SKUM Part II

A short follow up to the post I wrote on Monday about the movie SKUM...er, MUSK.

I made light of the film's excruciating long length, 4 hours. And its most despicable central character, a racist trillionaire from South Africa who sees himself as some kind Uber-human, sent to earth to procreate and free us all from the trudgery of work so we'd have more time for hero-worship.

And how I feared my sciatica might return thanks to my friend Rich and his dragging me into this cinematic torture chamber that literally lasted 1/4 of my waking day.

But now I'm glad I saw it.

Because guess what, you won't.

Central to the movie's premise was how Elon was aggregating his money and using it to exert authoritarian power. Not just on the political landscape, as in shutting down Starlink for the Ukrainian forces bravely fighting Musk's pal Vlad. But also on the cultural playing field, where this self-styled "Social Liberal" famously claimed he bought Twitter in order to defend our sacred freedom of speech. 

Yeah, no.

Turns out Elon didn't like the movie. And was so sure you wouldn't like it either, he pulled strings (money) and forced distributors to withdraw the movie (money) just in time for the midterm elections (money.) 

If the Director Alex Gibney's point was to warn us of the dangers of one man subjecting 330 million Americans to his whims, his desires, his skewered way of "thinking", this certainly solidifies the point in the kind of cement used to fortify nuclear proof bunkers.

Musk is no more interested in our Freedom of Speech than he is in watching any of his 14 children take their first steps, or take part in a school play, or go to their first prom.  

When a certain restaurant doesn't agree with our delicate digestive systems or a plumber shows up smelling worse than the problem he was dispatched to fix, the rest of us will go to Yelp and write a juicy one star review. 

When SKUM...er, MUSK, or TRUMP... er, PRESIDENT SHITGIBBON, get their dander up they get on the hot phone and have their cadre of lawyers/henchmen strap on their stormtrooper boots and kick some civil liberties in the teeth.

I don't know about you, but I didn't escape the genocidal throes of Fascism by less than 20 years when I was born for nothing. I am hellbent and singularly focused on not living, nor have my children live, under that ugly flag before I leave this mortal coil.

Fuck Trump!

And Fuck Musk!

I f*cked up

I owe my readers an apology. One that also goes out to those who are familiar with my many, many posts of Facebook as well as the watered down versions on LinkedIn (lest I get kicked off the platform.)

Why are you on the receiving end of a humble apology, you may well ask. 

I've done a lot of thinking lately. Specifically, on the topic of Trump and how I screwed the pooch.

"They're screwing the pooches, they're eating the pets."

They say hindsight is 2020. But in retrospect, for the purposes of this post, hindsight is 2016. 

"Enough wind up, Rich, get to the point."

During his first term, which was one term too many, I made a point of arguing with those who wore the Red Hat. Some of you may remember the back and forths I had with one Steve L., a lunkhead from my hometown of Suffern, NY, who tried on many occasion to enunciate the Trump's Grand Plan. And how he was playing 5-D chess.  

I got into with Robert C., a former colleague at BBDO, who while significantly more educated than Steve, still fell under the Svengali Spell of our stable genius president. Maybe you've heard, but his Uncle John, John Trump was the longest tenured professor at MIT. 

Newsflash: he wasn't.

There were others too. But it was so long ago I've forgotten their names. Turns out I did a great job of alienating anyone and everyone who stood and still stands shoulder to shoulder with our Pedo, Russophile Shitstain of a president.

And that's a shame. 

Because while it was fun to taunt and fact check the cultists during the Reich of 45 -- which in looking back was quite tame, if we were to ignore the Muslim Ban, the separation of undocumented children from their mothers, the whitewashing of the Mueller Report, and the whole January 6th Insurrection -- it pales in comparison to the current reign of apocalyptic terror of Trump 47. 

Oh what I would give to see how Steve would justify the Epstein Cover up. And how he would explain away the thousands of times he was mentioned in the files. Or his sycophantic take on the Epstein Birthday card.

And Robert, a pseudo-erudite chap who fancies himself a historian, I'd love his take on the pre-emptive war...I'm sorry, that would've required Congressional approval...the Iranian Excursion, which is now in its 9th month. I'd love to engage Mr. C. (minus his misogyny and blatant racism) on why Ukrainian President Zelensky would wage a war on Russia. Plus the distinctively uncapitalistic of scooping up government equity in private companies like Intel and US Steel. Explain that Professor.

Finally, because I am of the opinion that most Red Hats can't be bothered with the intricacies or nuances of wonky issues, like the ones listed above. I would love to hear from those, who may or may not still be seeing my social media posts, how they enjoy paying more for food, utilities and gas than they ever paid before. While watching their financial futures crumble so that someday soon, Jesus/Doctor Trump willing, billionaires can pay less taxes and replace that small 'b' with a large 'Tr'. 

So much lost schadenfreude.

I'm so sorry.

 

SKUM

Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain, we are NOT going to Mars. 

Not now. Not in fifty years. Not in a hundred years.

And why would we? It's not like it's just a redder version of Avatar. Mars is ugly. It's cold. there's no water and as is pointed out in the movie MUSK, the dirt is poison. Mars is what the Earth would look like after the Axis of Evil (Fascists, Dictators, Oligarchs) started whipping out their dicks and lobbing megaton nuclear missiles at each other.

But go ahead and believe the Boy Wonder who also happens to be the richest man on this planet. And by proxy, with his store-bought puppet in the White House, the most powerful man on the planet.

I went to see MUSK, at the behest of my friend Rich C. last night, who casually warned me the movie was long. He failed to mention it was 4 hours long. While ordering some popcorn he asked the girl behind the counter if they sold any Depends® for two older men who had never sat through a 4 hour movie. 

I hated this South African mofo before seeing the film, now, impossibly, I hate him even more. The man who describes himself as "socially liberal" has fathered 14 children -- that we know of -- and is active father to none. He is a proponent of eugenics and as the Nazis did less than a century ago, encourages people (the right people) to breed. 

With prejudice.

This "social liberal" also has no issues with "sacrificing" human lives if, in his words, it serves the greater good of humanity. A junior philosopher way of saying, "You gotta crack a few eggs to make an omelet."

But he's no more a philosopher than he is a liberal. Or a visionary. Or even an engineer. He's a delusional self-proclaimed asshat with a God Complex who wipes his ass with million dollar bills and then rubs it in our face while simultaneously shredding the American Experiment. 

The rockets, the flying cars, the flaming dildos ( he mentions that in the movie) are all distractions. And Americans love distractions.

"Ooooo, shiny"

He's a flim-flamming Hitler, hell bent on controlling the satellites, the internet, AI, all so he can accumulate obscene amounts of cash and in turn, unfettered power.

That's not just my opinion. That's the undeniable power of logic. 

Consider this: in order to "colonize" another planet, particularly such an inhospitable one like Mars, we would have to find a way to produce oxygen. And then conjure up a way to marry that oxygen to hydrogen to produce water. 

It's not as sexy as launching rockets. Thus, too science-y and wonky for Americans to understand. 

Mars is nothing but a misdirect.

This highly-punchable con man has his hands in your pockets, and a useless rocket ship jammed up Uranus.

Unwritten rule of blogging #37: Any discussion of astronomy mandates a cheap joke about Uranus. 

Thursday Photo Funnies

It's time for the Thursday Photo Funnies, brought to you a day early because that's just how hard we work here at RoundSeventeen Headquarters, formerly in Culver City, now in Pasadena. 

And occasionally in Palm Springs when sprinkler heads get busted, tiles need to replaced in the hot tub, or when searing heat of the Foothills gets to be too much and we need to escape to the more tolerable temps in the desert.

The three digit mercury readings have precluded my daily walks and so my library is not as robust with public oddities. Similarly Pasadena can be a tad more strait laced than eclectic Culver City. Nevertheless I am happy to be away from my former Meth Head neighbor, his dimwitted alcoholic brother, their cantankerous octogenarian mother (that's right, they lived with momma, how cliche) and their equally cantankerous dog, she of the barking 24 hour a day variety.

But enough about my past trivial stressors, let's get to the pictures. Like the Orthodox Jewish man checking out his 4 foot high teddy bear (see above.) It's either for his grand kids but it's big enough to be a sparring partner.

This was spotted in a window front, I believe in Arcadia.

It tickles my 14 year old funny bone.

Also, speaking of my child-like nature,

I found one of those spring horsies at a local park.

"Weeeeeeeeeee"

I also shared the Pulled Pork photo above with my friend Jim, 

also given to 14 year old humor, 

who has been doing some amazing paintings.

This bathroom was not "Sparkling Clean", then again

what supermarket bathrooms are?

I did not alert a friendly team member as

I wanted to get the last of the ripe peaches.

Speaking of bathrooms, the small collection of Caganers and 

knick knacks that have found a home on the ledge of my shower.

For the sake of clarity, 

I'm a one bumper sticker type of person.

Some people are not.

Cloud formations in Palm Springs cannot be beat.

Have I mentioned the airbnb that is available for rent?

Great Mexican food and even greater "false camaraderie" with 

ex Team One members, Matt Bogen and Internationally awarded

Mr. Greg Collins

This requires no explanation.

While this sign posted in the Men's Room at

the Palm Springs Swim Center does.

But not sure I want to hear it.

доброе утро, товарищ

I'm old enough to remember darker times. 

When rock-ribbed Republicans would shudder upon hearing a restaurant patron requesting Russian dressing. When Senator McCarthy and his acolytes would hound writers (mostly Jewish) for daring to challenge the status quo and promoted values (commie values) like sharing, wealth equality and fairness for the working man. When a can of red paint would be harder to find in a hardware store, than an assistant knowledgeable enough or even willing to help.

Perhaps folks have forgotten the phrase "Better Dead than Red."

Just like the Republican Party, once the party of Abolitionists and Anti-Slavery zealots, flip flopped with the Democrats during the Nixon era, it seems they have abandoned their once staunch values. To the amazement, and terror, of anyone from my generation, it appears Captain Ouchie Foot has come full circle and now embraces Mother Russia like a frost bitten Siberian embraces another bearskin blanket.

The headlines don't tell the story. This is not a media war being waged by the so-callled left leaning press. This comes straight from Truth Social.Where, in addition to the Orange Hellbeast posting AI slop depictions of himself as Jesus, or Thor, or as an Olympian Athlete pole vaulting over the Volga, he has posited that Ukraine had started the war with Russia.

This is complete hogwash as even a kindergartener knows, as Vizzini told us in The Princess Bride, "you don't start a land war in Asia." Moreover, why would Zelenssky purpose poke the bear and provoke a super power, albeit one with vodka-sodden generals) that had already seized Crimea. 

How many times has Trump tried to pawn the blame off on Biden? 

"This war never would've started under the Trump Administration?" The obnoxious third party reference notwithstanding, "Putin respects and fears me too much."

If that were the case, why not command Vlad to put the brakes on and pull back?

He can't negotiate a peace here, much less one in 24 hours as he promise on the 2024 campaign stump, anymore than he can negotiate a peace with Iran. In a war that he started.

Oh yeah the other war that has heaped a huge helping of misery on the American economy and sent the price of energy and diesel fuel so high in the sky even Elon Musk can't do anything about it. Well, except deny satellite assistance to our allies.

Trump's tactical errors are cascading. He is to international geopolitics what General Custer was to the Montana Territory.

If you hadn't heard, President Shitgibbon cut a deal with his boss, Vladie, to purchase billions of barrels of diesel in order to ease the shortage and to send prices down (hopefully) to near Biden levels. And what will Russia do with that clean usable cash? They're going to help their ally....wait for it...The Islamic Republic of Iran. 

How do we know this? Again, not because we heard it on CNN Fake News or on MSDNC, we know this because he said so on Truth Social.

"Russia is doing very little to help the Islamic Republic of Iran, compared with what it could be doing — if it is doing anything at all..."

Oh, they said so! That's reassuring.

Pardon the low hanging fruit of rhetoric, but Russia, and Iran, have us over a barrel.

Vote Blue Bigly on November 3rd.

Fuck Donald Trump! Sideways!

  

Time for a new battery

A long, long, long time ago, I was a freshman in college. A freshman in college who finally found some freedom from my parents, who were control freaks before the term was invented. 

As such I took every opportunity to color outside the lines. I barely attended classes. I smoked weed, if you can call it that. More often than not it was this weak strain grown by one of the dorm guys at his upstate NY cabin, Adirondack Green. And like every other 18 year old boy on the floor, I drank. To excess.

On one particular night, we were shouting out the window of our dorm to the losers in the dormitory just 50 yards away. It was snowing heavily, which it did a lot in Syracuse. I opened my mouth to let loose with what I thought would be a clever insult and...my flipper, a denture device to fill the gap in my upper jaw fell out of my mouth. I watched as it tumbled down 75 feet and buried itself in the 3 feet of fresh lake snow drift.

It was 2 AM. I ran to the payphone in the lobby.

"Dad, sorry to wake you up, but my teeth fell out the window."

Without hesitation or empathy (not really his strong suit), he replied, "What do you want me to do? I'm not a god damned dentist."

CLICK

That's how parenting was done back then. 

Last night, my 30 year old daughter texted me about her smoke alarm, which had been beeping on and off for the past three days. On this night it wouldn't stop. Determined not to repeat my father's approach, I walked her through a solution which included replacing the 9 volt battery (if she had one) or disconnecting the wire clip that was feeding it the low voltage electricity.

If all that failed, get a broomstick, I told her, and smack the shit out of it until it fell to the floor.

Being an only parent of adult children is not easy. Especially for someone whose past role was more about providing: safety, food, financial security. That was my bailiwick. 

Now it is less rigidly defined and more confusingly nuanced (not my strong suit.) Requires more patience (again not my strong suit.) And a softer approach (ditto.)

But, with the help of Snippet Therapy -- 3 minute curated Tik Toks on the topic of adult parenting -- and some sage advice from Michael O'Keefe, Jon Hamm's father in Your Friend and Neighbors, I'm getting better at it. And sometimes that requires letting her figure it all out.

That's my smoke alarm.

Aaaaargh!@

Not that anybody cares, but I missed a posting yesterday. My apologies. I also apologize for immodestly thinking anyone out on the interwebs even cares. Or as Ms. Muse so aptly put it, "I'm sure the cybersphere will be raging for hours!"

OK, sarcasm, noted.

By way of a brief explanation. While in Palm Springs, fixing the house that will never be completely fixed, I was attempting to download an app to go with my new Schlage Smartlock. Simply put, I was asked for my password. As is always the case, I was not sure which password they wanted. My email password? My computer entry password? My apple ID password (which may or may not be the same as my iCloud password?) I have no way of knowing. As my latter years in advertising went, the answer was easy, but figuring out the question was the hard part.

And so I did what I hate doing, I clicked the Forgot Password link and started sliding down a slippery slope into Hades IT Headquarters. 

And could not get out.

As I often mumble to myself, "I'm such an idiot."

Which by no coincidence brings us to today's real topic, IDIOTS. 

If you listen to Trump long enough -- I believe 11 years is long enough -- you'll hear a very subtle pattern in his rhetoric. Maybe it's not so subtle. When he hears a question or feels the need to degrade another person with whom he disagrees, you will often hear him say, "You are a Low IQ individual." 

He's fond of leveling that at women. At journalists. At black people (or in his disgusting vernacular "The Blacks.") He's especially fond of dropping this pejorative at black female journalists. And will for the purpose of mixing it up, also throw out a "Quiet Piggy."

In addition to being rude, obnoxious, misogynistic and racist, it's also completely unwarranted. I don't think you could get a minion of brain cells, even in the remotest swamps of Alabama or Tennessee (sorry Greg) that would agree Trump is a High IQ individual. 

And being able to spot the difference between elephants, tigers and rhinos on the Montreal Cognitive Test is not the flex he thinks it is. Not by a long shot.

I believe, no, I know, my IQ is higher than his. In fact, if you've read this far, which is way shorter than the Pentagon's daily briefings which he doesn't read or can't, I can safely assume your IQ is higher than his, as well.

And so, as a retired man with no hobbies but scratching out some words, swimming or fixing houses, I decided to take the issue to Google's Gemini AI...

Interpersonal instinct, he has the charm of a hyena. 

Brand marketing, he bankrupted 6 companies and sells shoddy watches.

Pragmatic dealmaking, oh yeah he "solved" 8 wars.

The results are inconclusively conclusive.

At least to me.

Fuck Donald Trump.

Ooooops

 

RoundSeventeen will return to regularly scheduled rants, useless tidbits and shameless oversharing tomorrow.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

On tenants and toilets

 

Had to make a trip out to Palm Springs to attend to some minor repairs. And when I say had to, I mean I had the opportunity to come out here. Trying to rephrase my life in a more positive direction. Even though this post is about the banality and relentless joys of home ownership. Not to mention the Mercury-like heat that has literally baked some of the drought-resistant desert plants.

While preparing for the tasks at hand I found this (see above) amongst my late uncle's many tools and thousands of drill bits. I swear he must have thought they were going to stop making drill bits so he bought every last one he could find.

As my 9 loyal readers might recall, the house been broken into recently. So I quickly installed some Ring cameras on the perimeter. No one told me the batteries were insufficient so I had to purchase some solar panel for back up power. Given how much sunlight is out here, the cameras should be operational long after Trump's planet-melting nuclear war.

Yes I was looking forward to basking in the glory off of my proper installation and the fact that I was able to master the plastic expansion anchors and drill clean holes in the near century old stucco. Of course god or the Flying Spaghetti Monster, depending on your faith, doesn't close one jammed window without opening a creaky door. 

Pardon the stretched metaphor.

As I returned the tools to the garage I slipped and almost fell on a puddle of water near the water heater. There was a leak in the supply line connector hose.

Hell, I thought, I can do that. Just turn the valve off, use the pipe wrench to remove the old hose, run to Lowe's and get a new non-leaking hose. Oddly enough as I walking my dog from her twice daily constitutional I noticed there was nearby garage sale. Not just any garage sale. 

The owner was contractor who was moving back to Oregon. His yard was a menagerie of tools and parts including...

Yep, he was selling a connection hose for my water heater. What are the odds? 

Then my amygdala kicked in and said, "Rich this could be a little above your pay grade as a Jewish Journeyman Handy Guy. Also, $5 for a used hose, how do I know it didn't leak to?"

I called a plumber and he fixed me right up. And dropped a phrase I wasn't expecting to hear this weekend, "Let me swap out those galvanized nipples."

Yes, please do.

As I write this, I'm still attempting to get my smart locks back online. I don't know what is so smart about them. Half the time they don't lock properly. The other half the time, they don't unlock because one of the EIGHT batteries has crossed over to the other side of the battery rainbow. 

Finally, and there really is no finally because home ownership and the maintenance of multiple homes always produces problems...I mean...opportunities, in my haste to attend to these fixes (and multiple others that don't themselves to humble bragging) I left my charging cable for the Mustang EV back in Pasadena.

This left me with the unsavory notion of public charging, which for you combustible-engine types, can be like navigating the Strait of Hormuz. 

First you have to find an available machine. Then you have to get there before anyone else does. Then you have to hope it works. And then you have to start praying that it's a compatible Non-Tesla Supercharger, lest you sit in your car and wait 9 hours while sweating off all of September's carbohydrate calories.

The gods or the Flying Spaghetti Monsters have shined on me and located a Tesla supercharger, compatible with my EV, that added close to 200 miles of range in less than 45 minutes. And that oasis was near a Starbucks. With misters. 

Sure Palms Springs has the heat, but it's a satisfying-getting-shit-done heat.

Goodbye All

 

My dearest friends and family on the coast of the beautiful Atlantic, home of our nation's beloved capital and that great Gotham City that sits in all its glory surrounded by the Hudson, East River, and the Harlem River and my beloved Bronx, where I came into to this world 3 score and 8 years plus ago, in the shadow of Yankee Stadium.

Time is of the essence and I must write this missive in haste. 

As you know by now, General Stable Genius has made an exceedingly generous offer to the enemy, the Iranian Revolutionary Guard, who stand poised to unleash their evil and satanic forces upon us at any moment.

At a rally in Alabama, at the Buford T. Bodean Junior High School, our fearless leader who has once again assured us of his High IQ and his direct lineage to longtime professor at the prestigious Massachusetts Institute of Technology with degrees in Math, Chemical and Nuclear, has proffered Los Angeles and San Diego, essentially all of Southern California and its 20+ million souls to our pesky foes in the Fertile Crescent.

One must wonder, perhaps in desperation for a glimmer of hope, how a country whose military and weaponry have been "totally decimated" and who have been "defeated strongly" at least 38 times since the conflagration had started way back in February, on the very day of my aforementioned birth, would carry out such a bold offensive attack. 

But who are we to question our leader, our very High IQ leader, who went to the Empire State's most expensive military school and captained the senior bowling team and their clutch comeback win over the Skaneatelas Strikers in 1963.

If vaporizing the very best of California from Castaic Lake in the north to the radish and onion growing fields of Imperial Valley to the south, and thinning the herd of 25 million citizens, including my former MethHead neighbor, is what it takes to end this "Small Potatoes Excursion" and bring the price of hamburger meat to pre-2024 level, then who am I , or we, to stand in the way President Vonshitzenpantz and the ushering in of America's Golden Age.

USA, USA, USA!!!

I loved my job

My daughters don't love their jobs. I hear about their travails and their ups and downs and feel compelled to remind them, it's a job. That's the way of the world for 98.4% of the planet. 

With the benefit of hindsight, I was lucky enough to be in that rarified 1.6% who did love their job. With every passing day of not getting paid to do what I did, I'm learning how lucky I was. In retrospect I'd go so far as to say I hit the vocational lottery jackpot.

I'm not talking about the shitty jobs at the beginning. And there were plenty. From washing pots and pans in a hospital kitchen. To driving a forklift at a warehouse in Compton. And even suit and tieing it as an Accounts Receivable clerk at my father's crappy office near the Meat District in NYC.

But when I became a copywriter, more specifically a copywriter at Chiat/Day (pre-Holding Company nonsense), arguably one of the top five creative agencies in the world, I was in heaven. 

If only I had been wise enough to realize it.

My sagacious friend Jim and I have made a habit of exchanging Gratitude Lists, at least 3-4 times a week. If there is one constant thruline, it is that we both managed to make a living doing what we love best -- writing. (though this piece hardly reflects anything remarkable or noteworthy.)

We are both equally grateful that we, as most writers do, discovered this path at a very early age, during our formative years. It felt predestined. As if anything or anybody (like my father) were going to stop it. I imagine it's a similar calling experienced by priests, rabbis, or imams. But without that silly Flying Spaghetti Monster stuff. 

Jim is now painting. And I'm...well floundering.

I suppose I can keep churning out these blog posts, but can't feeling there's something else I need to do. 

Maybe it's pursuing my athletic career as a senior swimmer. Or maybe it's something I could do without 3000 meters of swimming every morning before the sun rises and can be accomplished from the ergonomic comfort of my well worn Herman Miller chair.

I hope it's the latter.

  

  

Medically Engineered™

It has come to this. As an empty nester who often chews too fast, shouting out Jeopardy answers to no one in particular, I have decided to make a $40 investment into a device I hope I never actually need.

This was not the case a couple of years ago. 

Ms. Muse and I had accepted an incredibly generous invitation from our friends, the Gelbergs, to attend a show at the Music Center in DTLA. I believe it was for Annie, but I could be wrong as most Broadway-type musicals sound alike to me. And I don't remember anything anymore.

But I do recall the meal we had prior to the show. Mostly because at some point, while gobbling up my thick, medium rare NY steak, I was convinced it would be my last meal.

I would tell you what we were talking about but my hearing went dead. As did my peripheral vision. My breathing grew shallower and shallower. And the world around me felt like it was closing. 

A meaty chunk had lodged itself in my breathing tube and the oxygen shortage had already affected my brain function because I didn't want to interrupt the conversation or bother any of the other patrons at this fine upstanding restaurant.

So I bit my tongue and pushed my seat away from the table. Something was very wrong. And it wasn't the soggy asparagus. Somehow, perhaps because of my excessive time on the Peloton or the aerobic miles spent in the pool, I was able, by shear force and my desire to see what was for dessert, to evict the Grade A beefy assailant.

Years ago, I wrote a headline for some steakhouse restaurant chain we were pitching that read: If God Didn't Want Us to Eat Beef He Wouldn't Have Made Cows So Easy to Catch.

Perhaps this was the universe paying me back. 

I have since eschewed the NY Steak from my diet. And as seen above, taken the necessary precautions. 

There are many ways to exit this world. Lying on my living room floor, in one of my CostCo wifebeater T-shirts (3 for $9.99), the victim of insufficient mastication, is an indignity I am determined not to suffer.

Make it stop

If your social media feed is anything like mine ( I pray it's not) you've been seeing a lot of buzz about the discovery of Sasquatch, sorry, Noah's Ark. I get often my childlike fairy tales mixed up.

"Scienticians" have unearthed what they believe to be a large boat buried under centuries of earth, somewhere in the area of Mt. Ararat in Turkey. I would provide more details, but the fact that the story is all over the Internet in no way indicates any validity. As a skeptical consumer of media, this reeks of click bait. 

Even worse, theological bullshittery. 

In other words, other sane words, I haven't read any of it.

In the past I have raised questions regarding the truthiness of the Christian Trinity story. 

"So God had a Son, with a Virgin maiden who he had conceived immaculately. She remained a virgin, and then god let his son die, absolving the sins of everyone of Earth who believed him, but not those who didn't and  cast those, some of whom living thousands miles on the other side of the planet who could never have heard of him, to an eternal hellfire of torture, anguish and group sex."

Yeah, right.

Hold my sludge-like, barley-fermented 3000 year old Egyptian beer, said the Hebrews.

"God got angry with his people, for wearing two different cloths and growing two different seeds on the same field, that he let his short temper get the best of him and flooded the Earth with rain for 40 days and 40 nights. Sparing Noah, a good guy who was handy with woodwork, who he commanded to build a huge ark and gather fertile pairs of animals from all the species, so that they would be the sole survivors and replenish the earth in what was essentially a do-over."

Come on, seriously. 

I've seen Poop Cruise on HBO. It was not pretty. Can you imagine the dung accumulation from all those horses, bears, rhinos, giraffes, moose, wildebeast and honeybadgers. In a very short time it would dwarf the unplanet-like diameter of Pluto. 

Which also begs the question, how were all those animals fed? I was just at the PetSmart to get some shampoo for my very smelly dog and could not help notice the miles of aisles of food. Everything one would need to feed Goldfish to Golden Retrievers. Where did Noah and Mrs. Noah store it all?

Perhaps it's foolhardy to try and make literal sense of the Bible. But it does demonstrate how easy it is to sucker people into submission and eschew their own god-given critical thinking. 

And that, more than anything else, explains this...

I need to get a hobby.

I've been reading a book lately. Before I'm charged with egotism, there's a reason I'm reading my own book and why I'm leading off with it. Besides if I don't read this book no one else will. 

In that same vein I decided to photograph the book with one of my happy-hands-at-home business cards, hawking my oh-so-popular equally handcrafted T-Shirts. Which have become quite popular with the chatty blue hairs at the Duarte Fitness Center who gather at noon in the shallow end of the pool and yack. 

I call them the Ladies That Bob.

BTW, I sold a shirt last week. This one always gets a good laugh.

The Big Book of Rants, if you haven't read it and I know you haven't because I have boxes of unsold books in my garage, is a compilation of essays I've written on these very pages over the past 17 years about advertising. 

I know this will sound impolite or a tad narcissistic, but in the rereading of what I had written a long, long time ago, I found myself smiling. And laughing. And satisfyingly impressed with what I had committed to digital ink.

But here's the deal. While I have been out of advertising for close to three years, advertising is not out of me. Not by a long shot. And by that I mean, I have been plagued by a nightly string of stress dreams.

Like the business itself, it is fucking relentless.

I'm sure this happens to you, but I don't always remember the details or even the plot of the dreams. A task made harder when I am awakened and find myself drenched in a cold sweat. But last night's episode was particularly frustrating.

I was back at Chiat/Day (big surprise) and charged with writing a campaign for a trucking company, a very specialized trucking company whose self proclaimed mission was to deliver children's cough medicine to our nationwide network of Walgreens and CVS Pharmacies. As is my nature I ignored the brief and wrote some cute and funny spots about kids coughing.

"No," said Lee Clow (my former boss, who makes many appearances in my dreams), "It's not the coughing, or even the drug stores, it's about getting the medicine where it needs to go. Jesus Siegel!"

Wow, in the pantheon of tough advertising assignments, this one was easily circling near the top.

Only to be surpassed by a dream I had last week, wherein we were pitching the Mazda account. My hard-to-please boss in this case was a mustachioed little man named Adolf Hitler. 

"Ve must take Subaru and all of Mitsubishi!"

WTF!

You can't write this stuff. 

But apparently the crazy and masochistic monster that lives inside my head, did.

Happy Monday

It isn't often I get to share good news, particularly these days when our president is playing footsie with Xi Jinping, the same man he claims unleashed the Covid plague upon us and plunged our economy into a mess. And all but wiping out any sense of "affordability" (you know, that Democrat hoax.)

But there is great news regarding the Lakers. And it's not about a new point guard. Or a LeBron replacement. This is less about what happens on the hardwood and more about the inner workings of the boardroom.

A little more than a year ago, I put up a post on behalf of Ms. Muse. Actually, it was more on behalf of a student worker she had who was about to graduate from USC. His name is Moris Hernandez, a young man from Compton who in addition to having some scholarships also paid his way through one of the most expensive universities in the country. 

As I mentioned in the post, I have a soft heart for kids who pay for private school and are long on ambition but short on opportunity. When I spoke with Moris, he told me how he had always dreamed of working for the Lakers and melding his education with his love of b'ball.

I tried to manage his expectations and said, "well that might not happen right away, you need to concentrate on getting your foot in the door and learning a thing or two about how things work in the real world and paying your dues."

I don't know if any of you talked to Moris or even interviewed him, though I gave you the chance. What I do know is that Moris, ignored my stupid advice and went out there with a fire in his belly and some thick soled shoes on his feet. 

He recently nabbed a job as a Communications Intern with your Los Angeles Lakers. Ms. Muse and I couldn't be happier for this young man. And look forward to great things in his future.

"Hernandez steps back behind the arc. Pump fakes the defender out of shoes, goes up, launches a rainbow and it's good!!! Buzzer beating win from big Moris."

The lessons here are twofold.

Always chase your dreams with full unadulterated passion.

And two, when I recommend you hire someone, you should hire them.

Mazel Tov, Carol

                                    

 "Oh no, is Rich pimping his old ABC work again? Give it a rest it's 30 years old, get a life old man."

I would understand this sentiment from the cynical doomscroller who just happened to glance at the visual. But upon further examination you will see that this billboard is not from ABC but from one of the streaming services who have all but vanquished broadcast network TV.

When this popped up last week to congratulate Rhea Seehorn for her Emmy in the amazing show PLURIBUS (that I love) I had several people send me this photo. Including my two daughters, who were infants at the time of the TV is Good campaign and who have never shown any interest in any of my work. Or even this blog.

The outrage was palpable. At least to others, not to me. 

Yes, the art direction, the simplicity and the "feel" is very similar to our campaign which debuted in 1997. But I don't think there's any plagiarism involved. I chalk it up to coincidence. Think about it. The people responsible for this -- either at Apple TV or at Vince Gilligan's production company -- probably weren't born yet.

Also, it's not the first time the similarity has appeared.

The other thing is, neither John Shirley (my art director partner) nor I, own yellow background and black type. It's an attention grabbing combination that has been used in advertising since there was advertising.

If there was any "borrowing" I, and I assume John, are flattered. And will gracefully accept the "imitation" as an homage. 

On a more macro scale, the use of outdoor billboard advertising (my favorite medium) is a testament to the once awesome power of mass communication. As opposed to micro communication and the frivolous, wasteful and forgetful crap that crawls across our multitude of screens with all the impact of a single snowflake landing on a snowman.

Also, and this is the bigger point, who cares?

Fuck Donald Trump!

 

I got a bad feeling

Feelings are not facts. One of the truths I've learned in my continuing practice of meditation. And spoken of often by my enlightened friend on the East Coast when life gets tumultuous.

But last week that truth got put to the test. 

I had arrived a day early for a quiet, peaceful weekend at my Palm Springs Airbnb. Ms. Muse and I hadn't been out there for a long time and wanted to poach ourselves in the pool while the sun baked the desert up to 110 degrees. The extreme heat renders the area deserted and thus much more accessible without the tourists. 

And a delight for a misanthrope like myself.

We love it. Nevertheless when I arrived at the house I had a feeling. Something was off. I didn't remember moving the patio furniture to that position. Did I leave the private locker in the garage open? Why are their microwavable chimichangas in the freezer? And I'm way too discerning (picky) to eat nuked food. If I were to put anything in the microwave it wouldn't be store bought frozen chimichangas.

Maybe blintzes.

That night when I sauntered out to the night air for a birthday suit dip in the hot tub and a chance to enjoy the cooling off to 92 degrees, I looked over at the nearby pool gate. There, I noticed a huge chunk of cinder block had been dislodged and the gate busted.

The Mojo Dojo Desert Casa House had been broken into!

My feeling was fact.

I summoned the PSPD and an officer showed up the next morning. I explained the situation and noted that nothing was taken. Not even an almost full bottle of Bulleit smooth-drinking rye. Nor had these uninvited guests rifled through my drawers or cabinets. 

The officer was nonplussed. She had seen this before. Local kids, who know who hasn't been home in a while, will sneak into their backyards, use the pool (and my new cornhole set) and the move on.

As anyone who has ever been the victim of a similar nature knows, it's not a great feeling. Another fact. 

The next day I ran out and got a bevy of Ring Cameras and floodlights to secure the area. When I got home I contacted an electrician to hardwire the interloper-busting equipment around the perimeter. Electrician shows up a few hours later, looks over the project and bumps up his initial estimate of 400 bucks to $3000!!

Using Trumpian Math, that's an increase of over 7825%

I demurred. Returned to Lowe's the next day and replaced the hardwired versions for some battery operated and solar panel assisted ones. 

Very happy with the results. 

Even happier I had found the real thief in this scenario!

 

Try these shoes on for size

A few months ago I documented my swearing in ceremony as a newly minted British citizen at the Consulate in Hancock Park. It was surprisingly moving. And something I, probably not most of you, had ever done before. 

Unless things change under the Trump regime, when you're born in America you are American. As such there is no event to mark the occasion of your citizenship. Unless you count the compulsory loyalty pledge we took daily in grade school. 

So yeah, putting on my Sunday Best, sipping tea and nibbling on crumpets in the company of fine folks who speak the Queen's Tongue was exciting.

But, and there's always a but or a snafu in my life, they spelled my name wrong on the Certificate. Not sure a lot of Siegels have crossed their path before.

That required another digital trip back to the Home Office before I could even apply for a British Passport. That arrived yesterday. And to prove it's real and not an AI generated photo, I placed it on top of a book no one in America has read. Or will admit to owning. Other than myself.

As the owner of multiple passports I now feel like Jason Bourne. 

If only I had the opportunity to practice those Bourne-like Kenpo Karate moves I spent so much money and time learning and memorizing. I have always wanted -- and still do -- to land a spinning reverse elbow to the jaw of some ne'erdowell or a brain-impaired Republican (obvious redundancy.) Particularly the latter, who believes anyone immigrating to this country should stand in line and do it legally.

With British passport now in hand, I can tell you the year and a half bureaucratic journey has not been easy. And it was significantly easier for me as a man with access to technology, a modicum of means and the patience and time that would do in lesser beings. 

Imagine, if you will, that I were a poor Haitian mother with two children. And that drug lords had taken command of my neighborhood after free for all gun battles on the street. How would I make my escape to the USA? Where would I start? How would I gain access to a computer? The Internet? And how could I afford all the fees for photos, fingerprints and birth certificates?

I wouldn't. And I couldn't.

Would-be immigrants facing hunger, poverty, and indescribable violence, are being told to wait in line and fill out all the forms, by White Privileged immigrant descendants whose toughest task of the day is deciding to get Door Dash dinner from Chili's or Applebees. 

Damn, I want to hit these people. With a New Testament Bible verse about welcoming strangers. 

And a spinning elbow.

 

Bittersweet victory.

I love chocolate. But chocolate has not always loved me. And played a significant role in my lifelong battle of the bulge. A battle it appears I have finally won.

Got on the scale the other day and clocked in at 174 lbs. Not my ideal weight according to the now-corrupted US Department of Health and Heroin, but within spitting distance. More importantly, I've been in the 171-176 range for the past three years. And wise Dr. Chiang, my GP who has helped ride life's ups and down for the past dozen years, affirms my victory. (If only our affairs in Iran were as clear cut.)

And so chocolate is back on the menu. In moderation.

Which brings us to Taza, mostly because Ms. Muse often brings me a wheel or two from the local Whole Foods store.

If you haven't sampled Taza chocolate and know of its limited availability, I suggest you spring for this unique treat. It is not your average store-bought vanilla chocolate. It's a little salty, a little gritty and a lot different than anything you've had before.

You might be wondering, "Why is Rich pimping this artisanal delight from a tiny chocolate maker outside of Boston. Is he their influencer?"

The answer is no. But it could have been yes.

Years ago the fractional CMO of the brand solicited creative teams to pitch the account and come up with ideas to launch the Taza brand nationwide. It was in the form of a contest.They sweetened the deal by offering a $2500 fee to the winning team. 

This was about 10 years ago. The freelance market had begun its long, frustrating descent so my partner Jean Robaire and I were game. We knocked some ideas around and developed what we thought was a winning campaign. Including a kick off sampling idea that would include 50,000 fans watching their hapless Red Sox at Fenway Park, sorry Boston but your sports fans are so easy to hate. 

That's why they're called Massholes. But Taza is made in Boston so we thought we'd get some home grown brand evangelists.

Our plan was to drop a huge dark Brown vinyl blanket over the Green Monster during the 7th inning stretch. Then unleash an army of samples who would walk up and down the aisles of the stadium and hand out free pieces of Taza chocolate, the one with 95% cocoa.

We would also have video cameras roaming around to catch on the spot interviews.  

It was but one of many, many ideas that we gifted up the makers of this all-natural, chemical free chocolate. Alas, we did not win the contest. And the task of launching the brand and putting the name Taza on the tip of the tongues of American chocolate lovers went to someone else.

So where is all this going? Well, I recently went to the Taza website, where the website and the marketing approach is still the same as it was a decade ago. They haven't done one thing differently.

The ad industry has lost its way. And so have the clients.

Long live the King

You may address me as, "My liege."

Until two weeks I had no ancestors with any hint of royalty. Not one centiMorgan -- that's DNA speak. My ancient ancestors consisted of Viking servants, victims of the St. Brice's Massacre and Jewish inbred toddlers. Then from out of the blue blood, and on the same day I learned my British passport had been approved, I discovered I shared .04% DNA with King Bela II of Hungary, who lived from 1108 CE to 1141 CE.

A King!

It isn't everyday that you're admitted to the United Kingdom and can draw a line linking my flesh and blood to the royals in Hungary. So naturally I did a little digging. And by that I mean I clicked the link describing King Bela II.

For reasons not explained he was known as Bela the Blind. OK, we're not off to a great start here. Furthermore, he only lived to a ripe old age of 38. So no longevity there, so I'll have to maintain my strict pescatarian diet and rigid exercise routine. His remains were excavated between 1936 and 1937 from the north aisle of the Royal Basilica of Székesfehérvár, too many letters.

Because of his blindness, his rule over Hungary was hardly a majestic one. In fact he turned over the governance to his wife and her brother Belos. More interesting are his ties to Kiev, which as most followers of today's events, know is in Ukraine. This, I suspect, is where my people came from.

Here's a chart that shows his likely progeny.

I'm already in contact with Ukrainian as well as Hungarian officials, seeking recognition of my long dormant superior bloodline. And any possible inheritances that might be due, in a very legal and binding manner. A sceptor. A ring. A dusty old bag of coins, a la Count of Monte Cristo.

Something.

Although I'm not gettin my hopes up.

Turns out, Ms. Muse can also trace her ancestors back to a King. And wouldn't you know it, that's King Bela II as well. 

Feeling guilty, and a bit foolish, about my lazy genealogical research I decided to dig a little further. And now wish I hadn't.

According to AI: It is impossible to give an exact number, but millions of people alive today—mostly of European descent—can mathematically trace their lineage back to King Béla II of Hungary (the Blind), given that anyone with medieval European ancestry who left surviving children is an ancestor to nearly all modern Europeans. [1]  

Curiosity killed the King.