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."

Revisiting the dog days of summer

This is a repost from March 30, 2017, almost 10 years ago. I don't know why I felt compelled to share this one again, other than the fact that I've been thinking about Lucy, my 11 year old Golden/German Shepherd retriever and how lucky I have been to have her and her good health with me for so long. I can dwell on what I know is sure to come. Or, if I'm listening to Buddha and my practice of living in the present, I can take joy from here presence with me now. That sounds better. Or at least, less gloomy.

                                             

This is my dog Nellie.

Only about the sweetest dog you have ever met, even if it's just digitally.

I've written about Nellie in the past. Once when she was so sick she had to have her gall bladder removed. Then, as part of her recuperative process she needed to have a quart of fluid pumped into her on a daily basis. The Vet said that I - an incredibly needle-averse pussy -- would have to administer the IV at home.

Holy shit, what an ordeal that was.

But make no mistake, I have been blessed. Because Nellie is now 15 years old.

Nellie II (see arrow in picture above) is about three years old. Nellie II, sometimes Lil Nell, that's what we call her massive benign fatty tissue lump, has been growing exponentially. Frankly I'm surprised Nellie II hasn't just popped through the strained skin and started stealing Nellie I's food.

If you're familiar with retrievers, or retriever mixes, as in my case, you know they tend to get these belly lumps. Years ago, we had one removed and it weighed close to 13 lbs.

Nellie II is far bigger and if I had to guess would put her somewhere at 20 lbs. You may be wondering why we haven't separated Nellie 1 from Nellie II. I want to, but the vet doesn't.

Other than making her walk funny and slowing her down a bit, he said the lump, Nellie II, is quite harmless. If you look closely you can see the early signs of Nellie III emerging.

Indeed, it makes no sense to put a 15 year old dog through the considerable risks of surgery. It was hard not to notice the Vet shrugging his shoulders when he said that.

Like I said, we've been blessed.

Nellie has the kind of longevity I can only hope for.

I'm only 44 now, but I'd love to live to a ripe old age where a doctor examines my maladies, considers all the painful treatments and invasive surgeries, then looks up at the calendar and says,

"Ah fuck it, nature will soon take its course."

I should be so lucky.

Rome wasn't unbuilt in a day

They say moving into a new house is difficult. It can't be any harder than moving out of an old house. I'm talking about the blood, sweat and even more blood. I'd get into the tears, but that's a little personal. Maybe at a later date after I've gone to Costco and loaded up on Kleenex.

For now let's just consider the enormous amount of detritus one can acquire over the course of 7 decades. Particularly when one also has two grown daughters who can't bear to part with old dolls, toys, books, and an enormous quantity of crap that has now been slathered in 3-4 layers of dust.

Readers who continue to follow this blog -- for reasons undetermined -- may remember my exhilarating stories of moving Uncle CrankyPants from his home in Palm Springs to his dirty nursing home in Cheviot Hills. It literally took us a dozen or so trips, often back and forth in same day, to put a dent in the trove -- sans treasure -- of stuff he had collected over many years in the sweltering desert.

When the rest of the world was going remote and digital Uncle Angry Letter Writer started piling up reams of copy paper. Floor to ceiling. I didn't want to throw it out so I kept about 200 lbs. worth of paper. I never got through one ream as I had long ago taken my fiery temper out on my Canon MX 490 a la Office Space.

https://youtu.be/N9wsjroVlu8?si=fSnZ3-x6agBdXvLj

And so, upon finding out my cleaning lady's son was in high school, I sent her home with a trunkful of Xerox's finest. The back of her Toyota Camry almost bottomed out leaving my driveway.

The digging, the tossing, the packing and the donating to willing charities, is reaching a feverish pitch.

There have been some interesting (well, interesting to me) finds amongst the nook and crannies of my Culver City home. 33 years in one house will do that. 

* Old Mother's Day cards to Marilyn, my late mother in Law. She had a great sense of humor so I'd go out of my way to find the oddest Hallmark had to offer. The overly religious cards. The cat lady cards (she hated cats). And Mother's Day cards from all the assorted ethicities easily found in Los Angeles.

* A box of goodies from Debbie's bachelorette party. Some of those naughty knack knacks still had a price tag on them.

* Blue prints. Not only from our 1997 remodel but the original blueprints, on blue paper, from when the house was built in 1947.

* A hand written note from my daughter Rachel, who I'm guessing was no more than 6 years old here.

And of course photos. Some of you might not know this but before the intranets, we took pictures and had them developed and printed. I have thousands of undigitized 4X6 photos. On film paper. Many make me smile, some have a different effect. As I was securing them in a box, one slipped out to the floor.

That's Deb on the left and her life long friend Lori (who passed shortly after Deb did) while dining at Joe Allen's (I believe) on Robertson. I believe they thought they were being clever, because if you look behind them you'll see Kelsey Grammar and his ex-wife, Camille.

That was no accident. You'll have to trust me on that.

Money, money, money...money.

 

Feel that? A sharp cold wind that slaps you across the face and says, "wake up, pat your pants, your damn wallet is gone." 

You didn't leave it at home. 

Some fucker, who hasn't done a day's worth of honest work in his miserable life, has picked it clean. And while you scurry around and cast a suspicious eye on anybody in the vicinity, he's already set his vulturous eyes on your portfolio and the Social Security contributions you've made since your first job, hand delivering newspapers in the neighborhood.

I don't think I need to say the name of this thick-headed thief, suffice it to say to say that 77 million Americans see virtue, leadership and character in him, while the remainder of Earth's population (all 8 billion of us) see a feckless, narcissistic, pedophile who is plundering the planet for his own insatiable greed.

"We need to have Greenland."

"Canada should be ours too."

"I'll just take the Iranian oil."

The latest scam, which will be forgotten by Friday, revolves around his $10 Billion lawsuit against the government of the United States of America. He was literally suing the same people that voted him into office and who go about their day looking for an opportunity to pound their flabby chests and shout "USA,USA,USA." 

Just for the record, $10 billion is 25,000 times the meager $400,000 presidential salary he so graciously decided to "donate" back to the American people. If I got a 25,000X return on any of my investments you can be sure I would not be writing this blog and would be lounging on the deck of a Tahitian bungalow that sits over the water.

The mind boggles.

But it gets worse. Much worse.

Because his lawsuit was specifically aimed at the IRS. And had he proceeded, he would've had to divulge certain personal financial documents that have been cooked by a staff of accountants who are on call 24 hours a day. 

So he shrewdly dropped the lawsuit and made an agreement with his own DOJ, who used to work for the citizens of this country but are now a wholly owned subsidiary of Vandalize Industries, LLC.

That agreement, the one that has spiked my blood pressure this morning, includes the establishment of a $1.8 Billion Dollar Slush Fund, chaired by a commission of Mara Lago loyalist miscreants, who will use the dough to settle cases of "patriots" (Proud Boys, Oathkeepers, 3% 'ers, and other Neo-Nazi  fringe groups) who feel they've been persecuted by the US Government. 

So the folks who sold you Elon Musk and his sham mission to eliminate fraud, waste and abuse, are now abusing our intelligence and counting on us not to see this blatant flim-flamming financial end around. 

If it weren't so criminal, it'd be funny.

But it's not, it's fucking criminal!!!

The Very Big Apple

I thought it would be a good idea to follow up yesterday's post about my NYC trip with a Thursday Photo Funnies, which is not very dogmatic about its name and can appear at any time. This seemed like a good time because my short term memory is as wayward as the 37 hairs on Trump's head.

Beginning with the photo above, of Abby and I face-timing with Rachel, my oldest daughter and the newest resident of Venice, CA. That's us on the rooftop deck of Cartel Editing near Chinatown.

On to the pics.

NYC is the gift that keeps giving,

with something new, odd or funny to see at every turn.

Oh, we're just getting started.

During my 23 miles of walking, my shoelaces need to be tied.

As I leaned my foot up on a ledge, 

I spotted a dead pidgeon stuffed in a planter.

I also had to visit 51 restaurant bathrooms. 

Where they take the TP placement seriously.

This one was, by far, my fave.

Also saw stuff that defied description,

but made a good palate for the 8 million

residents who all have something to say or show.

This was spotted at McCarren Park. 

Bad Juju is a phrase often used by my old partner John Shirley.

This was also in the park: Young hipsters dressed 

in wigs and old lady clothing.

Okay, then.

And of course, there's the unrivaled beauty

of NYC.

The famed Jenga building, which I know Ms. Muse will appreciate.

The lake in Central Park.

The view from my hotel room in Williamsburg.

And finally, there's this. A replica of New York City, built

over the course of 21 years, all to scale, all amazingly accurate.

I was even able to spot the Electcheter Towers where we lived

on the 22nd story of a 23 story building. And where, in 1967, all the kids gathered on the rooftop,

where we could hear the Beatles playing and the girls screaming

more than 3 miles away.