Cash for laughs

I'm such a sucker for social media ads. You'd think after a lifetime creating advertising I'd be more alert to to click bait and the precipitous drop into the sales funnel. But, with it's Matrix-like ability to read my mind, the Internet has trapped me once again.

Last week while doom scrolling, I came across an ad for a company that lures homeowners with all cash offers in exchange for my house. I'm currently debating renting out the house, a 4 BR remodeled home that sits in walking distance of snazzy downtown Culver City. Or, selling it, thus funding my ability to put a serious a dent in my bucket list. 

If I had a bucket list. 

The ad promised an instant online, no strings attached cash offer. Taking the house off my tired hands in As-Is condition. 

Meaning I wouldn't have to fix the slow toilet in the downstairs bathroom. Or replace the outrageously expensive Wolf Oven whose igniters never stop clicking and clacking or even lighting a burner. Or divulge the annoying proximity I have to a neighbor I call Meth Head, whose constantly barking Malinois (Bad Noise) has now been surpassed by the blaring TV that is permanently set on Fox news. Figures.

But, as you probably figured out, the cash offering cartel does not work that way. Once I signed up, the jackals circled my digital mailbox. I have ignored and unsubscribed to all of these equity robbing weasels and their low ball numbers.

With one exception, Luisa Enriquez. Not because she and her company held out huge bags of US currency for the taking. Rather it was her persistence and her pugilistic Trumpian style that got my attention. 

To wit...

That my friends is follow up. And must be admired, though I suspect from the my short time in the digital ad business it's all preprogrammed and does not spring from the personal keyboard of Luisa.

You're probably, or not, wondering how her sales pitch went. Well, I'm glad you asked. As you guessed I have the receipts.

Nothing stalkerish about that. She does use the word 'forever' lightly.

This was followed up with...

Maybe you can't take a hint Luisa, as I have not replied to any of you e-mails. And won't, because frankly, I like your style and to milk this for all it's worth.

And finally, there's this.

Actually there might be one more email she sent, but I have forwarded it on to the FBI and was told not to worry.

Cheater, cheater bacon-stuffed crust pizza eater

Life can be awfully unfair at times. 

Look, I know won the lottery in that I'm a white male, born in America, and given a bounty of opportunities to succeed (some of which I thankfully jumped on). So yes, I've been lucky beyond all measure. Almost. It's like I hit 5 of the 6 necessary numbers. And by that I mean I've lived with a lifelong struggle with weight.

I came into this world at a whopping 10 lbs. My parents would joke that when my mother was pregnant, they were strolling around the Bronx Zoo. When they passed by the elephant section, her water broke.

No trauma there, right?

When my brother joined the ranks, my father often referred to me as, "the Big One." As in, "Isabel (my mother) tell the big one to get off his fat ass and mow the lawn ." (All 3/4 of acre of it)

I know parenting has gone through seismic changes, but 50-60 years ago that's how it was done in New York and the greater Tri-State area. It was all part of helping a kid develop a thick skin. In my case that thick skin also covered excessive layers of subcutaneous fat.

So wouldn't you know it, after so many years trying the Atkins, Weight Watchers, Lemonade enemas and countless reps with Tony Horton and P90X, the brainiacs at Pfizer or J&J or Merck produce a weight loss injection that actually works. 

Furthermore, as if the shedding of pounds wasn't easy enough with this new drug, they're making it available in pill form. It just feels wrong. In the same way it feels wrong to be on my Cannondale Super Six Evo, straining the bike chain to the max as I huff and puff up a particularly steep section of Flintridge, only to see some couch potato gliding up the hill with his $5000 E-assist bike.

There's something unsavory about that. It's like running the last mile of the marathon and then hanging a medal around your neck.

"Cheater, Cheater, Bacon-Stuffed Crust Pizza eater."

I don't want disparage anyone, including friends and family, who are taking the drugs, because better than most, I understand the struggle.

It only took me 68 years, but my battle with the bathroom scale is over. Fingers crossed. There's a certain amount of pride knowing I did it the hard way, my preferred route for just about everything. And I owe a great deal of thanks to this guy...

I did the math and I eat roughly twice my body weight in salmon over the course of a calendar year. I'll probably die of mercury poisoning. And of course, the scienticians who have put Jenny Craig on the streets, will have produced an antidote for that, the day after I'm called hope to rest.

Oh, and the day after that, they'll find a cure for male pattern baldness. 

 

Tale of Two Toilet Paper Rolls

See anything unusual here? Besides the abnormality in the lower right hand corner, which I assure you is a result of marble's natural veining or pitting or surface imperfections brought on by etch marks. And not a splotch of toothbrushing spit that landed on the corner when I inadvertently sneezed. I don't know much about photography but I do know how important it is clean up around my house before publishing glimpses of my somewhat sloppy bachelor life.

Focus instead on the two rolls of toilet paper. Notice how the light and my careful composition captures the rather significant height difference? Ms. Muse pointed this out while I was at her beautiful mountain adjacent abode in Sierra Madre. 

Turns out this week, after an other outrageously expensive trip to the Grocery Store where they place "Groceries" (not a word you hear too often these days) in bags to take home,I noticed the same phenomena.

As I was placing my new TP, brought to you by the fine people at Signature Select, the generic house brand from Pavilion, a division of Safeway, on the toilet paper roller thigamajig, I had the nagging feeling that I had been shortchanged. 

And I had. By close to an inch.

This is not the Pentagon Papers or the Mueller Report. It's hardly news that Big Food or Big Grocery as it were, has been screwing over the American consumer for years. One pound packages of coffee are now 12 ounce packages of coffee. Jars of spaghetti sauce are the same size but they have less of that delicious machine made spaghetti sauce just like the one IBC Mega Masher 9000 used to make.

The IBC Mega Masher 9000 in action.

It's called Shrinkflation. As I quickly discovered it's omnipresent.

These microscopic examples of flim-flammery may not bother you that much. Or even at all. But know that a penny saved here and Triscuit shaved there, add up quite quickly. And voluminously. It's why CEOs are actively shopping for their 3rd or 4th yacht. And it's why the investor class hammers away at companies to cut costs and increase profitably.

In other words, it's why the rich get richer. 

And the poor, using poorly made toilet paper, get shit on their fingers.

Sweetflower is in the air

This is a picture of the inside of my dispensary, which is literally 2 tenths of a mile from my house. I probably shouldn't call it my dispensary lest you get the idea that I'm some kind of old-aged stoner, who doesn't get out of bed until taking a big long draw on a fancy bong made of jade and blown glass. It's not like I go in there everyday. 

Well, actually I do go in there just about everyday, because my dog Lucy loves the free treats (THC-free) and the attention she garners from the crunchy woo-woo "Florists."

You heard me right. Just as the folks who make coffee st Starbucks are barristas, the kids (anyone under 50) who peddle the indicas and sativas in every ingestible shape or ignitable format, have elevated themselves to Florists.

I, myself, will make a purchase every two weeks or so. My vice are the low dosage Petra Moroccan Mints,  that help ease the anxiety during these tumultuous times. They don't make me high, per se, unless I forget when I've taken one and an hour later accidentally popped another minty breath/mind refresher in my mouth. But I do love eavesdropping on the pretentious Florists as they go about selling their wares and the various strains.

"This one is called Super Boof, it's got hints of blueberry and will produce a relaxed, sleepy high."

"OK Kush, this could make you giggly and will definitely produce the munchies and make you a Door Dash Frequent Diner."

"Leafly named this one their Strain of the year, it tastes earthy and funky and it has caryophyllene so it's gonna burn with a sweet aroma. Many of my clients say it's their favorite."

All this high falutin danky talk makes me laugh. Not the giggly high induced by THC. But real laughter brought on by such contrasting irony. 

Way back when, we got our weed from Skinny Dave, a high school burnout who also used to work with me at the Spring Valley Jack in the Box. He was a Jeff Spiccoli look alike and sound alike, only he weighed half as much. He'd wear a size 26 waist and was always pulling his pants up. 

"I don't need any belts, I'd rather spend my money on Jamaica Gold, dude."

And in college our weed was brought to us by Barry, a Syracuse high school substitute math teacher, who when he wasn't explaining quadratic equations, would roam the floors of Sadler Hall dispensing the worst imaginable marijuana on the planet. Pretty sure it was grown in DeWitt.

Don't know why I chose to write a whole blog post about the weed store up the block from my house. I had another topic in mind. A really funny one. But I can't remember what it was.

That happens.

A lot.

I have no f*cking clue why he is our president

Went to my fourth Anti Trump protest this weekend. I think it was the fourth. I'm suffering from CRS (Can't Remember Shit Syndrome) and seem to recall there have been two No Kings protests and two Hands Off.

The other reason I can't remember is there have been no discernible achievements of any of these protests. Which may or may not have something to do with the lamo naming of these events. Trump and his murder of treacherous men spend more time naming their shit than they do authoring it. 

If they had been in charge the protests, it would have been called Raiding the Castle or Deposing Our Braindead dictator.

On the other hand I've been told by the ever intelligent Ms. Muse that sociologists contend real protests don't move the needle unless the participation rate is higher than 3.5%. I'll spare you the math, but that equates to 11.5 million people. The rough estimate from journalists and people who count crowds for a living suggest that Sunday's many extravaganzas produced a little over 8 million American patriots. 

To me those are 8 million people who love America and want to follow its better angels. 

Red Hats, or close to 77 million LOSERS, say they love America but prefer some perverted notion of Christianity lead by an ignorant, adulterous, greedy pedophile. 😵 (This marks the first time in RoundSeventeen history that I have inserted an emoji into the text. Again, that is if I'm remembering correctly.

I don't know if these protests will actually change anything. Or sway anyone's mind. 

If the previous ten years of his malignant regime, with all its incumbent greed, corruption, and mendacity hasn't convinced you to take a good hard look in the mirror, not sure a 34 count felony conviction, an appearance or maybe a million appearances in the Epstein File and now the deaths of American soldiers (suckers and losers) in an illegal war, ever will.

It doesn't make sense. Like one of the signs that showed up at Sunday Rallies noted. Nothing, or very little does make sense in this Black Hole of Stupidity that he, and he alone, has sucked us all into.

Maybe that's why we keep showing up. And we keep making our signs. Hoping that 3.5 million more Americans will devote a Saturday or a Sunday to raise our voices in search of our better angels. Or if nothing else, to be in company of like-minded people who are incredibly funny and fun to be with. 

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.