Bad Men

The bad news is I'm at the very tail end of the Mad Men Binge-athon. The good news is I won't be writing many more blogs about it, as I'd hate to bore my 9 loyal readers any more than necessary.

But this post does seem necessary. 

Many of the advertising clients mentioned in the show were fictional. Some were real, like Lucky Strike and Jaguar. I never worked on a cigarette account and never would. But my father did smoke Lucky Strikes. And he pulled those little unfiltered cigarettes out of the pack just like Don Draper. When he had his lighter handy, he lit and cupped them just like Don. He didn't have the hair, but my father did have a swagger and temper that could rival Draper on his best day.

In Season Six of Mad Men, the crew chases and snags the vaunted Jaguar account. Thanks in no small part to the key player, the head of the Jaguar Dealer's Association. Anyone who has worked the agency side of a car account knows the dealers, in their polyester sport jackets and struggling Sansabelt slacks, have a huge (and unwelcome) impact on the advertising. 

"My wife wants to know why we never show a red Jaguar in the TV commercials."

Because red cars don't photograph well on film, even the most junior account person or colorblind copywriter can tell you that.

As it turns out, one of the main dealers in the show hails from Northern New Jersey and is a self made millionaire with several dealerships throughout Bergen and Essex County. Oddly enough, IRL (that is mine), our major contact in the dealer association was from the same area. 

Coincidence? Perhaps.

Which brings us to Burger Chef in Season Seven. Following an impassioned pitch from Peggy Olsen, the agency wins this prized fast food account. Watching her and Don lay out a strategy and draw the client in, I wonder how I managed to do any of that. I certainly don't recall spinning any of those heart tugging yarns. Maybe I did and simply don't remember. I now have what Lee Clow used to call CRS -- Can't Remember Shit Syndrome.

But oh yeah, Lee Clow was in the room, that's how we won business. 

Burger Chef is no longer in existence. They were bought or morphed into Hardee's. And I do remember pitching Hardee's. John Shirley (my former art director partner) and I wanted to bring the Burger Chef character out of retirement to be the spokesperson for Hardee's. But unlike other cheery spokespeople, like Flo from Progressive or the very grating Jan for Toyotathon, we wanted Burger Chef to be angry, reluctant and alcoholic! In other words, real.

We had some very funny scripts, now buried in a box out in my garage. And might have even written a catchphrase for the ornery old guy who would often show up the restaurant to make sure the kids were doing the food right. Mostly, they weren't.

"Get outta my kitchen!", Burger Chef would growl. And hilarity would ensue.

Oh advertising, I miss you. 

Somewhat.

An Ass from the Past

Today's post revisits us from March of 2009. It's about advertising, which I don't write about much these days. What is there to say that hasn't been said about the sorry state of our business by Professor Tannenbaum, he of the well-researched blog post.

Also, it's no coincidence that last night while speed watching the entire Mad Men opus, I came upon an episode in Season 7, the last. Don Draper has landed in Purgatory for some off color remarks he made to the Hershey client and now finds himself in a career slide. My vocational circumstances and perhaps yours if you were a boatrocker, were a little different but similar. The details don't matter.

But it did harken back to those youthful crazy times when copywriters copywrote. Enjoy.

Spankers Hours

Kudos to the copywriter who penned a new radio commercial for Chase Bank.

The spot isn’t great by any means. It attempts to compare the joy of the new car smell with the “supposed” joy of a new checking account smell. A reach, at best.

But the writer ended the spot with, “that's the smell of brand spanking new banking.” He managed to join the word spank with bank. IFYKYK.

And that is no small feat in our current risk-averse environment of hyper-analysis. 

Nor is that rhythmic choice of words an accident. They were chosen by a sly copywriter looking for a cheap laugh. That's what we copywriters do. After all, we're talented enough to make a living, but not talented enough to make art.

I was reminded of another lifetime. When I was hired to write copy for Lexus, this despite the fact that what I knew about Japanese luxury automobiles could not fill the bottom of a sake cup.

The dirty little secret about copywriters is that as much as we want to make our clients happy, what we really want is to make other copywriters jealous. By winning awards, securing better offices and sneaking double entendres into our work.

To that end, one of the Creative Directors -- it could have been my friend Stan Toyama -- had devised a game that allocated points to writers who could worm a certain word or phrase into a Lexus ad. For instance:

cockroach…………...4 points
diarrhea……………...6 points
transsexual………....3 points
Manzanar…………...9 points

So today I tip my hat to you, Mr. Spanking New Banking Phrase Inserter. You have earned yourself 5 points.

But I still long for the day when some copywriting savant can tell me all about the new Lexus LS 460 and work in a mention of the Enola Gay (10 points.)

In memory of Andy Rooney

Like you, I don't read many magazines these days, suffice for the ones that are laying around my dentist's office. Or, if my bronchitis dictates it, at my doctor's office. 

Though I have a "Concierge Doctor" and rarely spend more than 5 minutes in the waiting room. They have efficiency down to a science. I push a button on the sign-in desk and moments later I'm alerted to the doctor's availability.

Not sure they even print magazines today. Newsstands have gone the way of the parking lot PhotoMatts where you could get your film developed in less than 30 minutes. Film? I keep aging myself, forgetting that many people did not experience the Death of the Analog world as well as the infernal birth of the Digital world. 

Nevertheless, and at the risk of covering ground that already been worked over like the 38 hairs remaining on Trump's fetid scalp, I'd like to say in the most unequivocal manner, "There's too much feckin' technology."

I parked the car the other day in Old Town Pasadena and reached for a credit card to pay the unarmed thief we call a parking meter. That's where I was blindsided by the blinking meter telling me to download an app. 

I don't want to download a stinkin' app. I'm late for this lunch appointment and my bladder has quickly reached Hindenberg DefCon 1. Yes, I'm thankful I don't have to dig into the Marianna Trench of my car seats to dig for errant quarters, but someone has already solved this problem with the credit card slot. 

Done. 

Why can't we leave it at that? Like reflecting pools, we never can leave well enough alone.

The irony here is that years ago, I had the idea for a Parking Meter app. Ideally, one that could add an hours worth of time via one's smartphone. Only to find out that some 12 year old from Taiwan had already earned a patent for their Parking Mobile iPhone app.

The titanium, micro-chip encrusted bone that sticks in my craw is that as 68 year old man in a rush, and desperately seeking urinary relief, the last thing I want to do is fumble around for my App Store icon, which seems to move around on my home screen like a coked up PacMan. 

And then work my way through the digital instructions written in a font that goes beyond my prescription glasses' paygrade.

And then create a new password, this time with 12 units including a capital letter, a number and my favorite blue emoji.

Between this, navigating the refrigerator, dishwasher and microwave maintenance via texts and links, there's just too much damn technology. If only there were a way to reduce it all.

Where's the app for that?

Tip of the hat

This is my father's Don Draper hat. It's been with me since 1989, when he passed away at 57 years of age, way, way too young. Especially since we were just making steps towards repairing a very erratic, troublesome and sometimes violent relationship.

The hat is too small for my beachball-sized noggin, in the same way the role of fatherhood did not fit my rough and tumble Bronx-born dad. He was rough around the edges. He could be brusk. And intimidating. Most importantly, he could be misunderstood.

Years ago, I read Life in America: A Journey with My Father. It was written by Dr. Sherwin Nuland, born  Shepsel Ber Nudelman. 

A name like that could scar any kid. 

It is not an easy book to read. And not because Dr. Nuland, a surgeon, medical historian and Clinical Professor at Yale University, has made it too erudite or unapproachable. The book, by design, asks us to re-examine our own relationships with our fathers (and mothers) keeping in mind that those roles were only a portion of the persons we called mom and dad.

They were humans, who had dreams that never came to fruition, hopes dashed by finances or the circumstances of the times, damage left by their parents, and challenges neither you nor I could imagine or appreciate. 

My father, in particular, had an unusually bumpy start in life in that he spent a year in the brig at the Army's Ft. Cooper in Georgia for the "crime" of smoking weed. 

A "crime" that no longer merits a second glance, as the smell of cannabis is a welcome relief in downtown urban areas that partially masks the omnipresent aroma of urine.

No point in all this other than to lament the fact that I'm currently on the last season of Mad Men, a show I should not have overlooked when it came out. Apart from the adultery, the day drinking and the cigarette smoking, the Don Draper character resonates. Just as Dr. Nudelman's.

On a recent visit from NYC, my friend Jim tried on my dad's Dobb's chapeau...

...the 7 & 1/4 hat fit perfectly. And complimented his lanky 6'3" frame.

I insisted he take it. He demurred and said, "You don't have much to remember your father by, no gold watches, no cuff links, not even his CPA certificate, keep his hat. Display it in your office. And put that flask next to it."

If my friend Jim hadn't spent so much time in Catholic school, followed by a stint at Notre Dame, he would have made a fine rabbi.

Me and global warming

I'm no scientician, but sometimes I play one on the interwebs. That is to say, I was fairly good student of biology, chemistry and calculus, and had I been more ambitious, or even just a little ambitious, I could have pursued this path and found a way to make some sheckels. Perhaps even getting a white lab coat.

But I was more of a wiseass B+ student and tended to skate by with wisecracks. A longwinded way of saying that I know nothing , or very little, about global warming.

However I did hang out with a bunch of science-y/hippie guys who went to ESF, the Environmental School of Forestry, which was part of the SUNY system and sat adjacent to Syracuse University. These were all very brainy guys who could look at a mushroom growing off a fallen tree limb and know in an instant if it was edible. Or hallucinogenic.

The point is, they knew their stuff. And so I developed this habit of listening to experts. The ones who studied, excelled and mastered their field of scientific inquiry and never stopped.

Folks like Dr. Fauci, who understand virology. 

And not some small town politician from Idaho claiming it's all part of some scheme cooked up by the Cabal (Joos, as they cleverly disguise their antisemitism.)

Nevertheless I have a natural streak of skepticism, and though the vast majority of climate experts concurred about the harmful effects of global warming, it wasn't until recently that I jumped on board.

As some of you may know, I recently moved from my home in very temperate Culver City (just 4+ miles from the beach) to the foothills of Pasadena (considerably further from the beach.) My new house and driveway have considerable Southern Exposure.

Last week I got in my car (pictured above) and the onboard computer informed me it was 122 degrees inside the car. I could've baked chocolate chip cookies on the dashboard. I got a serious first degree burn on my fingertip when I went to start the vehicle.

And so I did what I'd never thought I'd do and bought one of those sun shades for the car. I never thought I'd do it because...well... I'm one of those people who are willing to put up with the discomforts of life. Adversity builds character, or so I was told growing up. Niceties were for other folks. This is what happens when your parents grew up in the immediate post-Depression era.

The naysayers out there will say weather and climate are two different animals. I understand that Professor Red Hat. What I don't understand is how to fold this damn shade back up and fit it in its little pouch!

TDS Part II

Before we begin, allow me to apologize. I've taken a momentary inventory and now realize this is the third post in a row about our Dear Leader.

Well, almost.

It's not so much about him as it is about the mindless lemmings who support him. The ones I pointed out yesterday who are truly deranged. At this writing (on Sunday morning, 81 years and one day since we dropped an atomic bomb on Japan) there are reports floating around that Trump is so tired of the Iranian War -- the one he started -- he is willing to walk away from negotiations without a nuclear deal.

In other words, the Iranians have us just where they want us. On our knees.

This is where the cognitive dissonance shines so bright. Ever since the first shot was fired (on February 28th, my 68th birthday) we have been told the the shock and awe effort (if I may borrow the vernacular of another GOP military genius) has been so successful.

"The Iranians have been decimated. Obliterated. Masticated. A total and decisive victory."

A word salad to similar effect.

The high testosterone chest beating was relentless. The president who lamented our past military adventures in Korea and Vietnam and Iraq, who claimed "America had forgotten how to win", had proudly put a W back on the board.

The Strait of Hormuz, which I'm sure he had never heard of prior to this frolicking little excursion, was under our control. And he had confiscated billions of dollars worth of Iranian oil. The spoils of our victory, as it were.

But like the Gash in the Reflecting Pool, none of that was true.

If it were, why are we negotiating with the Iranians? 

Why are we not dictating the terms of their unconditional surrender? 

Why are gas prices at all time highs? 

And why are American soldiers still losing their lives?

Most confounding however, is why are Republicans and Trump supporters still stuffing their jowly pieholes with Trump's bullshit sandwiches?

"Thank you sir, may I have another?"

Allow me to pose one more question: Will these people ever take off the Red Hats and put on their thinking caps?

Happy Monday

This is the current state of my Trump library. One shelf, a little more than a dozen books. It would be twice or maybe even thrice the size, but I have given away many of my other Trump books to interested friends. You might say I'm a Devangelist. 

Others would say I'm Deranged. That I have been afflicted by TDS, Trump Derangement Syndrome. This is always the default argument by those who have no facts. No base of knowledge regarding this evil man. And no ability to exercise logic. What they do have, is zeal. And love. And blind support for a vainglorious, sociopathic politician, the likes of which we have not seen since the 1930's.

I'm deranged?

They're the ones who empty their bank accounts to buy his Temu sneakers, American-inspired phones, worthless NFTs, and shabby watches. Some went so far as to shell out big bucks for a swatch of the blue suit he was wearing during the staged faux-ssination attempt.

I'm deranged? 

When an errant piece of glass shattered from the teleprompter and hit his ear causing a gush of blood, Red Hats throughout the land rushed to buy little maxipads to parade around the streets and show support for the Dear Leader.  

But wait, there's more.

Blood wasn't the only thing leaking from his decrepit, morbidly obese, syphilitic body. When reports leaked (sorry) that he has incontinence problems, perhaps brought on by his exclusive diet of a 13 year old  little boy -- Big Macs, KFC and French fries -- Red Hats rushed back to the local Walmart to load up (sorry, again) on Pampers.

I'm deranged?

After picking fights with the Pope (one of his goons actually told Pope Leo to watch his words), Trump famously posted a picture of himself as Jesus Christ. It is plain to see, even to his most devout followers that he has a bonafide God Complex. Any of this sound familiar?

Thanks to 77 million flag-fetishizing, misguided, misinformed voters we are now living through the most dangerous and consequential period in American history. Facing a threat that does not come from a far away continent, but from folks who are too lazy and too comfortable in their living room theater seats to pick up a book or a newspaper to know any better.

I, and millions like me, do not suffer from any "syndrome." We have a vested and informed interest in this country and its future. 

The fact that so many Americans are NOT angry with the ongoing war, the cratering economy, the open corruption and the current lawless state of our leadership is incomprehensible. 

In fact, I'll go so far as to say it's Deranged.

Where's the gash?

I despise AI. However, given my artistic deficiencies and my inability to wrangle the code for Photoshop or InDesign, I love AI. 

Disclaimer: the photo above is AI generated, prompted by the command to create an image of the Reflecting Pool had someone, someone like former Olympian Daniel Hearn, taken a box cutter and slashed a 300 foot gash through the big, beautiful paint job that cost the US Taxpayer roughly $15 million

Apparently there is a real image of the 300 foot, 400 foot maybe even 500 foot gash, but that photo as well as video imagery of the slashing and gashing taken place is all in the hands of David Shitzenpants.

This is what we've been told. But that doesn't cut the mustard. Or the paint as it were.

By now we all know, at least we should know, that if he had hard evidence in his pocket (let alone anything else hard, rimshot) he'd be the first to unleash it on an understandably skeptical nation. 

He'd schedule an address to the country from the Resolute Desk and using his grubby, vulgar fingers and perhaps a Sharpie™ carefully point out the perpetrators. He'd invent a new Victory Dance for the occasion. We'd be hearing about it until the last ballot in the midterms had been counted.

But he doesn't have it.

In the same way he never had proof of any election fraud in 2020.

Or evidence showing Nancy Pelosi and Democrats staged the January 6th insurrection. (And WHY?)

Or even one document that backs his claim the Chinese interfered with elections.

He never had proof that Obama was born in Kenya.

Or that the Central Park Five were guilty and should be put to death.

He never had the Trump Healthcare Plan, the one that was 10, 13, maybe 18 times better than the Obamacare plan. How many times did he declare the plan was just being polished and would be revealed in two weeks?

He never got a check from Mexico.

The lack of logic, so apparently obvious, has no impact with his supporters. It's like that part of their brain doesn't work. 

And it doesn't speak well about the other parts either.

 

One Mad Man

About 25 years ago, I was the Group Creative Director at Y&R/Irvine (Young & Rubicam) tasked with overseeing the creative work for Jaguar Automobiles. This feels like it was in another lifetime. Or even two. 

One of the things I remember was a quote from one the many books we had accumulated about the storied English brand. 

It was from one of their Head Designers. William T. Wentworth or Clyde Higgenbotham or Sir Lord Kensington of Thatcherston -- I'm officially British, I can make these jokes. He (sorry ladies this was scribbled in the early 20th century) said, " If you can't tell it's a Jaguar from 100 feet away, we have failed to do our job."

That squire is no doubt rotating in his final resting place and furiously tilling the soil until it has reached a liquified state. I believe that's how peat bog is made, I could be wrong.

Have you seen the current line up of Jaguar automobiles? I'll give you a hint, you have. You just haven't noticed them because what were once the sexiest vehicles to ever grace the road are now nothing more than 4000  lbs of visual banality. So watered down that many Jaguar vehicles don't even require the stewardship of a skilled driver behind the wheel. I'm looking at you Waymo.

The Jaguar SUV is no different looking than the Bentley SUV or the Lamborghini SUV or the Ferrari SUV.

I bring this up because I have just concluded watching season 5 of Mad Men. Wherein they have just secured the Jaguar account, through some nefarious methods, and have begun suffering the consequences of that tainted victory. 

Spoiler Alert: One of the partners commits suicide.

I know I'm extremely late to the Mad Men party. Let's just say that while the show was commanding everyone's attention, the team and I were trying to scare up some interest in the fledgling X-type available for $199 a month. 

Make no mistake the X-type was hardly a Jaguar. The genii in Coventry simply took a Ford Mondeo, a mid-priced cubicle monkey's automobile, and slapped a cheap chrome plated leaper on the bonnet.

Jaguar isn't the first to abandon craftsmanship and pride in order to make a quick money grab. And they won't be the last. In today's shareholder economy, shrinkflation or some version of it, is the currency of the realm. It's across the board in every industry.

Which reminds me of a more current maxim you may be familiar with, "It's our responsibility to leave the world better than the way we found it."

Take a look around you. What's better?

"Damn Communists!"

"Strike 3. You're outtahere."

"Not so fast Buck Rogers. The Red Sox have challenged the call at the plate."

What the hell is this, I thought quietly. 

What the hell is this, mused loudly Ms. Muse. 

Our questions were answered by the Dodger Stadium announcer who said the last pitch was under dispute. No sooner had my jaw been picked up off the plastic seat below my in the Reserved Section, Row 35 Seat K, at about 1000 feet above sea level, where you can smell the burning jet fuel from jets making their landing approach turn to LAX, our questions had been answered.

"After AI review, brought to you by Palantir.  Palantir, the good side of Fascism, the pitch call was overturned."

With that, the Jumbotron replayed the pitch showing the ball did indeed miss the lower right corner by half an inch. The hitter was rejuvenated. The umpire was humiliated.

Again.

Again.

Again.

And again.

In what might have been the worst baseball game we have ever witnessed in a pro stadium (Ms. Muse called it Lazyball) the Boston manager challenged 5 calls by the umpire. And prevailed on each one. Begging the question, why do we even need umpires?

Well, I'll tell you. 

Because it's baseball, our national pastime. The egalitarian game that occasionally brings us all together. Black and white. Old and young. Rich and poor. Though at the stadium, any stadium, it's mostly rich people. Who else wants to shell out 45 bucks to park the car. Or 10 bucks for a variety of shredded meats and gizzards and stuffed into a glutinous semi-edible membrane. Or the privilege eating soft serve ice cream out of a plastic replica of a batting helmet.

Baseball is what made America. It's as indigenous to our culture, like Jazz, Movies and unfathomable political ignorance in the face of hypocrisy.

We've already corrupted the game with designated hitters, one pitch relievers, and the ten second rule. Not to mention the in-stadium experience with the inane Cap Shuffle, the furry mascot races and captive ads disguised as "fan participation experiences" that make a Chuck E Cheese seem quiet as a morgue.

And now we're going to remove the human element to the game to turn it over to a bunch of greedy, nerdy technocrats who always got picked last in school for the PE softball game? 

What is wrong with this world?

I blame Trump. I know that's baseless and without any evidence whatsoever. But if it's good enough for him it's good enough for this radical leftist commie.

 

 

What's my purpose?

As you might expect, I hang out a lot with people my age. Some younger, some older. And many of the conversations revolve around retirement. You know when we're not discussing sciatica, lumbar issues, and stool consistency. Oh yeah, that comes up. But then again, my circle of friends is unusually frank and uninhibited.

The other thing that comes up is purpose. That is also to be expected as I pal around with people who were and still are unusually driven. Unlike my under-achieving ass. 

"What?" they say, "will you do with all that time? What will be your purpose?"

I didn't know I needed one, to be completely honest. 

Today, after so many days of errands and getting situated in my new rental home, is a light one. I thought I'd sip my coffee, read and watch my new vacuum robot tool around the house.

Right now, Hazel (my robot's given name) is in my office and pleasantly distracting me. I like pleasant distractions. After a lifetime of cracking marketing riddles (like Don Draper) I live for pleasant distractions as they lube up the mental synapse highway. Though not always, as Hazel is currently wrapped up and stuck with the Peloton power chord stuck in her hungry maw.

Years ago, I had the pleasure of meeting Steve Lopez of LA Times fame. His exclusive beat is now covering those of us on the back nine of life on Earth. I asked him if he'd ever retire. 

"No," he said, "writers never fully retire. That just goes with the territory."

I suppose he's right. 

I had purpose for so many years. I delivered newspapers as a boy to have money. And because my father would never give me any. 

I mowed lawns, washed dishes and flipped burgers to save money for college, again because my father wouldn't give me any and because he wanted me to go to an expensive private university. 

And I hit every rung on the career ladder to feed, clothe and raise a family which was rewarding in its own right. For the most part. Where's the wink emoji?

In other words, I had purpose. For 68 years. Now I want to live less for the future and more for the present. I want to savor the moments. And write for the sole purpose of making myself laugh.

And possibly others as well.

Thanks Chris. Who I don't know but appreciate.

That's enough purpose for today.

"Take that shoelace out of your mouth, Hazel, and put the sneaker down."

 

I can't breathe

Let's talk about elitism. 

Not through the lens of politics -- although that might come up -- but through the world of sports, entertainment, diversions that relieve the 24 hour a day anxiety about politics.

Last week I purchased two tickets for a Dodger game. At the wise request of Ms. Muse, I picked seats on the 3rd base line away from the direct shot of the Southern California afternoon sunshine which as of late can fry an armadillo without the aid of a magnifying glass. 

The purveyors of said tickets know this and charge more for seats on the left side of the field than they do for the right. Greedy oppportunistic bastards.

The two tickets cost roughly 300 bucks. But that's just for starters.

Add in the parking 35 bucks. 

A couple of hot dogs at 10 bucks a shot. 

A bag of shelled peanuts because you need something to do with your hands as the flying beachballs never get this high up in the nosebleeds. And a few of those mighty $22 beers, because if no one is swinging a bat, a pitcher's duel can get pretty boring.

All in, the night can cost up to 500 smackeroos!

I'm not complaining. 

OK, I'm complaining a little. 

Fortunately I'm retired and enjoying the fruits of my significant advertising labor and can take the hit. But what about Joe Sixpack and Betty Bag O'Crackerjacks stuffed in her Spanx to save from her concession stand robbery?

It's not just sports. 

The same scenario will play out a few weeks from now when we go to Las Vegas to experience the Wizard of Oz at the Sphere. Where for the money we're spending they should sprinkle the audience with real opium from above when Dorothy and friends traipse through the poppy fields.

While having dinner with friends recently, someone mentioned a trip to see the Long Beach Dirtbags, a local college team. And another chimed in about the Oakland Ballers, a semi-pro team. They both went on about free parking, easygoing crowds and ticket prices well below three digits. Oh and the $2.00 hot dogs. Lest there be any doubt about this trend, witness the wild appeal of the Savannah Bananas. SWIDT?

The disparity is outrageous. And it's dangerous. 

Owners, athletes, and corporate sponsors had better wise up. Because they are pricing themselves out of the market. And driving a wedge between the Haves and the Have Nots. And even people like myself, who Have a Little. 

I'm now convinced that Free Market Capitalism will be the death of Free Market Capitalism.

 

Thursday Photo Funnies

 

"Rich, you might want to reach for the Prevagen. It's not Thursday. It's Monday."

Thank you unnamed rhetorical reader, my brain is fully functional and it is indeed Monday. But that's the beauty of being 68 years old, retired and having my own detail-agnostic platform, that I've studiously built over the course of the past 17 years. I can do whatever the hell I want here.

I can write what I want, when I want, for whoever I want. That's not to be undersold. Particularly after a long career of just the opposite. I wish I had the same power over my dreams. They are often stressful. And disturbing. Thankfully I wake up and forget most of what has transpired. The only remnant of which is the occasional night sweat. 

If only the dreams were more peaceful and bucolic, like the picture above, which was not lifted from some travel brochure but shot on my iPhone while Ms. Muse and I were in Paso Robles at Sensorio. 

Here's some more photos from my very peripatetic life. 

From the Cowgirl Cafe, also in Paso Robles.

Where we also had the joy of 

watching this Trumpster -- note the hat-- eating 

breakfast, lunch and dinner, all in one sitting. 

He was stuffing his pie hole the whole time we sat there.

Don't know what Boyfriend Style is. 

It could be indigenous to Central California.

As is questionable public art pieces.

Just East of Paso Robles, one can find dozens of interesting wineries.

Steinbeck fans will see what I did there.

Ms. Muse is quite photogenic, 

even with the plastic hat and the bug-eye riding glasses.

Closer to home, this was spotted on the canal

streets of Venice, CA. Don't know how Badass one can be in a 

VW bus with less horsepower than a riding mower.

Like my friend Mr. Jim, I love the cartoons of

NatLamp celebrity Sam Gross.

Unlike my friend Mr. Jim, I don't have the most refined eye for art.

But I love these semi-abstract paintings of 

19th century English landowners and 

their outrageously oversized livestock. And I'm determined to 

populate the walls in my new house with framed prints. If I can find them.

Uranus for $1000, Ken

Did you know Uranus is the coldest planet in our solar system? The climate there is allegedly colder than that of Syracuse , NY, famous for its double digit below zero temperatures and lake effect snow that can leave mountainous drifts of snow. 

Fun fact: those drifts, if caught in their earliest just-fallen stages before turning dirty and crusty, are no match for a 1966 Dodge Coronet 400 with 318 horsepower V-8 driven by an angry Denny's line cook. 

So I'm told.

Fun fact about Uranus, and really can we know too much about Uranus, I don't think so, it has rings, like Saturn. Until I took this deep dive into the dark void that is outer space, I had no idea. 

The rings were discovered in 1977, during my lifetime. Proving that scientists, especially the juvenile ones, are still probing Uranus. They are made up of dark rocks (I could've guessed that) and ice and measure between 2km and 100 km wide. Interestingly enough, the rings are held in place by the gravitational pull by its 28 moons. 

You can't have Uranus without many moons.

Ok, maybe that line didn't work. But that's not going to stop me. Or many like me who have the maturity of a 14 year old.

Two weeks ago, I was notified by Indeed of a job opening. I have zero interest in going back to work, yet the algorithm thinks differently and keeps sending me job listings. This particular opportunity was interesting. The folks from the Jeopardy studio, which used to be 1/4 mile from my former house in Culver City, were looking for a writer.

Ms. Muse mused that I should still apply, given my lifelong vicarious participation in the show. And my uncanny ability to guess Final Jeopardy correctly more often than not. "Rachmaninoff"? Where did I pull that one out of?

The commute from Pasadena does make this opportunity prohibitive. Which is sad because I'm sure I would enjoy the camaraderie of other mischievous writers who will stop at no length to jam Uranus into the episode. Like last night.

And that was not the first time Uranus made its debut on national prime time television.

Because I'm thorough and because my curiosity knows no bounds, I did some more "research":

Seems the folks even more interested in Uranus than scientists...are the writers.

Push, Push, Push

The locker room at the Rose Bowl Aquatic Center is shamefully small. It looks like it was built for a dozen men and/or boys. But every day more like a hundred to two hundred come through. As you might expect, when they're on their way out the two pools, they're wet. Sopping wet. And large puddles can form on the slippery floor.

As I was leaving today I spied a young man with an industrial sized squeegie device to corral all the water into the drains. It's a thankless job that must be repeated over and over ad nauseum. 

This brought to mind two things. 

First my checkered past and the more than 50 manual labor jobs I held working in the kitchens of restaurants, hospitals and college dining halls. In addition to my many cooking duties I was responsible for cleaning up. And pushing that damn mop and the bucket on wheels filled with dirty water.

So glamorous. And equally thankless.

The second thing I remembered was a recent conversation between my two daughters. Both are gainfully employed in the ad business as Producers. It should be noted they got these jobs with little or no nepotistic help from me. Not that I had any clout in the biz. 

If anything, dropping my name could've been a detriment.

Like many "kids" in their 20's they have their up and down days at work, what with all the mishegas and tzuris. On one of their simultaneous down days, they remarked how great it would be to leave work at 5, come home, and not have any contact, thoughts or responsibilities until the sun was well up in the sky the next day.

"What would you do," I inquired.

"Anything," they said, "just something I could do with my hands. With no stress. Something menial."

I quickly pointed out that menial jobs come with less-than-menial pay. 

"Oh no, that wouldn't work," they concurred, remembering they live in LA and NYC, not Des Moines, Iowa.

Looking back on my less-than-storied career, I remember chewing on the same fat. Thinking I'd love to tell the CEO and the Client to bend over, contort themselves and insert their heads into an orifice of their liking. Then I remembered all the years of sweaty, smelly labor I put in and thanked my lucky stars I was able to make a living with nothing but my oft-sodden wits. 

"From the luft," my father would say.

As one of my best friends is about discover, there's something even better than working with your hands or working with your brains...that's not working at all. 

Happy retirement, he who shall not be named.

 

 

Reiki, don't call that number.

As mentioned several times on this blog, now in its 17th year, I am not a woo woo guy. This is especially true when it comes to medicine. I like science. I like things created by science, not some seed fertilized by warthog poop. And I like relying on medical remedies that have been tested, examined and given the green light by smiley men and women in white lab coats. 

My medicine cabinet is exclusively stocked with vials, salves and mouthwashes that have the FDA Seal of Approval. That faith is even extended to Pharmacists, who feel like quasi-doctors. Not that I always follow the dosages religiously. Given my history of dealing with bronchitis I feel that if one spoonful of codeine-enhanced cough syrup will take care of my ticklish lungs with a side order of euphoria, two spoonfuls will be even better.

My dogmatic approach applies elsewhere as well. For instance, if I'm outside or at a BBQ and I'm being bitten up by mosquitos and other gnatty insects, don't break out the citronella and expect that to suffice. I will not support the International Citronella Cartel. No sir. If I'm getting eaten alive, I want something with DDT in it. Something created in a lab to kill those bastards dead. Dead. Dead. 

And not some scented shit that will give the bugs a contact high.

Last week while browsing around a bookstore, I came across this card (see above) by the checkout counter. Maybe you've heard of Reiki. Maybe you haven't. In my 40 plus years of living in Southern California, I had. But had no idea what it was. So I pocketed the postcard ad suspecting it would make good grist for the cynical RoundSeventeen Mill.

I did the research, so you don't have to.

Here, in a photo that speaks 1389 words, is Reiki. 

No really, that it's. 

So if you're thinking, "Wait it's gonna cost me a C-note and a half for an hour's worth of someone laying hands on me?"

I'm not pulling your leg. Even telepathically. Here's is what Wikipedia (I know, not the best sourcing but I don't have time to do a deep dive) says about Reiki.

OK, I can see some value of laying down on a comfortable bed, closing my eyes and having someone rub my belly like I'm some kind of 68 year old Golden Retriever. But consider the second option.

You can have the 'laying on hands' done over the phone. Which conjures up vision of pathetic guys using their phones -- paying good money -- to call those old 976 numbers. 

You may be thinking, "What the hell is wrong with those people on the Left Coast? Can they get any crazier?"

Yes, yes they can. Here's the flip side of the card.

If you're in dire need of Reiki servicing, think how troubled your cat or cockatiel might be.

 

Amazing

 

Yesterday I told the tale our recent SAG adventure on Rincon Beach. However I inadvertently omitted a very significant part of the story. Perhaps I was suffering from heat exhaustion. Or perhaps because I knew in the back of my mind that it merited a blog piece of its own.

As we were stationed on one side of the beach pavilion -- hosting a quinceneara party -- there was a very interesting contraption hosting some activity on the other side. Situated perfectly on the bluff was a wood beamed cylinder on wheels. It looked like the log of a giant Sequoia tree or the fusilage of DC  jet.

I would look over and spot people clad only in bathing suits emerging from the rear hatch all day long. They beelined towards to park-provided outdoor showers.

Curiosity got the best of me. I paused from my duties of handing out water and semi frozen orange slices to weary cyclists and sauntered over for a look-see. That's where I met Eli and Joey, who operate the mobile sauna.

They told me all about their traveling sauna aptly named Third Space. You can read more about it here. 

I have a soft spot in my heart for saunas. Being swarthy and of Mediterranean descent and having grown up in New York City, I have no problem working up a good sweat. And I have the not-suitable-for-wearing T-shirts to prove it. But way back in the early 70's I watched my father, a CPA, turn himself into a home schooled carpenter.

With the help of the Time Life Series Books, the predecessor to YouTube videos, he successfully went from amateur woodworker to a man possessed. Pretty sure it was just to avoid throwing the ball or playing catch with his children. In any case, with the zeal of another Jewish Carpenter he began ordering truckloads of wood, securing new power tools that occupied every square inch of double garage in Suffern, NY. And within months put the finishing touches on a new Finnish Sauna right off the Master Bedroom.

No sooner had I shared the Reader's Digest version of my dad's redwood adventure, Eli's eyes lit up and he shared the same story. His father, a carpenter by trade, had ALSO built his own sauna. And he did it back in the early 70's. Perhaps following the same plans in the very popular Time Life books. It was a more ambitious project, an edifice unto its own. Which still stands today, but is mostly used as a tool shed.

What are the chances of that happening? 

One in a million? One in a billion? I could not help feeling that so much of what connects us all lies just beneath the surface. And that conversation and dialogue, not doomscrolling and meme hunting, is the best way to find those connections.

To wit, later that day, Ms. Muse was talking to a young woman. And in the course of their chat discovered they had both lost their mothers to Glioblastoma, a rare but incredibly aggressive brain cancer. They bonded immediately and talked for 20 minutes.

What are the odds that Ms. Muse and I would both run into people, on the same day, with the same parental coincidences?

Next time you're in California, see if you can book some time in the Third Space traveling sauna. There, among the beauty of the Pacific and the cleansing of the pores, you can ponder the magic of being here. In this time and this space.

 

Lycra, law enforcement and licentiousness

Had quite a Saturday last weekend. I had volunteered to spend the day with Ms. Muse, doing SAG duty. No we weren't reading lines for my Shakespearian debut at the Pasadena Playhouse. 

"I am Spartacus!"

SAG means something completely different in the world of cycling -- Support and Gear. It was the umpteenth riding of the Summer of Love, a Century ride that took riders 104 miles from Glendale to Santa Barbara. And we were manning the station just before the Finish Line, about 15 miles south of SB. 

Some of you may be asking why I was not riding. I can count the number of reasons on my left foot. There is no doubt I have the aerobic capacity for an endurance ride. Back in March, I rode 68 miles. Ms. Muse, who is not competitive in the least, did 71. The problem used to be my back, more specifically the searing pain between L5 and S1. But now it's my fat feet, which barely squeeze into EEE sneaker and have to be lubed up to get into a cement-like cycling shoe, which is about a 7 on the Mohs Hardness Scale.

So off to Rincon Beach, north of Ventura, we went. Parked the car and set along a beautiful bluff overlooking the channel. Minutes after lugging out the coolers, the folding table, the 100 lbs. of ice, fresh cut frozen fruit, and enough water to fill a Junior Olympic pool, we sat in our folding chairs awaiting the first cyclist.

Instead we were met by a petite man in khakis named Josh. He walked up to us while running his fingers over the shiny badge he had affixed to his buckle (see photo above). Since the Gestapo-like manhandling of ICE agents and the willingness of law enforcement officers to throw their weight around, I have become quite averse to these power hungry mutts. They're like Assistant Managers at Dennys who deny stragglers the right to use the restroom.

Josh gave us a warning about being too close to a Quinceanara celebration scheduled for the pavilion and wished us a good day. That is until he came back 10 minutes later with Brian, a much bigger and burlier man who was impervious to the verbal sparring provided by Ms. Muse. In no uncertain terms Brian let us know that we had to relocate to a different spot. 

I played the senior card and let them assist the move 25 yards away. They dutifully schlepped all the support gear over to the US Forest Service-approved site. Nevertheless, the Trumpian/Napoleonic attitudes left a bad taste in my mouth. 

But the day was early. And there were other more pleasant twists to come. 

As the riders started coming in, we started handing out the sliced oranges, pre-cut bananas, iced water and protein bars. As you might expect after biking close 90 miles along California's Communist Coast, the cyclists needed a break. In other words they were in no rush to get back out there and rest their entire body weight on a narrow seat that was 2 inches wide.

And so we talked. And talked. And talked some more. No screens, no distractions, no posing or posturing, just cycling folk, many of whom we had never met before, shooting the shit, sharing shop talk about bikes and enjoying each other's company. It was as if we had rediscovered the art of conversation. 

As more and more cyclists piled in, we were scampering about to keep up with the melting ice, the voracious appetites, the stories of tires going flat, being fixed and then going flat again. And sadly, there was one cyclist who went down. He had a run in with a pick up truck and had to be rushed to the hospital.  As one of the two SAG people on duty, yours truly got elected to walk 1/2 mile to the site of the accident, chat with the Chippies, and fill out an incident report. 

I even had a clipboard!

But the best part of the day was just about to happen. You'll be happy you stuck around for this. While walking back up the bluff, clipboard in hand, I was approached by an older man, shaped like a Weeble. 

"Weebles wobble but they don't fall down."

Truth be told he was probably younger than me. I still don't have an accurate recognition nor acceptance of my own advanced years. 

"Excuse me sir, do you have a minute?"

"Sure buddy what's up?"

At this point I thought he might have a question about the festive kids running around and the large families awaiting the freshly grilled tacos or maybe even a queery about the biking operation we were involved in. But he had something completely different on his mind.

"Do you know where the Nude Beach is?"

"What?"

"The Nude Beach, do you know its location?"

Those words have never been spoken to me in my entire 68 years. I still wasn't completely positive that's what he stopped me for.

"Are you pulling my leg?" I asked.

Then he shot me his puzzled-look face. And held for uncomfortably long time.

"Can't help you, pal. Good luck."

I walked away laughing to myself. Shared the encounter with Sheryl (Ms. Muse) and said, "Do I look like a nudist?"

"I don't know. What do nudists look like?"

"Not me, I hope."

 

 

 

Home sweet home

Years ago, in what now seems like another lifetime, my art director partner and I made a movie for our client, homestore.com. For those who don't know, this was a slipshod shell company that bought the rights to realtor.com, which has all the listings of every house apartment or ADU that's for sale, for rent or for hiding dead bodies in an industrial sized freezer.

It wasn't the sexiest of clients. 

What do you say about online real estate listings? So we decided to dive deep into the attachments people have with their homes. More specifically, we profiled a guy who lived full time on a houseboat in an alligator-filled swamp. A woman who owned a huge treehouse in the deep jungles of the Big Island of Hawaii. And among others, a man and wife who had turned an abandoned missile silo in an underground home in Topeka, Kansas. 

After the missile silo filming, the couple invited the crew to come back that night for their monthly drum circle. I'm convinced to this day they were all swingers and added mouth organs to the various percussive

That's not the point.

As many R17 readers know, I have spent the last two months getting ready and packed for the big move. Out of my own home in Culver City, where I lived with my late wife and two daughters for half my life and the entirety of theirs. To say I was (and still am) inordinately attached to that house would be an understatement. 

I thought I knew the relationship between a home and the person that calls that place home, years ago. But it wasn't until this experience that I have a true measure and understanding of this singular bond.

Yes, it's a bunch of wood, wiring, plumbing, and stucco, but it's also where my girls ran in wild circles in their pajamas around the open floor plan, from the dining room, to the kitchen to the hallway, to the living room and back thru the dining room, over and over again, yipping and yapping and delighting all our dinner guests.

It's where we had so many family gatherings, Birthdays, Mother's Days, Thanksgivings and fast-breaking meals after Yom Kippur. 

"Let's order a few pizzas!"

"That's not how it's done", I was told.

It was where I wanted/needed to be, when for the first time in my life I experienced panic attacks -- and no idea what was happening to me -- while in Germany, where I counted the hours to be at home. My home.

And now, after painting, refinishing floors, repairing gutters and stucco, the house is now listed for rent. You can see it here: https://www.cavanaughrealtors.com/homes-for-sale-details/4164-LE-BOURGET-AVENUE-CULVER-CITY-CA-90232/26858089/306/?fbclid=IwY2xjawS9_IhleHRuA2FlbQIxMQBzcnRjBmFwcF9pZBAyMjIwMzkxNzg4MjAwODkyAAEeh7hrPColhtuefQY6beBscve621wrMRJgLX9I-binkNQ0Vz1Ye2zUpnG-9-o_aem_YysaEefB1IjOwEJ6gLBejw

It's sweet and it's bitter. As my sister-in-law put it, "The end of an era."

And as the Stoics & Buddha put it, "A testament to the impermanence of life."

Or, finally, as Dorothy so eloquently put it, "There's no place like home."

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Addendum: If you know of any family looking to rent and take care of my home, please reach out to me or to my realtor.