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?

 

 

Bad Men

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

But this post does seem necessary. 

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

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

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

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

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

Coincidence? Perhaps.

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

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

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

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

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

Oh advertising, I miss you. 

Somewhat.

An Ass from the Past

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

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

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

Spankers Hours

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In memory of Andy Rooney

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

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

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

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

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

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

Done. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where's the app for that?

Tip of the hat

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

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

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

A name like that could scar any kid. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me and global warming

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

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

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

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

Folks like Dr. Fauci, who understand virology. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

TDS Part II

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

Well, almost.

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

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

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

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

A word salad to similar effect.

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

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

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

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

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

Why are gas prices at all time highs? 

And why are American soldiers still losing their lives?

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

"Thank you sir, may I have another?"

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

Happy Monday

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

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

I'm deranged?

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

I'm deranged? 

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

But wait, there's more.

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

I'm deranged?

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

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

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

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

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

Where's the gash?

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he doesn't have it.

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

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

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

He never had proof that Obama was born in Kenya.

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

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

He never got a check from Mexico.

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

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