Belated Labor Day Joy

Big news in Hollywood this week, the Writers Strike has been settled. 

Word has it that the WGA (Writers Guild of America) got most of what they wanted. Meaning the studios and streamer companies could've settled this earlier, they were just holding out and inflicting unnecessary pain. 

Not unlike the car dealer who tells you, "I can't come down any lower on the price of this new Nissan Maxima." Then magically appears moments later, after "speaking with his manager", and presents a lower price. 

I've discovered, at a late age, that the key to negotiations is to walk in with a high tolerance for pain. And bullshit. And never take "NO" for an answer.

The writers would do well to remember the lessons from this strike when contract renegotiations rear their ugly head sometime in the near future. When AI bots become showrunners. Or hologram technology enables viewers to "co-write" their own in home entertainment.

There's another important lesson  for the WGA. 

Next time picket lines need to be walked and 19th century protest boards need to be hoisted on the able shoulders of writers (and self righteous supportive copywriters who are exercise OCD), make sure you provide plenty of white space on the signs. I seriously believe the turnout would have been tenfold higher had there been enough blank signs wherein writers could exercise their penchant for snark.

To that end, I give you the entire Rich Siegel 2023 Library of WGA Union Solidarity:

Actually, this is not the entirety of my Labor labor. 

When the guild failed to provide blank signs, I re-jigged some of my somewhat weaker efforts. What's that old advertising expression? "Sometimes you have to kill your babies."

I'm going to miss getting out there. Adding 6-7000 steps to my daily exercise routine. Making the younger writers laugh. And snagging free bags of expensive pistachio nuts at the rest stations. 

I won't say that my signs played a major role in bringing the conflict to an end. But I won't NOT say it either.

Now, let's get back to Steven Colbert!

On getting younger

Last year, on this date, I wrote about riding from Morro Bay to Cambria Lighthouse Century Bike 100 mile ride. Ms. Muse and I had to do the considerably shorter 45 mile from Morro Bay to Cambria and back. We're of an age where we have nothing to prove. And we have the ribald stories and laugh lines to that effect.

Today however, one year later, as the map unsullied by any presidential Sharpie would indicate, we went a tad further. And, it turns out we did have something to prove. Seeing as today is Ms. Muse's birthday -- Happy Birthday Lassie -- we decided to push ourselves further. 

Note: I will be credited for not mentioning her chronological age, but given serious demerits for my improper use of an em dash.

This year, we decided to take on the Metric Century, that's 65 miles (a mile for every one of my years) which is equal to 100 kilometers. That's no small feat for a couple of casual cyclists who emit a cacophony of sounds just getting up and down from a couch. 

Fortunately, we're both seasoned veterans of the ad agency world/entertainment industry and blessed with a mental fortitude that has left us built for any challenge.

As you can see from the photo below it was a beautiful sunny day to explore the quiet, idyllic Central California Coast.

As you can also see, it's time I whip out my new MANSCAPED Beard Hedger™ with the 20 length adjustable blade wheel. I'm a big fan of the Manscaped brand and will be giving a further review/hawking of this must-have tonsorial tool at a later date.

I say later because there are more important things on my mind. 

Namely breakfast. And speaking of must-haves, one cannot complete a visit to Central California without a stop in Cayucos. A sleepy beach town, two shakes north of Morro Bay, that just whispers, "move here", to Los Angeles-averse Angelenos.

Those who pass thru Cayucos often find themselves at the Buttery Brown Biscuit Cookie Company, or some fakakta name like that. It's a tourist trap for folks with a sweet tooth who can't resist overpaying for an all-too-sugary cookie that left me thinking, "feh."

The real gold in Cayucos can be found across the street at the Hidden Kitchen. 

Hidden because if you blink or don't happen to see the eager diners lined up and snaking around the block, it's easy to miss. Not so easy, however, to forget. Particularly if you've ever had your bacon and eggs or Western omelette served atop a blue corn tortilla waffle.

Behold...

And yes that is a Coca-Cola in the iconic tall bottle in the upper right hand corner. I have given up soda, or pop, for you folks from the flyover states, but on this occasion we decided to splurge.

After all, how much damage could a 1373 calorie breakfast do when the day before you fired up a whopping 1894 calories!

And, I'll add, so worth it.

Optimize this.

 It's time to "spill some tea", as my daughter would say. 

I'm now officially 8 months into my life as a Man of Semi-Leisure. Brought about by the not unexpected severing of the chord with my last employer. I'm not prohibited from naming them by name, but in deference to some pals that still work there, I won't.

Nor do I have to because what hinders the Neandarthals running the Marketing department there, hinders Marketing Departments everywhere. My good friend and fellow ad curmudgeon, George Tannenbaum, writes about it often. And wrote it about last week, hence this follow up. And my leaping on the very popular Tannenbaum Train.

Of course I'm referring to Data Deification, his words, not mine. 

Though I love that word and often use it to deflect the idiocy of Red Hats and accuse them of TDS, Trump Deification Syndrome.

We, and again, I'm not specifically PAYing attention solely to my last employer, have slavishly bent the knee to Data Tech, which can be argued to have put the last nail in the creativity coffin.

Unlike George, who can cite WSJ articles or the thousands upon thousands of books he has read, and thus command a professorial tone on the topic, I can only offer anecdotal evidence of its deleterious effects.

In my last inglorious position, I was charged with writing a shit ton of emails. 

They called them newsletters, but they were more like PennySaver flyers in reality. There was no content to speak of. No reason to spend any time with the "newsletters" as they were merely driven by price points and the promise of cash back. BTW, has there ever been such a lame and overused marketing tool as Cash Back?

When will Kevin Hart make a long-awaited exit form our zeitgeist?

To get folks to open these newsletters I would often write "click bait-y" subheads (those teasers that show up in your emailbox every morning) and then get disposed of en masse. I don't want to sound immodest, but after 35 years in the business I think I can write a snappy line to pique a consumer's interest.

So every week we'd send out millions of these emails. And there would testing. Hot spots. Heat maps. Open rates. Unsubscribe rates, etc. And while some companies would do A/B testing, mine did A/B/C/D/E testing. That is, they would test 5 (sometimes 6 or 7) different subheads/preheaders and gauge their Open Rates. 

Not surprisingly, the ones I pushed for, had the higher open rates. 

Many times substantially higher. 

Also not surprisingly, the ones I pushed for were not the favorites of the Email Marketing Team Members, or whatever fakakta name they called themselves.

It was in these contentious moments that the slaves to data became slaves to their own jobs/careers/mortgage payments. And decided, "we don't rock the boat, Rich." Can you just stick to things like: Three ways to save up to 25%.

My favorite Subhead, one of thousands written in my 2 year tenure with my Pals, was written for  a Mother's Day Sale. It read: 

You 10 lbs. babies owe her a great gift. 

Entering the world at 9.8 lbs, I thought this was good grist for the mill.

That one got me in a lot of hot water. And substantially higher rates than any other contenders.

I miss fighting for good work. 

Then again, I don't.

Non Kippur

Today is Yom Kippur.

Normally I don't post on this the most solemn day in the Jewish year. There was a time I'd be spending the day in Temple. And by day I mean a full grueling 8 hours. In a monkey suit. Surrounded by men, who often left their seats to go to the bathroom for a ciggie and a shot of scotch from their hip flasks. 

Suffice it to say, with all the fasting, all the atoning and all the endless reciting of prayers no one but the rabbi and the cantor understand, Yom Kippur is not for the faint hearted.

Years later, I subjected my own family to the yearly torture. 

A lot good that did. My daughters identify as Jewish but have joined me on the dark side of atheism, best exemplified by this photo which should be read as being all-inclusive...

Additionally, I have not, nor will I ever forgive the Big Guy for taking my daughters' mother away from them. At a time in life when they needed her most. 

With regards to sinning, I'm as guilty as the next man/woman/non-binary human being. 

It's not as if I don't have a lot of atoning to do. It's just that if there is a Supreme Being judging me for my transgressions, I can't rightly seek forgiveness for them as long as I cling tightly to one malefaction I'm not ready to give up.

Here I will watch my words carefully, because frankly I'm tired of running afoul of the Social Media Police. 

If you've been reading this blog, or follow me on social media you surely know of my obsession. It has been my obsession for the past 8 years. And rightly so, because this thing, this monster, this embodiment of nationalist, fascist, white supremacist ideology represents an existential threat to this country. And humanity at large.

I make no apologies for my hyperbole. And posit that we have not even begun tallying the damage he has wrought. Not by a long shot.

And so today, our Day of Atonement, I will not be seeking forgiveness for wishing (and if I were so inclined, praying) for the day when his obituary makes the front page of the newspaper.

In big bold joyful type.

Amen.

 

Top of the Pyle

Had a very odd dream this morning. 

I know, and you know, that the recounting of someone else's dream can be a painstaking journey into absurdity, so I won't belabor the point. Moreover, my dreams, and maybe yours, are often a jumble of surreal and non-sensical images.

This one wasn't. I was on a team, a football team,. basketball team, it doesn't matter. And somewhere between the playing field and the locker room, I had lost my old-timey digital camera. I told the coach about it and he pointed out I still had an iPhone. Internally, however, I lamented losing the 5.3 mega-pixel camera. Moments later the coach appeared and produced my lost camera.

I was overcome with a great sense of relief.

You don't have to be Carl Jung to figure out this little brain twister - a camera makes memories. And memories, more than anything we can hold in our hand, are our most valued treasures. 

A longwinded way to introduce you to Lesly Pyle's new book, "Pyle of Memories." It was released yesterday and had clearly been on my mind.

I don't know Lesly. 

Other than the fact that she's about 100 years younger than me, works in advertising (sorry, Lesly) and often kicks my ass in Jon Soto's famous Facebook Name the Album contest. She's funny. Quick-witted. And smart. 

Smart enough to know that if she rounded up short stories from many of the best and promo-happy people in the business, and me, they would go on to advertise the book for her. An ingenious MLM scheme if there ever was one.

The authors in the book are like a Who's Who of industry giants, including Jeff Goodby, Gerry Graf and Luke Sullivan. Plus, friends and colleagues, that for reasons unknown, still pick up the phone when I call. I've been told by Ms. Muse, and others, to knock off the self deprecation, but old habits are not easily discarded.

The best thing about this new book, other having some prime real estate in it, is that Lesly has generously promised to donate the proceeds -- you know the millions of dollars all authors rake in -- to battle dementia. 

I urge you to pick up a copy of Pyle of Memories via my newly-minted Amazon Affiliates Program. 

You can find it here: https://amzn.to/46h1Z8O

To that end, I will donate all proceeds from this sale (and then some) to Lesly's same worthy cause.

Sko Buffs

I have a football team to root for. 

It's the Colorado Buffalos. Maybe you've heard of them? They've been in the news a lot lately. And will likely be the talk of the sports world again after Saturday's night's stunning comeback against their rivals, the Colorado State Rams. 

They also hired this new low key coach named Deion Sanders, who prefers to go by the name PrimeTime. Maybe you've heard of him?

Unlike the rest of the country, who have jumped on the PrimeTime Bandwagon, I have a vested interest in CU. My youngest daughter Abby, graduated from Boulder in 2019. Maybe you remember that unforgettable story?

While Abby was there, we went to 2 or 3 football games at Folsom Field. Each time we were greeted by rain. Or lightning. Or rain and lightning. Consequently we never got to see the Running of Ralphie (see picture above) which opens every Buff's game. 

Allegedly. 

They don't cart the poor buffalo out when the field is muddy because...well, I don't know why. Seems many a western movie includes footage of hard charging buffalo. Drizzle or no drizzle.

On one college orientation visit, we did pass by the trailer where that year's Ralphie -- they rotate them every season -- was chewing on some hay. Or some other prairie grass. Or whatever it is buffalo chew on. 

We were invited to come inside and see the poor beast up front and personal. The Buffalo is a big and intimidating animal. And not too keen on the Petting Zoo motif.

But buffalo ribs make for some fine BBQ. And should be eaten with crunchy sourdough bread in one mitt and fresh Serrano peppers in the other. A lesson I learned when I first moved to California and got my first job managing a steakhouse with los hombres kitcheneros.

It should also be noted that in the four outrageously expensive years that Abby attended CU, the team was hardly playing D1 kind of ball. Often dwelling in the basement of the once mighty Pac 12, which following this year, will be the Pac Where'd-Everybody-Go?

But this year is shaping up to be monumental for the Buffs. 

They're already 3-0. And this coming Saturday they play the mighty Oregon Ducks. Got no love for the Ducks, who were once the worthy rival of the University of Washington, where another substantial chunk of my Stay-Out-Of-A-Dirty-Nursing-Home Money went.  

Following that, they take on USC, where Ms. Muse currently works. Let the good hearted ribbing and snarky pointed banter begin.

With this revived pigskin fever, I might have to get myself a slew of CU T-shirts and jerseys. Just as PrimeTime has reshaped the team, I've done some reshaping of my own and no longer fill out anything in a XXL. If I can get my calorie intake under 1000 a day, I might be able to slide into a Medium. A size I haven't worn since 5th grade.

Sko Buffs.

I'm with Labor

When it comes to the current United Auto Workers strike, I stand with labor.

When it comes to the current Screen Actors Guild strike, I stand with labor.

When it comes to the current Writers Guild Strike, I stand with labor.

When it comes to the current Janitors Strike at Hotels, I stand with labor.

When it comes to any movement seeking fairness, wage equality and better working conditions for the people who make, do or lift a finger in any manner -- as opposed to supervising the lifting of a finger -- I stand with labor.

I say that despite spending the latter part of my ad agency career in so-called "management." 

And who are we kidding? 

Yes I had a Senior Vice President status and a fancy Group Creative Director title but I did as much time "managing" as I did trying to make nice with cretinous clients who wanted to change voiceover copy during a film coloring session. 

Or argue for 3 hours over which blue sweater on an actor accurately fit the brand guideline.

The truth is the value of any company is derived from the people who DO the work. 

Not the overpaid slugs who fly around the country in first class, order market price food off the menu and can often be found at Davos, conducting useless panels and stuffing their luggage bag with the kind of swag the average teacher couldn't afford after 25 grueling years in the classroom.

Do I sound angry? I am. Because this class warfare between the Haves and Have Nots can only lead to disaster for people like me, who Have A Little.

This won't win me any fans at General Motors (and to be clear I haven't written any car advertising for a good 20 years, so I'm not gonna start worrying about that now) but I came across this infographic that tells a disturbing story.

I believe it was President Abraham Lincoln who once said, "You can't believe everything you read on the Internet." That said, let's say the margin of error here is 50%. In other words, let's say Ms. Barra only takes home $55, 000 a day. 

A DAY!

If GM clears $2000 profit on every Vega, Chevelle, Impala and Silverado truck they sell, they've got to get 25 vehicles off the lot every 8 hours just to set the fine silverware out on Mary's daily dining table. I know from my days working with car dealers how difficult it can be to move that much metal.

See for yourself: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yl7cGc1WCa8

As you can see, my understanding of profits and losses, revenue streams and COLA clauses is rudimentary at best. This is odd, in that I come from a family of CPAs and financial analysts. Nevertheless, I want to see all these strikes settled. For the good of our economy. 

And for the good of President Joe Biden. If he loses to that Nazi, I am outtahere.

To that end, I'm even willing to give some valuable R17 real estate to pimp these handsome Chevrolet floor mats which will look in any vehicle, even yours, learn more at: https://amzn.to/48f6Vgb

Bissell Bliss

If you have hardwood floors you need the Bissell Lightweight Spinwave Expert Hard Floor Spin Mop 20393.

You do.

Of course I'm going to pimp it later via my official Amazon Affiliate Program, appropriately titled Rich's Good Stuff, but first let me get to the sell.

First of all you should know that I have a lot of hardwood. When we bought the house in 1992, the first thing we did was rip up the dirty shag carpet that masked these beautiful planks of red oak. The first floor of my house covers more than 1100 square feet. That's a lot of dead oaks. 

It's also a lot of ground to cover, even for a Man of Semi-Leisure who has better things to do than to drag out a mop and bucket. Not to mention all the traumatic memories of putting myself through college by being a glorified janitor, "student worker" I believe they called it.

So I plopped down a hundred bucks or so for the Bissell SpinWave, the one pictured on the left. It's an incredible machine with two oscillating spin pads that literally scrub the floor and coat it with a specially formulated cleanser fortified with "nonionic surfactants, methlyisothiazolone and benzisothiazolone."

Those ingredients may bring a tear to a tree-hugger's eye, but for me, the more syllables a chemical has the more effective I assume it to be. This goes for mosquito repellents, oven cleaners and certain age-related male afflictions.

When you turn on the Bissell SpinWave, you are immediately taken by its self-powered mobility. The spinning pads pull the machine forward. Making it feel less like a cleaning appliance and more like a knowing dance partner.

My father never bought us one of those self-powered push lawn mowers. It was his belief that manual Briggs & Stratton push lawn mowers (of the 75 lbs. variety) built character. So this, in essence, is my way of getting revenge. 

Tiny confession: While prancing about my house with the Bissell Spinwave 20393™, I like to put on snappy latin music and move around as if I were doing the cha-cha-cha with the whipped cream lady from the Herb Albert album cover.

Two weeks ago, after many good years of service, the nut holding the right spin pad wore out. In fact it had bore a hole in the plastic housing unit. So I did what any spendthrift consumer would do, I wrote an email to the good people at Bissell, who immediately offered to send me a replacement part.

Gratis.

It should be mentioned that I write a pretty damn good unsatisfied customer letter.

When it arrived, I had difficulty re-assembling the casing. I wrote another eloquent email suggesting they might have sent me the left pad instead of the right. The friendly Bissell customer service rep. (Not an AI bot), apologized and said they would send another part.

What they didn't tell me was they would send another part already attached to a brand new SpinWave 20393!!! 

That my friends is how brand loyalty is built. And how brand evangelicals are born. 

I now own two Bissell SpinWaves. Chances are, you own none. But you should.

And tell them Rich sent you. Buy yours here: https://amzn.to/3ZqCLmc

You're welcome.

Photo Funnies Thursday

Coming home from my monumental swim the other day -- 3000 meters nonstop -- I came across this piece of trash in the gutter. 

Before picking it up and depositing it in its proper receptacle I could not help but to burst our laughing. For reasons that need no explanation, it reminded me of a Seth Rogen movie. I can't remember which one featured a bunch of arrested adolescents drawing penii, but I suppose you could argue it doesn't really matter. 

Because the discarded name tag is from nearby Loyola Marymount University (beautiful campus) I suspect it was the remnant of my neighbor's college tour. He's a big, tall lanky kid with some serious basketball chops. Good to know he also has a sense of humor.

And with that, let's kickoff another edition of Thursday Photo Funnies. Wherein I select odd pictures that somehow made it onto my iPhone.

Taken while on a late afternoon stroll in Jolly Harbor. On the beautiful isle of Antigua.

Misspelling seems to be a national pastime.

I know you're tired of hearing about my Antiguan vacation. 

This will be the last mention of it. Maybe. 

Weeks ago, I was attacked by a homeless scumbag in my neighborhood.

Because of lax laws, he's still here!

Ms. Muse and I both suffer from hyper-competitiveness.

This photo doesn't do the tall Jenga tower justice. 

My dog Lucy suffers from no competitiveness. Here she is, laying down,

doing NOTHING at the Dog Park.

I get why airplanes can fly. I don't get this one.

Another mystery in mass transportation.

My youngest daughter is home for a week. Found this shot from 25 years ago.

God, I love her.

Speaking of kids...

And institutions that are having aging issues.

The right likes to talk about the "fascism" of the left.

Clearly they're not paying attention.

And finally, a bald eagle, the symbol of American democracy, guzzling a cheap bottle of Merlot.

A fitting, and sad, sign of the times.

   
 

A Croc of cash

"It's not Antigua, but it'll do."

Went to Will Rogers Beach over the weekend with Ms. Muse. A welcome relief from the earlier stress of the day, which I might address at a later date. If I can ever find my half-used vial of Atavan. 

Though we didn't have our own little cabana, two reclining chaise lounges and Anishia running lime-laden rum punches out to us on the hour (almost every hour), it was quite pleasant. 

As we set up shop on a small sandy berm, a young couple sat in front of us. I make no bones about this, but I'm an inveterate people watcher. I suspect others do the same. Which explains my reluctance to take off my shirt.

Perhaps it's a remnant of my early karate days where we were taught the importance of "environmental awareness", but I like to scope out my surroundings. Take inventory of my Pacific edge neighbors. And even occasionally fantasize about their back stories. 

"That dude works construction. By the way he keeps reaching for his lower back, I suspect he pulled a muscle while he and Raul were hauling an 8X8 beam to secure a load bearing wall."

"She's a respiratory nurse at St. Monica's Hospital. Probably getting some R&R before she goes to work the night shift. Gauging from her tattoos, I'm thinking she was headed down the wrong road in her youth but then got her life together."

and the young couple in front of us...

"Tourists. From Japan. Here on holiday. Hoping to see celebrities. And not only see them but get photos, lots of photos, with them."

I say this because they never spoke a word of English to each other. I know this bothers some Americans -- the ones who wear Red Hats -- but I rather enjoy it. Gives Santa Monica a more cosmopolitan flair.

I mention the photos, because the entire time they were "relaxing" on the beach they were snapping pictures of each other. With cutesy hand gestures, over the top smiles, and carefully curated beach poses that looked like they were intended for influence marketing. 

Maybe they run their own blog, ラウンドセブンティーン

I took special note of the guy's footwear. 

He was sporting a pair of white plastic crocs, as seen in the photo above. I would hardly be considered fashion forward. Though I recently completed an assignment for a hip apparel company (sorry, NDA precludes any naming) and I'm always a decade behind the times, but these Crocs actually looked good on him.

Apparently they also look good on other people. In fact, as part of my research, I discovered they are currently the top seller on amazon.com ("Let your fingers do the shopping").

Who knows. And I'm just spitballing here. They might even look good on you: https://amzn.to/44LAIdi

The Thrilling Fields

 

Let me begin by saying that in the interest of not ticking off the TOS police on various social media platforms, I have altered the title of this post. Personally I find it offensive and childish that I must do so. 

This amuse-buche of fascism leaves a sour un-amusing, First Amendment abusing taste in my mouth.

But in the interest of serving my 8 loyal readers and in the interest of furthering my burgeoning career as a certified Amazon Affiliate Marketer, I will reluctantly comply.

This summer has not been kind to Ms. Muse. 

At one time, the Roma Tomato plant on her back patio was home to a 5 foot high bush that sprouted more than 2 dozen tomatoes. We waited patiently as they turned from green to less than green to almost bruschetta ready. 

But alas, our vision of warm late summer nights, a bottle of cold champagne and a colorful charcuterie board of Boar's Head meats, interesting cheeses and fresh produce from the garden was spoiled. From the picture above, I think you can tell by who. 

Or is it whom? I've never been great with grammar and not sure if the rules of the Queen's tongue apply when speaking of rodentia.

In any case, the battle had begun. Traps were set. And tied to anchors so the bastards couldn't run away. And, in the mornings that followed, victory was celebrated. Often with colorful emojis that might clue you in to why Ms. Muse and I are a couple.

Not wanting to be left out of the party, and more importantly, not satisfied with the ordnance of these newfangled plastic traps, I suggested a return to the old school traps produced by Victor since 1898. That's right I looked it up. 

And guess what? When the plastic traps failed to snag any of these four legged tomato thieves, the Victor NeckSnapper™came to the rescue. 

Big Time.

Caught up in this bloodl*st, I decided to join the hunt. And my mornings have not been the same. Set your rat-hating eyes on this monster I bagged. I almost entertained the idea of releasing it from the trap and holding up its little ears for a photo, the way big game hunters, and DJTJ, hold up theirs.

For the record, I named this one "Tank". And he weighed in at close to three pounds. OK, I didn't weigh him on the food portioning scale that sits, unused, in my pantry. 

I'm not crazy, despite evidence to the contrary.

At this point you be asking, "Do I feel bad about killing rats that scurry around my house?" No, no I do not. Did you know there are more than 7 billion rats on Earth? That's one for every human being. And like the GOP, they have done nothing to improve the planet. Nothing.

If you want to get in on the rat trapping fun, you can find your American-made Victor traps here: https://amzn.to/3Pw7HwT

Remember there are close to 8 billion of them, one trap may not suffice.

Feels good to be right

Stunning news broke late Friday afternoon. Stunning, being a relative word now that we're living through an unprecedented era in American politics where the former president is under 4 separate indictments. That includes a total of 91 criminal counts including a RICO charge that is...well... stunning its own right.

This, I feel compelled -- and gleeful -- to remind you is in addition to the second civil case he lost to E. Jean Carroll and now awaits what one can only hope will be backbreaking financial punishment. 

"Hey, E. Jean, can the court interest you in a bunch of shitty golf courses? Bedminster? Doral? Or maybe Trump's Dump by The Sea, Trump National Golf Course Los Angeles?"

"How about a tower? Would you like a Tower?"

On Friday, Mark Meadows, the Chief Weasel of Staff, found out he could not have his part of the RICO indictment moved to federal court, where he might have found a bunch of clueless Red Hats (pardon the redundancy) to sit on the jury and grant him a Get Out of Jail Card. 

But that's not gonna happen.

So, like so many before him, Meadows will now get to witness his lifetime legacy start to spiral down the toilet bowl. And as Rick Wilson, author of Everything Trump Touches Dies, so accurately predicted, Meadows will be joined by many others.

I have many Trump books on my bookshelf. So many indeed that the shelving required reinforcement. And yes the 215 lbs. bastard lives in my head. Mostly because I have never underestimated him and see him as an existential threat to this nation and my daughter's future. But Wilson's book is a must read. 

Published more than 5 years ago, we have already witnessed the domino effect predicted by Wilson. Look who has gone down (died, as it were) because of their proximity to the orange melonoma: Barr, Cohen, Pence, Manafort, Gates, Flynn, Bannon, Giuliani, Eastman, Powell, Fox News, etc...

I hate to engage in "I told you so's"...who am I kidding, I love being able to say, "I told you so", particularly when it was all so self-evident.

And I don't think we've begun to scratch the surface. 

Not only are the big names going down, so are many of the small ones. Including the fake electors, in their starched blouses and their JC Penney khakis. And the J6 insurrectionists, attired in their kevlar vests and their stained Walmart khakis, now being sentenced to double digit prison sentences.

It's all so delicious.

But the best is yet to come, apologies Kimberly "Elvira" Guilfoyle. If Wilson is right, and so far he's been uncannily prescient, the GOP can look forward to...

"massive decades-long downstream election losses...the alienation of African American and hispanics. Young voters fleeing the party in droves. Age-old beefs, juvenile complaints. Playing public footsie with white supremacists and Neo-Nazis. Blistering pig-ignorance about the economy and the world. And pushing an agenda that jacks economic inequality into the stratosphere."

I'm more than happy to lend you my copy to read, but I'm gonna go through this classic again. Only this time with smug look of self-satisfaction on my face.

You can buy your own copy, and you must have seen this coming, at: https://amzn.to/3Rf3IqF

Grooming 101

We get letters. And e-mails. And voicemails. And all sorts of meme's, which I'm sad to say are 99% too late as I've seen them already. 

Last week a FB friend from my high school (most of whom are sadly Red Hats) sent me a link to Mike Huckabee's twisted website fueled by TDS -- Trump Deification Syndrome. He suggested there "might be something you can do with this."

Most times when I get those sort of messages I politely decline. Why? Because I'm not a DJ taking requests. Also, that's just not how my mind works. I spent 40 plus years taking writing requests from clients, I'm not about to do it on my free time.

But this (see photo above) is different. And if you'll visit this site I think you'll see why.

Mr. Huckabee, the former governor of Arkansas and father of professional liar and ex Press Secretary Sarah Huckabee, is proud to produce The Kid's Guide to President Trump. 

Remind me again, who are the malignant Groomers.

For a mere two dollars, just the cost of shipping and handling, you can receive this FREE Patriotic Kid's Gift Bundle which not only includes the Guide to President Trump, festooned with all kinds of dazzling red, white and blue illustrations...

...you'll also receive a special introductory subscription to EverBright Kid's Magazine, chock full of grooming aids in early firearm ownership, swastika drawing, and junior Kross burning.

As you might imagine, I really wanted to get my hands on the Kid's Guide to President Trump, btw kids, that's EX-President Trump, thank god. 

But, in reading the fine print, I saw that legendary GOP treachery. Once you agree to pay for the shipping and handling via a certified credit card, you must also agree to receive the magazine subscription, which would make for good fire starting material during the coming winter month's, at $7.95 an issue.

Yeah, no.

That's when I thought it'd be a good idea to play on Mike's good hearted Zionist streak and appeal to his oh-so-earnest love of people with Hebraic Seasonings. In the space provided in his site I included the following message...

Dear Mike,

I was so excited to see your exclusive offer to receive The Kid's Guide to President Trump. As a Messianic Jew I was so looking forward to sharing his many achievements with my children Schmuley, Zachariah, Esther, Isaac, Ruthie and Little Ruthie. 

However, as I have just lost my job as an Assistant Moyel, I am unable to afford the monthly subscription. I pray to Hashem that you can see fit to send the guide so that I may show my children the blessings President Trump has bestowed upon this world.

I don't want to be a shnorer, but if you, or Jesus, can find it in your heart to send me the guide for free, I will sing your praises for all of eternity. And little Ruthie will too.

I promise to keep you informed should there be any reply.