On tenants and toilets

 

Had to make a trip out to Palm Springs to attend to some minor repairs. And when I say had to, I mean I had the opportunity to come out here. Trying to rephrase my life in a more positive direction. Even though this post is about the banality and relentless joys of home ownership. Not to mention the Mercury-like heat that has literally baked some of the drought-resistant desert plants.

While preparing for the tasks at hand I found this (see above) amongst my late uncle's many tools and thousands of drill bits. I swear he must have thought they were going to stop making drill bits so he bought every last one he could find.

As my 9 loyal readers might recall, the house been broken into recently. So I quickly installed some Ring cameras on the perimeter. No one told me the batteries were insufficient so I had to purchase some solar panel for back up power. Given how much sunlight is out here, the cameras should be operational long after Trump's planet-melting nuclear war.

Yes I was looking forward to basking in the glory off of my proper installation and the fact that I was able to master the plastic expansion anchors and drill clean holes in the near century old stucco. Of course god or the Flying Spaghetti Monster, depending on your faith, doesn't close one jammed window without opening a creaky door. 

Pardon the stretched metaphor.

As I returned the tools to the garage I slipped and almost fell on a puddle of water near the water heater. There was a leak in the supply line connector hose.

Hell, I thought, I can do that. Just turn the valve off, use the pipe wrench to remove the old hose, run to Lowe's and get a new non-leaking hose. Oddly enough as I walking my dog from her twice daily constitutional I noticed there was nearby garage sale. Not just any garage sale. 

The owner was contractor who was moving back to Oregon. His yard was a menagerie of tools and parts including...

Yep, he was selling a connection hose for my water heater. What are the odds? 

Then my amygdala kicked in and said, "Rich this could be a little above your pay grade as a Jewish Journeyman Handy Guy. Also, $5 for a used hose, how do I know it didn't leak to?"

I called a plumber and he fixed me right up. And dropped a phrase I wasn't expecting to hear this weekend, "Let me swap out those galvanized nipples."

Yes, please do.

As I write this, I'm still attempting to get my smart locks back online. I don't know what is so smart about them. Half the time they don't lock properly. The other half the time, they don't unlock because one of the EIGHT batteries has crossed over to the other side of the battery rainbow. 

Finally, and there really is no finally because home ownership and the maintenance of multiple homes always produces problems...I mean...opportunities, in my haste to attend to these fixes (and multiple others that don't themselves to humble bragging) I left my charging cable for the Mustang EV back in Pasadena.

This left me with the unsavory notion of public charging, which for you combustible-engine types, can be like navigating the Strait of Hormuz. 

First you have to find an available machine. Then you have to get there before anyone else does. Then you have to hope it works. And then you have to start praying that it's a compatible Non-Tesla Supercharger, lest you sit in your car and wait 9 hours while sweating off all of September's carbohydrate calories.

The gods or the Flying Spaghetti Monsters have shined on me and located a Tesla supercharger, compatible with my EV, that added close to 200 miles of range in less than 45 minutes. And that oasis was near a Starbucks. With misters. 

Sure Palms Springs has the heat, but it's a satisfying-getting-shit-done heat.

Goodbye All

 

My dearest friends and family on the coast of the beautiful Atlantic, home of our nation's beloved capital and that great Gotham City that sits in all its glory surrounded by the Hudson, East River, and the Harlem River and my beloved Bronx, where I came into to this world 3 score and 8 years plus ago, in the shadow of Yankee Stadium.

Time is of the essence and I must write this missive in haste. 

As you know by now, General Stable Genius has made an exceedingly generous offer to the enemy, the Iranian Revolutionary Guard, who stand poised to unleash their evil and satanic forces upon us at any moment.

At a rally in Alabama, at the Buford T. Bodean Junior High School, our fearless leader who has once again assured us of his High IQ and his direct lineage to longtime professor at the prestigious Massachusetts Institute of Technology with degrees in Math, Chemical and Nuclear, has proffered Los Angeles and San Diego, essentially all of Southern California and its 20+ million souls to our pesky foes in the Fertile Crescent.

One must wonder, perhaps in desperation for a glimmer of hope, how a country whose military and weaponry have been "totally decimated" and who have been "defeated strongly" at least 38 times since the conflagration had started way back in February, on the very day of my aforementioned birth, would carry out such a bold offensive attack. 

But who are we to question our leader, our very High IQ leader, who went to the Empire State's most expensive military school and captained the senior bowling team and their clutch comeback win over the Skaneatelas Strikers in 1963.

If vaporizing the very best of California from Castaic Lake in the north to the radish and onion growing fields of Imperial Valley to the south, and thinning the herd of 25 million citizens, including my former MethHead neighbor, is what it takes to end this "Small Potatoes Excursion" and bring the price of hamburger meat to pre-2024 level, then who am I , or we, to stand in the way President Vonshitzenpantz and the ushering in of America's Golden Age.

USA, USA, USA!!!

I loved my job

My daughters don't love their jobs. I hear about their travails and their ups and downs and feel compelled to remind them, it's a job. That's the way of the world for 98.4% of the planet. 

With the benefit of hindsight, I was lucky enough to be in that rarified 1.6% who did love their job. With every passing day of not getting paid to do what I did, I'm learning how lucky I was. In retrospect I'd go so far as to say I hit the vocational lottery jackpot.

I'm not talking about the shitty jobs at the beginning. And there were plenty. From washing pots and pans in a hospital kitchen. To driving a forklift at a warehouse in Compton. And even suit and tieing it as an Accounts Receivable clerk at my father's crappy office near the Meat District in NYC.

But when I became a copywriter, more specifically a copywriter at Chiat/Day (pre-Holding Company nonsense), arguably one of the top five creative agencies in the world, I was in heaven. 

If only I had been wise enough to realize it.

My sagacious friend Jim and I have made a habit of exchanging Gratitude Lists, at least 3-4 times a week. If there is one constant thruline, it is that we both managed to make a living doing what we love best -- writing. (though this piece hardly reflects anything remarkable or noteworthy.)

We are both equally grateful that we, as most writers do, discovered this path at a very early age, during our formative years. It felt predestined. As if anything or anybody (like my father) were going to stop it. I imagine it's a similar calling experienced by priests, rabbis, or imams. But without that silly Flying Spaghetti Monster stuff. 

Jim is now painting. And I'm...well floundering.

I suppose I can keep churning out these blog posts, but can't feeling there's something else I need to do. 

Maybe it's pursuing my athletic career as a senior swimmer. Or maybe it's something I could do without 3000 meters of swimming every morning before the sun rises and can be accomplished from the ergonomic comfort of my well worn Herman Miller chair.

I hope it's the latter.

  

  

Medically Engineered™

It has come to this. As an empty nester who often chews too fast, shouting out Jeopardy answers to no one in particular, I have decided to make a $40 investment into a device I hope I never actually need.

This was not the case a couple of years ago. 

Ms. Muse and I had accepted an incredibly generous invitation from our friends, the Gelbergs, to attend a show at the Music Center in DTLA. I believe it was for Annie, but I could be wrong as most Broadway-type musicals sound alike to me. And I don't remember anything anymore.

But I do recall the meal we had prior to the show. Mostly because at some point, while gobbling up my thick, medium rare NY steak, I was convinced it would be my last meal.

I would tell you what we were talking about but my hearing went dead. As did my peripheral vision. My breathing grew shallower and shallower. And the world around me felt like it was closing. 

A meaty chunk had lodged itself in my breathing tube and the oxygen shortage had already affected my brain function because I didn't want to interrupt the conversation or bother any of the other patrons at this fine upstanding restaurant.

So I bit my tongue and pushed my seat away from the table. Something was very wrong. And it wasn't the soggy asparagus. Somehow, perhaps because of my excessive time on the Peloton or the aerobic miles spent in the pool, I was able, by shear force and my desire to see what was for dessert, to evict the Grade A beefy assailant.

Years ago, I wrote a headline for some steakhouse restaurant chain we were pitching that read: If God Didn't Want Us to Eat Beef He Wouldn't Have Made Cows So Easy to Catch.

Perhaps this was the universe paying me back. 

I have since eschewed the NY Steak from my diet. And as seen above, taken the necessary precautions. 

There are many ways to exit this world. Lying on my living room floor, in one of my CostCo wifebeater T-shirts (3 for $9.99), the victim of insufficient mastication, is an indignity I am determined not to suffer.

Make it stop

If your social media feed is anything like mine ( I pray it's not) you've been seeing a lot of buzz about the discovery of Sasquatch, sorry, Noah's Ark. I get often my childlike fairy tales mixed up.

"Scienticians" have unearthed what they believe to be a large boat buried under centuries of earth, somewhere in the area of Mt. Ararat in Turkey. I would provide more details, but the fact that the story is all over the Internet in no way indicates any validity. As a skeptical consumer of media, this reeks of click bait. 

Even worse, theological bullshittery. 

In other words, other sane words, I haven't read any of it.

In the past I have raised questions regarding the truthiness of the Christian Trinity story. 

"So God had a Son, with a Virgin maiden who he had conceived immaculately. She remained a virgin, and then god let his son die, absolving the sins of everyone of Earth who believed him, but not those who didn't and  cast those, some of whom living thousands miles on the other side of the planet who could never have heard of him, to an eternal hellfire of torture, anguish and group sex."

Yeah, right.

Hold my sludge-like, barley-fermented 3000 year old Egyptian beer, said the Hebrews.

"God got angry with his people, for wearing two different cloths and growing two different seeds on the same field, that he let his short temper get the best of him and flooded the Earth with rain for 40 days and 40 nights. Sparing Noah, a good guy who was handy with woodwork, who he commanded to build a huge ark and gather fertile pairs of animals from all the species, so that they would be the sole survivors and replenish the earth in what was essentially a do-over."

Come on, seriously. 

I've seen Poop Cruise on HBO. It was not pretty. Can you imagine the dung accumulation from all those horses, bears, rhinos, giraffes, moose, wildebeast and honeybadgers. In a very short time it would dwarf the unplanet-like diameter of Pluto. 

Which also begs the question, how were all those animals fed? I was just at the PetSmart to get some shampoo for my very smelly dog and could not help notice the miles of aisles of food. Everything one would need to feed Goldfish to Golden Retrievers. Where did Noah and Mrs. Noah store it all?

Perhaps it's foolhardy to try and make literal sense of the Bible. But it does demonstrate how easy it is to sucker people into submission and eschew their own god-given critical thinking. 

And that, more than anything else, explains this...

I need to get a hobby.

I've been reading a book lately. Before I'm charged with egotism, there's a reason I'm reading my own book and why I'm leading off with it. Besides if I don't read this book no one else will. 

In that same vein I decided to photograph the book with one of my happy-hands-at-home business cards, hawking my oh-so-popular equally handcrafted T-Shirts. Which have become quite popular with the chatty blue hairs at the Duarte Fitness Center who gather at noon in the shallow end of the pool and yack. 

I call them the Ladies That Bob.

BTW, I sold a shirt last week. This one always gets a good laugh.

The Big Book of Rants, if you haven't read it and I know you haven't because I have boxes of unsold books in my garage, is a compilation of essays I've written on these very pages over the past 17 years about advertising. 

I know this will sound impolite or a tad narcissistic, but in the rereading of what I had written a long, long time ago, I found myself smiling. And laughing. And satisfyingly impressed with what I had committed to digital ink.

But here's the deal. While I have been out of advertising for close to three years, advertising is not out of me. Not by a long shot. And by that I mean, I have been plagued by a nightly string of stress dreams.

Like the business itself, it is fucking relentless.

I'm sure this happens to you, but I don't always remember the details or even the plot of the dreams. A task made harder when I am awakened and find myself drenched in a cold sweat. But last night's episode was particularly frustrating.

I was back at Chiat/Day (big surprise) and charged with writing a campaign for a trucking company, a very specialized trucking company whose self proclaimed mission was to deliver children's cough medicine to our nationwide network of Walgreens and CVS Pharmacies. As is my nature I ignored the brief and wrote some cute and funny spots about kids coughing.

"No," said Lee Clow (my former boss, who makes many appearances in my dreams), "It's not the coughing, or even the drug stores, it's about getting the medicine where it needs to go. Jesus Siegel!"

Wow, in the pantheon of tough advertising assignments, this one was easily circling near the top.

Only to be surpassed by a dream I had last week, wherein we were pitching the Mazda account. My hard-to-please boss in this case was a mustachioed little man named Adolf Hitler. 

"Ve must take Subaru and all of Mitsubishi!"

WTF!

You can't write this stuff. 

But apparently the crazy and masochistic monster that lives inside my head, did.

Happy Monday

It isn't often I get to share good news, particularly these days when our president is playing footsie with Xi Jinping, the same man he claims unleashed the Covid plague upon us and plunged our economy into a mess. And all but wiping out any sense of "affordability" (you know, that Democrat hoax.)

But there is great news regarding the Lakers. And it's not about a new point guard. Or a LeBron replacement. This is less about what happens on the hardwood and more about the inner workings of the boardroom.

A little more than a year ago, I put up a post on behalf of Ms. Muse. Actually, it was more on behalf of a student worker she had who was about to graduate from USC. His name is Moris Hernandez, a young man from Compton who in addition to having some scholarships also paid his way through one of the most expensive universities in the country. 

As I mentioned in the post, I have a soft heart for kids who pay for private school and are long on ambition but short on opportunity. When I spoke with Moris, he told me how he had always dreamed of working for the Lakers and melding his education with his love of b'ball.

I tried to manage his expectations and said, "well that might not happen right away, you need to concentrate on getting your foot in the door and learning a thing or two about how things work in the real world and paying your dues."

I don't know if any of you talked to Moris or even interviewed him, though I gave you the chance. What I do know is that Moris, ignored my stupid advice and went out there with a fire in his belly and some thick soled shoes on his feet. 

He recently nabbed a job as a Communications Intern with your Los Angeles Lakers. Ms. Muse and I couldn't be happier for this young man. And look forward to great things in his future.

"Hernandez steps back behind the arc. Pump fakes the defender out of shoes, goes up, launches a rainbow and it's good!!! Buzzer beating win from big Moris."

The lessons here are twofold.

Always chase your dreams with full unadulterated passion.

And two, when I recommend you hire someone, you should hire them.

Mazel Tov, Carol

                                    

 "Oh no, is Rich pimping his old ABC work again? Give it a rest it's 30 years old, get a life old man."

I would understand this sentiment from the cynical doomscroller who just happened to glance at the visual. But upon further examination you will see that this billboard is not from ABC but from one of the streaming services who have all but vanquished broadcast network TV.

When this popped up last week to congratulate Rhea Seehorn for her Emmy in the amazing show PLURIBUS (that I love) I had several people send me this photo. Including my two daughters, who were infants at the time of the TV is Good campaign and who have never shown any interest in any of my work. Or even this blog.

The outrage was palpable. At least to others, not to me. 

Yes, the art direction, the simplicity and the "feel" is very similar to our campaign which debuted in 1997. But I don't think there's any plagiarism involved. I chalk it up to coincidence. Think about it. The people responsible for this -- either at Apple TV or at Vince Gilligan's production company -- probably weren't born yet.

Also, it's not the first time the similarity has appeared.

The other thing is, neither John Shirley (my art director partner) nor I, own yellow background and black type. It's an attention grabbing combination that has been used in advertising since there was advertising.

If there was any "borrowing" I, and I assume John, are flattered. And will gracefully accept the "imitation" as an homage. 

On a more macro scale, the use of outdoor billboard advertising (my favorite medium) is a testament to the once awesome power of mass communication. As opposed to micro communication and the frivolous, wasteful and forgetful crap that crawls across our multitude of screens with all the impact of a single snowflake landing on a snowman.

Also, and this is the bigger point, who cares?

Fuck Donald Trump!

 

I got a bad feeling

Feelings are not facts. One of the truths I've learned in my continuing practice of meditation. And spoken of often by my enlightened friend on the East Coast when life gets tumultuous.

But last week that truth got put to the test. 

I had arrived a day early for a quiet, peaceful weekend at my Palm Springs Airbnb. Ms. Muse and I hadn't been out there for a long time and wanted to poach ourselves in the pool while the sun baked the desert up to 110 degrees. The extreme heat renders the area deserted and thus much more accessible without the tourists. 

And a delight for a misanthrope like myself.

We love it. Nevertheless when I arrived at the house I had a feeling. Something was off. I didn't remember moving the patio furniture to that position. Did I leave the private locker in the garage open? Why are their microwavable chimichangas in the freezer? And I'm way too discerning (picky) to eat nuked food. If I were to put anything in the microwave it wouldn't be store bought frozen chimichangas.

Maybe blintzes.

That night when I sauntered out to the night air for a birthday suit dip in the hot tub and a chance to enjoy the cooling off to 92 degrees, I looked over at the nearby pool gate. There, I noticed a huge chunk of cinder block had been dislodged and the gate busted.

The Mojo Dojo Desert Casa House had been broken into!

My feeling was fact.

I summoned the PSPD and an officer showed up the next morning. I explained the situation and noted that nothing was taken. Not even an almost full bottle of Bulleit smooth-drinking rye. Nor had these uninvited guests rifled through my drawers or cabinets. 

The officer was nonplussed. She had seen this before. Local kids, who know who hasn't been home in a while, will sneak into their backyards, use the pool (and my new cornhole set) and the move on.

As anyone who has ever been the victim of a similar nature knows, it's not a great feeling. Another fact. 

The next day I ran out and got a bevy of Ring Cameras and floodlights to secure the area. When I got home I contacted an electrician to hardwire the interloper-busting equipment around the perimeter. Electrician shows up a few hours later, looks over the project and bumps up his initial estimate of 400 bucks to $3000!!

Using Trumpian Math, that's an increase of over 7825%

I demurred. Returned to Lowe's the next day and replaced the hardwired versions for some battery operated and solar panel assisted ones. 

Very happy with the results. 

Even happier I had found the real thief in this scenario!

 

Try these shoes on for size

A few months ago I documented my swearing in ceremony as a newly minted British citizen at the Consulate in Hancock Park. It was surprisingly moving. And something I, probably not most of you, had ever done before. 

Unless things change under the Trump regime, when you're born in America you are American. As such there is no event to mark the occasion of your citizenship. Unless you count the compulsory loyalty pledge we took daily in grade school. 

So yeah, putting on my Sunday Best, sipping tea and nibbling on crumpets in the company of fine folks who speak the Queen's Tongue was exciting.

But, and there's always a but or a snafu in my life, they spelled my name wrong on the Certificate. Not sure a lot of Siegels have crossed their path before.

That required another digital trip back to the Home Office before I could even apply for a British Passport. That arrived yesterday. And to prove it's real and not an AI generated photo, I placed it on top of a book no one in America has read. Or will admit to owning. Other than myself.

As the owner of multiple passports I now feel like Jason Bourne. 

If only I had the opportunity to practice those Bourne-like Kenpo Karate moves I spent so much money and time learning and memorizing. I have always wanted -- and still do -- to land a spinning reverse elbow to the jaw of some ne'erdowell or a brain-impaired Republican (obvious redundancy.) Particularly the latter, who believes anyone immigrating to this country should stand in line and do it legally.

With British passport now in hand, I can tell you the year and a half bureaucratic journey has not been easy. And it was significantly easier for me as a man with access to technology, a modicum of means and the patience and time that would do in lesser beings. 

Imagine, if you will, that I were a poor Haitian mother with two children. And that drug lords had taken command of my neighborhood after free for all gun battles on the street. How would I make my escape to the USA? Where would I start? How would I gain access to a computer? The Internet? And how could I afford all the fees for photos, fingerprints and birth certificates?

I wouldn't. And I couldn't.

Would-be immigrants facing hunger, poverty, and indescribable violence, are being told to wait in line and fill out all the forms, by White Privileged immigrant descendants whose toughest task of the day is deciding to get Door Dash dinner from Chili's or Applebees. 

Damn, I want to hit these people. With a New Testament Bible verse about welcoming strangers. 

And a spinning elbow.

 

Bittersweet victory.

I love chocolate. But chocolate has not always loved me. And played a significant role in my lifelong battle of the bulge. A battle it appears I have finally won.

Got on the scale the other day and clocked in at 174 lbs. Not my ideal weight according to the now-corrupted US Department of Health and Heroin, but within spitting distance. More importantly, I've been in the 171-176 range for the past three years. And wise Dr. Chiang, my GP who has helped ride life's ups and down for the past dozen years, affirms my victory. (If only our affairs in Iran were as clear cut.)

And so chocolate is back on the menu. In moderation.

Which brings us to Taza, mostly because Ms. Muse often brings me a wheel or two from the local Whole Foods store.

If you haven't sampled Taza chocolate and know of its limited availability, I suggest you spring for this unique treat. It is not your average store-bought vanilla chocolate. It's a little salty, a little gritty and a lot different than anything you've had before.

You might be wondering, "Why is Rich pimping this artisanal delight from a tiny chocolate maker outside of Boston. Is he their influencer?"

The answer is no. But it could have been yes.

Years ago the fractional CMO of the brand solicited creative teams to pitch the account and come up with ideas to launch the Taza brand nationwide. It was in the form of a contest.They sweetened the deal by offering a $2500 fee to the winning team. 

This was about 10 years ago. The freelance market had begun its long, frustrating descent so my partner Jean Robaire and I were game. We knocked some ideas around and developed what we thought was a winning campaign. Including a kick off sampling idea that would include 50,000 fans watching their hapless Red Sox at Fenway Park, sorry Boston but your sports fans are so easy to hate. 

That's why they're called Massholes. But Taza is made in Boston so we thought we'd get some home grown brand evangelists.

Our plan was to drop a huge dark Brown vinyl blanket over the Green Monster during the 7th inning stretch. Then unleash an army of samples who would walk up and down the aisles of the stadium and hand out free pieces of Taza chocolate, the one with 95% cocoa.

We would also have video cameras roaming around to catch on the spot interviews.  

It was but one of many, many ideas that we gifted up the makers of this all-natural, chemical free chocolate. Alas, we did not win the contest. And the task of launching the brand and putting the name Taza on the tip of the tongues of American chocolate lovers went to someone else.

So where is all this going? Well, I recently went to the Taza website, where the website and the marketing approach is still the same as it was a decade ago. They haven't done one thing differently.

The ad industry has lost its way. And so have the clients.

Long live the King

You may address me as, "My liege."

Until two weeks I had no ancestors with any hint of royalty. Not one centiMorgan -- that's DNA speak. My ancient ancestors consisted of Viking servants, victims of the St. Brice's Massacre and Jewish inbred toddlers. Then from out of the blue blood, and on the same day I learned my British passport had been approved, I discovered I shared .04% DNA with King Bela II of Hungary, who lived from 1108 CE to 1141 CE.

A King!

It isn't everyday that you're admitted to the United Kingdom and can draw a line linking my flesh and blood to the royals in Hungary. So naturally I did a little digging. And by that I mean I clicked the link describing King Bela II.

For reasons not explained he was known as Bela the Blind. OK, we're not off to a great start here. Furthermore, he only lived to a ripe old age of 38. So no longevity there, so I'll have to maintain my strict pescatarian diet and rigid exercise routine. His remains were excavated between 1936 and 1937 from the north aisle of the Royal Basilica of Székesfehérvár, too many letters.

Because of his blindness, his rule over Hungary was hardly a majestic one. In fact he turned over the governance to his wife and her brother Belos. More interesting are his ties to Kiev, which as most followers of today's events, know is in Ukraine. This, I suspect, is where my people came from.

Here's a chart that shows his likely progeny.

I'm already in contact with Ukrainian as well as Hungarian officials, seeking recognition of my long dormant superior bloodline. And any possible inheritances that might be due, in a very legal and binding manner. A sceptor. A ring. A dusty old bag of coins, a la Count of Monte Cristo.

Something.

Although I'm not gettin my hopes up.

Turns out, Ms. Muse can also trace her ancestors back to a King. And wouldn't you know it, that's King Bela II as well. 

Feeling guilty, and a bit foolish, about my lazy genealogical research I decided to dig a little further. And now wish I hadn't.

According to AI: It is impossible to give an exact number, but millions of people alive today—mostly of European descent—can mathematically trace their lineage back to King Béla II of Hungary (the Blind), given that anyone with medieval European ancestry who left surviving children is an ancestor to nearly all modern Europeans. [1]  

Curiosity killed the King.

 

Flamingo Revolution

I don't usually find myself writing about Ivanka Trump and her money-printing machine husband, Jared. The truth is there's enough douchebaggery coming from her demented father that I have no need to seek out more. Particularly from this spoiled douchette and the zombie with a face more punchable than Tommy Tuberville, Rand Paul and Matt Gaetz.

But, here we are witnessing the financial, ethical and moral collapse of the American experiment. Due in no small part to this murder of thieves who have diminished Marie Antoinette's role in history...

"Let them have TWO pencils."

So let's talk about the Flamingo Revolution. Chances you've never heard that term. I know I hadn't until my intrepid daughter decided she wanted a solo vacation, hiking the mountains of Albania.

See if you can find it on a map. I'll bet one of my pencils you can't.

The term was popularized by angry Albanians who discovered their prime minister had agreed to let JaVan develop an "undiscovered" island on the Adriatic Coast. The Kushner/Trump plans call for $1.6 billion --who knows how much of that was skimmed off the top of the US Treasury -- development of hotels, golf courses, and strip clubs, you know the usual trash associated with the gold plated Trump name.

I had assumed the natives gave it that name because they didn't want these South Florida carpetbaggers bringing their shabby South Palm Beach culture to the Fertile Crescent adjacent vicinity. What's next, black lawn jockeys on the lawn?

But the truth is, yes I did a little digging, the island is inhabited by beautiful flamingos, herons and other water life and the locals would prefer to keep it that way. And so, unlike lazy Americans who voice their displeasure once every 6 months, determined Albanians gather nightly in the square of Tirana, hoisting flamingo posters and cut-outs, hoping their hostility will ward off the interlopers from Florida.

Isn't it funny how the GOP, Red Hats and xenophobes take great umbrage over foreigners coming to our country and shoving their culture down our throats yet think nothing of the sort when they "discover" an spit of land they want to make their own, regardless of distance, sovereignty or borders? 

Jared and Ivanka can both eat a bag of Hermes scarves. 

------------------------------------

On a more positive note, here is Abby high above the hills and some of the photos from her trip...

IURL -- In UnReal Life

I'm not buying it for one split second. Not having it. There's something going on and frankly I don't like it. Where's this blind opening going, you may ask? And I'm glad you did.

There's this notion floating around that the President's poll numbers are dropping like a recently loaded oversized diaper. And as a result the Democrats are most assuredly going to take back the House, and possibly the Senate, come this November. 

Moreover, even if the Adjudicated Rapist/Twice Impeached/Convicted Felon behind the Resolute Desk manages to thwart mail-in voting, there's enough rage and outrage at the current administration that victory is a foregone conclusion. 

Well, I'm old enough to remember way back to 2016, when the pundits said the same thing about Hillary Clinton...

"There no way America would elect a con man to the White House," -- Ted Cruz

"He's an inveterate liar, with very small hands," -- Marco Rubio

"If we elect Donald Trump he will bring down the party," --Dead Lindsey Graham

It's not as if the media is lying. I just don't believe the pollsters have been polling the right people. Well, certainly not the field reporters sent out to take the temperature of American political sentiment. So who does have it right?

These guys, a pair of NYC comedians/journalists who have their finger on the bleating aorta of the America's heartland.

Naturally it's the funny guys who are able to snuff out The Truth. I've been following them for quite a while and have hit my head on the table several times, one requiring a large ice pack and almost necessitated a trip to the ER. 

Here's how one memorable exchange went:

"Trump has been in charge of the military since 2016...Biden was just a puppet, he might not have even been real...Trump was running things all along and taking care of our country..."

"But what about the inflation and the war in Iran?"

"That was Obama."

"I'm confused."

"You have to do your own research."

Even if each of us voted 100, 200, 900 times, it would not be enough to cancel out these cultish, ignorant Bible Thumping zombies. And there are millions of them. 

The insanity is overwhelming. Which I believe is the point of all this. 

If you ask me, the idea that people who put faith in Conspiracy Theory are just on the fringe and don't represent mainstream opinion is as worthless as a Trump phone or meme coin. THEY (the real Conspiracy Theorists) only wanted us to believe that to lull us into a trap. And implant microchips in our brain. And put us in Medbeds so they could feed on our natural fluids...

Wait, a minute... 

What happens in Vegas gets boasted about on the hotel web page

I hate Las Vegas. 

Too many people. Making too much noise. Smoking too many cigarettes. And losing too much money they simply don't have. It's a hot living hell right here on Earth. 

But it's a dry hell.

I didn't always hate it. On the few occasions I was sent there for work, I kinda loved it. I was being paid to be in Sin City. And all my expenses were being covered. $15 beer, sure. $92 Rib Eye Steak, medium rare, please. $100 Blackjack Minimum, hit me.

No one is footing the bill for me anymore. Not Vizio, not adidas, not Infiniti, and not Legends in Concert, the premier showcase for tribute bands and 18 different Michael Jackson lookalikes.

Nevertheless I'm headed there in December. For a concert, yes, but also to visit The Sphere and enjoy what I'm told is a one of a kind viewing experience of The Wizard of Oz.

Last week I booked a hotel room at The Venetian. Not one of the premier hotels on the strip but not the bargain basement either, like the still standing and unexplainable Stratosphere. Before pulling the trigger I came across this on their website...

Damn, this place is like heaven. At first glance, it would appear we are going to be treated like Pasadena Royalty. But upon closer examination, it appears the marketing folks at The Venetian have taken liberties and stacked the deck in their favor.

Let's have look shall we? 

Oh they have tile flooring in public areas. Isn't that nice? I believe Sizzler Restaurants also have tile flooring but they don't brag about it on the menu.

Braille signage, I'm happy they're taking care of their sight-challenged customers, but does that merit a mention? Or their ridiculously high resort fee?

Eco-friendly toiletries? I'm curious. But not that curious. Once my waste product disappears down the porcelain hole, it's gone. Out of body, out of mind.

Handrails. In stairways! And in hallways!! Not like those bums at the Flamingo or the Tropicana, where if you get overserved, you're on your own. Also, did you put those handrails in because of OSHA or was it to delight your discerning luxury-minded guests?

I warn young people about overpromising and the hazards resume inflation. Perhaps hotels should heed the same advice.

"Look honey, there's toilet paper in the bathroom."

"No way!!!"

The Commodification of Hate

Went for a little bike ride last Sunday. Just 32 miles from Wilderness Park in Downey down the bike path to Seal Beach. It's a quaint little town that still has that old-timey beachiness about it. It's a perfect place for Ms. Muse and I to sit outside Javatini, enjoy a cup of coffee and split a muffin or scone, depending on availability. 

On this occasion we met Rita, a 70 year old teacher who does volunteer work with the Guide Dogs of America.

She lives near by the coffee shop and was willing to share her beautiful dog with us, a retired Golden/Lab named Ally. Not sure how it came up -- I probably blurted something about Lake Ontario -- and she seized the opportunity to tell us about a store up the street called Beachin'.

The store actually has less to to do about beaching, surfers and the cool, laid back style that the name connotes and much more about Bitchin' about people who have no love for Trump, MAGA or dare I say, even America.

They peddle hatred. 

Not behind the cloak of a white sheet like their predecessors. But out in the open. Proudly. As if ignorance, myopia and fascism were something to boast about. It is if you want to let the world know you're a complete maroon.

Naturally, we had to see for ourselves. That's where we ran into Frank Ryan, owner/proprietor/Grand Wizard of this shit shop. Here's small sampling of his "wares"...

I'd show you more virulent crap Frank was pimping, but I don't want to get in more trouble with the Social Media Thought Police who have already blocked me and jailed me many times over for calling this an ugly reincarnation of Munich, circa 1933.

Walking around the store, I could hardly contain my disgust at the Troglodyte Trash. There was the obligatory misogyny, the juvenile homophobia and ironically enough, calls for retribution against pedophiles and pedophilia, oblivious to the fact that their merkin-sporting leader who has bragged about his sexual predation, is mentioned in the Epstein Files more times than Epstein.

I finally caught Frank's eye, probably while he was gift wrapping some swastika armbands, and said, "Nice store you got here. Doing a great job of furthering the cause of the Fourth Reich." 

His retort, if you can call it that, was to make some lame crack about my lycra bike shorts.

I shouldn't have been surprised. The default of all Red Hats is always some version of chest-beating male toxicity, again oblivious to the fact their octogenarian demented leader painted over with 10 lbs. worth of make up prances around doing his jack off dance to the Village People.

Before I exited the story, I suggested Frank make a visit to a library. Any library.

His perfect self-own, "I don't need a library, Pal, I have everything I need to read right here."

You win Frank, I can't and won't argue wth that, little man.

Partially unredacted: Transgender Women Are Just Ret***ed F*gs.

Speechless.

Ne do të shkojmë në Shqipëri.

This is Tirana's Rock. Chances are you've never seen or heard of it. Unless, like my youngest daughter Abby, you had an itch to visit Albania. More on that in a second.

The Rock is not a rock at all. It's a mixed use tower that, at 26 stories tall, will house office, commercial and residential spaces. It's still under construction, as evidenced by the crane at the top, which appears to be stabbing the visage of a man, Gjergi Kastrioti, an Albanian nobleman of the 15th Century. He also fought in the Albanian/Ottoman Wars, an earlier version of the rift between Christians and Muslims. 

I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest he probably didn't like Jews.

That's neither here nor there. Actually it's there. Way over there. Why you ask (I know I did) has my daughter flown close to 10,000 miles to go Albania? 

The simple answer is to go hiking. 

There's plenty of outstanding hiking here in the states, one could argue. But like her father, my daughter has a bit of wanderlust. It's why after living in Denver for a few years, she came home briefly to Los Angeles. And then packed up everything to go live in Brooklyn. 

I did the same thing, only in reverse, when I, a New Yorker thru and thru, ventured westward to California not knowing a soul in SoCal. And why my mother and her sister, left home in Glasgow to come across the pond while they were 17 and 19 respectively.

I suppose I should be thankful that Abby, and her sister Rachel, have a curious nature. Adventurous, as well.

"Here, have some tave kosi, the mutton was just slaughtered this morning."

I am grateful she is willing to get out of her comfort zone. And proud. I wish she would explore her creative side and get back to painting. Or writing. (She's won't acknowledge it but she is darker and funnier than I'll ever be.)

But, I'm also her father, and will likely be on pins and needles for the next 10 days worrying about her. That's not just my nature, that's my job. And only exhaling when she lands safely back at JFK airport. Or Donald Trump Airport in honor of JFK, should he be inclined.

"Ruaju dhe shijoje kohën me Abby-n. Të dua."

 

Apologies to Stephen King, On Writing

As a dedicated blogger of more than 17 years, I can tell you there are times when coming up with idea to write about can be...oh, what's the word...challenging. Fellow bloggers like George Tannenbaum and Jeff Gelberg will concur. But sometimes a topic will drop right in your lap. Or I should say, on my driveway now that I'm a subscriber to the physical edition of the Sunday New York Times.

Last week, on the front page no less, there was a lengthy piece, Students Lose Much More than Grammar Skills When They Use A.I. to Write. 

This naturally caught my attention. Though as my academically-inclined friend and former client Claudia Caplan suggests, I'm the last person on Earth who should write about grammar. My spelling is atroshish (intentional). And, my punctuation --- such as it --- is even worser. I don't know the difference between an n-dash and an m-dash. 

More importantly, I don't care so I use them interchangeably.

Others, who shall remain anonymous, might also posit that I'm guilty of vocational inflation by even calling myself a Writer. This too is true. And I'm the first person in that very long line of doubters. Despite having a long "career" putting pen to paper, or my one calloused hunt and peck finger tip to keyboard, I'm more writer-adjacent. 

I suspect Don Draper would fess up to the same. 

The article starts off with a banger:

"Drafting a basic persuasive essay was as mentally taxing as digging a ditch was physically exhausting. Writing an essay is so difficult that a person in the throes of it can do hardly anything else.  (Though at the moment I've kicked off my flip flop and I'm petting my dog, under my desk, with my bare foot. ) 

I've done both. And will confess that I'd much rather write an essay (even a bad one like this ) is more preferable than spending a summer in the mid 1970's digging a ditch around our modest home in Suffern NY in order to waterproof the bottom floor of our split-level ranch house.

"Why should I pay professionals when I have the Time Life books on waterproofing and I have two able bodied sons eating food that I pay for?" my father would say.

The article goes on to detail how A.I. is being used in classrooms and how certain companies have gone on to put watermarks on their A.I. written material to prevent students from ripping it off wholesale.

I don't know where all this is going. I'm 68 years old and will be feeding earthworms or deep sea carnivorous fish when it all gets sorted out. But I do know that good writing equals good thinking. And as the times we live in have shown us, that is in very short supply.

I also know that starting an essay, following its through line, finding little personal detours that add color and flourish, and closing with an as yet clever ending, is a satisfying journey worth taking.   

Sadly, I do not have that clever ending. 

But ChatGPT does...

A computer might construct a perfect, watermarked paragraph, but it will never know the glorious, stubborn triumph of writing a terrible sentence, knowing it’s terrible, and hitting publish anyway.

My Return to Vinyl

Today's blog post comes directly to you from the Hardly Newsworthy Files. 

As you can see, I have completed the decoration of my new home in the bucolic foothills of Pasadena. Which now includes a new stereo cabinet, purchased on Etsy, and built by a craftsman in Turkey, or Turkie, as they like to put it. 

His name is Bunyami. And I only know that because there were several conversations, via text, about the missing hardware (eventually found) and the wobbly legs that needed to be affixed to the cabinetry. Bunyami -- I affectionately call him Yami -- is currently in the process of building me new iron legs and then shipping them to me close to 8,000 miles away.

I chose not to wait and purchased some heavy duty steel legs that have already been locked into place and are solid as a rock. As Ms. Muse can tell you, I'm kind of a Handy Jew and can still work a power drill set on low torque.

So why? You might be asking did I go to all this trouble especially when for $12 a month I pay for Apple  Music, I can listen to anything, anytime, anywhere I want, via the interwebs.

Chalk another one up to nostalgia. 

I have close to 200 albums that have been with me for more than 50 years. I even have a copy of Emerson Lake & Palmer's Trilogy album which my father bought for me when I put my first bargain basement stereo together in 1974. 

His company, Brownell Electro, a division of AVNET, had just signed on to be the cable and wire provider for BIC Turntables, British Industries Corporation, and their revolutionary belt drive system. I can also work a keyboard and the Google. And my father wisely snagged one for 1/3 the selling price.

I suppose I could have tossed the collection or sold it to some hipster who had just discovered the beauty of vinyl but I didn't want to part with my past. And remembered, hazily at best, all the hours I spent listening to music while not boning up on Economics 101 or Math 398.

Besides, I love the album display design. And because I need to update the collection, now find myself at Cantebury's Records on Colorado Blvd. Just two doors down from Sweet Flower, where I buy my weed (my low dose edibles, more accurately.)

I'm in total regression mode.

Un Woke is Morally Broke

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we are about to make our descent."

At this point in our troubled history, where 1/3 of the country is not defending but supporting an adjudicated sexual abuser and one whose name appears thousands of times in the redacted Epstein Files, I did not think this country could go any lower. But it turns out we were just scraping the bottom of the pool and found a new sinkhole.

Last week, I stumbled upon a post from @Tradwife. The whole Traditional Wife things evades me. But just as sexual and gender fluidity have no effect on my life, I say, "Live and Let live and make me a sandwich."

What I do take issue with is revisionist history. Like Trump whitewashing the Smithsonian. Or Red Hats celebrating 250 years of Freedom, (really? For who?) Or college students who have no understanding of 1948 UN Partition of Israel and Palestine and indeed have never heard of the Balfour Declaration, or TransJordan or 97%.

Here's the post that popped up on my feed...

Here's the copy again, in case it's hard to read. And also because you may want to read it twice once you've lifted your jaw off the floor:

Some are calling for reparations. But let’s be honest about what slavery actually meant.

A slave with a good master was housed, fed, protected and cared for. No rent. No mortgage. No utility bills. No grocery budget. No worrying about stretching a paycheck.

Today, a person earning $7.25 per hour is free—but has to pay for all of it themselves.

Freedom is priceless. But was life necessarily worse when someone else provided everything?

#Tradwife #History #Reparations

As you might expect, many commentators assumed this was satire. Or sarcasm. Or both. But it's neither. It's Western White Privilege wrapped in good old Christian Nationalism.

So, if you follow her logic -- if you can call it that -- a high school graduate flipping burgers at Mickey D's has it tougher than a family of four Africans who were uprooted from their land, chained into a flimsy wooden boat, carted off 3,000 miles, sold to wealthy white farmers, forced to pick cotton for 15-16 hours a day, denied their inalienable right of freedom, and then made to endure that unspeakable hardship for generations to come.

What's next?

"At least the Germans gave the people in the camp free showers."

Also, what constitutes a "Good" Slave Master?