Thursday Photo Funnies

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sitting in the wrapped up newspaper beside the Flapper,

I found these bronze candle holders from Jerusalem.

Call me, crazy, but I find Judaica funny.

So does my good friend Jean Robaire.

Speaking of funny, I uncovered this post card

which I believe I picked up while filming HOME MOVIE, 

at Zam's Swamp, deep in the bayou.

I also got this one.

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

This was not from the bayou but from the Serengetti.

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

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

As was my friend Kathy Hepinstall, 

who graciously signed one of her novels for me.

Talk about the impermanence of life. 

Still can't believe she is gone.

I stumbled across this toy, 

which was used as a model for an Acura spot 

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

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

"What was Mojo," asked my inquisitive daughter.

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

And finally, there's this.

We're smiling for the camera 

but crying for the house that will

always be our Home.

 

What a mess

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

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

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

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

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

I'm happily retired.

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

And so I must part with them. 

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

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

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

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

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

That's how life goes, I guess.

   

Is it Safe?

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

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

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

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

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

Every thing he touches turns to shit. Including himself. 

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

Actually we could.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

All the odd that's fit to print

 

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

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

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

Found this amazing sunset shot, 

taken from the backyard of my Palm Springs rental house,

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

Inquire within.

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

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

Very amoeba-like.

This was found on the World Wide WTF. 

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

This was also found randomly. 

I wonder who the balloon sentiments are directed at.

I haven't a clue.

Oh wait, yes I do. This handmade card 

was made by a friend of Ms. Muse.

It's good that her friends and my friends

are politically aligned.

Just to put a finer point on that.

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

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

Not sure there's a correlation. 

This still-mysterious urinal sign was

found at one of Culver City's 

many adequate sushi restaurants.

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

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

good to know I have a fallback plan.

This endoscopy lab is in the center of downtown Pasadena.

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

Chewing the fat

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

That's when I came across this...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They had no appetite for what we were cooking. 

Or any other agency, for that matter. 

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

 

One hand in front of the other

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

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

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

But I can swim. 

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

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

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

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

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

SFX: CRICKETS

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

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

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

 

Things we never had until President Stable Genius came along

It's hard to think of life in America before Donny Vonshitzenpants. 

He has sucked up so much oxygen with his daily grievances, his pathetic need for validation and his non stop bragging about passing a dementia test, it is difficult to remember we used to have actual presidents. Ones that inspired confidence, demonstrated leadership and allowed us to live our lives without being the laughingstock of the world and having 8 billion other people on the planet asking, "What the hell is going on in America?"

So where do we begin? 

The aforementioned dementia tests seem to be a good place to start. At this writing, our stable genius leader has now "aced" the test 4 times. None of the 46 previous presidents have ever passed one. Mostly because they never had to take one to prove their sanity. 

I suppose you could argue Joe Biden, another septuagenarian, should have taken the test. But given the test is easy peasy for an 8 year old child, I have no doubt he would have passed it. I also have no doubt he would not be on social media boasting about the test was an indication of his superior intellect. 

Biden, nor any of the other previous POTI, did any boasting or bragging on social Media. Trump is like a scorned teenage girl whose unfiltered torment must be vented. Mostly after midnight. And mostly in ugly double digit spurts, which reveal the unstable nature of his diarrhetic emotions.

Speaking of teenage girls, we never had a president who was best friends with a pedophile. Not just any pedophile, but the world's most notorious child rapist, who is conveniently silent about their association due to an unexpected 'suicide.' Nor can we see the nature of their friendship because the previous investigations have been covered up by Grandpa Ramblemouth's GOP sycophants.

( I have taken a 24 hour break from writing this post as I felt a rising heartbeat and heavy acidic upheavals rising in my throat like a Pompei eruption)

I have returned, but with significantly less verve about this topic. It has occurred to me that if I were to detail all the unprecedented presidential clusterfucks that have befallen our nation since the ascent of Captain Ouchie Foot, this post would be as long as the eBay terms and conditions agreement. Or any bullshit Terms and Conditions of our corporate overlords. Shout Out to George Tannenbaum for mightily pointing out their uselessness.

And so I have decided to go with a Reader's Digest bulletpoint summary of his Trumpfuckery™ and what we have witnessed (and only after 2016) and hope to never witness again:

* AI depiction of Trump as the Pope

* AI depiction of Trump as Jesus...er, sorry Doctor Jesus

* US military rounding up people on the streets

* Alligator Alcatraz, a federal prison for immigrants surrounded by predator-infested waters on all sides

* The destruction of an entire wing of the White House

* A UFC cage match on what was the White House Rose Garden

* A Department of Justice that has been completely weaponized and now serves as his Gestapo

* A blatantly racist AI video with a simian depiction of the Obamas

* An equally disgusting AI Video of Trump piloting a bomber and dumping shit on Americans

* The filing of a $10 billion lawsuit AGAINST the United States of America 

* The creation of a $1.8 billion slush fund to compensate the January 6th Insurrectionists

* Starting a war with no exit strategy, or any strategy, resulting in the glib loss of American lives

And finally, because if anything sums up this ignorant, uncaring, malignant, sexually deviant fleshbag of evil sitting behind the Resolute Desk

* "I could care less, I don't think about the finances of the American people."

He said that. And so much more. 

If I may take this opportunity to amend one of his original campaign statements from 2015:

"I could shoot someone on 5th Ave. Take their money, shit on the corpse, fuck the corpse and feed the bloody remains to alligators and piranha, and I still wouldn't lose any support."

That's where we are at in America.

 

Good morning Mate

I did a thing last week. 

I put on some nice clothes. Trimmed my beard. Brushed my teeth for the compulsory 90 seconds and ventured cross town to Hancock Park. I hadn't been to this neighborhood for a long, long time, since I worked in the trenches at the esteemed offices of J. Walter Thompson Recruitment Advertising, where I "wrote" no-award winning Help Wanted ads for our nation's Military Industrial Complex.

Good times.

The purpose of this visit was of a decidedly different nature. It was here, amongst these tony mansions and circular driveways and mammoth horse head iron sculptures, that I found myself entering the hallowed and royal-ish halls of the United Kingdom British Consulate.

As I told my Facebook friends, I was there to receive my certificate of British citizenship, making my status as a member of the commonwealth in very legally binding manner, if I may nick a phrase from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

"But father, I want to sing."

If I'm being completely honest, I also wanted to pinch the Union Jack that adorned the guest bathroom in the pool house of this beautiful manor. But thought better of it and didn't want to go down as the man with the shortest lived British citizenship in the history of the Empire where the sun never set.

If I may indulge in some more honesty, this whole adventure started as a lark. A way to leverage my deep anti-Trump and anti-America (2016-2026 version) sentiments. In short, another manifestation of my curiosity. I discovered that I had eligibility because my mother was born in Glasgow, Scotland.

Moreover, as any blog writer will tell you, there is a constant unrelenting need to keep adding fuel to the fire that keeps these worthless posts going.

But now that I am on the other side of this 18 month journey and within grasp of an official British passport, this light-hearted quest has taken on some unexpected gravitas. 

One evening I lay my head on the pillow as a life long American citizen. One who saw this country as an everlasting beacon of hope and enlightenment -- at least until the recent darkness. And the next night I find myself to have allegiance to two nations. 

I was not prepared for the impact. It kind of messes with a 7 decades long sense of identity.

Nor, I might add was the consulate prepared for such a large gathering. As our posh host noted, "We never have this many people at one ceremony. But welcome to the United Kingdom, where we cherish the ideals of democracy."

That line drew an audible and unmistakable snicker, from people just like me who wanted to have a Get Out of Jail Free Card, should this country continue it's tragic descent into a dictatorial cesspool of fascism and Trumpfuckerry™.

Also, in case you're wondering, the 14 foot high equine sculpture on the front lawn of the Walter Neff residence, is named The Rook -- which appeals to my love of chess. And was done by Andy Scott, a prominent Scottish Sculptor, which will never dissuade me from my distaste for haggis.

F*cking Obscene

This is happening. 

When it was first spoken of I thought it'd be another fever dream of the most powerful ManBaby in the World™, like seizing Greenland. Or Canada. Or Panama ("I like their hats, good for windy days and my luxurious hair.")

But, it's true.  The rigs for the lighting, the cage for the stage and the bleachers for the leachers are all being trucked in to the White House grounds. I wonder how meticulous they'll be about scanning the equipment for bugs and microphones and hidden cameras. Or have Russia and China stopped doing all that spyware because they're such goods friends with our 80 year old "I Want A Birthday Party" senile president?

I hardly have the words for this idiocracy. Suffice to say, look at the photo on Trump's face. Is that not the same look as Billy Mumy in the Twilight Zone's epic "It's a Good Life."

Dignity has been banished to the cornfield, if I may.

This is UFC Fighting. Where combatants beat each other to a pulp, snap limbs and bring a man to the brink of fatality, all for the sado-masochistic pleasure of our low-rent leader and trailer park Kool Aid drinking crowd. It's like one of those ancient Roman Empire Dictators -- don't ask me which one -- who appeased the proletariat with blood lust, centuries before the guillotine, public hangings and 2 hour rambling State of the Union addresses.

That is not to say that I am exempt from the joys of pugilism and have to ask myself would it have been different if it were a Heavyweight Boxing match? Yes, yes it would.

I'm old enough to remember the classic Ali-Frazier fights. They had a certain majesty about them. As well as a hint of authenticity. Movies were made about top boxers. To this day, if Raging Bull comes across the transom on any of my screens, I can be counted on to sit through its entirety.

I even enjoyed a small taste for the sport when I began participating in my Karate studio Wednesday night sparring. When two karate students step onto the mat to fight, none of the well rehearsed elaborate moves with fancy names like "Captured Leaves" or "Crushing Hammer" or "Leaping Crane" come into play. 

Instead, the karate fighters trade punches, like boxers. Noting my then stocky build and equally stocky mustache, my black belt teachers and compadres suggested I looked like John Sullivan.

"Yeah, put up yur dukes!"

With regards to upcoming shameful fight being foisted upon the White House former Rose Garden, this is none of that. This is Christians being thrown to the lions type shit. This is what's being done to the People's House.

I'm reminded of what Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart said, "I can't tell you what obscenity is, but I know it when I see it."