23andEsrati

Several years ago, I gave in to my curiosity and sent the good people at 23andme my $99 and a few good scrapes of inner cheek. Or maybe I just spit in a tube. I don't remember.

My results were not all that earth-shattering. They just confirmed what little I knew of my dysfunctional family history.

Although through the genetic testing I did discover a cousin on my father's side and my cousin's aunt. As well as few relatives on my mother's mysterious Scottish side, who love to laugh and drink but tend to remain  very quiet with regards to stories of uncles, cousins and fathers from the British Isle and even less about the ones who came over from Ireland.

Not that I could ever keep them straight. There's enough John, Paul, George and Jimmys to start a dozen British rock bands.

In any case, every few months or so, the 23andme people send me a new list of relatives. Most, if not all are distant cousins, descended in a longwinded way from a set of grandparents that go back 5 generations.

It's fascinating and it's frustrating. 

One time I was scanning the list of new relatives and stumbled upon a familiar last name. It was agency producer, from New York, who also happened to be one of my 2000+ Facebook friends. When I informed her of this odd connection she put me on mute and never wrote back. I suppose if I were in her shoes, I'd do the same.

Last week a new set of relatives popped up. Along with a name I had recognized from my linkedin list of connections. An advertising compatriot named David Esrati. His response was much warmer. Indeed we have been exchanging emails lately.

David, a fan of this blog, knew of of my intense hatred for the past presidential administration and its toxic effect on our country. Only David is more ambitious than my 64 years of age allow. He is doing something about it. My third or distant cousin David Esrati, who also happens to be a a veteran and a community activist, is running for Congress. Moreover he has asked me to help humiliate his Trumpster opponent.

Well, family is everything. But the opportunity to send a Trumpster candidate back to the anti-semitic fascist hole he belongs in, is everything and then some.

Like myself, David is neither Republican or Democrat and is running under an independent ticket in a heavily gerrymandered district. Meaning he stands a solid chance. Also, like myself, David is committed to addressing the injustices of this world. Which must be in the Siegel DNA. Or at least the DNA he and I share.

More to come on the Esrati campaign. 

Food is Love

Many of you, particularly in the ad community, know Rob Goldenberg. He's the one on the left. I first met Rob back in 2004, when I left my cushy job as a Group Creative Director, a fancy title that carries very little weight, like most job titled people, who can always say "No" but never have the pursestrings to say, "Yes."

Rob was working at the Kowloon Seafood Company which was transitioning their name to Secret Weapon Marketing, the brainchild of Dick Sittig, who made award winning Jack in the Box advertising the gold standard in the fast food industry.

You might know Rob as a snarky, quick-witted guy who received an unfair amount of robust Jewish hair and Zoolander good looks. 

But I want to discuss the side of Rob you might not know -- the menschy side.

Menschiness, that is the willingness to be kind and go out of your way for other people, doesn't get enough airplay these days. The world could use more Mensches and fewer Putins.

The day, after I announced my wife's passing, Rob took to social media and started a GoFundMe for my daughters and myself. In the spirit of Food Is Love, he raised an obscene amount of money in the form of digital Grub Hub cards which he passed along to me. 

I then passed it on to my two daughters who are much more familiar with the machinations of digital restaurant delivery.

At a certain point the amount got too high and I emailed Rob to send the rest of the proceeds to St. Jude's Hospital. 

I can't begin to tell you how helpful those Grub Hub cards came in. Particularly since my daughters and I had been hunkered down in the house under the dark and weighted shroud of Grief. 

And so I wanted to take some space and time to thank Rob for his incredible gesture of generosity. As well as all the friends and colleagues, mutual or otherwise, who pitched into the sizable pot. My daughters ought to write a restaurant review book that covers all the Greek, Mexican, Indian, Italian, Slavic, Chinese, Japanese, Himalayan (Tara's on Venice) and BBQ food we have sampled in the last three months. 

Oddly enough, because I've only been eating one meal a day, I've recently shed 20-25 lbs. There are easier ways to lose weight than to lose the love of your life.

But I would be remiss if I also didn't thank Lisa Lee and Glen & Elizabeth Friedman for arranging a meal train with friends and family who loved Debbie and reluctantly tolerated me. We enjoyed so many delicious home-cooked meals that all paired surprisingly-well with Bulleit Rye Bourbon.

If there's one thing I've learned, especially lately, is that it is NOT enough to say Thank You. 

There is also an obligation to pay it all forward. And so I enrolled as a monthly supporter of Chef Andres to feed Ukrainian children today and future victims tomorrow. Because Food Is Love.

You can do the same here: https://wck.org

 

Blessing #7

 If you've been on social media anytime in the last 20 years, you have no doubt seen some beautiful, heart wrenching wedding proposals involving hot air balloons, soldiers on leave from places like South Korea or Belgium, even outrageously expensive skywriting or banner trailing. All visible demonstrations of a couple's deep deep love.

Our wedding proposal was nothing like that. 

Mostly, because at the ripe age of 32, I had no idea how to go about arranging one. I couldn't ask Deb's friends or the jig would have been up. I couldn't ask my friends, lest one of them blurt it out in a drunken stupor. And there were no Youtube videos to provide helpful instructions, like the million that are available today, including:

1. How to remove an under-the-sink P-trap

2. How to cook the perfect sous vide Beef Wellington

3. How to defuse a 1/2 ton Laser Guided Bomb (LGB)

Everything except... 

4. How to propose to Debbie Weinblatt and sweep her off her feet.

So I did it in my own inimitable way. It was during December and people were celebrating Christmas/Hanukkah, etc. So I suggested we get out of town for a weekend. I told her it was a surprise destination (that was the romance part, I knew instinctively that surprise equals romance.)

We packed for a long weekend, hopped in my Pathfinder and headed up PCH to Northern California.

We had been dating for a few years and lived together for a year and a half. I never doubted for a moment that she was the one. Never. And she knew as much. Consequently, I think she suspected what was about to transpire. 

Maybe.

Because, just a few hours north of Los Angeles, I pulled off the highway and we stopped at Pea Soup Anderson's, known not coincidently for their amazing pea soup. We had an incredible lunch, though I passed on the peas because of some childhood trauma and aversion to my mother's canned peas. 

"Isn't this great?" 

"Great"

"I also booked us a room here so we can explore Buellton and Solvang, a special destination built to look like a Danish village."

"This is the big surprise? We're here for the weekend?"

"I know, isn't this cool?"

I mercilessly let her disappointment build, but Deb was too graceful to show any signs of discontent.

"Great."

When the prank was on its last breath, I said, "I'm just kidding, we have a few more hours to go."

Later, we arrived at our true destination, a beautiful oceanfront cabin in Cambria in the heart of Central California.

There was a bottle of chilled champagne waiting for our arrival and even a bouquet of flowers. Deb's preconceived notions were back on track. At least temporarily. 

When it was time to exchange Hanukkah gifts, she insisted I open mine first: A ski sweater, a leather travel bag, a manicure kit. To be honest, I forgot what she gave me. She never forgot the cavalcade of gifts I got her.

A new wallet.

A Mammoth Mountain T-shirt.

Some new ski mittens.

And some novelty socks.

Again, like a total unromantic schmuck, I let the disappointment rise to a crescendo. Had I given it another minute I'm sure she would have started crying. And then I dug into my carry-on luggage and said,"Oh wait, there's one more thing."

The thing was the ring.

She said, "Yes", knowing full well that she was agreeing to a life of childish pranks, raucous laughter and an endless supply of love and oneness.

After the tears of joy, we went to town to celebrate and have dinner. Unable to hide my ebullience, I introduced Deb to the Maitre De, the waiter, the busboys, the couple at the next table and even people passing in the parking lot.

"This is Debbie, my fiancé." 

That uncontainable joy never faded. Ever.

Widow brain -- It's a real thing

 

I have learned quite a bit in the past 7-8 years.

In 2015, I learned how a country of kind, rational people, the wealthiest on the planet, could be sold an endless supply of snake oil, abandon the principles that once made this the great shining city on the hill, and take up with an evil, greedy, intellectually-bankrupt, narcissistic, pornstar-banging grifter. 

In 2020, I learned how this clueless cockwomble left us unprepared for a worldwide pandemic. Forcing us all to take a class in remedial biology and the unconfined spread of airborne pathogens. If you'll recall we were told , "There's nothing to worry about, It's all been contained, almost airtight". So said the White House representative, another TV know nothing, Larry Kudrow. That was before a million American corpses were put away fro the Dirt Nap.

That same year, I learned how cruel life and the fates can be, when on a sunny warm March afternoon, my wife dragged me out of the bathroom to the backyard to tell me the doctors said she had a liver/bile duct cancer. I curse that day until my time comes.

Like a bowling ball being catapulted through a huge floor-to-ceiling window, our lives were shattered. Home Depot does not sell a shop vac powerful enough to pick up all the pieces and sharp shards that continue to bleed me slowly on a daily basis.

And while I learned a lot about Oncology and the relentless behavior of cancer cells, I learned even more three months ago when her weakened but recovering body fell victim to Sepsis, the unspoken killer in many hospitals.

And now, I am, we all are, getting daily lessons on Cold War 2.0, which is turning out to be nowhere near as cold as the first one. With drunken Russian military in heated pitched guerrilla warfare with the US-backed forces of democracy and NATO. 

I know which side I'm on. Following the lead of Tucker Carlson and the co-conspirators at Fucked News, Red Hat Republicans still seem to be waffling.

As if all that were not enough, I have recently uncovered the phenomena of Widow Brain. 

I will readily admit to having experienced this. Keep in mind the resulting confusion can be a result of my advanced age of 64. It's not like I'm a spring chicken of 44 anymore. 

But it is worrisome.

"Did I have one glass of bourbon or did I have two?There's more ice in the freezer, so I must've only had one."

"Did I talk to the Social Security people about survivor benefits or was I lulled into a nap by the 3 hour phone tree hold?"

"Did I shower in March or was it February?"

"Is this all real or this all some terrible nightmare that will never end?"

And finally, and this might be a question you're asking as well. 

Is the illustration used in this post an actual representation of Rich? Shouldn't the nose be bigger with a slightly more aquiline bend? And why is Rich wearing blush and lipstick?

Blessing #6 -- The embarrassing incident at Booth #2

If you've been to Culver City in the last 5 years, and it seems all 20 million people in Southern California have, you are probably familiar with the S&W Country Diner. Home of authentic home cooked meals and the best (not the fanciest) breakfast in town.

For me, scrambled egga, sausage patties and home fries with fresh cut onion, can't be beat. Deb would always go out of her way to try one of the 837 other items on the menu.

Not many know this, but way back in the late 90's, the place was just known as Sam and Woody's. Sam was a lesbian. And so was Woody. And so were 90% of their clientele. It never phased me until my gay uncle told me that lesbians, and gay men, refer to people like Deb and I as "breeders." 

Which I always found amusing, because let's face it someone has to.

Sam and Woody's was our go-to Sunday Morning NY Times breakfast eatery. Even if it meant waiting for a table. Which it often did because the diner was literally half the space that it is now. And each table was a red vinyl booth. 

I like eating in booths. There's a faux sense of privacy. Plus when melted cheese gets caught in my mustache I don't need to be ridiculed. I just needed a kick under the table from Deb to wipe my face.

When Rachel, our eldest daughter was born, we started bringing the result of our "breeding" to Sam and Woody's. By the time she was six months old, she was a non-stop ball of energy.

While waiting for our food to arrive, Rachel would stand up on the red vinyl bench and make faces, or smile, or otherwise engage the people in the adjoining booth. It never bothered anyone. My 6 month old daughter had a very engaging smile. And an infectious laugh to boot. Still does.

One time we were seated in booth next to a young African American couple. More breeders. They were particularly intrigued with Rachel and started playing Peek a Boo with her. 

As I got a glimpse of the guy, I recognized him as the black doctor in NBC's show ER. He was so enthralled with her that he asked if he could lift her over the bench and give her a hug and put her on his shoulder. She was giggling the whole time so how could we resist.

Deb, a starstruck woman, despite growing up in Los Angeles, was beside herself. If we had iPhones at the time we would have snapped a picture and it would have been texted to 1000 relatives in NY, Florida and Minnesota.

The picture would have been accompanied by a snappy caption from a proud mother. Thankfully, we were spared that embarrassment.

Because after breakfast, we said goodbye to Sam and to Woody and to the big time Hollywood star who had befriended our baby. As we walked out, Deb turned to me and said...

"Oh my good, I can't wait to tell my sisters Rachel got a smile and a hug and a tickle from Laurence Fishburne."

Of course, it wasn't Laurence Fishburne, it was Erik Lasalle, seen here.

When I corrected her, she practically froze from embarrassment. Thankfully, she never addressed him by name. It really was just a simple mistake.

But I never let her forget the incident. 

And whenever we would come across a movie like The Matrix or Searching for Bobby Fischer, I would always needle her with, "Oh look it's Erik Lasalle!"

My coming out.

There's a joke I've been telling lately that seems to resonate. I tell people I have now, reluctantly, become my own social activities director. It is not a role that comes naturally to me.

In the Before Times, my happier life, I would come home from work on a Friday and Deb would tell me what the plans were for the weekend. This would annoy her to no end since she'd already laid out the plans to me earlier in the week. But she'd make the mistake of telling me during Jeopardy, or the Rachel Maddow Show or even during RuPaul's Drag Racing show, which would always catch me off guard.

"No way that's a man."

The point is, when it came to seeing friends or family, I never did any of the legwork. Even to make plans with my guy friends. That part always gets a lot of nodding responses from the husbands in the crowd. We're just not good at making or following through with plans to socialize.

How bad?

Several years ago I was going through a "grey period". My girls were getting ready to head off to college. I was dreading the thought of moving onto this new and daunting stage of family life. And just generally feeling depressed.

Without my knowledge, my wife took it upon herself to call my friend and ex Chiat/Day partner, John Shirley, to take me out to lunch and see if he could spot what was wrong and maybe just cheer me up. I was at a point in my life, not as crushing as this one, when I had "lost my smile", to quote a Billy Crystal movie.

I'm still moved to tears by her surreptitious demonstration of care and love. 

But, now I am on my own. And per the advice of my therapist, I am leaving my previous anti-social butterfly cocoon in order to grow into a new me.

It is not a role that comes easy to me. 

I've been on zoom calls, entertained neighbors and friends by Deb's backyard fire pit, even visited a local watering hole with a friend I haven't seen in years. He bought me dinner at the bar and we knocked back a few drinks and had a few raucous laughs.

And, as I might have mentioned before, I have the generous support of three high school classmates who are also in The Club Nobody Wants to Be In. Each has been helpful in their own individual way, because as you will learn, or already know, each person's grief is like a snowflake, no two are alike.

Has the transition been difficult? Surprisingly not. 

But it's not without its peculiarities. Namely, I don't want to wear out my welcome mat. 

And now I've had to get myself a desk calendar to keep all the social activity, lawyer activity, doctor activity and therapy activity straight and in order. 

This, I'm told, is progress.

 

Me vs. The Rabbi's Daughter

Last week I discovered a carnivorous oasis here on the Westside of Los Angeles -- a legitimate Jewish Butcher shop. I suppose there are some to be had in the Pico/Robertson/Fairfax district, but I generally make it a rule to drive more 5 miles away from Culver City.

And with Amazon Prime at my disposal, even that seems like too much of a problem: showering, shaving, putting on anti-perspirant, clean underwear, Birkenstocks that don't emit their own strange odors and a host of other inconveniences that make online clicking and ordering the poor man's version of having a Man Friday...

"Jeffrey, bring me forth that new book by Jamie Raskin and a gallon bottle of my favorite Bulleit Rye Whiskey."

But back to the meat of the story.

Years ago, I had been bitten by the pellet-burning phenomena known as Traeger. Since that time I had smoked turkeys (to perfection), pork shoulder (to near perfection), Tomahawk steaks, salmon on cedar planks (delicious) and even brisket. 

The latter always being a hit and miss proposition. This despite my many years as a line cook, a sous chef,  and a short order cook. I follow all the directions to a T and even splurged for a 1000 yard roll of pink, waxes butcher paper. I watched BBQ shows, hoping to learn some secret. And even got a MEATER so I could gauge the internal meat temperature from the comfort of my leather recliner.

Not once, however did I come close to approaching the melt-in-your-mouth brisketpolluza that I had experienced in 2014 when we went to visit the University of Texas in Austin, the Mecca of Smoked Brisket.

Then I discovered the one variable that I had overlooked. I had been smoking meat that came from the supermarket shelf. Often no more than 6 or 7 lbs. cut of meat cut from the flat. Then I realized the pros, Like world famous Franklin, go the distance and smoke whole packer brisket, which is really a two-muscle butcher cut: the Point and the Flat.

You know me, if I'm in for a dime I'm in for a dollar and a calf. So, with family in town to help take the sting of my daughter's 26th birthday (the first one without her mom) I decided to go all in and pick up a 13 lbs. packer, seen above in all its glory.

The butcher picked one out for me that needed very little in trimming. And suggested I lop off the flap for a more even cook.

It's Saturday morning at 11 AM as I write this. in 12-13 hours, we'll know the results.

That is if some hair trigger soviet submarine commander doesn't get the hobbies jeebies, turn the knob to nuclear and incinerate all of us.

She Zigged

There are a lot of conspiracy theories floating around these days. 

Some say Putin is in danger of getting stabbed in the back by his military generals. Others thinks that when Trump says Chy-Na he actually means Ukraine. And the current conspiracy theory that is going around regards Gonzaga University, tucked away in east Spokane Washington.

Nutters are saying the University doesn't actually exist and it's just a beard for the NCAA basketball team, which is a perennial contender for the championship but always seem to prove the premise of an old Woody Harrelson/Wesley Snipes movie, which I will leave unnamed.

I can tell you first hand that there is indeed a Gonzaga University because for reasons unknown, our college guidance counselor thought it would be a good choice for our eldest daughter way back in 2013 when we were exploring all her scholastic choices.

So, I volunteered to take Rachel and Abby to glorious Spokane for a visit. 

We landed in an airport that was pitch-black and closed. Mormons tend to call it a night right after the 9:30 showing of Matlock. Fortunately we were able to rent a car. And as we made our way out of the Spokane airport, we spotted a herd of elk/deer/moose/unprocessed gamey venison. I'm no zoologist and can't tell the difference between these skittish hooven animals. All I can say is there were a lot of them.

Because there two hotels near the university with the same name, we naturally ended up at the wrong one. And finally fell asleep at about 3 in the morning. Just in time to catch 4 hours of shut-eye before the 7:30 Gonzaga School tour began. Mormons, and again there are a lot of Mormons in Eastern Washington, like to commence their unholy cheeriness at ungodly early hours.

It should be noted that Gonzaga is a Catholic School. In fact, they're Jesuits and take their Jesuitness quite seriously. This was kind of a deal breaker for my daughter Rachel, who had just finished 4 years of Catholic High School. 

It wasn't a deal breaker for Gonzaga, who proudly welcome students of all faiths and might have even shaved our tuition bill just so their recruiters could legitimately say, "Look we even have Jews...a Jew."

But, we were there, the hotel had been booked for one more night, and so we begrudgingly finished the tour. Which meant listening to the peacocking parents including one who repeatedly asked several tour guides, "Is there a special dorm for honor students, you know so they can study in peace?"

Sure lady, because Jesuits are known for their raging keggers and indiscriminate use of heroin.

We did get to see the Blue House, or whatever they call it, where the Zags dominate the Pacific Northwest in basketball. It was shockingly smaller that I had pictured it. And could seat 8,000 comfortably.

"Is there a special section for honor students to sit so they don't rub up against the riff riff?"

This pales in comparison to the Carrier Dome where my once legendary Syracuse Orange could pack in 35, 000 maniacal fans.

The tour ended with the piece de resistance, a mini-museum dedicated to and probably funded by, Gonzaga's most famous alumni -- Bing Crosby. 

Behind laser-protected glass cases, there are songbooks, sheet music, pipes, hats and a variety of sartorial oddities including sock garters and ascots, all worn, allegedly, by the Bingster himself.

Having raised two cynical, wise ass daughters, who are unable to muster up any kind of fake enthusiasm, you could hear them laughing in nearby Idaho.

So allow me to put this conspiracy theory to bed and say, "Yes there is a real Gonzaga University." It just wasn't real enough for my daughter.

The next day, we hopped in the car, drove the width of the state, which is beautiful, and walked the campus at the University of Washington. Where half the students, in a midday drunken stupor, were zigging and zagging their way down to Husky stadium for the big rivalry football game against Oregon.

At which point Rachel, looked at me and without saying a thing, smiled as if to say, "This is where I'm going to college."

"K-R-Y-Z-E-W-S-K-I."

If you know anything about college basketball, or even basketball in general, you certainly recognize the legendary Coach K from esteemed Duke University. 

I say that with disdain because they've made an obnoxious habit out of embarrassing my once invincible Syracuse Orange -- 2003 National Champions and NIT Cellar dweller for seems like an eternity.

Coach K is retiring this year. There's a good chance Duke will make a good run in the NCAA Tournament, the one we used to go to all the time.

So I thought it'd be a good time to retell the story of how I busted his balls and he busted mine.

Back in to 2011 I was freelancing at Chiat/Day. They had a sudden project come up. They got budget approval to shoot a documentary with all the Division 1 Basketball coaches for the NCAA's Standup to Cancer Foundation. 

Even then I knew it was a good cause.

Many of the premier coaches in the game would be in Las Vegas scouting new talent at the Adidas 64 Super Tournament of something or other. Sure the coaches wanted to check out the high phenoms, but the cynical part of me says they also wanted a weekend away from their wives to scout the talent at the many surrounding generous gentlemen's clubs. 

"What's your name?....Briffany?....that's a pretty name."

In any case, we set up a run-n-gun little interviewing studio on the far end of the mammoth array of basketball courts and popped in each coach for a short perfunctory interview.

"I'm against cancer."

"My mother in law had cancer"

"We got to fight this with 110%."

" Cancer is bad."

"Do you have any Diet Pepsi?"

That's some high level journalism.

I didn't write any of those lines, nor did I elicit anything incisive from the coaches. I just did the gig and took the generous check. But as mentioned earlier I did get to yank Coach K's chain.

When he sat down, I asked him to say his name, where he coached and the proper spelling of his name. That was for the graphic art department so they could get the chyron's straight. 

But Coach K didn't take it that way. He thought I was busting chops because his name is spelt so different than the way it sounds. Mind you, I'm sure he's had his balls broken over this for all of his 68 years.

I laughed and said I need you to spell your name for the graphics department. Can you repeat it slowly?

Then he bolted up from his chair, and shouted, "Who's this friggin' asshole you got interviewing me?"

Well, it turns he can give as good as he gets. I turned whiter than rice and thought he was gonna walk out. He let the tension rise until the room felt uncomfortable. Then he smiled, turned to me...

"I really had you, didn't I?"

Yeah, Coach KRYZEWSKI, you really did.

 

Blessing #5

 

Perhaps I was born with a preternatural sense of direction. More likely nurture played a bigger role than nature. After all, I spent my formative years in New York City. First in the Bronx and then in Queens, Jackson Heights and Flushing.

In those halcyon days kids walked to school. Not in the 5 feet of snow as many old-timey tropes would have you believe. Nor was the trek 5 miles in length. With no foot coverings'. 

But make no mistake it was no leisurely stroll. 

From my apartment on 92 street and Northern Blvd. it was a good ten blocks to PS 149, including a few blocks through the tough neighborhoods of Corona and Jamaica. This was way before helicoptering parenthood came into fashion. 

Show me a mother who would send their 7 year old son into that these days and I'll show 100 looky-loo parents peering out their windows and speed dialing CPS.

Once you learn to navigate New York City streets, you can pretty much find anything, anywhere like an idiot savant homing pigeon.

Deb, on the other hand, had a self admitted terrible sense of direction. I would often park the car and purposely slow down just to watch her get out of the car and watch her walk in the wrong direction. I'd wait until she distanced me by a couple hundred feet until she turned around, saw me waiting and started laughing.

"You asshole."

In the arena of directions, she would always defer to me. And brag to her friends about my special sixth sense. But that took years develop. I read in one of my many grief books, that true love grows with time. Yes, we were in love for 3 years before we got married, but we were bonded in love, companionship and oneness for the next 29.

And yet, it almost didn't happen.

Shortly before our wedding, we met for lunch in Santa Monica. I wish I could remember where. Just to close the circle, let's say it was Fromin's Deli on Wilshire Blvd., because that's the last restaurant the four of us ate at as a complete family.

After lunch, Deb gave me directions to the Santa Monica Courthouse, including the floor and courthouse office where marriage licenses were issued.

She arrived first. I arrived 15 minutes later because the directions she gave me were slightly off.

Like a scene from The Graduate, I literally found myself running up staircases and sprinting down long hallways just to find Room 206B West. To this day I contend she sent me to 206B (East).

We stepped up to the counter and started answering questions with the woman at the counter. She was an older woman, with a deadpan, I've-seen-everything-look on her face. Except what she was about to see.

"Where were you?" Deb said loud enough for the folks getting fishing licenses down the hall to hear.

"You sent me to the wrong office."

"I sent you to the right office, you just couldn't be bothered to write it down."

"I wrote it down in my head." (I was only 34 at the time and had full control of my faculties.)

In between the perfunctory filling out of the forms, we continued our snarky, passive/aggressive bickering. All the while, I could feel the steely eyes of the counter woman locked on us. I even saw one of her co-workers peer out beyond the clouded glass counter window to get a better look at the ill-fated couple.

We stepped up to the counter. Silently. And we each countersigned each other's paperwork and handed in the documents that would in the eyes of the court make us Mr. and Mrs. Siegel.

The older woman behind the counter checked the documents and then offered us an off-ramp.

"You two sure you want to go through with this?"

Like I mentioned earlier, I have an instinctual ability to find the right direction. It is only now, in Deb's absence, am I discovering the feeling of being lost.

 

Say Hello to Bitey

My dog, Lucy, has long hair. And lots of it. That means the hardwood floors in my house, on Le Bourget Ave., also has long hair. And lots of it. Particularly as it clumps up in corners and under furniture.

Years ago, we had a Roomba that rumbled around the house and sucked up all the long hair. But the Roomba was loud. And obnoxious. And needed to be emptied every 6 minutes. And by the time the rumbling ended the rollers underneath would look like an old Eli Fulton cotton gin, with spooled hair that literally needed to be cut off the machine. With a Machete.

Just before Hanukah, I told my daughter I had ordered this new fangled Shark robot vacuum that has its own emptying device, one that holds 30 days worth of pet hair, bread crumbs, and the enormous amount of dust produced by the sooty Southern California skies and the accompanying Santa Ana winds.

My youngest daughter Abby, ixnayed the idea, letting me know in no uncertain terms that my wife would not want that. So I cancelled the order. 

But come January and the irregular visits from our cleaning ladies, I decided to go through and get the top of the line Shark. This time for me. 

Widows/widowers are often told to be kind to themselves. That's a new habit I'll have to start nurturing.

Do I love my new Shark? Indeed I do. I was even encouraged by the iPhone app. to give him (sorry) a nickname. And so stealing from one of the well-worn formulas created by the Simpsons, I named him Bitey. You know, cause he's a shark.

In addition to the huge price difference, the Shark outdoes the Roomba in every way. 

Starting with the way it uses a laser to map the house and literally goes about sucking up whatever is on the floor in a bidirectional straight line manner as opposed to the Roomba which just went all over the fucking place, in no particular order. 

This appeals to the OCD in me.

Also, Bitey is noticeably quieter than Roomba. With my door closed in the office I can barely hear Bitey doing the hard work I should be doing if I were ever inclined to pick a broom. 

This appeals to the Lazy in me.

And finally, though I've only owned Bitey for a couple of months, he does what he's supposed to do. That's not to be discounted. Many products simply overpromise and never live up to expectations. But every time Bitey returns to his base station, he flawlessly docks with the mothership as if it were some space age science fiction flick. Then Bitey does a 360 degree turn and the male and female sucking components mate for a complete and satisfying transmission of all that yucky stuff. 

This appeals to the puerile side of me.

In other words, Bitey is righty.

 

Endurance

Many, many years ago, Cory, my old Aussie mate at Chiat/Day recommended a book to me. He said it was the greatest adventure story never told. Of course, it was told, in a book, and not in the American default method of storytelling, a movie or a limited TV series on Hulu or a carousel ad on Instagram.

It's the tale of Ernest Shackleton and his crew of steel-hearted explorers who set to cross Antarctica. His tale even includes what I would consider the greatest recruitment ad ever written:

Mind you I read this book close to twenty years ago and I'm a little hazy on the details. 

Truth is, I didn't "read" it, at least not in the literal sense. I secured the book on cassette and listened to it while I was commuting 106 miles each day to my job in Irvine. You tend to miss a few of the finer points of the story when you're busy dodging lane-splitting motorcycles. Or yelling out the window for clueless commuters to "Get off your damn phone."

But what I do remember was terrifying. 

Caught by a not so unusual blast of Southern Hemisphere winter, the 115 foot master-crafted boat got stuck in a small crevice of bitter cold water, which would soon expand and turn into rock hard ice, which would soon crack the thick lumber of the boat's hull.

The sound was the stuff of nightmares to the men who had made camp 100 feet from the boat. And made going back inside the boat to retrieve food, clothing and supplies a test of will and frost-bitten nerves. 

Even the pack dogs that were brought along for the journey howled at the sound of the boat's slow disintegration. Perhaps knowing that with slow sunset the fattest Husky inched closer and closer to being on the menu board.

With each passing day, the despair grew thicker than the ice below them. But the story does not end with with the men going down under, down under.

In fact, what would make an excellent midpoint in a screenplay, Shackleton and four of his officers decide to engineer a daring rescue. One that had its own pitfalls and near death moments. 

I will not divulge the details of Part II of the Shackleton tale, suffice to say, that it was an unlikely and stunning success and merits your own reading.

It is timely reminder that sturdy, imaginative, tenacious men (and women) can defy all odds and bounce back from soul-crushing trauma.

Whether it's in Ukraine.

Or even here in Culver City.  

Blessing #4 (a repost)

(I am reposting this because earlier this week I was put in Facebook Jail for urging Ukrainians to "bomb the road", meaning the 40 mile long road into Kyev. In any case I hope you enjoy another Debbie Memory)

When my daughters entered their teenage years they begged me to take them to Europe. 

Deb begged me too. But she was always much more clever about it. She'd show the girls photo albums of our first trip to Europe, a 3 week romp that merits its own story. And our springtime jaunt all over the Iberian peninsula where we had discovered she was pregnant with Abby. 

Of course that just egged my girls on some and brought about a steady stream of pleadings with the additional twist...

"Come on, it'll be a great opportunity to visit your Aunt Helen and her family in Glasgow."

"OK, we'll see," I replied, for the 1000th time.

By the time they had turned 14 and 15 years old they knew to interpret that as, "We're never going to get to Europe."

But it turns out, I yielded. Why not, I thought. I had enjoyed many lucrative years as a freelancer. We had thousands of frequent flyer miles aching to be used. Plus I had just learned the phrase YOLO -- You only live once.

It was quite the eventful trip, starting with a hellish 15 hour flight stuffed into an airline seat barely bigger than an NBA player's shoebox. And seated next to a man who had smoked a carton of Marlboros before boarding the plane, seated in the shoebox next to mine. 

By the time I walked off the plane my oxygen level had been depleted and my bronchitis kicked in. At dinnertime, and after a few beers that I thought would help me recover, I almost passed out, face first into a bowl of whatever curry was placed in front of me. 

Once again, Deb dashed me off to St. Thomas Hospital, which was a block away from our hotel. And none too soon. As in had I waited any longer I would have been admitted.

But I wasn't, and thanks to the Brit's universal healthcare, I was good as new and up to factory specs within hours. After touring London for a few days, a city Deb and the girls found indescribably charming, we boarded a train at Waterloo Station for the 5 hour ride up to Glasgow.

Indulging in my newfound YOLO philosophy, I had booked us a First Class Car and we found ourselves in luxurious seats separated by a dining table, where we enjoyed lunch and more recuperative beers.

In accordance with legendary British punctuality, we pulled into the mammoth-sized Glasgow Central Station right on time. I have always loved train stations and found myself gawking.

"Come on old man, let's keep walking, we have to find a cab to get us to the hotel," pleaded my fast walking wife, always accompanied by a rolling eyeball.

We exited the station to bitter coldness, beautifully-scented by the burning cigarettes, seemingly in the mouth or hand of every Glasgowegian. Crossed the street to Scotland's version of the London Black Cab and a jolly driver who welcomed us to Scotland while no doubt anticipating getting his half-gloved hands on some of that nice American cash. 

Our luggage, don't forget, there were four of us, filled the entire boot of his vehicle. We quickly jumped in to escape the omnipresent stinging rain that always makes any trip to the United Kingdom a pure joy.

"Where to my Yankee friend?" I might be paraphrasing there.

"The Glasgow Central Hotel, my good man," I'm still paraphrasing. I never say my good man.

The driver turned around from his right-sided driver's seat, gave me a nasty eye-roll of his own, and said...

"For Fuck's Sake, you're at the hotel. It's right above the train station!!!"

 Turns out, the Glasgow Central Train Station was also the Glasgow Central Hotel.

"The hotel is right above the station, you bloody wanker." 

And then he started laughing. And we all started laughing.

He unloaded the luggage and helped us back across the street. To the hotel (where, coincidentally my mother had worked years ago as a housekeeper). At which point Deb nudged me with her elbow and motioned for me to reach for my wallet. 

I handed the cab driver a twenty dollar bill for a cab ride that never happened. 

And I apologized profusely.

"Don't worry about it mate. This is the funniest thing to have happened to me all day. Can't wait to get home to tell me wife."

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

Blessing #4a

Pictured in the center is my lovely Aunt Helen, one of the sweetest and easily-amused people on the planet. I rarely understood a word she said, but she could perfectly understand my Yankee English, which always resulted in her laughing, laughing that sounded exactly like the way my late mother used to laugh. 

As if the last few years have not been difficult enough, I just found out this week that my Aunt Helen passed away last August.

A Detour on My Spiritual Journey

If you've read R17 for any amount of time you are quite familiar with my less-than-friendly relationship with god. I don't even capitalize the word anymore. Nor do I employ the ancient spelling of his/her name as G-d, because someone once determined that writing the full name would be a dishonor. Especially if it were on paper and then the paper ended up in the trash. 

I can't imagine the Lord of the Lords, the Most Magnificent Host of Hosts, ruler of galaxies and universes that stretch beyond our imagination, could be upset with such a minor infraction. But what do I know, this is the same god that says I can't eat cheeseburgers or flush a toilet on Saturday.

Despite my denial and naysaying I do find myself on a spiritual journey. 

One that never began, nor ever ended.

A few years ago I started reading A Pilgrimage to Eternity. A book by Tim Egan that documented his walk along the Via Francigena, a 3200km trek from Canterbury, England to Vatican City, Italy. I loved the idea of a massive hike in order to nurture some spiritual curiosity. But the book was slow, like the walk. And I dog-earred the book before the author even stepped foot in France.

At the suggestion of my friend Jim, who graciously jumped on a plane to spend a week with my grieving family and slept on a blow up mattress in my living room, I have been reading The Power of Myth by Joseph Campbell, who is interviewed by Bill Moyers, the well-known  journalist who happened to give my college graduation speech, way back in 1980. 

That's right 1980.

After detailing the Abrahamic origin story of Adam and Eve, he goes on to note the similarities to the legend of Aristaphanes who says, in the beginning there were creatures of three sorts: male/female, male/male and female/female. The gods split them all in two. After the split each creature started embracing each other in order to reconstitute their full being. This is why we spend our lives trying to find and re-embrace our other half.

As I mentioned a few weeks ago, I've also been reading The Book of Joy, an interview with the Dalai Lama and Archbishop Desmond Tutu. These are two commanding men who opened my eyes to many unheard philosophies of the Far East and of Africa. 

I particularly enjoyed their discussion on the importance of laughter and how it is often the most meaning connection between two human beings.

And since, January I have been in Zoom grief therapy with a chaplain from UCLA, an incredibly genteel man who has helped many people with their difficulties (trust me when I say the grieving process presents many). 

He is of the Universal Unitarian denomination, which leans less on divinity and more on humanity.

Who knows I might even attend a service at a Unitarian church?

You may be asking, why would a hardboiled atheist like myself put all this energy in the hunt for spiritual nourishment? I suspect trauma has that effect on people. The truth is I'm not trying to find god. 

I'm desperately trying to find a way to live my life without my Debbie.

Brutal for Brutal's sake

 

Today's post takes us outside my comfort zone -- architecture. I've been told by many that I should only write about what I know. That explains the limited range of topics seen here at R17. 

I know:

advertising

politics (PhD in Trumpian politics)

college level math

Oncology

parenting (good and bad)

marriage

Home ownership

Caganers

Pet poopy etiquette

Jeopardy

grieving

And little else

To me architecture is like art. I know what I like when I see it. And what I don't like when it was built in the Soviet Union in the 1970's. It even has its own stylized named: Brutalism.

It was born in the UL in post World War II, but adopted, adapted and given that unique graceful Russian touch under the ever-watchful eyes of the Kremlin and Politburo officials. 

I have been admonished in the past when I took my clicking and clacking to skewer Russian dating sites. I forgot which R17 reader of Russian descent took me to task on that, but I did point out my relatives were from the Litvak corner of Belarus, meaning I could claim some Russo-Executive Immunity.

And truly, I have nothing against Russian people. I admire their inarguable stoutness, their high capacity for pain, their brutal honesty, and their vodka-fueled elegance.

Additionally, one cannot pass on the opportunity to admire Russian intelligence. They are smart. Book smart. Strategy smart. Scientifically smart. And most of all chess smart. When I play chess online and come up against an Igor, Ivan, or Boris, I know within 10 moves I've lost the game. Badly.

If only the Russian people could take those big brains of theirs and apply some to the way they construct governments. As well as buildings.

To wit:

To my undiscerning eye, one is uglier than the next.

Of course it's all subjective. This might be your cup of borscht or slivovitz, it's just not mine.

Blessing #4

When my daughters entered their teenage years they begged me to take them to Europe. 

Deb begged me too. But she was always much more clever about it. She'd show the girls photo albums of our first trip to Europe, a 3 week romp that merits its own story. And our springtime jaunt all over the Iberian peninsula where we had discovered she was pregnant with Abby. 

Of course that just egged my girls on some and brought about a steady stream of pleadings with the additional twist...

"Come on, it'll be a great opportunity to visit your Aunt Helen and her family in Glasgow."

"OK, we'll see," I replied, for the 1000th time.

By the time they had turned 14 and 15 years old they knew to interpret that as, "We're never going to get to Europe."

But it turns out, I yielded. Why not, I thought. I had enjoyed many lucrative years as a freelancer. We had thousands of frequent flyer miles aching to be used. Plus I had just learned the phrase YOLO -- You only live once.

It was quite the eventful trip, starting with a hellish 15 hour flight stuffed into an airline seat barely bigger than an NBA player's shoebox. And seated next to a man who had smoked a carton of Marlboros before boarding the plane, seated in the shoebox next to mine. 

By the time I walked off the plane my oxygen level had been depleted and my bronchitis kicked in. At dinnertime, and after a few beers that I thought would help me recover, I almost passed out, face first into a bowl of whatever curry was placed in front of me. 

Once again, Deb dashed me off to St. Thomas Hospital, which was a block away from our hotel. And none too soon. As in had I waited any longer I would have been admitted.

But I wasn't, and thanks to the Brit's universal healthcare, I was good as new and up to factory specs within hours. After touring London for a few days, a city Deb and the girls found indescribably charming, we boarded a train at Waterloo Station for the 5 hour ride up to Glasgow.

Indulging in my newfound YOLO philosophy, I had booked us a First Class Car and we found ourselves in luxurious seats separated by a dining table, where we enjoyed lunch and more recuperative beers.

In accordance with legendary British punctuality, we pulled into the mammoth-sized Glasgow Central Station right on time. I have always loved train stations and found myself gawking.

"Come on old man, let's keep walking, we have to find a cab to get us to the hotel," pleaded my fast walking wife, always accompanied by a rolling eyeball.

We exited the station to bitter coldness, beautifully-scented by the burning cigarettes, seemingly in the mouth or hand of every Glasgowegian. Crossed the street to Scotland's version of the London Black Cab and a jolly driver who welcomed us to Scotland while no doubt anticipating getting his half-gloved hands on some of that nice American cash. 

Our luggage, don't forget, there were four of us, filled the entire boot of his vehicle. We quickly jumped in to escape the omnipresent stinging rain that always makes any trip to the United Kingdom a pure joy.

"Where to my Yankee friend?" I might be paraphrasing there.

"The Glasgow Central Hotel, my good man," I'm still paraphrasing. I never say my good man.

The driver turned around from his right-sided driver's seat, gave me a nasty eye-roll of his own, and said...

"For Fuck's Sake, you're at the hotel. It's right above the train station!!!"

 Turns out, the Glasgow Central Train Station was also the Glasgow Central Hotel.

"The hotel is right above the station, you bloody wanker." 

And then he started laughing. And we all started laughing.

He unloaded the luggage and helped us back across the street. To the hotel (where, coincidentally my mother had worked years ago as a housekeeper). At which point Deb nudged me with her elbow and motioned for me to reach for my wallet. 

I handed the cab driver a twenty dollar bill for a cab ride that never happened. 

And I apologized profusely.

"Don't worry about it mate. This is the funniest thing to have happened to me all day. Can't wait to get home to tell me wife."

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

Blessing #4a

Pictured in the center is my lovely Aunt Helen, one of the sweetest and easily-amused people on the planet. I rarely understood a word she said, but she could perfectly understand my Yankee English, which always resulted in her laughing, laughing that sounded exactly like the way my late mother used to laugh. 

As if the last few years have not been difficult enough, I just found out this week that my Aunt Helen passed away last August.

Springtime For Hitler

A couple of weeks ago, I made one of my rare TV viewing suggestions. 

This came on the heels of my daughters who have been trying to give me a crash course in trash culture, particular as seen on one of the many expensive streaming services that threaten to land me in a dirty nursing home.

The show was/is called Nathan For You, in which Nathan, a graduate of a fine Canadian University, who got very good grades, takes his unique skill as a marketer and tries to "assist" flailing businesses. On one recent episode we watched on Hulu, Nathan had discovered that an outdoor clothingware company name Tiaga, had some kind of connection to Holocaust Denial.

That set Nathan off. 

And instead of helping them, he decided he would do all he could to hurt them.

And he did it by forming his own outdoor winterware company called Summit Ice, connoting images of rugged men and women braving the weather, challenging mountains and their inner fortitude. 

Only Nathan decided to add a little twist: instead of Holocaust denial he decided the marketing and advertising of Summit Ice should PROMOTE education of the Holocaust.

Not a bad idea considering our nation's leanings into fascism and the embarrassingly low number of today's students who, when it comes to knowledge of the Nazi genocide, have frankly been left out in the cold.

Additionally, Nathan sought out the services of an orthodox rabbi to consult on the ad campaign.

With Rabbi Blechnaven's blessing, they even designed an entire in-store point of sale display that defies description. Zoom in for the realistic Arbeit Macht Frei Gate.

You show me another tribe of people who have historically suffered so much and then willingly went out of their way to turn that into Gallows Humor. 

Mel Brooks should be kvelling.

As you might have guessed, the folks at Outdoor Adventure store, A16 -- it looks a lot like the store near Sepulveda and Pico -- nixed the proposal and didn't think revisiting the concentration camps was the best way to sell windbreakers, wooly socks and puffer jackets.

Undaunted, Nathan took his new brand to the interwebs. You can visit them at http://www.summiticeapparel.com

Better yet, you can do like my two sassy daughters did and buy some items as the PERFECT birthday gift.

I now own a T-shirt and a Tuque, sporting the Summit Ice logo. 

I never owned a Tuque before, but now I have one that only helps inform people about the Einsatzgruppen, Treblinka and the Nuremberg trial, but also puts me in with Hollywood's A listers, seen here sporting their treasured Summit Ice gear.

Soon my daughters, who are the kindest, smartest and funniest kids on earth (I may be biased) will be wearing their Summit Ice apparel when their birthdays come around.

Throwing it back to 2009

This is Justin Bieber from the year 2009. 

I have no affinity for Justin Bieber whatsoever. I couldn't name one of his songs, I've never seen him anything, and for all I know he might actually be very talented. I only use this photo to demonstrate the what a difference 13 years can make.

My people recognized that significance a long, long time ago. Because at 13 years of age, tortured, guilt-ridden Jewish children are suddenly (and prematurely) welcomed to adulthood. I think we can all agree that with the exception of that annoying precocious kid on one of CBS's stupider TV shows, no 13 year old is an actual adult.

Hell, I'm 64 and still haven't mastered this adult thing.

Nevertheless it was 13 years ago yesterday that I began publishing RoundSeventeen. Of course publishing is hardly the accurate word here. Let's be honest, this is a blog. Anyone and everyone can write a blog. 

Most quit after a week because while it's incredibly easy to do -- you just find shit to write about, write about it, and then hit the return key -- the pay sucks. It's hopelessly egalitarian and in some circles might even be considered socialism. 

But what isn't?

And just as the Bliebs (sic) has gone through various incarnations over the past decade plus a third, so has this blog. Which started as a lark, then became a challenge, then became a mission, then became a sounding board on the fate of the ad biz, then became a platform for my socially-liberal, fiscal conservative centrism, which in some circles is akin to radical, leftie hard core communism.

And again, what isn't?

But one thing that hasn't changed is that this blog has always been a semi-running journal of my life. And now that my life changed so radically, there can be no other alternative for the nature, tone and arguable humor of this tiny inconsequential digital rag to change with it.

I hope you'll understand and bear with me. Maybe it'll even change for the better.

But I doubt it.

Perspective is everything

I spent a good deal of my working life in the employ of ad agencies. Agencies who once paid a handsome market value dollar for people skilled in the marketing of products, services or something in between. And for that handsome dollar, it was expected that work would often run into overtime, unpaid overtime. 

Meaning nights and weekends.

I did my fair share of that, though nowhere near my younger counterparts in the business who had the good notion to say, "This is bullshit."

Then I became a freelancer and looked forward to working nights, which equaled another 1/2 day of billing. And weekends, which represented even more billable time.

Now, in the twilight of my career, working at a staff job again, I find myself working nights and weekends voluntarily. And with no extra pay. And no griping.

Why, pray tell?

For one thing it's fair. Lately, as you might understand, my mind is on other things: lawyers, doctors, insurance companies, banks, etc. 

Not only is my mind on other things, so is my body, a host of medications that will occasionally put me out of commission like a high speed Russian Missile.

But at night, when my daughters are out with friends and I have the house to myself, I have the time and energy and maybe a small shot of rye, to help me focus. Perhaps it's the much-needed respite from the grieving and its untold impact on my entire life.

But above all, I enjoy working on nights and weekends because my colleagues don't. And for any of who familiar with Slack and its constant demand for immediate attention, that's a much needed respite in itself.

Moreover, with today's prevalence of project platforms and shared documents and other technological "advancements" that hinder good writing, I have the opportunity to work in private, without prying, corrective comments, or on-the-spot tweak requests.

And that is worth its weight in gold.