then who created God?"

"No one created God, he was always here."

"Oh, like the universe."

It was a exercise in circular futility as of these dialogues with faith-y people are.

I ended the conversation with a bit that I had read just a few days ago. It was from a physicist who said, perhaps we not meant to understand the nature of being. In the same way we have no comprehension of the speed of light or the expanse of the universe, our brains are just not there yet. In the same way that when I take my dog for a walk and enter an elevator with a window, my dog Lucy has no way of understanding that we are going up. Or down.

It's as simple as that.

Or as Neil deGrasse Tyson put it, "The universe doesn't owe us an explanation." I like that.

The man got back on his bike and went the other way. I looked over my shoulder to make sure this brown toothed zealot wasn't following me.

He puts up the shot...

In an unprecedented interview with the New York Times, President Trump said "since the civil rights movement, white people have been treated very badly," adding, "there has been reverse discrimination."

On the heels of this bold statement, Cliff Sheather from Bloomington, Indiana has filed a lawsuit with the Equal Opportunity Commission, claiming he was denied a spot on the roster of the NY Knicks.

Mr. Sheather, standing 6' 9" tall and tipping the butcher's scale at 397 lbs., said, "I've been denied my lifetime dream of putting up rainbows from downtown and playing just below the rim, all because of the color, or non-color of my skin. It's plain as the nose on my face."

His lawyer Glen Feldman, a former producer on The Apprentice, has filed the papers with the commission and is demanding the NY Knicks organization pay his client $28.1 million, not including punitive damages for making Mr. Sheather feel "very bad". 

The suit also claims Mr. Sheather suffered debilitating lack of confidence and forced him into a life of involuntary celibacy.

"The last time I even had a date with a woman was in 1997. We went to Applebees. She had the Sizzling Filet Mignon Platter AND the Triple Chocolate Boat Dessert. Then she ghosted me. I blame Lyndon Johnson."

Knicks representative and Vice President of Scouting and Player Development, Zane "J.J." Walker refuted the charges and explained, 

"Every year, especially when we have a bad college draft and get stuck with a bunch of bricklayers from Syracuse University, we hold open tryouts, hoping to find a diamond in the rough. We gave Tubby...er, Cliff a fair shot. You never know, he could've been the next Bill Lambier, but..."

Mr. Walker turned a few pages on his clipboard.

"Sheather couldn't hit the backboard from beyond the arc, said he had a torn ligament injury in high school. Was slower than a pregnant turtle. And drove the lane like a John Deer tractor with three wheels. Him not making the team had nothing to do with him being white."

When presented with the stats, including a miserable .083 shooting percentage, Mr. Feldman responded, "Fake News."

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On a completely different note, here is an image of the world's tiniest violin...

 

RIP America

Last week I wrote about all the presents I was given this holiday season. Today, I write about the latest gift our esteemed president has gifted the nation: the cold blooded murder of a US citizen at the hands of his own untrained trigger happy, hillbilly Gestapo.

My resting heart rate has never been higher. 

And not because I cycled close to 30 miles yesterday and swam another one in record time. My blood boils with a rage I have never experienced before. Or as one loyal Trumpster put it on my Facebook page, "you sir are suffering from 'toxic woke-ism'. " (I'm sure I got the punctuation wrong on that last clause)

Is it woke-ism to demand higher standards from a nation that has boasted about being the greatest manifestation of mankind's morality?

Is it woke-ism to expect our nation's law enforcement officers, even the fake ones who received less than 47 days of training and insist on wearing a mask to conceal their identity, to show even the slightest respect for what was once recognized as The Rule of Law?

Is it woke-ism to want our nation's leaders to stand up for the citizenry they supposedly serve, instead of cowering behind the coattails of their divinely-appointed leader who labels the victim a "domestic terrorist" with no evidence except what his own dementia-rotted brain tells him?

Is it woke-ism to insist on the same habeas corpus for every person living in this country that our founding fathers so wisely wrote into the Constitution, you know the same document with the precious, god-given 2nd Amendment?

Is it woke-ism to wish someone or something ("hello, imminent blood clot") would Make America America Again?

I know some of you expect me to bring some of the funny to every post. 

Today I will have failed you on that count. 

There is nothing funny about waking up in a country that abides by murder. Especially government-sanctioned murder.

And even worse, goes on to remain silent about it.

Last week RFK Jr. and his malpracticing henchmen put out a new food pyramid about what we should and shouldn't be eating. Renee Good from Minneapolis won't have to worry about any of that.

Fuck ICE.

Fuck the GOP.

Fuck Donald Trump.

Top Fish

I didn't know when I started blogging this week, but it turns out each of this week's posts is about a holiday present I was given. As I'm notoriously hard to shop for, perhaps these thoughtful gifts deserve the air time.

And nothing is more thoughtful than my new FORM Smart Swim Goggles, given to me by Ms. Muse. It should be noted that I gave her plenty of thoughtful hints including, "Hey if you'd like to get me these cool goggles with the in-water heads up display, that'd be sweet."

We tend to be very direct and communicative with each other.

I have plenty of goggles. But the promise of real-time metrics, including distance, time, speed, stroke rate and even the very important head pitch, was just too irresistible. Especially on the heels of my increased viewership of video tips to improve my fitness and freestyle swimming. 

Turns out I'd been doing a lot wrong. Of course being able to jump in a pool and emerge 2 hours and 10 minutes later, having completed two miles means I've also been doing a lot right, but now the real work begins.

I've come to discover that swimming fast often means swimming slower. It requires concentration on  hand entry, hand position, a rhythmic kick and most importantly, the ability to g...l...i...d...e. Rhythm and gliding are not my strong suits.

Frustratingly, it also requires me to acquaint myself with the lingo of non-landlubbers. Swimmers, it turns out have their own shorthand. Which is good as all this data has to be squeezed onto a holigraphic screen no bigger than a thimble.

If you're not clear, as I was and still can be, here's a glimpse:

I love these new goggles. And my swimming habit is quickly becoming my new addiction. 

Will it replace my other obsession - the trolling and truth telling about Trump? Probably not.

Will I ever give up my European lycra suit for a much abbreviated new Speedo? Maybe. 

But unless you're a regular customer at the local Culver City Plunge or the Rose Bowl Aquatic Center or the Palm Springs Swim Center, you'll never see it. 

 

2006 -- The year I own a Gun.

I have always eschewed the notion of gun ownership. I know myself. I know my temper. I know my neighbor's affinity for running power tools at 3 in the morning while his (now deceased dog) would bark as if invading vengeful Venezuelans were marching through Culver City. 

But this holiday season brought me not one but two guns. One from my daughters who know of my continuing battle with sciatica. And another, almost the exact same model, from the daughter and daughter-in-law of Ms. Muse, who were made aware of my periodic geriatric affliction.

If you or anyone you know has nagging nerve issues, you know what kind of relief these guns can provide. If I were to be using the gun on maximum pounding and vibration while penning this post, you might see something like thissssssssssssssssssss.

In any case, I thought my new gun deserved the same ode as the one written for the Marines upon receipt of their life-saving rifle.

To wit:

This is my gun. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

My gun is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life and my hunger for Gabapenton.

My gun is human, even as I am human, because it is my life and because going to the local Massage Envy store can be quite expensive.

I will learn my gun as a brother. I will learn its strength, its part, its accessories, including the large Dampener Nub attachment for sensitive areas.

I will guard my gun against the ravages of weather and damage and the possibility that my dog Lucy might be tempted to chew on the rubber tip.

I will keep my gun clean. We will become part of each other. And I will bring my gun into the car and keep it charged and jacked into the auxiliary port on my Mustang should I get stuck in traffic and the sciatica flares up while driving through the Yucaipa Pass.

This is my gun. 

And there can be no other.

A Tale of Three Ronnie Shirts

Somewhere in Arkansas, there's a man named Buford Wayne -- the names have been changed to protect the financially challenged. Seems old Buford had the luck to draw a winning ticket in the Razorback's State's 1987 Mega Marlboro Lottery and took home $8 million.

Not knowing how to spend the windfall, Buford went to the local Sears & Roebuck in Dumfuque and found a snowblower he liked. He bought 11 of them. He bought 18 pairs of Camo Crocs. And he bought two dozen of the exact same shirt.

I come by my multiple blue and white checkered Eddie Bauer long sleeve shirts by different means. And my daughters pressed me to tell the story of the Ronnie Shirt(s). And because they wanted to make sure I got it right, they even provided me with a point by point outline of the complete timeline.

When my uncle Ron/Ronnie/Ronald, the King of Cranky (only used posthumously) passed away we were tasked with cleaning out his room at the old Terazza Assisted Living Home in Cheviot Hills. I'm convinced my demanding uncle drove the staff crazy with his ceaseless demands for morphine and thus bankrupted the place.

We came across two soft cotton flannel shirts, one green and one blue. My daughters took the shirts, as this was 5 years and about 50 lbs. ago. Meaning they would not fit me.

Turns out the blue shirt didn't align with Abby's brand and her hipster friends in Williamsburg, so she gave the blue shirt to her college roommate and former BBDO Associate Creative Director, Hallie.

Years passed. Miles were swum. Thousands of pounds of weights were lifted. And massive quantities of salmon were consumed. I now had an outdated "wardrobe" of clothing that draped over my shrunken body. Seeking a keepsake as well as something I could wear, I offered to help Hallie in her vocational pursuits (as if I wouldn't have done that anyway) in exchange for the return of my uncle Ronnie's blue Eddie Bauer shirt.

My daughters were aghast. 

Hallie was willing to part with a piece of my uncle's past. But my daughters would NOT have it. They searched the interwebs and were able to buy a duplicate of the shirt from Etsy. 

In Lithuania. 

I was so happy to be in receipt of the shirt. Not so much for emotional reasons, but for sartorial ones..

Later that year, for Father's Day or Hanukkah or my birthday, the girls went on eBay and found another exact duplicate of the shirt. I opened the gift, ironically enough, while casually wearing Ronnie Shirt #1. I was flabbergasted.

I now had two Ronnie Shirts that feel and fit like no other shirt I've ever owned.

Leaving only one mystery: Where did the 3rd Ronnie Shirt in the photo above come from? 

Well, Hallie confessed to my daughter that the burden of holding onto the original Ronnie Shirt, the one actually worn by my uncle, as he gave good "What Fors" to loud neighbors or slow moving cashiers. She said it felt like a bad omen, think about Bobby's remnant that he picked up on the beach in Oahu. Hallie insisted that Abby and Rachel take the original Ronnie shirt and give it to your father on Hanukkah. Just three weeks ago.

Which they did. While I was again, unsuspectingly, wearing Ronnie Shirt #2.

I now have three shirts and an amusing, at least to myself and my daughters, anecdote about their journeys to my growing wardrobe.

Thank you Watson and Crick

Before there were Vikings, there were Vendels. I can't tell you whether Vendels eventually got translated to Vandals, but from my initial research I think that's a fair assumption.

Prior to Monday morning I had never heard of these Swedish marauders who built lightning fast ships in order to reach Eastern Europe for "trade" and the acquisition of gold and bronze. They might have also enjoyed the company of the fair lasses of Latvia, Estonia and Lithuania (where I thought my people had come from). 

Of course there's a reason for my sudden interest in these manly and very virile Seafaring Warriors.

And since you're here, I'll explain.

In a rare lull between holiday festivities, Ms. Muse and I were talking about ancestry. Turns out, she is distantly related and a descendent of a member of Hungarian royalty. Naturally, being very competitive, I thought I should find out if there are any luminaries at the very top of my family tree.

Maybe I was related to Beethoven but did not inherit any musical abilities.

Perhaps my lineage dates back to King Richard the lionhearted, who it was rumored I was named after.

Or, maybe my shtetl background is similar to or related somehow to one of the great physicists who had a hand in the Manhattan Project.

So I dropped the coin for the Premium membership and discovered none of that greatness courses through my DNA. Or my swarthy semitic veins.

None.

Turns out my people were decidedly not royal. Or special. Or noteworthy in any way. The best I could come up with was Vendel Period Seafaring Warrior VK552...

To their credit the folks at 23andMe do warn customers that peaking into the past can reveal some disturbing facts. I'm disturbed that I share nothing in common with VK552, who I shall refer to as Vic.

I mean my daughters did enjoy sailing classes when they were young, piloting FJs and Sabbots, but I tend to get seasick. And immediately go into Chum Mode. Similarly, I'm not into that whole pillaging and plundering kind of thing. Though given the opportunity I'd love to unsheath a broadsword and tear my way through Mara Lago and affix one of those gold appliques to President Shitgibbon's forehead. 

The good news however is I discovered I have a greater risk for colon cancer, a timely reminder that it's time to schedule my next colonoscopy.

Mmmmmm, Miralax take me away.

As long as it's Legal

This is Ellis Island in NYC. If you're like me, you have my condolences. Also, chances are your ancestors passed through this hallowed hall at the end of the 19th century or the beginning of the 20th. This was the second great wave of immigration. 

Back then becoming an American simply meant getting on a boat. Getting off a boat. And getting a citizenship card.

That wave ended in 1921 and again in 1924 when the US passed the Quota Law and the Immigration Act, respectively. Prior to that, European Immigrants were admitted to the country and given citizenship if they paid their passage, agreed to be de-loused and were still breathing oxygen.

It was that easy. And because most were white, it was completely legal. 

It should be noted that any person from Asia was not deemed acceptable. Undesirables, aka having brown skin (all shades), were also excluded. All because of our nation's proud pursuit of racial homogeneity. And they were not shy about saying that out loud.

"All men are created equal. Unless we say they're not."

This all makes me laugh -- though not the funny ha-ha kinda laugh -- when I hear Red Hats and fellow MAGA cultists say, they're not against immigrants entering the country, "As long as they come here legally."

Yeah, OK Jethro.

Not that these cretins recognize facts or even the most rudimentary version of American history, but I'd love the opportunity to ask the Trump lobtomitized:

"Was it legal when the first crumpet-eaters boarded the Mayflower, managed to get across the North Atlantic and then landed on what is now the New England coastline (note the same fallacious name game played by our president) and proceeded to evict Indigenous People from their indigenous land?"

"Was it legal when less than a few years later, these same "discoverers" (Note: nothing was discovered) got back on their boats, sailed across the Southern Atlantic, kidnapped millions of people from their land, and brought them back in the cruelest conditions, only to submit them to an even crueler future?"

"What about when, not satisfied with the goods and resources they stole, these ambitious Pioneers (the OG's of White Privilege) loaded up their covered wagons, chased the setting sun, slayed thousands of Native Americans (quaintly called Indians, same name game) and literally took whatever they wanted. Was that legal?"

Cliff Note American History notwithstanding, there's this...something more anecdotal and cannot be wished away by categorically calling it Fake News.

A little more than a year ago, I started the process of obtaining British citizenship. Both my parents benefitted from America's biased immigration policy. Particularly my Scottish mother who came here when she was only 17 years old. 

Two weeks ago I received an email from the British consulate that my citizenship application was incomplete and they had not received the necessary documents. This was 7 months after I had completed a biometric battery of tests proving that I was who I said I was. BTW, my British citizenship is automatic due to my bloodline. Automatic!

Having resubmitted my mother's birth certificate as well as mine, I've been told the approval process can take another 6 months. 

Thank god (small g, intentionally) no one is persecuting me. Or threatening me. Or shooting at me.

Thank god, I have a roof over my head and food on my table.

Thank god, I have disposable resources (for high speed internet and anti-dog barking devices.)

But if obtaining legal citizenship can be so difficult and tedious and subject to monetary fees and feckless bureaucracy, imagine how astronomically impossible it would be for a Guatemalan mother of three who does not speak English and only wants the best for her cursed three children.

"It's OK, as long as they come here legal"

Fuck you and the boat your melanin-free grandmother came in on.

Oranges and Oranges

You're looking at $50 bucks worth of fresh fruit. And no, this isn't a post about inflation, the skyrocketing cost of "groceries" (not a word a lot of people use these days), or the dystopian banana republic the king has foisted on us. 

At least that is my intention, but these things have a mind of their own and who knows where it will lead? 

Considering the darkness of the past year, at least from January 20, I want to make the last post of 2025 a light one. I'm hoping you also enjoyed yesterday's impromptdu interview with Mr. Bill, the real Mr. Bill from our stoner teen years.

The two "oranges" you see above are homegrown. That should give you some idea of why each one is priced at $25. You see I bought the citrus tree online from a company called fastgrowingtrees.com

That was three years ago. Despite frequent waterings and nearly 300 days of Southern California sunlight, it sat in my front yard and looked like...oh how does Ms. Muse phrase it..."like something out of a Charlie Brown special."

Cue the sad trombone music.

Suffice it to say, I do not have a Green Thumb. I did have a Green Toenail when I was running 10k's and marathons. Then it turned black. Got thick. And literally fell off. Didn't mean to leave a bad taste in your mind. 

Yet.

Then I was told about this gardening miracle appropriately called Miracle Grow, thank you Ms. Muse. After months of carefully deep sixing the fertilizer into the soil by the base of the tree, staking the spindly trunk to a piece of rebar and monitoring its revitalization, my baby sprang to life. Well, sort of.

I wanted to clip the two orbs on the left the minute they began to lose its verdant green hue, but I was advised to wait. Oranges, like grapes, need time to mature. So that once the rind is pierced it can reveal its full sweet and tangy self.

Well, this past weekend, with the house full of Weinblatt woman and Siegel Girls, we unsheathed a sharp Henckel's chef knife and sliced the orange into sixths. We each took a piece and put my money where their mouths were.

Ahhhhhhhhhh. 

Worst. Fucking Orange. Ever.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!! See in 2026, hopefully when the Epstein Files bear sweeter fruit.

A Few Moments with Mr. Bill

 

Mr. Bill made his clayish premier on Saturday Night Live on February 28, 1976, the night of my 18^th birthday. I have no recollection of that night. Or many other birthdays. But I do remember becoming an instant fan of his appearances. His innocent adventures always took a dark turn at the hands of his stop-motion nemesis, Mr. Hands. 

Or the dreaded, Sluggo.

The Mr. Bill shorts had an absurdist flavor that mirrored the unusual comedy of Monty Python and fellow SNL writer Michael “Needles in the Eyes” O’Donohue. 

Created by Mr. Walt Williams, Mr. Bill became a quick fan favorite. Particularly among Boomers who grew up with SNL and relished his all too infrequent appearance.

Last week, while toying with some ignorant Red Hats -- I know, redundant -- on the LinkedIn platform, Mr. Bill in the human form of his creator, Walt Williams, came to my defense from out of the ether. I peaked at his profile and was stunned to find that Mr. Williams was indeed who he said he was. As some of you might know, I had dreams of graduating Syracuse University, moving to NYC and finding some way to become a writer on SNL. Or National Lampoon. Or Spy Magazine. 

It didn’t work out that way for me. And from what I’ve read about the brutal machinations at 30 Rock, it appears I dodged a bullet. Mr. Bill has agreed to a short interview. When I asked if he’d be game his response was “…sure, why not?” 

Which was a lot better than “Oh nooooo.”

RS:  Prior to SNL, what we were you and Mr. Bill doing?

Mr. Bill: Night watchman, disco DJ, sold popcorn...anything to survive but not take up my brain. I worked on a low budget movie as a teenager and borrowed the filmmakers Super 8 camera and started making comedy shorts and presenting then live and on UHF TV.

RS: When Lorne Michaels put out the request for short interstitial films, how many responses did he receive and what was your reaction to being called up to the Big Show, if I can borrow from the baseball world?

Mr. Bill: Not sure how many they received, but they picked Mr. Bill out of my reel of about 10 super 8s. I called and John Head said it would be on that Saturday night, which happened to be preempted in New Orleans for a Mardi Gras parade. They let me watch the local feed and sure enough, it was on.

 

RS: Describe the feeling you had when Mr. Bill first burst into the living rooms of America?

Mr. Bill: After watching at the NBC affiliate in New Orleans, no one believed me the next week that it was actually on. It was exciting and helped inspire me to keep going. I moved to New York and starved few years while submitting more Mr. Bill's for free.

RS: Is the Mr. Bill character based on you, someone else, who? Also, to that end who is the Sluggo character based on?

Mr. Bill: Nah, Mr. Bill just fits a formula I came up involving the 4 main characters. I fashioned it as a a bad kids show, except the hero got pulverized. Whatever went into influencing me is up for discussion, because I had no conscious decisions other the adventure and the gags.

RS: Would Sluggo ever wear a blonde wig?

Mr. Bill: No, but Sluggette might.

RS: Do you still watch SNL? What do you think of the show?

Mr. Bill: I watch occasionally, but past my bedtime. I don't know how Lorne does it. When I was there he was always there around the clock. I assume that's still the case.

RS:  It seems the current iteration of the show has abandoned the short film interstitial, which was always tighter and funnier than many skits, which sadly don’t know how to end with a punchline. Why doesn’t Lorne bring back the shorts?

Mr. Bill: I have no clue what goes into Lorne's decision making, though it's certainly been highly successful for a long time.

RS: Would you ever return to the show? 

Mr. Bill: Sure, if I was invited.

RS: What is Mr. Bill doing now?

Mr. Bill: Recovering from hip replacement.

RS: How does it feel to be a cultural icon of the 70’s and 80’s? 

Mr. Bill: Old.

Thursday Photo Funnies

It has been a tough week here at Roundseventeen headquarters. 

Nothing to put us in the holiday mood better than another mass killing on the grounds of America's educational facilities. Nor an international terrorist attack killing 15 people in Australia, who had the gall to celebrate their faith in public. Sorry, but you gentiles have no idea what it is like to have fellow members of the tribe slain simply because they are members of this tiny, tiny tribe. 

It has us all looking over our shoulders and wondering what's next? And more importantly, why? 

Finally, there was the fatal attack on Rob Reiner and his wife Michelle, by their disturbed son. Followed by an even more disturbing, obscenely petty rant by an unchecked, malevolent narcissist who also happens to be the most powerful man in the world.

And so, a little levity is in order. 

With that I give the Thursday Photo Funnies, which now appears on Wednesday. Starting with the pic above of my dog, Lucy. When traveling, Lucy will often stay with my next door neighbors, the best neighbors EVER. As you can see, Lucy has no trouble making herself at home here. Thank you Caroline, Laura and George.

This was spotted on a lamppost in Culver City.

I thought about attending, but when it comes to dancing 

I'm a wallflower. Mercifully.

I couldn't make this out. 

I thought it was a poodle laying on top of a bush.

Upon closer inspection it was a huge clump of hair, 

as if removed from a dryer lint screen. Yuck.

Photographed yesterday in the parking lot of

the Desert Regional Medical Center in Palm Springs.

You do you, Doc.

Also spotted in Palm Springs, 

custom made emblem and matching lugs nuts.

Because Ms. Muse is on the board at the Tournament of Roses, 

we were treated to a guided tour of their headquarters. 

Where we found this clipping of Erma Bombeck, 

mother/mother in law of my dear friends Matt and Jackie Bombeck.  

This needs no explanation. 

Nor is it worth attempting to anyone who dons

the Red Hat.

We can spend $1/2 billion for the new Marie Antoinette Ball room, 

while this broken window at the Culver City Post Office 

remains broken. And has been for more than a dozen years.

Finally on a happier note, here we see Ms. Muse and I and 

my outrageously expensive new suit 

at her daughter's amazing wedding. I think if I post a picture here, 

I can write the cost of the suit off. Come get me Pammy.

 

Our Upside Down World

As sure as the sun rises in the East, any event of interest to the American people will be appended by a very public commentary by our publicity-thirsty president. Equally predictable, that statement will be self aggrandizing and, if it concerns someone from a different political and moral persuasion, it will be vile and reptilian.

Yesterday was no exception.

In light of the horrific murder of Rob Reiner and his wife Michelle, the President of the United States of America, an office that once represented the hope and aspirations of freedom loving people across the globe, took a loose and runny and smelly shit over the Reiner family. As well as all Americans who have eschewed the Trump Brand of Kool Aid and still have a heart.

I will not reprint his "tribute" as it has been well documented. 

So well documented and aired on social media, that many in the Evangelical community, which is sadly incredibly late for the party -- sorry, the deviled eggs are all gone -- issued some well deserved scorn for the president's narcissistic hissy fit.

Even standing members of the GOP like Thomas Massie and Lisa Murkowski have publicly chastised POTUS, the pedophile behind the Resolute Desk for his remarks. Not surprisingly, Captain Ouchie Foot doubled down, refusing to retract those abhorrent remarks, and instead insisting that the patricide was self-induced thanks to Reiner's TDS.

What a disgusting motherf*cker!!!

Which brings me to few thoughts about TDS, Trump Derangement Syndrome. 

You, and I'm addressing Red Hats, do NOT have one single friend, family or even a coworker you cannot stomach, who would verbalize or write anything as putrid about a recently-murdered person. If you do, you need to venture outside your social circles and maybe look into a different mouthwash.

In other words, you would not associate with anyone capable of such assholery.

And yet you still support him?

You still support him despite his clinical inability to express any human decency. 

You still support him despite the his past criminal behavior. I'm happy to provide the evidence.

You still support him despite his repeated abandonment of friends who gave their lives and careers to him, like Rudy Giuliani, Chris Christie, and even Marjorie Taylor Green.

You still support him despite his adultery. His theft. Even his murdering of innocent people.

You still support him despite his misogyny, his racism, his antisemitism, his vulgarity and his outrageous insistence that because he passed a cognitive test that any competent third grader could pass, he is some kind of genius.

He's not. And you're not.

And yet despite all this, you want to call us deranged? 

I suggest you invest in a good mirror. 

AIdventures in surrealism and twisted logic

 

Last week, in an attempt to dramatize the latest horseshittery emanating from our esteemed president's mouth, I posted this picture of two young children receiving a lone pencil as a Christmas. 

You might recall that only one week after throwing himself a huge Gatsby party at Mara Lago, featuring flappers and scantily clad women bobbing in oversized martini glasses, the king issued an edict of affordability -- the latest Democratic Hoax. With some weird OCD stammering about the number 37, he told American workers, "Your kids don't need 37 dolls, they can get by with one or two," adding, "And they don't need 37 pencils, they'll be fine with one."

Two things here: 

1. Who buys their kids 37 dolls?

2. I'm not hip to the yuletide scene, but do gentiles really give their kids pencils for Christmas? 

But that is not the point of this piece, you know if there really is a point at all. You see, the children you see in the picture above are not children at all. They're a conglomeration of pixels harvested by artificial intelligence machines  -- coyly named Nano Banana to disguise any malicious societal agenda -- to resemble a pair of kids understandably upset by the family's newfound austerity.

Friends on Facebook, who are familiar with my sensibilities, were immediately in on the joke. Colleagues and strangers on LinkedIn, where I have always skated on thin ice with the Thought Police, were not so clued in. As a matter of fact, I got called to the table by a retired Army guy and presumed Red Hat for my portrayal of innocent children and exploiting them to score political points.

Sure I can see that! I wonder if G.I. Schmoe had any issue with this clear exploitation to score political points...

I quickly pointed out to Sergeant Stupid that the photo was not real. The children were not real. No minors were harmed, embarrassed or even slightly humiliated in the picture. 

The same could not be said for the shit-eating grin of a shameless draft-dodging president willing to stand on the grave of fallen heroes in order to flash his tiny thumbs up on an obscene campaign stump. 

Just for giggles, I asked the good folks at Nano Banana for variations on the photo of fictitious children.

Here's what it would've looked like as a 

cartoon in the New Yorker magazine.

Imagine if this were a Norman Rockwell painting.

And finally, if the photo were 

to be recreated by Dali.

I did not share any of these with the upset soldier. As I had mentioned before, I'm hanging on by a thread to the LinkedIn platform, where this post has already garnered 12,000+ impressions.

But as a gesture of good will and concession, I did offer an apology to the parents of these non-existent children, Mr. and Mrs. 11101000110101001010.

Merry Christmas Captain Ouchie Foot

I have a strained relationship with Christmas. For years, it felt like it belonged to someone else. Not unusual for a man with Hebraic Seasonings. 

In Suffern, NY, where I grew up in the 70's, you'd be hard pressed to find the necessary Jews for a minion. And being an outsider at this the "most wonderful time of the year", was often demoralizing.

Fortunately we had neighbors who would have us over on Christmas Eve to take the sting out of the occasion. In retrospect I believe the parents gathered all the kids downstairs, and locked the doggie door, so they could enjoy rum-fueled eggnog, upstairs, in relative peace.

As a child, my mother, being of the Presbyterian or Episcopalian denomination -- I can never remember -- did celebrate Christmas. 

In Paisley, Scotland. 

Though I doubt it resembled any kind of yuletide celebration you might be familiar with. Her family was piss poor. Literally, as my grandfather, an abusive man given to too many drams of whiskey, was gainfully employed as "toilet cleaner." (This is from my cousin Robert, who lives in Wales.)

I suspect the only gift giving involved a large bottle of vinegar for the fish & chips. 

The festive meal was probably followed by the family, my mother was one of 7 kids, around the fireplace. And by fireplace, I mean that one heating vent that worked in her downscale row home.

Suffice to say, we were never regaled with stories of Christmases past. Or even the time my overserved grandfather mistook a living room chair for the loo. 

And because me mum converted, joining the tribe with the world's dreariest holidays, we never did Christmas.

This year is different. 

As you can see from the Santa that adorns my house, I have embraced the Christmas spirit. I am determined to bring some Joy To the World. And if you zoom in a little tighter you'll see Old Nick is wearing one of my custom made T-shirts, which BTW, make excellent gifts for friends and family. 

You can find them all at the appropriately named Trash Trump Treasure Chest.

Can I add that getting inflatable Temu Santa into the T-shirt and securing the fit was no small feat. Moreover I had to attach it the house by stepping out onto my patio roof, which always brings out the concerned neighbors across the street..."Rich, you shouldn't be out there, please don't fall, I'm bingeing Below Deck and don't want to have to call an ambulance."

I've already caught flack from my youngest eye-rolling daughter, who texted: "Did we have to do that?" 

"We?," I thought. She lives 3000 miles away in Brooklyn. 

Moreover, perhaps she didn't realize that as her father I was given the responsibility to embarrass her. And it's a lifetime assignment.

Additionally, you'd think after 28 years she'd know her father is legitimately crazy. And, be more sympathetic to his raging TDS.

"The Brown Bear has Escaped from the South Gate"

In the close to 17 years I have been writing, maybe 'posting' is a better word because one would be hard-pressed to find any legitimate "writing" on these digital pages, I have only established 1 tradition.

Oh there have been series: Thursday Photo Funnies, Illuminati reverse scamming, my ill-fated Drunken Haiku, People Who Need to Die, Four Days of Taco Hell, Adventures in Russian Online dating, my equally obnoxious correspondence with Asian mail order brides, Trump Takedowns, and so much more.

But never a legitimate tradition.

That is until I stumbled upon this holiday favorite -- The Caganer.

Since discovering this weird and wonderful Christmas tradition that puts a smile on residents of Catalan in northern Spain, I have committed one December post to this pooping phenomena every year. I'm sure Carl Jung or Dr. Freud would have something to say about that. 

But my blog, my log.

For those who are new to this, way back in 2012, I was freelancing and hired to do a Christmas Sales Event for Acura automobiles. Lexus had already tied up the red bow on a car schtick, so I was looking for something different. Something that would step over that very low creative bar.

So I rolled up my sleeves, put on my visor, and started sniffing around the internet. You can imagine my delight when I unearthed the legend of The Caganer, who makes an annual (word chosen intentionally) appearance wherever there is a display of the Nativity scene. 

The elders explain, "the Caganer (pooper) is usually a man, or woman, of no standing. And so he stands outside the manger. He proceeds to cop a squat, as it were, at the birthing scene of our Lord and Saviour, to fertilize the land and bring about a bountiful harvest for the coming spring."

You may think I made this up but, pardon the phrase, I shit you not. And I have the receipts.

A Caganer shop in Barcelona.

A 25 foot high Caganer at a local Spanish mall.

And of course a Donald Trump Caganer, 

though it's my understanding he doesn't need 

to pull down his pants and simply evacuates himself into a diaper.

Or a microphone.

The Trump Caganer is only about 5 inches tall. If it were larger and more visible I'd be tempted to whip out the checkbook. OK, my Venmo app.

You see, I have a neighbor two doors down who also has a tradition. In addition to flying his American flag on a pole that would be better suited for a post office or the Pentagon, he puts out a mammoth
Christmas display, including a 6 foot high faux Bible and a lifesize Nativity Scene.

Under the dark of night I could place the Trump Caganer among the other figurines and nobody would notice. Unless he has a Ring Camera, like so many of us do, in which case, I might get a knock on my door from Johnny Law.

"Sir, we'd like to speak to you about your neighbor's Nativity Scene. Do you have a 14 year old son or grandson?"

 

Grand Slams, Super Birds and Miami Moons

Last week, CNY, the official news source for all of Central New York, announced that Denny's, the ubiquitous "diner" and home of the 1750 calorie breakfast, was closing down. I use air-quotes around the word diner because they're really not in the same league as real diners, as seen every half mile on Route 17 in New Jersey.

The news hit hard for me. As I spent my late teens slinging hash -- literally -- in the tiny galley kitchen of the Carrier Circle Denny's in DeWitt, just east of downtown Syracuse. 

It was here that I learned how to break an egg with one hand, flip omelets, and acquire the delicate rhythm it took to run the wheel and excel as a short order cook. 

I can't dance, though Ms. Muse suggests otherwise, but I can throw down a mean breakfast(s) and still do.

The Carrier Circle Denny's was also where my college roommate Dave and I got acquainted with the local townfolk. And when I say townfolk, I mean waitresses. And when I say waitresses, I mean upstate women who were in no way like the ones downstate in NYC. And more importantly, nothing like the spoiled, entitled princesses that populated Syracuse University.

Perhaps I've smeared too much vaseline on the memory ball, but those were the halcyon days. 

Unscathed by roiling family dynamics 300 miles away. Unburdened by pressing deadlines for book reports or the solving of unintelligible word problems from the Calculus professor. And frankly, unconcerned about anything happening tomorrow in favor of celebrating the mischievous opportunities that presented themselves that day.  

The dimming of the lights at Denny's, where, make no mistake we worked our asses off, has made me melancholy.

Of course, I'd be remiss if I didn't share one war story of our time at the Dewitt Denny's just off the NY State Thruway, and often unrecognizable due to the 12 foot high drifts of lake effect snow.

Every week or so, the walk in refrigerators would be restocked with fresh produce and goods. With the quick turnaround and the truckload of hungry truckers making a pit stop there, the shelves would be emptied faster than an 18 wheeler jack-knifing on black ice. 

Not surprisingly, Dave and I were always on the lookout for the fresh cases of whip cream.

Some of you are jumping ahead. 

Dave and I didn't learn much at SU, but we did find out that the cans of whip cream were propelled by nitrous oxide, the same nitrous oxide that dentists colloquially refer to as laughing gas. When Mr. Z, the clueless assistant manager went out for a smoke break in the 13 degree weather, we would take our break in the cooler. And much the way Tom Brady would relieve his footballs of excess air, we would manipulate the nozzle of the whip creams cans and extract all the nitrous oxide our young lungs could handle.

Later, when Cletus, the long hauler from Tennessee would order his apple pie, the waitress would attempt to top it off with a dollop of Reddi Whip. More often than not, it came out more like Reddi Drip.

Ah, misspent youth.

RIP Dennys.

A shanda

I'm going to assume that if you're reading this blog you have some innate interest in the advertising world. The industry that put a roof over my head, fed my family and for a short while, enabled me to  own and drive a Jaguar, albeit their shittiest model which was nothing more than a glorified and fancied Ford Mundano, or some other fakakta name I could not forget fast enough.

Advertising also provided me with a lifesaving escape from the world of Chartered Accountancy (that's what the Brits call it) and begrudgingly following in the footsteps of the many CPAs in the Siegel family, including my father, my uncle and my brother.

Mind you there's nothing wrong with Accountancy, it just wasn't for me. 

A roundabout segue to the issue on the everyone's tongue: the mammoth merger between Omnicom and IPG. An amalgamation that has no one in the ad business buzzing, with the exception of the accountants and the shareholders.

The digital ink hadn't been been given time to dry before the bean counters took their well-honed machetes to the org charts of BBDO, Chiat/Day, Mullen, and so many more. It took them less than 48 hours to announce the termination of 4000 employees!

And they did it 3 weeks before Christmas. 

And less than 2 weeks before Chanukah, the Miracle of Lights when the oil that was only sufficient for two days lasted an entire eight. Now it will take a similar miracle to extend the family savings account.

Remember when Trump said because of the current belt tightening --for everyone else but the oligarchs -- "kids who would normally get 5 dolls would have to get by with 1 or 2." 

For the redundant ex Omnicomers, those numbers have been revised to NONE.

All this from a business that demands unprecedented and unpaid commitment. And expects employees to go the extra mile. Work around the clock, sacrifice vacations, miss birthdays and school plays, and do whatever it takes to get that 78 X 392 banner ad or that incredibly disposable email blast just right.

If that hypocrisy weren't enough, consider this...

I can't begin to tell you how many meetings I've sat through where planners, strategists, creative directors and most importantly, zealous CEO's would lecture clients about the Promise of the Brand. The Power of the Brand. And the Magic of the Brand.

Indeed, the "Brand" was the crowbar used to open the box of money that would support the best efforts of the ad agency, be it JWT, McCann Erikson, Ogilvy, ad infinitum. 

And now with one fell swoop of a Montblanc Pen, all those agencies, which for more than a century claimed to have built their own Brand, have been consigned to dustbin of history. A history that only seems to matter to handful of geezers -- like you and me.

Trumpism, with all its false, loud bravado, apathy and cavalier greed, has staked a shameful claim on Madison Ave.