Can't be fixed

I'll be the first to admit that when I got into the ad business I didn't know a thing. Not a thing. And this despite an expensive four years at Syracuse University. Which by the way is one of the most respected (expensive) communications schools in the country. 

I have no idea why. 

My biggest academic deficiency was in TV production. Again, this is odd since the school, even in the late 70's, was chock full of the coolest state of the art production equipment. I wasn't interested in camera lenses, audiotape or monstrous lighting packages. I just wanted to write funny shit.

Turns out  transforming funny shit on typewriter paper (god I'm old) into funny shit on videotape is an art, and science, unto its own. Hence my ignorant blathering to clients and car dealers, "Ah, we can shoot this for under 100k."

After much scolding from the producers at Chiat/Day (the best production team in the business) I learned very quickly that when it came to numbers, production and the realities of business, I needed to keep my tenderfoot mouth shut.

If you were to look back on the Chiat reels you'd know why. Everything they did, especially TV spots, was top notch. Perhaps that's what gave birth to the creedo...

"They gave us a budget and we proudly exceeded it."

That was at the beginning of my career. 

It was completely different at the end of my career, where my my last employer would produce a TV spot for under 23 bucks. With a kid out of high school who pinched a high powered portable light from his dad's garage. Another youngster with a lavalier mic that he got from the Pomona Public library and an amateur cinematographer with a second hand iPhone 14.

Welcome to the Bronze Age of TV production.

Having watched their stock fall faster than DJT MAGA Media Worldwide -- or whatever that dunce calls it -- my last employer switched gears. They're now back in the helpful hands of a big time ad agency. Putting out big high production value TV spots as well as a considerable spend on outdoor boards, not one of which is memorable. 

They even got themselves a big time celebrity who is arguably on the downslope of his long career.

And it still sucks.

Proof positive that good advertising is often a magical mix of professional production as well as proprietary thinking. They're still haven't figured out the last part.

 

I'm shedding

 

About 7 years ago I bought myself a mid life crisis car. Actually, given that I'm 66 and closing in quickly on 67, it was more of a late mid-life crisis car. I didn't go all nuts like many friends seeing the sun arching towards the horizon. I went with a Certified Pre-owned Car. That's fancy dealer talk for "used."

After months of searching I found a late model 2015 Audi S5 with less than 25,000 miles on it. I drove all the way out to Ontario to get it. Having stupidly told the dealer I was from Culver City, he knew he wouldn't have to lower the price. Much. My negotiation skills are below par. Like Trump's.

He knew I wanted that car. And I'm glad I bit the bullet and went for it. 

In the 7 years I've owned it, I've put less than 10,000 miles on it. And today it will make its last journey down my driveway onto a CarMax flatbed.

I'm going to miss its full throttled and throaty acceleration. It's nimble handling. And its exclusivity. No one in the past 7 years has sat behind the steering wheel. With the possible exception of the stern Teutonic Audi mechanic at Swiss Motors on Sepulveda. As well as the occasional valet. Though I don't frequent many restaurants with valets, I'm a hole in the wall type restaurant guy with no need for fancy stuff.

Nor a fancy car, apparently. In fact, as the title of this post indicates I've been disposing of many of my less-than-worldly goods because I have found in the later stages of my life -- I don't need them.

It's kind of liberating.

To be honest the Audi has been gathering dust and pollen from my inconsiderate neighbors who planted shitty trees that drop sap all over my driveway. Can somebody out there please buy this damn house?

And, as of late, I've been enjoying the new Mustang Mach E. Not only for its remarkable torque. The ability (though sometimes spotty) to use Apple Car Play. And the higher cabin, which means I don't need a crow bar or the aid of a passerby to extract me from the ridiculously low bucket seat on the Audi.

On behalf of my back, as well as other assorted achey parts of my decaying body, Auf Wiefersehen Audi S5, may your new owner enjoy you as much as I did.

Arnie Two Palmer

I hate our news media. I also hate to say that because it puts me in bed with Red Hats. I don't want to be in bed with stupid people.

They hate the media because, with no evidence to support their claim, they believe it's too liberal and conjures up stories to mislead the American public. This, despite the fact that the #1 news source for right wingers -- Fox News --paid a near trillion dollar settlement for spreading a ridiculously false story about Dominion "rigging" their voting machine. They didn't.

I hate the news media for their lack of focus. Perhaps because of their "always-on" scheduling, they have to keep feeding the insatiable desire for Breaking News. 

What about Pants-Breaking News?

On Monday night I was eagerly looking forward to the news media skewering our former president, a man with no sense of the dignity or respect for the office, or anything else, who went on a 12 minute public ramble about the incredulous size of Arnold Palmer's penis! You need to read that sentence again. 

But instead of a 3 hour laugh fest and political pundits trying to keep a straight face whilst discussing "President Trump" and his very un-manly fascination for another man's endowment, we got barely a blip. 

I'm sorry, have we normalized and sane-washed this man to the point where he can drone, and drool, about  PGA penii and not give it the full Ken Burns-like attention it deserves?

I'm old enough to remember Howard Dean, a smart, articulate charismatic presidential candidate getting booted from the race for one moment of excessive onstage exuberance. Now we have a twice-impeached GOP candidate, a convicted felon, a sexual assaulter, who tried to overturn an election, conducting a town hall and stumping for the office and lovingly discussing Arnold Palmer's excessive stump!!!

I've said it before and I'll say it again, fast forward to 2124, and a group of American historians holding a retrospective conference about this nation's 45th president. You would need a fleet of hydraulic presses to lift their jaws off the floor.

The absurdity of it defies description.

Moreover, the fact that this race is a toss up puts me at a significant loss for words. And brings out my inner 14 year old. With that in mind I leave you with these famous presidential quotes, modified, and brought down to the level of Donald J. Trump.

"Four score and seven years ago, our forefathers brought forth great logs of lumber..." -- Abe Lincoln

"We have nothing to fear but fear itself, oh (SFX-Unzipping)... and this" -- Franklin Roosevelt

"Ask not what your country can do for you, ask 'oh my god how do sleep with that?'" -- John F. Kennedy

On Paisley

 

Every 8 weeks or so I'll get an email from 23andme, the genetics people. They seem to know more about my aversion to broccoli and other cruciferous vegetables than I do. These bimonthly emails also show me new relatives in the crooked and unruly Siegel Family tree.

With more than 99% certainty these new relatives are other folks of Hebraic Seasonings (Greenbergs, Feldsteins, Steinsteins, you get the picture) who escaped the cold, woodsy area of southern Poland/Western Belarus/Northern Ukraine. One however came up as a distant relative from my mother's side, and the wee bonnie country of Scotland.

Into the peaty Rabbit Hole I jumped.

Sadly, my mother did not talk much about her family who lived and stayed in Paisley in the County of Renfrewshire.

She would often correspond with them in hand written letters on blue airmail paper that folded into its own envelope -- the legendary Scottish thriftiness. She'd stay up late, smoke cigarettes at the kitchen table, crack open a Heineken (or two) and weep as she read each missive from the family she left at the age of 19.

Hate to ruin your image of me as a burly manly man but I think I caught a whiff of her sentimentality. Or maybe it's because I became a 'writer' and didn't pursue a promising career as a forklift driver (true story.)

As an example about the hushed nature regarding her family, she had three sisters and three brothers. In all my 66 years I only had the pleasure of meeting two of them. In fact, I can barely name her brothers. I believe they were Jimmy, George, and Paul, or some Beatles-like variation. The distance from Liverpool to Paisley is only 227 miles.

I was equally unschooled about my mother's native religion -- Presbyterian. In fact, I can't tell you what separates Presbyterians from Lutherans from Baptists from Methodists from Catholics. OK, I know Catholics believe in the papal system, but other than that I got bupkis.

I do however have a shiksa official girlfriend, Ms. Muse, who is somewhat knowledgeable on the topic and drew a Venn Diagram for my edification. I was happy to learn that the majority of my DNA (51% British Isles, 48% Eastern Europe and 1% Curmudgeon) stems from people who were not at all dogmatic about their religion. 

Their fehhhh attitude mirrors my agnostic secular grasp of Judaism. 

Sorry, I refuse to take my world view and wisdom from the 3000 year old divine transcription of goat herders and brain-addled village elders.

I was also pleased to learn that I descend from men who not only wore kilts but also wore their fierce political beliefs on their sleeves.  One of the granddaughters of Robbie the Bruce was born and raised in Paisley. 

It gets too complicated from here and is above my historical pay grade, but the rebels of Paisley had some thing to do with the Jacobbites and the fight for independence against the King. I think. I could be reading the various Wiki pages all wrong.

It's my background and I'll interpret -- or distort it -- anyway I like. I choose to believe they were freedom loving, principled people with good brains and even better hearts.

Also, Fuck Trump!

Move over Kornacki, I have the results

Like many of you I'm on pins and needles about the upcoming election. 

One side is optimistically talking about policy changes, plans for the next 4 years, and the power of sane governance. The other side is talking about electric boats, man eating sharks, Hannibal Lecter and the driver of Arnold Palmer. 

I have no idea who is going to win, just the way the pundits and media would like it.

I do however know who is going to lose: America.

In the same way we lost in 2020. 

Allow me to elaborate. Regardless of how tight the race is or isn't, the convicted felon will claim a premature victory. BTW, him being premature is no surprise at all. If only his eternal demise would follow suit.

He'll claim victory at the same time he'll claim the election was rigged. Ironic, because he'll have no evidence for either. 

We know he'll do this because he's done it before. The fact that he can do it again is a permanent stain on the GOP. They had a chance to impeach and convict him in the weeks following the January 6th Tourist Visit...er, Insurrection, but true to their feckless nature, failed to take action. Thank you Mitch McConnell, Lindsey Graham and Kevin McCarthey.

There's consequence to all this failure. And propaganda. And sore losing. 

It all erodes faith in our democracy. Prior to this monster's descent down the gold plated escalator, one of the pillars of American Exceptionalism was our free and fair elections. We lived and died by them.

We even had a crooked president (Nixon), who despite his craven hunger for power, put America and its institutions above himself. He resigned. He might have falsely posited that it was for good of the country and wanted to avoid jail time (sound familiar, Republicans?) nevertheless, he quit.

This is political decay of the highest order. Compliments of the man who had a reverse Midas Touch and a slew of bankrupt companies, sexually assaulted women and betrayed colleagues to show for it.

On November 5th, America will lose again.

And should the felon/wannabe dictator eek out a legitimate victory, we will lose America.

 

A love letter to Pennsylvania

Dear Keystone People,

Pundits now tell us that because of our arcane Electoral college, sophisticated polling and predicting, the fate of America and the Free World, rests on your sturdy Pennsylvanian shoulders. Because of the ridiculous tightness of the race, they say, the candidate who captures PA, will also capture the presidency.

If my preferred candidate also held a townhall and then proceeded to dance and sway with the music, like he was at some Jeffrey Epstein Freak Off, I might be able to understand why it's close. But she hasn't. And moreover she can find your lovely state on a map and name at least a dozen cities therein.

The other guy is still clinging to Person, Woman, Man, Camera, TV. 

My first experience with your fine state came about in 1970, when my family lived in Suffern NY, an hour's drive from Port Jervis where the mountainous tri-states meet. 

One summer, my father packed my brother and I in the car and said we were going camping. His childhood friend, Herman, a car dealer from Asbury Park, had private access to a secluded campground in Shohola, right off one of the slow moving tributaries to the Delaware river.

This was deep in the woods and greener than anything this Bronx born boy had ever seen. By day we floated down the stream on rafts. And in the darkness we slept in sleeping bags carefully sewn into screened-in hammocks hung on nearby birch trees. 

It was love at first night.

Years later, My father, also smitten, arranged for a family vacation in Amish Country. Or maybe because it was nearby, aka not expensive. 

We tittered and giggled as we passed roads signs for Intercourse, PA, which is surprisingly close to another interesting Keystone township...

We also spent 2 days in Hershey, where the smell of factory-produced chocolate chokes off any oxygen for a good 20 mile radius.

My second roommate in college was from Allentown. He was a 19 year old Renaissance man, schooled in science (at Carnegie Melon for a while), art, graphic and industrial design. In addition to introducing me to works of Carl Sagan (and others), he also introduced Lenny B. and the late John B., both newspapermen, into my life and later became roommates at a cheap Syracuse apartment. Off campus. Way off campus.

In 2021, my late wife's doctors arranged for an interview at UPMC, University of Pittsburgh Medical Center, the only hospital in America doing live liver transplants. My two daughters were literally fighting with each other for the opportunity to donate a 1/3 of their live liver (the only organ in the body that regenerates itself.) Sadly, she did not qualify for the surgery. 

In short, I love Pennsylvania. 

And the people of Pennsylvania. 

In the name of all that is holy, and I believe the American way of life -- the one of openness, respect, generosity of spirit and celebration of freedom -- is holy and worth saving, vote. Vote for the candidate who can say the name of your state without his dentures falling through his piehole. 

Or, if you're still impossibly undecided at this point, vote for the candidate who can spell Pennsylvania.

We've had a good 248 year old run, it's up to you to make sure we have a shot at another 248 years.

,LA/2024

A pineapple a day

As my Eternal Dirt Nap looms closer and closer, I have made it a point to try new things. That is, things that may not be so new to you, but because of my stubborn ways and 66 years of precedence have all seemed new and unseemly to me.

Case in point, I recently went on a cruise ship to Alaska and the inlets of the southeastern part of the state. The trip was amazing. I don't use the word awesome on a regular basis, but our 49th or 50th state is truly the definition of the word.

Upon returning to the comparatively ugly state of California, I was telling my friends P. and D. about our trip. (Because of the upcoming sensitive nature of this post, I won't mention their real names.) At one point in the conviviality, P. who had never been on a cruise ship before, asked if I had seen any pineapples hanging on the doorknobs of the 5, 893 staterooms of the SS Zaandam.

Pineapples, I inquired, innocently?

"Yeah, you know pineapples... it's how swingers let other swingers on the boat know they're swingers."

At this point, I'm pretty sure the spicy lamb vindaloo erupted through my nose.

I consider myself a well rounded and well informed person, despite my 66 year resistance to new things. This little nugget of prurient wisdom came from left field, particularly if that left field were on the island of Oahu and was home to the Dole Corporation.

I had never heard of the surreptitious pineapple thing before. But it made perfect sense because -- I assume -- swingers have to maintain a certain degree of discretion to their particular way of life. In the lifestyle, as it were.

Weeks later the pineapple discussion reared its spikey head again in another social setting. This time with the always jocular cousin of Ms. Muse and his husband. There was great shock again. Mostly because bon vivants like us had never heard of this Rendezvous By Citrus Fruit Communication System.

I'm tempted to book my next cruise just so I can witness the pineapple in action, firsthand.

Well, not exactly firsthand.

Suffice it say, my antenna for Ananas Comosus is on DefCon 1. 

So you can imagine when I found one in my own home -- see picture above. That is, my rental home in Palm Springs (which I'll add is great during the cooler, wet months coming soon).

In exchange for getting out of their long term lease, the previous residents left their furniture and belongings here (hence it's now an airbnb).  While putting a new mattress in one of the guest bedrooms, Ms. Muse noticed the foot-high art deco-ish lamp on the nightstand.

Hello. 

Mind you I'm no prude. And in our rewatching of old classic movies from the 70's, we recently took in Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice. If it's not harming anyone else or involve heavy machinery, I'm all about the You-Do-You or You-Do-Small-Groups-Of-8-10-People philosophy.

Right now,  I'm going do me, and run to the local linen store to buy new sheets.

 

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