The painful journey

Today is a special day. But for all the wrong reasons. 

It was two years ago today that I lost my beautiful wife. My daughters lost their loving mother. My sisters in law lost their Rock of Gibraltar sister. My nieces and nephews lost a hugging, welcoming aunt. And the world lost a light that truly shone so bright.

 

I knew this would be hard to write. But also knew I had to mark the occasion.

 

I was asked if there was anything I planned to do about December 21, 2023. A question I also asked my daughters. We hadn’t planned anything. Other than to keep Deb in our hearts. And light a yahzreit candle.

 

Then I thought the best thing to do would be to recognize the date and write about it. After all, I have been exceedingly open about my grief. Which has been therapeutic for me. And apparently somewhat therapeutic for others. A grief counselor once told me, "when you help others you help yourself."

 

Since Deb’s passing, I have had the opportunity to comfort others who have also joined the Club No One Wants to Be In. And even some who are on the brink of crossing that dreaded threshold. At the risk of being immodest, I was told I was the first person they wanted to speak with.

Maybe Deb is still finding a way to repair the world (Tikkun Olam).

 

My friend Jeff suggested I write a book, based on my experience, and call it The Grief Whisperer. Not exactly on-brand for me. In fact, Deb would find it hilarious that anyone in their right mind would come to me for emotional support of any kind.

 

“Next they’ll be coming to you for fashion advice,” she would joke.

 

The fact is, I’m not long on doling out counsel. The other fact is, I don’t have to, because it’s more about listening than it is about speaking. And that’s what members of the Club do for each other. 

 

We listen.

 

Again, and my daughters will attest to this, this is not my strong suit. But in addition to eschewing bread and red meat, it’s something I’ve been working on for the last two years. 

As my friend Jim would say, employ the WAIT method – Why Am I Talking?

 

This may seem like an odd way to end this post, but if I may maul Peter Parker’s (Spiderman) uncle, “Great pain brings about great growth.”

 

I’m still a work in progress.

Have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. And let's all be nicer to each other. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Who wants gravy?

The algorithm, surely she is blessed with Wiccan powers I dare not resist.

Last week, despite my militant 8+ years of Anti-Trumpism, I was sent an offer for a free Trump 2024 desk calendar. How does a sane human being choose to ignore such temptation? It was FREE. And it was chock full of glossy photos of our esteemed ex-President doing the kind of Rockwellian activities that are only the purview of 'Real Americans.'

Setting the Thanksgiving Day Ceremonial Meal.

Making snowmen, while attired in suit and tie.

And sharing monogamous quality time with the woman he loves. And cherishes. And remains faithful too.  No horseface on that filly.

Naturally, I jumped. Take my email address. My phone number. My gigabytes of radical, leftist, commie data. I must have that FREE calendar and its heavily airbrushed photos on my desk at all times. 

Look at this come on. It says FREE three times. In one screen grab. 

Surely, like his 2000 Mile Wall, his sprawling Infrastructure Plan, his Immigration Reform, his groundbreaking trade deals, and his "big, beautiful Healthcare plan" that would replace Obamacare, he wouldn't say FREE it if he didn't mean it.

Yeah, no.

They wanted me to spend $6.95 in Shipping and Handling for the privilege of putting their campaign material in my home. And they didn't stop there. Like any wise marketer, they tried to upsell me. 

I don't know what's more amusing. Charging $7 for a fifty cent coin that's not even worth fifty cents. A Trump Never Surrender Coin featuring a picture of him literally surrendering. Or a self-owning Certificate of Authenticity that indeed certifies the buyer of such is a Grade A Mammalucco.

Finally, and you know I saved the best for last, there's this...

As we speak, the man facing 91criminal counts for inciting an Insurrection, trying to steal and election, creating false electors, threatening Georgia state officials, stealing Top Secret documents and obstructing justice at every turn, is not featured on any US currency. 

Frankly, he has a better chance of ending up on Mt. Rushmore. 

But if I were a stone worker living in South Dakota, I wouldn't be making any large purchases anytime soon.

 

"Remember when...."

I did something the other day folks rarely do anymore, at least with folks I know. I talked on the phone. I don't do a lot of phone talking these days. I like texting. Writing, though not always apparent, comes naturally to me and is my preferred vessel for communication. 

There are days when I take inventory before hitting the hay at night and realize I have spoken 13 words the entire day. 

So it was a bit of shock to look down at my iPhone and see that I was on the horn for 117 minutes and 28 seconds. I should contact the folks at Guiness.

The point of the call was nothing more than to catch up with my high school friend Bob B. (I'll refrain from identifying him for any discretionary purposes.) Fact is, we were friends even before high school and our shared history goes back 52 years. 

That's a long time. And I consider myself privileged that I still have mates that date back to the time of bell bottom pants and shirts made from Quianna polyester that can spontaneously combust at any given moment.

In between reminiscing about drunken weddings, funny funerals, camping mishaps, old girlfriends and life's other assorted adventures we came upon a simple observation, one that may or may not stand up to rigorous examination. Especially because in the span of 117 minutes, ample Merlot was consumed.

If you haven't guessed from the picture, it regards timelines. Not from an academic or biological standpoint. But from an anecdotal/behavioral one. 

We agreed that life has a funny way of coming full circle. And by that I mean the people/friends/relatives who populated our early formative years, have come around and now inhabit our lives in the pre-Dirt Nap Days, if I can be so brutal.

In the last two years I have reconnected with my cousin on Long Island, who I haven't spoken to in 50 years. As well as my cousin Alan, who along with his sister, lived with our family when his mother tragically passed away when he was just a kid. My own personal tragedy resulted in an unpredictable bond with a friend from the neighborhood as well as other high school alums who are in the Club No One Wants To Be In.

Jim, my former boss from Needless Hardons & Tears, is now in back in town and driving my daughter's car. And I was magically and happily reunited with Ms. Muse, who I hadn't seen or talked to for more than 30 years since our time at Bozell.

It's a very odd phenomena. Perhaps brought on by my recent re-watching of The Sopranos, which whisks me back to life in Northern New Jersey.

No snappy ending today. Just wondering if anyone else with grey hair, or no hair, is experiencing the same thing?  

 

The Siegel Family Tree

Things may be winding down for you as we prepare for the Christmas Holidays (is the War on Christmas still going on?) but they are heating up for me and my favorite Hong Kong Attorney, Mr. Lambert Liu. Affectionately known to me and my 8 loyal readers as Mr. Adam Lambert.

Let me reiterate, I know from my detailed study of the analytics and web traffic numbers that these scambaiting posts are not my most popular. And yet I persist.

There's just something so fundamentally appealing to me to string these scammers along from the comfort and safety of my keyboard. I am particularly enjoying this episode as the man (woman?) is posing as a lawyer. 

And manifesting all kinds of semi-legal affectations. 

These adventures also allow me to tap back into my roots, not only as a prankster, but also as a faithful reader of The National Lampoon. I always loved how the writers and art directors at Lampoon dug deep and created another world by filling out all the unseen nooks and crannies. 

For example, in the National Lampoon 1964 High School Yearbook, a must-have for any bookshelf, there is a minor character, a teacher, who is arrested for lewd behavior around the school. This very small story doesn't pop up just once or twice, it is organically referenced throughout the parody yearbook in a way that is seamless. And dare I say artful.

This then has become my North Star in my scambaiting retorts. My friend and fellow blogger George Tannenbaum writes with the goal of 'plausible deniability.' And he does it so well, I have often been caught in his unrevealed fiction. Similarly, I aim for holistic authenticity. A sense that the ridiculous world I have painted for these scammers actually does make sense in a way that more twists than a Brian Boitano freestyle routine.

Alas, the latest request from Esquire Adam Lambert...

Dear Mr. Siegel,

Upon investigation of your claims to the inheritance of Mr. Siegel, we have been unable to establish a relationship between you and the decedent. We therefore request that you provide documentation proving your relationship to the decedent. Thank you.

 

Regards,

 

Lambert Liu

Consultant

Cheung, Tang & Rosemount Solicitors

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

26th Floor, Jardine House,

One Connaught Place,

Central, Hong Kong

This defies logic as it was Adam Lambert's people who contacted me, saying they had uncovered evidence that I was the sole remaining decedent of my great, great uncle Adrian. But we'll just skip over that and get to my labored response...

Dear Adam Lambert,

I am in receipt of your request for documentation proving I am a decedent of Adrian Siegel, who made his Hong Kong fortune in the Export/Export business. This is fully understandable seeing as we are dealing with a huge amount of money. For me, and equally as important, for you.

To that end and so that we may expedite this transaction and I can replace my now-totaled Chrysler Le Baron, I took the liberty of contacting my white shoe lawyers at Powell, Ellis and Habba. Maybe you've heard of them?

They have prepared a detailed family tree that certifies my direct lineage to uncle Adrian. And his $35 million in gold bullion.

I have attached the family tree diagram for your careful perusal. And look forward to the transfer of the bullion ASAP.

I'll probably need a bigger safe deposit box at my bank, but that is a good problem to have.

I look forward to hearing from you shortly.

Best,

Ted (Richard) Siegel

And with that, I invite you to scope out the Siegel Family Tree

Merry Christmas

Christmas is approaching fast. And if you're like me you're still scrambling and scouring the Internet for that perfect gift.

If you're not like me and easily duped by a certain orange haired con man from Queens, you might want to consider some priceless Trump memorabilia for your loved or lobotomized ones. 

Yesterday, the former Criminal in Chief announced that he would selling a new round of his insanely priced NFT digital cards. He glibly calls it his Mugshot Edition. I don't know a single soul that has even one. But if you hurry and act now, you can snap up all the new cards for just $4,735.99

But wait, there's more.

Prescient buyers will also be rewarded -- and this is Pet Rock level geniuosity -- with a piece of the suit Trump wore when he, the first president in American history to be indicted, gave himself up and posed for a mugshot at a Georgia courthouse. 

How can any faithful Red Hat pass that up? It's like owning a swatch of the Shroud of Turin.

Only bigger, because it's not Jesus, it's TRUMP!

I gave this some serious thought. Unlike Kool-Aid drinking Trumpsters who are incapable of brain function, and decided to make other Trump memorabilia available to you before you put away the wrapping paper. Also, because I could use the money, I'm providing links so that all purchases will trigger a commission for yours truly.

Tell them what we have Johnny...

Sparkle Paper Towels -- The same ones President Trump tossed to 

soggy islanders in Puerto Rico and rescued their sorry lives. 

These are not the actual paper towels touched by our Lord Fauntleroy and Traitor, 

but your Red Hat gift recipient won't know. 

Get them now: https://amzn.to/3To5M0J

Goya -- Nothing says Feliz Navidad like Goya's fine Mexican cuisine.

It's not the food eaten by "criminals, rapists and drug dealers", 

this is the good Mexican stuff. Everyone loves getting Goya.

Don't wait: https://amzn.to/3TiAZT2

Sharpie -- Big and thick version, just like your favorite president. 

It's the same marker he used to sign the bill allowing ex-felons to 

purchase firearms. Because, you know, 2nd Amendment. And it has that 

Chisel Tip, chiseled like 215 lbs. President 45.

It's the perfect gift for the perfectly gullible.

https://amzn.to/4amfNS4

Stay tuned for more Trump Swag sold by a former Forbes 400 BILLIONAIRE!

 

The Mysterious Appearance of the Purple Butterflies

For those of you following my continuing travails with the "Hong Kong Attorney" who has promised to deliver unto me a recently discovered $35 million inheritance in the form of gold bullion, we have updates.

The pace of the missives sent back and forth across the Pacific, or possibly even the Atlantic where Nigerian scammers spin their tales, has slowed considerably. Which is fine with me because it gives me time to concoct things on my end.

My last correspondence included a request from Mr. Adam Lambert (my nickname for Lambert Liu) to sign a laughable document. I know from experience this is only a facade to give the process the sheen of credulity. Here to refresh your memory are Adam's exact words:

Dear Mr. Richard Siegel,

 

Thanks for the offer ref flanges, though I doubt I would be needing to invest in flanges anytime soon.

 

Attached herein is a Power of Attorney document which you are required to sign and send back to me. Its purpose being to give authorization to us for the sole purpose of facilitating the transfer of the estate of the decedent whom you have been designated as the next-of-kin and as the Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corporation(HSBC) where the assets are domiciled will be advised.

 

Upon receipt of your signed power of attorney document, we will endeavor to file an application for grant of inheritance on your behalf with the Probate Registry, the administrators of the estate. Please sign the attached document. Notarization will be done by a Hong Kong notary.

 

Regards,

 

Lambert Liu

Consultant

Cheung, Tang & Rosemount Solicitors

For clarification purposes I had told Mr. Adam Lambert that I was a Flange Salesman and offered to provide Adam with any flanges he might need at a wholesale price. He declined. 

For even further clarification, flanges regularly appear in all my scambaiting schemes. I like the word. It's a funny word. And one you don't hear everyday. Chances are you will go the rest of 2023 without ever hearing about flanges again. Except for here, that is.

Without further ado, here then is my response to Adam:

Dear Adam Lambert,

Sorry for the delayed response, I've been laid up in bed after I was in a car accident on the Hershey Highway. The doctors put me on Percocet. I don't know if you've ever had Percocet but it made me feel all woozy. And soft. And I started seeing purple butterflies. 

Do you have butterflies in Hong Kong?

During my hazy condition, I also lost the Power of Attorney Document you had sent. I'm so sorry. 

I hope this doesn't disqualify me from the $35 million inheritance. With my Chrysler Le Baron completely totaled I'm going to need a new car. I loved that Le Baron. It had a vinyl top. I don't know why carmakers stopped doing vinyl tops. I think they're so classy.

Can you send me the document I need to sign again? Can you also include a picture of yourself? I like to see who I'm doing business with. Maybe that's an American affectation, but when I was selling flanges I could look a man, or a woman, in the eye and immediately know if they were going to load up on flanges. It's a gift I have.

I've enclosed a picture of myself and my oldest son, Derek, so you know who you're dealing with.

I look forward to hearing from you and your counsel regarding the transfer of the money to my account.

Thank you,

Eddy (Richard) Siegel

Editorial note: For those too young to remember the photo comes from a press kit for the old TV Show, Marcus Welby, MD. The man on the left is a very young James Brolin. If I had a son named Derek, I'm sure he'd look just like that.

Take me away from the ball game

Yesterday, I made a crack about taking out a second mortgage on my home in order to spend three beer- soaked hours at the newly built SoFi Stadium, in order to watch a professional played NFL football game. 

I made that joke, as I do with many others, way in advance of its publishing on Monday morning. 

Unlike other bloggers, I don't do well with the pressure of daily pressure and like to have posts lined up in advance. Meaning, the SoFi wisecracking (where I understand it costs $80 to park your carcass in their massive Inglewood lots) was put to paper, as it were, before the earthshaking news of Shohei Ohtani's bank busting signing with the LA Dodgers.

From my initial reading, it appears Mr. Ohtani will "earn" more than $400,000 a game.

And in his first year as a Do'yer, he will not even be pitching, just serving as a Designated Hitter. Unless the league rewrites the rules, or the game goes into extra innings -- the bane of all Dodger Stadium goers who want to beat the traffic on the 101 South -- he'll probably make 3-4 appearances at the plate on any given night. 

Tops.

I would not begrudge Mr. Ohtani one penny of his salary. He is after all a premiere pitcher as well as a premier hitter. He's the modern day Babe Ruth. Put in advertising terms, he's like an art director who can also write. Or a planner who can also strategize. 

Ooooo, there's a muscle I haven't exercised in a while.

Suffice it to say, Angelenos are buzzing about the expected resurgence of the home team. Particularly with the imminent departure of Clayton Kershaw who will soon be peddling his talents as an Evangelical Pastor. And appear on local flatscreens while joining his fellow Pray-for-Pay Preacher Joel Osteen on Sunday Nights.

But there's a downside to all this. 

And you don't have to be the son of an accountant to see it coming.

In signing the 10 year contract and paying Ohtani more than 8 gazillion dollars, making him 1000 times wealthier than our disgraced, whiny ex-president, the Dodgers will have to recoup that money somewhere. 

I know from my experience in the corporate world it won't be coming out of the pockets of Magic Johnson or any of the other obscenely-wealthy owners who light $100 bills to light $1000 bills to light their cigars. 

That money will come from you and I. Well, mostly you.

The price of everything will go up. Not by multipliers of 2 or 3. But exponentially, like the currency used in some South American banana republic. The folks at Chavez Ravine might even institute their own denominations:

A Dodger Dog -- 50,000 Ohtanis

Modelo Beer --- 250,000 Ohtanis

Parking (in a mile radius of the stadium) -- 1,000,000 Ohtanis and first right of refusal on your first born

In the long run, the owners/athletes/agents will price their way out of existence. To the point where only Shoehei's family and Elon Musk can afford to go to a baseball game anymore.

They might as well change the name from Dodger Stadium to Davos Stadium. 

The Not So Gimme

 

I have never been an athlete. 

At least not in the recognized notion of the word. Apart from Little League, where I sucked, I never participated in any organized sport. Not that I didn't want to. But my father was not a huge supporter of that kind of thing.

He was more interested in putting my brother and I to work around the house, landscaping, cellar waterproofing, log splitting and horse manure collecting. Free labor for him. And character building backbone for us. 

As a child of the Post-Depression era, he was all about work, work, and more work. If there was anything he encouraged me to do, it was accountancy. He was a CPA. His brother was a CPA. And my brother is a CPA.

I had as much aptitude for accounting as I did for little league.

That is not to say I never dreamed of playing sports. Years ago, after watching so many politicians, movie stars and internet celebrities throw out a first pitch at a baseball stadium, poorly, I thought, no I knew, I could do better.

I dragged my 8 year old daughter away from Hannah Montana, grabbed a video camera and a few baseballs I had laying around the house and we headed to the baseball fields behind the pool where I now swim almost everyday. There, with the camera rolling I stood atop the pitcher's mound -- more like a spit of dirt -- wound up and threw a beeline fastball (maybe 45 MPH) that went waist high right over the plate.

It was a thing of beauty. I actually surprised myself. I have it on video and wrote about here years ago but now I can't find the posts among the 3000 or so that occupy this digital galaxy. You'll just have to take my word on it.

I bring this all up because last week Ms. Muse brought me to her company (USC Rossier School) Christmas Party. It was at SoFi Stadium. And since I had never been to SoFi and don't foresee taking out a second mortgage on my Stay-Out-Of-A-Dirty-Nursing Home home ever going there, I leaped at the opportunity. Especially since it included an opportunity to get out on the astroturf and tour the facility.

The place is enormous. And thoroughly impressive.

Less impressive however, and you probably saw this coming, the staff had arranged for the partygoers to take their best shot at kicking a simple field goal from the 20 yard line. The results were humbling.

I got out there early when I spotted the yellow mat in front of the goal. Several men had already lined up and were giving it their best Jan Stenerud. They were shanking balls left and right. Topping the ball like a bad golf swing. Or even missing the ball completely with the lame swing of their leg.

"What is wrong these old geezers?" I said to myself.

Then realized ALL of them were younger than me. I know the calendar says I'm 65 but sometimes I have to remind my brain and body of that sad fact. When it was my turn, I measured three to four steps back, gave myself ample room to approach the ball on a curved path as I've seen so many on Monday Night Football, Thursday Night Football, Friday Night College Football and Sunday Night Football do.

I steeled myself know that a gaggle of 20-30 people were ready to laugh. And let loose with a mighty kick.

There was an audible gasp as if I might be the first one to put it through. Followed by an audible, "awwww."

I missed it wide left. I had the distance. But I didn't have the angle. Nor it turns out did I have the height. The ball kind of lined drived itself past the lower crossbar. 

I walked away, humbled but not completely humiliated. 

That came on my second attempt, which we won't go into. 

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

Update: Found the video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lJt5-XJqcDE

"I have a question"

With the finale of Golden Bachelor now in the rearview mirror, I thought it'd be a good time to relate some of my brief experiences in elder dating -- an entirely different experience than the one depicted on national TV.

But if I may put Cupid's arrow back in the quiver for a moment and tell you how I got there in the first place, because to be honest as I was emerging from the crippling grief, it NEVER occurred to me. 

It did occur to my friend John, who after a night of drinking and frivolity and flirting with a waitress at the Backstage Bar (just up the street from my house) said, "You know, you're a single man now." 

That kind of stopped me in my tracks. 

Weeks later, I stepped gently into the unchartered (at least for me) of online dating. Years earlier I was doing some freelance work for eHarmony and was told to set up an account to get the full eharmony experience. And to be honest, my late wife Deb thought it would be hilarious to see how that would transpire -- I think she was excited about it than me -- but the assignment fizzled out before I could wow any would-be suitors.

When it actually came time, I started with Bumble, because it was my understanding women make the first move. Sort of like a Sadie Hawkins dance -- there's a dated reference -- but on the interwebs. 

One night, like an idiot, I left my phone on the coffee table and my youngest daughter saw the app icon on my screen. That released the waterworks.

In any case, to my great surprise, there were many respondents. Some I've come to learn were scammers. But many were not. Apparently the fact that I didn't use any barechested bathroom selfies or photos of me holding up a fish I caught at Lake Cachuma, marked me as a semi-normal man. 

A rarity in this arena.

The eventual back and forth texting banter eventually led to an introductory phone call. The first contestant was a leggy Cougar in her 50's who lived in Beverly Hills. I had visions of leaving frumpy Culver City and moving on up to the Hills. Of course I'd have to visit a haberdashery and invest in an Ascot. Or maybe two.

The call quickly went south when she decided to spend the first twenty minutes talking about her ex, who was in his 70's and necessitated certain night time underwear of an absorbent nature. 

When she did segue, it got even worse.

"Hey, I'm looking at your profile picture and was wondering something..."

"Yes?" I replied.

"Would you be willing to shave off your mustache?"

Wow, guess I won't be spending the afternoon at the Ascot Emporium. 

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

That's enough sado-masochism for the day, maybe I'll make my foray into online dating a continuing series? Ms. Muse has also offered up her amusing anecdotes, so it could get interesting.

FOMOOC

I am a little hesitant to write this post. 

Not that I'm superstitious or believe in jinxes or place any value in the zodiac, but I feel like I'm tempting the Fates when I mention that I may be the only man in Los Angeles who has never had Covid.

I'm also hoping the folks at my former employ don't see this. I kinda fibbed to them and played hooky 2 days before my involuntary dismissal. 

And for good reason. I knew my head was on the chopping block and an ugly pink slip phone call was in the works. But I was not about to let them can me hours before my second year of stock vesting was to take place.

I learned later that my official planned termination would be weeks away, but I wasn't about to take a chance. I ate too many bowls of vocational shit and swallowed what was left of my diminishing pride to be screwed out of some vital Stay-Out-Of-Dirty-Nursing-Home Money. Hence the faked cough, the imaginary high fever and the absolute inability to take a phone call.

But now I have to wonder how is it neither I, nor anyone in my immediate family, have contracted the Coronavirus. 

Or, as our xenophobic ex president calls it, the Jiiiiina Virus. 

This is the same brain-impaired clown and GOP presidential frontrunner, who uses phrases like "The Blacks" and "Those guys with the funny hats". And goes out of his way to enunciate every Islamophobic syllable of Ba-rrack Hu-sein O-Bam-a.

I miss the days when even the whiff of bigotry would be enough to disqualify a politician from public service.

Back to the other illness. Could I be blessed with some magical gene? Could the one that makes uncontrollable hair grow out of my ears also shield me from this nasty cursed contagion?

I know people who have had Covid, not just once. But on multiple occasions. These are the same smart people who exercise (maybe not as much as I do), eat healthy (probably not as much salmon as me) and despite the expert medical advice of Lauren Bohbert, Marjorie Taylor Green and the International Ivermectin Cartel, got all their FDA approved vaccine shots.

Am I suffering from FOMOOC, Fear Of Missing Out On Covid? 

Do I want Covid? 

Obviously not. 

However the idea of staying in bed under my down comforter all day, being taken care of by the women in my life, taking a break from the Peloton, weights and increasingly colder pool water, and sucking down matzo ball night day, does have its certain appeal. 

"Hello, FBI Headquarters, how can I help you?"

Things are moving incredibly fast in the transfer of my $35 million inheritance from a long lost relative, Aiden Siegel. For those who don't recall, he was exiled to Hong Kong where he made his fortune in the Export/Export business.

Mr. Wong, who initially contacted me about this amazing windfall, told me I needed to work with a local Hong Kong lawyer, I was hesitant but decided to advance this adventure by contacting his guy, Mr. Lambert Liu, who I will now start addressing as Mr. Adam Lambert, of American Idol fame.

Why? Because I can.

Dear Mr. Adam Lambert,

I am receipt of your letter and look forward to working with CTR Solicitors. 

I took the liberty of looking up Jardine House on the Google. That is a very tall building. I once lived in Queens NY on the 22nd floor. We had a terrace and would throw coins, marshmallows and Super Balls™ from that great height. I can't imagine how high a Super Ball would bounce when thrown from the roof of Jardine House. You're probably too busy to try that. 

My neighbor, Perry Mason was also a lawyer and he was very busy. All the time. Guess that's why he could afford a Cadillac.

Per your request, my legal name is Chappy (Richard) Siegel. I don't particularly like my name so I often go by Richard. Or whatever strikes my fancy on a particular day. 

My birthday is June 31, 1953. 

I currently live at 2030 SW 145th Street, Miramar, Florida 33027

I am a retired Flange Salesman. If you ever need a flange(s) I can still get you a wholesale price.

I'd give you my phone number, but it got nicked at last Tuesday's bingo game in the main parlor. I'm pretty sure it was Shirley Feldman, that old bat.

I hope we can expedite this transaction, so I can get a new phone. And who knows, maybe fly to Hong Kong to meet you and celebrate this amazing unexpected windfall.

Thank you Mr. Lambert, I look forward to hearing from you.

Chappy (Richard) Siegel

Mr. Lambert, who may or may not be a good singer, was quick to return a reply. He didn't do much vetting of my reply as the address I gave him was for the FBI headquarters in Florida. I chose Florida because with the advent of Florida man jokes, he'd be more likely to think I was a gullible nitwit.

Here was his response:

Dear Mr. Richard Siegel,

 

Thanks for the offer ref flanges, though I doubt I would be needing to invest in flanges anytime soon.

 

Attached herein is a Power of Attorney document which you are required to sign and send back to me. Its purpose being to give authorization to us for the sole purpose of facilitating the transfer of the estate of the decedent whom you have been designated as the next-of-kin and as the Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corporation(HSBC) where the assets are domiciled will be advised.

 

Upon receipt of your signed power of attorney document, we will endeavor to file an application for grant of inheritance on your behalf with the Probate Registry, the administrators of the estate. Please sign the attached document. Notarization will be done by a Hong Kong notary.

 

Regards,

 

Lambert Liu

Consultant

Cheung, Tang & Rosemount Solicitors

Frankly, I was surprised he picked up on the mention of flanges. My experience with these scammers is that they don't read or don't know how to read and are laser focused on playing out the scheme, with their eye on extracting money from me.

I was even more surprised that I already have a souvenir from this digital back and forth, in the form of a pdf which Mr. Lambert has already filled out for me and just awaits my legal signature.

Feast your eyes on this...

This is so much better than pickleball!

Friendship Recession

Stumbled onto something new the other day, a phenomena. 

Maybe stumbled is the wrong word. It was brought to my attention by Ms. Muse. Apparently, and I didn't know this was a thing --partly from denial -- men have certain difficulties in the friendship area.

I'm not talking Facebook. I have more than 2000 "friends" there. And new attractive Asian women who works in the cosmetics marketing arena wants me to friend them almost on the hour. 

Nor am I talking work friends. On LinkedIn I have close to 10,000 friends/followers/connections, most of whom I couldn't pick out of a lineup. 

At best, I could the number of close male friends I have on two hands. 

Despite political differences, and 3000 miles of separation, I'm still close friends with a couple of guys I went to high school with. That's 50+ years of adventures, weddings, funerals and shared memories. Well, almost memories.

I have 40+ years friendship with old roommates, college and otherwise.

And I've managed to eek out friendships with guys I met in the brutal, cutthroat business of advertising.

In other words, or the words chosen by Ms. Muse, I'm kind of an anomaly.

This is made even more striking by my innate ability to piss people off, voice sometimes unpopular opinions, go long periods without contact, and occasionally letting dark clouds hover over my head and holing up in my man cave with ample rye and unlimited internet diversions, see Hitler cats.  

In short, I consider myself a lucky man. 

Though not as lucky as women, who can seemingly strike up a long and meaningful friendship at the drop of a shoe name like Jimmy Chu's. In my current binge-ing of The Sopranos, Adreana is unwiitingly befriended by an undercover FBI agent, Danielle, in the shoe department at Nordstroms in the Paramus Park Mall. They make it look so damn easy.

That would NEVER happen to a man. 

NEVER.

Must be why women, all women, have a gazillion friends. 

It's gotta be the shoes.

The Quest for $35 Million (Part 4)

Don't know if you recognize this building. It's called Jardine House, one of, if not the tallest buildings in Hong Kong, a city of many hi-rises. It's also the alleged home of Cheung, Tang and Rosemount Solicitors, one of the top law firms in all the world. 

Giving my correspondence with internet scammers the sheen of credibility.

For those who have not been following along, I was contacted by Richard Wong, a "banker" in Hong Kong who had discovered $35 million worth of gold bullion left by a man named Adrian Siegel. Turns out I am the only living relative of Mr. Siegel. And I would have to go through Mr. Wong to claim the booty.

In my last email I brought up the possibility that my unsavory cousin Morty (Morteeeeey) might want to hone in on the action. Mr. Wong ignored my plea as well as my offer to bring in my own attorney, Mr. Brian Boitano.

Instead (and this is a common practice among internet scammers) he wants me to deal with Lambert Liu, an inheritance attorney who works at the Jardine House.

To wit...

Dear Rich,

I have consulted a law firm and they will file an application to the probate court on your behalf. I've asked them to make an agreement to share the assets at 60 to you, 40 to me. If you're asked the reason for the transfer of 40% to me, you will tell them that I am your investment banker and it is meant for property investments in Hong Kong.

The solicitors will guide you through the process. I'll have the documents they need to file an application, including the death certificate delivered to their offices tomorrow.

Contact details:-

Lambert Liu
Cheung, Tang & Rosemount Solicitors
Email: lambertliu@ctr-solicitors.com

26th Floor, Jardine House,
One Connaught Place,
Central, Hong Kong
Tel: +852 8193 1747

He's expecting to hear from you. Please contact him to start the process. We can submit the application within the next 2 weeks if we start this week. You must always keep me informed of your discussions. If you are asked questions that you do not have answers to, please contact me always so I can provide an appropriate response for you to respond to them.

NOTE: PLEASE TREAT AS CONFIDENTIAL AND DO NOT DISCLOSE INFORMATION ABOUT HOW YOU GOT TO KNOW ABOUT THE ESTATE WITH THE SOLICITORS. 

I chose not to answer his request right away because I didn't want him thinking I was an easy mark. Also because I got a little lazy.

Nevertheless, respond I did:

Dear Mr. Wrong,

Sorry for the delayed response. I don't know if you celebrate Thanksgiving in Hong Kong. I can't imagine that the pilgrims went to Asia and stole land from the Indians, but here in the USA it's a big holiday. 

We went to my cousin Schmuley's house for a big family dinner. Schmuley is a Pescatarian so we didn't have a real turkey but one fashioned from Gefilte Fish. It was OK, I don't want to badmouth Schmuley. There were so many Siegels there I had to sit at the kid's table. On a folding chair. With no lumbar support. My back is more crooked than Steven Hawkins.

But enough about my tsuris. 

I'm very interested in getting the $35 million inheritance, but I'm confused by your recent direction to contact Mr. Lieu. I was just feeling comfortable dealing with you and would prefer not to bring in other strangers. Will he demand a cut of the money? What are his bonafides?

Frankly, lawyers scare me. I once lived next door to a lawyer, Perry Mason, who claimed I stole his Sunday NY Times and he tried to sue me in small claims court. He was so petty and vindictive. I never sued him when his dog left very wet poops on my lawn. I don't like lawyers.

Can we keep this deal just between you and me?

I look forward to hearing from you.

Tad (Richard) Siegel 

Next week we begin Chapter 2 of this imaginary windfall and my dealings with Mr. Leiu (SP). Stay tuned.

Good times for Every Body

Had a nightmare last week that lasted close to 5 hours. 

Like an idiot I decided to drive my daughters as well as my dog Lucy out to Palm Springs for Thanksgiving. Being at home in Culver City, where we annually hosted more than a dozen friends and family, is still too difficult.

Not that spending an eternity on the 60 Eastbound freeway is any less. There was traffic. There was whining (I won't mention the culprit). There was the bathroom key incident at the 7-11 in Pomona. And there was traffic, did I mention the traffic? 

By the time we had arrived I had to think long and hard about what it was I was grateful for. 

As we cleared the last bottleneck, I spotted the Morongo Casino Resort. The place has amazing name recognition as its 25 story edifice juts from the desert landscape. But also because, unlike General Motors or IBM or Pepsi, the marketing folks at Morongo spend a boatload of money on TV advertising.

I don't watch a lot of TV, but I unwittingly watch a lot of TV ads for Morongo. 

Need a reminder?

I invite you to witness their handiwork: https://vimeo.com/747061711

Mind you, this is but one of example from the Morongo opus of cringy commercials. All featuring a bevy of DEI-inspired demographically-inclusive model morphing: An Asian woman at the pool morphing into an African American man at the blackjack table morphing into a Hispanic woman getting a massage morphing in an Orange County housewife winning big at the crap table. 

It's Morph City and Morongo is the mayor.

Frankly I'm shocked they didn't throw in some star wipes.

If the editorial choices don't make you stop and think, "wait, am I in the same business as these amateurs?", the generic casting, the overacting, the juvenile direction, the stale writing and the overzealous voiceover certainly will. 

And yet, every time one of their trashy spots graces my flat screen I stop to watch it, like a jackknifed milk truck clogging three lanes of the Santa Monica Westbound 10 in El Monte. In one particular 30 second iteration, the VO mentioned "good times for everybody" at least 5 times. I know, because I counted.

Every. Body. Get it?

No point to this story other than to vent and air out my quirky Morongo obsession. 

Oh and to mention that the tenants at my uncle's house in Palm Springs are moving out. And that after some more repairs and painting and sprucing up the joint, it will be available for short or longer term rentals.

Here's a preview...

 Details to come.

 

Neat

Yesterday I wrote about Christmas. And some of the odd international traditions that accompany Feliz Navidad. Today, in the spirit of equal opportunity offensiveness, I take on Hanukkah. Or Chanukkah. Or The Festival of Lights.

First, to be clear and for the uninformed, it is not the Jewish equivalent of Christmas. 

You're on a computer or holding one in your hand, if it were that interesting, you could Google the holiday and find out that like most Jewish holidays it's a celebration of such-and-such or who-and-who didn't kill us. 

Seems appropriate given the current tsunami of antisemitism.

However, like Christmas and because the shareholders at Target, Walmart and Nordstrom have profits to make, there is ample gift-giving. To that end, I've heard that I am particularly hard person to get gifts for.

And it's true. 

In the material world there is not much I want for. What I have, I'm happy for. What I want, I can usually get, except for clothing that fits my barrel chested torso or a beard trimmer that doesn't make me look like I've been to an epileptic barber.

What I'd really like is for a little more harmony with my daughters who are still adjusting to my adjusting to life as a widower. 

That's a slow and painful work in progress.

But here's what I don't want. Nor do I understand why ads for it keep popping up, and will pop up more regularly now, in my social feed -- An Ice Bath.

What kind of sadistic fakakta-for-brains Nazi came up with that? I'm guessing the photo above was heavily retouched, because no sane human being would be smiling while submerged in an oversized crockpot filled with sub-Arctic water and enough stinging, jagged ice cubes to launch a Keith Richards' birthday party. 

After I'm done writing this post I'm walking 3/10ths of a mile to the Culver City Plunge, where the water is a balmy 78 degrees. The other swimmers jump in when the timer hits 00:00. It takes me a good three minutes to mentally prepare for that initial step off the ledge.

I'm getting goose bumps and my teeth are chattering just thinking about it.

No Ice Baths for me, but my liquor cabinet could use two more of these ice making glasses...

Merry Christmas

 

Thanksgiving is over. 

Meaning we are officially into the Happy Birthday Jesus Season. So let's all buy crap we already have, run up outrageous credit card bills and stave off retirement until the Uber Wealthy reluctantly decide to trickle down a little money to the indentured servants -- that's you and me. 

Well, more you than me as I have cut the umbilical chord to the working world and am now enjoying the overripe fruit of my labor, eating pureed foods and shopping for a tasteful Dirt Nap suit.

It's also time for my yearly Caganer post. Now there's something you don't already have, a caganer. 

Perhaps my 8 loyal R17 readers know what I'm talking about. I've only been been singing the praises of the caganer for a dozen years or so. And yet it still hasn't entered today's lexicon. This, I view, as a complete personal failure. Particularly in light of my daughter's word success.

With one Tik Tok video, Abby and her friends, popularized the word Cheugy, which is now bandied about with such regularity it shows up on TV shows, movies and every coffee house within a 3000 mile radius of Brooklyn. 

You can read about its etymology here.

I suppose I could make a video about the caganer but then I'd have sign up for Tik Tok and let my new Chinese overlords have access to my now dwindling financial portfolio.

Also, I'm terrible at making videos and never know whether to use portrait or landscape mode. And more often than not my videos and photos are nothing more than fleshy snapshots of my big fat thumb. So, 'yeah, no.' Another phrase that has successfully entered the lexicon.

In short, the caganer is a little shitting gnome. He, or she, regularly shows up in Nativity scenes staged in Catalonia. As well as nearby southern France. Mind you, he's not actually in the manger with Jesus, Joseph and Mary and the three wise men and the other assorted Jews who weren't playing pinochle that night. The caganer stands just outside, so as not to interrupt the birth of our lord and savior. 

Behold...

You don't have to be a brain surgeon or even a fry cook to see why, for me, the caganer is a source of great fascination. In fact, I have a small collection of caganers that now adorn, in that most natural location, the window sill in my guest bathroom...

You can find out more about the caganer by popping the word in the R17 search engine (located in the upper left hand corner) or clicking this handy dandy link, which proves I'm not making this shit up.

In fact, if you're so inclined you can purchase your own celebrity caganer here.

You can even get a Donald Trump Caganer, though the designers mistakenly portrayed the excrement emerging from the wrong orifice.

Merry Christmas.