ORRIN, ORRIN. ORRIN, CAN YOU HEAR ME?

("Sir, the Japanese already surrendered.")

It's Thursday Thrashing.

Letter #17.

This one goes out to the very honorable Senator Orrin Hatch, who once said Precedent Shitgibbon may be the greatest president in the history of the United States. You know once you get past the Russian election interference, the obstruction of justice, the budget busting, the swampy corruption, the attacks on the free press, the emoluments violations, the misogyny, the racism, the shady finances and the porn star banging.

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5.31.18

Senator Orrin Hatch

104 Hart Office Building

Washington, DC 20510

Dear Orrin,

First let me say that in deference to your somewhat advanced age (84) I have decided to write this letter using extremely large type. I didn't do that for any of the Republican US Senators I have been writing letters to and as letter #17, I hope you will appreciate the gesture.

Similarly, I'm not here to berate you. As I might have done with some of your colleagues. Maybe. Just a little.

In fact, while researching your biography I found, much to my disappointment, that you plan to retire in January of 2019. It's my sincere hope that I can get you to rethink that decision. 

Our country finds itself facing many, many dilemmas: corruption, campaign finance abuse, foreign intervention into our elections, and a blinding lack of moral clarity. Now, more than ever, we need energetic, fresh-thinking, 84 year old problem-solvers like yourself.

Stay Senator, stay.

Remember last week (perhaps one of your aides could jog your memory) when the FBI and the Department of Justice turned over classified information to congressional leaders and proved there were no spies implanted in the Trump campaign? Who could forget your fiery speech and impassioned defense of the Rule of Law? 

Stay Senator, stay.

Remember when our own president had a hissy fit on live TV when he found out that law enforcement agents, with warrants in hand, raided the offices of Michael Cohen, and called our brave men and women in blue, "storm troopers" and described the incident as "an attack on our country." And again, you could not wheel yourself to a microphone fast enough to stand beside the people sworn to our safety and security. It was inspiring.

Stay Senator, stay.

And of course there was Charlottesville. That's in Virginia, one of the original 13 colonies. A young woman lost her life there. She was mowed down by an alt. right, Neo Nazi, one of the "very fine people" who was there to exercise his 1st Amendment right. But you, Mr. Hatch, would have none of that. History will long remember your principled filibuster in the halls of Congress, wherein you demanded our President retract and apologize for such a disgraceful characterization of this hideous murder. Your courageous stand will be written about in textbooks, discussed in classrooms and held up as shining example of steely leadership and American exceptionalism.

Stay Senator, stay.

I took the trouble to further research the menu at the Senate Commissary and was shocked to discover they don't have any offerings designed for 84 year olds. Many items require cutting and chewing. A man with your distinguished service should have the option of softer, less arduous foods. It would be my honor to send you a Magic Bullitt Blender that can "blend, liquefy, mix, grate and grind." 

In short, if you'll continue to provide this nation with the responsible stewardship that has become the signature of the Republican Party, I'll happily provide the means to puree your next plate of liver and onions.

Stay Senator, stay.

Best regards,

Rich Siegel

siegelrich@mac.com

Culver City, CA 90232

HELLO ORRIN. ORRIN. CAN YOU HEAR ME, ORRIN?

("Sir, the Japanese already surrendered.")

It's Thursday Thrashing.

Letter #17.

This one goes out to the very honorable Senator Orrin Hatch, who once said Precedent Shitgibbon may be the greatest president in the history of the United States. You know once you get past the Russian election interference, the obstruction of justice, the budget busting, the swampy corruption, the attacks on the free press, the emoluments violations, the misogyny, the racism, the shady finances and the porn star banging.

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

5.31.18

Senator Orrin Hatch

104 Hart Office Building

Washington, DC 20510

Dear Orrin,

First let me say that in deference to your somewhat advanced age (84) I have decided to write this letter using extremely large type. I didn't do that for any of the Republican US Senators I have been writing letters to and as letter #17, I hope you will appreciate the gesture.

Similarly, I'm not here to berate you. As I might have done with some of your colleagues. Maybe. Just a little.

In fact, while researching your biography I found, much to my disappointment, that you plan to retire in January of 2019. It's my sincere hope that I can get you to rethink that decision. 

Our country finds itself facing many, many dilemmas: corruption, campaign finance abuse, foreign intervention into our elections, and a blinding lack of moral clarity. Now, more than ever, we need energetic, fresh-thinking, 84 year old problem-solvers like yourself.

Stay Senator, stay.

Remember last week (perhaps one of your aides could jog your memory) when the FBI and the Department of Justice turned over classified information to congressional leaders and proved there were no spies implanted in the Trump campaign? Who could forget your fiery speech and impassioned defense of the Rule of Law? 

Stay Senator, stay.

Remember when our own president had a hissy fit on live TV when he found out that law enforcement agents, with warrants in hand, raided the offices of Michael Cohen, and called our brave men and women in blue, "storm troopers" and described the incident as "an attack on our country." And again, you could not wheel yourself to a microphone fast enough to stand beside the people sworn to our safety and security. It was inspiring.

Stay Senator, stay.

And of course there was Charlottesville. That's in Virginia, one of the original 13 colonies. A young woman lost her life there. She was mowed down by an alt. right, Neo Nazi, one of the "very fine people" who was there to exercise his 1st Amendment right. But you, Mr. Hatch, would have none of that. History will long remember your principled filibuster in the halls of Congress, wherein you demanded our President retract and apologize for such a disgraceful characterization of this hideous murder. Your courageous stand will be written about in textbooks, discussed in classrooms and held up as shining example of steely leadership and American exceptionalism.

Stay Senator, stay.

I took the trouble to further research the menu at the Senate Commissary and was shocked to discover they don't have any offerings designed for 84 year olds. Many items require cutting and chewing. A man with your distinguished service should have the option of softer, less arduous foods. It would be my honor to send you a Magic Bullitt Blender that can "blend, liquefy, mix, grate and grind." 

In short, if you'll continue to provide this nation with the responsible stewardship that has become the signature of the Republican Party, I'll happily provide the means to puree your next plate of liver and onions.

Stay Senator, stay.

Best regards,

Rich Siegel

siegelrich@mac.com

Culver City, CA 90232

Confessions of a dog lover

I love dogs. I really do.

If I didn't I wouldn't have spent months combing the websites of local shelters looking to bring just the right dog back into our lives. And fortunately we have found the right one.

But what I really love are quiet dogs.

And not the ones that live on seemingly all sides of my house. They bark. They bark loudly. And they bark at all kinds of inconvenient times of the day. Like 1:30 at night when I've fallen asleep. And at 5 AM when I want to stay asleep.

This dilemma has sent me to back to the internet. This time to find someone or something that can put an end to this auditory waterboarding.

That journey took me all the way to China.
And the website of a company called Nice Stuff.

After 6 weeks of customs, complicated Chinese Trade regulations and all manner of asshattery produced by the bumbling Shitgibbon administration, I'm happy to say my Training Dog Banish Dog Maching Device has arrived.

I'm looking forward to giving the Training Dog Banish Dog Maching Device a whirl.

But only after I stop laughing at the enclosed instruction manual, which I will partially enclose for your smile time happy amusement.

That time we were filming on a porno set

Today's post has a little bit of everything: celebrity-adjacency, pornography, self promotion and tangy lime chile sauce.

It begins last Thursday when I decided to walk my dog over the California Grooming, best pet groomers west of the Delaware River. My dog Lucy had been shedding like an alpaca in heat. The hair had been clumping up in corners all along our hardwood floor. It had gotten so thick it was choking our poor little Roomba™.

As I was about to enter the little store on Overland Ave, just an 1/8 of a mile from my home, there was a man approaching from the south with two large Aussie Shepherds. That man was none other than Joel Murray, Bill's younger brother seen on the right.

"Hey, I know you."

"You do?"

"We worked together. Years ago. You did the voiceover for our El Pollo Loco commercials."

"Oh hell yeah. I remember those. That was a fun campaign. What happened to that?"

It was at that point our dogs started growling and nipping at each other and I didn't get to elaborate on the unexplainable fuckwadian stupidity that governs the boardrooms of corporations all across this once great nation.

I won't bore you with the story, but I will take this opportunity to beat my chest. Because in the ONE year that we had El Pollo Loco, our work resulted in a 13.1% annual sales increase. Plus or minus all those other accounting terms like EBITDA, amortization, cost of doing business, etc, etc. 13.1%!!!, and yet they decided they'd rather work with some hacky boutique shop in Torrance.

And yes, I realize the words boutique and Torrance have no business being in the same sentence.

Even more amazing is how we got to such stellar results. You see after we won the account, we were told the production budget for the entire year was little more than $250, 000. Moreover, because of the constant need to promote specials and menu items, El Pollo Loco needed to be on the air all the time.

Fast forward to my partner John Shirley and I at the studio of Terry Heffernan, one of the best food shooters in the business, at his spacious studio in Potrero Hill in San Francisco. There, we spent 36 hours shooting chickens and chickens parts on Fire Department approved indoor grills.

In between MEDIUM TIGHT SHOT LEGS and THIGHS and EXTREME TIGHT SHOT BREASTS, Terry took the opportunity to point out the rather large and vibrantly painted green door at the back of the studio. He went on to tell us that this was the very studio where the famous Mitchell Bros. shot Marylin Chambers in her 1972 porn classic Behind the Green Door. (Don't forget to scrub your browser history)

Anyway, with an entire library of chicken-on-a-grill footage, this is where the talented Mr. Murray comes in. The writing staff at Y&R, myself included, wrote hundreds of scripts. And Joel Murray, younger brother of Bill, recorded close to 75 spots, most of which aired during Jeopardy.

Sadly, those spots are buried in a storage locker somewhere in Pacoima.

But I did take the time to re-record some of the scripts when I was pursuing, naively, a career in voiceover work.

I still get a kick out of this incredibly simple but effective work that despite its poor resolution still holds up today.

Exit through the Gift Shop

You know me.

I can be pretty damn resourceful.
And persistent.
And relentless to a fault.

Last week, the interwebs were abuzz with word of a commemorative coin honoring Precedent Shitgibbon and Supreme Leader Kim Jung Un for their upcoming (?) historic summit. I had to have one of these beautifully minted coins and so I did what I think anyone would do, I wrote to the White  House Gift Shop.

Please note I purposely misspelled the North Korean leader's name. Why? Because I could and because writing the word Dung to a White House official seemed funny to me. That's why.

You can imagine my shock when Ms. Allen, who does not want her face shown on linkedin -- in fact, none of the employees at the White House Gift Shop want their pictures shown -- responded to my email.

It isn't everyday that I get a response to one of my many emails, texts and letters. In fact, it's never. So I wasn't about to let this go.

Did I say I got a response from the White House? I'm sorry, I meant to say I got multiple responses from the White House.

And of course, since I have nothing better to do with my life than to troll the White House Gift Shop, the most powerful gift shop on the planet, I felt it was time to expand my wish list.

I am still waiting on Rachel's response. In case you're curious, here is the jacket I am referring to. 

And while it may to late to obtain for this upcoming father's day, my birthday is coming in February and there's plenty of time to make my 44th birthday extra special.

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UPDATE: Yesterday I received an unexpected late response from Rachel Allen, the Director of the White House Gift Shop. Which as you can imagine, thrilled me to no end. 

I hope to continue these adventures in White House Gift Shop Chain Yanking. Here is my extremely deferential response. If she writes back to me again, my head might explode.

The Ass in Sasse

Thursday Thrashing Letter #15.

Meet Senator Ben Sasse. A PhD from Yale as well as a degree from Harvard.

Arguably the smartest man in the US Senate and also one of the most despicable.

Get in the barrel, Ben.

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

5.24.18

Senator Ben Sasse

B40E Dirksen Senate Building

Washington DC 20510

Dear Sassy,

Congratulations, you are letter #15 in my ongoing campaign to handwrite letters to each and every one of the Republican United States Senators.

It's my general understanding that you, Senator, are one of the good ones. And by that, I mean I am employing extreme relativism. It's as if I were being given a choice to pick up dog shit at a kennel.

Would I choose the 110 lbs. St. Bernard that almost fainted while depositing his breakfast, lunch and dinner, and gave birth to a promising sinkhole?

Or, would I opt for the constipated Chihuahua that really is nothing more that a rat in a dog suit?

You sir, are the rodentially-related Chihuahua.

You may be asking, "What have I done to deserve such antagonism?" For that, let us turn to the pages of Exodus and the Hebrew's celebration of their passage, whereupon one son turns to his father before the ceremonial Passover meal and says,

"What makes this day different from any other?" (OK, he says night but let's look at the bigger picture shall we?)

Because on this day, your president, your Commander in Chief, the head of your political party has launched a scorched Earth attack on our Justice Department and the FBI. The likes of which this world has never seen.

He has undercut and undermined one of the cherished institutions that has served this nation (unlike our bone spurs impaired leader) protected this nation and put in place the guardrails that keep our democracy on track.

And you, Sassy McSassy have said and done nothing.

NOTHING!!!

Even more appalling is the fact that you are a graduate of Harvard University. And a doctorate in History from Yale University. You are a man of Letters and yet you choose to ignore your checks and balances responsibilities and enable this authoritarian to run roughshod over our Constitution.

You know better.

I know you know better.

Your constituents in Nebraska know better. Ok, maybe they don't. They're still trying to figure out how the expansion strap on the back of their MAGA cap works.

There can be only one explanation for your non-response.

You want to get re-elected. You want to get re-elected so bad that you are willing to ignore your senatorial responsibilities, the oath you took and all manner of common decency just so you can go back to your cushy job in DC.

Are the Monte Cristo sandwiches at the Senate commissary that good?

You are what we in the corporate world call a Careerist. You've put your ambitions, your cravenness and your political aspirations above all else. Moreover you've done it at a time when our nation desperately needs backbone and fortitude.

At this point in the letter, as I have done with the previous 14, I normally craft some kind of funny, stinging crescendo of a paragraph that mellifluously trips off the tongue and amuses both the letter recipient as well as the 20,000 readers of my blog where all the letters are reprinted every Thursday. But today, my rage is running on the redline and will therefore issue you a special dispensation.

Instead, I'll leave you with this: 

Трахните тебя

Rich Siegel

siegelrich@mac.com

Culver City CA 90232

Confronting the Donald Trump in Me.

"We see in our nemesis the characteristics we most dislike in ourselves."

That's not an actual quote, but I'm sure I could find something similar in one of my daughter's Psych 101 textbook.

And as most of you know, or should know, there is no one in the world that I hate more than Donald J Shitgibbon. I can't even bring myself to say or write his name.

The sad truth is that I share more with this frothy codswallop than I care to admit.

His mother was from Scotland.
My mother was from Scotland.
We are both first generation American.

(I'm going to humbly suggest that my mother, on the right, fared better in the Scottish DNA lottery.)

He was raised in Queens, NY.
I was raised in Queens, NY.
Our apartment was literally within walking distance to his shitty little Tudor house.

And, perhaps most importantly, we're both cursed with an annoying predisposition towards brutal honesty.

Mine is fact based, his is alternative-fact based.

All of this commonality is intertwined. Again, if I were to go back and skim through one of my daughter's textbooks, much of it has to do with NYC itself. We are after all a product of our environment. And NYC has a certain effect on people.

Captain Fuckknuckle, for instance, goes through life unfiltered. He never takes in or processes new information, he simply opens his mouth and spews whatever is sent down from the amygdala.

I had the very same affliction. That is until I got married. I still slip up on occasion, but I have a filter. And she reads this blog. And she stops me from saying or writing stupid things.

For the most part.

The other thing NYC does, is it beats you up. It turns everything into a fight. Getting a cab. Getting a raise. Getting an apartment. It breeds a gladiator mentality. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with being a warrior. I am saying that it can be taken to harmful and detrimental extremes.

"That bucket of KFC chicken doesn't stand a chance. Believe me."

Thankfully, our paths diverged. Mostly because he was born with silver mining company in his mouth. When I graduated college I had $106 to my name. I used that money to buy a one way ticket to Los Angeles. Where I acquired and nurtured attributes NYC never bestowed upon that fat sack of diseased camel haggis.

Like empathy.

Discipline.

And modesty.

OK, I'm still working on the modesty.


UPDATE: Just realized we share something else in common — heel spurs. Mine acquired from running, including many marathons and 10k races. His, from those two years he spent as Captain of his bowling league team.

Are you high?

Never in my life did I think that weed and work would meet at the corner of Invoice Blvd. and Paycheck Avenue.

Let's back the VW bus a bit.

During my high school and college days, it would have been impossible or at least a rare day when "I wasn't holding" or that I didn't go to work high. Being stoned definitely took the edge off the many menial jobs I held to stave off the bursar from Syracuse University.

When I was stuffing tacos, I was stoned.

When I was mowing yards, I was stoned.

When I was digging ditches, I was stoned.

When I was bartending, I was stoned. (and drunk)

When I was driving a forklift, I was stoned.

When I was babysitting, I was stoned. Come on, those bratty kids were already sleeping, there was one TV, with 5 channels, and the couch was all lumpy and had a spring bursting through the cushion.

Then I grew up and started applying my oversized nose to the grindstone. I stopped cold turkey. The corporate world of advertising was no place for recreational drugs, I naively believed.

Fast forward to 2018 and weed has been NORMLized.

Not only decriminalized but legalized in many states, including my own, California. Not only is their a dispensary on every corner. There's a billboard, outdoor transit board and a bus shelter poster advertising for every dispensary on every corner.

It's all over the place.

A couple of months ago I fielded a job inquiry from a cannabis company that had been reading RoundSeventeen and was interested in having me write for their super-dank niche blog. That opportunity went up in smoke when they heard my day rate.

Even my barter-reduced day rate.

More recently, there's a company right here in Culver City looking to add a VP Creative Director to the staff. As I've stated on many occasion, I'm not looking for a staff thing.

However as a student and self professed master of the meta-arts, I am intrigued about the possibility of getting paid to get high. And, even more intriguing, is the notion of getting high and writing about getting high.

Oh and getting paid as well.

Worker Bees Available.

I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse.

Summer is almost upon us.
Which means my two daughters will also be upon us.

One a senior at the University of Colorado majoring in media arts/production/planning (to be honest I don't even know her exact major.)  The other will be returning home from the University of Washington with a useless, but hardly inexpensive BS degree in her hand.

The point is I'm going to have two energetic college kids on my hand.

And frankly I'd rather they be on your hands. At least for some part of the day. In other words, they need a job.

There's a good possibility one, or both, have already reached out to you. I've already begun to leverage my vast network of contacts throughout Southern California. But, as I've tried to impress upon my girls, you don't knock on one door you knock on a thousand.

Or, you have your father go begging on his blog.

So this is for all you folks out there at the ad agencies I might have toiled at in the past (I'm 44 so that would be EVERY ONE of them.) The production houses with their pantries full of swag. The edit facilities, music suppliers, PR agencies, direct clients, any one.

Please hire one of my kids. And pay them well, because their expensive boba drinks and acai smoothies are going to put me in the poorhouse.

They will do anything -- my words not theirs. They'll answer phones. They'll make coffee. They'll process invoices (hopefully some of mine). They'll do anything you want them to, well don't ask them to clean the bathroom. I haven't figured that one out yet.

The point is that in addition to being funny, personable and charming (inherited from their mother) they're incredibly industrious. They have the Siegel work ethic and will not stop until the job is done.

And done well.

I understand how this posting may look like helicopter parenting. I assure you it's not. They have been making the phone calls. They've been sending out the inquiries. They've been pounding the pavement and doing the interviews.

This is less about me doing the groundwork for them. And more about preserving my sanity.

If these two don't get out of my house I may be forced to go back to a staff job.

And no one wants that.

The Ass in Barasso

You've seen the face.

Today, you will meet the man.

Letter #15 in my Thursday Thrashing Series.

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5.17.18

Senator John Barasso

307 Dirksen Senate Office Building
Washington, DC 20510

Dear John,

It's safe to say, Senator Barasso, that of all the 52 Republican US Senators (I'm  penning handwritten letters to all of them) you are my favorite.

You are my favorite because you clearly subscribe to the theory that Republican Senators are like children and "should be seen, not heard." 

In fact, during the past two years where I have been following your "career" I have yet to hear you utter one word. In essence, making you the harmless skin tag on the back of Mitch McConnell's flappy neck.

For those unacquainted -- and I suspect that number runs in the millions -- I offer the following:

It can hardly be an accident that every time Mitch spots an open microphone and a TV camera, you are there at his side. 

Stoic. Silent. And dare I say, useless. 

By the way, if you wanted to use that as your next re-election slogan, it's yours for the taking. I suspect that platform would appeal to the mouthbreathers of Wyoming, where you currently serve.

In fact, if your Wikipedia page is correct you started serving Wyomingites in 2002, when you were elected and ran un-opposed. You won again in 2006. And again you were unopposed.

One can only conclude that the good folks in Wyoming are proud of their political apathy and inaction. In which case, They have found their cardboard cutout....er....man.

Your lack of leadership, inability to move the ball forward and remarkable capacity for standing behind other white men in poorly tailored suits serves to inspire others, others who dream of wielding great power while sucking freely on the teat of taxpayer revenue.

I salute you Senator John Barasso. 

You saw the Peter Principle, and unwilling to accept it at face value, have come to redefine it for generations of Congressional abusers to come. 

Best,

Rich Siegel

Culver City

siegelrich@mac.com

PS. Your Wiki page also mentions that you attended Georgetown University. Hoyas Suck. Go Orange!!!

All Aboard

If you've turned on your TV lately, and I have because the NBA playoffs are in full swing, you might have noticed what I have noticed.

Companies are hopping on the Apology Train. And by that I mean they're spending millions of dollars to hang their heads in shame rather than to sell products.

Of course, I'm not that naive and believe they're doing a little of both.

Uber, for instance has a new CEO. He's all over the airwaves walking back the egregious behavior of his predecessor. And trying to white wash the predatory behavior of some of his homegrown horny drivers.

I'd give you his name but like so many power forwards in today's NBA, he comes from one of those little annoying countries East of the Rhine. I say annoying because their shape defies any geographic sense. I can't remember them. And the residents have names that are impossible to spell as well as pronounce.

Also, why are they always fighting each other other? They're like the Hatfieldroviches and McCoystrowiczes of Southern Europe.

The Wells Fargo people are also on TV saying they're sorry.

Their apology ad is a big, badass production. It's old school advertising. With big budgets, a cinematic look and a huge cast. They can afford it. My understanding is that the 6 largest banks in America each pocketed 600 million in savings from the new Republican tax cuts that were intended to put extra scheckels in the pockets of working class Americans. I guess bankers have blue collared shirts as well so that qualifies them to eat at the big Shitgibbon trough.

And finally, there's a head hanging ad from the good folks at Facebook.  Who are in full apologia-mode for absconding your personal info, selling it to big data companies, who in turn turned it over to Russian intelligence officers so they could steal the last presidential election which promises to ignite World War III and hurl us into an apocalyptic dystopia.

No big deal.

Nothing a good 60 second ad can't fix.

Let your freak flag fly

I'll give you, the faithful readers of RoundSeventeen, fair warning.

We are now officially in the home stretch. My oldest daughter is about to graduate from the University of Washington in a matter of weeks. That degree did not come easy. And I'm not talking about the hours of classes, the endless labs, and the mountain of thesis papers she had to write.

I'm referring to the obscene out-of-state tuition I had to shell out for four long years. So this graduation is not only hers. It's mine. And you can be sure I'm gonna get my money's worth out of it.

With a flurry of UDUB postings.

It begins here.

If any of you are parents, or you're going to be parents, or even if you're friends with folks who are growing a family, you know there are motherhood manuals up the ying yang. Or up the Placental Canal as the case may be.

There's very little however for dad's.

Oh there might be books for young fathers about What to Expect When You're Expecting, but let's face it, we're not gonna read that crap. Particularly if LeBron is staging a fourth quarter comeback or Tiger is going for another green jacket.

Daddyhood, I found, is a self taught occupation. And one of the things I've learned, particularly as a father of two girls, is that it's my job to embarrass them whenever possible. I mean thoroughly embarrass.

I've talked with other fathers, practiced in the art of sticking restaurant straws up the nose and guerrilla Facebook postings on errant open laptops, and this is our duty. It's one I take seriously.

To wit, the picture above.

That's an official 3 foot by 5 foot University of Washington Flag. Or as I call it 15 square feet of prime purple and gold humiliation, flying proudly above my front porch.

Naturally I didn't just hoist this mammoth flag for all of Culver City to see, I snapped a bunch of photos and texted it to my daughter so she could witness my handiwork.

"Ewwwwwwwwwwwwww"

"Take it down."

"That's so embarrassing."

Followed by a string of expletives to indicate her absolute mortification.

Mission Accomplished. And I have just begun.

Blood Sweat & Toils

The good news is: It's busy again.
The bad news is: It's busy again.

Don't get me wrong. This is not me complaining. Not in the least. I couldn't be more thrilled that, after a spotty spring spell, the phone has started ringing again. Even better, the work is coming from newer, unexpected sources. And by that I mean it's coming directly from the clients. Three direct projects in the past two months.

Sorry, big holding companies, but you guys blew it. I'm not saying what everybody doesn't already know. But the sweatshop hours, the long tables of mediocrity, and the bottom line mentality that each and every marketing problem must be solved in 24 hours has put your business model in a deep, deep hole.

And by the way, I'm not sure the solution is, "Hey, let's hire another ECD."

As a result big companies are turning to people like me. People who get the brief. Who understand the business challenge. Who bring years of experience to the table. Who know a 30 script should be no longer than 3/4 of a page in length. Who get digital because a.) it's not rocket science and b.) even if it were rocket science we'd at least know how to spell it.

For realz.

In short, we're happy to take the money. That is if we can get to it. This is where things get difficult.

You see the challenge with working directly with clients means working indirectly with their third party Accounts Payable folks. And they all seem to have one.

It begins with a mound of paperwork that would put a US passport application to shame.

I once filled out a 56 page document that defied the heartiest of staplers and required one of those big black nipple pinching devices. They wanted everything from my address, my social security number, my proof of residency and even the transcript form my junior year in college, when I embarrassingly failed Calculus 595, Rotational Differential Equations in 3 Dimensional Space. 

I was prepared to hand over my 23andme results and provide a blood sample. It was that exhaustive.

That's just the first hurdle.
In fact, it's the easy one.

When the work is done there's the not insignificant task of figuring out the invoicing. And again, because each client is different, each has their own unique process. And when I say process, of course I mean they don't have one.

There are forms.
There are pdf's.
And then there is the online timesheet template which appears to have been designed in Eastern Europe by some dimwitted Serbs who dropped out of Coding school so they could join a militia, drink beer and kick some ass.

But let me reiterate, I am not complaining.

This is the cost of doing business in 2018. And I am more than willing to pay it. Particularly if it means I don't have to endure another dressing down by a 27 year old Assistant Planner and former chapter president of the USC Kappa Kappa Gamma house,

"I like the spot, I'm just not sure it captures the essence of the original pan pizza."

Senator Cornholio

You people kill me.

Just when I think interest is fading in my continuing series of handwritten letters to all the Republican US Senators I start receiving a flood of direct emails telling me to get back on my high horse and resume the flogging.

I even had one reader suggest I compile all the letters in a nicely bound book.

Considering the flat sales of my previous three books (all available on Amazon.com) I can tell you that will not be happening.

So please enjoy today's letter to Senator John Cornholio (Cornyn) from the great state of Texas.

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5.10.18

Senator Cornholio

517 Hart Senate Office Bldg

Washington DC, 20510

Dear Senator Cornholio,

I'm sorry.

I shouldn't refer to you like that. It's juvenile. It's base. And it's simply not fitting for a United States Senator. You'd think that in my mission to write letters to each and every one of the Republican US Senators (you're #14), I'd have gotten past those kind of sophomoric hijinx.

But, apparently I haven't . 

Plus, it doesn't help that every time you appear on TV, whether it's to fawn over Precedent Shitgibbon or to cower before Precedent Shitgibbon or even just to roll over on your belly and play submissive to Precedent Shitgibbon, I turn to my wife and refer to you as Senator Cornholio.

Again, I apologize.

Let's get to more meaty matters and talk about your significant achievements during your 16 year tenure and your current position as Senate Majority Whip. 

(DRAMATIC PAUSE TO INDICATE RIGOROUS RESEARCH)

I see you haven't really done much. An indication that like your useless Senate colleagues, you have found the perfect vocation in life.

But at least you look like a US Senator. 

There can be no denying that with your towering height, athletic physique and fine silvery hair, you are quite photogenic. Add to that, those gleaming white teeth and I think it's safe to say that you look like you came right out of Central Casting (please pardon the Jewish, elitist Hollywood reference.)

In fact, the more I think about you Senator Cornholio, the more it dawns on me that you are doppelganger for Senator Geary, who made his appearance at the beginning of Godfather II. 

                           
The resemblance is a little uncanny, wouldn't you agree? 

I'm sorry I had to compare you with such an oily, sticky-palmed greedy bastard like Senator Geary, who stupidly tried to extort Michael Corleone and the Italian Mafia for $250,000. 

Furthermore, and let me make this point perfectly clear, I am in no way insinuating that the mob, Italian or Russian, bailed your ass out of a jam when they found you in a brothel with a 16 year old, heroin-addicted prostitute.

I'm not saying that happened at all.

I am saying that I wouldn't be surprised if it does.

Best,

Rich Siegel

siegelrich@mac.com

Culver City, CA 90232

It's a Palace.

I don't make a habit of doing restaurant reviews. And for a very good reason.

If the food sucks I'm often too embarrassed to admit I ate there. And if the food is great, the last thing I want to do is tell the world and draw a crowd.

If there's one thing I hate --and as you know there are many things I hate -- it's waiting for a table at a restaurant. Sort of defeats the whole reason for eating out, doesn't it?

In any case, as my wife and I were driving home from our 5 mile hike along the beach, we drove by Playa Vista's Szechuan Palace, a place I love.

A place my wife won't set foot in.

"You should do a blog about that unappetizing hellhole, " she said.

Challenge accepted.

I'll be the first to admit the place lacks curb appeal. In fact the curb would appear to be saying, "don't even think about eating in this cement bunker." But the charm of Szechuan Palace lies elsewhere.

I first discovered SP 20 years ago, while in the steady employ of Chiat/Day, just a short jog down the road. My partner, John Shirley and I, would go there quite regularly. Maybe once a week. Our routine never varied, he would have the Mushu Pork and the Egg Drop Soup, I, having a more adventurous palate than my blond gentile friend, would opt for the Hot and Sour Soup and the Extra Spicy Kung Pao Chicken.

It never failed to impress John that I would eat those blazing red hot peppers that give the Kung Pao that extra Pow!

The price then (1998) was $6.95.
All in.
Including a huge tub of endless steamed white rice.

Times change, but the Palace doesn't.
Now I find myself going there with my partner Jean Robaire for the same lunch deal, price adjusted ever so slightly to $7.95.

The Kung Pao Chicken is still fiery hot. The soup is still watery. And the service is still gruff, terse and amazingly efficient. In other words, everything I look for in a Chinese Restaurant.

Let's be frank, I've had much better Chinese Food. I grew up in NYC and I come from a long line of Jewish Chinese Food aficionados. On the occasional Sunday night, my very-thrifty father would take us to an All You Can Eat Chinese Restaurant. My mother would literally line her purse with aluminum foil so that even after gorging ourselves and loosening our belts a notch or two, she could take home the extra egg roll. And, if it wasn't too wet, some Sweet & Sour Shrimp.

Like I said, the grub at the Palace is OK.

The service is unfriendly.

And the leatherette booths haven't smelt a whiff of Armor All since Reagan was president.

But if you take a seat at the back of restaurant, you can look out past the dirt parking lot onto the Ballona Wetlands.

And it makes for a great place for a bunch of 44 year old ad veterans to chow down, kibitz and rest our weary fat asses.

And sometimes that's enough.

On the costliness off bad timing

For those of you that don't know, and after a cursory look at the demographics of RoundSeventeen readers, I'm gonna assume that's 99.9% of you, that is a timing belt.

More specifically, it's the timing belt on a 3.5 liter V6 engine strapped inside my wife's 2009 Acura MDX.

I know this because last year, March of 2017, the silvery/grey beast, which had given us 90,000 not so carefree miles, required a new one. I also know, or have to come to assume, that replacing a timing belt is not like putting a slipped chain back on a bicycle, though the mechanical similarities are hard to ignore.

Indeed the process involves hydroponic remanipulation, extreme modification of the dorsal tachyon flow valve and of course, the tricky uncoupling of the aft trans-dimensional phaser shaft.

In English, that translates to $1957.83 worth of labor.

Writing out checks like that are always hard. But they're even harder when they're payable to car dealership service departments. Let's face the facts, these are not boy scouts (see yesterday's post.) When a car salesman on the showroom knocks $500 off the MSRP, the service manager's job, mission, really, is to recoup that $500 in lost profit any way they can.

I know this from experience. And I know it from working with car people in the ad business for more than 20 years, ever since I was 24.

Last week, I thought I'd seen it all.
But, of course, I hadn't.

The MDX was at the shop (Nissani Bros. Acura in Culver City), again. This time, for one of those merciful minor $119 service appointments. Imagine my surprise when the "service" technician called to tell me there were additional issues to be addressed.

"Yeah, we changed the oil, replaced the wiper blades, and flushed the brakes. But there's one problem."

"Isn't there always?" I replied.

"Looks like you need a new timing belt."

You think that volcano on the Big Island of Hawaii set off some fireworks? The phone practically melted in my hands.

"You mean the timing belt that we replaced last year with you pocket-pickers, needs to be replaced? Really?" 

When we went to retrieve the vehicle, the service manager came out to greet us. She tried to explain that the service technician made an error. He looked at the car's history on the computer and made what he thought was the appropriate diagnosis.

Silly me, I thought car repair estimates were not based on what was on the computer, but what was happening under the hood.

Now I find myself fighting with two automotive dealerships.

This is going to be a fun summer.