Thursday Photo Funnies, circa 2025

Happy to bring you the first Thursday Photo Funnies of 2025. Which is no great shakes considering it's only the second week in January. Which means we have one more week to exercise our Freedom of Speech before the UnWoke Arise. And the purge of anything enlightened goes into action.

The shot above, by the way, was taken the day after the tragic fires that have consumed the Southland. My palm tree -- technically it belongs to the city -- and others on my street hadn't been trimmed since Dan Quayle had been the second stupidest buffoon in the White House.

Let's get to the kitschy pictures, I hear my not-so-voracious followers mouthing. 

As an aside, I find it fascinating that my first introduction to world of art and design (kitsch) came from my gruff, raised-in-the-streets of the Bronx, CPA father who didn't graduate college until I was 9 years old. And who was decidedly unartful.

This is the inside of my brand new LG 901.

It's Cobalt Blue. Did you know product names

that end in numbers are better than those that don't. 

I don't post enough pictures of friends. That's Matt B. and Nic Y.
Either because I'm laughing too much (at my stupid jokes.)

Or, I've been overserved.

In the continued spirit of Dostadning (Swedish death Cleaning) 

I came across these long lost baby pictures of myself and my younger brother.

These are babies of the gargoyle kind.

Zoom in for a creepy look at how folks in Palm Springs

cope with 'brain burn.'

Speaking of Palm Springs, feast your eyes on

that new garage door, powered by the LiftMaster 720.

I'm in the midst of Entryway Euphoria.

This wasn't on my phone but I screengrabbed it for later use.

That later... is now.

What would a TPF be without at least one

dig at New Fuhrer.

Okay, two.

Finally, there's this sad but true (I hear) commentary

on getting less younger. Mmmmm, mentholated....

Rockin' the Rockwell

I've been on a quest as of late. A two-pronged quest, if you will. These mission(s) began, as they often do, with a nonchalant conversation between Ms. Muse and I, when during the recent Christmas she suggested we watch Love Actually. 

To her surprise, but not to anyone else's, I hadn't actually seen the movie. Turns out there's a myriad of Rom-Com movies I have never set eyeballs on. 

Again, this should come as no surprise. 

So, armed with a iPhone and a method for keeping contemporaneous notes -- because our collective memory sucks -- we have begun compiling a list of movies we both need to watch. At this point it should be noted there are quite a few she has not seen and demand a second viewing on my part. 

Turns out Love Actually, was a decent movie. Not the definitive Christmas movie, like Die Hard, but decent. You can see where this is going. 

The next movie up was Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri. I had never seen this but always wanted to. It was amazing and deserving of all the accolades. And this set up the corollary to the first quest, with regards to the amazing performance of one Sam Rockwell. 

That brought us to Galaxy Quest (pictured above.) I don't know how this classic escaped my admittedly short attention span, but it did. Now I'm kicking myself for having ignored it. I love a movie with so much inside baseball. A movie willing to make fun of itself. And the very act of movie making. 

It's Meta Meta.

And there's Sigourney's Weaver's ample cleavage which she discusses in this post mortem discussion about the failed marketing campaign.

We stuck around for the credits of Galaxy Quest because I was sure the Director and the writers would have gone on to make other great films I have not seen but should. Sadly there was not much to speak of. A glaring example of how one marketing misstep can make or break a career in Hollywood.

If you haven't seen Galaxy Quest, do yourself a favor and stream it. It lends itself to the small screen anyways. 

And while you're nagivating the annoying streaming selection process (damn I miss the convenience of DirecTV) also look for The Way Way back, a small coming of age movie that also features Sam Rockell, who chews up the scenery the way Sarris meant to devour the Thermians. 

Home, precious home

 

Like so many here in Southern California, I've been giving a lot of thought to Home. More specifically, how tons of shaped wood, the occasional steel beam, boatloads of stucco, and sheets of drywall, come together to create something much greater than the sum of its parts.

This is not the first time I've ventured down the home rabbit hole. 

Back in 1999, my partner John Shirley and I were placed on the homestore.com account. The reality was there was no homestore, it was just a fancy re-skin of realtor.com, the national site with all the home listing for sale. 

The other reality was this was nothing more than a glorified pump and dump scheme, assembled by a bunch of craven Internet bros. as a way to bilk naive investors, including myself.

At one point, having bought the stock at the IPO, I saw my money increase 7 fold only to watch it make that inevitable slide down to a penny stock. I wisely sold and came away unscathed.

While they were cavalier about the topic of Home and indifferent to any type of emotional resonance, we were not. And hired an award winning documentarian/director to help us put together a movie that went deep on Home. It was, and is, appropriately named Home Movie (circa 2001). 

Of all the projects I've lent considerable brain bits to over the years, this perhaps is my proudest. Because unlike so many campaigns for brown fizzy water to sugar substitutes to shabbily built faux Jaguars, this one was not disposable. Mostly because home is more than just wood, piping, paint, and a lot more.

The making of the movie left a surprising indelible mark on me, a glib cynic in my youth, an allegedly wiser man given to melancholy in his remaining years.

If one were to go all quantum physics for a moment, one might see that we live as a point in Time and Space. The former changes. It goes fast, as in raising children. And it goes slow as in waiting for those same children to finally appreciate us or do the dishes. 

Time is changing. All the time.

Space, on the other hand, and in particular our home, is constant. The bedrock nature of Home, counterbalances the erratic nature of time and the forces of change all around us. It provides us security, stability and comfort. Unless, like me, you have shitty neighbors with really loud dogs.

As we galavanted across the country to meet a man with an all electronic home outside of Chicago, or Wild Bill Treacle who lived on a houseboat in a Louisiana bayou or to the Big Island of Hawaii to visit Linda B. and her magical treehouse, we witnessed the more personal side of Home. And how each was a telling reflection of its owner. 

You may not be able to judge a book by its cover, but you can certainly get a fuller of picture of a man or a woman or both, by the book covers you find on their shelves. 

I will always be grateful to the infinitely fascinating cast of characters who graciously invited us into their homes. Except the Cat People in San Diego who turned their home into a funhouse for their 40+ cats. I'm still trying to dislodge a Tabby hairball in my throat from 25 years ago.

All of which makes the events and losses of the last week so much more indescribable.

If you were to go on Zillow, you could discover the price of your house. But you will never find the true value of your home.

The trailer:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Et2DaqjfJw

Survivor's Guilt

 

It is Monday morning. With any luck or the mercy of a loving god who wants the best for his children (cough!), the winds will remain in check. And the fires that have scorched Southern California for the past 72 hours will be on their merry way. 

Perhaps to another Democrat-governed part of the state that also fails to rake up its forest floors. Sorry, the stupidity of that "thing" is hard to stomach and walk away from. 

Particularly in these dark times that only seem to be getting darker. 

For thousands of Californians, many of whom are looking at lives totally obliterated, there is no other choice to start over. 

From scratch. Literally.

It is daunting. And we can do nothing but offer solace and help. We have to. For their sake and for ours. As a friend of Ms. Muse accurately stated, "Many of us are suffering from Survivor's Guilt." 

I hadn't been able to come up with the word or description of the hollow feeling that has gutted me, and so many of us, but that term speaks volumes.

I found this recent article in The NY Times and made it available as a gift: https://www.nytimes.com/2025/01/11/realestate/california-wildfires-homes.html?unlocked_article_code=1.ok4.WHMx.ub6sC1py30h5&smid=url-share

Should you be inclined, you should also read a front page piece written by my friend Jim Rainey, an amazing veteran reporter to the LA Times, whose tears are evident through the multi-page personal recounting of his lost childhood home in Malibu.

I hope the link is alive: https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2025-01-12/malibu-local-wildfire-devastation

My apologies for the gloomy nature of today's post. There's nothing about the past few days that lends itself to levity or lightheartedness. 

Perhaps there will be tomorrow.

From the Not-so-Front Line

 

It's been a hairy 48 hours here in La La Land. If you hadn't heard we've been hit by natural disaster. I'm not talking about my bout with the Norovirus or the Stomach Flu or Food Poisoning from some bad salmon. 

A bout that has unnaturally resulted in the loss of 5lbs. of excess Rich Siegel.

I've also had to contend with the raging fires which are threatening to consume Los Angeles in the same way America threatens to consume Greenland, Panama Canal and Yemen (why not?) The picture above gives you some idea of the scope of the fire(s). 

My house is a good 6 miles south of the front lines. Though I woke up yesterday morning and it felt, and smelt, like I woke inside a Weber Grill -- the charcoal kind, not the clean smelling propane version. It's also unusually dark outside, like there's an impending thunderstorm, which would be a godsend right now.

I have placed a plate of new salmon out on my patio for some free cold smoking. 

Mmmmm, living off the grid.

Last night, my daughter in Santa Monica bugged out of her apartment building which is less than 2 miles from the front lines pictured above. She and her roommate were the last to leave the building. We still don't know the status of containment. And hoping the temporary calm in the ferocious winds will give the firefighters the upper hand.

In Pasadena, Ms. Muse was even closer to the inferno, as she lives within footsteps of the foothills. And late Tuesday night a fire broke out in Eaton Canyon, a great place to hike. A not so great place to get hook up firehoses. She evacuated her house and stayed with friends. That, coupled with a power outage, has made the situation even more difficult.

The situation is fluid. Not unlike my diet for the past 48 hours.

There is good news however on a different frontline. 

My neighbors, one of two who made it a habit of letting their barking dogs out at ALL hours of the evening/morning (despite my many pleas to show some neighborly consideration) have sold and moved out of the house! 

All their belongings are gone. With the exception of one crate, adorned with many decals and bumper stickers, left in the driveway. 

Including this telling gem...

Byeeee.

 

The Green Light for Greenland

For the record I am still maintaining my news moratorium regarding the incoming "president." I have chosen not to capitolize the term, because he does not deserve the honor.

Speaking of honor-- those rituals that used to define and us and sustain democracy -- tradition is for flags to be flown at half mast following the death of a real US President, like Jimmy Carter. But that would cast a somber tone over the dreaded upcoming inauguration and I would bet the equity in my house that the monster will have nothing ruin his glorious day.

In that vein, I still consider this a Trump-free post. In that it only discusses the consequences of his action, not the sheer lunacy of his decisions. With that, let us travel to Greenland, the soon to be newest state in our union.

I have thoughtfully prepared a small travel itinerary for you, should you decide to make the trek to Kuuulivasken. In which case you'll want to switch travel agents because Kuuulivasken doesn't exist. But there are many places in Greenland, with an excess of vowels ("No thanks, I'm good Pat") that sound just like it.

Speaking of veins, if you were to go to the Isua Supracrustal Belt -- a real place -- you would find evidence of tectonic plate movement and the Oldest Chunk of Rock known to mankind. Estimated to be 3.8 billion years old. Confirmed by President Biden and president Trump to be the site of their very first debate.

After oooooing and ahhhhhing at the rock chunk, you might want to get in an Uuuuuuuber and make your way to the ancient Inuit settlement of Qilakitsoq to see the world's best preserved mummies, including 6 mommies, a young boy and an extremely young baby, who was buried alive.

When told of this amazing artifact, Trump immediately suggested selling scraps of the baby's clothing to wealthy bidders. Campaign staffers are already working on the banner ads.

Up for a little arctic golf? Have a dogsled take you to Qaanaaq -- the world's most northerly palindrome -- to visit Infrasound Station IS18. The outpost is fitted with the listening devices to monitor the earth's subsonic response to global warming (a Democratic hoax as we all know.)

When shown pictures of the village and its scenic views of Yuckmatook Bay, Trump scowled and said, "Infrasound equipment causes cancer. And it kills all the birds. You ever want to see a bird cemetery, you go to Greenland and look around. So many dead birds, like you've never seen before."

He added that with a little landscaping and some design help from Greg Norman, he plans to turn the rolling Qaanaaaqian hills into an exclusive golf course. Greenland's finest. 

Don't delay. Make your plans now to visit Greenland, America's newest colonial conquest.

While you're there, try the Lumpfish Roe.

"Mmmm, lumpy."

The Next Insurrection

We're all getting dumber. Intentionally.

We're about two weeks away from coronating our new Fuhrer. What happens after that is anybody's guess. Literally. Because like half the country, many of us have decided to eschew any news or headlines or, god forbid, any video clips of the accordion-playing shit-for-brains felon/rapist. 

The epaulets have not even been pinned to his weak, rounded shoulders and Shit Show Two, The Reich Redeaux, has already begun. 

I've stayed away from any Trump news but couldn't escape the news about Matt Gaetz. The forehead challenged legislator from Florida, the anti-Mensa Capitol of the World, was nominated to be the Attorney General of the United States of America -- the highest law enforcement officer in the country. 

That was before the House Ethics Committee, perhaps temporarily remembering their half oath to the Constitution of the United States, released their findings about Matty's ingestion of drugs, his dabbling in prostitution and his oh-so-insignificant statutory rape and pedophilia. 

Given the wall-to-wall coverage of Hunter Biden's exploits, again, not an elected public servant, you would think Gaetz's store-bought bacchanalia would merit its own media frenzy. And still be in the headlines. 

It has not.

As mentioned above, I have sworn off all mass media -- TV/CNN/MSNBC and even Fox News, to see how the other half drools -- and suspect the suggested appointment of Chester the Tall Molester, to the highest office in the Department of Justice, would keep journalists jumping. Maybe I'm wrong. I'm pretty sure I'm right. 

Even the Old Grey Lady, who would blush and turn pink covering the shenanigans of Florida's favorite son, has eschewed its responsibility to point out the fatal judicial appointment. I know, I checked. Not one word in the A or B section. I haven't got to the Opinion section of the NY Times, but given the complicit zeitgeist, I suspect there's nothing there either.

Perhaps the blame can placed at the feet of the Internet. Or the corrosive curse of social media. Or just the laziness of Americans who fail over and over again to inform themselves regarding the politics of the day. But here's what I cynically know about all this -- it is being exploited and leveraged by billionaire tech bros and their Manchurian candidate.

And as a result, we're all getting dummer.

A Pasadena Right of Passage

Welcome back. Happy New Year to my 8 loyal readers and to the occasional passersby who come here for a bit of snark, pathos and failed attempts at humor.

I'm sure you're all happy to be back at work. I know I am. Albeit as a Fractional Creative Director, emphasis on the fractional. 

Sometimes infinitesimally so.

Many of you, if the patterns hold true, have resolved to lose weight, exercise more and be healthier this year.  I'm making it a point to maintain my weight, be healthier and maybe exercise less, as of late my rigorous routine has taken its toll on my bum hip and lower back. Like you I probably won't be able to keep this promise I made to myself, due to my aerobic obsessive compulsion disorder.

And my Strava overlord.

I'm also determined to continue on the unchartered path of "doing new things." 

To that end, I began 2025 on a high note, by joining Ms. Muse and her friend JJ, on a midnight jaunt up Orange Grove Avenue to experience the Rose Bowl Parade floats before they are unveiled to the 330 million hungover citizens of America on New Year's Day. 

I should preface this by saying -- not in a curmudgeonly way -- that I'm not a parade person. They are to me what clubs are. I don't want be part of any that would have me as a member. 

The exception being the St. Patty's Day Parade in NYC, which was a seminal event in my misguided youth, mostly because it was an opportunity to engage in low cost binge beer drinking. 

We would drive in from the suburbs at 10 in the morning. Park our asses at a Brew Burger or a Beefsteak Charlie's and partake in their $7.95 Cheeseburger and All You Can Drink Beer Special. Which on several occasions became not-so-special to the restaurant manager.

"You boys leave, now. You drink too much. Go."

I digress. The New Year's Eve stroll up and down Orange Grove is quite the ritual. It might even be mandatory. They are very particular in these parts. There's a lot of Foothillian lore I'm still being acquainted with. 

The night was a blast. It had all the revelry of a Times Square Celebration (which I have never attended) without the drunks, pickpockets and Pizza Rats. 

Should the opportunity present itself the night before 2026, I will certainly be there again.

Here we see yours truly and Ms. Muse, braving the frigid 47 degree Pasadena evening night air with our not-so-surreptitious cocktails...

On Swedish Death Cleaning

Came across the interesting concept of Döstädning, the art of Swedish Death Cleaning.

Don't remember how I came across it. Either Ms. Muse alerted me to it or one of the eight loyal readers of this blog picked up on some anecdote I made last week. In any case it resonated, because as of late, whether I knew it or not, I have been disposing of stuff -- Döstädning. 

With a similar regularity to my consumption of creamed herring in a jar, a delicacy I believe comes from Sweden.

I may be a little premature on the death part of this equation, I don't plan on dying anytime soon, despite my creaky and painful joints and tendons. But I am getting serious about the cleaning part. 

Did a little digging into the Döstädning phenomena and it turns out, genteel and considerate elderly parents in Sweden conduct the massive sweep of their abodes and dispose of their disposables in order to spare their grown children, many of whom probably have back back pain like myself, of the burden when they have taken the next step in their mortal journey.

That plays no part in my current endeavors, none. 

I love my daughters and have provided for them in all manner possible. They in turn have still not learned to make their beds, put away their shoes or do the dishes. Payback can be a bitch.

The truth of the matter is, I don't have the real estate in my brain to keep track of all the stuff I find in this massive (for one person) 2400 square foot house. Until I downsize my home, I have to downsize the detritus of my 67 years on the planet. 

Just off my left shoulder, pinned to the door of my armoire/writing desk, I have an assortment of stuff that means nothing to nobody. 

There's a Media Lanyard from that time I went to Las Vegas to interview Top 20 College Basketball coaches for a Stand up to Cancer documentary. The film blew chunks (college b-ball coaches are not the most interesting men on the planet) but it was a fun boondoggle.

There's a photo of me and a 100 lbs. Chimpanzee from an Earthlink TV shoot (I'm the one on the left.)

And if you look closely there's a string attached to two nails. I had a brain fart and couldn't remember what the hell that was. Then recalled how I surreptitiously lifted it from a pre-production 3D model of an Acura commercial I wrote about a dozen years ago.

https://youtu.be/odszX23uE3s?si=Fj6HQ03RlcSAI4Ew

Why is it in my house? My daughters don't know what half this stuff is. And now that they are in the business they're completely unimpressed by it all. It's all destined for the landfill in Hesperia. Why delay the delivery? 

So while most of you are enjoying your extended break from work, I've decided to take the next ten days off from writing R17 posts. And get down to the serious business of Döstädning. 

As well as the consumption of Lasco's finest creamed herring, an acquired taste, at best.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Happy New Year.

Vocational Thursday Photo Funnies

As the 8 loyal readers of RoundSeventeen know I often give myself a break from the many, many hours it takes me to scratch out three barely readable blog posts every week. That mini-vacation takes the form of a stroll the thousands of photos I have on my iPhone. 

Not normal photos, mind you. I have an eye for the weird and unconventional. Perhaps brought about by the odd art books my father would bring home from his workdays in NYC. He had a taste for Kitsch. 

He never encouraged my career goals in the arts, as it were, and always stressed the need for a solid profession that would  yield financial independence. We often fought about that. But, willingly or not, he did cultivate in me an appreciation for the weird.

And I was fortunate enough to land a career that accommodated that. And produced semi-financial independence. Mmmm, social security checks.

With that, I thought it'd be fun to look at all the skills I have on my somewhat perfunctory LinkedIn page...

Mea Culpa: I don't really have any knowledge of Sewer Design.

But my brother was once the financial comptroller

of a small company in the Valley that produced

manhole covers. That's close enough.

Years ago we shot about a dozen spots with the new Uncle Ben.

We made him the CEO of the company. In one spot we see Ben 

carefully trimming a bonsai tree in order to cope

with the high stress of running a rice company. We even

had a bonsai consultant on set. So, there.

In the pre-Trump days I went to town on Kim Jung Un.

So yeah, I consider myself knowledgable and skilled on the 

topic of North Korea, aka DPRK.

I know nothing about anything else on this list.

Gas processing, need I say more?

As the grandson and son of former cab drivers in NYC,

I take great pride in my Parallel Parking.

With 360 degree top down view on my Mustang Mach E,

my PP game is "on fleek."

Do people still say that?

Take Two Tide Pods and call me in the morning"

I have been off the Trump Train for more than a month now. And I'm starting to feel the toxins leaving my body. I'm convinced they're gathered in dormant hair follicles adjacent to my eardrums. They are now sprouting. Requiring excessive maintenance and pruning. But that's for another day.

While I've maintained radio silence, relative, about President Ramblemouth, it is impossible not see what is going on at the level below him -- his cabinet and his kakistocratic cabinet picks.

In his previous regime we saw how Captain Ouchie Foot weaponized the DOJ. He went through three separate Attorney Generals including Matt Whitaker, a former toilet salesman who sold bowls for men with ouchie mama penile equipment. 

Oh yeah, Google it if you don't believe me.

He also weaponized the military, pitting upper brass, men and women who paid their dues and rose up through the ranks because of their superior service and adherence to the Constitution, against the grunts. All of whom by the way, he considers Suckers & Losers.

And now, with the selection of RFK Jr., a man with substantial brain damage, thanks to an insatiable head worm, to be in charge of our nation's medical care, we are seeing the weaponization of our health. 

This is hardly surprising. 

If you'll recall at the very beginning of the Pandemic (I'm sorry, the Democrat Hoax that took the lives of more than a million Americans) pundits were saying this could be the crisis that spelled the end for the Tiny Fingered Vulgarian. The pundits, all of them wrong, reasoned that there would be no way to fight Covid without the expertise of Dr. Fauci, a man who had honorably served the USA for more than 50 years.

But instead of making the virus Public Enemy #1, our esteemed Shitgibbon turned his cross hairs on Fauci. Resulting in more chaos. The suggestion that we drink bleach. And death threats against Fauci and his family.

Now with the appointment of a nut job who saws the heads off whales, eats roadkill bear, and claims that heroin can be a performance enhancing substance, we are seeing the continuation of a deadly and completely illogical platform. 

Illogical to us that is. 

It makes perfect sense for a delusional God/Man to further divide us and pit people with legitimate medical expertise against Red Hats who believe "Daddy will take care of us."

It is one more step towards the Total Negation of Truth.

"Brawndo's got what plants need."
 

An experiment gone bad

It's been said the best way to stave off the decay of old age is to endeavor in new activities. If my mind is working properly, sometimes the synapses don't fire, I've mentioned this before on these here digital pages. Several times.

Recently, with some cajoling by Ms. Muse, I stepped out of my comfort zone and into a Speedo (a modified, more humble American Speedo, not the overly-randy Euro version) and played a little inner tube water polo at the Palm Springs Swim Center.

Also, with some nudging by Ms. Muse, I ventured out on the SS Zaandam (Dutch for come aboard our city-sized cruise ship and eat and drink like they're running out of the stuff) and sailed into the Tracey Arm Inlet in Alaska. 

Also on the new experiences frontier and because I'm always running out of paper essentials, I've installed two, count 'em, two bidets in my house. One upstairs in the Master Bedroom. And one downstairs in the Guest Bathroom. 

Giving me total access to cool refreshing streaming water. 

And I'll say no more about that.

Last week, having finished my book Younger Next Year, an informative and helpful handbook for aging and de-aging, I scoured the house for a new book to begin. That's when I came across my daughter's copy of The Guest by Emma Cline. 

At this point I should mention that unlike their father and much like their late mother, both my girls are readers. I should also mention that every time I spot them with their nose buried in a book, I NEVER recognize the title.

That's to be expected, given the age difference and the fact that we live and socialize in two completely different circles. Being naturally curious and having an abundance of time on my hand  (before my brother landed himself in the hospital again) I decided to enter the fast paced, easy reading world of Chick Lit.

In no time I was turning pages faster than a fat guy plowing through a bag of BBQ-flavored potato chips. This, I thought would've have been an excellent primer for Senor Hemingway, whose writing is tedious, labored and just fucking dull. It took me an hour to get 7 pages into A Movable Feast. And I had a natural inclination to want to read about his Parisian carousing, as I've actually visited Le Polidor and dined on their famous Steak and Pom Frite.

But Hemingway is no Emma Cline. 

She writes about NYC hookers, intimidating pimps, extravagant parties in the Hamptons, transactional sex and even swimming. I was on board. 

Until I wasn't.

After 100 pages in, the book started meandering. And the travails of Alex started going nowhere. This was beginning to feel like a female counterpart to Holden Cauliflower in A Catcher in the Rye. So I did the unthinkable, I started reading reviews. And though I may be wrong, it appeared my literary spidey sense turned out correct. 

The book apparently, doesn't have what every book must -- an ending. And so I have returned it to the pile of stuff my daughters deposit here and never seem to take away, including books, sweaters, and underwear with less fabric than a cocktail napkin.

Chick Lit. Experiment -- FAIL

Dubai, dashed.

Though I'm semi-retired and semi-working as a fractional Creative Director and a man of semi-leisure, I do spend time on LinkedIn. It's not easy to turn off 40 years of hustling in the ad world. And it's still a good place to troll Trumpsters, though I'm doing considerably less of that these days.

Last week I received an invitation to link up with HH Sheikh Hamdan Mohammed Bin Rashid Al Maktoum. Try getting that on a Starbuck's cup. Which makes no sense since Hamdan -- he says I can call him Hammy -- is the Crown Prince of Dubai and probably has his own Starbucks, inside his own palace, inside his own city.

That's how I imagine things work in the UAE. 

And fortuitously, it actually looked like I'd be going over there to see for myself. 

Moments after accepting his invitation to connect on LinkedIn, he sent me a message. Mind you I receive a great deal of invitations, mostly from attractive young Asian women who invariably studied at Harvard or Stanford. They all hail from Singapore. They all work in the Marketing Department of Cosmetology at Estee Lauder. And they all find my credentials fascinating and charming. 

All of which is bullcockery, except maybe the last statement. In other words, I have an oversized nose for sniffing out scammery. But Hammy, the Sheik for you mere peasants and civilians, sent me this...

When a man of his magnitude offers help to a man like me -- read: to a Jew like me -- you don't pass up the opportunity to engage.

Could I use help from a member of the royal family who lights his hookah with $1000 bills? Of course I could? The garage door on my rental home needs replacing. The carpet is fraying. And at some point, I'll need to re-landscape the backyard which will require the expensive services of an architect and a contractor. 

And have you seen the price of bacon and eggs? 

So naturally I engaged. And that's when his Sheikness offered me a job. As an Ambassador, no less. In your face Kim Guilfoiled.

You can only imagine my excitement. 

Unfortunately, this exchange took place minutes before my scheduled physical therapy session, a tortuous hour of stretching, bending and balancing on a tiny teeter totter that threatens to send me to the ground once again. I decided to screen shot the messages and renew my correspondence with his Majesty the following day.

Sadly, however, he and his billions of dirham (the official currency in Dubai) have vanished. Our back and forth chat had gone as well. And my dream of becoming an Ambassador, despite my bad back, has faded into the ether.

But all is not lost. As I was furiously searching for the Crown Prince's linkedin profile I discovered there are many other Crown Prince's and Sheiks on the site. 

Time to start sending out some invitations.

Deal of the century

My friend and fellow advertising blogger, Professor Tannenbaum recently weighed in on the big merger. In fact, many folks, all of whom are much smarter than me, have opined on the matter. And why not? It's only the biggest merger our industry has ever seen.

With the possible exception of this one that happened way back in 1989. 

I was going to demure on the matter. You know, given my lack of business credentials and any manner of gravitas (see Tuesday's post about the Caganer.) But then I thought I have close to 40 years experience in this business and enough war stories -- many of them not interesting at all -- why not?

For instance I think it would be a shame if my former Omnicom overlords passed up the opportunity to change the name of the new entity to OMNIPIG, which is not only evocative but also cleverly uses all the vital letters of both signatories. 

From a purely personal standpoint, I have experience with the genesis of merger mania. 

I began my career at Needham Harper & Steers, which we mailroom clerks called Needless Hardons & Tears. When the powers that be in New York and Chicago discussed combining Needless...er, Needham with DDB, the principals Gerry Rubin and Larry Postaer at the LA office, said, "No thank you."

In what I can only imagine to be a deft and delicate move, they broke off to form RPA and managed to keep the Honda account. In testament to their longevity and integrity, they still have that account some 40 years later.

After schlepping boxes and moving furniture sometimes diva-like creatives, I got my writing career started at Abert, Newhoff & Burr. A small and nimble (before that became some coy marketing descriptor) agency that itself had broken off from Chiat/Day. Back then there were several small boutique agencies that had split off from the Mothership including Stein, Robaire & Helm and Keye Donna Pearlstein. 

All did outstanding work and all made outstanding money for themselves and their employees.

If there's one reason to be optimistic about the merger it's the emergence of smaller independent boutique agencies who are finding ways to create great work for large clients. You know who they are. Frankly, I can't remember if I took my painkilling medicine this morning or not. They have odd names like FlapJack, Gooey, and Untied Shoelaces.

Finally, I read somewhere that Omnicom paid close to $13 billion to acquire IPG. First of all I don't understand how an ad agency or even a network of ad agencies is worth $13 billion. There's no infrastructure. There's no physical product. In many cases, virtual cases, there's not even real estate to be had. 

They're basically buying people, overworked, underpaid, unappreciated people who, when management is not around, can be heard saying things like, "This is my fifth weekend in a row working on this damn Pizza Hut, Two Toppings for only $6.99 Medium Pizza promo. I gotta get outta this business."

Dear OMNIPIG Brass, 

If mediocre advertising is what you're looking for, I can be lured out of retirement for 1% of what you just shelled out. You know where to reach me.

Grumpy Young Men (and Women)

 

I am the world's slowest reader. I started this book about two months ago. And even with my exercise respite, due to a back injury, as well as my continuing physical therapy to relieve bone spurs on my right hip, I have just now completed the book pictured above.

All of which is ironic given the premise and promise of the title. 

And though it's hard to take anything I write seriously (see yesterday's post about the Caganer) I do highly recommend reading this handbook for aging, written by Chris and Harry. Sorry, Dr. Harry. Particularly if you are of a certain age. And would like to live to another certain age, perhaps even one with three digits.

I gave a preview of the book back in October, when I gobbled up the first few chapters on the importance of movement. That was followed by some obligatory fundamentals about nutrition. Which boils down to the notion we should stop eating processed foods. The sugar, the chemicals and the additional sugar found in our groceries (did you know Trump just discovered the word groceries, Google it) is killing us. 

Not coincidentally, I have all but eliminated processed foods from my shopping list. Though Chicas Blue and White salted tortilla chips do manage to sneak in to my cart. Nevertheless with the exception of some canned foods gifted to me in my mother's will that will remain unopened well past my demise, my pantry is as barren as the bookshelves at Mara Lago.

Having my new lifestyle affirmed in the area of exercise and diet was, and is, very satisfying. But the book goes on to talk other variables that are in our control and contribute to longevity, including alcohol, intimacy, friendship, sleep and emotional IQ.

These two old codgers even discuss Grumpiness with a Capitol G. It's a real thing. This passage hit me like some bratty kid had thrown a brick at my head. But before I could lash out...

Do not trust your temper. Think about the strong possibility that the seething injustice you are about to crush is nothing. Do not become a grumpy old man if you can possibly help it. It is dreadful. But it is normal.

For all the Do's and Don'ts, this book is remarkably uplifting. And it's an easy read. For shits and giggles, I recently cracked open Hemingway's A Movable Feast. Which is not an easy read but does make a fine chemical-free alternative to Ambien. 

Give the grumpy old person in your life a copy and discover why I believe 66 is the new 44. 

Feliz Navidad

Merry Christmas. 

I know as a radical, leftist, commie fascist man of Hebraic Seasonings-- a conglomeration of political terms that only makes sense to Red Hats -- I'm supposed to be at the front line, fighting the good fight in the War on Christmas. But the truth is, I'm ready to concede. 

It's a cultural war as well as an imaginary one. Concocted by the same people who festoon every pine tree they can get hold of with lights and ornaments and flood the planetary zeitgeist with egg nog, ugly sweaters and Hallmark movies, and then go on Twitter (X) to complain how Christians are being persecuted.

Hold my slivovitz.

Political overtones notwithstanding, I love Christmas. 

But probably not for the same reasons you do. It gives me ample excuse to bring back and speak about the Caganer. Not that I need an excuse, it's my blog and I can do what I want with it. 

And if I want to ramble on about the Catalonian ritual of decorating all Nativity scenes with a little peasant man who comes to the manger, not with frankensence and myhrr, but the urgent need to pop a squat, I will do just that. 

Those of you who continue to visit these pages, despite the panoply of typos, bad syntax and myriad Trump hit pieces, know that every year I write about El Caganer. This year I was fortunate enough to find a new photo of the Caganer doing his business, or "Conducting an Exit Interview with Mr. Brown", as it were.

Those of you who are unfamiliar will be shocked -- I know I was -- to discover that in many parts of Spain the locals put out nativity scenes, with all the usual cast of characters: Joseph, Mary, the baby Jesus, the Wise Men, and the mohel to to do the bris. 

OK, maybe not the last one. But they do include a Caganer. Who is dutifully in the kneeling position preparing his birthday gift: brown playdoh.

Why? You may ask, thinking Rich is a heretic and surely going to the hot place for engaging in such fibbery.

But it's all true. And I have the receipts. That is, new photos of the Caganer in action. You can Google it. Or for a more colorful description you can look back on my 15 years of writing about this most unique and ink-worthy tradition. 

Merry Christmas!

My favorite. "Either go big or go to the mall."

Medicare for All

I'm little more than a month into my news moratorium and I must say it feels good. Though I choose to eschew anything Trump-related, that does not mean some does not get through. 

I'm aware of the clownish picks he has made for his cabinet, his equally clownish declarations about putting a tariff on anything that moves and the over-the-top clownocity of a grown 78 year old man (the president to be no less) wearing an ugly blue suit and a bright red golf cap. 

Can he not afford a stylist? And how does Melania let him leave the house like that?

The voluntary sifting does not preclude me from catching other news, including the blockbuster story of the United HealthCare CEO who was gunned down in midtown Manhattan.

Let me begin by stating that with one possible exception (see Colonel Von Stauffenberg) I do not support political or economic violence. I take no joy in the taking of this man's life. 

On the other hand I'm hardly in mourning. I was more upset when the leftover Baked Macaroni & Cheese from last week's Thanksgiving feast spilled out onto the floor rendering it inedible. Though I did consider the alternative, considering no one was looking.

Since Karma caught up with UHC CEO Brian Thompson, social media has been flooded with stories of folks denied healthcare coverage by insurance bean counters and healthcare insurance brass with their eye on a yacht. 

Or a second yacht.

I have plenty of teary stories about the battles we fought over vital oncological drugs and procedures that would fill up an entire issue of the New England Medical Journal. I choose not to go down that well worn path.

The larger issue  and one that will not be addressed for at least another 4 years is the fucked up system of healthcare coverage in this country. A system that is not replicated anywhere else in the world. With the possible exception of Sudan, Somalia and Fredonia. 

Even North Korea has universal healthcare. Although every treatment involves getting slapped in the head with a fish.

Americans, at least the ones who voted in the majority last month, are averse to the type of universal healthcare now prevalent throughout the free world. They see it as some kind of commie plot meant to drain us of our rugged individualism and our precious bodily fluids. 

We are an exceptional people. Exceptionally fucking dumb.

For the life of me, I'll never understand why our health insurance is tied to our employment status? We don't ask our bosses to insure our cars. Our houses. Or even our jetskis. All of which are disposable and replaceable. 

Why then do we entrust our bodies to the same people who have no problem asking us to work nights, weekends and cancel vacations just so we can pitch the Pizza Hut account?

Two weeks ago I went in to see my doctor about my nagging back. After a 20 minute visit where he determined I had a bad back strain he prescribed me some Meloxicam -- sadly a painkiller with no euphoric side effects. 

"Get dressed, let me know how it heals."

With that I walked out and right past the billing nurse. Because I'm on Medicare. And that's the way it should be. 

If we had Medicare for all, Brian Thompson might still be alive. Granted he might be the Assistant Manager at a local Pizza Hut instead of a greedy SOB who denied healthcare top people in sore need of it. But he'd be alive.

"Mr. Thompson, we're running low on pepperoni..."

RIP, Bri.

----------------------------------------------------------

Addendum: Having written this two days ago and having observed the fallout on both sides of the equation, it occurred to me that the real shame of this scenario has everything to do with our two-tiered justice system. 

For close to a year now we have seen the perversion of justice like...if I may borrow a phrase...like we've never seen before. Rudy Giuliani is on the hook for $150 million dollars because (and he admitted it) he made false drug accusations about two Georgia State Election Officials. They are having a monumental time collecting that debt.

We've seen the world's richest douchebag, Elon Musk, skate on charges of election interference when he PAID people to vote. His buddy ship with the next president will make that charge disappear.

And of course, we've seen the next President/Seller of Fine Cologne brush aside 91 indictments, a prison sentencing and immunity from all future acts because well...he's fucking rich.

This will not end well. Ask the French.

The Sanity Claus

I got home from my extended Thanksgiving out in the desert to find my neighbors across the street had put up a unique Christmas decoration. 

BTW, I hope you had a great holiday, I had the pleasure of spending some quality, as well as the obligatory not-so-quality, time with my two grown daughters, who have inherited their late mother's superior cooking skills. I won't bore you with the details about the pan-roasted Brussel Sprouts, the twice baked macaroni & cheese or the homemade apple crumble.

I knew upon seeing the inflatable Black Santa, I would have to do a blog post about it. To which my youngest daughter said, "Dad, no, you shouldn't write about Black Santa."

Even after all these years they fear I'm going to say the wrong thing. But I refuse to be intimidated about writing posts on touchy topics, like race, politics, money, religion and the proliferation of Facebook videos glorifying porn stars. 

OK, I'm not going near the last one.

So here's what I have to say about 13 foot high inflatable Black Santa -- I LOVE IT.

I love it, because Megyn Kelly would HATE it. 

Maybe some of you are too young or don't remember, but Ms. Kelly was once a Fox News (HA) anchor, aka bleach bottle blonde. That was before she got thrown under the Jeffrey Epstein bus, co-owned by Roger Ailles. 

In 2013, Megyn went on national TV to declare, quite forcefully and with all the gravitas one would associate with the standard bearer of journalism, that, "Santa Claus was a white man!" 

Excuse me while I retrieve some paper towels and some 409 to clean the coffee spray from my keyboard as even typing that tripe caused me to do a spit take. And this is a dozen years after that lobotomized bimbo took her self righteous stand.

If there are any children in the room, you may want to ask them to leave. Because here's the thing, Santa Claus is a fictional character. He doesn't exist. He's not white or black. He's not even a man. If he were a man he'd be roughly 200 years old and surely shitting in his red flannel pants. And who wants to clean that up. Not Mrs. Claus, she's got a bad back. Maybe because she's over 200 years old too.

Santa Claus is spun from whole cloth. Just like his flying reindeer. Including the whiny one with the red nose.

It's more than ironic that the people who chide liberals and Democrats for engaging in identity politics are the same folks who vociferously claim the caucasoid nature of Santa and are willing to fight anyone who says, or thinks otherwise. 

Santa Claus is a figment of someone's imagination. To assign him, and I assume Mrs. Claus, a particular skin pigmentation would be like saying Moby Dick also drove a bus. Or that Dracula had asthma. 

WTF?

Moreover, and more seriously, the assertion of his melanin-free complexion contributes to a linguistic form of racism that reinforces this distorted and hateful notion that whiteness is the optimal skin color to which all others must default to. 

Make no mistake, it's purposefully divisive. 

I have a newsflash for Ms. Megyn Kelly the newswoman: Santa Claus is no more white than Jesus was.

Money in the bank

I got paid last week. 

Not in compliments. I don't usually get complimented. Curmudgeons who get grumpy because nagging back pain keeps them from their rigorous exercise routine tend not to get showered in a lot of flattery. 

And not in paybacks, in the form of refunds from my two grown daughters who are still teething at the paternal teat for cell phone usage and auto insurance. Thank you ill-conceived "family plans."

I got paid in real US legal tender, from the still legal US government. A rather longwinded way of saying I got my first Social Security check!!! Moreover the check was larger than I had suspected thanks to a last minute (and unexpected) COLA, Cost Of Living Adjustment, of an additional 2.5%.

Let's Go Brandon.

This excitement --are you feeling the excitement -- is tempered by the fact that this is by no means free money, like the bennies regularly handed out to US oligarchs, this is my money. Being returned to me after it was taken from me and I completed my indentured servitude in America's fastest drowning business, advertising.

For those of you who are younger than me (everyone) the process of securing the money owed to you by social security is not a simple one. 

I could have started collecting checks years ago when the data miners dropped a huge turd in the freelance copywriting punchbowl. Or I could have waited until I was 70 and tacked on another $1000/month in payouts. But I decided I'd go with my full benefits when the US government, in all their wisdom, decided I was entitled to a vocational breather. 

That was officially at 66 years and 7 months. Your mileage may vary.

But the tedious SS process pales in comparison to the bureaucratic abattoir that awaits you in the Medicare world. The learning curve is steep. Almost as steep as the step in my backyard that led to the fall that led to the cranky back that now requires an expensive visit from Manny the Masseuse with the magic hands.

A little more than a year ago I ran into LA Times columnist/writer Steve Lopez at a party in the Foothills. He has committed significant digital ink to the topic of retiring/semi-retiring. And we had a great chat about how to navigate the maze. If you don't read his column, you should.

I may not be the fastest walker in the herd, but I will tell you in advance, it can be confusing. More confusing than finding a football game on the streaming apps. 

As I detox from Trump, now a month into this cleansing process, you can expect to hear and read more about the retirement travails that lie ahead. 

But that'll have to wait, it's time for my mid-morning nap.