Tuesday, March 19, 2024

Who wants to shop for car?


I want a new car. I don't need a new car. There's a big difference.

I still have my beloved Audi S5. And I still get goosebumps driving it. Especially in Sport Mode, where I can hear the 330 supercharged horsepower respond to the stomp of my right foot. If only everything else in life did the same?

"Girls, can you do your dishes?"

"Lawyers, can you just give me straightforward answer?"

"Representative...Representative...Representative..."

I have my eye on the new Mustang Crossover. Not only for its good looks and faux utilitarian purposes, but because it's all electric. Meaning on my now frequent visits to Palm Springs, I can fire up some jigawatts and slide into the far left lane with the other privileged traffic-avoiding drivers.

And so I sallied down to my local Ford dealership. I had been putting it off because frankly there's little I dread more than going toe-to-toe with a car salesman or saleswoman. 

Somehow Detroit, as well as the importers, have managed to suck dry what should be one of the most pleasant purchases and experiences and reduced it to a root canal without the benefit of any rich Corinthian novocaine.

Nevertheless, I've been seeing so many of these Mustangs on the road I needed to see if it fit my bill. Again, I don't need the car, I just want one. 

On the lot, I met a very pleasant Hispanic woman, let's call her Maria, because that's what her mother calls her. She showed me several trim levels. 

"Is this vinyl seating," I asked.

"Vegan leather," she responded.

OK, we're not off to a good start.

Then Maria took me on a very abbreviated test drive, where I was on the lookout for the regenerative braking phenomena my neighbor told me about. Minutes later, she offered to work up some numbers for me for my perusal.

While she was going to the printer, I thought this was unusually pleasant. She was very soft spoken. Didn't pressure me at all. In short she was what every car dealer should be. Perhaps that's why she was Airport Marina's Salesperson of the year, two years running. 

According to the cheap plastic plaques in her cubicle.

I submitted myself to a credit check (mistake) and reiterated to her that I was NOT making a deal today. I was simply looking. Putting my ass in the seat and seeing how it felt. When she returned with my credit rating (749) she also brought back a very tall, bald man who had spent considerable time in the gym. Or in Serbia. Both will toughen you up.

Maria stepped away and then this imposing 6' 4" bald man, Alexia or Vlad, started showing me what he could offer. I told him not to get too far out over his homemade skis and that I wasn't looking to sign a deal.

That was countered by a string of car dealer cliches that still has me laughing.

"What if I reduce the drive off fee to zero and bump the monthly payment up $60?"

In other words the drive off fee is just pure profit for you?

"Come on, you like the car, you like the way it drives. What's it gonna take to get you in this vehicle today?"

It's gonna take you getting some mouthwash and stop invading my personal space.

"I'm just trying to help you help me."

What makes you think I want to help you?

"This deal I'm offering may not be available to you tomorrow."

I'll take my chances.

With that, I got tired of his strong-arming and began walking out.

He made one last ploy.

"Ok, Zero down and less than $500 a month lease payment."

 I got in my car. Savored his desperation. And now know where to start negotiations with the next Ford dealer should the want for the Mustang becomes a need.

Monday, March 18, 2024

"take the cannoli"


I haven't touched on advertising in quite awhile. 

And for that I apologize. It's difficult for a MOSL (Man of Semi Leisure) to focus these days. What with so much going on: The Fall of American Democracy, my extended bout with Covid, my rigorous exercise routine, my monk-like diet of salmon, salmon and more salmon and my new perpetatic lifestyle that takes me to Sierra Madre (home of Ms. Muse), Palm Springs (site of the MDDCH) and to Culver City (where Lucy can sleep all day and not whine about "another car trip.")

But today we get back to advertising and a very simple and arresting campaign executed on outdoor boards. My favorite medium, where I've enjoyed a certain amount of success. Not enough to merit a panel seat on any award shows or a 7 night stay in Aruba for the laborious judging, schmoozing and swag bag grabbing, however.

This campaign comes from Disney+, the modern day cousin to ABC. And they have returned to a reductionist approach that tickles my vocational fancy -- words. 

Written in the screenwriter vernacular font of Courier.

Maybe you've seen them around town...






There are others but I'm currently sorting out a mess with my lawyers and CPA so I didn't take the trouble of finding them all. Nor is there a need to.

They're all iconic scripted lines from movies we all love. And continue to love. And therein lies the beauty. Aesthetically, they're all very simple and stand out like an unsore thumb among the cacaphony of outdoor boards that tend to shout and scream and beg for your attention. As I told my friend and still working Creative Director Jeff Gelberg, when everyone is being loud, it's best to whisper.

Message wise, the campaign is even better. It says that Disney+ plus has a library. A vast library. One that could challenge the warehouse scene at the end of the first (and best) Raiders of the Lost Ark. 

Granted I'm new to this streaming phenomena and still don't care for the interface and the once intuitive way of channel surfing, but if I were looking to get on another streaming service, I'd certainly be looking at the one with the first name in moviemaking. And the reels and reels of great movies available for only an additional $4.99.

Of course the marketing brainiacs at Disney+ couldn't leave well enough alone. 

On a recent drive down Venice Blvd. I saw another board that read, "I am your Father." We all know that's from Star Wars. But some schmuck, who'd probably been to a focus group or 293 focus groups, convinced his or her boss, who went higher up the chain to convince another boss, to desecrate the simplicity of the outdoor board and run a pink light saber through the I.

I'm not even going to show you. Because I'm that disgusted. 

Also, I didn't take a picture, because Lucy had to make a doody and I had to rush home.


Thursday, March 14, 2024

Welcome to the MDDCH


It's official. I'm a "man of the landed gentry." 

A very Presbyterian way of saying, "I've been officially certified as an Airbnb Host."

This was my uncle's house in Palm Springs. I bought it from him years ago so he would have cash in his pocket. Much of which he doled out to a bunch of his sketchy, opioid abusing local friends, who are now benefitting from his stupidity. And enjoying an inheritance that should have gone to his 4 nieces.

My uncle has since passed. And my long term tenants, maybe the best tenants I've ever had in my up and down career as a landlord, moved to Italy. Leaving behind much of their furniture so it would be turnkey-ready as an airbnb property. But turnkey is a tricky word.

Especially, it seems, when it comes to my life. 

You can't just hand over the keys to strangers and collect checks from them. No, the city has to stick its beak all up in my business. Meaning there are countless regulations and requirements that must be met. And that process can be expensive and take a very long, long time.

For instance the pool needed to pass a safety inspection. And that meant the two night lights which illuminate the pool had to be replaced and repaired because water had been seeping passed the gasket. Apparently the city gets very persnickity about water mixing with electricity.

Damn LED bulbs and scuba diving electrician cost me close to a year of my daughter's college tuition. 

I also had to adorn the walls with artwork, because the previous tenants took their fancy schmancy stuff across the pond and I was told guests don't like staring at blank white walls. I'm still facing the scorn of my daughters for my "icky" pop art choices. 

"Daaaaaaadddddd, no."

This funny video which came to me via Ms. Muse, says it all: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H5E5DkBXyfw

Tomorrow, my first official Airbnb guests will be checking out. They've been there for a week but claimed upon entering the place, "This place is amazing, wish we could stay longer."

Hopefully they won't choose to be squatters!

Should you or your friends require some of that desert magic please let me know. There might even be a "Rich Siegel is a Very Funny Writer" Discount if you play your cards right. You can see the MDDCH here:

 https://airbnb.com/h/mddch

Oh, the city makes me put this code (City ID #5634) up every time I mention the house. I don't want to get in any trouble with PS. That can get very expensive, quickly.

 





Wednesday, March 13, 2024

Doody Free


Two days ago, I admitted to seeings things that aren't there. 

Today I come clean again and admit I don't understand things that are there. 

Even more embarrassing, because I come from a long line of unstoried accountants, I have a tenuous grasp on taxes and how to avoid them.

I recently discovered I made a huge mistake when rolling over my late wife's IRA account. Unless my team of whip smart (expensive) lawyers and equally sharp (expensive) accountants can convince the IRS to forgive me for my idiocy, I'll be paying up the nose. Up the wazoo. Or up the ying yang. 

Either way, I'm a schmuck, which I believe translates into English as well as 43 other international languages.

Speaking of international languages and taxes, what's the deal with Duty Free shops?

I know they must serve some purpose because every time (granted it's not that often) I'm at an airport, I see people mulling about these stores. From what I can tell, they only sell perfume, alcohol and cigarettes.

Having established my ignorance of taxation perhaps I also need to include a sense of limited worldliness? Unless you're visiting the deepest, wettest remote village of the Congo (a new xenophobic Trump campaign phrase) is it not possible to purchase perfume, alcohol or cigarettes on all 7 continents of Planet Earth? 

And how much in taxes are you saving that makes it worthwhile to lug a jug of Maker's Mark or 10 cartons of Marlboro Reds through customs in Lichtenstein or the mile and a half long terminals at Denver International Airport?

Maybe I'm at an age where convenience supersedes the thriftiness that has been woven into my Scottish/Jewish heritage. 

If, and I'm just using this as an example, I were to run out of my favorite whiskey, smooth drinking mid-priced Bulleit Rye, and I get a hankering for a couple of fingers worth, I will NOT get in my car and drive the 1.3 miles to nearest BevMo where I can purchase a bottle for $23.99.

I will willingly walk to my nearby local liquor store. It's owned and operated by two nice Indian fellows --who I once mistakenly and politically incorrectly -- asked if they were from Pakistan. They unabashedly markup every bottle, all 4,781 bottles in their tiny little store. You have to see the jelly-tight shelves to believe it. 

And though they charge $27.99 for the same exact bottle of Bulleit, I have no issue covering the spread. Because retail is difficult. In fact between covering costs of inventory, labor, utilities, and the often exorbitant lease, I'll never understand how anyone in retail can turn a dime into a dollar.

Also, my liquor store, the one that is .3 of a mile from my refrigerator is somewhat of a shrine to carnal cinematic adolescence.


If they don't deserve my hard earned money, who does?




Tuesday, March 12, 2024

WTF, America?


 What do you call a guy who:

* Makes fun of people who stutter

* Mocks handicapped reporters

* Cheats on all three of his wives

* Scams would be real estate professionals and then gets fined $25 million

* Pilfers another $2 million raised for charities (veterans and children's cancer)

* Calls our soldiers "Suckers" and "Losers"

* Bangs a pornstar and then calls her "Horseface"

* Insists Hitler did "good things"

* Bankrupts 6 companies and stiffs creditors

* Cozies up to a murderous dictator who seeks to destroy America


I call that man the....


Yet, 75 million deluded Republicans want to call him the next President of the United States of America.

My blood is boiling. 

If I were to pinprick my pinky finger and let out a drop it would burn its way through my distressed pine desktop, through my aging oak floors, make wood pulp of the subfloor and any adjacent rafters and then bore its way through all 73 layers of the earth only to emerge from a remote corner of Tianamen Square before hurling its magma hot membrane into the stratosphere.

Said it before and I'll say it again, "I have never hated anyone as much as I hate this thing." 

That includes a former landlord who spied on the residents of his crappy boarding house. A former boss who used to go over my recruitment advertising copy while chainsmoking in his small office and lecturing me about the nuance of writing Help Wanted ads. And even the angry Meth-Head who lives in a nearby house, is fond of running power equipment at 3 in the morning and letting his dog bark for continuous 4-5 hour stretches at a time. 

And every day that passes, I impossibly hate him even more.

I'm still not over the fact that last weekend while conducting one of his Bund rallies, he literally made fun of President Biden's SOTU speech. Not the rock hard facts and undeniable economic records presented by Biden. But the manner with which they were presented.

See for yourself: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hncASorxwP0

Put that on a loop and watch it over and over again. That is a former President acting more deplorable than any 7 year old schoolyard bully. My brain is still having a difficult time processing the signals being sent by my ears and eyes. 

You evangelicals must be very proud. I'm 100% positive that of the billions and billions of people that have ever lived, Jesus decided to ordain this one our next savior. 

I wouldn't want to be within a yards of this creature. And certainly wouldn't want this creature within a 100 miles of the White House.

I know my friends on the right, the ones who fetishize the flag and like to think, and boast, that we're the greatest country on Earth, but here's a newsflash. Come November, if the electorate of this nation puts Trump back in office, we have not only forfeited any of the aforementioned claims, we have mocked them. 

Mercilessly.

MAHA -- Make America Human Again!


Monday, March 11, 2024

E P B M O L


I'm seeing things. No, that's literally what I was told at the doctor's office last Friday. 

This doesn't come as a surprise at all, as my mental faculties have been in decline as of late. Not in a major way that would be cause for concern, just the normal walking into a room and forgetting why. Not being able to retrieve a particular word, for instance, shelf. That happened last week. Or waking up on a Saturday, turning all my clocks forward and then turning then back again because I never know what day it is.

These are the typical de-occupational hazards of being retired. 

Someone told me that, but I forget who.

Back to my hallucinations, which produced great consternation for Ms. Muse who said, "When was the last time you had an eye exam?" 

Turns out it was during the Obama administration.

So I arranged for an eye exam at my ophthalmologist in tony Beverly Hills. There, I saw, or thought I saw, Gus from Breaking Bad, purchasing some very expensive frames. Are frame sales to Ophthalmology Offices what Gift Shops are to Museums?

I also saw this on my way to the bathroom...

No wonder the rest of the country thinks we're flakes.

When I finally did see the doctor, through blurry stinging eyes thanks to the dilation, I explained the cause for my visit which was apparently 7 years too late.

"When I look at a blank white wall or stare up at the ceiling upon waking in the morning, I'm seeing patterns."

"What kind of patterns?" replied the young doctor who was young enough to be my granddaughter.

"Yellow honeycomb patterns. I had a consult with Dr. Internet and got worried."

"Oh, Dr. Internet, I wish he would retire," she said.

She then explained in very reassuring terms that I had a mild case of VSS -- Visual Snow Syndrome. It's a thing. Really. You can Google it.

"Your eyes are in near perfect shape. With your glasses on you have 20/25 vision, which is pretty good. What you're seeing is an illusion. Your brain is fighting the blankness of a white wall. In other words, it's looking for patterns and when it can't find one it creates it. Oddly enough, this often happens to creative or artistic people. Does that describe you?"

Finally, I thought, some concrete validation that would relieve me of my Writer's Imposter Syndrome.

"Well, I'm a copywriter in advertising," I replied.

"Mmmm, maybe we should do some more testing."


Thursday, March 7, 2024

Stifled but not silenced


It's been a long time since I've been booted off any social media platforms. I could tell you how long if father Time hadn't rewired my memory thigamajig.

Time really is a construct. And for me, and I suspect for my contemporaries, 3 months could be three years. Hell, 5 days ago could be 5 years ago. It's all a blur. 

Oddly enough I can tell you what I had for dinner on November 19, 2023 -- salmon. And on July 7, 2023 -- salmon. And August 3, 2022 -- salmon. I eat a lot of salmon.

Point is I've been a good boy when it comes to social media. I've consciously placed governors on the pistons of rage that churn night and day inside my skull. Which is not easy considering I've been having more and more nightmares about the Shitgibbon who has overstayed his welcome in our collective zeitgeist. And threatens to do so for another 4 years. Or more.

Last night I dreamt I was working at the Trump Organization. I was in an office high atop his dumpy 5th avenue tower. He and Eric were supervising a photo shoot of new employees and I errantly showed up without wearing a belt. Doofus (Eric) reached for his waist and slipped his thick faux-leather black belt off and handed it to me. 

I have a really bad case of TDS. Really bad. 

Though not unwarranted.

Making things even more hazardous is the situation in the Middle East. Notice how I didn't confine myself to Gaza? Because the sad truth here is that the current conflagration is but a subset of the conflict that has raged here for 76 years. 

And now it is raging on the streets of America. 

Where were all these concerned geopolitical experts when Assad and his thugs murdered 1/2 million Syrian citizens and exiled millions more. I don't remember anyone, more specifically uninformed college students, chanting "From the Bishri Mountains to the Sea, Syria shall be free."   

Nor do any of these Know Nothings who call for a Two State solution seem to recall that the Palestinians were offered a state of their own in 1948. By the UN. And the world community, who established many sovereign nations in Post World War II and the end of British Colonialism. 

And don't even get me started on the silliest of claims that the Israelis (Jews) are land grabbers. Name me one other country on Planet Earth that returned 23, 162 square miles of land, roughly twice the size of Albania, to a country that repeatedly waged war on it? 

I feel my blood pressure rising and suspect the LinkedIn police might be looking over my shoulder, so I'll call it quits here before I'm no longer a Good Boy anymore.

Have a nice weekend.


Wednesday, March 6, 2024

The downhill trajectory of skiing in America


I love skiing. I don't love paying for skiing.

I haven't been up to the slopes in a long time. Nor have I taken my newer svelter, leaner, meaner body out to the slopes. It might surprise you, but even in my stockier, girthier days I knew my way around the Black Diamonds and the occasional Double Black Diamond. 

Though not without, "What the fuck was I thinking?"

Could be a bad case of AIS, Athlete Imposter Syndrome, but being funny (?) and being athletic always seemed to be mutually exclusive. Which explains my total admiration for Peyton Manning, whose initial appearance on Saturday Night Live still lingers in my head as simply jawdropping -- timing, balance, subtlety. I guess those are qualities that work in both arenas.

I seem to have drifted off course into the tree section. 

There was a time when we'd regularly head up to Mammoth Mountain while all the non-Jewish people were adorning pine trees in their living room with trinkets and ornaments, wearing goofy sweaters and celebrating Jesus' birthday. 

Did you know Jesus was a Capricorn?


Which infidel among us wouldn't want to go to a movie depicting Jesus slamming tequila, dancing on the table and staying out til the crack of dawn (which you know he could push back for a couple more hours of depravity with the breath of his nostril)? 

Possible Title: The Last Depravity of Christ.

I've drifted again.

We basically had the slopes to ourselves and other aficianados with Hebraic Seasonings. Then the crowds, perhaps fatigued from the October-January Christmas festivities, started coming up Route 395 -- only the most beautiful highway in America.

And with increased demand came increased prices.

Today if you wanted to do a little schussing you'd first have to do a little (a lot) of shelling out:

Adult Lift Ticket Day Pass at Mammoth -- $209.00

Equipment Rental -- $120.00

Lunch (soggy cheeseburger, soggier fries, bowl of fruit, Corona Light) -- $43.00

Apres Ski cocktail -- $17.00

Lodging -- Can't afford lodging, get in car and go home.

Total cost for one day of battling crowds thicker than New Year's Eve in Time Square, getting in 7-8 runs (combined ski time 26 minutes and 41 seconds), 11 hours of back and forth driving, plus miscellaneous extras = No Fucking Way.

BTW, the same classist genii who are pricing skiers off the slopes seem to be in charge at Dodger Stadium where you'd have to gotten in on the ground floor at NVIDIA to afford a seat in nosebleed section in the Upper Deck.

I have a dirty nursing home to stay out of, no thank you.


Tuesday, March 5, 2024

Justice Denied


Got an alert from my iWatch the other day. My resting heart rate had notched up from 51 to 53. It doesn't take a pulmonologist to know why. I've been stewing, as is my wont. 

It's been said the wheels of justice grind slow in America. It doesn't help when some faux billionaire is cacking up the machinery with 7 year old molasses. And then, because he has the monetary wherewithal, and willing legal accomplices, slathering on a thick coat of quick dry cement.

This judicial morass had me so upset the other day, I penned an open letter to Chief Justice John Roberts...


Dear Justice Roberts,

 

You pig.

 

You lackluster lackey of the GOP.

 

You useless standard bearer of banality.

 

I say that with the greatest respect. Because if I were to put my true feelings into words, this missive might merit a call from the Secret Service. Or, at the very least, a ban on many of the social media platforms where I share my foulmouthed opinion. And dare I say, the shared opinion of many more.

 

It has now been more than a month since the lower courts kicked up the case regarding our ex president’s claim to “Total Immunity.” A phrase that, as you well know, appears nowhere in the law books at Yale, Harvard or even the DeVry Institute. A cockamamie term that was cooked up on ketchup-stained wholecloth. A legal fabrication sewn together by failed ambulance chasers at the behest of a clown who, even with a Colt 45 to his temple, could not name one seminal case to ever come across the docket of the Supreme Court.

 

“Marbury v. Madison? Brown v. Board of Education? Plessy v. Ferguson?”

 

“COVFEFE”

 

And yet the equally uninformed voters of this country vaulted this Bozo to a position where he could name three of your not-so-esteemed colleagues. 

 

The future of our 248-year old Republic hinges on the no-brainer ruling of this case. But to this date, you have done nothing.

 

Nothing!

 

Maybe you’ve been busy eluding reporters and dodging bullets about Justice Clarence “Tom” Thomas and his financial indiscretions. Maybe you’ve been busy measuring the curtains for the next 25 years of your ridiculously eternal office. Maybe you’ve been busy getting your robes starched. What you have NOT been doing is clearing the decks and moving this case front and center.

 

Now.

 

I’m no lawyer, thankfully. Though, as I often tell people – not without some measure of pride – I took a late post-collegial interest in becoming a fully-fledged attorney. So, while I did not have the grades for one of your fancy law schools I did quite respectful on the LSATs. I even have one of those beat up, but hipster cool looking, leather briefcases left to me from late father who was a CPA.

 

Though a simple layman with an advanced degree in Snark, even I know this “Total Immunity” claim, which would rocket one miserable Un-American Russian Stooge facing 91 criminal charges miles above the law, is nothing 100 pounds of horseshit stuffed into a 27 page brief.

 

Do. Your. Job.

 

Yours not-warmly but heatedly,

 

Rich


The story doesn't end there. Hours after I posted this letter on various social media platforms -- I'd like to think he heeded my wise advice -- Justice Roberts and his klan of neofascists did their job. 


They agreed, despite all the political and legal pundit's advice, to take up the case and consider whether one man, one walking talking fleshbag of cholesterol, hatred and unimaginable ignorance, is actually above the law.


Not now, mind you. Not in December when Jack Smith petitioned to court to settle this crock of bullshittery. But in April. The end of April. 


There is a very distinct possibility that despite 91 criminal charges against him -- charges which for all intents and purposes would have any of 330 million Americans sitting in a jail cell with no possibility of bond --he could be elected President of the United States of America.


If I drank Chamomile Tea I'd be guzzling it by the gallon. 


I can literally feel my heart racing.

Monday, March 4, 2024

Show Me My Money


I am of a certain age. 

I fall asleep before 11 PM. I make three nocturnal trips to the bathroom. And conversations with similar friends of a certain age, inevitably revolve around aches, pains and a whole assortment of medical maladies. Often delving into uncomfortably graphic TMI.

The other discussion that takes up much of our precious little time left, is the topic of Social Security and the optimum time to let the government know we'd like our money back.

My friend, let's call him Arnie Rolaids, is planning on waiting until he is 70 to max out his numbers. He's working now, though on certain days when it's raining, snowing, or the subways in NYC are running impossibly slower than our judicial system, he wishes he weren't.

I also wish he weren't working so we could see each more often.

My work, like my cash flow, is almost non-existent. Like critical thinking in the GOP. I'm eating ramen noodles and ketchup packet sandwiches until September when I can open up the SS floodgates and make it rain. Figuratively speaking, of course. 

Mmmmmm, ramen.

As someone descended from accountants and because I have now covered all 97 trillion square miles of the internet, I decided it was time to math this out. Mind you, I have no background in taxes nor am I aware of any and all legal implications. I present this in the same manner our former president presented all his financial disclosures...  

The following calculations are estimates and should not be expected to be entirely accurate, truthful or in any way subject to further examination. You are on your own for this. Should you have any questions, please direct them to my fine attorneys at Powell, Wood and Giuliani, LLC.

With that out of the way, alas.

Option A. Let's say I retire at 67 years old and become eligible for my benefits at $3000/month. 

Option B. Let's also say I decide to wait until I'm 70 years old and claim benefits at $4000/month.

That's $1000 difference per month. 

With Option A, I would collect 3 years (36 months) of my benefits. That's 36 months X $3000. For $108,000.

With Option B, I would collect $0 in those 36 months of waiting, but would start collecting $1000 more a month every month thereafter.

In order to make up the difference with Option B, I would have to live 108 more months past the age of 70 to start realizing any net difference. 108 months is 11 years. That's 81 years old.

And that's assuming I did nothing with the $108,000. Or stupidly sunk the money into crypto. Or purchased some fantasy politically themed NFT trading cards or gold plated sneakers.

Seems like a no brainer to me. 

Also, what am I going to do with an extra $1000? By the time I reach 81 years of age my brain will be mush -- like my food. I will have stopped getting the answers right on Jeopardy and asking the sticky fingered orderly to put on Wheel of Fortune.

"Big Money, Big Money!!!"



 

Thursday, February 29, 2024

Thursday Photo Funnies (Aesthetics Edition)


It's Thursday, time for Photo Funnies. This week's edition is a little different that previous posts. Even after 15 years of writing RoundSeventeen, we like to stir things up and keep it spicy.

So, instead of pictures I've accumulated on my iPhone while walking around Culver City, Palm Springs or even Sierra Madre -- I've become, as Ms. Muse puts it, quite peripatetic -- today's snapshots come off a website.

I would provide the link, but when I first opened the click baity page I was given a warning and it immediately switched over to a spam site, never a good sign. Nevertheless I quickly screen shot the pics, so that I could share them with you.

I'm a giver.



Father's Day is only a couple of months away,
I'd get my order in now before these decorative socks get sold out.


Mother's Day is even sooner,
a culinary gem like this is nothing to sneeze at.


I like to sleep with my feet uncovered by the blanket.
Not everyone gets me :) , this designer does.


This one, not so much.


There's art in this world,
you just have to know how to find it.


It's a fan and a light.
In the same way the window curtain rod is also a towel rack.


You'll never lose your iPhone again.


It also comes in blue,
for Kens.



Fresh off my root canal this week, my dentist reminded me,
"Only floss the teeth you want to keep."



Today's Soup: I Should've Stayed in Junior College


Yeah, no. I'll stand.



"If only I didn't have to cover so much distance between
rinsing the dishes and putting them in the dishwasher."



Wednesday, February 28, 2024

A timely celebration


Today is my birthday. And no, I'm not doing the fake age thing again. 

As many of you recall, I fibbed about being 44 for about 20 years. I'm 66 today. And truth be told I don't like to make a big deal about how many times I've been around the sun. After all, as Ms. Muse often tells me, "Time is a construct."

She did however insist on throwing me a little soire in honor of my increasing geriatricity. Where we will naturally be playing this...

That is, if the Amazon Prime guy comes through with the last minute addition.

But today is also a more important birthday. 

Because it was 15 years ago today that I got an email from my friend, former boss, Syracuse alumni and generally all around great hirsute guy, Mark Monteiro. "Rich, I'm having a lot of fun with my blog Lost Angeles, you should give this blogging a try. You seem to have a lot on your mind."

And so I did. And yes I do.

That was FIFTEEN YEARS AGO! 

Life has thrown me a few curveballs since then. I even took a few fastballs to the head. And yet here I am. still cranking out posts. Still finding an outlet for my twisted thoughts. Still semi-amusing my 9 loyal Roundseventeen readers.

Is it a remarkable display of discipline? A testament to tenacity? A pathetic demonstration of self indulgence? Or a labor of love? I'd have to answer, "Yes." And I'm guessing my friend and fellow blogger, the man who speaks for so many of us in the ad industry, George Tannenbaum agrees. 

Advertising put food on my table, nice cars in my driveway, and a bevy of fat guy shirts and pants that no longer fit, in my closet. Writing this blog has given me what advertising never could. A sense of freedom, where nobody gives me feedback or chides me for typos. A platform. And an audience, albeit a non-paying one. 

I would hesitate to call myself an artist. But through the "art" of this crazy blogging routine, I have met so many great people, received so many kind words, and, dare I say, made many people smile and laugh. 

Perhaps my father, who would often tell me, "just study Accounting and get your CPA so you have something fall back on in case this writing thing doesn't work out", would finally approve?

There's a chance that 15 years from now, when I'm 81, I'll still be doing R17. 

Hopefully not from a dirty nursing home.

Thank you all for stopping by.

Tuesday, February 27, 2024

I'm an Idiot


I have a confession to make. 

I've been scammed. Duped. Hoodwinked. Bamboozled. This is hard to admit, especially in light of the fact that I wrote a book on scamming. Actually a How To Guide on Scambaiting, that is, getting the best of scammers by outwitting them at their own game.

But now I find myself on the short end of the scam stick.

Allow me to unwind this story from the beginning. 

Being a late adopter to cultural trends, I recently caught Binging Fever. When MAX started showing up on my Peloton, The Sopranos started showing up in my workouts. Each almost hour-long episode of arguably the Top 5 shows made for the flat screen, was a perfect complement to my sweating/burning and earning calorie routine.

It took me a couple of months to work my way through 6 seasons. But I loved watching it a second time and picked up on some of the storylines that had escaped me on my regular Sunday night live HBO viewings.

As is the case in everything we do these days, the algorithms noticed my viewership. And bombarded me with anything that's even remotely Sopranos related. Or Sopranos-adjacent. Sure, I'll join the Stateline Diner Facebook Group. Why not, I've eaten there a coupla three hundred times or so. Mostly in the wee hours of the morning.


I also got cornered into joining a Sopranos Aficianado Fan Group. Why? Because I'm a lonely old man and I'm not writing crappy emails for Dollar Shave Club or PayPal anymore.

During one of my forays on the FB group chat, the Sopranos one not the Diner one, I got into a heated back and forth with a Garden State douchebag making derogatory comments about the mulinyan. I'm not a fan of bigots and call them out on their pigheaded behavior.

Moments after taking a righteous stand, I got a friend request from Robert Iler, the actor who played AJ in the Sopranos. I've never claimed to be the brightest LED bulb in the package but it didn't seem so far fetched that a former child actor -- and come on this guy was a 10 watt bulb at best -- would be trying to live off the fumes of his former fame.

The same operating theory held true when, weeks later, I got a similar request from the guy who played Johnny Sack, the chain smoking boss of the New York, who now wanted to dip his beak into my business.

Hell, I write some damn funny comments of Facebook. It didn't seem all that unusual that these D-listers would want to be my Metaverse friend.

Then I got a request from Big Pussy. And something didn't smell right. (No letters, please)

I knew something was stinky in downtown Paramus, when all three of these 'actors' started pitching cheesy Sopranos memorabilia on their newsfeeds. And sure enough, after a perfunctory perusal of the Reddit pages, my suspicions were solidified like the 6 month old ice cream served at Stateline.

I woke up to the con. My wish is that 75 million voters wake up before the next election.


Monday, February 26, 2024

From one old man to another



The president of the United States of America is in one of these two vehicles, iconically referred to as the Beast. Not named after the former president but rather for its excessive tonnage, monstrous military affectations and a killer 8 track stereo system custom built for its 927 year old occupant, Uncle Joe.

"Get me some Beach Boys, Roy Orbison and Ricky Nelson, I love that Garden Party. Great song."

His motorcade rolled through my frumpy little neighborhood last week. In fact, this photo was taken a mere 20 yards from The Plunge, my hometown swimming pool where I like to knock out 4 miles a week. Not so subtle, humblebrag.

I know I've strung a bunch of political posts here lately, but I'm frothing with anger about our current situation. In a text conversation my good friend and Internet security guru, Jeff Gelberg, he suggested I switch off the MSNBC and tune in to the latest episode of Jeopardy for a 30 minute respite from the nonstop turmoil.

When I say tune in, I mean stream, as I have recently cut the chord with DirecTV in order to save $145 a month for TV I don't watch that often. More on that at a later date.

And while I'm fascinated by politics, don't mistake that for any political expertise. My less than stellar political acumen explains my many trips to the HR office, a long list of angry ex colleagues, and my numerous years stuck in the morass of middle management. 

Nevertheless, he persisted.

Today I offer up a new strategy for the Democratic Brass that seems to have no idea how to convey a message. 

And by new I only mean it's new because in the brain fog that seems to follow President Biden, he might have forgotten. 

Remember way back in 2019, before Covid, before the Insurrection, before we found ourselves staring at the fall of our democracy...oh, I'm sorry, our Constitutional Republic. I love how Red Hats get all weak in the knees when feigning fealty to the Constitution, especially those who carry a pocket version in their Walmart shirts. 

While on the stump, then civilian Joe Biden promised that if elected he would commit huge resources and energy to curing Cancer. Since taking office I have not seen or heard one word to make good on that promise. 

Which is a mistake.

I'm happy that after 200 Infrastructure weeks (TFG) and no concrete action, pardon the wordplay, Biden put together and passed a bipartisan plan, not Make America Great Again -- whatever the fuck that means -- but to Make America Work again. Our highways, schools and airports were literally crumbling right beneath our feet. And it was smart to fix the things that affect us all.

Cancer is even more consequential. And I suspect a trillion dollar expenditure to take it out of our miserable vernacular would be met with overwhelming support. Even from the knuckle draggers and the three toed Neanderthal from across the aisle. 

Come on Joe, make good on your promise to Fuck Cancer.

Because in doing so, you will not only cement your legacy as a transformational President, you will also...










 

Thursday, February 22, 2024

Justice Interference


If you follow the news lately -- I do -- you know that our former president/sneaker salesman has made his share of headlines lately.

None of them good. 

He's on a losing streak that would make the old Chicago Cubs or even the Syracuse University Football team blush. For me, and for 81 million other critical thinking Americans, it's been a non stop gusher of Schadenfreude. I often say his pain is inversely related to my joy.

As of late I feel like I've been given the VIP table at the Golden Corral of Trump disappointments, defeats and financial dismemberments. His comeuppance has been a long time coming.

As of late I'm sure you've also heard him moaning about all this being a wildly sewn complex conspiracy of concerted effort that he calls Election Interference. Which is rich coming from a man who begged a state official to, "Just find me 11,780 more votes, which is one more than we need to win Georgia which I won by a lot. A lot."

The same man whose legal team assembled a cavalcade of pseudo-electors. Non-sanctioned, unofficial, handpicked hacks who would effectively throw out the will of the American people and throw in another 4 years for the man recently dubbed "America's Worst President."

Ever.

Again, the same man who, in conjunction with a team of 'legal eagles' who have now all been disbarred, including Rudy Giuliani, Sidney Powell, Lin Wood, Ken Cheeseborough, Jenna Ellis and more, schemed to stop the January 6th certification of an American  president in the halls of the capitol and underhandedly steal an election.

Pardon the longwinded re-setting of the table, but I have come to a new understanding of the situation. A ju-jitsu interpretation of the events that have unfolded. You see, I don't believe, and I don't think anyone who can string two synapses together, believe this panoply of criminal charges brought against him has anything to do with Election Interference. 

Rather, this 315 lbs. lump of leftover lard has cleverly reframed the scenario.

What he calls Election Interference is actually Justice Interference. 

That is, the DOJ is not pursuing him to prevent him from getting elected. No, he is running for office in order to use election funds to fend off the tidal wave of legal bills, soon to be approaching $1 billion. 

To date his Kool Aid drinking followers have pitched in close to $100 million dollars of money that could have been used to pay down their credit card bills, put groceries in the refrigerator, or even covered the cost of a few days at Epcot Center (so they could feel more worldly and well-traveled), to defray the legal bills of a schmuck who plays golf every day, flies around in a private jet, lives in a country club, has his own omelette bar. 

Oh and calls himself a billionaire.

It is the Ultimate Con.

And as in every good con, the mark(s) never saw (see) it coming. More importantly they refuse to believe they've been conned.



Wednesday, February 21, 2024

American Non Fiction


This is Thelonious Ellison, aka Monk. It's also Stagg R. Leigh, aka Thelonious Ellison, aka actor Jeffrey Wright. 

If you've seen the movie American Fiction, you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't seen the movie, you should. It's a minor masterpiece. I haven't viewed all the contenders for this year's grand Oscar but American Fiction leapt over previous favorites, Poor Things and The Holdovers. 

I still have 57 minutes of Oppenheimer left to watch. I might be done by March.

I'm still laughing over many of the scenes in American Fiction. And I'm still mulling over the premise which turns on itself. Not just once, but many times over. 

Again, IFYKYK.

Suffice it to say that it deals with the very tricky issue of race in America. And does so in such a delicious, clever way that I found myself smiling from ear to ear with what the first time writer/director Cord Jefferson pulled off.

Writing about movies is a trepidatious endeavor. It's almost impossible to unintentionally spill some details. Or inadvertently reveals some spoilers.

Writing about movies about race (as a decidedly white man or even as a Mud Person as the folks in Klan like call me) raises the difficulty level.  Exponentially.

And so I will wisely demure. 

But I can address the larger issue at play -- media narratives and media consumption. Both of which have an undue impact on our daily lives.

Last week it rained here in Los Angeles. It only rains here about 13 or 14 days a year. If we're lucky. And when it does, it's often nothing more than a light drizzle. When I lived on the East Coast it would rain every 4-5 days, or so. And NEVER merited any news coverage.

But because it's so rare and seemingly reduces the driving skills of millions of daily freeway drivers to that of ritalin-deprived 5 year olds at a bumper car amusement ride. It gets the full DEFCON 1 treatment. As a result I will often field calls or texts or email inquiries from friends Back East to the effect of...

"Are you guys OK? Has the crawl space under your house turned into a lake? Are you getting FEMA funds?"

Same kind of thing happens when there's a minor earthquake. 

Or a smash and grab robbery at the Puente Hills Mall.

It's all media conflation. And it's all done for ratings. And the precious few ad dollars that are being spent on news programs. Let's be totally frank here, Sean Hannity and Anderson Cooper are simply two sides of the same oily coin.

I suspect the same thing is going on with our former president's meteoric poll numbers. There is no way in the world Americans could possibly be that delusional. I hope I'm right. 

And if I'm not, I would hope a hero like Stagg R Leigh, would step up to the fore and preemptively smoke his sorry ass.



Tuesday, February 20, 2024

Cannon Fodder


Somebody explain this to me. How is this woman sitting on the bench? How is she wearing the robe of a federally appointed judge? How is she in charge of one of the most critical cases of presidential abuse and criminality in the history of the United States of America?

Aileen (yeah, "I lean" towards Insanity) Cannon should not only be disbarred, she should be indicted.

Every time I read one of her rulings and see how she subverts the DOJ in their pursuit of accountability with regards to Top Secret documents, my head implodes like a junior Oppenheimer project. For god's sake they had to find a SCIF (Sensitive Compartmentalized Information Facility) to view papers that were previously kept here...

and here...


"Sir, there's a problem in the Cabana House Men's Room."

"You mean where my Get Out of Debt....I mean my important papers are?"

"Yes, we're all out of hand soap."

These are the very same classified papers that he claimed he declassified. 

In his head.

My gardener, with a vocabulary of less than 500 English words, could supervise this case better, and more fairly, than her.

As a law abiding citizen I have had limited engagement with our judicial system. I have however served as Jury Foreman on two occasions, one civil and another criminal. 

There was the schnorer who tried to bilk Keck Medical Center for $4 million because his foot hurt. And a two time loser who held up a 7-11 store less than a quarter mile from the police station and was captured on high definition security cameras. In both cases, the verdicts were no-brainers. 

But the judges in each cases went through all the motions to guarantee a just outcome. They never showed partiality. Not even a whiff of it. The same cannot be said for "Judge" Cannon who recently ruled in favor of ex Precedent Shitgibbon and his requests to have the list of government witnesses made public. Thus subjecting them to intimidation and threats.

The two favorite weapons preferred by Red Hat acolytes. Or have we already forgotten this incident from the 2020 election cycle...


It's all so infuriating. But it gives me great motivation to eat healthy, exercise and stay optimistic. Because I want to live long enough to Make America Trumpless Again.

Monday, February 19, 2024

In the middle of the night.


There was a time when I would wake up 4-5 times a night to urinate, or if I may take this opportunity to say, pee. Thanks to my curbed consumption of coffee, I'm now down to 2-3 times a night. And like fellow wanderers of the night often have trouble falling back to sleep.

Last night I arose at 3 AM. It was my first night back in Culver City after fully recuperating from Covid while staying at my Palm Springs house. Laying there in bed, I could not help but to notice the total silence, an anomaly in Los Angeles. Especially for someone who lives a mile from the 405. And another mile from the Santa Monica Freeway, which hum along at 78 decibels through all hours of the night.

It should also be noted that I can hear a barking dog from 7.3 miles away. And will hunt down the offensive pup and write the owner a longwinded letter why they should bring the damn dog inside.

But it was silent last night. At one point I thought I had died and woken up in some kind of Twilight Zone. It was eerie. And instead of getting up to look out the window for signs of life, like my Meth-head neighbor lurking around in the backyard, I decided to lay still and soak it in.

This is where it gets weird. 

As I lay (lie) there a word popped into my head. It's not a word I use. Or even know. A word much more likely to appear in George Tannenbaum's blog than mine. Knowing I would forget the experience by the morning, I grabbed my phone and asked Siri to look it up and then did a screen grab.

I'll spare you the trouble because I'll assume you're not in the habit of tossing around fecundity in the next status meeting or dinner party...

That is not at all what I suspected. 

In fact it's about 180 degrees from what I thought. With its harsh stream of consonants, it sounds like a Teutonically-rooted insult, "You fecundatious SOB."

Can't say I'm not a bit disappointed. I'd love to drop that one on some uninformed Red hat (pardon the redundancy). 

With the mystery solved I was able to go right back to sleep.

You're probably thinking what Ms. Muse often tells me, "Siegel, you have a weird brain."

Thank you.