Your President, not mine

 SFX: SAD TRUMBONE

Prefaced by Charlie Brown saying, "I got a rock."

You know the feeling, don't you Red Hats? I'm speaking specifically to you die hard cultists who still haven't realized you've been hoodwinked, swindled. and bamboozled. 

Even Marjorie Taylor Greene, the simian former representative from Georgia who in high school was voted "Most likely to taintlick her way to the top", agrees that MAGA ain't the same MAGA that was pitched to them on so many sneakers, NFT cards, watches, patches of blue suit and shoe leather filet mignon steaks (the stupid person's notion of class).

You know things are a squirrelly when you find yourself in the same political bed as MTG. 

This post -- written just two days ago -- may already be outdated, as the NY Times reports an unprecedented build up of US military forces in every country neighboring Iran. Pile on top of that the locker-room bullying techniques of Captain Ouchie Foot, "We can take Iran, easily. We have weapons no one has even seen before. We can take on anybody, anywhere, any time." 

The previous is an amalgamation of things he has actually said.

That sounds less like America First and more like Israel First. Saudi Arabia First. And American Oil Companies First. And Trump Cayman Islands Slush Fund First.

Is that what you Red Hats voted for? 

Oh that's right, you voted for cheaper eggs and lower groceries prices. How's that going? No need to tell me. Even us leftist, radical commie scum shop at the same supermarkets you do. And unlike drug prices, which I'm told are down 500%, 600%, sometimes even 900%, the edible stuff we put in our bags costs more now than it did under Sleepy Joe Biden. That's not what Even Sleepier Donald Trump promised, is it?

Finally, because I run the risk of building up a head of steam and siphoning off precious heartbeats and energy from my upcoming Peloton session, there's the Epstein Files.

As we breathe, there are serious charges about rape, pedophilia and even murder on the table. For the love of everything that still remains decent in these indecent times, can you please put yourself in the shoes of someone who thinks objectively.

Do you honestly believe that "man" who dodged the draft and bragged about how discos and the club scene in NYC were his Personal Vietnam? Do you trust a father who said, "If she weren't my daughter, I'd be dating her"? Who also said, "when you're a celebrity you can grab em by the p*ssy, they let you"? The same man who cheated on his wife while she was breastfeeding his son, with a porn star and then paid her $130,000 not to have sex. Are you seriously taking the word of the pig who was at one time the best friend of the world's most powerful and prodigious sex trafficker. 

And you still cling to insane notion that he didn't do ANYTHING untoward toward underage girls?

You elected a war mongering, incompetent, lying pedophiliac. 

Hope you're happy, because we (the real Americans) are not.

Start Over

The best 90 second Super Bowl commercial never ran in the 2026 Super Bowl. Wisely. It ran, and could still be running, if this Canada/USA curling event goes into overtime, during the Milan Olympics.

Perhaps you've seen it. I dare say, if you had seen it you'd remember it.  

It's for Lilly and you can view the spot right here. It's worth watching again.

https://www.ispot.tv/ad/gOop/eli-lilly-2026-winter-olympics-never-over

I'm going to go out on a limb -- but I'm going to do it carefully -- that this commercial "harkens back" to the advertising salad days of the 80's and 90's. My industry colleague and one of my copywriting heroes, Ernie Schenck, took time to write about this gem recently so I'll try not to step on his toes.

Ms. Muse, an expert in advertising in her own right, and I talked about the spot on one of our many recent bike rides along the CV link. We noted the clear similarities to classic Nike spots. Not surprisingly, the execution and production value and minimalist approach stem from the same agency, Wieden Kennedy.

"And do you remember the company the spot was advertising?"

Indeed I did. Which is odd because I barely remember any of the spots that ran during the Super Bowl. Oh the humanity!

The Lilly opus  ran contrary to all the "best practices" and "brand optimization techniques" that now rue the day.  

There was no "bing bong" brand pneumonic in the first 3 seconds. You know, because as I've actually heard clients say, "What if somebody gets up after 5 seconds of our multimillion dollar spot to go take a piss, how will they know it was our spot?" 

Yes professor, how will they know?

There were no bite and smile shots of people swallowing Lilly made pills or subjecting themselves to Lilly injections.

Or shots of the new centrifugal blood spinning machines separating platelets or mitochondria in clearly branded test tubes bearing the professionally lit Lilly name.

And for a company that's clearly on the cutting edge of technology and medical advancement, the spot was markedly luddite in nature. There was ample use of black and white stock footage.  And the voiceover was delivered in a staccato professorial manner that cut through the clutter like a freshly unsheathed virgin scalpel.

In short, the spot did what all great Super Bowl spots used to do. It grabs you by the collar, takes you on a journey, builds to a riveting crescendo, and then confidently delivers the money shot.

Ironically, our industry, well, it's yours now as I am so thankfully done with the mishigas and idiocy...

"Can we get Ben Affleck to do the voiceover?"

"NO!"

...would do well to return to the directives that have served Lilly so well:

O B S E R V E

Q U E S T I O N

E X P E R I M E N T

T E S T 

(OK, maybe not so much testing)

S T A R T  O V E R

"To Indio...and beyond."

Yesterday I wrote about reconnecting with my inner handyman. 

Had my father lived past 57 years I'm sure he would have been very proud. I didn't inherit his late-in-life love of woodworking. Nor his prized tools. Nor his astounding collection of dog-eared Time Life books, from which he self taught himself and found his way around miter saws and rabbit joints. But he did teach me a few things about locking washers, rachet and Allen wrenches.

I forgot to mention, I assembled these two patio chairs and table. Not only do the chairs swivel, they rock back and forth. And yes, I know about the crack in the cinder block wall.

He also would have been proud to witness the development of my inner athlete. 

Last weekend, Ms. Muse and I did the Tour de Palm Springs. We did one three years ago but got sidelined by Covid and other maladies the last two years. This one was the best. 

There were 4 route options available to us. Unlike others of our particular age, we ride without the assist of the very popular e-bikes. We're purists in that way. Being healthy but not always pain-free, we opted for the 58 mile route. That's no small feat.

The wind stayed at bay. The sun ducked behind some high cirrus clouds. And, perhaps most importantly, we were riding with a sufficient supply of low grade opioid medicine. 

Or as I now say, "Have Tramadol, will cycle."

When we crossed the finish line -- this was a ride, not a race -- we set the bikes down and shared a libation, or two, at the Beer Garden. And though our feet were bigly hurting, we decided that there was still gas left in the tank. And half a Tramadol in the pillbox.

So we rode some more. 

Ms. Muse, who had tacked on 10 miles before the race in order to ride her age, went over and above and cranked out 71 impressive miles.....many, many more miles than her age. The longest ride she has ever done. 

Post beer, I did some math and figured how many more miles I needed to get to 68, since I will turn that age in 10 days or so. It was the longest ride I have ever done.

It was a glorious day. Followed by a blissful night of double digit hour sleeping.

 

Happy Hands at Home

Many, many years ago, I did a pitch for a small agency called Goodness Manufacturing. It was helmed by three guys from Crispin. Before CPB became CPB Creative. Or OmniFuck. Or whatever.

We, John Shirley and I, were brought in to compete against other teams before the new spec work was shown to the client, Craftsman Tools. We survived. They didn't. 

We thought it would be cool to heap praise upon the men and women in this country that use their hands to fix, build and otherwise manufacture things. And naturally with Craftsman Tools. We created The Order of Craftsman and blessed it with all kinds of pageantry, lore and celebration of camaraderie. 

John designed several T-shirts emblazoned with similar logos to the one seen in the picture above. Not just fro plumbing but for hanging lighting fixtures. Eliminating crabgrass. Cleaning out sewer lines.

My appreciation for people who courageously pick up and tool and say to themselves (sometimes foolishly), "I can do this" has only grown since that time.

I have spent the last 6 weeks at the short term rental house that was the former residence of my uncle -- the only gay man in Palm Springs with no sense of design. Or taste. It is a great winter escape. And should you be interested in spending time here, it is available. 

Well, almost. 

I have 4 bookings scheduled. And that meant cleaning up the place. As well as taking care of some repairs.

In the same way George Costanza hated to pay for parking, I detest spending money on hiring repairman. Especially when the stock market is falling in Olympic synchronicity with the president's approval rating.

And so, with the wrong hex bit attached in hand and a stupid willingness to fuck things up, I did what most Jews would not, I got handy.

My dog's water bowl used to sit by the baseboard. 

And because she's so sloppy, 

the water would get all over the place and rotted away the paint.

The baseboard got painted. And the dog bowl was moved.

A year ago, I spent a shit ton of money to replace the pool gate. 

With a fancy one with frosted glass.

It is not easy keeping up with the Chads, the Kyles and the Jasons,

 with their fancy Palm Springs accoutrement.

Unfortunately, the smart lock on the gate wasn't engaging properly.

I donned a pair of safety glasses and and my power drill 

and made that damn hole bigger...restrain...edit...refrain from making bad joke.

Finally, salmon skin, while tasty is very oily --the good oil. 

It can make a mess of the outdoor BBQ.

 So I tore the grill apart, briquette by briquette and slowly, but purposefully

returned the BBQ to its original factory shine.

Not all my home repair work produces such satisfying results, in fact my success rate is barely in the double digits. So when it does go right and things work out and nothing else gets broken in the process, you can be damned sure I'm gonna blog about it.

 

Throw the J*w Down the Well

This is my cousin. Albeit a very distant one. I know this because of 23andme. According to the science, he and I share .33% of DNA segments. What's interesting is that he descends from my Hebraic Father's side, who were diaspora'd to The Pale in Eastern Europe and somehow got sidetracked to Bloody Ole England. 

Surprisingly, he is not descended from my mother's side, who were just a few hundred miles north of Norwich in the cozy town of Glasgow.

This man, maybe named Isaac, or Schmuley, or Moises, lived a life of anonymity. It was his death --actually, his murder -- that brought him to my attention.

Here is the summary from the good, and bankrupt, folks at 23andme: 

The remains of Medieval Jewish Individual SB676 were discovered at the base of a medieval well in Norwich, England, in 2004 by a team of construction workers who were preparing to build a shopping center. He was one of at least 17 individuals whose remains were discovered within the well. The positioning of their skeletons—many of which were oriented face-down, indicating that they had been thrown head-first into the well with little care—suggested that they were victims of a violent massacre.

Thrown down the well? 

Where have I heard that before?

See it here: https://youtu.be/Vb3IMTJjzfo?si=_iKrH4m-lpusfOsd

If you think that's a terrible way to meet your ending, take a look at this diagram..

The tale of how Ashkenazi Jews reached Norwich England and their ability to prosper despite being excluded from owning land or working as craftsman, is as old as time itself. As is the medieval mayhem that followed when word was falsely spread that these odd people baked their matzo with the blood of gentile children.

We don't do that. We never have. In fact, most Jews don't like Matzo. I'd rather eat the box it comes in. 

If you want to find out more about the Norwich Witch Hunt and the murder of my cousin Hymie, you can watch this 3 plus hour documentary:

https://youtu.be/2a2G6QIbhfY?si=tGpKXpk3_6t1couP

Sadly, I know the story, many times over.

The irony here is that when Ms. Muse tracked her ancestry from centuries ago, she discovered she was related to a Bulgarian Princess. I on the other hand discover my relatives were tossed down a defunct well by some drunken limies who had nothing better to do on a Tuesday afternoon.

Since I am now a citizen of the British realm maybe I can collect some reparations. 

Bad Bunny revisited

If I know anything about demographics (after 40 years in advertising I should) I know most of you watched the Super Bowl Halftime show. If for no other reason to flip a giant bird at the Klansmen who sadly run this country and the schmuck in the Ultra White House.

It was amazing. And this is from a guy who NEVER sticks around for the halftime shows. Especially as of late with Drake and Kendrick Lamar acting out their rap beef, which frankly I have no interest in.

I stuck around the TV during the break of one of the most boring football games, mostly because there was so much fuel put on the fire by a president and a GOP bent on dividing us. Fuck them. They missed what I think was a seminal event in American culture.

It has stuck with me for the past 48 hours and I couldn't help be reminded of my own experience at a Mexican wedding I attended in 1985, while Trump was still fighting off lawsuits about racial discrimination. 

I'm going to use real names because 40 some odd years have passed and it helps jog my fading memory. Also, I no longer stay in touch with any of the people I worked with at Bernard Homes Recruitment Advertising in Encino. It was my first copywriting job and where I cranked out Help Wanted ads, 15 per day. 

Assistant Manager Wanted, no exp. nec. -- as my friend Jim used to joke.

I was partnered with Bob Prado, a somewhat cranky 30 year old who had the funny demeanor of a much older veteran. We hit it off great. His younger sister Elaine worked on the other side of the creative department. When I say we were all like family, we literally were.

Elaine invited me to her wedding, actually I think she invited all of us. It was 35 miles away in Pico Rivera or Rancho Cucomunga, somewhere in LA that I had never been in my short SoCal tenure, at the time. 

I put on my best clothes and drove my dilapidated Toyota Corolla with the fractured steering wheel to the church and found myself surrounded by 600 people! Many co-workers and many folks who barely spoke any English, wearing sombreros and lacy dresses. 

I don't remember the ceremony mostly because I remember the reception. 

There was music. There was dancing. There were mariachis. There was an Open Bar.

But only for the first hour.

Keep in mind there were 600 people there. 

That's a lot of dinero. Before I could down my second shot of mescal, followed by a Tecate with lime, the red vested bartending staff whipped out their cash registers. Hours later, and many dances with pretty young hispanic ladies who mistook me and my thick mustache for being Mexican, my wallet was tapped. 

I don't remember many of the details, hopefully Elaine doesn't either, but I do remember grinning ear to grinning oreja. And I do remember that any wedding after that would pale to the joy, the togetherness, and the sheer intensity of celebrating the specialness of life. That's what we witnessed on Sunday Night.

I doubt the bubbled people watching Kid Rock and his mini Klan meeting ever have experienced anything like that.

Thank you Bad Bunny. Seriously, thank you.

 

Making Friends

As some of you might have noticed, I'm spending less time on Facebook, LinkedIn and even Twitter. Though I rarely go to the putrid Twittersphere aka X, unless there's a breaking news story and I need to poll the unwashed uniformed proletariat.

Not only has my time on Facebook decreased, but so has my pleasure.

For a long time my sojourn there would produce a new comment or solicitation from a very attractive young woman (women) who would fawn over me. Most, if not all of them, worked in the Cosmetics industry. In Singapore. And they're mysteriously lonely.

"Your opinions are always so spot on. I appreciate your wit and wisdom. Not to mention you are a very handsome man. I would like to get to know you better. However, every time I send a friend request it does not go through. Please connect with me by sending me a friend request. Love Lilly." 

Or it could be Cassandra. 

Or Brielle.

But as of late, I've stopped getting these inquiries.

I'm told that these type of friend requests are part of a scam. And that other men of a certain age (old) are also getting these type of invites.

Hogwash.

I know that despite the millions and millions of men on Zuck's platform, these lovely young ladies have singled me out for a meaningful digital relationship. How else do you explain:

"You are so funny. And your comments are always humorous and intelligent. I am new to your country and love to laugh and make new friends. My request to you bounced back. Can we be friends and make funny discussions? Please send me a friend request."

Does that sound like boilerplate opening gambit for a scam? 

I think not.

Clearly, these women, who are all unusually thirty to forty years my younger, are intrigued by the notion of getting to know a semi-successful, elder man with white chest hair and share pleasant table conversation and amusing anecdotes. 

Frankly, I'm befuddled. 

Upon further investigation, it does appear many of them are also from Ghana or Nigeria. I have shared my concern with Ms. Muse, explaining, "These young ladies are real, right? And they have picked me out for my riveting discourse. I mean I still have Game, don't I?"

MM: "Yes babe, you still have game. Lotsa game."

I'm in the Epstein Files!

I'm in the Epstein Files. 

I need to repeat that line, not only for its inherent shock value but also because it demands explanation. Also because I'm still processing this.

My morning started with an odd text from my youngest daughter Abby in Brooklyn. Like myself she has been blessed or cursed with an outsized sense of justice. Hence, she has been sleuthing the Epstein Files scandal. And by sleuthing I mean she has been watching Tik Tok videos on the matter. 

She came across a Tik Tokker who has been going through the recently released 3 million pages. There are millions more, probably with some very unflattering pictures of our dumpy president that he does want people to see. Not because they're obscenely incriminating, but more likely because they haven't been airbrushed to his high standards of unwarranted vanity.

The photo above is from the diary of one of the Epstein victims. 

Readers of this blog may have spotted the Pantone 184 Yellow and the Resballoso typeface. Abby certainly did. It came from a 1998 magazine ad and some postcards we had printed up for our ABC campaign. Contrary to what some thought we didn't just do category sell -- though we did a lot of that -- we also hawked the crappy shows on ABC.

To wit:

Now here's the hard part. 

One of these young girls (yes, girls) had saved the postcard or ripped the page from a magazine and pasted into her diary. Along with other clippings documenting her torture.

There is a pit in my stomach. Actually two pits. One, that these young girls have been subjected to the most horrific attacks that as of yet have been met with any form of justice. Pit #2, that our lame-ass media has not given this unimaginable tragedy the nuclear bomb coverage that it deserves!!! 

We are living in a weird and not-so-wonderful time. This type of scandal should be given 24 hour round the clock, super LARGE BOLD TYPE coverage. 

Heads should fuckin' roll. Republican and Democrat. Celebrity and Has-Been Celebrity. Uber Wealthy and Just Regular Wealthy. Jew and Non-Jew.

I only mention that last category because it has not escaped my attention, nor the attention of other MOTs, as well as rabid antisemites, that a significant number of the "men" involved are 'landsmen' and had bar mitzvahs just like mine. OK, mine was more low budget and never featured table party favors or a chocolate fountain. 

The point is, like the Kapos who collaborated with the Nazis, these people are scumbags. And have brought us great shame.

There can never be a just resolution for the atrocities visited upon these now women. There can also be no doubt that the cover up, the back room deals, the redactions and the denials, should merit the highest moral outrage this country can muster. 

But apparently Americans, who have grown complacent by electing an admitted dictator, stood by while the Constitution was shit on, and watched silently as armed thugs snatched people off the street and murdered citizens, don't do moral outrage anymore.

Fuck Donald Trump all the way to the 10th Gate of Hell.

"Words of wisdom, Lloyd, words of wisdom."

Finished a book last week. I know that shouldn't merit cause celebre, but in my case it does. I can't begin to tell you how many books I've cracked open, started, then abandoned. 

Maggie Haberman's 600 page plus Confidence Man, comes to mind immediately. But that's mostly because Ms. Muse, an avid reader, never lets me forget it. 

The Haberman book was simply a chronological look at the evil, fraudulent and morally bankrupt life of our stable genius enjoyed before millions of intellectually-bankrupt Americans put this traitor behind the Resolute Desk. 

Twice.

Fuck you stupid Red Hats.

I like to think Ryan Holiday's more digestible and entertaining book held my attention from beginning to end. I attribute my slow and steady progress through the 369 page title to my savoring the vast number of ways wisdom may be acquired. And my desire to reflect on my own life.

Prior to picking up this primer on Stoicism at a decidedly woo-woo bookstore in the Noe Valley section of San Francisco where you can buy a cup of fresh hot beef broth for only $13, I had never heard of Mr. Holiday. Nor did I realize this was a signed copy. Nor did I know that Wisdom Takes Work is the final installment in his NY Times best selling series.

I'm now a huge fan. Just by coincidence and thanks to the time warping genius of Mr. Bezos, one of the earlier installments in the series, was placed on my doorstep and now sits on my table...

I didn't know I was journeymen Stoic, but upon reflection, the book and the practice espouse many of traits I seek to nourish: curiosity, discipline, moderation, strength and a healthy inclination towards humor.

By way of example, he introduces Michel de Montaigne, a French Philosopher who rose to fame during the Renaissance. I had never heard of him either, so goes the extent of my illiteracy. Admittedly I know little of the famous French thinkers of that period, though I had a glancing memory of Voltaire, Robespierre and Rousseau. But they all seemed like virulent antisemites (I know at least one of them was) so I paid them little attention. 

Montaigne popularized the essay. And I look forward to diving in that rabbit hole.

Holiday also delves into the life of Abraham Lincoln. A president and a man who far exceeded my assumptions. Of particular note was the way Lincoln solicited varying opinions and arguments that contradicted his own feelings. That is wisdom. It is historical blasphemy that Lincoln's name is uttered by the current buffoon/pedophile/ignoramus/ convicted felon/raging narcissist, in the White House.

Lastly, there is an all too short chapter on Happiness, which can be quite elusive in these dangerous times we live in. But since my grief journey began with the passing of my late wife 4 years ago, I have made it my mission to learn, to grow, and to fix myself. 

To that end I will leave you with my favorite quote from the book. It comes from Washington State basketball coach George Raveling. And even though the Cougs were rivals of my daughter's school, University of Washington, I'll give him some not-so-precious digital ink.

"When I wake up in the morning there are two moods I can choose for my day. I can be happy. Or, I can be very happy."

I love that.

 

Let's all not go to the movie

We're less than a week away from the Big Game. I would use the other name (S*per B*wl) but it's my understanding that writing or saying those words are some kind of trademark infraction. And these days, I need to stand on the right side of the law, lest Tom Homan comes after my ass and makes good on the threat to make me famous and abscond with my meager savings.

We're also on the other side of the big movie premiere all of America has been talking about. At this writing, the ticket sales are all being tallied up. The receipts are now in the thirteen digits. Mostly because Jobs-turncoat Tim Cook aka Tim Apple paid $9,000,000,000 for a ticket and another $350,000,000 for a a bucket of popcorn.

The actual asses in seats number is considerably lower. 

That's not to say the film, a 93 minutes-too-long documentary, directed by a man who puts the Rat in Rattner, is not without its entertainment value. Because Americans have been playing a Big Game of their own. Relentless and ruthlessly mocking the Worst Lady and her vanity boondoggle, which if I'm doing my math correctly, could have fed 791,649 starving children. 

But let's be real here, those kids need to pick themselves up by their bootstraps. Get a newspaper route or sell apples on the street.

I have no intention of seeing of the "film" unless I am rounded up at the next No Kings protest. 

"Oh please, can't you just send me to a prison in El Salvador?"

Here's the thing. I love the homegrown meme-ing and disemboweling of the monsters that currently reside in the White House. Well, she doesn't live there and wouldn't get within ketchup throwing distance of President I Made Boom Boom in My Diaper Again. Nor does the their demonic cyborg son, who is now fair mocking game himself.  

However, I would pay good money to see a movie, perhaps made by my friend and former colleague and professional documentarian Chris Smith, about the making of the mocking. A reflection of the incredible creativity by resilient and hilarious people of this country. I like to think I stand amongst them. 

They are my people. And here is their work...

The last one was my handiwork. With a shared art direction credit to AI.

Hello Mate!!!

At this writing I am now a citizen of the United Kingdom, in a very real and legally binding way (if I may paraphrase Michael Palin in Monty Python and the Holy Grail.) 

I'm not sure I should be using the term United Kingdom or Great Britain. Or perhaps I just say Scotland, given the centuries of animosity between my people and the wankers to the south.

Nevertheless it has happened, misspelling of my name notwithstanding.

The notification actually arrived three weeks ago. I had not found it today because it had been buried in an avalanche of emails which bombard me on an hourly basis. 

Looking for new fishing rod, check out Dick's Sporting Goods and the Dick's Big Energy Sale.

I can't begin to describe the feeling of waking up and discovering I'm now a citizen of TWO countries. It shines a new light on my previously and very singular Americanism. Which to be honest does not make me very happy. Or proud. Or even safe at this very moment.

If CNN reporter Don Lemon can be snatched off the streets for standing up to the rising tide of fascism, what chance does a wiseass Jew, armed with nothing but a keyboard and a penchant for meme-ing have?

I also can't help remembering how my paternal Ashkenazi ancestors in Lithuania/German/Poland/Ukraine (The Pale of Settlement) felt when they heard the rumble of Panzer tanks in the 1930's.

They had nowhere to go. No dual citizenship. No hope.

But today is a happy day. 

This journey started more than a year ago, when I discovered that British citizenship was automatically granted to first generational children of British citizens. In this case, my mother, who hailed from Glasgow. 

The word automatic is very misleading however. I had to jump through hoops and navigate an intricate labyrinth of governmental bureaucracy. Including a very lengthy biometrics exam in nearby Inglewood, California.

It was NOT easy.

And I am an educated man (though highly debatable.) I have resources at my disposal. And there are no drug cartels angling for territory. Although as readers of this blog know I did have to suffer at the hands of my obnoxious neighbor and his incessantly barking dog.

Think how difficult it must be for people who don't speak the language, have no money and are running away from danger.

It's all so daft. And the lads at Central had better crack on and fix this mess. 

Still, getting acquainted with my new language.

I'm chuffed.

Cherrio.

  

 

Intrepid desert adventures

Pictured above is one of the rest stops on the new CV link (bike path/walking path) that winds its way through the Coachella Valley. It's rumored that the path will eventually make its way to the Salton Sea. To cover that distance and to avoid the subsequent searing heat we would have depart before the sun rose.

The CV link is our new fascination. As it allows us to cycle worry-free, away from the less-than-attentive geriatric driven vehicles as well as the many local drug induced drivers.

I know last week I ended with a stellar review of Paul Bar/Food --I love writing that too much -- and I am also aware that blog runs the risk of turning into a travelogue, but the truth is Ms. Muse and I are spending a little more than a month out here to escape the harsh Southern California winters. 

And the place does provide so much grist for the Siegel Curmudgeon Mill.

I'm not in the ad business anymore. Nor do I have anything interesting to write about an industry that seems bent on becoming less interesting by the shareholder quarterly reports. 

Similarly, what can I say about politics, which is devolving at an exponential rate. 

"Hold my Diet Coke, advertising."

And so I have been reduced, or saved, by posting about swimming, cycling and the local offerings this magical place has to offer.

Our journey last week took us to the lower portion of the CV Link.

We were promised 16 miles out and back, but were disappointed, when after 14.7 miles through some beautiful, though smelly, landscapes...

...the path came to an abrupt end in What-The-Fuckville!

We turned around and reconvened at the next stop, which looks a lot like the one in the picture above. With one glaring exception. You see, the photo above is AI altered to include restrooms.

There was a young Hispanic, heavily-tattooed man who appeared to a local, seated on the bench. We asked him about the construction of the path, which was still ongoing. We also asked where the nearest bathroom is and why they didn't put porto potties at all the rest stops? 

His answer was immediate, "They can't put in bathrooms because of the eventual damage or theft from the nearby drug addicted homeless population."

We can have some nice things. But not all the nice things.

   

American Gestapo 2 / American Citizens 0

A few days ago, I wrote about Trump's SS Thugs slaying an innocent woman in Minnesota. I had no idea I'd be penning another post about abject murder. If anything, it demonstrates the craven and evil demeanor of our newly-appointed and untrained ICE "officers." 

These masked, all Caucasian, trigger-happy young men, seem to enjoy picking off US citizens. These are no doubt the same bullies who reigned over the high school locker room with their bigoted taunts and wet towel snaps. 

One cretin, caught on a hot mic, said, "this is cool, sorta like Call of Duty." Another blurted and confronted an innocent protester with, "Come at me, I'll make you famous."  And all this Nazi wannabe behavior was committed in the name of the United States Government. 

Though governing is last thing on Trump's To-Do list. It comes after sleeping through the new Melania movie. Taking a wrecking ball to American institutions, including the East Wing. And playing...er, cheating...at golf. 

Lots and lots of golf.

In response to the vicious murders of citizens, rightfully and bravely, protesting American Gestapo agents on the streets of America, the White (emphasis on White) House did what it always does -- they doubled down. 

On murder.

Press Secretary and woman who will rent her mouth (including those "fabulous lips") out to the highest bidder, said without irony, "This tragedy occurred as result of deliberate and hostile resistance by Democratic leaders in Minnesota."

Wait. 

Stop the presses.

Are you saying that political leaders are to blame for the consequences of their fiery speeches? Because Governor Tim Walz and Minneapolis Mayor Jacob Frey never uttered one word to encourage violence. But I know who did.  

It was 5 years ago, Karoline. Maybe you're too young to remember. Perhaps you were busy organizing the Tri Delt Bake Sale at Saint Anselm College and coming up with cute designs with the muffins and croissants, but in 2021 we all got an earful of violent political rhetoric. From your boss, no less. And all his henchmen.

Alabama Representative Mo Brooks said, "Today is the day American patriots start taking names and kicking ass."

Rudy Ghouliani, the presidents private attorney called for "Trial by Combat."

And the losing candidate, Donald J Trump said, "If you don't fight, you're not gonna have a country anymore."

Please compare that Teutonic trash to the compassionate, measured pleas from Minnesota's elected leaders.

It was that kind of "tough" talk that led to the death of Trashli Babbitt. As well as the death of DC Capitol officer Brian Sicknik and the injury on 140 other policemen. 

In the vernacular of relentlessly-and-obnoxiously-alive President, "we are experiencing a level of tone deafness and hypocrisy, the likes of which we've never seen before."

Also, fuck you Karoline.

Say Hello to Coalie

From the people who brought you "There's no Climate Warming, look at all this snow", meet Coalie. 

Oh you're probably thinking, Rich is just playing around with AI, because he's retired, his arms are tired from swimming, and he's putting off cleaning the house because the Lady who usually does, is charging an arm and two legs. And to some extent, you'd be correct.

But as my friend, colleague and fellow journeyer through these surreal times pointed out, Coalie is real. As real as a cheaply and childishly illustrated character can be. Coalie is brought to us by the Department of the Interior and Secretary Doug Burgum.

Here, see for yourself...

Keep in mind, Doug, Dougie, famously said, "There's room on Mt. Rushmore for Trump." So it really should come as no surprise that the former governor of North Dakota, a state with fewer people buying tickets to the Melania film, has doled out a few million dollars for a cartoon globule that eerily resembles a loogie coughed up by a 33 year old Kentucky miner in hospice.

Exhibit A.:

Is it me or do they not look like spitting' cousins?

All of which begs the question, as does everything done by this amateur and evil administration, to what end? What are they trying to accomplish here? And who is the target for this pointless propaganda campaign?

Is it aimed at 7 year olds who have the critical thinking ability of...7 year olds? Or is it aimed at Red Hats, who coincidentally, also have the critical thinking ability of 7 year olds?

I'll give Trump (and by proxy his loyal taintlicker Burgum) this, coal has never had any detrimental effects on the whales. Nor has coal killed any birds, unless you count the millions of acres of land strip mined to oblivion thus forcing the birds to find sanctuary elsewhere.

However, coal mining has put thousands of American miners in the ground prematurely. But only after they spent the last few years of their life hacking up chunks of their lungs and guzzling Promethazine with industrial grade codeine, until they couldn't remember who they were and why they were dying. The irony is they probably all voted for Trump.

But who cares? As Coalie would say, "Mine Baby, Mine."

We are living in surreal, easily the most surreal, times in American history.

Blog/Post

I would never consider myself a foodie. Or a snob, though some may. But I like to give thought to what I put in my mouth. One reason why I'll never understand people who succumb to dental advertising. 

"Let us fix one molar and the second one is free. Now only $499."

That said, there is little or no attraction to a "restaurant" that presents itself with a sign like this. Situated in a strip mall, in the dirtiest, windiest side of Palm Springs, off Vista Chino. Ms. Muse and I had a good laugh when we spotted this.

Bar/Food? What kind of bar? Was it beer and wine, or did they have a full liquor license? Vodka? Gin? Whiskey aged in used shoe leather? Begging the next question, what type of food? Mexican? Italian? Or, as the veneer would suggest, Trailparkian?

The low hanging fruit on this one is delicious.

You can imagine how shocked we were, when on a return trip from the local Lowe's to replace some rocker light switches, we looked in the direction of the Bar/Food establishment, wedged between a Happy Ending Massage Parlor and a decidedly-downscale sketchy liquor store, there was a LINE!

Not an Apple iPhone 18 introductory type of line, but close to 40 people that extended all the way to the Vaping Emporium and the Second Hand Sock Store. Astonished? Absolutely. Our curiosity was piqued. 

With computer in hand, Ms. Muse took to clickin' and clackin.'

"You're not going to believe this, but Bar/Food is actually called Paul Bar/Food."

I guess the sign store ran out of S's and apostrophes.

"...aaaand (she added with emphasis) it gets 5 star reviews on Yelp."

With that, our inner journalists rolled up their sleeves. People were raving about the incredibly friendly atmosphere, the congeniality of the owner Paul, and the amazing cuisine. A deeper dive into their website revealed a cozy, New York style steakhouse kind of vibe. Leather booths, dim but inviting lighting, and a mahogany bar that could rival any found in West Village or Hell's Kitchen.

In a chat with one of the neighbors, we discovered the 105 year old decorative bar counter once belonged to the grand hotel that is now occupied by the Desert Regional Medical Center. Apparently Paul, owner/host/impresario wisely bought the bar and hauled it out of its dusty, scorpion infested storage.

Bar/Food — Paul Bar/Food — had all the necessary ingredients for further investigation and an adventure in local idiosyncracies. 

Not a fan of waiting in line, we arrived at Paul Bar/Food ten minutes after the doors officially opened. We were late, and there were a good twenty people in front of us. And soon there were twenty people behind us. Fifty or so people, all waiting to enjoy the Paul Bar/Food experience.

Who were these people? Snowbirds from Wisconsin, older folks from LA, tourists, and older gay couples who were locals and more than willing to regale us with their take on Paul Bar/Food. The waiting in line experience was a party unto itself (albeit without the benefit of alcohol which was prohibited from leaving the front door) and included an appearance from Paul. As we waited in line, he charmed us with his quick Bronx wit and eventually shuffled us into the place which looked just like the pictures on Yelp.

We were seated at the 50 yard of the bar, prime real estate location at Paul Bar/Food. And before we got our appetizers, we were sharing drinks and stories with the lucky patrons on both sides of us. It was only later that we found out that we had stumbled onto one of the desert's true culinary gems.

Do yourself a favor and stop in at Paul Bar/Food. Just don't go when we do, the line is long enough as it is.

The Year of Living Mendaciously

You kids, and by that I mean anyone under the age of 50 who might still be in advertising, will not remember this but at one time this industry actually had an award that meant something -- The Clios.

Even people outside our relatively small -- now much smaller -- industry knew of the Clio. It was our poor stepchild version of the entertainment businesses' better known awards, including the Oscar, Emmy, the Grammy, the Tony. 

No one ever actively sought to win the the EGOTC.

Way back in 1991 the Clio took a fall. A fatal one at that. At the black tie award show  in NYC, things quickly fell apart, for logistical and cocaine-related reasons. The emcee bailed. The teleprompter went black. The salmon was dry. And eager and perhaps overly ambitious ad people rushed the stage to grab a Clio award and scurry off. 

It was a free for all. An embarrassment for the people putting on the show. But an even bigger one for the hacks who couldn't win an award for their work, but felt entitled to take one for their mantle.

It was a participation award before there were ever participation awards.

Last week, as you probably know, President Haventaclue got his much coveted Nobel Peace Price (SP intentional) Award from Venezuelan Opposition leader Maria Machado.

You can see our voracious 289 lbs. Peace-a Rat here...

She literally just gave it to him. I'm pretty sure that's not how this works. But then again, I'm not sure how anything works.

Keep in mind this comes on the heels of our convicted felonious "president" vocally supporting the murder of a US citizen. Which comes on the heels on the violation of international sovereignty laws and the kidnap of a foreign leader. Which comes on the heels of bashing NATO. Which comes on the heels of his withholding the release of the EPSTEIN FILES!!!

As many pundits have mentioned before, there simply is no bottom to this man. Nor is there is any visible signs of a spine amongst the craven GOP "leaders" who will do anything they must, except govern, to take home their Clio -- re-election.

Think about this. He gloats about his secondhand and completely worthless unearned Nobel for allegedly "solving" 8, 9, 13, 574 wars, between combatants who are still flying drones and lobbing mortars over disputed borders.

Trump has no borders. The man who stood before a microphone and like a 14 year old junior high school bully said, "We (I) have the most powerful weapons on Earth. No one can take us."

Translation: "I can take what I want. And always have."

And yet we are to believe this lecherous, mushroom-dick philanderer has never touched and forced himself on underage girls at a private island in the Caribbean far away from prying eyes and laws about statuary rape?

Even Joe Isuzu is rolling his eyes.

_____________________________________________________________

This blog post was written before the insane Dear Jonas You-Hurt-My-Feelings Letter. WTF, America?

 

God bless

I have retreated to the desert. Possibly for 40 days and 40 nights like my semitic ancestors did 3000, 4000 or maybe even 5000 years ago. They didn't have timekeeping tied to any atomic clocks back then, hence the ballpark numbers. Which, by the way, might also explain the birth of Hannukah.

"Morty, you said the oil would last 3 days."

"No, I said two days max. Maybe if you weren't futzing with the blintzes, we'd have more oil."

"You ate enough of them Schmuley. And you took the last of the sour cream."

"Go shit in your hat."

And like my ancestors, I seem to have wandered. But yesterday, another beautiful day in Palm Springs, I had taken my dog Lucy out for twice daily constitutional. She's like a Play-Doh factory that's open 24 hours a day. 

As we were leaving the grassy knoll along the northern side of the Dessert Regional Medical Center, I noticed a man on a bike slowly tooling down East Mel Road. Just as Mafioso like to sit against the back wall in restaurants, I like to keep eyes on what's coming. 

As I reached the corner of Mel and Mira Leste, the man on the beach cruiser pulled alongside me.

"Excuse me, I don't mean to interrupt your morning, that's a beautiful dog (I've heard that for the 5782nd time), can I ask you a question?"

At this point I sized him up, gauging the threat level. In case you didn't know there are many strange people out here. The summer sun is not to be under-estimated. Not only for the effect on the skin but also what it does to one's brain.

"Do you believe in the existence of god?" he asked.

I had only had two cups of coffee by this time, but I could feel the adrenaline surge and ignite the Hitchensonian part of my temporal lobes. "Let's go" I thought.

"No I don't, why do you ask?"

"Wait, you see all this, the mountains, the sky, the stars and you don't believe in god? How did all of this get here?" he posited.

I studied his brown rotting teeth as he droned on about god, the creation, the cosmos, and of course Jesus. And like all believers he could offer no proof of their existence. He was not inarticulate, so I engaged him for twenty minutes or so.

"Well who made all this? It had to have been created by God."

"OK, but then who created God?"

"No one created God, he was always here."

"Oh, like the universe."

It was a exercise in circular futility as of these dialogues with faith-y people are.

I ended the conversation with a bit that I had read just a few days ago. It was from a physicist who said, perhaps we not meant to understand the nature of being. In the same way we have no comprehension of the speed of light or the expanse of the universe, our brains are just not there yet. In the same way that when I take my dog for a walk and enter an elevator with a window, my dog Lucy has no way of understanding that we are going up. Or down.

It's as simple as that.

Or as Neil deGrasse Tyson put it, "The universe doesn't owe us an explanation." I like that.

The man got back on his bike and went the other way. I looked over my shoulder to make sure this brown toothed zealot wasn't following me.

He puts up the shot...

In an unprecedented interview with the New York Times, President Trump said "since the civil rights movement, white people have been treated very badly," adding, "there has been reverse discrimination."

On the heels of this bold statement, Cliff Sheather from Bloomington, Indiana has filed a lawsuit with the Equal Opportunity Commission, claiming he was denied a spot on the roster of the NY Knicks.

Mr. Sheather, standing 6' 9" tall and tipping the butcher's scale at 397 lbs., said, "I've been denied my lifetime dream of putting up rainbows from downtown and playing just below the rim, all because of the color, or non-color of my skin. It's plain as the nose on my face."

His lawyer Glen Feldman, a former producer on The Apprentice, has filed the papers with the commission and is demanding the NY Knicks organization pay his client $28.1 million, not including punitive damages for making Mr. Sheather feel "very bad". 

The suit also claims Mr. Sheather suffered debilitating lack of confidence and forced him into a life of involuntary celibacy.

"The last time I even had a date with a woman was in 1997. We went to Applebees. She had the Sizzling Filet Mignon Platter AND the Triple Chocolate Boat Dessert. Then she ghosted me. I blame Lyndon Johnson."

Knicks representative and Vice President of Scouting and Player Development, Zane "J.J." Walker refuted the charges and explained, 

"Every year, especially when we have a bad college draft and get stuck with a bunch of bricklayers from Syracuse University, we hold open tryouts, hoping to find a diamond in the rough. We gave Tubby...er, Cliff a fair shot. You never know, he could've been the next Bill Lambier, but..."

Mr. Walker turned a few pages on his clipboard.

"Sheather couldn't hit the backboard from beyond the arc, said he had a torn ligament injury in high school. Was slower than a pregnant turtle. And drove the lane like a John Deer tractor with three wheels. Him not making the team had nothing to do with him being white."

When presented with the stats, including a miserable .083 shooting percentage, Mr. Feldman responded, "Fake News."

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On a completely different note, here is an image of the world's tiniest violin...

 

RIP America

Last week I wrote about all the presents I was given this holiday season. Today, I write about the latest gift our esteemed president has gifted the nation: the cold blooded murder of a US citizen at the hands of his own untrained trigger happy, hillbilly Gestapo.

My resting heart rate has never been higher. 

And not because I cycled close to 30 miles yesterday and swam another one in record time. My blood boils with a rage I have never experienced before. Or as one loyal Trumpster put it on my Facebook page, "you sir are suffering from 'toxic woke-ism'. " (I'm sure I got the punctuation wrong on that last clause)

Is it woke-ism to demand higher standards from a nation that has boasted about being the greatest manifestation of mankind's morality?

Is it woke-ism to expect our nation's law enforcement officers, even the fake ones who received less than 47 days of training and insist on wearing a mask to conceal their identity, to show even the slightest respect for what was once recognized as The Rule of Law?

Is it woke-ism to want our nation's leaders to stand up for the citizenry they supposedly serve, instead of cowering behind the coattails of their divinely-appointed leader who labels the victim a "domestic terrorist" with no evidence except what his own dementia-rotted brain tells him?

Is it woke-ism to insist on the same habeas corpus for every person living in this country that our founding fathers so wisely wrote into the Constitution, you know the same document with the precious, god-given 2nd Amendment?

Is it woke-ism to wish someone or something ("hello, imminent blood clot") would Make America America Again?

I know some of you expect me to bring some of the funny to every post. 

Today I will have failed you on that count. 

There is nothing funny about waking up in a country that abides by murder. Especially government-sanctioned murder.

And even worse, goes on to remain silent about it.

Last week RFK Jr. and his malpracticing henchmen put out a new food pyramid about what we should and shouldn't be eating. Renee Good from Minneapolis won't have to worry about any of that.

Fuck ICE.

Fuck the GOP.

Fuck Donald Trump.

Top Fish

I didn't know when I started blogging this week, but it turns out each of this week's posts is about a holiday present I was given. As I'm notoriously hard to shop for, perhaps these thoughtful gifts deserve the air time.

And nothing is more thoughtful than my new FORM Smart Swim Goggles, given to me by Ms. Muse. It should be noted that I gave her plenty of thoughtful hints including, "Hey if you'd like to get me these cool goggles with the in-water heads up display, that'd be sweet."

We tend to be very direct and communicative with each other.

I have plenty of goggles. But the promise of real-time metrics, including distance, time, speed, stroke rate and even the very important head pitch, was just too irresistible. Especially on the heels of my increased viewership of video tips to improve my fitness and freestyle swimming. 

Turns out I'd been doing a lot wrong. Of course being able to jump in a pool and emerge 2 hours and 10 minutes later, having completed two miles means I've also been doing a lot right, but now the real work begins.

I've come to discover that swimming fast often means swimming slower. It requires concentration on  hand entry, hand position, a rhythmic kick and most importantly, the ability to g...l...i...d...e. Rhythm and gliding are not my strong suits.

Frustratingly, it also requires me to acquaint myself with the lingo of non-landlubbers. Swimmers, it turns out have their own shorthand. Which is good as all this data has to be squeezed onto a holigraphic screen no bigger than a thimble.

If you're not clear, as I was and still can be, here's a glimpse:

I love these new goggles. And my swimming habit is quickly becoming my new addiction. 

Will it replace my other obsession - the trolling and truth telling about Trump? Probably not.

Will I ever give up my European lycra suit for a much abbreviated new Speedo? Maybe. 

But unless you're a regular customer at the local Culver City Plunge or the Rose Bowl Aquatic Center or the Palm Springs Swim Center, you'll never see it.