Monday, December 11, 2017

Merry Christmas

It's Christmas time. And I can't believe that in the nine years I've been writing this blog I've never taken the time to give you, the 21 regular readers of Roundseventeen, a Christmas gift. 

Shame on me. 

Thankfully, and due in no small part to the relentless efforts of Precedent Shitgibbon, the War on Christmas is now officially over. So not only can I finally say Merry Christmas, I can match the thought with deed.

And I suspect, we're all in serious need of some yuletide cheer. 

Southern California and the Middle East are going up in flames.

Sexual predators are reproducing like sexual predators.

And North Korea is still trying to decide which West Coast city to target with their Big Boom Boom nuclear weapon. For selfish reasons I hope they don't choose Los Angeles. Or Seattle. Or San Francisco. Or Portland.

I hope they pick Oceanside, I once bought some bad weed in Oceanside.

Let's get back to the gift giving.

The thing I hear most, whether it's via email, text, the rare phone call, or the even rarer personal appearance at an ad agency, is how much people love it when I take planners down a notch. I've even got a got a few loyalists who forward me articles, anecdotes and youtube videos. Mostly videos of wild haired Brits who have carved out a niche for themselves in the arena of Fecal Thought Tossing. I won't say their names, but they rhyme with Dingy and Flaris.

Truth is, between the amount of material I am sent and the real life interactions I've accumulated I could fill the pages of Roundseventeen with nothing but planning-related blog entries. The other truth is I have no desire to paint all planners with the same brush of tar. Some are actually helpful. The one I worked with with last week. And the team of planners I'm working with this week, come to mind.

They're smart.
And concise.
Concision is so underrated.

Today's gift springs from none of that.

In fact, what I'm about to show you was buried deep within a 156 page, 3/4 inch thick planning brief I received a long time ago from an agency that will remain anonymous and a client that will also remain anonymous. Suffice to say, we were asked to pimp pizza that had bacon stuffed in the crust.

I'm not the brightest bulb in the package. If I were, I'd be writing a TV show or movies. Or hawking my newest book on an around-the-world book tour paid for by Random House. Staying at fancy hotels and abusing my room service privileges.

"Hi, can you send up a $23 pitcher of orange juice and the $78 dollar lox and bagel plate?"

But come on, it's pizza, with bacon, how hard can it be to figure that out?

This hard:

I don't know about you but every time I look at this poorly-crafted chart my jaw, already in the slack position from 30 plus years in this business, finds a new level of slackiness. It hurts that someone thought a chart like this would be useful. It hurts even more than I have to be given direction by someone who prepares a chart like this.

And this, which says so little but also says so much, is emblematic of advertising today.

Somebody (somebodies - a team, a pod or a SWAT) took the time to prepare this. Somebody higher up the chain had to approve it. A client had to sign off on it. And then, three hours of valuable time had to be wasted presenting this, and other nonsense, to a bunch of cynical, overpaid creatives who had to fight like hell not to do a spit take of high priced non-fat lattes across the table.

I look at this and reflect on the nature of our business. And in the vernacular of the day and that awful sense of helplessness that I see so much of these days...

"I just can't."

Thursday, December 7, 2017

Today in Random Photopourri

As I mentioned earlier in the week, these are quite busy times. Which is good, because I have some making up to do. I know thanks to deregulation and our increased reliance on coal, the economy is booming. Sadly however those boom times have not trickled down to advertising.

And if revenue doesn't pick up in 2018 I may be forced to sell my Gulfstream V, despite the generous new federal subsidies.

Fingers crossed.

In any case, we're foregoing the writing and making with the photos.

From the deep phone archives, my daughter teaching me how to dance. 
I think this was from the Bat Mitzvah circuit 2009.

It's a Rich Seagull. Get it?

On the way to the top of FlatIron 1.
Boulder, Colorado at its best.

My youngest daughter is fascinated by Guy Fieri.
I find POTUS, equally repulsive. Hence.

Why yes that is a woman wearing a Jiffy pop container as a hat.

Could not sell one of these on the inter webs.

From the Summer of 2017.
Or it could have been last week.
They're all the same.

Soviet Space Dogs. Google it.

Authentic Kenyan beer, from the worst Kenyan restaurant in all of America.

23andMe says this woman is a cousin. 
I don't see the family resemblance.

I think there's more resemblance here.

Wednesday, December 6, 2017

Staying Tuned

Not long ago, I found myself wide awake at 12:38 AM. This is not at all unusual as I've always been a bit of night owl.

During a futile search for some non-Trump related entertainment I came across the end of True Romance. A movie I have always enjoyed.

For one, the movie was written by Quinton Tarantino. And features none of his cinematic indulgences. There are no time deconstructions. No Q cameos. And no attempts to show off his filmic chops. It's a simple, straightforward story about two characters who find themselves falling in love after finding a suitcase full of cocaine that was owned by a Detroit Mafia underlord.

Our heroes try to sell the coke to some sleazy movie producers/drugs dealers. And the movie takes every opportunity to mock Hollywood for all its worth.

That alone is worth the price of admission.

I stuck around through the credits just to tally up the remarkable cast that includes Christian Slater, Patricia Arquette, Christopher Walken, Brad Pitt, James Gandolfini, Gary Oldman, Dennis Hopper, Val Kilmer, and Samuel Jackson.

That's enough star power for two movies.

Just before the credits ran out and the last signature notes from the Hans Zimmer soundtrack were played, I noticed something interesting. A thank you to Morgan Creek, Gary Robinson and the producers of another movie, Stay Tuned.

Holy Crap, I thought, that's the Peter Hyams comedy cult classic that I had a very, very minor role in.

I'm sure I knew this before, but it slipped my rapidly failing 44 year old mind. So I went to the DVR to record the next showing of True Romance. And sure enough, about a third of the way in, there was the scene where Brad Pitt, playing the stoned roommate of Michael Rappaport, is waking and baking and watching Stay Tuned. 

To recap, I'm watching a movie on television and inside this movie there's a character watching a television that is playing a movie and that movie is all about getting trapped inside a television.

I don't know if anything could get more meta. It was meta, wrapped in a meta tortilla, topped with melting meta cheese and served in a meta combo plate.

And today, the whole thing came full circle as a residual check from the Writer's Guild showed up in my mailbox.

Keep in mind the clip from Stay Tuned lasted no more than a second and a half on screen. So $10.69 is not bad. However, it should also be noted that the Senate just revised our tax code and $8.37 of that will be going to Scrotey McMoneybags and the proper maintenance of his Gulfstream 4.


Tuesday, December 5, 2017

Say Hello to Krampus

Last week I introduced the Caganer (literally The Shitter) to an adoring public.

Sadly, many people were not aware of this 500 year old Christmas tradition.

They had heard, via Fox News and Precedent Shitgibbon, of the relentless War on Christmas. That's right, a War on Christmas. Despite Christmas being everywhere. From the festooned lights on the Power Tool section at the local Home Depot to the Merry Christmas toilet paper at my local Union 76 station, which I discovered at the very last minute while on my hike to the Baldwin Hills Overlook. But many remain clueless about some of the minor yuletide festivities that make this holiday so special.

And as I've made it my duty to tell the complete Christmas story, let me introduce you to Krampus.

I might have written about Krampus before, but at the risk of repeating myself, I'm going to venture here again. Perhaps because I'm so fascinated by this thinly-veiled antisemitic creature -- note the horns, the large nose and the predilection for preying on nice goyish children.

Krampus was born in Eastern Europe/Southwest Russia, a stretch of land that has always been so welcoming to my people. You can think of Krampus as the 180 degree opposite of St. Nick.

You see, while Santa Claus rewarded small children for obedience and godliness and general good behavior, Krampus came to scare the living bejeezus out of kids who were naughty. Kids who didn't put the cap back on the toothpaste. Or kids who were just butt ugly.

Contrary to the illustration above, Krampus doesn't abduct or eat small children. Or even drain their blood for the making of the matzo. He simply gives them bad Christmas presents. Lumps of coal. Or rutenbundles. 

It should come as no surprise that Germans have a phrase for this, rotten gifts

These rutenbundles could be anything from a scratchy woolen sweater. Or Cheap Taiwanese-made electronic toys that require some assembly. And don't include batteries. The hard to find HHH alkaline batteries.

I do believe this ogre, this madman, this anthropomorphic creation of all that evil in this world should be familiar to all Americans.

Particularly in 2017, when it appears he has moved into the cockroach/vermin/kleptocrat-infested White House.

Monday, December 4, 2017

On the incredible boredom of being slow

Not long ago, on one of those Facebook groups designed specifically for advertising freelancers, a member asked, "What's the longest slow period you've ever lived through?" Some of the answers were shocking.

Two months.

Six Months.

A year.

A year!

Dude, if you haven't worked a year in advertising, you're not in advertising.

In my 13 years as a freelancer, I've never experienced a fallow period of that magnitude. I'll find a local dry cleaner that needs to have their coupons spruced up before I suffer through anything that severe. However, in the interest of putting all my cards on the table, I have just concluded a fortnight of fucking doing nothing.

Phone calls were made. Phone calls were not returned.

Emails were sent. Emails were not replied to.

I did receive a text regarding the possibility of working on a high visibility Super Bowl spot. But like so many November false starts, it went nowhere.

If I'm being even more honest, the two weeks I'm speaking of could have been three weeks. The days in my den tend to blur together. A fuzzy haze of day drinking, excessive weight lifting, and if you know me on Facebook or Twitter, endless Trump railing. I have enough memes and rants to fill a book. But I won't torture anyone with another one of those ventures.

I can imagine my non-stop references to Precedent Shitgibbon can get quite boorish. On the other hand, I receive so many random emails (not job inquiries mind you) of people telling me how much they love the pointed political repartee.

Plus, as I've told my wife, I couldn't stop it even if I wanted to.

Thank god the slow period has ended. And unlike the weather in Southern California, where, when it rains it drizzles and then it stops drizzling and then it doesn't drizzle for another month, in the freelance world, when it rains it pours.

Now my calendar is booked solid.

The Bullett Rye will go back to to the liquor cabinet.

The two-a-day Body Beast workouts will get cut down to one.

And the Trump memes, on everything from his corrupt cabinet, to his hate tweets, to his disassembly of all that is cherished in this once great nation, not to mention his nefarious financial and political connections to the Russian Mafia, the Russian oligarchs and the serious chess-playing Russian government, will grind to a merciful halt.

Yeah, probably not.
I hate that fat, fishbrained fuckknuckle.

Thursday, November 30, 2017


It's Thursday already.

Wow, these things come up on me faster and faster. Perhaps more so this week because after a bothersome slow period, I've suddenly become very busy again. 

And for the freelancer, busy is good. It means, even at my advanced age of 44, my services are still in demand. Though after seeing that MasterPass spot earlier in the week, that should go without saying.

In any case, it's time for random photos found on my phone.

Let's get to it.

This is a Spanish actor. You've probably seen him in that pharmaceutical ad 
(I can't remember which one). He has a signature dance move that guides him through his day at the office, a walk thru the park, even while mowing his lawn. 
I can't get enough of him.

I have an equal fascination with old Cadillacs. 
This Brougham model was spotted on Culver Blvd. 
I dig the vinyl top.

That's my wife. 
That's our incredibly expensive suite at the Rancho Valencia Inn.
And that's a $23 cranberry scone she just polished off.

Been going to a lot more museums lately.
I love odd art. 
The odder the better.

Take this for example.

Not only do I like going to museums, I like going on our new Metro trains.
I could ride the trains all day.
Once work slows down, I'm going to do that.

A lemon from one of my two lemon trees.
It looks like it's giving me the finger.

So does this transducer box found on Jefferson Blvd.

The newest installation at the Baldwin Hills Overlook.

The walk there never gets old.


Wednesday, November 29, 2017

Put a sock in it Ben.

"I want to thank my Lord and savior, Jesus Christ."

Adding, later in the locker room, ...

"When I saw the cornerback peel off and recognized the safety was in a soft drop two, I knew Antonio would make the double move and fly to the post on a wide banana. And suddenly he was free. The Lord works miracles. Thank you Jesus."

Yeah, OK Ben. And this goes for all you other athletes who thump their bibles and their alleged spirituality every time they spot a little red light on a TV camera. 


I have it on good authority, two years of Hebrew School and 6 months of intensive Torah training cooped up with a smelly Hasidic rabbi in Monsey, NY, that the Messiah, the Lord of Lords, the Host of Hosts, was not an X's and O's guy. 

His forte is not unbalanced front lines and in-between the tackles running. Nor is he intimately familiar with the read/option or the ever-confusing, ever-dynamic pistol formation.

And, I'm pretty sure Jesus doesn't spend his time figuring out how to dissect the nickel defense and then, you know, between walking on water and turning fishes into loaves of bread (I may be fuzzy on my Christian miracles), move the pieces around for you Ben Rothlesberger so the Steelers can maintain their lead in the AFC Central division.

The same can be said to you Russell Westbrook, Kevin Durant, Steph Curry and the other glory givers in the NBA. Jesus's thing is moving heaven and earth. Not the high pick and roll. Or the relentless east/west movement of the ball around the horn. 

All I'm saying Russell, is that if you happen to hit that buzzer beating shot at the end of the game, thank Carmelo for setting the pick and Paul George for getting some inside penetration.

Before this post results in angry letters from my Christian friends, let me apologize. No offense was intended. 

But I do hear from Precedent Shitgibbon that the War on Christmas is almost over and I wanted to say my peace before the last shots are fired.

Also, and I hate to get Nihilistic when we're so close to holidays of all stripes, for any of you who want to believe that we are the center of the universe and that some kind of Sky Daddy is looking over us, making us win games, or Oscars, or even getting a raise at our jobs, I offer you this breathtaking look at our incomprehensible insignificance.

Tuesday, November 28, 2017


OK, I never do this.

I will trash this silly industry of ours. Mostly because there's so much to trash, including: open office space plans, wage disparity, strategic clusterfucks, failed processes, the Long Table of Mediocrity™, etc., etc., ad nauseam.

But I go out of my way not to target individual pieces of work.

I think it's been more than a year since I did a hit piece on that god awful Beneful spot. With the dog that talks. The dog that talks while chewing his food and gushes over the chicken and blueberries and pumpkin and spinach. Yum.

I don't go on about work that sucks because my shit stinks as bad as the next guy's. In fact, I've gone out of my way to post embarrassing work from my past on this very site. Mostly for its therapeutic value.

However, I can't let this MasterCard MasterPass spot featuring Kat Denning and Joe Montana, pass.

Mostly because it is guilty of two sins. It is played during every broadcast of every football game, including the replays on the NFL channel. I can't escape this abomination. And make no mistake, it is an abomination -- its original cardinal sin.

As you might have guessed I've watched this over and over again.

For the life of me, I still don't know what the hell is going on. I know it's a MasterPass commercial because they crammed the name into the spot about 17 times. A masterful feat considering the spot is only 30 seconds long. Other than that, the spot defies all the classic narrative story lines.

It's not man versus nature.

It's not man versus man.

It's not even man versus himself.

It's man versus cheap oblong-shaped ceramic pottery. I must have missed that one in English Lit 101.

I feel bad. Not only for the young team who are no doubt extremely proud of this work and peacocking it around on their social media pages. But I feel worse for the other teams at the agency, who probably put some good work, or at least work that made sense, on the table, only to have it rejected in favor of this colossal mess.

And to them, I can only offer this sage advice: leave your TVs off until after the Super Bowl.

Monday, November 27, 2017

Oh Shit, It's Caganer Time.

Thanksgiving is done. And between my wife's oven roasted bird and my Hall Of Fame smoked masterpiece we have lots of leftovers. Enough turkey, it seems, to build another turkey.

Of course this can only mean one thing. We are in the homestretch of holidays. With the big one, the Mother of Conspicuous Consumption coming upon us.

Happy Birthday Jesus.

With Christmas season going into full swing, we can all expect to see more Caganers. Well, I guess that's wishful thinking. Because despite my decade-long efforts to popularize the Caganer, it's still a delight only known to those living on the Iberian Peninsula.

Last week, I introduced my art director partner to the whole Caganer concept. At first he was quite reluctant and could not comprehend the idea of The Shitter.

He did not believe me when I said Spaniards and some Frenchmen, would decorate their nativity scenes with a small troll uncoiling some brown man wire. 

Unmoved by my conviction he was ready to pull out a hundred dollar bill and challenge me to prove the existence of this Yule Time Yule Log Cutter.

As you know, when it comes to shit I'm a straight shooter.

He made a beeline for the Google page and starting reading all about the Caganer phenomena. And while reading about this scatalogical oddity was one thing, seeing the pictures --particularly for an art director-- was quite another.

This included the picture posted above. A 25 foot high elf-like bearded Caganer, situated in a busy shopping mall, populated by women, children and grandmothers, nonchalantly dropping his electric blue trow and launching a lifeboat off the SS Assitania. 

It was a mistake showing him this picture because his flabbergasted state made it impossible to get any work done the rest of the afternoon.

And though I've been posting this same picture year after year, it still has the same effect on me. In fact, I'm thinking of getting a high- res version of the photo and running it down to the framing store. This shot, enlarged in all its post-digestive beauty, will be a stunning addition to my newly remodeled bathroom.

I hope my wife will like this year's Hanukah gift.

Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Is it 2018 yet?

There doesn't seem to be a lot to be thankful for this year. Or as one of my smart Facebook friends (sorry I can't recall which one) put it,

"2017 is the kind of year that makes you yearn for 2016."

That says it all.

Of course there are the usual bromides. We have our health. We have a roof over our head. We have a two kids in overpriced colleges. We have a turkey that's going to sit on our new Traeger smoker for a good 6 hours tomorrow and vault me into the BBQ Hall of Fame.

But it's also hard not to see the awful direction this country is headed in.

Just a few months ago, Tiki torch carrying Neo Nazis roved our streets and shouted "Blood and Soil" and "Jews will not replace us." Geez, where have we heard that before? And instead of calling them out for this, our dim, witless, clay-brained president decided it would be wiser to cherry pick a few good apples in the bunch and call them "very fine people."

And because of his fragile ego and skin thinner than a self conscious 16 year old girl at the junior prom, we now find ourselves closer and closer to a nuclear winter.

And that's just the tip of a sooty, millennium old iceberg that's melting due to global warming and rising sea levels throughout the world.

There's our new increased reliance on coal.

The withdrawal from global trade agreements.

The wealth redistribution to America's top 1%.

The destruction of Truth.

The attack on social services, like education and healthcare.

And the willful ignorance about Russian infiltration and the outright commandeering of our elections.

That's not to say there's nothing to be thankful for.

There is...

Tuesday, November 21, 2017

I'm now a Smoker.

Those of you who have met me in in real life, know I'm quite rigid on the topic of smoking. Actually, I can be quite rigid on a lot of topics. Kind of binary in my thinking. I either love something or I hate it. Not a lot of room for nuance. I explain it, often to my wife, that unlike others, I am unusually clear minded. She counters, more like unusually thick-headed.

And no where is this more obvious than my disdain for cigarette smoking. I don't like it. Can't stand it. And for better or worse, I often keep my distance from people who do.

Which makes the headline above so disconcerting.

Of course it's also misleading, because I have not taken up smoking tobacco, I have begun smoking meats.

After weeks of research and numerous visits to the various high end, overpriced BBQ stores that dot the landscape of West Los Angeles, I caved in and bought myself a Traeger. The TFB42LZBO.

It's being delivered later this afternoon, just in time for Thanksgiving. And already my head is in a foggy swirl, dreaming of Texas-style brisket, fall-off-the-bone ribs and to the dismay of generations of Polish/Russian Ashkenazi Jews now turning over in their shtetl graves, mounds of mouth-watering pulled pork.

Mmmmm, dietary kosher law violation.

I've already found myself scouring the Internet for interesting smoked meat recipes. Investigating online smoked meat suppliers of duck, ox and yak. And browsing through the cavalcade of smoked meat accessories. As a matter of fact I do need an apron that says, "I'm Smoking."

The anticipation is killing me. I'm seriously at the point of consecutive carnivorous climaxes.

You might be wondering what led me to the magical wonders of smoked wood-pellet cooking? It started where all good conspicuous consumption starts -- on TV. It wasn't a banner ad. Or an Instagram Instie thingie. Or even an ad on my mobile device. By the way, I never see ads on my phone, and if I do they're always too small to see.

No, this bromance was all Old School.

With a twist, of course, it wasn't a TV commercial that sunk its hooks into my meat craving mouth, wait that didn't come out right. It was a 30 minute infomercial.

As I mentioned weeks ago, I believe the infomercial (the original branded content vehicle, if you will) is the future of our business.

Unlike these new fangled 6 second message units or whatever the fuck the media people are pitching these days, infomercials are informative. They're persuasive. And they're effective. The Traeger infomercial lacked production value. And to be honest it wasn't all that engaging. But when you're hawking slow-cooked juicy, sweet and tangy baby back ribs, it doesn't have to be.

All this talk about meat and advertising reminds of a headline I wrote years ago. It might have been for AppleBee's or Sizzler or Smith & Wolensky. At this point in my career they all blend together. I only remember that unmistakable look on the client's face when we presented this and her scowl of indignation before killing the entire campaign.

If God didn't want us to BBQ cows,
he wouldn't have made them so easy to catch.

Monday, November 20, 2017

That's Not How It Works

I'm going to step out of my Comfort Zone and talk about something I know little of. Actually, some might argue, that is my Comfort Zone.

In any case, when it comes to Economics or Macro-Economics, I'm a self admitted lightweight. I took an Economics course in college, during my freshmen year, when I was still too stupid to realize you never sign up for an 8:30 class. Especially in Syracuse, where at 8:30 in the morning, the temperature hasn't made it into the positive integers yet.

On the other hand, I'm a member of the Tribe. And it's rumored we know a thing or two about money.

In a recent poll conducted in Mobile, Alabama, the intellectual capitol of the world, 9 out of 10 locals were prepared to say,

"...'dem Jews, geez, they can turn a dime into a dollar."

As far I'm concerned, that's as good as a PhD.

Which brings us to the Trickle Down Theory and the House of Representatives proposed "Let's Fuck American Workers and Hand All the Money Over to the Robber Barons Tax Plan." I'm afraid I might have tipped my cards and telegraphed where this is going.

Unfortunately most Americans can't see the forest for the trees. Particularly the ones who put Precedent Shitgibbon in office. I guess their memories are not as stout as his. Because for the last 8 years all we heard was how the national deficit was ballooning and would bankrupt our children.

Which is funny because this new plan does nothing to reduce our debt. And in fact, despite the earlier protestations of Paul Ryan, actually ADDS close to 2 trillion dollars in red ink. Sooooo, we're not kicking the can down the road, we're picking up the #10 can of industrial-grade tomato paste and bludgeoning our children on the head with it.

Oh but Rich you're so Old School. In the new school of "Dynamic Economics", numbers and data are more fluid. Malleable. More forgiving to old wealthy white men, who, let's face it, are better at this money thing than working class stiffs will ever be.

And there's the other side of the coin.

Sure, we're adding to our debt, but we'll be taking away useless tax deductions like mortgage interest for homeowners and student loan interest for college students, and putting that moolah in the hands of people who are going to invest in factories, infrastructure and research and development.

And that investment is going to produce growth, like some magic Chia pet. And that overgrown leafy Chia pet will create jobs. Jobs. And more jobs.


I've been in the corporate world and rubbed shoulders with a few wealthy people to know that money does not trickle down. Money defies gravity and trickles up. One need only to look at the wage disparity between today's CEO's and today's shipping clerk, forklift driver or freelance copywriter. In days of old it might have been a multiple of 30:1. Open up a corporate earnings report today and you'll see it's as high as 1000:1.

If you want to verse yourself in the ways of cashflow, I suggest you stop sucking on the teat of failed Republican economic theory -- 2008 was less than 10 years ago -- and binge watch a few Martin Scorsese movies.

Little white envelopes.

Stuffed with cash.

Skimmed, laundered and handed up to the line to the Capos and the Dons.

That's how money works in America.

Thursday, November 16, 2017

If it's Thursday I must be lazy.

As some of you have noticed I have pulled the plug on my reverse scam series that I had been running on consecutive Thursdays. Some of you are lamenting the loss. Some are considerably more thankful. No one is more relieved than my wife, who no longer has to field the persistent questions...

"How could you have married that sick man?"

I'm feeling a little lazy these, and frankly under-appreciated, so in order to cut down on my Roundseventeen writing chores, I'm going to default to my suspect photojournalistic skills and publish a random selection of pics found on my iPhone.

My iPhone is always with me, whether I'm hiking up the stairs in Culver City or even in my garage committing myself to the Beachbody Body Beast program (my arms are reaching Matt Bogen proportions, by the way) so there will never be a shortage of crappy, meaningless photos.

Like these...

This one says so much about the failure of people to take any responsibility. 
And the fucked up status of our country.

This one says the same thing, only better.

"Eat Me" has always been one of my favorite catchphrases. 
Ever since Animal House.

This is from a kitschy souvenir shop in Little Rock, CA. 
My daughter picked it out and I'm so proud of her.

Found plastered to a garbage can in Little Tokyo, a fun night of revelry with Tom Saputo.

From the "I Should've Been An Artist" Collection.

In between Incline Shoulder Press and Progressive Hammer Curls, 
I found this guy atop my medicine ball.

The inimitable Gary V.

Hard to believe that at one time everyone on the block dreamed of driving one of these.

We don't say Cali.