One hand in front of the other

I'm 68 years old, I don't get to do a lot of bragging. 

Oh sure my kids are doing well and are both gainfully employed, but that's price-of-entry kind of stuff. I don't get invited to speak at ad functions anymore. Which is a good thing since I don't recognize the industry that once put food on my table and expensive bourbon in my liquor cabinet. And I don't discuss money, other than to say I think I have enough to keep me out of a dirty nursing home. 

If I live past 93, it'll be bad pureed salisbury steak and sketchy internet connection for me.

But I can swim. 

And do so regularly. And according to my new FORM swim goggles (compliments of Ms. Muse for my last birthday) I'm swimming better now than I ever have. My first score using these smart goggles, which measure stroke length, speed, heart rate, and the elusive time-to-neutral head turn, was a 47.  Now, as you can see, it's 81. I'm not just telling you, I'm telling everyone.

I was reminded of all this on Saturday morning, D-day, which is when I wrote this post. Years ago, 11 to be exact, I chose to challenge myself. You can read about it here, in this print ad (remember those) I had mocked up.

Knocking out 3 miles a day is no small feat. But as I've learned from Strava and watching the Masters classes at various pools, it's not unheard of. In addition to Old Man (and Woman) Strength, my generation has amazing capacity for endurance. Also, hours in the pool are hours away from Trump, war, inflation, AI bullshit and all the other bullshit that happens on land.

This was more than a decade ago. Before I knew about glide. Hip rotation. And the two beat kick to increase heart efficiency. Nevertheless, I completed the task and was able raise $4000 for Wounded Warriors. I'm not a fan of American military adventurism, but I'm still a monthly WW supporter.

More recently, I found myself in an online argument with a high school classmate who could generously be described as MAGA. She made the mistake of questioning my patriotism and whether I had ever done anything for our servicemen and woman. I brought up the aforementioned. 

Adding that unlike her and her fellow Kool Aid drinkers, I made a habit of voting for candidates that revere the Constitution, the Rule of Law, the sanctity of Arlington Cemetery and don't refer to our soldiers as "Suckers and Losers."

I will never understand what people, particularly military people, see in this draft-dodging, honor-trampling con man. In the same way I will never understand swim coaches advice to swim tall. 

Swim tall? I'm 5'9". On a good day. A very good day.

 

Things we never had until President Stable Genius came along

It's hard to think of life in America before Donny Vonshitzenpants. 

He has sucked up so much oxygen with his daily grievances, his pathetic need for validation and his non stop bragging about passing a dementia test, it is difficult to remember we used to have actual presidents. Ones that inspired confidence, demonstrated leadership and allowed us to live our lives without being the laughingstock of the world and having 8 billion other people on the planet asking, "What the hell is going on in America?"

So where do we begin? 

The aforementioned dementia tests seem to be a good place to start. At this writing, our stable genius leader has now "aced" the test 4 times. None of the 46 previous presidents have ever passed one. Mostly because they never had to take one to prove their sanity. 

I suppose you could argue Joe Biden, another septuagenarian, should have taken the test. But given the test is easy peasy for an 8 year old child, I have no doubt he would have passed it. I also have no doubt he would not be on social media boasting about the test was an indication of his superior intellect. 

Biden, nor any of the other previous POTI, did any boasting or bragging on social Media. Trump is like a scorned teenage girl whose unfiltered torment must be vented. Mostly after midnight. And mostly in ugly double digit spurts, which reveal the unstable nature of his diarrhetic emotions.

Speaking of teenage girls, we never had a president who was best friends with a pedophile. Not just any pedophile, but the world's most notorious child rapist, who is conveniently silent about their association due to an unexpected 'suicide.' Nor can we see the nature of their friendship because the previous investigations have been covered up by Grandpa Ramblemouth's GOP sycophants.

( I have taken a 24 hour break from writing this post as I felt a rising heartbeat and heavy acidic upheavals rising in my throat like a Pompei eruption)

I have returned, but with significantly less verve about this topic. It has occurred to me that if I were to detail all the unprecedented presidential clusterfucks that have befallen our nation since the ascent of Captain Ouchie Foot, this post would be as long as the eBay terms and conditions agreement. Or any bullshit Terms and Conditions of our corporate overlords. Shout Out to George Tannenbaum for mightily pointing out their uselessness.

And so I have decided to go with a Reader's Digest bulletpoint summary of his Trumpfuckery™ and what we have witnessed (and only after 2016) and hope to never witness again:

* AI depiction of Trump as the Pope

* AI depiction of Trump as Jesus...er, sorry Doctor Jesus

* US military rounding up people on the streets

* Alligator Alcatraz, a federal prison for immigrants surrounded by predator-infested waters on all sides

* The destruction of an entire wing of the White House

* A UFC cage match on what was the White House Rose Garden

* A Department of Justice that has been completely weaponized and now serves as his Gestapo

* A blatantly racist AI video with a simian depiction of the Obamas

* An equally disgusting AI Video of Trump piloting a bomber and dumping shit on Americans

* The filing of a $10 billion lawsuit AGAINST the United States of America 

* The creation of a $1.8 billion slush fund to compensate the January 6th Insurrectionists

* Starting a war with no exit strategy, or any strategy, resulting in the glib loss of American lives

And finally, because if anything sums up this ignorant, uncaring, malignant, sexually deviant fleshbag of evil sitting behind the Resolute Desk

* "I could care less, I don't think about the finances of the American people."

He said that. And so much more. 

If I may take this opportunity to amend one of his original campaign statements from 2015:

"I could shoot someone on 5th Ave. Take their money, shit on the corpse, fuck the corpse and feed the bloody remains to alligators and piranha, and I still wouldn't lose any support."

That's where we are at in America.

 

Good morning Mate

I did a thing last week. 

I put on some nice clothes. Trimmed my beard. Brushed my teeth for the compulsory 90 seconds and ventured cross town to Hancock Park. I hadn't been to this neighborhood for a long, long time, since I worked in the trenches at the esteemed offices of J. Walter Thompson Recruitment Advertising, where I "wrote" no-award winning Help Wanted ads for our nation's Military Industrial Complex.

Good times.

The purpose of this visit was of a decidedly different nature. It was here, amongst these tony mansions and circular driveways and mammoth horse head iron sculptures, that I found myself entering the hallowed and royal-ish halls of the United Kingdom British Consulate.

As I told my Facebook friends, I was there to receive my certificate of British citizenship, making my status as a member of the commonwealth in very legally binding manner, if I may nick a phrase from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

"But father, I want to sing."

If I'm being completely honest, I also wanted to pinch the Union Jack that adorned the guest bathroom in the pool house of this beautiful manor. But thought better of it and didn't want to go down as the man with the shortest lived British citizenship in the history of the Empire where the sun never set.

If I may indulge in some more honesty, this whole adventure started as a lark. A way to leverage my deep anti-Trump and anti-America (2016-2026 version) sentiments. In short, another manifestation of my curiosity. I discovered that I had eligibility because my mother was born in Glasgow, Scotland.

Moreover, as any blog writer will tell you, there is a constant unrelenting need to keep adding fuel to the fire that keeps these worthless posts going.

But now that I am on the other side of this 18 month journey and within grasp of an official British passport, this light-hearted quest has taken on some unexpected gravitas. 

One evening I lay my head on the pillow as a life long American citizen. One who saw this country as an everlasting beacon of hope and enlightenment -- at least until the recent darkness. And the next night I find myself to have allegiance to two nations. 

I was not prepared for the impact. It kind of messes with a 7 decades long sense of identity.

Nor, I might add was the consulate prepared for such a large gathering. As our posh host noted, "We never have this many people at one ceremony. But welcome to the United Kingdom, where we cherish the ideals of democracy."

That line drew an audible and unmistakable snicker, from people just like me who wanted to have a Get Out of Jail Free Card, should this country continue it's tragic descent into a dictatorial cesspool of fascism and Trumpfuckerry™.

Also, in case you're wondering, the 14 foot high equine sculpture on the front lawn of the Walter Neff residence, is named The Rook -- which appeals to my love of chess. And was done by Andy Scott, a prominent Scottish Sculptor, which will never dissuade me from my distaste for haggis.

F*cking Obscene

This is happening. 

When it was first spoken of I thought it'd be another fever dream of the most powerful ManBaby in the World™, like seizing Greenland. Or Canada. Or Panama ("I like their hats, good for windy days and my luxurious hair.")

But, it's true.  The rigs for the lighting, the cage for the stage and the bleachers for the leachers are all being trucked in to the White House grounds. I wonder how meticulous they'll be about scanning the equipment for bugs and microphones and hidden cameras. Or have Russia and China stopped doing all that spyware because they're such goods friends with our 80 year old "I Want A Birthday Party" senile president?

I hardly have the words for this idiocracy. Suffice to say, look at the photo on Trump's face. Is that not the same look as Billy Mumy in the Twilight Zone's epic "It's a Good Life."

Dignity has been banished to the cornfield, if I may.

This is UFC Fighting. Where combatants beat each other to a pulp, snap limbs and bring a man to the brink of fatality, all for the sado-masochistic pleasure of our low-rent leader and trailer park Kool Aid drinking crowd. It's like one of those ancient Roman Empire Dictators -- don't ask me which one -- who appeased the proletariat with blood lust, centuries before the guillotine, public hangings and 2 hour rambling State of the Union addresses.

That is not to say that I am exempt from the joys of pugilism and have to ask myself would it have been different if it were a Heavyweight Boxing match? Yes, yes it would.

I'm old enough to remember the classic Ali-Frazier fights. They had a certain majesty about them. As well as a hint of authenticity. Movies were made about top boxers. To this day, if Raging Bull comes across the transom on any of my screens, I can be counted on to sit through its entirety.

I even enjoyed a small taste for the sport when I began participating in my Karate studio Wednesday night sparring. When two karate students step onto the mat to fight, none of the well rehearsed elaborate moves with fancy names like "Captured Leaves" or "Crushing Hammer" or "Leaping Crane" come into play. 

Instead, the karate fighters trade punches, like boxers. Noting my then stocky build and equally stocky mustache, my black belt teachers and compadres suggested I looked like John Sullivan.

"Yeah, put up yur dukes!"

With regards to upcoming shameful fight being foisted upon the White House former Rose Garden, this is none of that. This is Christians being thrown to the lions type shit. This is what's being done to the People's House.

I'm reminded of what Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart said, "I can't tell you what obscenity is, but I know it when I see it."

Revisiting the dog days of summer

This is a repost from March 30, 2017, almost 10 years ago. I don't know why I felt compelled to share this one again, other than the fact that I've been thinking about Lucy, my 11 year old Golden/German Shepherd retriever and how lucky I have been to have her and her good health with me for so long. I can dwell on what I know is sure to come. Or, if I'm listening to Buddha and my practice of living in the present, I can take joy from here presence with me now. That sounds better. Or at least, less gloomy.

                                             

This is my dog Nellie.

Only about the sweetest dog you have ever met, even if it's just digitally.

I've written about Nellie in the past. Once when she was so sick she had to have her gall bladder removed. Then, as part of her recuperative process she needed to have a quart of fluid pumped into her on a daily basis. The Vet said that I - an incredibly needle-averse pussy -- would have to administer the IV at home.

Holy shit, what an ordeal that was.

But make no mistake, I have been blessed. Because Nellie is now 15 years old.

Nellie II (see arrow in picture above) is about three years old. Nellie II, sometimes Lil Nell, that's what we call her massive benign fatty tissue lump, has been growing exponentially. Frankly I'm surprised Nellie II hasn't just popped through the strained skin and started stealing Nellie I's food.

If you're familiar with retrievers, or retriever mixes, as in my case, you know they tend to get these belly lumps. Years ago, we had one removed and it weighed close to 13 lbs.

Nellie II is far bigger and if I had to guess would put her somewhere at 20 lbs. You may be wondering why we haven't separated Nellie 1 from Nellie II. I want to, but the vet doesn't.

Other than making her walk funny and slowing her down a bit, he said the lump, Nellie II, is quite harmless. If you look closely you can see the early signs of Nellie III emerging.

Indeed, it makes no sense to put a 15 year old dog through the considerable risks of surgery. It was hard not to notice the Vet shrugging his shoulders when he said that.

Like I said, we've been blessed.

Nellie has the kind of longevity I can only hope for.

I'm only 44 now, but I'd love to live to a ripe old age where a doctor examines my maladies, considers all the painful treatments and invasive surgeries, then looks up at the calendar and says,

"Ah fuck it, nature will soon take its course."

I should be so lucky.

Rome wasn't unbuilt in a day

They say moving into a new house is difficult. It can't be any harder than moving out of an old house. I'm talking about the blood, sweat and even more blood. I'd get into the tears, but that's a little personal. Maybe at a later date after I've gone to Costco and loaded up on Kleenex.

For now let's just consider the enormous amount of detritus one can acquire over the course of 7 decades. Particularly when one also has two grown daughters who can't bear to part with old dolls, toys, books, and an enormous quantity of crap that has now been slathered in 3-4 layers of dust.

Readers who continue to follow this blog -- for reasons undetermined -- may remember my exhilarating stories of moving Uncle CrankyPants from his home in Palm Springs to his dirty nursing home in Cheviot Hills. It literally took us a dozen or so trips, often back and forth in same day, to put a dent in the trove -- sans treasure -- of stuff he had collected over many years in the sweltering desert.

When the rest of the world was going remote and digital Uncle Angry Letter Writer started piling up reams of copy paper. Floor to ceiling. I didn't want to throw it out so I kept about 200 lbs. worth of paper. I never got through one ream as I had long ago taken my fiery temper out on my Canon MX 490 a la Office Space.

https://youtu.be/N9wsjroVlu8?si=fSnZ3-x6agBdXvLj

And so, upon finding out my cleaning lady's son was in high school, I sent her home with a trunkful of Xerox's finest. The back of her Toyota Camry almost bottomed out leaving my driveway.

The digging, the tossing, the packing and the donating to willing charities, is reaching a feverish pitch.

There have been some interesting (well, interesting to me) finds amongst the nook and crannies of my Culver City home. 33 years in one house will do that. 

* Old Mother's Day cards to Marilyn, my late mother in Law. She had a great sense of humor so I'd go out of my way to find the oddest Hallmark had to offer. The overly religious cards. The cat lady cards (she hated cats). And Mother's Day cards from all the assorted ethicities easily found in Los Angeles.

* A box of goodies from Debbie's bachelorette party. Some of those naughty knack knacks still had a price tag on them.

* Blue prints. Not only from our 1997 remodel but the original blueprints, on blue paper, from when the house was built in 1947.

* A hand written note from my daughter Rachel, who I'm guessing was no more than 6 years old here.

And of course photos. Some of you might not know this but before the intranets, we took pictures and had them developed and printed. I have thousands of undigitized 4X6 photos. On film paper. Many make me smile, some have a different effect. As I was securing them in a box, one slipped out to the floor.

That's Deb on the left and her life long friend Lori (who passed shortly after Deb did) while dining at Joe Allen's (I believe) on Robertson. I believe they thought they were being clever, because if you look behind them you'll see Kelsey Grammar and his ex-wife, Camille.

That was no accident. You'll have to trust me on that.

Money, money, money...money.

 

Feel that? A sharp cold wind that slaps you across the face and says, "wake up, pat your pants, your damn wallet is gone." 

You didn't leave it at home. 

Some fucker, who hasn't done a day's worth of honest work in his miserable life, has picked it clean. And while you scurry around and cast a suspicious eye on anybody in the vicinity, he's already set his vulturous eyes on your portfolio and the Social Security contributions you've made since your first job, hand delivering newspapers in the neighborhood.

I don't think I need to say the name of this thick-headed thief, suffice it to say to say that 77 million Americans see virtue, leadership and character in him, while the remainder of Earth's population (all 8 billion of us) see a feckless, narcissistic, pedophile who is plundering the planet for his own insatiable greed.

"We need to have Greenland."

"Canada should be ours too."

"I'll just take the Iranian oil."

The latest scam, which will be forgotten by Friday, revolves around his $10 Billion lawsuit against the government of the United States of America. He was literally suing the same people that voted him into office and who go about their day looking for an opportunity to pound their flabby chests and shout "USA,USA,USA." 

Just for the record, $10 billion is 25,000 times the meager $400,000 presidential salary he so graciously decided to "donate" back to the American people. If I got a 25,000X return on any of my investments you can be sure I would not be writing this blog and would be lounging on the deck of a Tahitian bungalow that sits over the water.

The mind boggles.

But it gets worse. Much worse.

Because his lawsuit was specifically aimed at the IRS. And had he proceeded, he would've had to divulge certain personal financial documents that have been cooked by a staff of accountants who are on call 24 hours a day. 

So he shrewdly dropped the lawsuit and made an agreement with his own DOJ, who used to work for the citizens of this country but are now a wholly owned subsidiary of Vandalize Industries, LLC.

That agreement, the one that has spiked my blood pressure this morning, includes the establishment of a $1.8 Billion Dollar Slush Fund, chaired by a commission of Mara Lago loyalist miscreants, who will use the dough to settle cases of "patriots" (Proud Boys, Oathkeepers, 3% 'ers, and other Neo-Nazi  fringe groups) who feel they've been persecuted by the US Government. 

So the folks who sold you Elon Musk and his sham mission to eliminate fraud, waste and abuse, are now abusing our intelligence and counting on us not to see this blatant flim-flamming financial end around. 

If it weren't so criminal, it'd be funny.

But it's not, it's fucking criminal!!!

The Very Big Apple

I thought it would be a good idea to follow up yesterday's post about my NYC trip with a Thursday Photo Funnies, which is not very dogmatic about its name and can appear at any time. This seemed like a good time because my short term memory is as wayward as the 37 hairs on Trump's head.

Beginning with the photo above, of Abby and I face-timing with Rachel, my oldest daughter and the newest resident of Venice, CA. That's us on the rooftop deck of Cartel Editing near Chinatown.

On to the pics.

NYC is the gift that keeps giving,

with something new, odd or funny to see at every turn.

Oh, we're just getting started.

During my 23 miles of walking, my shoelaces need to be tied.

As I leaned my foot up on a ledge, 

I spotted a dead pidgeon stuffed in a planter.

I also had to visit 51 restaurant bathrooms. 

Where they take the TP placement seriously.

This one was, by far, my fave.

Also saw stuff that defied description,

but made a good palate for the 8 million

residents who all have something to say or show.

This was spotted at McCarren Park. 

Bad Juju is a phrase often used by my old partner John Shirley.

This was also in the park: Young hipsters dressed 

in wigs and old lady clothing.

Okay, then.

And of course, there's the unrivaled beauty

of NYC.

The famed Jenga building, which I know Ms. Muse will appreciate.

The lake in Central Park.

The view from my hotel room in Williamsburg.

And finally, there's this. A replica of New York City, built

over the course of 21 years, all to scale, all amazingly accurate.

I was even able to spot the Electcheter Towers where we lived

on the 22nd story of a 23 story building. And where, in 1967, all the kids gathered on the rooftop,

where we could hear the Beatles playing and the girls screaming

more than 3 miles away. 

New York City, just like I pictured it

Took a well-deserved but long overdue trip to New York City. 

It was not only a chance to spend some quality time with my youngest daughter Abby, who works as Producer at Cartel Editing, it was an opportunity to escape the political nightmare that has become the fetid zeitgeist of our age.

It had been 10 years since I last visited the city of my birth. Don’t know why I’ve waited that long other than the fact that I hate flying on planes. I tend to white knuckle from the minute the pilot says to put your phone in Airplane Mode until the reverse thrusters do their thrusting and slow the plane to a safe taxi-ing speed.

Another drawback to being in the Big Apple is the density. It is impossible to escape the masses. Some of whom don't smell daisy fresh.

That’s me on the L Train, before 293 commuters stormed into our car to grab the last inch of handrail real estate. You might have noticed I’m wearing one of my trademark anti-Trump shirts (Are Cankles Fatal?). And while I generally abhor crowds, I must say Gothamites are noticeably more zealous in their appreciation of well hewn wit.

I only had 72 hours in the city that never sleeps. And I was determined to spend that time with Abby. That being the case, I did not have the opportunity to call on lifelong friends, or get upstate, or even catch a second breathe. It’s safe to say we packed 10 day’s worth of activities into 3. I did get to enjoy some latkes and mortgage-worthy bagels and lox at Barney Greengrass with my friend Jim.

It was a lot. 

And I was reminded how much I love “The City”, despite the crowds, the traffic, the non-stop buzz that hums 24 hours a day like a over-aged refrigerator about to blow a compressor.

I won’t wait another ten years to come back to a NYC that is noticeably, cleaner, safer and more presentable than I ever remember it. On the other hand, the hotel just emailed me the bill for my abbreviated trip.

Are they serious?

Meanwhile...

Next week will be the last airing of the Late Show with Stephen Colbert. 

Despite my recent foray into Buddhism and the pursuit of a calmer mind, I am spitting fire when I see the fascist consequences of 77 million ignorant voters putting an equally ignorant fascist behind the Resolute Desk. There can be no doubt that Colbert's departure is the result of rising authoritarianism and the repression of Freedom of Speech. 

It's even more disturbing that fellow members of the Tribe, who perhaps in a previous life were Camp Kapos, have been willingly complicit. Folks like Bari Weiss, Howard Lutnick, Larry Ellison and even Alan "I Kept My Underwear On" Dershowitz.

"Deep breath in.....and long, slow exhale."

Back to Colbert. Wasn't always a SC fan. Years ago, I was freelancing at the Wonderful Agency and was asked to write some Super Bowl spots featuring him for the Pistachio account. As you might imagine, I was tickled green. I dug deep, stayed up late, and sunk my teeth into this assignment seeing as it gave me an avenue for some high IQ political humor.

Stephen never saw the scripts as they were tossed out in favor of something more palatable -- dumbed down. And exceedingly broad. Nevertheless I became a fan. And watched as Colbert grew into the role as talk show host and grew more comfortable as an equal to his former colleagues Jon Stewart and John Oliver. 

Trump was and is, the comedic gold gift that never stops giving. I'm sure Colbert will find another venue to collect the golden eggs and keep skewering.

I could have chosen one of a 1000+ plus pictures for this post, but went with the one you see above. Astute readers/viewers will recognize this from the Covid era when having guests and audiences in a theater was prohibitive. Necessity may be the Mother of Invention, but let's also give credit to the Father, in this case a deadly highly contagious disease, left unabated by a douchebag adulterous con man.

Colbert, Seth Myers and perhaps Kimmel, thought outside the theater box and brought the shows home. That is, they took advantage of technology and literally produced the shows from their dens or upstair's attics. Stephen even had his wife on set. And Seth Myers had his two little boys scurry through his makeshift set. With the gloss and high production value stripped away, the shows actually got better.

Not only were the shows a testament to resilience and what could be done in the face of Covid, they were the salve that softened the turbulence and upheaval of 2020. My day would not be complete without staying up to midnight and watching the first half of the show. If for no other reason than to smile and escape the hell the world foisted on us from every angle.

"Again, exhale out..."

Thank you Stephen Colbert, for everything you've done for us.

"You may now open your eyes and return the world outside."

And FUCK YOU Trump, for everything you did to us.

A Tale of Three Eras

It's only taken me 20 years or so, but I've finally jumped aboard the Mad Men train. Having spent the majority of my life in the ad biz, and being intimately familiar with its crazy machinations, you'd have thought I would have had a seat in First Class with one of those panoramic overhead views. 

But I wasn't on board.

I was more intent on double dipping as a freelancer and squeezing as much out of the creative juju still left in my rapidly aging brain before it all turned to mush. Only to be revitalized in 2015 when a certain orange abomination threatened to destroy -- and still does -- our American way of life.

You'd also have thought that I would be Mad Men curious given one of my former partners, Josh Weltman, was a consulting producer on the show. And my one time Voice Over pal, Joel Murray, had a recurring role on the show. But again, I never watched too much TV in 2007 and was laser focused on staying out of a dirty nursing home in my golden years.

Now? I'm hooked.

I got into the ad industry in 1983 as a mailroom clerk. My entry was more like Peggy Olsen's and light years apart from Don Draper's. But much remained the same. In the early 80' s people smoked in their offices. The big wigs had bar carts with spirits in jagged Waterford decanters. And secretaries who would join them for late afternoon icy libations. And red hot libidinous activities.

Moreover, as a clerk who would push the damn cart around the entire office, I had access to the entire organization. And saw it in a way few people do. Traffic, Account, Research, Media and of course Creative, were all in my purview. I also had daily opportunities to open super secret intra-office memos.

Though I never did :)

I'm only halfway through the first season, so I'd appreciate no spoilers. I'd like to see where this all goes. Though, sadly we all know where it goes. Because at the turn of century, we saw the rise of the technologists and the sciencification of our industry. And with it, the fall of creativity.

The industry today bares no resemblance to the ad biz I knew. And is a gloomy anathema to the agency world Don Draper knew. 

In the wind

I have some good news and some that gets-stuck-in-my-throat news.

First the really good news. My MethHead neighbor is moving out. Last week his crappy house officially hit the MLS. Affording me a unique visual opportunity to see how he and his "LOSER" brother have been living all these years. 

By way of a short recap I will relay some of the unneighborly behavior that has fueled my antipathy for this Culver City miscreant who one neighbor described, literally, as "The Cancer of the Neighborhood." You see I'm not the only one who has had nasty encounters with this man, who is perpetually angry. And who kept the weirdest hours, often running power equipment in his garage -- with the door open -- at 3 in the morning. 

Additionally, he would often set off industrial grade fireworks from his driveway, setting off car alarms and inducing a chorus of dogs wailing through the night.

Speaking of dogs, he had a Malinois (French for Bad Noise) who lived outside and BARKED outside, less than 50 feet from my bedroom window. And did so 24/7/366.

Back in 2014 I ventured over there and spoke to his mother (that's right, this man of 60 years old and his older brother lived with their mother) and politely asked if they could do anything about the excessive noise. Her pungent two word response from the mother of the Cancer of the Neighborhood was, "Fuck off."

Lest you think I'm overstating the malignancy, here's a short video captured on my Ring Camera of said Tumor and his rancorous mutt walking by my house in the wee hours of the night...

I haven't even mentioned the potato guns he and his childhood friend used to shoot at houses, the firecrackers he tossed at a teenage girl who just got her driver's license, or the rock salt he would sprinkle on lawns of folks he didn't see eye to eye with. 

But, as I often tell Ms. Muse, this guy (a die hard Trumper) is his own worst punishment. He is a miserable fuck who has to live with a miserable fuck 24 hours a day. Oh and his brother.

Adios MethHead!

As it is, I would have been rid of him anyway. Because the other news, as I've teased in the past few blogs, is I'm moving too. The house I've lived in, built, and turned into a special home, for the past 34 years, has become too big for me. There are empty rooms that once reverberated with the joy of two little girls and my late wife. 

It haunts me. And it comforts me. I can love it and I can hate it.

Also, the traffic, the density and the ambient noise of the westside has become too much. My doctor and my financial advisor have both suggested a change. And so, within the next month, I will be relocating to bucolic Eastern Pasadena, a stone's throw from even more bucolic Sierra Madre, home of Ms. Muse. 

Change is hard. But change is also good.

Both can be true at the same time. 

 

Keep calm and carry on

I know King Charles is a busy man. Between his royal duties and, most recently, feigning enthusiasm  and grace while spending 4 days with the most insufferable basket-cockle on Earth, it has to have taken its toll. However I am happy to announce in three weeks the king, I should say delegates of his majesty, will bestow upon me, my rightful and legally binding citizenship of the realm.

Some R17 readers know, but most don't, as readership here has dropped in concurrence with my retirement, that close to two years ago I began a journey to claim my dual citizenship. You see I am first generation American and me mum was born in wee bonnie Scotland.

Seeing how this country is falling apart at the seams and could be one or two pogroms away from scapegoating anyone from my father's Hebraic family tree or for that matter anyone taking photographs of seashells on a beach, I thought it be a good idea to have an escape hatch. Hence my pursuit of official recognition with all its attendant benefits, of British citizenry.

Between gathering proper documentation, filling out online applications which are steeped in a bureaucratic language that does not resemble the Queen's tongue, email mishaps, and a local consulate that has no sense of urgency, it has not been easy. 

Nor inexpensive. 

Months ago I was shown an official certificate of acceptance. However, and perhaps due to their unfamiliarity with semitic surnames, they misspelled my last name as S I E G A L. It cost me $600 to have that re-issued. Which I still have not received. 

Three weeks from now I will don my Sunday Best, my one-suit-fits-all formal ceremonies and make way to the British Consulate in the Larchmont area near Mid Wilshire. I was not given any advance warning of a test or any requirements of knowledge pertaining to the Magna Carta, General Montgomery or proper etiquette at a formal tea. Nevertheless...

"I'll take 17th Century British Bluebood for 1000, Alex."

Once completed, I will re-engage my contacts with the UK office of Citizenship and embark on my pursuit of a British Passport. 

In light of all this and in recognition of the wit and wisdom of my ex-Team One mates, I will thereafter take a pronoun and suggest I be addressed as Sir Richard of Culvershire. 

Cheerio.

A short stroll

Spotted this photo on my Facebook feed. It sparked a vivid memory. I know exactly where this photo was taken because I had passed it so many times in my youth.

I apologize in advance for this fit of nostalgia. 

Memories have been flooding my mind as of late and will continue to as I move through the next month. I'm moving. Downsizing but not downgrading. From the house I raised a family in, to a smaller more manageable abode in the Foothills/Pasadena area. If you watch the TV show Shrinking, you'll know why. More on that at a later date.

For now let's concentrate on the Route 17 (pictured above) and the many, many bungalow colonies in the Monticello area.

We stayed at a place called Kolomer's Korner, which later became Freed's Bungalow Colony. Don't bother looking for it listed among the signs, because it isn't up there. Indicating the very low position it had amongst the plethora of ritzier shacks held together with rubber bands and rusty nails recycled from the 19th century.

My parents could not afford the one bedroom abode we rented for the summer, so they went in on it together with my uncle Sam and his two kids. Three adults --although the men stayed in the city to work midweek -- and 5 kids, ages 2-10. 

Did I mention the one tiny shared bathroom? 

Sounds miserable, right? But as a kid who had known nothing but cement, honking horns, fatal hot dog water, low level mafioso characters/neighbors, and 8 million ornery New York City dwellers, it was heaven. A Swiss mountain enclave just 100 miles north of Manhattan.

There was a pool. There was an ice cream truck that came around late afternoon. There was a pack of bratty but-too-poor-to-be-spoiled kids. 

And there was a camp. 

My pirate-imitating ginger brother is easy to spot. The rest of us, not so much.

There's no point to this hazy walk down memory lane. But then again, as Buddha teaches us, what's the point of anything? Oh wait, that's Nietzsche. 

I think the Nietzsches' were in Bungalow 24A.

Questions abound

Finished a book last week. I know that shouldn't seem newsworthy -- and it's not -- but you'd be surprised how many half read books I have laying about. And because a friend and former colleague mistakenly believes I have an opinion worth listening to, I also have his new screenplay on my computer.

You might have noticed that I've taken the time to photograph Christoper Hitchen's Mortality booklette right next to an old Andy Award. I found it during my most recent round of Döstädning, Swedish Death Cleaning.

The connection may be too on the nose, but after I showed the award to my daughters, now employed in the current dismal industry of Advertising, its headed right for the Culver City recycle bin. 

I can only assume the heavy head (probably made from a melted down chassis strut of a 1962 Pontiac) is worth something on the scrap metal market. Certainly more than it means to me now. 

Back to Mortality. 

As readers of this blog know I'm a big fan of the Hitch. His eloquent debunking of religion, all religion but particularly the pugilistic Abrahamic ones, has always resonated with me. Perhaps that has spurred my new interest in Buddhism.

Or perhaps the testament to his battle with esophagal cancer struck a chord in this 68 year old man who can literally count the grains of sand left in my timer. Not to get all morbid on you or to infer my health is anything but excellent, however, if I'm going to embrace the Eastern notion of impermanence, I have to be brutally honest about my own.

If you're familiar with Hitchens (and you should be) or have seen him in speaking engagements on YouTube, you know he can be combative. And self deprecating. And funny. Surprisingly funny for a man seated at that great saloon of Life and seconds away from Last Call.

In one telling passage, he recalls the failing of his voice. An unmistakable voice with its own cadence and its hammer-like impact. He curses the disease that has robbed him of his stage. But takes refuge in his lasting ability to put words on the written page. In essence, that is his identity.

He fights to the very end. It's admirable and inspiring. And I don't inspire easily.

When the time comes, I plan to put up my dukes as well. I just need to find a way to square that with the Buddhist image of myself being a leaf floating down a river. 

How do leaves fight?

  

Auto Focus

It's time for the Thursday Photo Funnies, brought to you prematurely because, well, I'm retired and have no sense whatsoever about this new older person time continuum.

Unlike the past, this week's edition also contains photos that were found on my desktop computer. In other words not necessarily from my daily walks around Culver City and soon East Pasadena (more on that at a later date.)

Without further ado, let's get to it. There are lots of pics and I have a dentist's appointment today with Dr.  Sadistberg.

This was snapped at the Montrose Shopping Mart. 

A quaint little area near Glendale

that features a self-admitted Dive Bar.

On particularly clear days I will walk to the local Trader Joes and

ascend to the roof for incomparable views of the local mountains.

The elevator has a glass wall and I love watching

my dog try to make sense of the movement. 

It should be noted that I lack some tech savvy with my iPhone,

which will often take pictures on its own.

Most of them suck, this one I liked.

Ms. Muse and I worked together 38 years ago (another lifetime) 

at Bozell Advertising. 

This was curmudgeonly Creative Director/Mensch/Ad Legend

who hired me -- Hy Yablonka. 

From a stunning wedding at a Catholic School right at the Foothills.

Two things I want to live long enough for: the demise of the Orange One 

and walking down the aisle with one of my beautiful daughters. 🤞

Speaking of the Foothills, I spotted this at a local off ramp.

Zoom in for the full unwelcome effect.

The Culver City Transportation Department could use an editor.

The word Parking and the diagram would have sufficed.

This Fat Fuck picked up where Warren Jeffs, the FLDS Pedophile, not to

be confused with our POTUS Pedophile, left off. God, I hate cultists.

Watch Trust Me, The False Prophet. #Netflix

This picture was taken at 10 PM, well past sunset.

I accidentally left the aperture open too long.

I mentioned I was not iPhone savvy, right?

My photojournalistic tour of locales used in the show Shrinking, continues.

This is a screen grab of Gabby coming out of T. Boyles, 

a hole in the wall sports bar that appeals to my dormant Eastern sensibilities.

I don't remember why this is in my photo collection. Suffice it say,

it bears a remarkable resemblance to my very first motorcycle that I drove in 1982.

You can read more about it at: https://roundseventeen.blogspot.com/2010/03/rain-on-me.html