Just Do It

Just started a new book, given to me by the thoughtful (and younger) Ms. Muse. This is not at all unusual for me, as I start a lot of new books. Finishing them is a different story. Ironically, I could write a book about all the books I never finished. 

I bought the 600 page Confidence Man by Maggie Haberman when it came out about 2 years ago. I have yet to crack into the 300's. By the way, if you think Trump was a scumbag president, you'd be wrong. He's been a scumbag way before he was president. He' s been a scumbag since he emerged from his weird-haired Scottish mother, his whole miserable, gold-plated life. 

He may take back his place in the White House -- thanks to the unfathomable stupidity of the American right -- but once the embalmer sprays that final coat of bronzer, this monster is going to the Hot Place.

But back to the book.

I should add that it's not unusual for Ms. Muse to hand me books. In fact, at the conclusion of our first date , she passed on two books to me: a Steven King novel, and the Official Twilight Zone Compendium. I didn't get to start either of those books. Because I promptly lost them!

An inauspicious, but now funny, beginning.

But I'm off to a good start with Younger, Next Year (the book pictured above). I cracked the book open this morning and have already made some good headway. 

It could be the subject material, which is near and dear to my heart. As well as my lungs, my muscles, my bones, my brain and my other brain. In short, it's a manual for longevity. And while I'm not afraid to die, I'd like to put it off for a while. I have people to meet, places to see and adventures to be taken with my kid's inheritance money.

I also have a shit ton papers that need to be organized before my demise. And I'd like to be above ground long enough to see Him/It go below ground. 

The good news is I've already got a head start on the I'm-Going-To-Outlive-Fascism Plan. Turns out the best gerontologists on the planet concur that "movement is the best medicine." In short, they're long on exercise. And believe most Americans get too little of it.

I count myself among the exception and probably get too much. About 2 hours plus. A day. Because now that I'm no longer writing half-assed social and digital crap for PayPal (or anyone else willing to meet my exorbitant day rate) I've got a lot of time on my hand. 

So, when I'm not doing laundry, picking up after myself, or installing a new bidet in any functional toilet I can find in the house, I'm exercising. Dr. Lodge suggests making exercise an addiction. I'm well past that and now into obsession mode. 

I haven't spoke about my grief journey in quite a while. Probably because I wrote about it too much at the beginning. 

However, I can attest to the fact that if I wake up feeling down or melancholy, I know it will dissipate the minute I get on the Peloton. Or in the pool. Or in the garage to pump some iron. Or even on the yoga mat to contort my body in ways that are more painful than any of the aforementioned.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to strap on my walking shoes. ChatGPT can write a reasonable fascimile of these blog posts but it can't put 12,000 steps on my iWatch.

Lost in Translation

Over the course of the last 5, 10, maybe even twenty years, there's been a lot of talk about the demise of the ad industry. With the exception of doors being shuttered and the Infinity Desk™ being ripped from the rebar-reinforced walls of the Barbarian Group, there's been very little in the way of physical evidence to support those claims.

Until now.

As I often do during my late afternoon walks around Culver City, I find things I never knew existed. Equally as often, I will post these pictures in my long running series, borne from a reluctance to write (for free), the Thursday Photo Funnies. 

Last week, for instance, I came across the Blue Door on Venice Blvd. Never saw it in my 30+ years of living here.

You have to look close to find the appropriately named, tiny theater for Culver City's eclectic and undiscovered artists. It's wedged between a nameless Halal Chicken restaurant and a defunct mom and pop auto parts store. I think. 

Truth is, I rarely venture to the north side of Venice Blvd. 

Recently I came across the note (Exhibit A,  pictured above) closer to the tonier sections of my fair little town. If you read the note you can see it was addressed to a marketing staffer at the very tony Erewhon Market. 

I've been inside the local Stepfordian Erewhon, home of the $9 Naval Orange and the $23 shot of artisanly grown lemongrass and thrice fermented blowfish brains, said to increase virility as well as Wordle solving skills. But I have never purchased anything there, opting for the less expensive though equally pretentious --in a hippy dippy way -- goods at the Trader Joes across the street.   

Perhaps I'm making a mountain out of a rice bowl, but it appears the carefully crafted note with its  stunning caligraphy, that this appreciative missive was written post presentation. Written by a man who travelled across the Pacific in order to woo the 20 something marketing professionals at Erewhon. 

From its location -- I found it in the shrubbery just outside the Culver Studios -- it seems they were not impressed.

More importantly, the casual disposal of this note seems to indicate just how far the notion of a "branding strategy" and its impact on retail sales has fallen. Thank you bean counters, data miners and the wizards of performance marketing. 

Mission accomplished.

I know what you're thinking, you got all that from a discarded Thank You note? 

Yes, yes I did. 

And you can dive further into this starchy rabbit hole at the premier of my one act play, Dearth of a Rice Salesman, soon appearing at the Blue Door Theater in downtown Culver City.

Thursday Photo Funnies

It's been a pulse pounding week here at Roundseventeen. What with the election and the increasing possibility that America will no longer be America. The Shining City on the Hill looks as if it may be eclipsed by the dark forces of authoritarianism, stupidty and the re-acsendance of our nation's most pathetic, do-nothing narcissist. 

Yes, I'm a pessimist --  Expect the worst, prepare to be surprised.

I either got that from politics or from my near 12 year tenure at Chiat/Day.

Let's lighten the load, if only temporarily, and indulge in some Thursday Photo Funnies. Keeping in mind that funny is in the eye of the beholder or in this case, the lens of my trusty iPhone.

Upon our many late afternoon walks, 

Lucy and I came across this Halloween decoration.

Her bewilderment = my amusement.

We also came across a giant red shoe at the Culver City Steps.

CC, if you didn't know, is home to the original MGM and 

Munchkins holed up at the CC Hotel. It's kind of a big deal.

The heater at The Plunge (our municipal pool)

was on the fritz.

There was much shrinkage, 

but I still knocked out a mile in under 30 minutes.

I've now installed not one,

but two bidets in my home.

I get my Plumber's Participation Trophy next week.

Our city now has a Snicket.

Does yours?

Come on Colgate, just put all the 

good shit in one tube.

Red Hats. Did they grow up 

eating lead paint chips and making model airplanes?

I know I shouldn't snap pictures

while driving on the 10,

but how could I resist? How?

Also, thank you Rudy Giuliani.

It's not every day that you come 

across a brand new Spiralizer apple

thig-a-majig discarded on the curbside.

Cash has been tight lately, maybe I should 

apply for one of these high comission jobs?

And finally, there's this douchebag incel.

Congratulations buddy, now you're famous. well almost famous.

Now go back to your Call of Duty game.

 

 

An army of one

Was walking Lucy (my dog, I love dogs) the other day and was fortunate to run into a homeowner who was wheeling out his trash can. Fortunate, because this was no regular homeowner. He had a Harris/Walz 2024 yard sign prominently displayed in his front yard.

Not all that unusual in these critical times for democracy. 

But he also had another sign, that was unusual, that read: Veterans for Harris/Walz. 

It got my attention. And in the many times I've walked by his house I'd always been hoping to chat with him. And on this beautiful fall morning on Southern California with the temperature hovering about 85 degrees, the opportunity presented itself.

I approached this gingerly, knowing not everyone wants to discuss politics with a perfect stranger.

"Hey, do you have a minute," I said.

"Sure bud, what's up?"

"I saw your yard signs, which I like, and was wondering if you can relieve me of some anxiety? I like to think people like yourself, veterans and current service men and women feel as you do and will vote against a man who has shown such unbelievable disrespect towards our military."

I grimaced before he answered.

"Well, I'd like to tell you yes, but I can't. I can tell you that officers and anyone who's been in for a while or older like me, can't stand the Orange Man. He is fucking dangerous (his words)."

"Well that's good."

"But the rank and file, not so much. They're young and dumb and all gung ho and they eat up his shit (again his words.)"

Adding...

"I have two young sons 19 & 26, both in, and they don't see it like we do. They think we're being overly dramatic and think he's a strong leader."

Turned out this guy was yearning to talk about the situation and we stood there for a good 15 minutes. It was enlightening. As well as disheartening. 

I could feel my pulse rising and shortened the chat so I could return home and pop a low dose Petra Cannabis Infused Moroccan Mint.

Before I departed I wanted to ask if his sons were Suckers or Losers? Thankfully Lucy was tugging on the leash and my brain filter kicked in.

Sorry about the rash of Trump postings lately. I just want this nightmare to be over.

 

On Sportsmanship

 It's early on the season. Way too early to make any predictions. Though I do like the way the Washington Commanders have grabbed the bull by its horns and steamrolled other teams with their incredible new quarterback Jayden Daniels.

I love seeing kids making the most of their opportunity. And establish themselves as stars in the NFL, arguably one of the toughest sports to excel in -- mostly because every athlete there is top shelf.

Also like to see the Commanders do well with the new team name after holding on to their old racist name for far too long. You can call me woke all you want but the disrespect went on for far too long. Imagine if you will, if the New York Giants had gone by the name the New York Hebe's. 

Or if the Tennessee Titans took on the moniker of the Tennessee Crackers or the Tennessee Chicken Bangers or the Tennessee Grand Wizards. 

Scratch that last suggestion, I'm sure (and my friend Greg C. will attest to this) they would love that, as a last bite at the apple of White Christian Patriarchy.

In any case, the Super Bowl will be just around the corner. This got me thinking. 

And so while driving to to the Montrose Octoberfest last weekend, I turned to Ms. Muse and drew an analogy. Naturally we were talking about Trump, mostly because I have such agita about the upcoming election. Although she despises Trump as much as I do, she prefers not to vocalize her visceral feelings about the sad sack of shit. Or talk about  IT as much as I do.

But she puts up with my obsession as much as I put up with her insistence on top sheet linens, which I abhor. 

I digress.

In rerunning the many times he has spoken on the subject I posited the following: imagine if the Minnesota Vikings face off against the resilient Kansas City Chiefs in Super Bowl 53. And further imagine, one week before the big game, Patrick Mahomes standing in front of a microphone and stating,

"The only way we can lose the Super Bowl is if  it's rigged. That's the only way. And they can do it because they're nasty, disgusting people. I call them communists. They are. They're communists."

I'm pretty sure the totality of Americans would upchuck their Campbells Chunky Chicken Soup (now with 23% more white meat.) 

Because it's UNSPORTSMANLIKE. 

Remember sportsmanship? It's one of the more endearing qualities Americans love and cherished. Always have and always will. Or maybe not, because we now have a whiny, narcissistic, convicted fraudster and felon, yelling the same horsecockery months before his big day.

In fact this bloated malignant tumor has been yelling that ever since 2015. 

He did nothing about this alleged rigging when he was president. Only because he won.

He did nothing but whine about in 2020. Only because he lost. 

And now he is bitching about it again. Because he thinks he'll lose again. To a recently-turned black woman. Gasp!

In all that time he has produced not one shred of evidence of this alleged rigging. He doesn't even possess evidence of a concept of the rigging.

Sportsmanship, once a hallmark of the American Zeitgeist, is now officially DEAD.

Thanks to you know who.

MAGA, I’m all for it.

Reporters are fond of asking Red Hats, when Donald Trump says Make America Great Again, when do you think that was? These same Red Hats, not known for their intellectual or historical acumen often fumble the ball and can’t put their finger on a date. A year. Or even a decade. 

Maybe they shouldn’t be faulted for that. 

If, for instance they replied something like 1953, when America was enjoying post-War prosperity, the elitist reporter might respond, “Oh when black people were forced to drink from segregated water fountains?”

Another respondent might answer 1911, to which another member of the Hebraic media cabal might reply, “Oh when women were denied the right to vote?”

In other words, it’s a loaded proposition. Particulalrly for Republicans who can’t be bothered by details. Or facts. Or truth.

But it is not a question to be ignored. I just wouldn’t answer it with a numerical date.

Instead, I’ll tell you when America was great: 

When we decided a woman's body belonged to a woman. And only she and her doctor had a right to decide that body’s sovereignty

·     When we started living up to our own creedo that “all men (and women) were created equal"

·     When we accepted our role as a world leader and stood up for freedom and liberty and stood against (and tall) against military adventurism (Russia/China/Iran)·

      When we had grand aspirations and even grander abilities to exceed our own grasp

·     When we exhibited compassion and empathy and shared the blessings of being the most prosperous nation on earth

·     When we stood for the best of human nature and not the cruelest, most selfish and most craven 

·     When America exceptionalism was exceptional for all the right reasons

Sadly, we have descended so far. And have a long way to go to get back on track. 

And a cheesy, fucking Chinese-made red golf cap won’t help one bit.

Let's hope we remember exactly when America was great on November 5th.

(Pardon the different typefaces and poor formatting. I wrote this piece in MS Word and imported it. t got all messed up. And I don't have the wherewithal nor the will to fix it.)

What's past is prologue

(This is a timely repost from November 2016, right after the rigged election that wasn't rigged and Donald Trump, despite losing the popular vote, snuck into the White House -- the most monumental political catastrophe in American history. Turns out I was quite prescient.) 

You know who really lost last week?

These guys.

The rough-riding, camo-wearing, weapon-sexuals who for weeks preceding the election, stated in no uncertain terms, that if their guy didn't win they were prepared to go all Wolverine on us and stage their own Lexington Concord.

By the way, I'm sure the folks pictured above are much more familiar with the Red Dawn reference than they are to the very birth of our nation.

But you know and I know that on the night on November 7th, these white trash assnuggets were polishing their 5.56 polymer tipped ammo and chomping at the bit to wreak some revenge on the cultural elitists, global elitists and kale-eating nutrition elitists who stole their election.

If things didn't go their way, these Rambo-wannabes warned, blood would run all the way from 5th Avenue down to the Pacific via Wilshire Blvd.

Intricate maps were drawn up. Complete with stealthy diversions, Patton-like flanking maneuvers and tactical positions marked up for the group's best snipers. Finally, they thought, an opportunity to leverage all those weekend warrior training trips to the woods.

And lob homemade hand grenades at Them. You know Them, the enemy who wants to destroy this great country with education, access to proper healthcare, sensible banking regulations, alternative energy sources and equal rights for all citizens.

What kind of un-American bullshit is that?

Guess what Bobby Jo Kalashnikov and Betty Bag O'Bullets, your guy won.

Not with more votes, he didn't win more votes. But he won nonetheless, with the same gerrymandered system you so vocally distrust and want to destroy. The one that was rigged by, how did David Duke put it, oh yeah the Jooos - who, as it turns out, are the world's worst puppetmasters and stringpullers.

Well the doomsday scenario they so desperately wanted did not materialize. Alex Jones will have to conjur up some new false flags. And all that preparation will have be to put on powder.

At least until 2020.

What's the expiration date for freeze dried beef stroganoff?

Rumble in the Jungle

I like to think my musical tastes are quite eclectic. But the truth is, if you were to lift up one of my headphones, or have a seat in my Mustang Mach E, you'd probably hear old man geezer Classic Rock. 

You might, on occasion, hear some Frank Sinatra, some classical, or, if I'm feeling melancholy, even some Max Richter. But more than likely it will be Led Zeppelin, Santana, Jethro Tull or Yes.

Upon re-listening to many of the Yes albums of yesteryear, I now find their lyrics embarrassingly childish, obtuse and self indulgent. 

Talk about woo-woo.

All of which makes the picture from above, from Jungle's recent open air appearance at the Hollywood Bowl all the more confusing. Right?

"What the hell is he doing there?" you might be asking.

Last week  Ms. Muse was celebrating a birthday. And like me, she treasures experiences more than actual physical gifts. At least that what we keep telling each other. Though I do enjoy a good appliance and often experience appliance euphoria. For example, I love my new electric lemon juicer. Particularly since I have two lemon trees that are more fertile than OctoMom, remember her?

Long story, short, I bought us two tickets to the bowl, to see and hear Jungle, completely in the dark regarding their music or their showmanship. The YouTube videos I did see suggested that it was a mix of R&B music and some innovative choreography.

Besides, you can't really go wrong with a night at the Hollywood Bowl.

Turns out the show was short on choreography but heavy on the chronic. 

I came of age in the 70's and have been to many concerts where the Mary Jane was quite prevalent. This was Reefer Madness. We were surrounded on all sides. By people not smoking one joint but by couples, much younger couples, chainsmoking spleef after spleef after spleef. The cloud hanging opver the Bowl that night was thicker than even the most stubborn June marine layer.

I don't know how these people stood up on two feet. Which they all did throughout the show. 

Ms. Muse and I, known to suffer from occasional lower back pain, were the only ones sitting, and laughing, about the "musical adventure" we found ourselves on.

My favorite part of the show came with the opening act, which by the way was never mentioned on the ticket or the Bowl listing. A young man who goes by the name of BAS. He had the build of a husky football player, accentuated by his thick fur parka that was given up by an unfortunate cheetah or leopard.

While the band was playing a steady beat behind him, he was urging the crowd to chime in with the charming chorus of: "Bitch, don't play me like that." They don't write songs like that anymore.

I never had going to a rap concert on my bucket list. But now that I have, I can cross it off.

Happy Birthday, Sheryl.

Bless the stupid

Was having a chat with my friend/fellow father/fellow landsman/fellow copywriter/fellow blogger/fellow observer of human nature, the other day. It was not unlike many chats we've had before. Perhaps you've had the same with the sane people you know.

"How can there be so many stupid people in this country that can't see him for what he is? Why do they  want this ignorant rapist/grifter/adulterous/document-stealing convicted felon to ascend to the highest office in the land?"

I know this question gets asked everyday, from Portland, Maine to Portland, Oregon. Only in Oregon it's often followed by...

"Hey, we forgot to burn some sage in the laundry room."

To be completely frank about the question, there is no answer. And all the head scratching in the world will not explain this man's Svengali-like affect on the millions who adore him. His ear bandage. His diapers. His sneakers. His worthless NFT trading cards. And now his new $100K "gold" watch. Seen here with the amended Tiny Hands.

I know, I have to work on my photoshop skills.

So people can't afford bacon or their kid's daily intake of 24 eggs, but they sure as hell are willing to empty out their retirement accounts in order to wear the Trump label on their wrist?

I don't get it. And 2/3 of the country also doesn't get. And so I saw no point pursuing this line of discussion with Jeff.

But it did occur to me that if not for the masses and masses of stupid people in this country, the ones who claim Olive Garden has the best Italian food or that the moon landing was faked with CGI  (ignoring the fact that CGI wouldn't be around for another 35 years), I would surely be headed to a dirty nursing home.

In fact, Jeff and I, who both made a living in the once-lucrative advertising business, ought to be grateful for the exceptional American stupidity.

"Chesterfield preferred by 9 out of 10 doctors who smoke cigarettes."

"Now with 23% more Retsin"

"Wassssssuuuuuuuuppppppp"

"Jardiance, the little pill with the big story to tell"

"Liberty, Liberty, Liberty...................Liberty."

And for that I am grateful. 

Thank you Stupid People. Not for bringing our Democracy -- I'm sorry, Constitutional Republic -- to the precipice of extinction. But for providing me with a career in smart-assery and avoiding that institutional mattress and the even more detestable nursing home food.

If not for the stupid, I might have remained driving that damn forklift at the industrial wire cable warehouse in Compton, CA. Although by now I like to think I would have been promoted into forklift management.

Thank you stupid people. Please stay home on November 5th.

This dog will hunt

I'd like to start this blog piece by saying I love dogs. Love them. I walk my Lucy twice a day. Once in the morning to do "business." And once in the late afternoon to accompany me on my quest for steps and to burn 1750 calories in a day. Sadly, I usually average about 1600.

When I see other people with dogs I usually stop and pet them. And coo them with baby talk. And scratch that little spot at the top of their head.

Like I said. I love dogs.

But I HATE my neighbor's dog. Mostly because she lives with my neighbors, a trio of dysfunctional misfits that keep their TV blaring 24/7/365. That often use power tools in the garage at all hours of the wee morning. And who fight like famished wolverines.

MOM: You can have the house all to yourself this weekend, I'm going to visit my sister in Phoenix.

SON: Good, I hope your plane goes down in the ocean!

They're not only dysfunctional, they're geographically challenged.

I've hated this dog, who is equally dysfunctional through no fault of her own, since she started howling more than 10 years ago. And my neighborly efforts have come to no avail.

"I really would appreciate it if you didn't let the barking dog out at 3:29 AM, I'm trying to sleep."

"Oh fuck off and close your windows."

BTW, all dialogue here is verbatim.

In this past tortured decade I have tried all kinds of remedies to make that damn dog shut up. I purchased anti-barking devices sold on Amazon. I hooked up my bluetooth speaker to play inaudible high pitched sounds to discourage the barking. I even followed the instructions from the following youtube video and jerry rigged my own device with Piezo tweeters. Never heard of Piezo tweeters? Behold...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6zQIFAHui_E

I had all but given up until someone on the NextDoor app suggested Pet Corrector (seen in the picture above.) It was $12 investment I had no trouble making.

I tried it on my dog Lucy, who rarely barks, and she simply ignored it. The pressurized gas is similar to an airhorn (which I've also tried, to no avail) but the sound is nowhere near as loud. If you've ever filled up a propane tank and watched the gas attendant bleed to the tank, you are very familiar with the sound emanating from the can of Pet Corrector.

Much to my amazement, the Pet Corrector is pitch perfect. I could not believe my ears. The neighbors dog, a Malinois, which is French for Bad Noise, started barking. So I went to my back fence and let out a short burst in the middle of one of her tantrums.

Silence.

Minutes later, she tried barking again. I hissed back.

Silence again.

It's been two weeks now and every time I press that magic blue button at the top and my palm goes cold from the sudden release of harmless pressurized gas, the dog whimpers and goes back inside.

Serenity Now.

Of course it does require me to leave the house and bolt through the backyard to bring about some peace and quiet. So now I'm trying to figure out how to rig a wireless triggering mechanism that will squeeze the button from the comfort of my man cave. 

I'm no billionaire

 

You don't have to be smart, or even a stable genius, to make money in real estate, you just have to be staked. That is given money to start. As in Monopoly. We started each game with a player given $500 or $1500. I forgot. I'm old. 

That's how one begins in real life as well. I know this for a fact. 

My father was not a wealthy man. He was working class. And grew up in the post Depression era. His mother saved string. His father took whatever money was saved, including the enormous string fortune, and blew it all at the racetrack.

Nevertheless, my father made something of himself. Not for nothing, but he did that after he spent a year in an Army prison for smoking the reefer in 1947. 

My father was not your everyday Bronx-born CPA. 

When I moved out to California and started making a life for myself, he suggested I get some real estate. Are you kidding? I said. I was barely making ends meet writing shitty copy for help wanted ads in recruitment advertising. That's when he fronted me $30,000 to buy a tiny condominium in the not-so-desirable southern areas of Culver City. Minutes away from the also Not-So-Fabulous Forum.

It was 800 square feet and had 2 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a dining room (more of a nook), a tiny living room, and a kitchen the size of a powder room. You could fit two people in the kitchen but then there wouldn't be any room for a pot roast or a chicken.

I dutifully paid him back the money because I didn't want that nut hanging over my head. Years later and in a stroke of good fortune the California real estate market obliged me with a huge profit on the condo. 

I sold it for nearly 3 times what I paid for it. 

I took that profit and bought out my uncle and his modest home in Palm Springs. It was a way for me to avoid capital gains tax. And for him to have some cash in his pocket for his golden yet-cranky years. 

With the miniscule rent he was paying me I was also able to bail out my sister-in-law who had gotten underwater on her townhome. I still rent it to her. At under-market rates, but I'm glad to be in a position to help her out. 

Not to mention my house, originally purchased during Culver City's frumpy years. With Google, Apple, and Amazon now situated here, it ain't that frumpy anymore -- $$$.

The point is, real estate been very, very good to me. So to assume that Donald Trump is some kind of business wunderkind is to conflate his success with some kind of plan. 

Or even a concept of a plan.

Any idiot, including me, can make money in real estate. As the saying goes, "Land, they're not making any more of it."

Just something to keep in mind, I was fronted $30K in 1988. 

Ex President Grandpa Ramblemouth was given $400,000,000 by his tax cheating, Ku Klux Klan loving father. And yet he still finds the need to pimp sneakers, bibles, trading cards and shabby books.

OK, maybe the last one doesn't help make my case. I've also got books to sell.

Feel free to pick one up here...

https://www.amazon.com/stores/Rich-Siegel/author/B07W1C2FCL?ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

My other point is...Fuck Donald Trump.

Yeah, no

I've been warned by my former boss and friend (who shall remain nameless) that I need to tread lightly when talking about my 2 year run at PayPal. Suffice it to say, my time there was not exactly a fount of creativity. 

To be fair, I never expected it to be. 

I was writing Subject lines and Preheaders in order to get people to open newsletters with boilerplate copy about 17% discounts on air fryers. Or 25% off UGH boots. Or Back to School supplies including the large 64 crayon box, now marked down 35%. Oh the glamorous life of a washed up copywriter.

If you're like me, which I pray you're not, you spend every morning going through these tedious and relentless emails and unsubscribe to as many as possible. But they replicate like an unforgiving cancer. 

My best line was for a holiday sale.

SUBJECT LINE: She deserves a great Mother's Day gift.

PREHEADER: Especially from you 10 lbs. babies.

Not surprisingly, that line outperformed all the others in our weekly A, B, C, D, E and F testing. Also not surprisingly, I got in a heap of trouble for even remotely connoting a dilated vagina, such as it were.

Ah, good times.

Two weeks ago, PayPal released a big blockbuster commercial featuring Will Ferrell. You can find it on YouTube. Or, like the millions of American consumers who already know how PayPal works, you can just ignore it. You won't be missing anything. 

I'm not a huge fan, but if you insist on seeing Will Ferrell actually being funny, you could go here. 

And if you're looking for funny commercials I suggest you track down the three new spots for Firehouse Subs. They don't feature any celebrities. Nor any overpriced music. Nor any huge production values.

They're just simple, straightforward situational spots driven by love of hot sauce. And more importantly the myriad choices of tongue combustion available at Firehouse Subs.

I happen to be an aficianado of hot sauces and often say, "It's not hot unless it burns twice."

That's the kind of line that gets me trouble. Perhaps you'll forgive me if I show you my favorite of the Firehouse spots:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9GUupxgBsI4

I got your brand journey, right here

My friend Mickey...er, Paul, is one of the founders and owners of ADWEAK. You have no doubt seen his posts on Twitter, Facebook and Linkedin.

One of my favorite series he runs is the confused consumer trying to decide which brand to go with. Perhaps the most critical factor in her selection is how the brand's life journey aligns with her busy life. It's a sharp jab at the Planning/Strategists/CMOs who believe their own shit doesn't stink.

It does.

All this horsecockery started as I was inching my way out the double bolted doors of advertising. And I often thank my lucky stars that I found the Exit Door just in time. 

As a solo supermarket shopper, I can say without hesitation, that's not how this works. To steal a phrase, "It's not how any of this works."

Take paper towels for instance. 

Unless you're reaching for the Kirkwood or Signature generic store brands, you only have two real choices in Paper Towels -- Bounty and Brawny. One of them is the quicker picker upper, but I'd have to flip a coin to guess which one. Both, I suspect, do a fine job of picking up my spilt coffee, wiping down the dated butcher block counter (that needs sanding) or cleaning up my new bidet-equipped bathroom.

Nevertheless, I choose Brawny, featuring the red shirted he-man lumberjack. Which by the way, has nothing to do with my early flannel-wearing, wood-chopping days in frigid Syracuse, NY. 

The two reasons I pick Brawny? They come in a handy dandy 4 pack which doesn't take up too much room in my disorganized pantry. And I like the way the paper tears off the roll. Seriously.

That's it. And there's no amount of advertising by Bounty, or the significantly cheaper brands that will change that.

Same logic applies to batteries. 

Admission: I spent many years working at Chiat/Day, who reaped millions of dollars and awards for the advertising genius behind the Energizer battery. The ads said Energizer batteries keep going and going and going. And the drum-pounding bunny seemed to reinforce that. But in real life, in my life, I have found (anecdotally, of course) that the copper topped Duracells actually last longer. 

And so you won't find any Energizer batteries in my house. Though I am indebted to them for a 2005 golf outing at Trump's nightmare clownish course, which I secretly hope is falling into the ocean. It cost $300 to tee off at that shithole by the sea.

I suppose this is a dilemma for all makers of parity products. They need to do a better job at finding the reasons why people choose what they choose. 

It won't be easy. It won't be pretty. 

Thankfully, it won't be me doing it. 

I'll vote for Trump

Last week I got a DM from an R17 reader complimenting me on my political savvy. I demurred and suggested I had none. 

Truly. 

Because If I did, my long running campaign against the most monstrous figure in American political history would have surely resulted in some converts. 

And thank you cards.

"Thank you Rich for shining the disinfecting light on this grifting scoundrel. I don't know how could've been so blind to his obscene flim flammery."

Is how I imagine thousands of these cards to read. 

But that has not yet come to pass. Perhaps it's because of my acerbic tone? My glib nature? My reliance on easily verifiable facts? In any case, it hasn't worked. And I've had to block or unfriend known Red Hats who still evangelize for their serial rapist/grifter/thief.

So devoted are they that I've had to stop myself in my tracks and wonder, "Is there something I'm missing?  Sure those 4 years were among the worst in my life. And the ones that followed weren't so hot either, considering the fucking he mess he made. But maybe, just maybe I've drowned out the voice of reason in an echo chamber of my own making?"

And so it has come to this. 

In less than 50 days, I will enter the voting booth (IRL, as opposed to my normal habit of mailing in my stand for democracy) and I will pull the lever (I know that's not how it's done anymore) for one Mr. Donald John Trump. And I will film it, so as to produce the proof of my actions. 

I understand California is a deep blue state and one vote in the red column won't make a bit of difference. Meaning this will be a Pyrrhic Victory for some lucky devotee. But I'm willing to eat some Cheetoh dusted crow.

There is one condition however. 

I will vote for Trump if one of his followers can show me the check we received from Mexico for the border wall. He claimed there would be a 2000 mile beautiful Wall sealing off the southern boundary of our country. And that Mexico would pay for it. 100%, he said. Show me the check. Oh and if you can, show me the Wall.

I will vote for Trump if one of his followers can show me the famed Infrastructure Bill he also promised. He said our bridges, roads and airports were like those of a 3rd world country. Clearly he fixed all that when he was president. And equally clear is that Biden destroyed or sabotaged those hard fought improvements during his 4 years. Show me the Infrastructure Bill and the towering results of all those Infrastructure Weeks.

and finally...

I will vote for Trump if you can point me in the direction of the "big, beautiful new Healthcare Plan" that was promised on so many occasions. We all know how Obamacare has been "destroying our country." What with its easy access to healthcare and guarantee of coverage despite any medical preconditions. So I'm naturally interested in the alternative plan that Mr. Trump and his cadre of experts and have put together to replace it and restore our country back to its former greatness. 

And so, die hard Red Hats, the ball is in your court. 

Show me what you got and I'll gladly jump off the Democracy Train and jump on board your Dictator Train.

BTW, I like the 2016 MAGA hat much better than the horsey 2020/2024 version.

Thursday Photo Funnies

I can't keep up with other bloggers who post 5 times a week, without fail. I prefer the more civil work (if you can call it that) schedule, the ones chosen by the writers on late night talk shows. The Monday thru Thursday lazy man's regimen of funny business. 

Hopefully, funny.

And even on that curtailed routine, I often run out of gas and must defer to my semi-regular series of photojournalism (if you can call it that.)

So let's get to it before the pain meds (see yesterday's post) kick in and I'm napping in the man cave. 

I suspect this is AI, but a man can dream can't he?

This is some local artwork found on my nightly walk 

to the Jackson Market-- home of the best ciabatta pannini, which

I can't eat anymore.

As noted above, I've eschewed bread-y foods

for more fruits and vegetables, like the ones

I can grow in my garden. 

Worst birthday cake inscription ever, 

compliments of Schatt's bakery in Bishop.

Fortunately, my daughter (Schmabby) has a 

great sense of humor 

and loved it.

Zoom in for the Tusker Beer Logo, a Kenyan beer. 

My oldest daughter spent 5 months there.

For 5 months I couldn't breathe.

Some sample art pieces on exhibit from the Wendt Museum.

They have some very unusual stuff.

I like unusual.

We don't have flying cars yet, but we do have driverless Waymos.

These things still freak me out.

If my Cannondale Super Evo 6 bike had fenders,

I'd want one of these too. 

Yeah, right?

Did I mention I've been doing yoga lately?

Don't bother turning the picture over, it's not me.

I didn't get my daughter's permission to use this photo

but they don't read my blog, so it doesn't matter.

Batter Up

This morning I find myself reaching for the Acetaminophen and the NSAID. Tylenol and Advil, for the pharmaceutically challenged. My local supermarket sells a generic bottle that includes both for "Dual Action Pain Relief."

That's what it says on the bottle and that's what my body craves.

You see last Sunday, we found ourselves on a hike the Arroyo Seco, just south of Pasadena's stately Rose Bowl. The trail was remarkably well kept (Of course, Pasadena, right?). And unlike similar trails through all of Southern California, there were no signs of homeless encampments. 

I'm sorry, unhoused temporary living quarters. Hate to get curmudgeonly about that, maybe it's the lower thoracic region talking. 

At the south end of the Arroyo there are a bunch of little league fields, a skateboard park, horse stables and a batting cage. My eyes lit up when I saw the batting cages, as indicated by the picture above.

It didn't take much prodding to get me in there. I forked over my twenty bucks and requested the cage with softballs (they're easier to hit) and the 45 mph pitching machine. I asked for a longer bat, seeming to recall my youth and the success I had enjoyed with a 34 or 36 -- that's bat lingo.

Being barrel chested and carrying extra "heft" doesn't come in handy for many sports but when executed correctly and solid connection is achieved, it can send a softball over many outfield fences.

Sadly, the only bats they had in their barrel were of the metal kind. I'm an old school guy in many ways and preferred to re-enter the batter's box with a trusty wood Al Kaline Louisville Slugger. But as in real baseball, you gotta take the pitches you're given.

Maybe you're wondering how I did. 

I know I was wondering how this 66 year old man would do after a 40 year absence from the baseball arena. Unlike my friend George Tannenbaum who headed south of the border to play minor league ball for the Zappatillos, I only played in the Advertising Softball League at the very beginning of my ad career. 

And to be honest, I was much more interested in the post game recreational activities than the actual games.

After a few initial whiffs, I started coming around. The batting cage proprietor gave me some helpful hints. 

"15 minutes is a long time. You don't have to swing at every ball. Take a break. And get used to the seeing the ball by practicing a bunt. Make contact. And don't try to hit a home run every time."

It worked. And I started hitting. 

"You did pretty good for an old guy."

Thanks, I thought. 

Maybe.

It is only now that my hands have stopped tingling from the vibrating metal bat, I hate those things. I wonder what batting cage guy has any tips to restore my back and my ability to get out of a chair.

Oy.

Bidet 2024

As I went about taking Lucy (my dog) out for her morning constitutional, I had been giving thought about what I would blog about today. One thing stuck in my craw. But then I thought, it's a very sensitive area. And I'd have to be very restrained on the matter. 

Restraint is hardly my strong suit and can often result in IBS.

When I returned from our walk, carrying a green disposable bag of Lucy's business, I noticed the Amazon guy had been here and left a box on my front stoop. 

Like many of you I wondered what had come. 

These days I often forget what Me and Jack Daniels had purchased a few nights ago. I was hoping it would be that collection of 3 comfy fall weather shirts, since my closet has been effectively thinned out, along with my shrinking torso.

Instead, it was my brand new Bidet. The Luxe Bidet Neo 185 with slide-in installation, 360 degree self clean mode and UV resistant material.  

I never thought of myself as a Bidet guy. 

The conversion happened in Canada, a few weeks ago while Ms. Muse and I were staying at a hotel in Vancouver about to board a cruise ship the next morning towards Alaska. I never thought of myself as a cruise guy either, but I'm all about trying new things. Except broccolini. Cruciferous vegetables, though good for the digestive system, will never pass these lips.

Our Canadian bathroom featured a full fledged bidet toilet -- not just the fancy add ons like the Neo 185 (I love products that end with a number, so Matrix like.)

This thing had everything. Hot and cold running water. Two wands for extra coverage. A laser guided dryer. Turbo Mode in case you also wanted to hose down the shower. I'm not sure, but I think there was also an option for a light show upon the completion of your business.

In short, it was amazing!

It was at that point that I vowed to get my own bidet. 

I'm about to head out of town for the weekend and will not have time to install it. Nor to give a much anticipated test drive. And I know you'll all want a full throated description of its operation and aquatic performance, but that will have to wait.

But I'm already calculating the money I won't be spending on Toilet Paper. Or a new toilet auger (look it up) to replace the old one that collapsed from overuse. 

Most of all, I'm looking forward to that clean, fresh minty feeling I'll be able to enjoy all day long.

Damnit, I didn't get the expensive ultra-luxury model with the minty water cartridge.