Count backwards from 100...

Tomorrow is my birthday. And I'll be spending the majority of it under the influence of propofol and some industrial-strength pain killers. 

Hardly the ideal way to celebrate another trip around the sun. But this truth is, I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm happy to tell you why.

As anyone who has been reading these pages or has been within old man earshot of me for the past several months, I have been in excruciating pain. I've had to curtail my late afternoon walks -- my dog Lucy is not happy with that development. There were a few rounds with physical therapy and the bending of my torso in ways it was never meant to be bended. 

And last month, I had a cortisone injection, all to stem the Marathon Man-like torture of my right hip joint.

On one recent walk, I almost keeled over and considered calling for an Uber to drive me the remaining 7 tenths of a mile back to my house. 

I could take no more and scheduled an appointment with Dr. Sassoon, who had replaced my left hip three years ago. He took one look at my x-ray and said, "you sprung a leak right here, so whatever fluid was protecting the joint is seeping away. That can be really painful." 

"Doc," I said "you don't have to tell me, now let's make with the morphine."

"We don't do that anymore, but with a little luck I can get you penciled for surgery in July."

There goes my ballroom dancing career. 

You can imagine my surprise and delight when I got a call from the surgical scheduler the very next day, telling me there had been a cancelation and an opening for next Friday, February 28th. 

My special day!

I snapped it up in a second. You might be thinking, "awww, Rich has to spend his birthday in a hospital." But the sad truth is this isn't my first Crappy Birthday while under the watchful eye of skilled medical professionals. 

On my 61st birthday, I was attempting to burn off some morning calories in preparation for that evening's predictable overconsumption. While lifting weights I accidentally dropped a 25 lbs. dumbbell on my hand, splitting my ring finger open and blurting out blood with more force than Yellowstone's Old Faithful geyser.

I'm laughing at the whole thing and see this cancellation as a great birthday gift. Besides, if therer's one thing life has taught me it's that it helps to deal with the ups and downs of Life with a good sense of humor. 

And a well-lubricated femur.

On Dictators

President Trump said something very funny the other day. 

This is noteworthy because by and large he never says anything funny. He is genuinely without any sense of humor. Which goes along with his lack of curiosity, literary knowledge, taste in music and generally any attribute one might expect to find in a human being.

What was this funny quip? He called President Zelenskyy of Ukraine, a Dictator.

This is funny on its face value because in 2019 Zelenskyy beat Petro Poroshenko in a landslide victory 73% to 24%. In a free and fair election recognized by countries who hold free and fair elections (which previously included the US.)

It's also funny because he used the word as a pejorative. As if to say that anyone who is a recognizable dictator should be shunned. And cut off from any US support. And this came after he successfully (?) campaigned on the notion that he himself would BE A DICTATOR on Day One of his presidency.

Of course he's not our Dictator. That would be Elon Musk.

It's all so performative. 

We know, by everything he has said and everything he's done, that he has no concept of what constitutes a Constitutional Republic. Nor any respect for the notion of democracy. The besmirching of Zelenskyy is simply a prelude to tossing the whole Ukrainian kitski and kaboodleski back to his patron, Putin.

Fact is, Trump loves dictators. 

He speaks glowingly of their strong man techniques. Whines about how "his generals" don't hang on his every word like the Chinese and the Russians. And would love nothing more than to rule with an iron fist, albeit, given his physical shortcomings, a very tiny iron fist.

You kids might be too young, or forgetful, to remember this, but Trump's love of dictators manifested itself in a very embarrassing and somewhat gay way -- not that there's anything wrong with that -- years ago when he started receiving Love Letters from Kim Jong Un.

Who could forget when he stood next to a representative of the DPRK and clownishly displayed the oversized card purchased at the Pyongyang Hallmark Store...

"We fell in love"

Crowd at the Nazi rally groans.

"No (he chuckles), we really fell in love," he tells the fevered masses earnestly. They demure and give him the validation he so desperately demands.

And this man has the nuclear codes to destroy all of humanity. 

WTF?

Deli Daze

Los Angeles, despite a Jewish population that exceeds Tunisia, Morocco, Algeria, Libya, Egypt, Jordan, Syria, Lebanon, Iraq, Iran, combined (oh wait those countries kicked all their Jews out in 1948), suffers from a surprising dearth of Deli's. 

It could very well be a form of gastric cleansing.

And so Ms. Muse I decided to try a deli in San Gabriel. For brisket of all things. 

Thankfully the brisket at Golden deli is not prepared the way my grandmother used to. With canned carrots. Canned peas. Canned gravy. And a smattering of cigarette ashes from the Pall Mall dangling between her wrinkly lips.

This was something different. 

In fact, it was the first time Ms. Muse and I had ever stepped foot in a Pho place. Suggested by the trusty food critics at the LA times, we decided to venture out of our comfort zones, and the self imposed 8.3 mile radius that encircles her house in bucolic Sierra Madre.

And boy were we glad we did. We arrived early on a sunny Sunday late afternoon and found the parking lot teeming with hungry "deli-goers." Always a good sign when people are lined up outside eager to escape the 71 degree early evening chill. 

We were seated in about 15 minutes, which comes close to the end of my restaurant-waiting patience. My daughters, committed foodies since the dawn of Top Chef and other assorted food-adjacent TV shows, will wait up to 3 hours for what they deem a "special meal." I'm looking at you Tartine in San Francisco.

In between awkwardly stuffing our faces with exceedingly long white noodles and delicious, paper thin strips of brisket, Ms. Muse had an idea. As well, she should. It is, after all, her self-appointed job.

"You know how you do the Thursday Photo Funnies? You should also do a series like Monday Restaurant Reviews," she mused.

I told her, that was an interesting idea. Particularly if I can make it interesting enough that fancy-schmancy restaurateurs would want me to come their places. Sample the fare. And comp the whole meal.

"That's genius," I wanted to say but not let her ego run wild, I thought silently.

"And I could go with you on all these comestible journeys," she added, "You know, to help. Maybe take notes."

Mmmm...I see how it is. 

A Day at CostCo

When the media released a list of companies that had caved to the Musk/Trump Reich and pulled back on DEI, I made a mental note of where I should no longer spend my stay-of-a-dirty-home dollars.  

Of course it would be impossible to boycott them all. It's not like a commodotized shitty beer like Bud Light. Truth is I depend on huge airlines, Amazon and the Toilet Paper cartel for my daily living. But I had also read that there were a handful of companies that still valued humanity, and all the various historically marginalized people who make up that humanity. One of them was Costco.

So I decided to reward their bravery and I re-enlisted.

My late wife and I used to shop there until about 2005, when gaining entry into the Marina Del ray Costco parking lot was like a trip into the 9 Rings of Hell at LAX. 

But a liberal, commie Patriot has to do what a liberal, commie Patriot has to do. So I shelled out the $65 membership fee and have already begun recouping my investment with bulk savings on bulk items. Hello, 68 roll package of 2 ply TP.

As detailed on these very pages, I have been spending a lot of time in the Foothills. Following a first hand tour of the devastation in Altadena, where block after block was ravaged by the fires leaving a Dresden-like landscape, Ms. Muse suggested a little retail therapy at the not so nearby Costco in San Gabriel.

Sure why not, I can always stock up supplies for my Airbnb in Palm Springs, which none of you have inquired about. Despite the promise of ample sunshine, warmth and the very accommodating friends and family rate. By the way, I was just given another 5 star hosting review on airbnb.

Walking in to Costco was like walking into a different world. I don't mean that because we were the only caucasians speaking the Queen's tongue. I had forgotten the shopping carts were the size of Flatbed trucks. You could fit three Safeway shopping carts into one Costco, The Bulkinator 9000. Strap a 75 HP Briggs and Stratton engine onto one of these puppies and you can leave a VW Vanagon in the dust. Sorry Paul.

Not only will Costco sell you stuff at ridiculously affordable prices, they'll also feed you. Here, we stopped for some Burnt Brisket Ends. I could do an off-color ethnic joke about the meat, but since this post started as a celebration of DEI, I will refrain. 

In Aisle #5 we came across pallets and pallets of towels: Beach Towels, Bath Towels, Bath Sheets, Hand Towels, Face Towels, even Towel Towels (for drying off your wet towels.) 

"I should beef up my supply at towels at the airbnb," I said to Ms. Muse.

"Maybe replace some of the ones at your house too? They have a certain sandpapaer quality to them, " she hinted.

A jocular moment at the Costco.

Topped, moments later, as we were using our phone's GPS system to locate the cashier stands. On the way out, we passed by the Costco Pharmacy. You can get anything at Costco, well almost.

A young man in his late teens or early twenties ran up to the pharmacist. I didn't hear what he said. But I did hear what the man in the white lab coat replied...

"I'm sorry son, we don't sell Morning After Pills at CostCo."

The lanky young man left the counter and sprinted towards the exit. 

Perhaps even faster than when he ran in.

Patriot Games

There is something foul and very fascist afoot. You can see it in this email blast I got from the Right is Right Coalition of Right Thinking Americans. Or some fakakta name cooked up by a group of khaki-pants wearing cyber incels working in the propaganda wing of Elon World. 

Look at the very first word and how I am addressed by folks who have not been doing their homework and  do not know of my sentiments towards anyone right of Mitt Romney. 

Patriot.

That's not by mistake. And I know it's not a mistake because the word appears on many of the Goebbels-inspired emails I receive from the various branches of the GOP. Read the three paragraphs. They repeat the word Patriot three times. That's also not a mistake. 

It's ripped from the pages of Marketing 101 and has given such ad gems as "Liberty, Liberty, Liberty...Liberty."

Just like they have done with the American flag, mine, by the way, is still standing in front of my porch. Maybe Ole Glory will buy me some valuable minutes to escape the paddywagons when the Red Hats/Brown Shirts come to round up any non-patriots (Jews, Gays, Hispanics, and The Blacks, as Trump likes to call them). 

If you've gotten this far, you can assume you too are in this mix, which shockingly outnumbers the assclowns who don the Red Hats and declare their patriotism as if they are putting greasepaint on their face in preparation for a football game. 

It's that fucking shallow.

Now, they are appropriating the notion of patriotism in the same boisterous and child-like manner as they absconded with the American flag. And they are fetishizing the concept in the same exact way. 

Why? Because the people who are so opposed to identity politics (so they say) are seeking to "otherize" folks who don't share their twisted agenda as non-patriots. 

These are troubling and Orwellian times we live in and must survive. Truth is, I will pit my Patriot bonafides against of the twisted twatwaddles masquerading as the same. 

Unlike them, I believe in the Rule of Law.

Unlike them, I can name the three branches of government.

Unlike them, I know the Constitution and can name the amendments, not just the second.

Unlike them, I can find Russia, China and even the Gaza Strip on a map.

Unlike them, I have more allegiance to and, more at stake in, what Ronald Reagan called the "Shining City on the Hill" then they can ever imagine.

I am an American Patriot. They are neither.

Also, just to put a finer point on this, in what world is the dime-a-dozen, bleach-bottle-blonde truth butcher pictured above, STUNNING? The words coming out of her mouth make her UGLY.

Stinky and me

                                        

Home ownership is not for the fainthearted.

Returned last week after being out of town and noticed that unmistakable smell of Heineken beer...er, Spilogale gracilis. A misnomer because there is nothing remotely graceful about skunk odor. 

Checked with the neighbors to see if they had anything similar and they didn't. I had my suspicions and actually thought my white trash neighbors might have left me a skunk carcass, a la RFK Jr.

The next day, during a pouring rain, which never happens in LA and aggravates my creaky hip to no end, I discovered a gaping hole in my crawl space screen. The screens might be the original ones that came with the house in 1947. And were barely hanging on by the thinnest of wiry threads.

SHHHHHITTTTTT!!!!

I fumed. Nowhere near comprehending the magnitude of my foul dilemma. You can't just call Murray of Murray's Skunk Removal and have them shoot the damn thing. Or, I'm sorry I forgot it's 2025, trap it humanely for its peaceful aromatic return to the woods.

Turns out not many companies are in the trade of skunk removal. And those that are, are currently busy with a flood of skunky requests stemming from the LA Fires. But wait it gets worse. 

Of course it does.

Years ago I had an issue with Norwegian Tree Rats that had commandeered the neighborhood. Those are easy to trap, especially if you grew up on cartoons, like I did, and knew of the unbeatable reliability of the spring loaded Victor traps. 

The only traps available for skunks cost $350 to rent, a small fee I am willing to pay out. But...

The trap requires leaving the crawl space screen off, so the critter can come out at night (did I mention they're highly nocturnal?)  Leaving the crawl space open is an invitation to other pests in the neighborhood.

It was at this point that I contacted Mr. Google and sought advice.

To wit, while I'm writing this, I have set up a Bluetooth speaker on one side of the house, playing a non-stop loop of a rattlesnake hissing. And on the other side of the house, with the crawl space open and with the lure of chocolate covered almonds. And I have set up a camera hoping to lure the bastard out.

And chase him away. Or hit him on the head with a dumbbell.

I feel like I am living an episode of Mutual of Omaha's Less-Than-Wild Kingdom. 

Let the waiting begin.

Editorial Update: Turns out my plan worked. the skunk left the comfortable confines of my abode and then I quickly sealed up the crawl space. And set up a Nest camera to watch the proceedings. And guess who has effectively been evicted from Casa De Siegel.

You can see more here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6spPIkIZ5jw&feature=youtu.be

Yin and yang

I'm sure my fellow bloggers, Tannenbaum, Gelberg, Eaker, all not coincidentally of Hebraic Seasonings, have had the experience of wondering what they're going to write about for their next post. I'm equally positive that they're simply overjoyed when a topic/subject/musing just gets dropped in their laps.

This is one of those occasions.

Last week I got an email from Brian Burch, one of two Brian Burchs' that I know from the business. He had sent me some photos that he found while cleaning out his files. Perhaps from the grey hair, but I'm assuming this Brian was doing a little Swedish Death Cleaning. 

The pictures were taken from a syllabus for a Copywriting Master Class taught by a fellow tradesman, Rodd Chant. He and I have never met, but since he is using our work for his benefit, I'm going to use his name (just for the sake of accuracy) and for mine.

As you can see from the photo above, the cited work is from ABC. Here are the other pics...

Brian asked if any money had exchanged hands for the use of some of this old -- really old, like 28 year old -- work. I told him no. But, that I was honored to be mentioned alongside work from David Abbott and Wieden + Kennedy. 

On the other hand it's a little, OK, a lot, long in the tooth. 

I'm not saying this as a humblebrag, but in some ways it's like an aged-out comedian being asked to repeat his one catchphrase. Even more humbling because it's advertising. And my perspective on it has changed even more than the industry I once knew.

For instance, I've been away from it for so long, I'm not even sure agencies still do outdoor, print or even brand manifestos. At one point I was doing one of these semi-poetic, corporate jerk-offs a week. Or one a day. I'm currently taking industrial strength pain reliever for my cartilage-free hip, I can't even remember. 

I do know that in retrospect, the TV is Good anthem, was one of my weakest. Not seeking any validation from my 8 regular readers. Just being brutally honest. I suppose that's the way the universe works, as some of the best stuff I've written (at least in my opinion) NEVER got produced. 

I'm looking at you Chivas Regal.

The same forces, the yin and yang of quality, are clearly at work and gave us Pete Hegseth, Tulsi Gabbard,  and  RFK Jr as the new Secretary of Health and Human Services and not the other 3, 841,923 real health care professionals in the country that are monumentally more qualified. 

"Come on kids, take your heroin."

My brain hurts

 

I've made a habit of reserving this day for my regular Thursday Photo Funnies. A cheap excuse to excuse myself from writing and just dumping a dozen or so photos from my trusty iPhone. Most the time the pictures are inconsequential, as are the captions. But occasionally I'll stumble across something interesting. Like the 1944 D copper penny I found while walking my dog. 

But the sad fact remains that I haven't been able to do much walking lately. And probably won't anytime soon, thanks to my right hip joint. Which has gone from a 3-4 on the McGill Pain Scale to an unbearable 8-9, meaning, "shoot me now, I'm done for this world."

In its place and because I don't know how much longer it will be until I see the relieving sharp end of a surgeon's scalpel, I may or may not be instituting a new series on R17 -- something I haven't done for a while.

I'm calling it Unresolved Thursdays, wherein I address (and seek counsel) on matters of the day that make absolutely no sense to me.

1. Gulf of America. What in god's name is President LumpyTits thinking by changing the name from Gulf of Mexico to Gulf of America? What does that accomplish? How does it benefit anyone or anything other than to prove he can impose his low-IQ will onto a frightened bunch of mapmakers with the gonads of a neutered seahorse?  Why not go all in and call it the Golf of America and sell the licensing rights to Titleist?

2. Kanye West. Yeezy. Queazy. Ye. I didn't stick around for the end of last week's Super Bowl. Apparently I missed a 30 second (at a cost of $8 million dollars) spot where this brainless narcissist was advertising a hoodie/T-shirt/face towel emblazoned with a swastika. We're not even one hundred years past the Holocaust and this hateful, ignorant mofo is celebrating the murder of my relatives. I don't know if Mr. West remembers any history classes, I suspect he never attended school  but  those sturdy looking Germans in their sharp dressed Nazi uniforms had no love for people of color.  

Also, Fuck You Ye.

3.  RFK Jr. This country has officially gone off the rails. Just a few months after electing a senile convicted felon fond of telling stories about electric boats, man eating sharks and Hannibal Lecter, the US Senate is considering his nomination for Director of Health and Human Services. A former heroin addict, who chainsawed the head of a beached whale, and lugged a bear carcass to Central Park in order to fabricate a biking accident. "Yeah, hi Jake from State Farm, you're not gonna believe what happened to my on my Schwinn 10 speed..."

The only thing scarier than not knowing to what to make of all this, is the knowledge that for so many people, it all makes perfect sense.

Ayahuasca, take me away.

A different drummer

At the risk of further offending some folks, I'd like to revisit the half time show at this week's Super Bowl.

I playfully posted that I had pushed the Mute Button on during the game shortly after the 1st half ended. I had no intention of watching Kendrick Lamarr. In fact, in the 50 plus years I've been watching Super Bowls, I never watch any halftime show.

It's just not what I'm there for. I want to see a good competitive football game. And some killer commercials that might even harken back to the 80's. Or better yet the raucous, Let's Spend-Internet-Money 90's. 

It was fail on all three counts.

What I didn't expect, however, was to get lumped in with the myopic, racist crowd that calls the January 6th Insurrection a Tourist Visit. If I'm reading the room right, there are quite a few people --nationwide-- weighing in on the Kendrick Lamarr extravaganza.

Let's be clear here, my musical tastes are my musical tastes. And no one has a right to be all judgey about them. Particularly when the issue of race is being brought into it. A quick scan of my musical library will show everything from Sonny Boy Williamson to Louis Jordan to Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings.

I know that's sounds like the equivalent of, "Some of my best friends..." 

I also don't want to sound too defensive here. Mostly because frankly I have nothing to be defensive about.

This, I believe, is where wokeness has gone off the rails. And handed the reigns of power over to Right Wing Fascists. The Left is just as guilty of painting with a broad brush as the brown shirts across the aisle. 

I don't want to listen to Kendrick Lamarr. And if it's any consolation, I don't want to listen to Drake either. Even less interesting is their 'beefing' with each other. Who give's a rat's ass? Arm wrestle. Run a 100 yard dash. Play chess. Just get it over with. 

Frankly I'd rather watch Steve Scalise have his ass whupped by Congresswoman Jasmine Crockett. That's a beef I can savor.

To also be clear, I believe the Black story in America needs to be told. Particularly these days. Black America is America. The good, the bad, and the ugly systemic racism which has brought us a self-evident white supremacist in the White House. 

That story can be told with music. Or with film. Or with the written word. There is no monolithic approach. Nor any monolithic response.

If anyone still feels the need to chide me over MY personal tastes in music, so be it. I'll live.

But if Roger Goddell is listening, I suggest the Super Bowl 60 halftime show be headlined by the Klezmatics. And bottle dancers. Gotta have bottle dancers.

Penny for your thoughts

These things don't happen to me. I suspect, if this pans out, they don't happen to you either.

Took my dog Lucy out for a walk the other day. Like many dogs, particularly older dogs, she's 11, Lucy can be very picky about where she hunches her back, puts on the face of shame, and deposits her business. 

On this morning she was extremely selective. To the point of me looking at her, "What are you waiting for,  an invitation? Take a shit already, I have bills to pay and excruciating hip pain meds to take."

I'm no stranger to this behavior as I, too, am very discerning about where and when I do my business. Reluctantly, in public. Perhaps the details are left better unsaid, but out of misplaced loyalty to my past employer, I would always opt for a Denny's. 

If it was an emergency.

As Lucy eventually concluded, after spotting the picture perfect "unloading zone", we headed back to the house. And that's when I looked down and spotted a penny. It was right in front of the old and now defunct Westcott Bed and Breakfast Inn, up the street from my Palm Springs rental.

Contrary to some of the old ethnic canards about people of Hebraic Seasonings, I don't make it habit of picking up pennies spotted on the sidewalk. Or in this case, an old gravel frontage that greeted guests at the Westcott. But having endured two weeks of illness and three weeks of political upchucking, I decided to pick up the head facing coin, in hopes of turning my luck.

Upon further examination, this was (and still is) no ordinary penny. 

I know what to look for in a penny from a brief tutorial given to me by my father who came of age when young boys collected coins. I think he gave it up when he started smoking Lucky Strikes at age 9. As many Bronx boys did. Just prior to learning cat calls and grabbing one's crotch.

This beat up old penny, that I normally would have ignored, is a 1944 D. That's older than me. Not by much, but still older. And it's a D, which probably means something. Just not to me. Or probably to you as well.

But that's where the magic of AI and a lesson in numismatics comes in handy. 

It's still early in the morning and I haven't had my fourth cup of coffee yet, meaning I have no reason to believe this is going to pan out. Remember, I said these things don't happen to me. 

But there's this...

I'm far too old to get way out in front of my skis. Especially with this bum hip that needs replacing. So I'm going to tread lightly here. 

But this could be the thing, a little innocent penny, that keeps me out of a Dirty Nursing Home!

Bring on the thoughts and prayers and advanced numismatic knowledge. Please.

Monday Morning Quarterbacking

It's Monday morning where you are, but it's last Friday morning where I am now. Writing this post about ads during the big game...er, Super Bowl, come and sue me NFL. 

How can I write about the ads if I haven't seen the ads, you may ask. 

In years past that would've been no problem. As every carmaker, beer pimper and packager of America's favorite overpriced, over salted processed foods had been releasing their shiny new toy weeks before the refs had warmed up their whistles in favor of Patrick Mahomes.

This year, there seems to be less of that premature exhibition. Or maybe I haven't seen them because I haven't been spending too much time watching TV. Or even on social media. I'm trying to cut down on both and disengage from the fury produced by too much news and too much disembowelment of America.

I did see a spot featuring Mathew McConaughey, who has quickly become the Great White Kevin Hart in his ubiquity. Unlike Kevin, Matty actually has some comedic chops. Of course it helps that he is supported by a stellar cast of celebrities who bring some zing to their 3 second, $3 million appearance in the Uber Eats extravaganza.

I also have some heart for the spot because one of the kids (they're all kids) involved in the making of the spot worked for me about 25 years ago at Y&R in Irvine.

I'll come completely clean here, I mistakenly did not give the OC crew enough credit back then. Perhaps it was because I had just spent a better part of my life working at once-vaunted Chiat/Day. They all had a spark of talent, but lacked, or I thought they lacked, a killer instinct for pushing themselves hard enough. 

I know now that was my ego getting in the way. So many of them have gone on to do great work. And this Uber Eats spot is proof of that.

Speaking of ego, I also caught a sneak preview of the Coor's Light Super Bowl spot featuring a cast of sloths. I relayed my thoughts on this to Greg Hahn, founder at Mischief (maker of the spot.) Greg and I have never met, but our career paths have crossed many times over. I'm a huge fan of his work and his willingness to color outside the lines.

Many, many years ago, I had written a spot about a boy who travels to the jungles of South America with his missionary parents. One day, during a ferocious storm (cinematic production value) the 4 year old boy gets lost. He can't be found. But he does not perish. 

He is raised by a pack of three toed sloths. Years later he is found -- maybe by some GOP real estate developers -- and brought back home.

Only now he communicates, moves and lives life as a human/sloth. Many funny vignettes, including the young man brushing his teeth, wooing a woman, and running cross country for his high school track team, followed suit.

To be completely honest, I don't even remember the client I wrote this for. Nor does it matter. As any creative in the the business knows, it's all a matter of turning the corner at the end. Any schmuck can do that. And probably did, yesterday.

To prove my point, take a look at this spot for Dodge Trucks that was rated the best Super Bowl spot of 2003: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D25KC6342HY

With a little word finagling, this could've been for Ford Trucks. Or Wheat Thins. Or even Coor's Light. Or Coor's Light via Uber Eats. 

This shit ain't rocket science.

He's a Shit machine

It's Thursday. And we're nearing the end of a long, tumultuous week under the new Trump regime or The Fourth Reich as I like to refer to it. 

We've seen the advancement of Tulsi Gabbard, a known Russian sympathizer, to Director of National Intelligence. Pam Bondi, an election-denying bleach blonde bimbo, being advanced to Attorney General. The bear carcass hauling and whale head decapitator RFK Jr., a former heroin addict, advanced to Director of HHS. And we saw the world's favorite Nazi, Elon Musk, breach our most sensitive data systems.

Like I said, it's been quite a week. So I wonder if I can interest you in a little game?

I've spent the better part of the last ten years offering up rational and I believe well informed opinions about our new Reichfuhrer. Much of which, to no fucking avail. Stupid people (and I probably should stop referring to them that way) are gonna stupid.

And if I'm completely and brutally honest, my approach is no less stupid. And so I'd like to take on a different tactic. One of concession, as unlikely as that may be. 

So here's how it works, I'm going to list 10 disgraceful, criminal, unpresidential and downright UnAmerican actions taken by our new esteemed president dating back his first term in office. You can take issue with any of them, in fact I encourage it.

1. Incited an Insurrection and sent thousands of people to the Capitol building to disrupt the counting of certified votes in order to steal an election.

2. Begged Georgia state officials to find 11,780 votes in his favor in order to swing the state red in 2020.

3. Stole Classified Documents and illegally stored them in his Mara Lago hotel, more specifically in a bathroom with lock purchased at the local Palm Beach Bed, Bath and Beyond.

4. Falsely claimed he won the 2020 election with no evidence of any type of "rigging", "ballot stuffing" or "irregularities" whatsoever.

5. Commissioned Rudy Giuliani, Sydney Powell, John Eastmann, Lin Wood and Jenna Ellis to go on a nationwide campaign of disinformation, resulting in ALL these lawyers being disbarred.

6. Attempted to blackmail Ukrainian President Zelensky into launching a dirty investigation of Hunter Biden. Adding, "You don't even have to do anything, my guys will take care of it."

7. Obstructed Justice in more than 10 instances while sitting behind the Resolute Desk -- Mueller Report.

8. Paid Stormy Daniels $130,000 in hush money so she would not reveal the details of his humiliating affair while his wife was breastfeeding his newborn son, Baron.

9. Heartlessly separated immigrant children from their mothers and failed to keep the documents necessary for reuniting them.

10. Falsely inflated business records in NY state, resulting in criminal prosecution of his lawyer, Michael Cohen and his personal finance guy Alan Weisselberg, both spent time in prison.

Here's where the game comes in. Red Hats are fond of saying the system has been turned against their beloved lumpy-titted savior. Adding that so many of these charges and claims are the result of Fake News.

I don't believe that for a second, nor should anyone with any critical thinking skills -- ooops, there I go again. And now the concession part. I will grant any fair minded Red Hat that 50% of the 10 claims I made above are completely false and fabricated.

But only on the condition that they, in turn, grant me the satisfaction of admitting 50% of the charges I have stated are completely TRUE.

Pick any five you like. The result is still the same: an asinine, cold hearted, worthless turd of a man who should be eating gruel out of tin cup while seated on a cement bench at our nation's fine penitentiaries. 

Some light reading

Last week was one of the most unproductive weeks of my life. And that includes the week I needed to recover from stupidly trying mushrooms in my misspent youth. Older, wiser and weaker, I spent last week alternatively napping, pooping, slurping soup and downing a copious amount of Tylenol in an effort to stave off the chills, hot flashes and assorted effects of The Flu.

If you haven't had a flu shot, I highly recommend it. Because this iteration of the Flu is a bitch.

In my semi-lucid hours I picked up a book I had started several months ago. Hint: I have many books I started many months ago. Thanks to my advertising-induced short attention span, I rarely reach the epilogue. But in Carl Sagan's case, I did.

This is a fascinating book that delves into the evolution of human intelligence, which any casual observer of the last 10 days can tell you is in short supply.

Sagan, the predecessor of Neil Degrasse Tyson, writes in a simple relatable style. Though I will admit certain passages regarding lobes, limbic systems and R-complex processes left me scratching my head. Nevertheless, the book takes us on a great journey exploring dreaming, hemispheric functions of the brain, and even a preview of artificial intelligence. 

Keep in mind the book was published in 1977, when I still had a full of hair and Apple computer was still being soldered together in a Northern California garage.

"Waz, what's a motherboard?"

If you have any interest in what makes us click, I suggest you make your way to amazon and click up a copy for delivery.

And while I offer no spoilers, I will leave you with this powerful summary that is uniquely fitting for our time:

There is today a resurgent interest in vague, anecdotal and often demonstrably erroneous doctrines that, if true, would betoken a more interesting universe, but that, if false, imply an intellectual carelessness, an absence of toughmindedness, and a diversion of energies not very promising for our survival. 

Such doctrines include astrology; The Bermuda Triangle; flying saucer accounts,; belief in ancient astronauts; photography of ghosts; pyramidology; Scientology; auras and Kirlian photography; the emotional lives and musical preferences of geraniums; psychic surgery; flat and hollow earths; remote cutlery warping; astral projections; Velikovskian  catastrophism; Atlantis and Mu; spiritualism; and the doctrine of special creation by God or gods, of mankind despite our deep relatedness, both in biochemistry and in brain physiology with the other animals.

They are mystical and occult doctrines, devised in a way that they are not subject to disproof and characteristically impervious to rational discussion.

It is only in the last day of the Cosmic Calendar that substantial intellectual abilities have evolved on Planet Earth. The coordinated functioning of both cerebral hemispheres is the tool Nature has provided  for our survival. We are unlikely to survive if we do not make full and creative use of our human intelligence.

Yes!

A long four years

As I mentioned yesterday, last week was very tough. In addition to being waylaid by the Influenza there was also the plane crash, the first commercial airliner involved in an accident for 16 years. The collision took the lives of 67 innocent Americans, including many young teens who aspired to a future in ice skating.

It might've occurred to a normal human being, particularly one who sits in the Oval Office, to offer some consolation and sympathy for the families of the passengers or the soldiers aboard the Black Hawk helicopter. 

In times of tragedy, that's what presidents do.

But it didn't occur to this one. Instead, he took the opportunity, when the nation still had its jaw dropped and the bodies were still buried deep in the icy cold Potomac, to, without any evidence, conclude that the accident was the fault of DEI candidates placed in positions that they had not earned or achieved.

The Tylenol I had been taking had successfully eliminated my flu-induced chills at that point but they came back with a fury! 

HEARTRATE: 83 BPM

I know I had sworn off Trump news in order to save my sanity, but this was a new low. A new low for a walking flesh bag of toxic narcissism and unchecked political avarice that has no precedent in American history. 

As you might have guessed I have still not processed his unabashed heartlessness. Nor his intellectual bankruptcy. When asked why he drew that accusatory conclusion, he relied, "Just common sense."

Oh, the same common sense that led you to believe President Obama was born in Kenya?

The same common sense that made you take out a full page newspaper ad calling for the Death Penalty of the now proven-innocent Central Park Five?

The same common sense that said you had won the 2020 election?

HEARTRATE: 97 BPM

Common sense is an anathema to Donald Trump. Let's not forget this silver spoon assclown thought you needed Salad ID before you could go into a store and purchase a head of iceberg lettuce.

And at this point in the investigation there is not one scintilla of evidence that DEI -- The Official GOP Boogeyman -- had any role the disaster. To the contrary, both pilots of the AA plane were white Americans. The air traffic controller was also a male. And one of the two pilots of the Black Hawk was a white male.

The army has wisely withheld the name of the other pilot, a female, most likely in fear of MAGA retaliation against the woman's family. 

That's the deplorable situation we find ourselves in America.

HEARTRATE: 138 BPM

And why? Because half the people in this country turned the levers of power over to a coldblooded, short fingered vulgarian/sexual abuser/felonious traitor who managed to correctly labeled three large animals on a Dementia test...

Where's my defibrillator?

The Magic Word is...

I am a Word Slut. That is I have an unusual fascination with words and their etymology. I think most people who call themselves "writers" do, and I do so hesitatingly. 

Being a Word Slut hasn't necessarily served me well. Apart from certain Jeopardy categories where it comes in handy. And on these blog pages, where I get to exercise a certain muscle for vocabulary that was often frowned upon in advertising copy.

I once kicked up quite a storm because I used the word panoply in a PayPal ad. I was unceremoniously raked over the coals for being too erudite. I look back on the days when I pissed off middle managers at PayPal with great fondness.

Ms. Muse also happens to be a Word Slut. 

Unlike me, she is a voracious reader. But we often attempt to dazzle each other with odd word choices. And sometimes, because she is smarter than me, I have found I'd being using a word incorrectly for so many (embarrassing) years. For instance, I always thought someone with a mercurial temperament meant they were excessively harsh or given to fits of temper, until I came to realize it meant being wishy washy.

You live and learn.

She is also fond of creating new words. For instance, there's "nagivate", which has an onomatopoeia-quality to it. It means to dish out unwanted driving directions while seated in the passenger seat.

While Ms. Muse has been sharing new words with me I've been schooling her in certain Yiddishisms, that even a woman who has worked in the entertainment industry has not heard. 

Recently, she and her friends performed a very good deed for someone in need. 

Living up in the foothills these days, that comes in handy. I told her she had done a Mitzvah. A Shiksa Mitzvah, if you will. Then, to prove she is not the only one who can manufacture new words, I suggested that Shiksa + Mitzvah = Shiksvah, a good deed for a fellow man/woman/child performed by a Gentile.

But it didn't stop there. 

I was recently explaining how I had called the police to look into a distressing situation with my last disruptive neighbors, an elderly woman living at home with her two functional/dysfunctional grown sons, who fight like angry cats and angrier cats. I just discovered they have hired a nurse to help with the mom's increasing dementia. If not for my phone call I doubt that would have happened.

Hence, a mitzvah for white trashy people = A Shitsvah.

What about telling a fellow altakocker in the sauna, "Getting a little furry back there, Murray, Maybe it's time to have that sweater sheered?" That would be a Shvitzvah.

You see where this is going. Well, I hope you do cause I don't, I just needed a bout of distraction while our country burns down on all sides. That would be a Shanda.

Down for the count

We're coming up on the 16th anniversary of R17. In all that time I've never taken a sick day. Of course there's no way to verify that. And why would anyone want to: I've proven many a point on this blog, and it's had no effect. Besides, we live in an age of suspended belief, you know what I'm talking about. So, like so many other things in world, you'll just have to accept that as fact.

But I am sick, with a fever that spiked to 101.7. And I've been downing Tylenols like they're Tic-Tacs. And waking up in the middle of night slathered in sweat -- and not that sexy, glistening Speedo-wearing man on a Mediterranean Beach type. 

With any luck tonight's Acetaminophen/Bourbon Cocktail will kill this damn flu dead, dead, dead, and the snark will return on Thursday.

 

Chicken Parm, naturally.

I don't post many pictures of myself out with friends. Not because I don't have friends, I do. Which according to Ms. Muse and other women in the same age ball park, declare, "You'd be shocked to hear how many men don't." 

Have friends that is.

The other reason I don't post these type of pictures is because I don't have many of these type of pictures. I like to think it's because I allow myself to get caught up in the moment and never feel the need to commit these type images to film, even digital film.

But this was special gathering of former Chiat/Day legends. 

That's Jerry Gentile to my right, one of the hardest working and under appreciated Creative Directors to ever pass through the now less-than-hallowed hallways. To his right is Dan Bootzin, who headed up the editorial Department at VBE. Dan taught me so much about visual storytelling, including the clarion call for clarity and simplicity. And to his right is the iconic Jeff Gorman, whose early work on Nike set in motion the growth of a multi-billion dollar sports behemoth.

Jeff is leaving the country. For myriad reasons, none of which I'll go into, nor should they be hard to ascertain. 

To mark the auspicious occasion we gathered at Musso & Frank's -- iconic in its own right. You can't tell from our casual attire, but this is a white tablecloth/bow tied waiters kind of place. As we were escorted by our VIP waiter we were seated in the Frank Sinatra Booth.

For all I know, they're all 'The Sinatra Booth." 

"Frank used to sit right there and suck down martinis with Dean and all their broads." 

(If I may use the vernacular of the day.)

Credit goes to our waiter, a balding man in his 50's. Never caught his name but I like to think it was Pete or Lloyd. He had an old timeyness about him. And he was particularly good at his job. Never letting our drinks run dry. Timing the plate arrivals perfectly. And never eliciting a peep from our table like, "Where's the waiter?" or "We could use some lemon wedges for the oysters."

And Pete knew just the right amount of jocularity to share with us. Perhaps it was that instant sheen of familiarity that made us feel comfortable asking for a photo.

That same type of bonding happened between Jeff and I when we first met more than 40 years ago. My friends and I were putting together MADWEEK, an ad industry parody take off on Adweek. We were poor and naive copywriters with a dream. Jeff was already an A+ list director at the time and agreed to listen to the pitch for funding.

Money was never exchanged. And we paid for the endeavor out of our own pitiful bank accounts. But while meeting Jeff, who loved the idea (and given his penchant for snark, I can see why), he told me a Great War story. 

While at the headquarters for a national well known defense contractor, he had to endure a big corporate meeting with all the straight laced corporate pubas. The CEO of said company proceeded to give a long winded Ted Talk about the beauty and aesthetics of black and white photography. Having concluded his endless monologue he turned to Jeff...

"Well I've said enough here. You're the one we thinking of hiring for this major million dollar assignment, tell me what you're thinking about."

And with that, Jeff answered with one singular, but powerful word that I can't repeat in this family blog.

But you can read about it here. And so much more.

Get out those credit cards: https://store.bookbaby.com/book/last-stop-before-the-sphincter?srsltid=AfmBOoo_tQ9oaGjjwyIvgYeBfEv7G2LY72EsDwqCj2mQo6bxnXY0I2Yh

Gonna miss you Jeff.

 

"You're out of order..."

Dear Justice Roberts,

It isn't everyday I find myself writing a letter to the Chief Justice of our once great United States of America. In fact, I've never written to the Supreme Court, perhaps because until recently I (we) had faith in the judiciary. 

But that has vanished, faster than "Judge" Aileen Cannon can get on her knees and assume the sycophant position.

Which you, and the majority of the court, are no stranger to. That includes oily Justice Thomas or "Tom" as I call him, a wholly owned subsidiary of Harlan Crowe Industries. 

Justice Alito, who when he isn't taking orders from his flag waving wife is knee deep in Goat Herder SkyDaddy fairy tales written some 2000-3000 years ago, depending on your delusion...er, denomination.

And let's not forget the three legally bankrupt scoundrels appointed by a man who cannot name one seminal case adjudicated by the Supreme Court. Not one.

"Brown v. Covfefe?"

"Windmill v. Whale?"

"Steam v. Digital?"

"I'd like to use of one of my lifelines, Regis."

I feel sorry for Justices Jackson, Kagan and Sotomayer, whose names will go down in history alongside you and your band of integrity-free judicial cretins. 

Under your underwhelming reign we have seen Dark Money drop a turd in our democratic punchbowl. We've seen the elimination of women's reproductive rights, largely by judges who swore under oath that Roe v. Wade was sacrosanct.

And we've have witnessed the greatest failure of our justice system in 243+ years of American history. All on your watch. You had better smile now because 100 years from now historians will look at how you delayed every ruling regarding the Special Prosecutor's rock solid case against the most evil, UnAmerican President to ever cross the threshold at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.

They will ask, "What were they thinking? What constitutional basis did they cite to grant an ex-president immunity for stealing Top Secret documents? For twisting the arms of Georgia state election officials? And for knowingly and intentionally setting up false electors in order to STEAL an election?"

I'm no lawyer (though I did exceedingly well on the LSAT and decided there was more truthfulness in advertising than there was in law) but there's irrefutable evidence that your Court was and is the absolute worst of the 112 justices who have ever donned the robes. 

You have disgraced yourself. And the country.

All is not lost, however. You can be sure that your final resting place will be continually irrigated by the nitrogen rich urine of Americans who you have so intentionally failed.

Signed,

A. Fullbladder 

 

 

DOTUS -- Dictator of The United States of America

It doesn't happen often -- actually, it's never happened -- but I find myself in violent agreement with Der Fuhrer Donald Trump.

After a calamitous first week back on the throne, it's hard not to draw the same conclusion about the servicewoman and servicemen who fought for our freedom in WWII.

That very first week saw the pardon of 1300 traitors who defiled our Constitution because they lost an election they FEEL they should've won.  At the inauguration we saw the power of the people hijacked by the power of the tech bros. And to top it off, we saw the richest and most undeserving man on the planet flash a full-throated, unmistakable Nazi salute.

Not once (to own the libs), but twice.

I know I swore myself to a ban on any Trump news, but there can be no doubt we find ourselves on a slippery slope ending in a cold 1942 lime pit of authoritarianism. And my oversized sense of justice and outrage make it impossible to stay silent.

I know, perhaps better than many, that there is no way to sway a rock ribbed Republican. Especially the ones that carry around a portable Constitution in the pocket of their brown shirt while blathering about how "President Trump was picked by Jesus and can do whatever he wants." 

But maybe, just maybe, they will listen to the voices of their grandfathers, grandmothers, aunts and uncles, who hit the pause button on their lives. Not to fight for lower priced eggs. Or the right to watch girls dance on Tik Tok. Or the right to wish neighbors a Merry Christmas (but only Merry Christmas.) 

No, they sacrificed everything to stop a madman 5000 miles away who was slowly decimating an advanced democratic culture and seizing power for himself and his perverted evil cronies. 

A hateful runt of a man hellbent on persecuting others (Jews, Gays, Slavs, Disabled, etc.) who didn't fit the default mold or look like they had come out of Central Casting. 

A greedy, morally bankrupt monster who envisioned a reign of 1000 years by exploiting the labor and stealing the resources of other countries, perhaps even Greenland.

Any of this sound familiar?

So yes, all those Murphys, Espositos, Johnsons, Goldbergs, Hernandezs, Kims, Zachowskis, and more, were Suckers. They wrongly believed they were fighting for a cause and a dream that was shared by all Americans. 

And they were Losers, because the war they thought they won in 1945 was lost 80 years later.

Sieg Elon!

Some SoCal Healing

Monday in Southern California was a picture perfect day. 

The kind of day that almost make you forget the catastrophic destruction the fire and the winds brought last week. There were no plumes of smoke. No Wind, to speak of. No signs of the thousands of lives that were upended. And will likely continue to be thanks to a fat, silver spoon, fascist who sits in the White House with the goal of retribution -- in this case, denying relief funds for a Blue state that doesn't kowtow to his fascist sensibilities.

To escape, if only momentarily, Ms. Muse and I took a late afternoon bike ride. We had intended to go from Ventura to Ojai, a 35 mile jaunt, but due to the severe wind warnings up the coast, called an audible and rode south.  

There, we crossed paths into my old partner, John Shirley. We met and started working together close to 30 years ago in 1996. Wait, what? I look 50 years older than I did then. And John, through the magic of beach living, Cabernet Sauvignon and hours spent surfing at Trestles or Rincon Point, hasn't aged a day.

"Do you Goofy Foot when get in the barrel?"

Tossing around surfer talk is always good for a laugh. Maybe not for John, but I'm easily amused.

This picture was taken a mere 100 yards away from the Pacific Ocean. Unless there's a tsunami coming, John has the enviable privilege of living in earshot of the crashing waves. Even the ankle biters.

Ms. Muse loves running into John, who was, for all for all intents and purposes, my work wife. Mostly because he can dish up stories of my not-so-finer moments. My disinclination for air travel. My contentious interactions with Planners. And my less than pristine automotive maintenance. 

Once on a trip to visit a client, he got in my old Lexus, which doubled as a family car, then bachelor John queried ...

"What's that smell?"

"That my friend is the Stench of Responsibility." 

It is safe to say, even evidenced by the bikes we are on, that he and I are polar opposites. I would posit that is why we worked so well together. To give you an even better idea, at the time of our rendezvous on Monday, John was in the middle of his latest DIY project. 

He was resurfacing the leather seats of his Porsche. I wouldn't know the first tool to pick up to begin bringing leather back to its former high Teutonic standards. Apparently he does. Here's a picture of his meticulously art directed work bench.

I have a work bench too. But you can rest assured, apart from standing on 4 wooden legs, it looks nothing like this.