Freedom BS

Freedom 250, he called it. A misnomer from the King of all Misnomers, the Save America Act, the Big, Beautiful Bill, the Gulf of America.

It's a name borne of white privilege, paternalism, misogyny and unabashed greed. 

Have African Americans, who were uprooted from their lands, shackled to a rafter on a boat and shanghaied 3000 miles to pick cotton, make mint juleps and service Southern men who were anything but gentlemanly, enjoyed freedom fro 250 years? No, they have not. One could argue that they still don't enjoy the same opportunities today as their melanin-free brethren.

Indeed they have lived in the Divided States of America longer and more widespread than many of the ancestors of the early 20th century wave of immigration that brought the Irish, Italians, Germans and the Jews. Yet it was less than 75 years ago, their descendants were denied access to good schools, good neighborhoods, even good water fountains.

Have women enjoyed 250 years of freedom? If freedom means having a voice, pursuing happiness and voting in our elections to gain equal representation? The answer is self evident. Because it took an amendment to the Constitution to grant them that right.

And as of late, there are Bufords and Jethro's and Mike Johnsons, speaking openly about abolishing that amendment and taking that right the vote away. Those women all 115 million of them, would have their vote cast by their husband-cousins. You know according to the Bible, found in your local motels and/or grade schools.

Now, as we begin a new millennium in America we are witnessing the disassembly of the Middle Class. Squeezed out by AI and ruthless bean counters who will do anything and everything to appease the oligarchy.

"We don't have money for your health care or well being, but look at this new shiny Blue (green) bottom of the pool we blew $15 million on. You know what would be great to go with that? An arch. And arch with our savior's (DJT) name on it." 

Should we continue down this horrific path you won't be seeing signs that read HELP WANTED.

They will say HELP NEEDED.

 

What time is it?

Time is a construct, right? It's something you begin to hear quite a bit when you are surrounded by people of a certain age. And by that I mean the numbers start with a five. Or a six. Or even a seven.

This is in addition to the many conversations about bursitis, gastric reflux and even stool consistency. I know it's not pretty, but there is some consolation in the fact that those of us on the Back Nine of Life, look nothing like our predecessors when they had enjoyed an equal number of trips around the sun.

I thank modern medicine and science -- you know that thing that is abhorred by Red Hats and RFK Jr. -- for this. When my grandparent's gait started to fail and they no doubt had pain in their hips and knees, no one said, "hey, why don't you drop by Montifiore Hospital and get some new titanium implants?"

I don't think titanium had even made it to the Periodic Table of Elements in the 1960's. It was a Rare Earth  element found in Greenland or the remote jungles of Panama back then. Before Trump could set his greedy imperialist eyes on them.

And so my grandparents, maybe yours as well, slowed down, pulled up a chair overlooking the Grand Concourse and smoked three packs of cigarettes, instead of two, while whittling away the rest of their time. They didn't have Fit Bits, treadmills or even Chair Yoga. No wonder their spines started arching into unnatural pretzel-like shapes. 

Since I retired, now going on three years, I have nothing but time on my hands. Or so it would seem. The truth is every minute I have is accounted for. From the moment I wake up until a full day later when I slip under the covers with Anna Greenberg, my favorite Sleep Meditation guide on Peloton. 

Perhaps this rambling was brought on by the recent photo's of my classmates at the 50th High School reunion (see yesterday's post.) Or, more likely because I'm reading a book suggested by my friend and school teacher, Paul.

And yes, I purposely framed the book with the aspirin and the One A Day vitamins, for effect. But if Time is a construct, I'm going to do what I can to slow it down and alter my perception of it and savor every minute. 

It starts with not nuking left over pizza and placing it in an oven until it crisps up are regains its original goodness. I don't care how long it takes, I've got time for that.

 

Revelations from High School

Last week, the 1976 graduating class of Suffern High School held the 50th Reunion. I did not attend. And looking at the many photos of familiar faces as well as many unfamiliar faces, I sort of wish I had.

Though I didn't trek 3000 miles cross country, I still managed to come away with a different perspective about those formative years.  

Unlike many in the tiny hamlet, I was not born in Suffern. We came there in 1968. I was ten years old and my brother who had been jumped and beat up by 4 guys near Queens College sent my parents scurrying for the suburbs. Our next door neighbors from Jackson Heights had moved to Spring Valley, a neighboring town with a significant population of people with Hebraic Seasonings.

We found a house in Suffern, where Tribe members were not so plentiful. The welcome mat was not exactly laid out for us. And I found myself in several scuffles with kids who had never met or smelt a Jew. 

The only one they knew was nailed to a crucifix at their local church.

This shaded, understandably, my leanings towards the townsfolk. Not unlike the scene in Annie Hall where Woody Allen shares Easter dinner with her very gentile family.

"Please pass the mayonnaise."

That's not to say, things didn't improve. They did. I made friends. I did well as a student (with embarrassingly little effort.) And I discovered I could entertain students and teachers with some well timed wiseass remarks.

Yet the "otherness" always lingered. Nourished no less by my father, who was always on-guard for antisemitism. It clouded my view. And not in good way. 

Perception was not reality. In fact, through social media and reconnections with classmates from the past, I have discovered many of them are now in happy interfaith marriages. They celebrate Hanukkah and Passover, as if it were their own. And not the mystical rituals of some strange cabal of Hebrew speaking beanie wearers. That's not to say there weren't some Jew-haters and I should mention, racists, there always will be. But the people keeping me at arm's length was me.

Time does heal old wounds, even the self inflicted ones.

 

A moment, please

 I'm not a very woo-woo guy. Despite my 46 years of residency in California. The crunchiest thing about me are the raw red peppers I put in my salads. And I'm at my most philosophical when I'm swimming endless laps at the Rose Bowl Aquatic Center. And even submerged in water it is not very easy. Not when there are a hundred screaming kids in the Pee Pool on the other side of the Competitive Pool which I prefer. I have nothing against Marco Polo, the discoverer but I'm betting he'd be seething to see what these inordinately loud brats have done with his name.

I digress. 

And as you can see, the old man grumpiness has still not been soothed.

Per my doctor's recommendation months ago, I am making the effort to tune down the noise of the world and unearth the peaceful being that lives inside me, albeit jacketed by years of stress, anger and growling Gotham genes that go to 11. 

I have just finished the book pictured above. And doing my best not to order the new Maggie Haberman book Regime Change, "inside the imperial presidency of Donald Trump." Which frankly could undo month's of calming labor. I'm still very much a work in progress.

In addition to reading about mindfulness, I've started meditating. Not in the very active sense, but with guided meditations that are part and parcel of my Peloton membership. And with the aid of low dose Petra THC mints. 

Mmmmm, minty.

Despite my NYC predisposition towards cynicism, I'm actually seeing progress. And learned to be an observer of my emotions and thoughts and resist instantaneous reaction to the them. As the woo woo people, and the Stoics, say, "this too shall pass."

Towards the end of his book, Kabat-Zinn warns of the inclination to talk about personal progress. Indeed, he eschews the notion of progress or setting of goals. And suggests this all be done in silence and solitude for it's own good. I get that. But the truth is, he writes book on the matter and does speaking engagements hoping to teach others what he has learned. He probably makes a fair penny on top of that.

In other words, I gave consideration to his advice and thought about not sharing my newfound zeal. And then I remembered the impermanence of it all.  And that thought did pass.

 

  

Do you know why I pulled you over?

You know me, I don't like to kvetch, so I hope you'll forgive me for taking the opportunity.

About two years ago, I decided, wisely, to sell my Audi S5, a car I loved. It was fast. Throaty. And extremely low to the ground. A great mid life crisis auto, but not particularly conducive to my growing sciatica and issues regarding L5 and S1. Funny how you reach this age and suddenly become fluent in the language of Geriatrica.

That, in conjunction with my growing search for tax write offs, led me to notion of leasing an EV. It made sense for my many "business trips" to Palm Springs to manage my rental property. And it would give me the luxury of incredible mileage without having to shell out $9 a gallon for premium high octane fuel. And this was before the recent Iran clusterfuck.

Moreover, I would receive special privilege to cruise past the teeming masses in their gas guzzlers, and make haste in the HOV lane. On good days with fortunate timing and driver assist set to 78 mph, I was able to reach the house in the lovely El Mirador section of PS, adjacent to the tony Movie Colony in under two hours. Or a shade above two hours if Lucy had to take a trump dump in the Rest Area  near Yucaipa Blvd.

But those good times were short lived. Can anyone guess why? I'll provide you with 3 hints.

1. Aquanet

2. Cholesterol

3. Wernicke–Korsakoff Syndrome

I'm not technically sure about the last hint. I'm not a doctor but I did get an A in Freshman Biology at Syracuse University ("If the check clears, you're admitted.")

In all his wisdom, our miserable Orange Hellbeast, who can't even manage proper pool maintenance, decided that he would punish Governor Gavin Newsom and the 50 million residents of California, by suspending federal grants allowing EV vehicles to utilize the HOV lanes. 

For one thing, I don't understand why me and my dog driving in the carpool lane requires any transfer of money. But I do understand how forcing me and millions of others, driving Teslas, into the high traffic lanes will increase logjams and increase the output of more carbon dioxide. Not to mention fueling hatred and anger of California drivers. As if our contempt for this braindead, narcissistic ass clown could get any higher.

November and/or the Big Beautiful Obituary cannot come fast enough.

 

 

A Room with a View

I know I promised not to write any more posts about the move from my home of 33 years to my new, modest house of 3 days, but felt I had to share this stunning view from my office. The move was traumatic. The view is dramatic.

That's the Mt. Wilson Observatory, reachable by a 5 mile jaunt up some very narrow paths and steep switchbacks, that neither I or Ms. Muse will probably not attempt. Especially in light of an ambitious climber who lost his footing and his life there just a few short weeks ago. 

I'd prefer to work on my swimming. Even if I have to share a lane with a slow breaststroker with a wide wingspan.

I'd also prefer to write about the transplantation and not unpacking about a thousand boxes crammed at the last minute with stuff I probably should have tossed. Like this gem...

Truth is, this kitschy plastic wineholder holds some sentimental value. And not because I'm one of those weirdo patriotic fetishists who can't get enough flags, John Phillips Souza or American eagles.

Years ago, my oldest daughter Rachel and I took a weekend road trip and stopped at a fascinating souvenir shop in Littlerock (Not the one in Arkansas) on the Pearblossom highway. The place was huge and filled with everything from Hello Kitty wear to old World War II Nazi paraphernalia. I gave her a $20 bill and told her to find the weirdest thing she could find. And it sits on my mantle. 

At least temporarily.

I'd also prefer not to start dicking around with the Eero modules needed to extend my wifi coverage throughout this small-ish house. It was easy to do the first time about twenty years ago. But I'm not 44 anymore. Now I'm old-er, and grumpy, and unable or unwilling to keep up with internet gibberish. So much so that I suspect my cranky uncooperative Canon printer will remain unattached until I'm forced to sign a real paper document.

Newsflash: The pool is still filled with green algae and the tarp that covered up the removal of Trump's name from the Kennedy Center is still hanging.

Fuck Donald Trump. (Same sentiment, different location)

Are we great yet?

"Let's all jump in the pool, the water's fine!"

That is if you like your pools filled with hydrogen peroxide, swimming with algae and large chunks of blue waterproof (though maybe not) polyurethane paint chips, some larger than my Cal King Duvet cover. Note to self in new house: replace duvet cover, which are hard to put on, and get some damn cozy blankets.

The DC pool has been a total clusterfuck. 

From the $14 million no-bid contract, to the endless bragging by our Chamberlain in Chief, to the non-stop growth of algae, to the baseless Trump charges -- are there any other kind? -- that vandals had sabotaged his efforts. Probably the same vandals that faked the Obama Birth certificate, spread rumors about DJTJ taking meeting with Russian Intel officers, and summoned up their vast resources to spike the 2020 election, not mentioning the fact that they failed to tilt the scales for House and Senate Democrats.

The reflecting pool has done what the media and the pundits could not. It is a larger than the Empire State Building reflection of the corruption, the showboating and the monumental, literally, incompetence of the Trump regime. Is it any wonder his casinos, airline, bottle water, winery, steaks, sneakers and NFT trading cards businesses went big bloated belly up?

And this comes on the green-stained heels of the outdoor convention of UFC lunkheads on the south Lawn of the dignified people's house, the removal of the Trump name (and stolen honor) on the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, and the complete capitulation of Captain Combover to the Persians, who know a little something about war, exploiting the weaknesses of their opponents and have their olive-skinned hands on the spigot that control the planet's oil supply.  

As of this writing it appears the excursion will soon be back on as The Baby Who Cried Deal, faces humiliation and is threatening to unleash the hounds of war. 

That is until tomorrow. Our 13th or 14th Taco Tuesday.

Thursday Photo Funnies

It's time for the Thursday Photo Funnies. Inappropriately named because today is in fact Wednesday. When you're retired, happily, despite the protestations of one juvenile wanker (who shall remain nameless), the days tend to blend into each other. So it doesn't really matter.

What's most pressing is my need to box and crate every knick knack that didn't come with the house we bought 33 years, but has been living here. That is until tomorrow, when I make the move from the Westside to the Eastside of LA. 

I swear this will be the last post regarding my semi-traumatic move. And in light of the life altering adjustment, instead of my usual photos of WTF's or oddities I've spotted on my afternoon walks, I'd to share some of the items I found lurking in the dusty crevices of my garage, my attack and my toiletry bag.

If you know me, you know I'm not that big on tiny figurines. 

With the exception of authentic Caganers, I have no need for them. 

And yet, I find myself in possession of a Lladro Flapper. 

Sitting in the wrapped up newspaper beside the Flapper,

I found these bronze candle holders from Jerusalem.

Call me, crazy, but I find Judaica funny.

So does my good friend Jean Robaire.

Speaking of funny, I uncovered this post card

which I believe I picked up while filming HOME MOVIE, 

at Zam's Swamp, deep in the bayou.

I also got this one.

And in accordance with the Rule of Threes, here's one more.

This was not from the bayou but from the Serengetti.

Shot by my daughter Rachel while she studied abroad in Kenya.

She also captured this, which is a thing of beauty.

As was my friend Kathy Hepinstall, 

who graciously signed one of her novels for me.

Talk about the impermanence of life. 

Still can't believe she is gone.

I stumbled across this toy, 

which was used as a model for an Acura spot 

we shot 15 years ago. Where'd did the time go?

Look, my employee badge at Chiat/Day/Mojo.

"What was Mojo," asked my inquisitive daughter.

"I have no idea," I replied. Also, where'd my hair go?

And finally, there's this.

We're smiling for the camera 

but crying for the house that will

always be our Home.

 

What a mess

An F5 tornado has just ripped through my home. Fueled by black coffee, prednisone and a looming, self-imposed deadline that urges me on so I can stop paying for living in two different houses at the same time. Such is the discord of moving.

Not to mention the pain of leaving the place I called home since the 20th century.

On the plus side there is the joy of Döstädning, Swedish Death Cleaning, the pitching and tossing of useless papers -- why am I keeping an Edison electricity bill from 2007? And how many times have I told the kids to turn off the damn lights when they leave a room. 

Additionally, why do I have five different size Phillips screwdrivers. In the junk drawer in the kitchen, the upstairs junk drawer by my night stand and a very small one jammed into the self closing hinge of my screen door after the locking pin snapped in two?

And finally, as any suburban nomad who has packed up and moved on can tell you, there is no finally, why do I have a collection of laminated newspaper ads, magazine spreads and miniature outdoor board reprints? Why, indeed? 

I'm happily retired.

I haven't looked for work in the last 1000 days. And even turned it down when, unsolicited, work came looking for me. Moreover, if I were looking for work, it certainly wouldn't include laminates, from three advertising lifetimes ago, when rubyliths were cut and art directors jetted off to graveyard shift printing houses in Wisconsin to do a 3AM press check.

And so I must part with them. 

A very small sample of the work I did while climbing the advertising agency ladder.  Captured for posterity. And for lookie loos who know how to upsize a screengrab, your amusement. Feel free to mock the puns, the overwrought copy and the undiscovered typos.

I had imagined my daughters, both employed in advertising, to posthumously go through my files and hang on my every word. With admiration and professional pride. But they told me in advance they probably wouldn't.

Especially if Love Island or Below Deck were still on TV.

There is some saving grace. Before going into the giant trash bin I have parked in my driveway, Abby, who lives in Williamsburg, snagged the Brooklyn Bridge full page newspaper ad we ran in the NY Times and was featured on a Regis and Kathy show.

She's going to have it mounted and framed and hung in her tiny apartment, which in a previous life had been a small manufacturing plant that spit out wooden clothespins.

That's how life goes, I guess.

   

Is it Safe?

 America's Favorite President? As my old partner John Shirley used to say, "My ass. In two parts."

I was never clear on what that meant, but John, whose radar for bullshit is even more sensitive than mine, has a California vernacular that I've just learned to go along with. My Goofy Foot, notwithstanding.

But today, Saturday June 13 (as I write this) is about schadenfreude. 

And savoring the excruciating humiliation suffered by President Shitzenpants. Because less than a year after he unabashedly slapped his corrosive name atop the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, once regarded as the mecca and most prestigious venue for American culture -- what's left of it -- his name came crashing down. 

But before it did and in typical Trumpian fashion, there were delays and legal maneuvers in a supremely vain attempt to stop the procedure. Also in Trumpian fashion, all his litigiousness was for naught. In the same way his $10 billion lawsuit against America failed. In the same way, his attempts to overturn the 2020 election failed. In the same way his trumped up indictment against James Comey failed.

Every thing he touches turns to shit. Including himself. 

I, and thousands, no billions, no trillions of people couldn't be happier.

Actually we could.

Because the proceedings didn't take place until 3 AM when those trillions of people had turned off their YouTube Live Feed and abandoned the watch parties to see the MAGA excrement once again scraped off the walls of our DC edifices.

To make sure no one but the lime colored-vested workers witnessed the detrumpification, our thin-skinned president, whose hands are turning blue from all the handshaking, had the workers shield the operation with a huge white tarp. That tarp, probably costing a few hundred thousand dollars or enough SNAP benefits for 831 families, was paid for by you and I. 

Hardly a big deal, because the intrepid Trump hater can easily Google up a video of similar Trump tumor removals elsewhere. Enjoy this one for example: https://abcnews.com/video/43577652/

The point, which he and his followers never get, is we don't need to see how the sausage is made. We have the faculty for critical thinking. And the results speak for themselves. 

So he can self soothe himself by stroking the honorary Purple Heart he awarded himself. Or stroke the Nobel Peace prize which was given to him by his Venezuelan puppet. Or savor the FIFA WORLD PEACE PRIZE sponsored by Tostitos Salsa Scoopers Corn Chips.

Today, sanity and the Rule of Law were victorious. That is until his next desecration of America.

 

All the odd that's fit to print

 

It's time once again for the Thursday Photo Funnies. Coming in hot, 24 hours in advance of Thursday. 

If I'm playing detective here, I would say the lead photo (the one above) came from one of our many trips to Costco. Ms. Muse and I have turned the experience into a thing. There are always astounding people to look at. It's the United Nation's of Discount Shopping. Not sure what Zuru Fugglers are, but Costco, which I've learned is very picky about who and what gets shelf space, so I know they're hi-quality.

Let's get to the oddities, photos I've taken or screen-grabbed off the interwebs for reasons unknown.

Found this amazing sunset shot, 

taken from the backyard of my Palm Springs rental house,

Which makes a fine weekend getaway, even during the summer.

Inquire within.

Also stumbled up this one. Again taken from the backyard.

Like the previous, there were no filters or effects used.

Very amoeba-like.

This was found on the World Wide WTF. 

This is a family friendly blog so no further descriptions will be offered.

This was also found randomly. 

I wonder who the balloon sentiments are directed at.

I haven't a clue.

Oh wait, yes I do. This handmade card 

was made by a friend of Ms. Muse.

It's good that her friends and my friends

are politically aligned.

Just to put a finer point on that.

"Look, there's a BIRD up in the tree." This shot

was taken right outside Culver City's finest weed dispensary. 

Not sure there's a correlation. 

This still-mysterious urinal sign was

found at one of Culver City's 

many adequate sushi restaurants.

Jameson's in Culver City doesn't have sushi, 

but if my foray in being a landlord doesn't work out it's

good to know I have a fallback plan.

This endoscopy lab is in the center of downtown Pasadena.

The entry door in the foreground and the exit door in the rear, 

was too much to pass up. It's perfect.

Moving sucks. But it really sucks when you're also battling allergies

and/or a sinus infection. Where's my Purple Drank?

 

 

 

Chewing the fat

This is the 10 ounce Kingburger from the appropriately named Fatburger chain of fast food. You may be wondering why I'm showing you this. I know it's an image that has long been forgotten. But as some you may know I'm in the final stages of Döstädning, Swedish Death Cleaning. 

That's when I came across this...

Not sure the statute of limitations has run out, but I have thoughtfully redacted the name of the smart account person at Chiat/Day who collaborated with me on this, a long shot to capture Fatburger as an AOR and start our own shop. 

You might have also notice the date of this clandestine presentation was 2001, 25 years ago. 

Due to the many one-way meeting of the minds I had with our CEO at the time, a man who was also known by the moniker or a certain gin drink, I had the sneaky feeling my time at Chiat was coming to a inglorious close. And so I started looking at other options. Actually, the minute someone starts working at an ad agency they tend to look at other options. 

It's similar to the long held industry maxim that, "The day you win an account is the day you start losing it."

There's not much that distinguishes one burger joint from the next, but Fatburger had a couple of things going for it. Magic Johnson was a partial owner. They had American blues music embedded in their DNA. And they had a 10 ounce burger, the biggest single patty burger of any chain. 

The ads, especially the outdoor boards, practically wrote themselves.

We even had newspaper ads (Or, adlike objects in the vernacular of the day) like this:

That's just a small portion of the work in a spiral bound book that's more than 1/2 inch thick. The thinking at the time was, "we can't compete in terms of research, media, staff and revenue, so we'll just overwhelm with the work that made you smile and maybe even hungry."

They had no appetite for what we were cooking. 

Or any other agency, for that matter. 

When was the last time you saw an ad for Fatburger?

 

One hand in front of the other

I'm 68 years old, I don't get to do a lot of bragging. 

Oh sure my kids are doing well and are both gainfully employed, but that's price-of-entry kind of stuff. I don't get invited to speak at ad functions anymore. Which is a good thing since I don't recognize the industry that once put food on my table and expensive bourbon in my liquor cabinet. And I don't discuss money, other than to say I think I have enough to keep me out of a dirty nursing home. 

If I live past 93, it'll be bad pureed salisbury steak and sketchy internet connection for me.

But I can swim. 

And do so regularly. And according to my new FORM swim goggles (compliments of Ms. Muse for my last birthday) I'm swimming better now than I ever have. My first score using these smart goggles, which measure stroke length, speed, heart rate, and the elusive time-to-neutral head turn, was a 47.  Now, as you can see, it's 81. I'm not just telling you, I'm telling everyone.

I was reminded of all this on Saturday morning, D-day, which is when I wrote this post. Years ago, 11 to be exact, I chose to challenge myself. You can read about it here, in this print ad (remember those) I had mocked up.

Knocking out 3 miles a day is no small feat. But as I've learned from Strava and watching the Masters classes at various pools, it's not unheard of. In addition to Old Man (and Woman) Strength, my generation has amazing capacity for endurance. Also, hours in the pool are hours away from Trump, war, inflation, AI bullshit and all the other misery that happens on land.

This faux-cross channel swim was more than a decade ago. Before I knew about glide. Hip rotation. And the two beat kick to increase heart efficiency. Nevertheless, I completed the task and was able raise $4000 for Wounded Warriors. I'm not a fan of American military adventurism, but I'm still a monthly WW supporter. Both can be true at the same time. Some nuanced thinking that is above the pay grade of Red Hats.

More recently, I found myself in an online argument with a high school classmate who could generously be described as MAGA. She made the mistake of questioning my patriotism and whether I had ever done anything for our servicemen and woman. I brought up the aforementioned. 

SFX: CRICKETS

Adding that unlike her and her fellow Kool Aid drinkers, I made a habit of voting for candidates that revere the Constitution, the Rule of Law, the sanctity of Arlington Cemetery and don't refer to our soldiers as "Suckers and Losers."

I will never understand what people, particularly military people, see in this draft-dodging, honor-trampling con man. In the same way I will never understand swim coaches advice to swim tall. 

Swim tall? I'm 5'9". On a good day. A very good day.