So you wanna be President

 

We haven't even reached April Fool's Day and we're already talking about the next president, who won't get inaugurated (if we're still doing that sort of thing) until January 20, 2025.

Such is the sad state of American politics. 

Even sadder is the fact that the leading GOP candidate, who would like to return to the throne, er....I mean the White House, is a twice-impeached, pornstar-banging, tax-cheating, election-tampering, document-stealing sack of shit who is a wholly-owned subsidiary of the Russian government. 

PS, if you're buying that "Russia, Russia, Russia" thing is a hoax, I suggest you read the Mueller Report. And acquaint yourself with the federal government hierarchy, where you will see the not-so independent Special Counsel works at the behest of POTUS. Meaning Mueller was handcuffed during the entire investigation.

On a slightly less pessimistic note, there is a possible presidential contender. 

He's not exactly on the horizon, it's more like he is rising from the GOP cesspool of god-awful troglodytes. He's been in the news lately for his efforts to shield our precious children from the sight of a marble penis. He has no interest in shielding them from high caliber bullets however.

Though Mr. DeSantis graduated from Harvard, he seems a few candles short of a full menorah. So in the interest of public service, I'm offering a few campaign tips that might help him rise to the top of the GOP landfill of 2024 candidates. Make no mistake, I'm no fan of Ron. But consider him a lesser evil than Don.

Here are some no-brainer talking points he should lean into, should it come to a Donny v. Ronny contest :

1. The Insurrection -- This is some low-hanging fruit, Ron. Why didn't Trump call off the mob the minute they breached the first line? Why did he wait? Why did he refuse phone calls and answer texts while the attack was getting violent? Why on Jan.7, 2021, did he call these people heinous defilers of our country and then turn around and sing their praises and promise them pardons just 2 years later?

2. The Big Lie -- Mr. Trump declares there was "massive, widespread fraud." Where is it? What did he base this statement on? Was it because of Italian satellites? Jewish Space Lasers? Or Chinese Bamboo Ballots? Isn't more likely that the Most Powerful Man on Earth did not relish no longer being the Most Powerful Man on Earth? That's not leadership or patriotism or even American. That's some pure narcissistic horsecockery.

3. New HealthCare Plan -- In June 2020, Trump went on National TV and told Christopher Wallace he had a "big, new, beautiful healthcare plan that would be less expensive than Obamacare." He said he'd be unveiling it in two weeks. A month and a half later, he told George Stephanopolis, he would unveil the plan in two weeks again. It's now been more than 2 &1/2 years. Where is the plan? And if so good, why aren't you making it a pillar of your campaign?

4. Track Record -- This is a no-brainer. Let's be honest, these are all no-brainers. The previous president's track record is a litany of failure after failure. Like his bankrupt businesses. And his matrimonial endeavors. And while Trump liked to prance around on stage and boast of his "greatest economy in the history of the United States." The numbers prove otherwise. In fact, if his followers could read a simple graph or pie chart, they'd see that he never grew the GDP faster than a 2.9% growth rate. If you want to believe that's substantial than you have to give the same credit to President Obama, who hit that numbers on several occasions. 

Similarly, his claim that he had the lowest unemployment rate in 50 years is also pure typical Trump hyperbolic bluster. Particularly since President Biden has also put up a 4.5% unemployment rate.

5. Sheer Stupidity -- I don't know why the GOP candidates running in 2016 never thought to do this, but it is abundantly clear Trump is stupid. Like Paris Hilton dumb. An observation backed by his former Chief of Staff General John Kelly, who often had to dispense remedial American history to the leader of the free world. This is a pain point. One that ought to be exploited.

Ron, should you find yourself in a debate with this clueless clod, why not ask him to quote the 6th amendment? Ask him to name three seminal Supreme Court cases. Have him point out the implications of Plessy v. Ferguson. Ask him to point to Lithuania on a map. Ask him to explain the Monroe Doctrine. 

I will bet $130,000 he can't do any of the above.

In other words Ron, embarrass the fuck out this embarrassingly dumbfuck. 

I can't do it all by myself.

   

The grass is greener

 

Haven't done this in a while, but today I'm posting about a TV commercial I saw. And have been seeing with greater regularity during the March Madness quadruple broadcasting on CBS, TBS, TNT and whatever the other one is (I forgot.)

Preface: I'm going to try to make this feel new and refreshing and entertaining. And I'm doing that for one disgruntled critic who recently called me out on social media with the following.

You were relevant locally in LA like two decades ago for a campaign CBS or NBC could have just as easily slapped their logo on and called it a day. Now go back into your tiny bubble. The problem isn't that you're old, it's that your work, along with website, are incredibly dated looking. And acting woke as a strategy to somehow buffer against ageism clearly isn't working for you. Your blog rants used to be original, thoughtful, entertaining and funny. Now they're just sad because they're beyond expected and boring.

All of which, I find amusing, if not confusing; don't know how I'm using "woke as a strategy against ageism. To me, woke is about being a decent human being. 

I also find it satisfying. 

And oddly relevant. 

While cleaning out my garage, I found an outline for a speech I gave years ago to some students. And one of the points I made was to "Be polarizing." The stated goal at Chrysler Design was to come up with ideas that 60% of consumers will love and 40% will hate. That's when you know you will stumbled upon something good. I'm glad this nationally/internationally known copywriter (That's how he refers to himself) hates me and my work. 

Back to the spot at hand. Which I suspect will leave 60% of you smiling and another 40% scratching their chin, going "Huh?"

You can watch Scott for Scott's, here.

Naturally, being of Scottish descent, I love the idea of a spokesperson from the Motherland. And his name is Scott. For Scotts Turf Builder. Did I mention he's from Scotland? That's a lot of memorable branding there.

I also love that the character is so campy. And over the top. That one could get so excited about killing crabgrass is quite delicious. My father hated crabgrass with an equal passion, so I again, I may be biased.

I'm also a bit jealous. I've always wanted to do a spokesperson campaign. 

Maybe that's the lazy copywriter in me, but a spokesperson is the ideal vehicle for delivering mandatory copy points. And it gives the viewing audience a focal point, that seems lacking in much of the "storytelling" work I see out there.

Without even realizing it, I now know that Scotts Turf Builder kills weeds, prevents future weeds and feeds new grass seedlings. All because it's delivered in that pleasing Scottish lilt. If I had my druthers, I also would have put American English subtitles on the spot. But that's just me.

If I had other druthers, I would have had my gardener use Scotts. Instead he just dumped a ton and a half of horse manure all over the front yard, which had become increasingly brown. Now my lawn and my house smell like shit. And still do.

Anyway, well done Scotts. I give this spot Two Green Thumbs Up.

Hoping for ROI

I'm an old guy who happens to be Old School as well. I don't have the data or the sophisticated ad tech that has both cheapened and destroyed the advertising industry, but I have a sneaky suspicion that most old guys and most old gals are also unabashedly Old School.

Call it Geezer's Intuition.

As you can see from the picture above, I pay my bills the old fashioned way, via the US Post Office. I tried paying them digitally, but it felt like some unknown alien beings or government officials, had an invisible lien on my earnings. Plus, there were months when the Wells Fargo Bill Paying Bots would skip a payment. Or underpay. Or even overpay. For instance, I now have an accidental $946.73 credit with the water company. 

The water company doesn't issue checks back. Meaning, now, I'm paid up long past my expiration date. So I take extremely long showers. And run the dishwasher whenever I damn well please.

As a consequence I cut the Accounts Payable Chord with Wells Fargo and took my finances into my own hands; writing out checks, balancing my own account and trusting our trusty mail carriers, an honorable occupation that deserves our support. (You're Welcome, Mike Folino)

If you look closely at the two envelopes above, you might notice I have pre-printed return labels. One is from Wounded Warriors and the other is from St. Jude's Hospital for Children. Two of the causes that I support regularly.

Why? Well because it's the right thing to do.

But, also, quite selfishly, I love the free pre-printed return labels.

Let me repeat, for unnecessary emphasis, I LOVE PRE-PRINTED RETURN LABELS.

Again, I'm going to harken back to my Spidey Sense about these things and suggest other people, of similar demographics and age range, share my misplaced zeal for ordinary adhesive stationary.

This can only be explained by hatred of writing out my address. Uselessly, I might add, as my handwriting is ridiculously illegible.

So, here's the thing.

If I were the Chief Marketing Officer of oh....I don't know, Cadillac, I would blast out direct mail sheets of customized pre-printed return labels to folks in the target market. The Cadillac emblazoned labels would sit in the junk drawer for eternity. And each time a potential Cadillac buyer went to mail a bill, or a letter, they would be reminded of Cadillac's enduring quality and luxury. 

You can't buy loyalty like that.

BTW, I know the woman who is the CMO of Cadillac, she happens to read this blog occasionally, and she can consider this one on me, but will have to pay dearly for the next big little idea.

Sometimes the best things in life are actually free.

Dear Mr. George Soros

Now that I've been made redundant -- I love this distinctive British euphemism -- by my friends at PayPal, I thought it would be a good time to consider what the future has in store for me. 

I could continue to do freelance work. Fortunately for me, while day rates are dropping and competition is overflowing, the bar has been lowered so drastically, the lift is not so difficult. If at all.

Thank you ChatGPT.

Having nothing to do, I've been able to spend some quality time on political social media. That's when I discovered this unique pattern that had its own Hebraic Seasonings, apologies to Aaron Sorkin. You see when the folks on the right side of the aisle want to smear the folks on the left, they will often cart out the antisemitic George Soros card. 

Congressmen, state senators, city district attorneys', even the local municipal dog catcher, it seems, are all funded by billionaire George Soros. 

And then I thought, why can't I create my dream job? I've always wanted to follow in the footsteps of Art Buchwald or PJ O'Rourke, and make a living as a newspaper man. I demurred when I discovered one could hardly make a living as a newspaper man. Or woman. 

It's 2023 now. 

And the landscape has changed. There's no reason in the world I can't pen snarky social/political commentary that is meticulously-backed by fact, while getting handsomely rewarded for my daily brilliance (albeit delusional?)

So, here it is, Mr. Soros, my formal application for: Soros-Funded WiseAss. 

I don't know how this will ever reach your desk and/or tablet, but stranger things have happened on the Interwebs, Like Nick Adams or Brigitte Gabriele.

NAME: Rich Siegel  (unless I'm trying to dupe the FB or Linkedin Community Standards Police)

OCCUPATION: Freelance Copywriter, Author, Blogger, Slayer of Red Hat Schmucks

EXPERIENCE: Yes. Embarrassingly way too much experience

WILLING TO TRAVEL: No. Unless you want to send me on fancy tropical junkets

ARE YOU A VETERAN: Does advertising count?

PRONOUNS: "Here's Your Check" as in "Here's Your Check" Rich Siegel

RESIDENT OF USA: Yes. For now.

SALARY RANGE: Dude, you're a billionaire, make it rain.

RELIGIOUS AFFILIATION: Mishbuchah, please see the enclosed photo from my Bar Mitzvah, March 20, 1971.

 

In through the Out door

 

Woke up Monday morning and was traumatized.

In accordance with my regular routine, I put on a pot of coffee. Downed two Advil to ease my creaky joints. As well as one low dose Wellbutrin to ease my creaky grief. Then logged on to the computer to begin another week of digital seeding.

I guess I look at social media a bit different others. Though I'm sure my fellow bloggers will concur on this: blogging, posting, grooming a presence on these interweb pages is a precursor to putting food on the table. 

In other words, we're not just here for fun or breakfast pictures or nefarious narcisism. We're here to make money. Because eyeballs can turn into assignments. And assignments, if we overdeliver and bite our tongue when the feedback comes around, can lead to more assignments, aka paychecks.

Imagine my surprise and dread Monday morning, when I could not log onto Linkedin, where I have somehow accumulated more than 10,000 followers. Friends/followers/connections, I'm not clear on how any of that works. I do know being denied my platform on Linkedin could mean no work.

I was Out.

I chalked it up to synching issues with my new Mac Laptop (see Monday's post). But upon sifting through my email Junk folder, discovered once again I had run afoul of the Community Standards people. (See it's not just right wingers or anti-DEI Neanderthals who get flagged or told to "Sit Down and Shut Up")

A slight case of panic began to overtake my body. 

If denied my opportunity to share my half-baked thoughts and self promos, how would I secure new work? More importantly, how would I maintain the luxurious lifestyle to which I have become accustomed?

I quickly went through the procedures necessary to unblock myself and verified I was human being by correctly identifying the animal standing in a normal position. Then I was told to wait until the board gave my case another review.

Wait? You want me to wait?

That's not really one of my strong suits. 

So I began thinking, "How can I take this seemingly existential dilemma and turn it into an opportunity or at the very least, a positive?" I also gave pause to the calming thought, "so what if I get booted off Linkedin, I'm old. And after a lifetime of working, working, and working, I deserve some down time before the Eternal Dirt Nap."

The gloom of the morning turned into the joy of the afternoon. I got pinged by Linkedin and informed that my account had been reinstated. This allowed me to investigate the egregious offense I had been investigated for. 

Are you ready for this?

Turns out I had made a comment that had been deemed to constitute: Bullying and Harassment. Earlier in the weekend I had responded to Mr. Jeff Hills, who was responding to one of my comments with...

Jeff: Why should I listen to a Liberal idiot from California?

Whoa, them's sparring words partner. I might have been intimidated by the fact Jeff was a Vice President at some corporation. Then I remembered that I too was once a corporate Vice President. A Senior VP, at that. And a lot good that did me.

So I went to one of my reliable standby retorts, which you can see here.

For those who don't recall, our former president once challenged Rex Tillerson, the Secretary of State he chose and then fired, to an IQ Contest. 

Which is funny in a Meta kind of way. But it is doubly funny considering the mental gauntlet being laid upon the rocks is coming from the PERSON WOMAN MAN CAMERA TV guy.

That's the LEGO bit I stepped on that almost landed me in a dirty nursing home?

I certainly won't be making any political commentary again on Linkedin.

Lesson learned.

Maybe.

 

 

Cry me a river

It's raining again in Southern California.

By the way, while searching for an appropriate image, I came upon hundreds of choices. I decided to opt for this one using the same logic I have heard for more than 30 years in the ad business. It shows a human hand. Therefore, ipso facto, it has more humanity. 

Or so I've gathered from countless feedback sessions with the planners, strategists, content strategists, UX designers, code writers, account coordinators, account executives, account supervisors, Group Account Supervisors, Group Account Directors and client wives/husbands.

Why, you may ask, is a little rain even newsworthy? 

Well, apparently it's not just a little rain. To date and according to the official season total, we here in perpetually sunny and warm Southern California have accumulated 23.79 inches of precipitation. This has got local newsman Dallas Raines so pumped up he had to down a handful of Amiodarone, just to get his heart rate back into the double digits.

Personally, I don't think 23.79 inches of rain is such a big deal. Hell, when I was in Syracuse, we had 23.79 inches of snow in the course one monster blizzard in the winter of '78. Should there be any confusion, that's 1978.

But don't try to tell that to the native born residents of the Golden State, many of whom are crying, "Enough."

No, it's not enough.

Best I can tell, we are still in a drought. And, this is just through casual observation -- me looking out the front window -- my water-abusing neighbor is still washing each of his 5 motor vehicles at least once a week. Sometimes two, if the local crows have been suffering indigestion.

Lastly, we are closing in on the tail end of the "wet season." Meaning, it won't rain here for another 6-7 months. I get a nagging dry, itchy feeling when no moisture falls from above. It's not pleasant.

Way back in 1984, my father, my brother and I went backpacking in the Grand Tetons. This runs contrary to the widely accepted maxim that "Jews don't camp." 

But it's in even starker contrast to the lesser known, but more truthful corollary, "Jews don't go backpacking and spend 7 days in the mountains without a real bed or a real shower."

I don't know if I can do justice to the pungent aroma emitted by three swarthy men of Hebraic Seasonings after 31 miles of high altitude trekking while carrying 75 lbs. packs and eating nothing but US Army-rejected powdered food and 7-11 Slim Jims. 

Or maybe, as Ms. Muse might assert, it's just my Piscean nature, but I love the rain. 

Let that Pacific Atmospheric River flow. And make Dallas Raines harder than a Corundum Drill Bit.

 

 

Identity crisis.

Years ago, it actually feels like a lifetime ago, my old Chiat/Day partner John Shirley and I were working on a pitch for Chivas Regal. There's not much you can say about scotch. Or rye. Or any other kind of whiskey or spirit for that matter. Same applies for beer.

I don't care about carbs or calories. I don't have a very discerning palate --which belies my rather large nose -- and can't tell whether something has been aged 12 years or 18 years or 7 minutes. 

Frankly when it comes to drink, I just want something that tastes good. And in the case of alcohol, that usually means it goes down smooth.

All that said, we felt a little stumped. 

That is until we started talking about how our fathers enjoyed a wee dram or two. In my father's case, it was often in a coffee cup. Likely more than one dram or even two. And more often than not, it was while he was doing shit around the house, which we will discuss shortly.

It was at that point, after many hours of reminiscing and shooting the shit, that John and I stumbled on to the fact that we were both becoming our scotch-imbibing fathers. This seemed like a good insight and from there we developed a campaign: Chivas Regal, Your Old Man's Scotch. 

As it turns out, the fine folks at Chivas had no interest in mining this territory, but Canadian Club did so years after our failed efforts. The team went on to win a cask or two full of awards. 

The thing about truths is they remain truths. Witness the above photo.

That is my raised bed garden. For years it produced veggies for our family. Deb's half of the garden was for cherry tomatoes and fresh herbs. My half was for big beefy tomatoes and habanero peppers. Sadly, I now have the entire 1/12,680th of an acre all to myself. And I have begun making preparations for this year's spring planting: tomatoes, peppers, more tomatoes, more peppers.

Unlike year's past and more like year's long gone, I find myself doing things my father did. Like laying down sheets of plastic to keep the dirt moist and to prevent the growth of weeds. I also fenced in the garden with sturdy but flexible fencing, to prevent squirrels and Norwegian Tree Rats from stealing the fruits (or veggies) of my labor.

Who am I?

I can't begin to tell you how many weekends of my misspent youth were lost to my father's indentured servitude. I cursed him for waking me up before noon. And cursed him again for making my brother and I weed, mow, till, plant, compost, plant, prune and make semi-weekly trips to the local Cherry Lane Stables, where we filled up huge hefty bags of FREE horse manure. 

And because of his frugal nature, ungloved, I might add. 

Now, in a most unexpected turn of events, I find myself doing the same things. In addition to getting the garden ready, I'm auguring the toilets to keep them flowing, readjusting the hinges on my cabinet shelves to keep them opening and shutting, and deconstructing the garage to put in fresh shelving.

All without the aid of two grumpy teenage boys who just wanted to get some sleep.

I have whiskey. I have coffee cups. And thanks to PayPal laying me off, I have time.

Maybe I'll just make the transformation complete.

  

 

Apple of my eye

Welcome to Part 4 of my continuing series of Senior Influencer posts. 

The goal is to accumulate enough of these posts and start a new blog exclusively committed to influencing, consumer guidance and the reception of many free goodies from sellers of services and products who want some digital ink.

First some disclaimers. 

In the interest of full disclosure, it should be noted that my oldest daughter works on advertising for Apple at Media Arts Lab, a division/subset/sister company (I don't really understand corporate hierarchies and their seemingly purposeful complicated structuring) of TBWA Chiat/Day. Which is another division/subset/sister company of Omnicom. Which, if you listen to Red Hats or fervent antisemites is all controlled by George Soros. Or the Rothschilds. Or a combined cabal of global elitists.

They love that word cabal.

More disclosure, I too worked at TBWA Chiat/Day, though I in no way assisted getting my daughter a position there. It was my hope she'd become a doctor. Or a physician's assistant. Or even a nurse. I think we can all agree changing diapers on a hospital patient seems to be a little more dignified than working in advertising these days.

One final disclosure. Years ago, I also worked at BBDO (also Omnicom, see above for further confusion) and wrote copy for Apple Computers. It's a dark memory I have just now cleansed from my system.

Now to the recent adventure. 

Lately, I had not been able to log onto my old MacBook Air. Seems the browsers no longer support the technology that went into my 2011 classic laptop. So I decided to part with some of my "Stay Out of a Dirty Nursing Home" money and purchase a new Macbook Air. 

Not wanting to venture from my warm comfortable abode into the frigid wintry (61 degrees) weather of late, I made the purchase online.

Day 2: The new machine arrives. I set up the Migration Assistant and begin transferring all the data and crappy scripts from my old Mac to the shiny new 2023 model with the vaunted M2 chip. Migration gets to 98% and then conks out. 

Three phone calls and two hours later, it's decided that I need to return the bum Mac. I tell the last rep I'd like to take it to my local UPS store. She sends me a pre-printed shipping label. I bring the box to UPS, where the sales counter guy shows me it's a FEDEX label. Grrrrrr. 

Day 3: I spend the next day on the phone again with Apple wondering when the new, and operable, laptop will arrive. They don't know. So one clever rep suggest I go online and purchase a new one, while he issues the order for a refund on the other. More confusion. Though as we have previously determined I am not the brightest bulb and easily confused.

Day 4: The new laptop arrives. It's sleek. And new, and pleasant to the touch. The migration of my still-crappy scripts, fat photos and times gone by, easily slides through the ether from my old laptop to my new M2-equipped one. Except for MicroSoft Word, which as you might imagine for someone who rearranges 26 letters for a living, is quite vital. 

I know MicroSoft is on a subscription basis so I purchase the new version via GoSoftware. Little did I know it's twice the price of what I would have paid via MicroSoft. It too makes it to 98% loaded and fails. Thinking there's a bug, I tried to use Malwarebytes. It too did not load.

This is followed by another three hours with reps (from Apple and Microsoft) trying to figure out what the f*ck is going on.

I have now reached DefCon 5.

Day 5: I hope you're still with me. I know how hearing nightmare stories about the DMV, or canceled flights, or tedious tech troubles can be...well, tedious. 

I am put on hold and handed off to a senior advisor. He takes command of my Mac via the interwebs. He spends 90 minutes troubleshooting the machine and can't figure out if it's the flick flacks or the hydroponic confibulators. All to no avail.

I, being pleasantly tech naive (see above), suggest starting over and erasing everything from the migration and returning the Mac to its default settings. This takes an inordinate amount of time. Believe or not I omitted some of the less titillating details.

And then, BAM!!!

Ironic, that after all that, I was the one to have solved the issue. With some assistance from Shannon (on St. Patty's Day, no less.) And here's where the story takes a pleasant turn.

Because I literally shaved a few days off my winding-down life, Shannon offered to send me a new pair of AirPod Pros, retail value $249. Which, considering the time and money (2 downloads of MS Office) I spent puts me at the break even point. 

More importantly however, it demonstrates how a little humanity can go a long way to instill or in this case re-install, a little brand loyalty.

I am firmly back in the Apple orchard.

On Sunsetting

Let's talk about Underemployment.

It's an affliction affecting many people of my age. Particularly if those people are employed in the creative aspect of an industry that was once noted for its creativity. 

I suppose I count myself among thousands who once created, developed and stewarded brands for Fortune 1000, 500 and even 100 companies, but now find themselves slogging through the mindless tasks and deliverable box checking associated with quote, performance marketing, unquote.

What kind of "performance" are we looking for when it's decided by the A/B testing that involves one headline with the word 'the' and a countering headline with the word 'a'? 

Is the difference between a pale orange background and a pale yellow background going to make a tinker's damn? 

Will it increase market share by .00000073% or .00000072%?

Don't get me wrong, I'm all for efficiency. But where, my friends, is the efficiency in having monstrously large marketing departments dickering daily with CTA buttons or the mandated use of the Oxford comma? 

And when did creative decision-making get ceded to the crowd mentality and the make-or-break vote by the tall girl in Accounts Payable or the Night Watchman who always falls asleep at the end of the Jimmy Kimmel show?

It's enough to make a man who has already lost his hair, also lose his will to live. 

Hopefully those tedious days are in the rear view mirror. Lately I've been working on a couple of small projects that eschew the lizard portion of my brain and have tapped into the bigger, finely attuned lobes that require some actual thinking. The lobes right next to the atrophied ones that could at one time solve differential equations in three dimensions.

I'm sorry, but it's nice to hear a creative director tell me...

"Push this even further, make me a little nervous."

"Get back to me in a few days with...."

"Harken back to the late 90's and give me some of that classic Rich Siegel." 

You think I'm exaggerating, but I literally had a former client from ABC call me out of the blue for help on a Top Secret project he was working on. 

I went from being underemployed to overjoyed.

I would return to the drudgery of performance marketing and its incumbent dispiriting nature, should circumstances dictate and my day rate was fulfilled. Remember there is no way I'm ending up in a dirty nursing home. But it's been nothing less than a breath of fresh air to have someone tap me on the shoulder to discuss real work.

And not the picayune differences between an em dash and en dash.

 

 

Climb on board, we're going to Crazytown

I don't know how your brain works but after 65 years or so, I have a pretty good idea how mine operates. 

For instance, with the recent Covid extravaganza, I came to realize that I work best from home. I don't want to come into in your office, nor do I need to. I'm not interested in your foosball tables, your free microwave popcorn or your industrial sized pots of coffee. 

OK, I do love coffee and drink way too much of it. 

Truth is, I do my best work at home. In shorts and flip flops. Even when it's 49 degrees out. 

What I like best about working/writing from home is that no one bothers me. Yes, it gets very lonely. Perhaps that's why I allow myself deep dive distractions. And right now nothing is more distracting (read amusing) than the current clusterfuck that threatens to send Fox News, the empire from down under, down under.

Rupert is looking down the barrel of a $1.6 billion lawsuit. And that's not even considering the potential punitive damages they have incurred on Dominion Voting Machines for lying and defaming their company and their products. 

In the latest, and possibly the most amusing development, it seems the theory that set the Fox Team of overpaid prevaricators in motion stemmed from an email sent to Maria B. (I'm not even going to look up her last name for the correct spelling because she doesn't merit the effort). The contents of that email became the basis for an entire post-campaign campaign to discredit the results of the 2020 presidential election.

In short, it posited that the Dominion Voting machines magically changed Trump votes to Biden votes. There is not a shred of evidence to that effect. Making it a non-starter. But the sender of the email that unleashed this bullcockery into the Right Wing Hemisphere of Back Assward Thinking, does merit some attention.

Her name is Marlene Bourne. Who knows if that's her real name or if she is suffering the lingering effects of watching too many Matt Damon movies? You think that's crazy? You should hear more about this self described Cactus Artist/Wackadoodle.

"Yeah, I'm crazy, crazy like a fox", she told a reporter, unaware of the delicious irony.

She added, "my point of view sometimes is so far outside the box it's not even on the same playing field, it's not even on the same planet."

COVFEFE!!!

She went on to explain to the Daily Beast, she gets her theories from song lyrics and glimpses of magazine covers. (Hey Marlene, where are you seeing magazine covers?) 

Additionally she insists, sometimes the wind talks to her. 

Recently the wind told her that the late Supreme Court Justice Antony Scalia was purposefully killed at the Annual Bohemian Grove Camp, where they hunt human prey. Wasn't that the premise of a bad Gary Busey movie (redundancy intended.)

But lest you get the idea that Marlene is dumb as a rock, consider the fact that she also authored a book that should be on every bookshelf: A Consumer's Guide to MEMS and Nanotechnology. 

According to one reviewer (That's right I looked it up), the book details how MEMS (?) and nanotechnology are being nefariously used in everything from asthma inhalers, wheelchairs, video games, toothpaste, tattoos, fishing lures, deodorant and tennis rackets!

I think they put MEMS and/or nanotechnology in my last bunch of asparagus, boy does my pee stink.

I swear, you just can't make this up. 

Nor do I have to, because Marlene and her friends at Fox already have.

Influencing, Part Three

Weeks ago, you might remember, I rolled out the idea of becoming a Senior Influencer. The webosphere is spilling over the brim with influencers: Make up influencers, style influencers, and DJ influencers who recognize the music and musicians of the day. I recognize none.

My notion was to create a blog for people over the age of 40. Though probably more likely 50. Oh, who am I kidding, I'd be aiming at old geezers like myself who refuse to pay attention to calendars, AARP solicitations, or ads for funeral homes. 

So many people want to sell me a 6 foot by 3 foot plot of land which I would own for eternity. 

Or at least until MAGA takes over the country and Barron steamrolls over my resting place for a new Trump-branded golf course.

But you just can't start a senior influencing blog and expect retailers and makers of fine swim gear, kitchen cutlery and high resolution flatscreen TVs, to shower you with samples. It takes time and practice to build up an audience for that kind of thing. 

All of which brings us to my third installment in senior influencing.

Up until recently, I had been doing my grocery shopping, for one single man, at the local Pavilions. I like Pavilions. The aisles are wide, the selection is robust, and the cashiers are a salty bunch given to playful checkout banter. 

And of course, when the season is upon us, they have wonderful peaches. 

But everytime I leave Pavilions, I leave with less than $300-$400 in my bank account. That's not insubstantial. Particularly now that I have been laid off and can officially claim the title of America's Newest and Oldest Freelance Copywriter. That's when Ms. Muse suggested I try my food gathering activities at the local Trader Joes.

Obviously I had heard of TJ's before. And have always liked their crunchy quirkiness. I had just never thought of doing my grocery run there because they seem small and don't carry the brand name toilet paper and Quaker Oats Cheesy Rice Crisps that I favor. 

Nevertheless, I decided to give my local Trader Joes, on the other side of downtown Culver City, a run for the money. Or, as the case may be, my money.

Can't say I'm a fan of the TJ crowded parking lot. Nor the crowded aisles. Nor the undersized red shopping carts, which barely had enough room for my bottle of Bulleit Rye, Peroni Lager Beer and top shelf Cabernet Sauvignon. 

But I am a definite fan of the savings I accrued. It was literally 33% less than what I had been spending. Moreover I was able to load up on thick Atlantic Salmon, the fatty kind with the artificial coloring which doesn't bother me one bit. And fruit, I eat a ton of fruit. And vegetables, which I am getting newly acquainted with.

Additionally, I was able to able to engage with a new crop of cashiers. Less salty than the veteran cashiers at Pavilions, but in some ways more interesting. Because, gauging from the ear gauges, piercings and multicolor hair, I was able to accurately predict their political dispositions. So any jokes about our former president would surely be appreciated. And in case, you hadn't noticed I like to crack wise on the TFG.

One word of caution. 

Satisfied with my savings, I errantly made an impulse buy and picked up a box of TJ-branded chewing gum before cashing out. 

Turned out the gum looked like this...

 And I'm here to tell you, the little wood dowels would've probably tasted better.

Tourist Visit revisited

Last week, Tucker Carlson, he of the News network that is not news, attempted to rewrite history, the events of our nation's worst attempted coup. 

I don't make millions of dollars for speaking the opposite of what's on my mind like Tucker does. In fact, I get less-than-pennies on the dollar for telling the cold hard truth. Nor do I possess and extremely punchable face like Mr. Carlson -- though some would argue otherwise -- but I'd like to unrewrite his, and other's, account that infamous day.

Let's examine some of the theories the Right Wing has floated in order to sanitize their dirty bloody traitorous fingers.

"It was Antifa/BLM"

I'd like to know how so many Red Hats were able to recognize and distinguish members of Antifa or BLM (neither of which are organized groups like the Proud Boys, Oathkeepers, or 3% 'ers) in a crowd estimated to be well into the 5 digits. Are they all graduates of Quantico? Blessed with superhuman abilities to identify members of a political organization? Even when, as we just mentioned, there is no organization.

By the way, of the hundreds of people identified by videotape, the same videotape being paraded on Faux News in a lame attempt to whitewash the Insurrection, no members of Antifa or BLM were arrested and indicted by the FBI. None.

"Ray Epps"

Here's some more bullshittery spewing from the MAGA folks. You'd think after 5 years they'd run out of this mental manure but they seem to be able generate it on command. In the aforementioned videotape, one guy in the crowd, sporting the obligatory military style vest and red hat was identified as Ray Epps. And get this, he's an FBI agent. Or was. 

All but ignoring the fact that the FBI is one of the most conservative, stalwart Republican organizations in our once-great nation and counts among its membership,  rabid supporters of ex Precedent Shitgibbon.

The theory, and it's only a theory, is that Epps was nothing more than a government plant. Sent into the raging crowd in order to stir them up. It would physically impossible for one loony FBI agent to rile up a crowd of more than 10,000 into a mouth-foaming mob of podium-stealing, hallway-defecators.

Actually, I take that back, I've seen funny videos of a single zealous Australian Shepherd round up herds of unwitting, unthinking sheep.

"False Flag"

This is perhaps the most comical of the theories. And if I'm not mistaken it was even floated by TFG, who claimed he watched the news (though later he claimed he didn't watch the news) and that the people storming the Capitol and trying to undo the results of a free and fair election, were not his people. 

Perhaps Trump has never been to a Trump rally. Because if ever a crowd looked like Trumpsters, these were them.

But no, he and his flock, contended that they were actually Democrats, Liberals, and Socialists. Why, one must ask, would folks on the left side of the aisle, attempt to disrupt the federal certification of each state's electors, the penultimate step before inaugurating a new Democratic president in two short weeks?

They did it to make Trump and the GOP look bad, claim the reality-deniers.

Oh no friends, that happened months earlier when 81 million people elected Joe Biden, 306-202. Or how did one disgraced ex president put it, "... a landslide."

"Occam's Razor"

Here's my simple-minded explanation for the events of January 6th, 2021. 

A grifting, lying, morally bankrupt, narcissist who couldn't stand losing, began telling lies about a "stolen election." He used his bully pulpit to stir up his uninformed loyalists into believing they had been robbed. This was amplified by scurrilous, propaganda-spewing mouthpieces on Fox, OAN and Newsmax. And then, he and his cohorts of legal clowns, schemed to throw the certification process into a violent mess in order to trigger an archaic clause in the Constitution that would have thrown the election to the state legislatures, where the GOP held the slimmest majority.

In other words, he tried to steal an election. And for that he must be punished. 

With prejudice.

 

The Sad State of the Union

Several weeks ago, maybe it was months ago, maybe it was years ago, when you pen more than 3000 posts over the course of 14 years, it all gets very messy, I began a series of Things I Will Never Understand.

I covered a wide range of topics. 

Everything from phonographs (I still have no idea how a needle running over some grooved plastic can produce music or whatever that thing Kanye does) to foot fetishes. I know I shouldn't judge what gets other people off, but what the hell is it with feet? I have never looked at a woman's foot (left or right) and thought, grrrrrrr. 

More often than not, feet don't smell good either.

I seem to have walked off the path for a bit. 

But of all the Things I Will Never Understand, the one that came to light last week or maybe two weeks ago, was the recent revelations from Dominion's $1.6 billion lawsuit against Fox News. 

Since November 10th, 2020, the GOP, ex-Precedent Shitgibbon and the menagerie of millionaire mouthpieces at Fox have been pimping the idea that the presidential election was stolen. It was not stolen. Wild eyed postulations were made that dead people were voting, trunks of Biden ballots were brought in, and that trunks of Trump ballots were shredded and fed to chickens who were then incinerated in barnfires.

You may even recall the multi-million dollar Arizona Audit, which grew so desperate to find their "massive widespread evidence of fraud" that they started dissecting ballots in search of bamboo fibers which would somehow prove they were brought in from China. Because the theory went, the Chinese wanted Biden to be elected. 

Why would they want Biden when with the former "president' in office, they had an unwitting stooge who did nothing to stop the building of the New Silk Road, which extended Sino-influence to the furthest reaches of Africa. A former president who was more than willing to discuss military operations with them while dining on the most delicious chocolate cake.

But the real election Kraken came when they seized upon the opportunity to blame the results on voting machines manufactured by Dominion. The entire Faux News Enterprise got behind this one. And their red meat-eating audience ate it up. 

If I may mix metaphors, hook, line and sinker. 

Sure. 

Dominion working in cahoots with the DNC cooked up a dastardly scheme to magically change ballots as they were floating through the ether. Of course they never explained why Dominion/DNC would alter the presidential ticket but not the photo-finish races involving House and Senate seats.

They never explained it because it was all BULLSHIT. 

But don't take my word for it. Take the words and unearthed texts and emails from Rupert Murdoch, Sean Hannity, Tucker Carlson, Laura Ingraham, indeed the entire cast of truth twisting misfits, who all called it bullshit. And then spread that manure all over their airwaves. Knowing full well their followers lacked the critical thinking skills to think otherwise.

If not for Fox, and their neo-fascist cohorts at NewsMax and OAN, pushing this horse hockey down the throats of millions, I would argue, the Insurrection of 1/6 would never have happened. 

But what puzzles me most is that even in the light of day, where there is smoking gun evidence that Fox and NewsMax and OAN, lied and willfully deceived a divided nation in support of an adulterous, tax cheating, scam university running Russophile, the folks donning the Red Hats keep coming back for more.

and more.

and more.

and more.

God help us.

 

On toast

Just before my 65 year old ass got canned at PayPal Honey or PayPal, depending on who you're talking to,  I was told I won a new toaster. Apparently there were a bunch of appliances and stuff left over from a photo shoot.

Cool, I thought, this bright red Two Slice toaster, would look great on my kitchen counter.

Even cooler, it comes from SMEG, makers of fine kitchen appliances and producer of laughter from 14 year old boys suffering juvenile arrested development. And what a great conversation starter...

"Oh yeah, that's my toaster from SMEG. You don't know SMEG? Never heard of SMEG? You should download the SMEG app and check out all the wonderful SMEG goodies."

You're damn right I would say the name of the company as often as possible.

Then it occurred to me that I have already have a perfectly operational toaster oven from Black & Decker, also makers of the BD2000 Oscillating Multi Tool, among other industrial power tools. And a company that had expertise in mitering baseboards for a floor renovation could surely master the art of browning bread.

I'd show you a picture of mine, but that would require an hour's worth of scrubbing. And frankly a blog post about toast is simply not worth it. Here's what it looks like from the catalogue.

I think even the toast laymen can spot the difference. 

You see what the SMEG toaster and its retro finish has in visual and comical appeal, it sorely lacks in functionality. If for instance, I were carbo-loading for another 50 mile bike race/ride, I could fire up 4 pieces of toast in the BD 7000. Whereas, in the SMEG, either the mat black SMEG or the cherry red SMEG, can only tackle two pieces of toast at a time.

Moreover, what if my carbohydrate intake were in the form of a bagel or a baguette? How in the world would the SMEG handle such a tall toasting task?

And then there's the visibility consideration. I don't know about you but I'm very particular about the shade and texture of my toast. For me it lands somewhere just past golden but not quite brown. I like enough texture for the butter or margarine to get snagged along the way and seep into every nook and cranny. 

I'm sure the SMEG Makers have taken all that into account and with the help of AI. I'm equally sure the precision calibration of the heating module flicks flacks can produce perfect toast practically every time. But I'm Old School and like to keep an eye on my bread as it becomes toast. 

Finally, and I apologize in advance if this gets too graphic, there's the consequences of a possible catoastrophe -- burnt toast.

It happens to all of us. With the BD 7000 toaster oven I can easily pop open the door and air out the unfortunate remains of overzealous toasting. With the SMEG, and its vertical intake slits, the long lasting foul scent would not be so easy to dispose of. 

I can think of nothing worse than the SMEG-made aroma of burnt toast lingering for an indeterminate amount of time in my house.

That was was the deal breaker. So I traded the SMEG toaster for a new coffeemaker.  

Which I still haven't received.

Big Money, big money

Last week, following a blistering round of Living Room Jeopardy, which is far less stressful and easier than onstage Jeopardy, Ms. Muse suggested I take the Jeopardy Anytime Test and put my now ample free time to good use. 

Turns out their Anytime Test is not exactly any time. 

The good folks at the Alec Trebek stage, just up the block from my Culver City home, would not let me take the test because I had taken it 6 or 7 months ago. Suffice it to say, it appears I did not pass. Those questions on British Royalty, Ancient Greece and Hip Hop lyrics did me in.

But Ms. Muse had never taken the test, so we filled out all the info, stationed ourselves at the table (she's a very fast typist), hit the Start button and plowed our way through Russian Literature, World War II Generals, Potent Potables and more. 

The test givers never grade your performance, but I had a very good feeling when the 50 question sprint was over. 

Of course, I also had a good feeling about the 2016 presidential election and we all know how shitty and disastrous that turned out. 

Time will tell whether either of us will hear those iconic words, "pick up your buzzers." But then Ms. Muse, who is never short on wise suggestions, made another wise suggestion. "Why don't you, a new Man of Leisure, take advantage of your copious down time and go on a local game show?"

Why don't I indeed!

I could win a new set of Samsonite Luggage, the old bags are falling apart at the seams and produce great shame whenever I retrieve them from the carousel. Which, thanks to Covid and the aforementioned doofus ex-president I have not done in quite some time.

Or maybe I'll win a cherry red 2024 Corvette, my very late midlife crisis car. 

Or what about an all expense paid trip to Cancun, where I can rub elbows with Ted Cruz and cast envious eyes on crazy kids buttchugging beer on the beach at 3 in the morning.

It's not out of the realm of possibilities. 

About two years ago, a friend of ours (I will not divulge her name) went on Wheel of Fortune and cleaned house. She won every round. In convincing manner. She was guessing the answer before Vanna had flipped the first card...

"PHILLY CHEESESTEAK"

"WALK IN THE PARK"

"THE SEVENTH INNING STRETCH"

Granted she's a lawyer, a whip smart lawyer at that, and probably a few paygrades above me in the IQ department, but I think I'd stand a good chance against some of the contestants I've been seeing lately. I say that not to be condescending but because until recently I never watched WOF. And now I find myself screaming at the TV...

"I'M SINGING IN THE RAIN. What are you buying a U for?"

When I'm not figuring the bureaucratic morass of securing unemployment benefits or compiling new and tasty recipes for Top Ramen, I'm going to pursue an appearance on a game show. I just have to come up with an interesting audition video.

Any suggestions? 

A Piscean Perspective

Today, in my continuing effort to become a highly compensated Senior Influencer, I want to talk about the  AqtivAqua DX Wide Swimming Goggles. 

I would've gone with a more snappy name like AqtivAqua DX 7000. 

There's something about adding a number to the end of a product name that gives it the sheen of modernity. As if it were crafted by AI robots to rigorous specifications for superior performance, the BMW people will agree with me on that. It's also a little trick employed by the writers at The Simpsons. 

By the way, with more than 30 years of dense, intricate episodes, it was a belief among myself and my old Chiat/Day partner John Shirley, that all of life's lessons could be found in this amazing anthology. Hence my rabbinical recommendation that you secure the entire Simpsons Opus 7000. 

Back to the goggles, which I purchased several weeks ago. Astute readers know that I have written at length about my swimming escapades. I am not alone in this endeavor. 

Swimming = writing.

Writing = swimming.

If you were to mosey on down to your local bookstore, we still have one in Culver City, you will find quite a number of books on those who live for chlorine. You won't find many books on lacrosse, shotputting, or even pickleball, despite its unexplainable popularity.

Swimming is, as you might have guessed, a contemplative sport. You can hear yourself breathing. In fact, that's all you hear. You can even see yourself breathing. Each exhalation produces a hypnotic roiling of carbon dioxide bubbles. Moreover, you can feel your chest expanding and your heartbeat finding a new aquatic rhythm. One that pleasantly lasts on land, long after emerging from the drink. 

In short, I love it.

And so with my return to the pool, I knew I had to get some new swim gear. Oh, and my pool, The Culver City Plunge, is absolutely beautiful...

Like an idiot, now living on a fixed income -- fixed because of ridiculous ageism inherent in the system -- I decided to buy a cheapo pair of regular goggles. I'm not interested in anti-fogging protective screens or Contoured Adjustable NoseBridges™ or any of that nonsense goggle manufacturers drone on about in order to justify a double digit price.

I just wanted to keep the stinging pool chemicals out of my eyes.

That was stupid. 

On my first few forays to Lane 5 (slow to medium swimmers) I found myself stopping every 275 meters to adjust the straps, drain the leaking, and recalibrate the nose bridge to my oversized aquiline Roman schnozz. 

And so I returned to the Amazon online mall and spent considerable time researching and reading the Google goggle reviews until I decided to plunk some hard earned digital money down on the AqtivAqua DX's. 

These folks may not know much about naming their products, or their company, but they more than make up for it in some quality built, high performing goggles. I can safely say that in the next 50 years of my swimming life I will never purchase anything but the Activ...Aktiv...Aqutiv...this brand of goggles.

They're incredibly comfortable. They don't leak. And they don't fog up. Which means I can keep an eye on the other old fat geezers in the lane next to me and not let them surpass my self-impressive pace.

I know "comparison is the thief of joy", but when you're alone in the water for 50 straight minutes of stroke after stroke after stroke (that's 2500 meters for those expecting a humblebrag), what else are you gonna do?

If you're gonna swim, and I think you should, just not at my pool because I like to have the lane all to myself, you should invest in the AqtivAqua DX goggles. 

I give them two seriously-wrinkled thumbs up.

Have keyboard, will click and clack

It's Thursday morning, or afternoon, as you read this. 

You're almost at this week's Finish Line. With plans, or no plans, for a great weekend. A weekend away from deadlines, timesheets and Chad, that guy in the Sacramento office who's always pointing out your grammatical errors and has apparently done his PhD dissertation on the difference between an en dash and an em dash.

Maybe you'll go to that new movie that's racking up all the awards this season. Even though it's in a foreign language and you can't stand the idea of subtitles. 

Maybe you'll meet up with Lou and Sadie, the pickleballers who won't stop talking and can't stop talking about pickleball and their new pickleball rackets and custom made pickleball shoes and matchy matching pickleball outfits.

Or maybe you'll just head over to that new Dim Sun restaurant where all the food is brown but it doesn't matter because the beer is really cold. And cheap.

The point is, good times are within reach. 

And then suddenly it's Sunday Night. And they're not. 

The dread settles in. And with it the gnawing of your stomach lining and the anticipation of more pointless Zoom meetings, an elaborate rant on the proper use of the Oxford comma from Chad (and others), and a cavalcade of Powerpoint decks that, if printed on paper, would derail a freight train, if I may use that unfortunately timely reference.

Unlike you, I have been relieved of the Sunday Night Blues. 

This came to my attention last Sunday Night when I took account of my own unusually relaxed disposition. Because, for the first time in the last 2 & 1/2 years, I'm officially unemployed. Where the grass always seemed to be greener.

That is not to say that this side of the yard is not without its unsightly weeds and annoying little patches where no grass, or even weeds, seem to grow. 

If I'm to avoid ending up in a dirty nursing home, I'll have to be more careful with the spending of my scheckels. Or, to be completely honest, the spending of my kid's scheckels. I'm currently in SKI (Spend Kid's Inheritance) mode. 

But I'd hate to leave them with nothing more than my old ratty T-shirts and a 15 year old flatscreen TV that isn't equipped with all those newfangled streaming apps.

And of course, I'll need to be prepared to cover my inevitable skyrocketing healthcare costs. These days, I have to drop over $1000 just to be included in my doctor's concierge club. A thousand bucks for the right to see my doctor, before I see my doctor. 

I should consider doing a similar arrangement for my newly revived freelance business. 

"Oh, you want to me to come to a briefing, pay me. You want to book me, pay me. You want I should answer your email inquiries, pay me." (Apologies to Ray Liotta)

In short, it's the same rat race, just a different wheel.

14 and counting

I'm afraid I owe you, the 8 loyal readers on this blog, an apology. I errantly took the opportunity to pen a pandering piece about it being my birthday yesterday. 

Truth be told, I'm not that big on birthdays. I'm fine helping others celebrate theirs. But apart from the presents, the good cheer and the chance to partake in strictly verbotten foods from the Chocolate Food group, I'd just as soon let mine go unnoticed.

Perhaps that's why I've remained 44 for so many years. 

Nevertheless, I caved and wrote a long piece about February 28. 

A special day to me, Bernadette Peters,  Frank Gehry, and Swavyyx ( rising star of Tik Tok), and a smattering of others. Why? Because as my fellow bloggers George, Jeff and other Jeff, all mishbucha btw, know, you never pass up an easy blog layup. Not when you're cranking them out 4, occasionally 5, times a week. 

Which brings us to today's blog. Another fast break, kiss off the backboard, easy two points.

You see it was 14 years ago that I started this blog. Started may not be the most appropriate word because it connotes intention. There was none. There was simply a challenge from my friend and former boss Mark Monteiro, a creative director par excellence, of whom I've never heard a bad word. A rarity in this business.

"Rich," he said congratulating me on my 51st birthday, "why don't you start a blog? It'll give you an opportunity to write in your own voice and I think you can have fun with it. Especially since you seem to have an overabundance of opinions."  

Mark is a soft spoken man who knows how to get in a good subtle dig between friends.

Little did Mark, or I, have any idea I'd be embarking on a labor of love. Or building a platform -- and a following of 8 crazy readers -- which may or may not help propel me into my next semi-vocational venture. 

And now here we are some 3000 posts later. THREE THOUSAND!

With time on my hand, perhaps I should go back and DELETE the posts that I now find embarrassing and unreadable. However, a blog with 3000 posts is lot more impressive than one with 57, maybe 58 if you include that one time I wrote about trying to gain membership at the Mara Lago Country Club.

Where will we go in the in next 14 years? Who knows? Perhaps I will channel my social-media curated voice into something else. 

If the former "president" is nominated and runs in the general election, perhaps I will redouble my efforts to discredit him and mock his zealots. Do not doubt for a second that I have exhausted that tank. If anything my hatred for that sad sack of pus has expanded exponentially since he left his stain on 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.

Perhaps my burgeoning career as a senior influencer will skyrocket and RoundSeventeen will transform into All-Pimping, All The Time.

Or perhaps I will follow in the drunken footsteps of LA's own poet laureate of the streets, Mr. Bukowski.

Rich Siegel, Poet? 

Stranger things have happened. Ask the 8 loyal readers who've been here since the beginning.