Addicted to Swim Porn™

According to my iWatch and my new smart swim goggles, I have logged over 70,000 yards in the past two months. That's about 40 miles.

That's a lot of time under the water, away from the Internet and secluded from the demoralizing news that pounds us every fucking day: war, inflation, sex trafficking by our highest leaders and a cratering stock market that has reawakened my fear of ending up in a dirty nursing home.

Is it any wonder I make a beeline to the pool as often as I can?

Swimming has become my newest obsession. My newest oldest obsession, as I've been a "fish boy" for as long as I can remember. Ms. Muse chalks it up to my zodiac sign, Pisces. Yeah, OK.

Lately however, the pool has started coming home with me. Allow me to explain. 

The algorithm knows I swim with FORM smart Goggles, which tracks and collects data on my heart rate, my 100 yard splits, my stroke rate, even the pitch of my head as I'm breathing. It also knows, thanks to Jeff Bezos, that I recently purchased a new Pull Buoy. As well as a new bathing suit, as the old Speedo was literally falling apart at the threads.

Accordingly, my Facebook reels are now populated by swimming tip videos. 

I call it Swim Porn™.

Bite size video snippets on how to improve the Catch, the Pull, the Return to Neutral, the Glide and the Rhythm of putting it all together. Who knew it was all so complicated? It wasn't when, 63 years ago, my rough-around-the-edges father taught me how to swim by literally picking my ass up and tossing me in the deep end of the pool at Fried's Bungalow Colony in Monticello, NY.

Now I'm hooked. Determined more than ever to improve the way I move through the water. And when all the details are added up, the results show.

When I started this new data-centric leg of my journey, my score was in the low 40's. The gains are coming slower now, but that just fuels my determination.

Even more importantly, since my swimming has been metaphorically put on steroids, my lumbar issues and my sciatica have all but vanished.

Of course that can also be attributed to the Gabbapenton, Cortisone and the Tramadol, mmmm, Tramadol.

You take your wins where you can get them.

My way

My friend Jim is in town. During one of our many lengthy discussions, we got around to talking about work. How we both had humble beginnings in the mailroom -- Jim actually hired me in 1983. And where that work took us on a life journey of ups and downs. And long demoralizing lateral slides that coulkd easily be attributed the ageism. 

But to what end?

Writers, it seems, get more downs than ups. At this point my skin, and Jim's skin, is thicker than that found on a polar bear. 

In the back and forth that brought about many laughs as well as conjecture of what would've happened had we not pursued the dream of writing for a living. I pictured myself as a doctor or an engineer, you know had I not been so lazy and actually applied myself as my father often scolded. 

Jim nodded off as I droned on about lives and vocations, that may or may not have happened in the multiverse.

As he was fading in and out, I relayed to him my recent meeting with opportunity. I had been offered a freelance gig. On a highly visible project. One that would have put significant bouyancy in my bank account. I wisely turned down that gig. 

For reasons that will shortly become abundantly clear.

I began thinking about what would it take for me to actually accept or consider accepting any new offers that might come over the transom for a 68 year old, sometimes ornery, freelance copywriter.  

At the risk of appearing like some industry Diva or simply an a-hole, here then are my pre-requisites. I could have said this was my "rider" but have always hated the use of the term "rock star' to anybody who works in advertising. 

1. The money has to be right.  And by right I mean the day rate has to be in the 4 figures. Like the plumber who comes to your house, spots a leaky gasket of a worn out washer on an S-pipe, fixes what needs to be fixed, and hands you a bill for $300, there is a price to be paid for my experience. 

I spent 40 some odd years in the ad business. Or is it called the content business? I like to think I learned a little. It's all kind of fuzzy, woo-woo stuff that can't be pinned down, or laid out on an Xcel sheet, but it's in here (pointing to head) and if you want some you gotta pay for it. Also, I'm not buying a car here. There won't be any haggling.

2. The hours have to be right. As noted above, I charge a day rate. Not a day and night rate. And certainly not a day that includes two sunrises day. When quitting time comes, I quit. I have a house that needs to be tidied up. I have salmon to marinate. Salads to build. And laundry from yesterday that has to come out of the dryer, including my three wrinkled Ronnie Shirts. 

I will not be fielding questions/requests/comments from Barbara in Accounting, just when Steven Colbert takes the stage. These days, my meeting with the Sandman is more often at 10 o'clock. Good night, I'll talk to you in the morning.

3. The work has to be right. Not to get all Alan Smithee on you here, but I'm not interested in mediocre. I don't want to put my name on anything I can't be proud of. It's not that my standards are so high, this blog with its countless typos, ugly syntax and occasional banality, is proof of that. 

It's not that I'm demanding the final cut. It's just that I'm unwilling to compromise. If I write a character in a spot to be angry, he or she is going to be angry. Likewise, if I put the word panoply or myriad in a headline, it stays in the headline.

This list is already long in the tooth and could get longer. But it doesn't need to because with this post, it's clear I have sufficiently warded off any future freelance gigs. 

And that's fine. I still have to get on the Peloton. And there are towels to be folded.

3300 posts and counting

 

Two days ago, I missed a golden opportunity. Unbeknownst to my occasionally misfiring brain, this blog marked its 17th year in existence. That should go recognized given the name Roundseventeen that I conjured up in less than a minute 17 years ago. On the eve of my 51st Birthday.

It began when I received a text from fellow Syracuse University graduate, one of the best Creative Directors I ever worked for, and all around great guy, Mark Monteiro. He texted me, and I'm paraphrasing here because I should've kept the a screen grab of the text and framed it, "Hey you seem to have a lot on your mind Rich, you should do a blog like I'm doing. I think it'd be good for you."

So I did. I wrote about a week's worth of random posts but never published them. The idea was to poke and prod my own brain and see if it produced any green sprouts. 

It didn't, but I published it anyway.

The eyeballs and web page hits started slowly, but continued to grow. Never to the level of my friend George Tannenbaum's Adaged.blogspot, which is widely held as the industry gold standard, but enough to feed my ego and keep me clickin' and clackin'.

As a former New Yorker with many, many, many pet peeves, I rarely found myself with no grist for the rhetorical mill. Work in advertising long enough, there's plenty to bitch about. And once I work up a good head of steam, I can dash off a pretty good rant, if you'll pardon the immodesty.

But as the 8 loyal readers, sorry 9 including Costa Rica T3, who jumped on board and now insists on being counted, I branched out from my original focus on advertising, and now cover a myriad (or is it just myriad) topics, from the challenges of fatherhood to Caganers, from Russian dating sites to Russian appeasers.

And seemingly, given my short and often weird attention span, everything in between.

To those that stop here every so often to those who for reasons unclear to me, or come here regularly, it has been my absolute pleasure to regal you with what passes for wit and put a smile on your face. 

Thank you to Mark for telling me to write.

And thank you, all of you, for reading and in effect encouraging me to keep on writing.

I couldn't have done it without you. 

Nor would I.

Thursday Photo Funnies

This is me getting all artsy-fartsy with my iPhone camera. 

It's a wickedly pointed succulent in front of my neighbor's house in Palm Springs. As some of you may know, I wintered at my airbnb house out there and found many shots worthy of a new Thursday Photo Funnies, which occasionally shows up on Tuesday. Or Wednesday. Or oddly enough, Thursday. 

It's all dependent on my sometimes-less-than-fertile mind. I think it's crucial to have a back up plan for when the grind out another blog post duty feels like opioid-induced constipation. 

Without going too much further into that, here then is a random collection of photos snapped in Palm Springs as well as other locations that constitute my current peripatetic life. 

Let's get going...

Some might think I'm a bit overzealous in the way 

I've used my front yard as a canvas for my anti-Trumpism, 

but a stroll in the Las Palmas area proves 

I'm not alone in this seething sentiment.

On a more whimsical note, 

I spotted this unusual license plate frame.

It's hard to tell what is real and what is not

real these days.

Ms.Muse has many suggestions 

for fixing up the Palm Springs house. 

In response to her idea of adding

a small reading lamp to the living room 

I thought the monkey valet would be fun.

Similarly, these were also poo-pooed.

And the feathered Flamingo lamp, 

which had a long stand and eliminated the need for 

an end table, brought up some fire issues.

Back to more pleasant items, this is a shot

of the new CV Link, which is a cyclist's dream.

If only Rancho Mirage would grant permission to 

go through their fair city.

These are my new favorite cycling socks.

They used to belong to my oldest daughter Rachel, 

who comes over to do laundry every week.

Now these curmudgeonly socks belong to me.

Recently, Ms. Muse and I did the Tour De Palm Springs.

This was the number I was assigned.

By sheer coincidence it's also the street address of the house,

which is available for vacation stays.

And here's a new photo taken of the backyard,

with the newly strung patio lights, the newly assembled patio furniture

and the new firepit to warm you up

when the desert nights get chilly 

and the temp. drops into

the low 70's.

Ms. Muse and I, joined by our good friends Rich and Paula,

to celebrate my recent birthday. If this picture isn't a testament to 

top notch American dentistry, I don't know what is. 

As you might imagine, it was a night of great laughter.

And finally, there's this dramatic shot that I captured

in Culver City, the crime capitol of the USA, according to

"Attorney General" Pam Bondi. 

 

Five myths about getting older

I don't really have 5 myths. I only know that from my time as an in-house copywriter of useless emails for Dollar Shave Club and even crappier emails for PayPal Honey, whose stock is now trading at nearly 1/10 of the price when I got my first vesting, people like listicles.

But you've come this far you might as well hang around for some thoughtful insight on the Big R -- Retirement.

Last week, while in Palm Springs, I was at their Swim Center. As I walked in, breathless from a non stop series of  50's, 100's and killer 200's, I heard two gentlemen talking. There's a lot of talking and camaraderie in the locker rooms of Palm Springs.

Older White Bald Bearded Guy #1: ...I don't know. I'm think maybe two more years.

Older White Bald Bearded Guy #2: If you ask me I waited two years too long.

With that, the first guy left. I turned to OWBBG#2 and said, "Let me guess, you guys were talking about retirement?"

He smiled and proceeded to tell me:

OWBBG#2: I love it. People ask if I miss the work. I tell them absolutely not. I don't care about the work. I cared too much about the work in the first place. Now I have time to spend with my cats and do my gardening.

OK, I thought. Your retirement looks a little different than mine. I have a black scythe where my green thumb should be. And I don't like cats. No one in my family likes cats.

But I also understand the shit-eating grin OWBBG#2 had on his face. That joy is contagious. And I try to talk as many of my similar aged colleagues and friends to pull the plug. There is no time like the present. Particularly with the threat of Armaggedon tomorrow. Or next week. Or the day after I mailed in my mammoth property tax bill.

Speaking of Armageddon, I'd be remiss if I didn't share this little gem from a long time ago: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cTrOb8zyrZk

I turned 68 years two days ago. I don't feel 68. When my lumbar region isn't acting up (Hello cortisone) and my sciatica isn't flaring up, I feel 48. Or even younger. 

And with my vigorous exercise routine of biking, swimming, lifting weights and walking I don't intend to ever feel my age. But I suppose my fleeting cartilage will have a say in the matter.

With regards to work, I don't miss it at all. Not one bit. 

Yes I was paid inordinate amounts of money to write silly ads and twist words around for maximum impact. But the truth is, especially if you follow me on social media, I still engage those writing neurons that helped put food on my table, but now I don't have to take feedback, make changes or water anything down. Or dumb it down as one PayPal middle manager was fond of instructing me.

I don't get paid as much money, in fact, I get paid none. But somehow, it's all the more rewarding.

Quit work when you can and in the words of Morgan Freeman, "Get busy living."

Sebrina Jean revisited

 

It's been awhile since I posted any scambaiting emails. Loyal readers of this blog will recall my many adventures with internet fraud. 

There was my long running series with various zealous members of the Illuminati.

My misguided entanglements with Asian mail order brides.

And my short lived but highly enjoyable battle with the Vice President of Club Membership at Mara Lago, one of my prouder moments.

At the beginning of this year one of former scammers, Ms. Sebrina Jean, returned to my inbox after a six year lapse in our correspondence.

You can imagine how excited I was to hear from a previous paramour -- albeit virtual. And having completed all my household repairs and exercises for one day. I decided to re-engage. 

As the hurt, love-scorned Dick Herz.

But Ms. Sebrina is clearly not concerned with the way she has ripped my heart apart. Not to mention my expensive orthodontic restoration. 

It's also very clear that this is not "her" first internet rodeo as she's all business and wants to get her hands on my "payments" as quickly as possible.

But things have changed since my last scambaiting adventure. Because now I have AI at my disposal, for only $3.99 a month. And because I  have no idea where all my tax documents are for my CPA, nor do I want to look for them, I have a perfect reason to procrastinate and make with the emailing tomfoolery.

It's your turn Sebrina. I eagerly await your response.

  

Your President, not mine

 SFX: SAD TRUMBONE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is that what you Red Hats voted for? 

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

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

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

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

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

You elected a war mongering, incompetent, lying pedophiliac. 

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

Start Over

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes professor, how will they know?

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

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

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

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

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

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

"NO!"

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

O B S E R V E

Q U E S T I O N

E X P E R I M E N T

T E S T 

(OK, maybe not so much testing)

S T A R T  O V E R

"To Indio...and beyond."

Yesterday I wrote about reconnecting with my inner handyman. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So we rode some more. 

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

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

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

 

Happy Hands at Home

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well, almost. 

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

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

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

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

And because she's so sloppy, 

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

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

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

With a fancy one with frosted glass.

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

 with their fancy Palm Springs accoutrement.

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

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

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

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

It can make a mess of the outdoor BBQ.

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

returned the BBQ to its original factory shine.

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

 

Throw the J*w Down the Well

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

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

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

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

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

Thrown down the well? 

Where have I heard that before?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sadly, I know the story, many times over.

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

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

Bad Bunny revisited

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But only for the first hour.

Keep in mind there were 600 people there. 

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

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

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

Thank you Bad Bunny. Seriously, thank you.

 

Making Friends

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

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

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

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

Or it could be Cassandra. 

Or Brielle.

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

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

Hogwash.

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

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

Does that sound like boilerplate opening gambit for a scam? 

I think not.

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

Frankly, I'm befuddled. 

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

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

I'm in the Epstein Files!

I'm in the Epstein Files. 

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

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

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

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

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

To wit:

Now here's the hard part. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twice.

Fuck you stupid Red Hats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I love that.

 

Let's all not go to the movie

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

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

The actual asses in seats number is considerably lower. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hello Mate!!!

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

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

Nevertheless it has happened, misspelling of my name notwithstanding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But today is a happy day. 

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

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

It was NOT easy.

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

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

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

Still, getting acquainted with my new language.

I'm chuffed.

Cherrio.