Welcome to the Stevensville.

I've been having many dreams about my parents lately. My mother has been gone for 21 years. And my father left us 37 years ago. Coincidentally, or not coincidentally, I came across a photo of the hotel in the Catskills where they first met.

They were both in their 20's. Both trying to find their way in this world. And both waiting tables at the Stevensville Hotel at Swan lake, NY, birthplace of that famous Jewish kvetching...

"The soup is cold, send this back to the kitchen."

They never spoke about their romance to us in any great depth. But always spoke glowingly of the beauty and bucolic nature of life "in the mountains."  

To be clear the Catskills are nothing more than glorified rolling hills, which neither my Bronx born father nor my Glasgow born mother had ever seen before. Given their working class status and grayish urban upbringing, I suppose they thought they had arrived in Switzerland.

Suffice it to say, the majestic Stevensville Hotel looks nothing like it did in its heyday.

I'll just have to take their word for it that at one time, the Stevensville was right up their with The Concord, Grossingers, and Kutshers. But with my new British Citizenship Certificate in transit to my mailbox -- it can't get here fast enough -- I'm also wondering about their marriage.

Like many couples of that era and living in close quarters with the 8 million residents of the Naked City (IYKYK) they fought constantly. And loudly. But other than their resentment at the rich entitled customers they both waited on  hand and foot, they didn't share a lot in common.

Which begs the question, did my father marry my mother so she could get citizenship in America? It's not unheard of. In fact, about three or four lifetimes ago, I briefly dated a waitress who later told me she had married a Dutch guy whose visa was about to expire.

Kids do crazy things.

Guess I'll never know. But as the prostate cancer began to take its toll on my dad, who was always as strong as bull, on steroids, I watched them grow closer and closer. They'd sit together. Talk quietly. And even hold hands. Those are the memories I choose to hold onto.

When we said our final goodbye to him at Mission Bay hospital in San Diego, she looked at the plastic canister at the bedside, filled with his urine. Desperate, confused and perhaps having lost the man she loved and in a weird state of shock, she said:

"Should we take that?"

"No mom, we shouldn't."

"is it done yet?"

There's a new store in Culver City, one that was seemingly built just for me. 

Allow me to elaborate. 

Last weekend Ms. Muse and I were talking about brisket and how it had been quite a long time since I had smoked one. Indeed it had, not only because I had switched to an all-salmon regimen in order to maintain my girlish figure. But also because my attempts at brisket had always been hit or miss. 

And to be honest the hits weren't that great. Nowhere near the mouth-watering brisket one could get at any dime store, gas station or acute care clinic in Texas.

And the misses...well, you could have carved a dozen pair of dress shoes out of the meat I "obliterated" on my Traeger Grill.

But now I'm a retired Man of Leisure and have the time and patience to nurse this hunk of beef to fruition. OK, I have the time. 

So I decided to swing by my local Pavilion Grocery Store and pick up a flat or a point and try my luck again. However, like everything else in America, the goods and services we once took for granted are no longer at our disposal. Like TSA agents. Or politicians with a moral compass. The meat department at Pavilion didn't have any briskets. They also don't have meat counter people who know anything at all.

Turns out the next shipment was stuck somewhere in the Strait of Hormuz.

I had all but given up on the mission: Epic Meat Glory (strained, I know). But on my trip to the local Office Max to get poster boards for the Saturday's No King Protest, I spied the Grill House across the street.

BTW, here's one of the signs I made today with said poster board. More Red Hat triggering posters are coming.

The Grill House is Carnivore Nirvana. 

John, my new best friend behind the counter, went to the walk in fridge and brought out a 13 lbs. packer, that's meat man talk. He told me it was American Wagyu. And only $12/lbs. I told him I wasn't feeding an orphanage and he offered to cut open this couch-size cut and carve me off a 5 lbs. hunk.

Yeah, wipe that drool from your chin. 

Last night I applied some Hard Core dry rub, which I also picked up at the Grill Store, which I may or may not start calling The GH. And right now, as you read this, it's sitting inside my Traeger smoker, already working on a delicious and chewy bark that will be induce a bevy of "OMG"s. 

I know this because I have my alarm set for 5:30 in the morning so the Wagyu can cook low and slow at 225 degrees for a full 12 hours.

Good night readers. Good night LuluBell, I'll see you bright and early.

My man

There can be no argument, this country is short on heroes. 

Look at our politicians, they're mighty short on integrity. And mighty long on greed, opportunism and naked ambition. And those are just the Democrats, who are so feckless against a clearly incompetent former TV game show host with the IQ of a 3 week old raisin, they have no idea how to take him down. 

And haven't for the past 11 years.

On the other side of the aisle there are the starfish-kissing careerists of the GOP. Who, in order to keep their hands on the levers of power, have attached themselves like remora to the soft, jiggly underbelly of an 80 year old, barely floating carcass who refers to himself in the third person and regularly claims he is a "stable genius." 

PERSON,WOMAN, MAN, CAMERA, TV

Our military leaders are hardly leaders either. Carrying out illegal unconstitutional orders from a convicted felon who also likes to indulge in the company of underage girls. And once openly declared that he wants to be a dictator.

In almost every arena of American life, there is a scandalous lack of bravery, character and willingness to stand up for what's right.

And then there's Afroman.

If you are not familiar with his singular tale of slinging a Lemon Pound Cake at the Goliath of American Bureaucracy and ineptitude, you should spend the next few minutes on the Google. There is simply no way I can do any justice to his story of injustice and trailer park keystone cop douchebaggery.

It began with a tumultuous encounter with the Winchester, Ohio Sheriff's department. But it ends in quixotic victory that demands a big screen Hollywood picture.

Here it is on small screen, as told by Jordan Klepper from the Daily Show.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rIEGz9LtF3I

The fun starts at 1:25.

I will warn you, the clip contains several catchy musical earworms. And once viewed will have you singing, "Randy Walters is a son of a bitch."

I dare you.

  

On the nature of Evil

Last week on social media, a colleague who shall remain nameless, said I was Evil. Hence the AI generated image of myself as Satan, Beelzebub, the Prince of Darkness.

If I took the time and bothered to use the Google (a stock I own that is dropping like a cartoon anvil) I could stir up a few other juicy names. 

Truth is, my disbelief in Lucifer is only surpassed in my disbelief in god.

Nevertheless the costume change was refreshing, if only to see what I would look like with abs. And since I'm technically half Jewish, I only have one horn.

As you've probably guessed, this colleague was responding to one of my Trump memes. My many Trump memes. I've made no secret of my yearning for the day that wannabe leader leaves this mortal coil. And if you've been on any social media platform in the last year or so, you know that sentiment is shared by many. And by that I mean millions of people in this country.

Perhaps billions on this fragile planet, which, because of his malfeasance, ignorance and chest-beating is also in mortal danger.

It's funny how Red Hats, who claim to be the ones with moral standards, get their white sheets in a knot when I make some stinging commentary about our MFOTUS, but go about their golf games, martini recipes and country club outings, with deep space silence when that motherfucker drops a Tomahawk missile on 175 schoolchildren.

That's evil.

And it was a girls school, ages 8-14. Which means our Pervert in Chief could have had his demented way with them and Pam Bondi, Kash Patel and the entire GOP legislative body would have looked the other way at his undeniable pedophilia.

That's evil.

Again, if I were a certified journalist or just not as lazy as I am, I could find so many examples of it of his dastardly and uniquely evil behavior, it would make Linda Blair's head spin off its axis. 

All of them normalized. All of them ignored by Kool Aid drinking kultists. And all of them unpunished in a country that used to abide by the Rule of Law.

But if a picture can speak a thousand words, I have one that speaks a thousand evils. And it has stuck in my craw since General John Kelly confirmed that this draft dodging, war monger sitting at the Resolute Desk referred to our country's service men and women as "Suckers" and "Losers." 

This, my friends, is fucking evil.

Again, I say, fuck Donald Trump and fuck anyone who supports him.

PS. this post was written before his incredibly, oh how shall I put this, uncouth remarks. 

 

Strictly forbidden

I woke up this morning to a notice that my short term rental house in Palm Springs had just been booked again. Normally this would make me very happy. But this booking came through VRBO. Maybe you've heard of them.

I hope I never hear from them again.

They are to the hospitality business what big dumb holding companies are to the advertising industry. There is no humanity there, which is odd in itself considering their business, perhaps more than most, has a direct effect on humans.

Ever stayed at a shitty, dumpy, dirty motel? Like a Red Roof Inn? You know the first thing you want to do is leave. Or, at the very least speak directly to the manager at the Red Roof Inn, Buford.

"Why is there a dead cat in the bathtub?"

VRBO doesn't have people. They have AI. Sound familiar?

And they have used their algorithmic monster to "optimize" their booking process. About a year ago, they instituted an Instant Booking system™. In their rush to streamline the system and collect revenues as quickly as possible, they let potential guests just claim their dates of arrival. Never bothering to inform the rental house Owner/Manager that these travelers would be showing up at their door, in essence unannounced.

That's not how this is supposed to work.

I've invested a lot of time, money and effort into the property, now with own Cornhole court and barely touched firepit...

I'm not about to let any schmuck off the street lay their head down on my also-new 1000 thread count sheets and pillows. I need to do some vetting. Read some guest reviews from other hosts. And weed out any ne'erdowells who might want trash my place and nick my solar outdoor lamps or, god-forbid,  my long handled BBQ-ware.

Ain't gonna happen. 

And VRBO, know what else isn't going to happen? I'm not paying any "cancellation fee." 

One other thing before I take my blood pressure medicine. And I'm going to tread lightly here before any extreme left winger jumps down my throat, when and if I ever get through to a live human being it would be ideal if that human being could speak the same language as this human being. Maybe the surge of adrenalin has thwarted my eardrums, but I swear the people that are intermitently manning your phones are from a place not even listed on the UN Charter of Members.

They're less helpful than the AI Chatbot.

Speaking of AI and occasionally screaming at AI, here are all the attempts it took for me to manufacture the somewhat clever logo you see at the top:

I vote to dismantle the GOP

This was 5 years ago. 

At the shabby Veteran's Memorial Center in Phoenix, Arizona. Here, in poorly ventilated and air conditioned building, hundreds of workers, contracted by a questionable shadow company hired by Trump and the GOP, re-examined the ballots cast in the 2020 presidential election.

When they couldn't find any evidence of fraud or foul play, they turned their limited attention and even more limited intellect to the possibility that 40,000 ballots had been stuffed in the boxes by Chinese operatives. 

They even brought in sophisticated electron microscopes (paid for with Russian laundered cash) to hunt down bamboo fibers in the ballot paper. 

Yeah, that happened.

The sore loser of 2020, who also happens to be a convicted felon, draft dodger, serial adulterer and now a confirmed pedophile, was that convinced of his own invincibility. 

It defies logic, until you remember than only months earlier, his personal attorney, America's Mayor, Rudy Ghiouliani held a press conference at the Four Seasons Landscaping Headquarters because of a logistical clusterfuck.

If it wasn't so pathetic and amateurish, it would be funny.

Mind you, these are the same graceless cretins who fired what could be the first shot across the bough of World War III. They lied about everything then. They're lying about everything now. And when they're not actively lying, they're contorting and ignoring the law to cover up lies on behalf of President Bunglefart.

Jeffrey Epstein says Hello.

And now, 74 court cases and many disbarments later, including a trip before his own store bought Supreme Court, his team of flim-flammers have not produced one shred of election fraud evidence. Not even a single fiber of Phyllostachys edulis.

But that is not stopping Captain Ouchie Foot from unleashing his firehose of mendacity in another vain attempt to erase his 2020 loss. He's pushing for the notion of Federal ID election requirements because the fraud that was never proven before, is still happening. By illegal immigrants, of course.

The new Draconian law would require visual proof of American citizenship, a birth certificate and/or a US Passport. 

Can you put your hands on your birth certificate? Mine is sitting in a pungent landfill near the Throg's Neck Bridge. And passports? According to the Department of State, 47% of US citizens do not have a passport. Not surprising, since millions of Americans think going abroad is a trip to Epcot Center.

To put a finer point on this, I know many immigrants in Southern California. They take care of my lawn, they paint my house, they clean up the detritus of my less-than-tidy lifestyle. 

Here's what they don't do: they don't risk life and limb to cast a single vote for a Democratic Presidential candidate and then vote a Republican down ticket. And they certainly don't do it by the millions. Or even thousands. I dare any Red Hat to find me a minion of Mexican men who thought to themselves, "Let's tell the jeffe we can't frame that new house, run down to our local polling place and cast some fake votes for the Democrats so we can sponge off that free healthcare and live high on the hog with those fancy EBT cards."

It's all a self-serving, delusional and deceitful fantasy.

Just ask Hannibal Lecter. 

American Heartburn

I hope the social media Thought Police don't snag me for posting nudity. 

Though this would have to be some very perverted version of prurience. Of course the bots and AI are not very discerning, as I've been thrown in Facebook and LinkedIn jail more times than I care to consider. Mostly for my political stands and not any noodies.

Nevertheless I'm taking my chances because many readers of this blog, all 9 of them, are coming up on Medicare eligibility. Not that I'm any kind of expert in the matter, but I have successfully navigated the online applications, the myriad choices and the disappointing realization that Medicare is not FREE. Not by a long shot.

Nevertheless, I am happy to be on it. I love walking into my GP's office and never having to deal with the paperwork -- which could very well be the most painful element of healthcare in America. Same with the Orthopedic people at UCLA. And my Pain Management Doctor, who will grudgingly prescribe some new wonder opioid-like drug that makes cycling and swimming a joy.

However, me being happy doesn't make for a good, or interesting blog, so let's get to the kvetching.

More specifically, let's talk about the weaponization of healthcare. You see you may be under the impression that once you receive your Medicare card you have the equivalent of a Willy Wonka Golden Ticket. I'm here to tell you that you don't. 

It's not all cherries and chocolate sauce.

Let's say you're seeing straight lines on door frames or windows and they start looking a little wavy. Your doctor recommends an Eye Specialist who can detect macular degeneration. At that point you can start waving goodbye to those hard earned Franklins, because unless you've signed up for Medicare Plan ZXKG, and paying an additional healthy premium, you're getting stuck with the bill. 

You see the genii in our government, the ones who have no problem shelling out thousands of dollars for gold plated toilet paper holders at the Pentagon, have dissected the human body and instituted an A La Carte plan to extract the most money they can from the American Taxpayer.

It doesn't stop there. 

Need a Root Canal? You're paying for it.

Need hearing aids? You're paying for it.

Need a chiropractor? You're paying for it.

Unless you're one of the 535 people elected to Congress, who pay diddly squat for their "gold standard" health coverage. And they get it for life. 

Which is a blessing for Marjorie Taylor Green who suffers from terminal brain rot but is receiving round the clock treatment. Though, to no avail. And all paid for by and I.

Maybe this will all be addressed. Maybe there's an alternative program out there. Maybe President Trump, who, having solved 13 or 14 wars, will unveil his Big, Beautiful Healthcare Plan.

We'll see in two weeks.

Not feeling well

My yearly physical is tomorrow morning and though I'm in excellent general health, I do feel compelled to tell my doctor about my gut. 

Because it ain't right. I know it ain't right. Not because my peptin and amylase and lipase levels are off kilter. But because my intuitase -- a name I just made up -- is not.

It's been like this for the past week and a half, since President Fuckface started a war. On my birthday no less. And I can't shake this feeling of impending doom.

Mostly because I am familiar with it. 

It happened roughly 6 years ago, March 20, 2020, a weird date now that I see it written form. Not only was it the 49th anniversary of my Bar Mitzvah, it was the day we heard the conclusive diagnosis, over the phone, that the massive tumor on Debbie's liver was cancer.

And...

It was the same day this country was thrown into a panic with the announcement of Covid.

Darkness ensued, both internally and externally. And thus began a slow incremental descent to a place I had never been before. My memory of those days is quite hazy. One vivid memory stands out.

The doctors in Santa Monica needed to get the X-rays of Deb's liver over to a doctor on the other side of Los Angeles, near Wilshire and La Brea. In the late afternoon, this 7 mile drive can take more than an hour. As I was stopped at a red light, I remember screaming at the top of my lungs and pounding on the steering wheel with both fists.

It wasn't the traffic that had me enraged. It was the feeling of powerlessness. For a Control Freak like myself (mostly in a benign and humorous way), it was deeply unsettling. 

The other thing I recall was Deb's fortitude and something she said to me. The tumor itself was not painful. She was asymptomatic about that. The treatments were difficult. The weekly infusions. The endless fatigue. And the weakness, though she continued the long beach walks with her friends.

"What bothers me most," she said, "is this thing inside of me. It feels like an alien. I just want to get it out. And I don't know how."

That's where we are today.

There is a cancer in the White House. And it's malignant. And painful. Slowly killing off the goodness of America and amplifying the worst of America, hate, greed, militarism and, well you know the rest.

We just want to get it out. But we don't know how. 

Addicted to Swim Porn™

According to my iWatch and my new smart swim goggles, I have logged over 70,000 yards in the past two months. That's about 40 miles.

That's a lot of time under the water, away from the Internet and secluded from the demoralizing news that pounds us every fucking day: war, inflation, sex trafficking by our highest leaders and a cratering stock market that has reawakened my fear of ending up in a dirty nursing home.

Is it any wonder I make a beeline to the pool as often as I can?

Swimming has become my newest obsession. My newest oldest obsession, as I've been a "fish boy" for as long as I can remember. Ms. Muse chalks it up to my zodiac sign, Pisces. Yeah, OK.

Lately however, the pool has started coming home with me. Allow me to explain. 

The algorithm knows I swim with FORM smart Goggles, which tracks and collects data on my heart rate, my 100 yard splits, my stroke rate, even the pitch of my head as I'm breathing. It also knows, thanks to Jeff Bezos, that I recently purchased a new Pull Buoy. As well as a new bathing suit, as the old Speedo was literally falling apart at the threads.

Accordingly, my Facebook reels are now populated by swimming tip videos. 

I call it Swim Porn™.

Bite size video snippets on how to improve the Catch, the Pull, the Return to Neutral, the Glide and the Rhythm of putting it all together. Who knew it was all so complicated? It wasn't when, 63 years ago, my rough-around-the-edges father taught me how to swim by literally picking my ass up and tossing me in the deep end of the pool at Fried's Bungalow Colony in Monticello, NY.

Now I'm hooked. Determined more than ever to improve the way I move through the water. And when all the details are added up, the results show.

When I started this new data-centric leg of my journey, my score was in the low 40's. The gains are coming slower now, but that just fuels my determination.

Even more importantly, since my swimming has been metaphorically put on steroids, my lumbar issues and my sciatica have all but vanished.

Of course that can also be attributed to the Gabbapenton, Cortisone and the Tramadol, mmmm, Tramadol.

You take your wins where you can get them.

My way

My friend Jim is in town. During one of our many lengthy discussions, we got around to talking about work. How we both had humble beginnings in the mailroom -- Jim actually hired me in 1983. And where that work took us on a life journey of ups and downs. And long demoralizing lateral slides that coulkd easily be attributed the ageism. 

But to what end?

Writers, it seems, get more downs than ups. At this point my skin, and Jim's skin, is thicker than that found on a polar bear. 

In the back and forth that brought about many laughs as well as conjecture of what would've happened had we not pursued the dream of writing for a living. I pictured myself as a doctor or an engineer, you know had I not been so lazy and actually applied myself as my father often scolded. 

Jim nodded off as I droned on about lives and vocations, that may or may not have happened in the multiverse.

As he was fading in and out, I relayed to him my recent meeting with opportunity. I had been offered a freelance gig. On a highly visible project. One that would have put significant bouyancy in my bank account. I wisely turned down that gig. 

For reasons that will shortly become abundantly clear.

I began thinking about what would it take for me to actually accept or consider accepting any new offers that might come over the transom for a 68 year old, sometimes ornery, freelance copywriter.  

At the risk of appearing like some industry Diva or simply an a-hole, here then are my pre-requisites. I could have said this was my "rider" but have always hated the use of the term "rock star' to anybody who works in advertising. 

1. The money has to be right.  And by right I mean the day rate has to be in the 4 figures. Like the plumber who comes to your house, spots a leaky gasket of a worn out washer on an S-pipe, fixes what needs to be fixed, and hands you a bill for $300, there is a price to be paid for my experience. 

I spent 40 some odd years in the ad business. Or is it called the content business? I like to think I learned a little. It's all kind of fuzzy, woo-woo stuff that can't be pinned down, or laid out on an Xcel sheet, but it's in here (pointing to head) and if you want some you gotta pay for it. Also, I'm not buying a car here. There won't be any haggling.

2. The hours have to be right. As noted above, I charge a day rate. Not a day and night rate. And certainly not a day that includes two sunrises day. When quitting time comes, I quit. I have a house that needs to be tidied up. I have salmon to marinate. Salads to build. And laundry from yesterday that has to come out of the dryer, including my three wrinkled Ronnie Shirts. 

I will not be fielding questions/requests/comments from Barbara in Accounting, just when Steven Colbert takes the stage. These days, my meeting with the Sandman is more often at 10 o'clock. Good night, I'll talk to you in the morning.

3. The work has to be right. Not to get all Alan Smithee on you here, but I'm not interested in mediocre. I don't want to put my name on anything I can't be proud of. It's not that my standards are so high, this blog with its countless typos, ugly syntax and occasional banality, is proof of that. 

It's not that I'm demanding the final cut. It's just that I'm unwilling to compromise. If I write a character in a spot to be angry, he or she is going to be angry. Likewise, if I put the word panoply or myriad in a headline, it stays in the headline.

This list is already long in the tooth and could get longer. But it doesn't need to because with this post, it's clear I have sufficiently warded off any future freelance gigs. 

And that's fine. I still have to get on the Peloton. And there are towels to be folded.

3300 posts and counting

 

Two days ago, I missed a golden opportunity. Unbeknownst to my occasionally misfiring brain, this blog marked its 17th year in existence. That should go recognized given the name Roundseventeen that I conjured up in less than a minute 17 years ago. On the eve of my 51st Birthday.

It began when I received a text from fellow Syracuse University graduate, one of the best Creative Directors I ever worked for, and all around great guy, Mark Monteiro. He texted me, and I'm paraphrasing here because I should've kept the a screen grab of the text and framed it, "Hey you seem to have a lot on your mind Rich, you should do a blog like I'm doing. I think it'd be good for you."

So I did. I wrote about a week's worth of random posts but never published them. The idea was to poke and prod my own brain and see if it produced any green sprouts. 

It didn't, but I published it anyway.

The eyeballs and web page hits started slowly, but continued to grow. Never to the level of my friend George Tannenbaum's Adaged.blogspot, which is widely held as the industry gold standard, but enough to feed my ego and keep me clickin' and clackin'.

As a former New Yorker with many, many, many pet peeves, I rarely found myself with no grist for the rhetorical mill. Work in advertising long enough, there's plenty to bitch about. And once I work up a good head of steam, I can dash off a pretty good rant, if you'll pardon the immodesty.

But as the 8 loyal readers, sorry 9 including Costa Rica T3, who jumped on board and now insists on being counted, I branched out from my original focus on advertising, and now cover a myriad (or is it just myriad) topics, from the challenges of fatherhood to Caganers, from Russian dating sites to Russian appeasers.

And seemingly, given my short and often weird attention span, everything in between.

To those that stop here every so often to those who for reasons unclear to me, or come here regularly, it has been my absolute pleasure to regal you with what passes for wit and put a smile on your face. 

Thank you to Mark for telling me to write.

And thank you, all of you, for reading and in effect encouraging me to keep on writing.

I couldn't have done it without you. 

Nor would I.

Thursday Photo Funnies

This is me getting all artsy-fartsy with my iPhone camera. 

It's a wickedly pointed succulent in front of my neighbor's house in Palm Springs. As some of you may know, I wintered at my airbnb house out there and found many shots worthy of a new Thursday Photo Funnies, which occasionally shows up on Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Or oddly enough, Thursday. 

It's all dependent on my sometimes-less-than-fertile mind. I think it's crucial to have a back up plan for when the grind out another blog post duty feels like opioid-induced constipation. 

Without going too much further into that, here then is a random collection of photos snapped in Palm Springs as well as other locations that constitute my current peripatetic life. 

Let's get going...

Some might think I'm a bit overzealous in the way 

I've used my front yard as a canvas for my anti-Trumpism, 

but a stroll in the Las Palmas area proves 

I'm not alone in this seething sentiment.

On a more whimsical note, 

I spotted this unusual license plate frame.

It's hard to tell what is real and what is not

real these days.

Ms.Muse has many suggestions 

for fixing up the Palm Springs house. 

In response to her idea of adding

a small reading lamp to the living room 

I thought the monkey valet would be fun.

Similarly, these were also poo-pooed.

And the feathered Flamingo lamp, 

which had a long stand and eliminated the need for 

an end table, brought up some fire issues.

Back to more pleasant items, this is a shot

of the new CV Link, which is a cyclist's dream.

If only Rancho Mirage would grant permission to 

go through their fair city.

These are my new favorite cycling socks.

They used to belong to my oldest daughter Rachel, 

who comes over to do laundry every week.

Now these curmudgeonly socks belong to me.

Recently, Ms. Muse and I did the Tour De Palm Springs.

This was the number I was assigned.

By sheer coincidence it's also the street address of the house,

which is available for vacation stays.

And here's a new photo taken of the backyard,

with the newly strung patio lights, the newly assembled patio furniture

and the new firepit to warm you up

when the desert nights get chilly 

and the temp. drops into

the low 70's.

Ms. Muse and I, joined by our good friends Rich and Paula,

to celebrate my recent birthday. If this picture isn't a testament to 

top notch American dentistry, I don't know what is. 

As you might imagine, it was a night of great laughter.

And finally, there's this dramatic shot that I captured

in Culver City, the crime capitol of the USA, according to

"Attorney General" Pam Bondi. 

 

Five myths about getting older

I don't really have 5 myths. I only know that from my time as an in-house copywriter of useless emails for Dollar Shave Club and even crappier emails for PayPal Honey, whose stock is now trading at nearly 1/10 of the price when I got my first vesting, people like listicles.

But you've come this far you might as well hang around for some thoughtful insight on the Big R -- Retirement.

Last week, while in Palm Springs, I was at their Swim Center. As I walked in, breathless from a non stop series of  50's, 100's and killer 200's, I heard two gentlemen talking. There's a lot of talking and camaraderie in the locker rooms of Palm Springs.

Older White Bald Bearded Guy #1: ...I don't know. I'm think maybe two more years.

Older White Bald Bearded Guy #2: If you ask me I waited two years too long.

With that, the first guy left. I turned to OWBBG#2 and said, "Let me guess, you guys were talking about retirement?"

He smiled and proceeded to tell me:

OWBBG#2: I love it. People ask if I miss the work. I tell them absolutely not. I don't care about the work. I cared too much about the work in the first place. Now I have time to spend with my cats and do my gardening.

OK, I thought. Your retirement looks a little different than mine. I have a black scythe where my green thumb should be. And I don't like cats. No one in my family likes cats.

But I also understand the shit-eating grin OWBBG#2 had on his face. That joy is contagious. And I try to talk as many of my similar aged colleagues and friends to pull the plug. There is no time like the present. Particularly with the threat of Armaggedon tomorrow. Or next week. Or the day after I mailed in my mammoth property tax bill.

Speaking of Armageddon, I'd be remiss if I didn't share this little gem from a long time ago: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cTrOb8zyrZk

I turned 68 years two days ago. I don't feel 68. When my lumbar region isn't acting up (Hello cortisone) and my sciatica isn't flaring up, I feel 48. Or even younger. 

And with my vigorous exercise routine of biking, swimming, lifting weights and walking I don't intend to ever feel my age. But I suppose my fleeting cartilage will have a say in the matter.

With regards to work, I don't miss it at all. Not one bit. 

Yes I was paid inordinate amounts of money to write silly ads and twist words around for maximum impact. But the truth is, especially if you follow me on social media, I still engage those writing neurons that helped put food on my table, but now I don't have to take feedback, make changes or water anything down. Or dumb it down as one PayPal middle manager was fond of instructing me.

I don't get paid as much money, in fact, I get paid none. But somehow, it's all the more rewarding.

Quit work when you can and in the words of Morgan Freeman, "Get busy living."

Sebrina Jean revisited

 

It's been awhile since I posted any scambaiting emails. Loyal readers of this blog will recall my many adventures with internet fraud. 

There was my long running series with various zealous members of the Illuminati.

My misguided entanglements with Asian mail order brides.

And my short lived but highly enjoyable battle with the Vice President of Club Membership at Mara Lago, one of my prouder moments.

At the beginning of this year one of former scammers, Ms. Sebrina Jean, returned to my inbox after a six year lapse in our correspondence.

You can imagine how excited I was to hear from a previous paramour -- albeit virtual. And having completed all my household repairs and exercises for one day. I decided to re-engage. 

As the hurt, love-scorned Dick Herz.

But Ms. Sebrina is clearly not concerned with the way she has ripped my heart apart. Not to mention my expensive orthodontic restoration. 

It's also very clear that this is not "her" first internet rodeo as she's all business and wants to get her hands on my "payments" as quickly as possible.

But things have changed since my last scambaiting adventure. Because now I have AI at my disposal, for only $3.99 a month. And because I  have no idea where all my tax documents are for my CPA, nor do I want to look for them, I have a perfect reason to procrastinate and make with the emailing tomfoolery.

It's your turn Sebrina. I eagerly await your response.

  

Your President, not mine

 SFX: SAD TRUMBONE

Prefaced by Charlie Brown saying, "I got a rock."

You know the feeling, don't you Red Hats? I'm speaking specifically to you die hard cultists who still haven't realized you've been hoodwinked, swindled. and bamboozled. 

Even Marjorie Taylor Greene, the simian former representative from Georgia who in high school was voted "Most likely to taintlick her way to the top", agrees that MAGA ain't the same MAGA that was pitched to them on so many sneakers, NFT cards, watches, patches of blue suit and shoe leather filet mignon steaks (the stupid person's notion of class).

You know things are a squirrelly when you find yourself in the same political bed as MTG. 

This post -- written just two days ago -- may already be outdated, as the NY Times reports an unprecedented build up of US military forces in every country neighboring Iran. Pile on top of that the locker-room bullying techniques of Captain Ouchie Foot, "We can take Iran, easily. We have weapons no one has even seen before. We can take on anybody, anywhere, any time." 

The previous is an amalgamation of things he has actually said.

That sounds less like America First and more like Israel First. Saudi Arabia First. And American Oil Companies First. And Trump Cayman Islands Slush Fund First.

Is that what you Red Hats voted for? 

Oh that's right, you voted for cheaper eggs and lower groceries prices. How's that going? No need to tell me. Even us leftist, radical commie scum shop at the same supermarkets you do. And unlike drug prices, which I'm told are down 500%, 600%, sometimes even 900%, the edible stuff we put in our bags costs more now than it did under Sleepy Joe Biden. That's not what Even Sleepier Donald Trump promised, is it?

Finally, because I run the risk of building up a head of steam and siphoning off precious heartbeats and energy from my upcoming Peloton session, there's the Epstein Files.

As we breathe, there are serious charges about rape, pedophilia and even murder on the table. For the love of everything that still remains decent in these indecent times, can you please put yourself in the shoes of someone who thinks objectively.

Do you honestly believe that "man" who dodged the draft and bragged about how discos and the club scene in NYC were his Personal Vietnam? Do you trust a father who said, "If she weren't my daughter, I'd be dating her"? Who also said, "when you're a celebrity you can grab em by the p*ssy, they let you"? The same man who cheated on his wife while she was breastfeeding his son, with a porn star and then paid her $130,000 not to have sex. Are you seriously taking the word of the pig who was at one time the best friend of the world's most powerful and prodigious sex trafficker. 

And you still cling to insane notion that he didn't do ANYTHING untoward toward underage girls?

You elected a war mongering, incompetent, lying pedophiliac. 

Hope you're happy, because we (the real Americans) are not.

Start Over

The best 90 second Super Bowl commercial never ran in the 2026 Super Bowl. Wisely. It ran, and could still be running, if this Canada/USA curling event goes into overtime, during the Milan Olympics.

Perhaps you've seen it. I dare say, if you had seen it you'd remember it.  

It's for Lilly and you can view the spot right here. It's worth watching again.

https://www.ispot.tv/ad/gOop/eli-lilly-2026-winter-olympics-never-over

I'm going to go out on a limb -- but I'm going to do it carefully -- that this commercial "harkens back" to the advertising salad days of the 80's and 90's. My industry colleague and one of my copywriting heroes, Ernie Schenck, took time to write about this gem recently so I'll try not to step on his toes.

Ms. Muse, an expert in advertising in her own right, and I talked about the spot on one of our many recent bike rides along the CV link. We noted the clear similarities to classic Nike spots. Not surprisingly, the execution and production value and minimalist approach stem from the same agency, Wieden Kennedy.

"And do you remember the company the spot was advertising?"

Indeed I did. Which is odd because I barely remember any of the spots that ran during the Super Bowl. Oh the humanity!

The Lilly opus  ran contrary to all the "best practices" and "brand optimization techniques" that now rue the day.  

There was no "bing bong" brand pneumonic in the first 3 seconds. You know, because as I've actually heard clients say, "What if somebody gets up after 5 seconds of our multimillion dollar spot to go take a piss, how will they know it was our spot?" 

Yes professor, how will they know?

There were no bite and smile shots of people swallowing Lilly made pills or subjecting themselves to Lilly injections.

Or shots of the new centrifugal blood spinning machines separating platelets or mitochondria in clearly branded test tubes bearing the professionally lit Lilly name.

And for a company that's clearly on the cutting edge of technology and medical advancement, the spot was markedly luddite in nature. There was ample use of black and white stock footage.  And the voiceover was delivered in a staccato professorial manner that cut through the clutter like a freshly unsheathed virgin scalpel.

In short, the spot did what all great Super Bowl spots used to do. It grabs you by the collar, takes you on a journey, builds to a riveting crescendo, and then confidently delivers the money shot.

Ironically, our industry, well, it's yours now as I am so thankfully done with the mishigas and idiocy...

"Can we get Ben Affleck to do the voiceover?"

"NO!"

...would do well to return to the directives that have served Lilly so well:

O B S E R V E

Q U E S T I O N

E X P E R I M E N T

T E S T 

(OK, maybe not so much testing)

S T A R T  O V E R

"To Indio...and beyond."

Yesterday I wrote about reconnecting with my inner handyman. 

Had my father lived past 57 years I'm sure he would have been very proud. I didn't inherit his late-in-life love of woodworking. Nor his prized tools. Nor his astounding collection of dog-eared Time Life books, from which he self taught himself and found his way around miter saws and rabbit joints. But he did teach me a few things about locking washers, rachet and Allen wrenches.

I forgot to mention, I assembled these two patio chairs and table. Not only do the chairs swivel, they rock back and forth. And yes, I know about the crack in the cinder block wall.

He also would have been proud to witness the development of my inner athlete. 

Last weekend, Ms. Muse and I did the Tour de Palm Springs. We did one three years ago but got sidelined by Covid and other maladies the last two years. This one was the best. 

There were 4 route options available to us. Unlike others of our particular age, we ride without the assist of the very popular e-bikes. We're purists in that way. Being healthy but not always pain-free, we opted for the 58 mile route. That's no small feat.

The wind stayed at bay. The sun ducked behind some high cirrus clouds. And, perhaps most importantly, we were riding with a sufficient supply of low grade opioid medicine. 

Or as I now say, "Have Tramadol, will cycle."

When we crossed the finish line -- this was a ride, not a race -- we set the bikes down and shared a libation, or two, at the Beer Garden. And though our feet were bigly hurting, we decided that there was still gas left in the tank. And half a Tramadol in the pillbox.

So we rode some more. 

Ms. Muse, who had tacked on 10 miles before the race in order to ride her age, went over and above and cranked out 71 impressive miles.....many, many more miles than her age. The longest ride she has ever done. 

Post beer, I did some math and figured how many more miles I needed to get to 68, since I will turn that age in 10 days or so. It was the longest ride I have ever done.

It was a glorious day. Followed by a blissful night of double digit hour sleeping.

 

Happy Hands at Home

Many, many years ago, I did a pitch for a small agency called Goodness Manufacturing. It was helmed by three guys from Crispin. Before CPB became CPB Creative. Or OmniFuck. Or whatever.

We, John Shirley and I, were brought in to compete against other teams before the new spec work was shown to the client, Craftsman Tools. We survived. They didn't. 

We thought it would be cool to heap praise upon the men and women in this country that use their hands to fix, build and otherwise manufacture things. And naturally with Craftsman Tools. We created The Order of Craftsman and blessed it with all kinds of pageantry, lore and celebration of camaraderie. 

John designed several T-shirts emblazoned with similar logos to the one seen in the picture above. Not just fro plumbing but for hanging lighting fixtures. Eliminating crabgrass. Cleaning out sewer lines.

My appreciation for people who courageously pick up and tool and say to themselves (sometimes foolishly), "I can do this" has only grown since that time.

I have spent the last 6 weeks at the short term rental house that was the former residence of my uncle -- the only gay man in Palm Springs with no sense of design. Or taste. It is a great winter escape. And should you be interested in spending time here, it is available. 

Well, almost. 

I have 4 bookings scheduled. And that meant cleaning up the place. As well as taking care of some repairs.

In the same way George Costanza hated to pay for parking, I detest spending money on hiring repairman. Especially when the stock market is falling in Olympic synchronicity with the president's approval rating.

And so, with the wrong hex bit attached in hand and a stupid willingness to fuck things up, I did what most Jews would not, I got handy.

My dog's water bowl used to sit by the baseboard. 

And because she's so sloppy, 

the water would get all over the place and rotted away the paint.

The baseboard got painted. And the dog bowl was moved.

A year ago, I spent a shit ton of money to replace the pool gate. 

With a fancy one with frosted glass.

It is not easy keeping up with the Chads, the Kyles and the Jasons,

 with their fancy Palm Springs accoutrement.

Unfortunately, the smart lock on the gate wasn't engaging properly.

I donned a pair of safety glasses and and my power drill 

and made that damn hole bigger...restrain...edit...refrain from making bad joke.

Finally, salmon skin, while tasty is very oily --the good oil. 

It can make a mess of the outdoor BBQ.

 So I tore the grill apart, briquette by briquette and slowly, but purposefully

returned the BBQ to its original factory shine.

Not all my home repair work produces such satisfying results, in fact my success rate is barely in the double digits. So when it does go right and things work out and nothing else gets broken in the process, you can be damned sure I'm gonna blog about it.