Red, White and Very Blue.

I'm not a political operative. Though I often play one on the interwebs.

And though nobody asked for it, I'm going to give you my post mortem on last week's election...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Eujwxh_r43E&t=7s

That's worth a few million words right there.

Like many of you I was skeptical of the polls. We had been overpromised and the crestfallen before and had little stomach for a viewing part that would leave nothing but leftover French onion dip and despair. So Ms. Muse and I watched it by ourselves.

Had there been a $300 bottle of Dom Perignon in the fridge, it would have been empty by 7:30 PM. The night was that incredible. Like you, we watched as contest after contest went Blue. As in Fuck Trump and Fuck anyone who enabled his militaristic adventurism, his self aggrandizing DC home decoration, his unfunny dementia, his unabashed racism and his 7 decades of assaulting and raping young women.

After years of the media and political experts yacking about Trump fatigue -- we've endured this brain dead mofo for close to a dozen tortuous years -- it finally manifested itself at the ballot box.

The landslide and the mandate could not have been any clearer. Even more promising is how a younger generation has been handed the reigns and showed up in numbers too big to ignore. Just have a look at the map above.

Of course there's still two months before any of these newly elected officials are sworn in and begin their Herculean task of cleaning the stables of old lumpy GOP horses. 

Because it has happened before (Hello, January 6th, 2021) there is every reason to believe the transition will not be the smooth ride, as it had been for the previous 245 years of peaceful American politics. This is especially true now that Chief of Staff Stephen Miller, the wormy Kapo who is hated even more than Musk or Trump, has his oily mitts on the levers of power.

To which I would paraphrase a quip made by the NRA and their herd of ammosexuals, "We'll give you our  America when you pry it from our cold, dead hands." 

Here come da judge

 I did a bad thing. Actually I did a good thing but it will probably turn out bad for me.

Months ago, while still living in Culver City, I kinda ignored a summons for jury duty. Ignored might be a little loaded. I conveniently forgot/lost the summons notice, because I was busy packing up all my stuff, 30 plus years worth of stuff, for my big move to Pasadena. I hadn't given it a second thought figuring the move would put me out of reach of Lady Justice. 

Is that what she's called?

Turns out the long arm of the law is a lot longer than I thought. Because I got a postcard from the Superior Court, which is kind of self aggrandizing, don't you agree? I guess the Inferior Courts are all down in Florida, where Aileen Cannon resides and presides over bucktoothed residents who wrestle alligators, or try to hump the mufflers of parked sports cars, or steal top secret documents and stash them in an unused bathroom at a shitty fleabag hotel.

I was threatened with a $1500 fine if I did not respond. 

So now, I'm going to jury duty. There's a chance I'll be excused. I'm 68 years old. I can explain how I often forget things. Or don't know why I walked into a room. Or how I can't remember whether my daughter or Ms. Muse have a distaste for ketchup. Turns out they both do.

Either way I know I'll get picked. I always do. Some people are said to be very photogenic and have a face for the camera. I have a face for jury duty. 

The last time I sat through jury selection, I literally heard a man from the back say the following...

"Your honor, I'd be happy to serve the court unless it's a case about a drunk driver. You've heard of MADD, Mothers against Drunk Driving? Well, I'm a member of DAMM, Drunks Against Mad Mothers."

No cap. Low key.

Moments after the giggling and other BS excuses were heard from the peanut gallery, this fool walked out of the courtroom with a Get Out of Jury Duty Card. I spent the next 2 and 1/2 weeks in a civil case listening to a guy whine about his foot hurting because of a botched ingrown toe nail removal and his plea for $7 million in damages.

But wait, its gets worse. Or better, depending on your appetite for schadenfreude. Not only do I have a face for jury duty, I also have the visage for Jury Duty Chairman. Both times I served, both times I got chosen for that esteemed position. 

My appearance won't happen until the beginning of the new year. I know you'll be on the edge of your seat  like you're at a Jamie Lee Curtis Screamathon, so I'll keep you updated.

BTW, we ruled unanimously against the Ouchie Foot guy. Although one snarky juror in the room offered to pay him with his court-provided tuna fish sandwich and a bag of stale Frito Chips. That got the biggest laugh in the room.

And made me wish I had said it.

At the Dog Park

There is a very large dog park up the street from my newly rented house in Pasadena. My dog, Lucy, has rediscovered her youthful energy there. Not all the time, mind you. She will often follow me, lay herself down on the grass, but mostly dirt, and watch the other dogs chase balls, fight or try to hump each other. Sometimes all three activities at once.

But once in a while she will find a particular dog that catches her attention. An Aussie Shepherd. A very large poodle. Or, as of late, a studly German Shepherd, who one of the others patrons of the park has informed me, has not been fixed. And therefore, I assume emits pheromones which catch the attention of all the females, even my aging Lucy.

Like many dog parks, it is segregated. Not by color or breed, but by size. On the left there are the small dogs. They yap quite a bit. But more interesting, their owners seem much more sociable. They often bring portable foldable lawn chairs and sit in a large circle. On some very genteel looking grass. They also bring wine and crackers and all seem to know each other. They even throw small dog birthday parties for their respective toy dogs, which to me always resemble rats in a dog suit.

On our side of the fence, there is little or no grass. It's more a dirty dusty field where the big dogs, Shepherds, Giant Poodles and Rotties, roam. I'm a big dog person. Always have been. Why own a dog that's a mere 17% bigger than a hamster? Or one that can't hold its own against a kitten? 

If an alien were to visit Earth and more specifically this little corner of East Pasadena beside the Eaton Wash, it would be hard not to notice the difference, in the dogs, yes, but also in the dog owners. (Is it politically correct to use the word owner?)

Big dog people tend to be a little more aloof. I'll chat with the others, especially the ones that admire my anti-Trump T-shirts. But have no plans to split a bottle of Liebfraumilch with them or wear any little K-9 Birthday hats. I may be a little prejudiced but I also think the Big Dog people are more colorful and thus, interesting.

Case in point: I sat on one of the hard cement benches scattered throughout our side and there was an older lady, in a tie-dyed mumu, sitting next to me. She happened to have a beard. A significant patch of white hair dangling from her chin. About 10 feet away there was a one eyed Bassett Hound who was barking. Not at anything, just barking.

This upset the circus woman. She kept telling the hound to "Shush, be quiet." To no avail. She even started inquiring of the people around her, "Is that your dog?" Also to no avail. That's when she took her phone out of her long deep pocket.

She called PPD. And fortunate for me, had it on speakerphone.

"Pasadena Police Department, how can I help you?"

"There's a dog here that won't stop barking."

"What's your address mam?"

"I'm at the Dog Park off Orange Grove"

"...you're at a dog park? And there's a dog barking?"

"Yes, and it's very aggravating."

"It's a dog park, mam."

"Can you send somebody out here?"

"Uhhhh, no. This is not a police matter."

"What should I do?"

"Go to a different park. Or call Animal Control."

And with that the old woman hung up and started dialing. Thankfully it was still on speakerphone.

"Hello, how can I help you today" said the automated voice.

"There's a barking dog that will not stop barking."

"Is this a new claim or an old claim? Please tell me so I can direct your call to the correct Allstate Representative."

If I ever see her, I'm making a beeline for seat next to her again.

She's back

A couple of weeks ago I sat through a 4 hour bladder-busting movie marathon about Elon Musk. Next up on the list is the 3 hour Tortumentary about Elizabeth Holmes, the Head Huckstress of Theranos, makers of a revolutionary blood diagnostic machine (😜) that was apparently snatched from a prop room of a 1950's sci-fi movie. 

Truth is you could learn more about your health by strapping your arm into a cuff of a blood pressure machine while sitting in the waiting room at a Rite Aid Pharmacy as the druggist explains, in excruciating detail, all the possible side effects of Dulcalax Plus Mega 3000™ to Mrs. Crabapple.

Depending on the expected rainstorms this week, which may or may not infringe on my swimming and biking routine, I may or may not watch this in the theater or wait for it to stream. 

Or drop, pun intended.

I have a natural interest in Ms. Holmes and Theranos as they were once a client of my alma mater, Chiat/Day. Had I remained on staff at Chiat in the early 2000's, there was a good chance I could have found myself working on the Theranos account. After all I did get an A+ in Freshman Biology at Syracuse University.

And had I been offered a staff position, as many of my ex-Chiat colleagues had, I might have exited the equity-less world of the ad agency for the fuax-equityfull paper world of VC startups. Knowing what I know now, I'm ecstatic my career path took a somewhat drama-free path.

Not that I'm any stranger to the "fake it til you make it" world of corporate fakakta. You can read more about my adventures with an  former Chiat client/convicted felon Stewie Wolff here. More recently I had a front row seat at the hustlers table with a bunch of kids who were hawking brain supplements, You know like Alex Jones.

My partner and I were given thousands of shares of private equity with the hope that someday those shares would be converted to public equity. We learned the hard way that while business was nominally about improving memory/synapses/flow state, the real business was about fleecing VC prospectors of their money, the real money.

Our purpose, that is building the brand, making consumer facing ads, giving the sheen of credibility to these useless green and yellow pills. It was not to increase sales or distribution, otherwise there would have media money behind our efforts. No, our work was the shiny candy stuff at the front of the deck for the next funding drive in Silicon Valley. 

And moving the ball one step closer to the IPO Line. I'm sure that's what Lizzie and her Svengali boyfriend were thinking. No matter the cost, even the loss of life. That's the power of unfettered Greed, with a capial G.

A minor, but enlightening microcosm, of the house of cards that is American capitalism.

--------------------------------------

Vote Early. And Often.

On DNA

"How do you deal with such mishegas, it must be so stressful."

Those teasing words came from Ms. Muse. Thus my punishment/reward for the audacity of teaching this non-Hebraic woman from Glendora, CA, where one cannot even purchase a bagel from a supermarket, the joys/kvetches of Yiddish.

"Oh, so you're doing Jewish jokes?" I said.

"Well I am Jewish-adjacent now," she boasted.

There was no arguing that salient point. With the possible exception of noting that I was technically only Half Jewish, as my mother was a Scottish Shiksa convert. 

Moreover, that half is completely and often Atheist. 

But it did get me thinking that the 50% discount would have come in handy when I was growing up. I know this is sacriligious (and which Jews aren't?) but when Yom Kippur came around I could've completed my atoning abstention from food/drink/ and all manner of comfort for 12 hours, while my full blooded brethren suffered inordinately as they limped to the finish line, the Ne'ilah Service and bland cold blintzes.

Similarly, when Passover rolled around and the remembrance of God's mercy when he only killed all the firstborn babies of Egypt, my intake of matzo instead of bread could've only lasted for four days instead of the mandatory eight. 

"Pizza's here!"

BTW, that was a tagline I suggested for Pizza Hut, who didn't understand tapping into that unique moment when the doorbell rings and the salivary glands go to DefCon One. Nor did they understand it was a way to own the category. #FuckPizzaHut, I can say that now.

Of course, being Half Jewish is not without its downside. 

While we're discussing Jewish holidays, and yes I know there are lots of them, my childhood Hanukkah celebration -- really the only holiday a kid enjoys -- would have been shaved in half. Not that my parents showered us with gifts for more than a week. That would have gone counter to my father's legendary thriftiness as well as my mother's genetic frugality. 

If they were to have followed that 8-day tradition, more often celebrated by fellow tribe members with trust funds, I would have received a motorized toy, like a mechanical monster or such. Upon opening the gift I would have discovered it needed AA Batteries.

Those would have been dispensed as gifts on Day 2, Day 3, and so on and so forth.

Oy!

Not sure what good it does to rewrite my past as Half a Jew, but it does explain why I'm never able to negotiate a good price at the car dealership. 

PS. I'm obliged to add, well not exactly obliged, more like doghouse-averse, that this post was inspired by Ms. Muse. 

SKUM Part II

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

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

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

But now I'm glad I saw it.

Because guess what, you won't.

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

Yeah, no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck Trump!

And Fuck Musk!

I f*cked up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Newsflash: he wasn't.

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

And that's a shame. 

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

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

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

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

So much lost schadenfreude.

I'm so sorry.

 

SKUM

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

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

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

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

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

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

With prejudice.

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

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

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

"Ooooo, shiny"

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

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

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

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

Mars is nothing but a misdirect.

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

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

Thursday Photo Funnies

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

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

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

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

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

It tickles my 14 year old funny bone.

Also, speaking of my child-like nature,

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

"Weeeeeeeeeee"

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

also given to 14 year old humor, 

who has been doing some amazing paintings.

This bathroom was not "Sparkling Clean", then again

what supermarket bathrooms are?

I did not alert a friendly team member as

I wanted to get the last of the ripe peaches.

Speaking of bathrooms, the small collection of Caganers and 

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

For the sake of clarity, 

I'm a one bumper sticker type of person.

Some people are not.

Cloud formations in Palm Springs cannot be beat.

Have I mentioned the airbnb that is available for rent?

Great Mexican food and even greater "false camaraderie" with 

ex Team One members, Matt Bogen and Internationally awarded

Mr. Greg Collins

This requires no explanation.

While this sign posted in the Men's Room at

the Palm Springs Swim Center does.

But not sure I want to hear it.

доброе утро, товарищ

I'm old enough to remember darker times. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, they said so! That's reassuring.

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

Vote Blue Bigly on November 3rd.

Fuck Donald Trump! Sideways!

  

Time for a new battery

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

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

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

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

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

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

CLICK

That's how parenting was done back then. 

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

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

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

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

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

That's my smoke alarm.

Aaaaargh!@

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

OK, sarcasm, noted.

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

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

And could not get out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Interpersonal instinct, he has the charm of a hyena. 

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

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

The results are inconclusively conclusive.

At least to me.

Fuck Donald Trump.

Ooooops

 

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

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

On tenants and toilets

 

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

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

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

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

Pardon the stretched metaphor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, please do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goodbye All

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

USA, USA, USA!!!

I loved my job

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

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

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

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

If only I had been wise enough to realize it.

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

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

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

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

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

I hope it's the latter.

  

  

Medically Engineered™

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

This was not the case a couple of years ago. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perhaps this was the universe paying me back. 

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

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

Make it stop

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

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

Even worse, theological bullshittery. 

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

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

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

Yeah, right.

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

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

Come on, seriously. 

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

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

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

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

I need to get a hobby.

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

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

I call them the Ladies That Bob.

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

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

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

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

Like the business itself, it is fucking relentless.

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

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

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

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

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

"Ve must take Subaru and all of Mitsubishi!"

WTF!

You can't write this stuff. 

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

Happy Monday

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lessons here are twofold.

Always chase your dreams with full unadulterated passion.

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