Riddle Me This

 

At this writing, Ex President Lying McLyingFace is the presumed GOP nominee to once again to run in November against President Biden. This comes on the heels of his victory in the New Hampshire primary and his preceding victory at the Iowa Caucus. One which he stated that he had won for the 3rd time in a row.

SFX: Ehhhhhh.

The judges reject that claim. 

For one thing, Captain Ouchie Foot ran unopposed in 2020. And for another thing, he didn't win the Iowa Caucus in 2016. Ted Cruz won. Donnie lost. To which he expectedly replied, "it was rigged."

It wouldn't be the last time we'd hear that. Anytime the results don't please him, he sings the same refrain. He's still singing it. Without any tell tale signs of chicanery to prove it.

But let's give him the extreme benefit of the doubt. 

Let's assume the Democrats, despite all the evidence to the contrary, are that crafty, that devilish, that cunning, that they could rig a nationwide election and leave not one tattered falsified ballot in their sordid wake. 

Does this not beg the question, "If you (President Trump) knew elections -- the Crown Jewel of our Constitutional Republic/Democracy -- were under attack and being repeatedly rigged thus negating the god-given rights of real Americans in a way the Russians could only dream of, what have you done about it?" 

You were inaugurated into the White House, the most powerful position on Earth. 

You had GOP control of the House. And the Senate. And the Supreme Court.

You appointed half wit cronies and loyalists to the DOJ, including an acting Attorney General who once sold toilets custom crafted for men with more than their fair share of manliness.

You had all the levers of power at your disposal to seek out and strongly smoke out these scoundrels who had grown like a cancer on the body electorate.

Surely, if this nefarious Dark Force had been twisting the will of the people and besmirching America, the one country on the planet that God himself had personally blessed, you'd summon all the forces of good to tackle this evil.

Isn't that what you swore you'd do on the steps of the Capitol (how ironic)? You know uphold the Constitutions? Lordy, you had your right hand on the Bible, your favorite book ever? The book with the Two Corinthians?

Seems to me that even before the first case of Heinz Ketchup even made its way into the White House pantry in January 2017, this would be Job #1. 

Maybe I'm naive. 

Maybe the scale, the scope, and especially the cost of such an undertaking would have been prohibitive.

Maybe you should have made Mexico pay for it.

"Have a Seat"

It's January 30, 2024, time for my RoundSeventeen Employee Review. 

Of course the date means nothing. If anything, I should hold this post off for a month or so, when RoundSeventeen will be celebrating its 15th anniversary of publishing inconsequential and irrelevant ramblings.

It means even less since the only employee here at the International Headquarters of RoundSeventeen, now with offices in Culver City and Palm Springs, is me.

Proving, that if I've done anything over the past 15 years, it's that I've been able to make word-hay out of nothing. Or as my father proudly told his friends when he was still alive and finally came around to accepting my chosen vocation as a writer, "my son makes a living from the luft."

Luft is German/Yiddish for Air.

EDITOR: While Rich has been dutifully consistent in his daily output, one can't help notice the posts are noticeably less ambitious in their scope as of late. Gone are the thematic approaches and the occasionally entertaining series. Who could forget:

* Drunken Haiku

* Things I will Never Understand

* People Who Should be Dead

* The Illuminati Scambaits

* Celebrities I Have Worked With

* Russian Online Dating

* Mara Lago Membership Application 

WRITER: Yes, dear reader, those were fun, but they're also part of a more adventurous past. When I was churning out material which could endear me with potential employers. When I was in the hunt. I'm not in the hunt anymore. I'm in the hammock.

EDITOR: That's exactly what I'm talking about. Now you're napping in the hammock. There was a time when you were enthralled by the hammock.

WRITER: In my defense...

EDITOR: I'm not interested in your defense. And neither are the 9 people who read this blog. Your friend George has 80,000 readers a months. You have 9. 

10 if you use a picture with cleavage.

WRITER: I'm close to 66 years old. Don't I get to enjoy the fruits of my labor?

EDITOR: The way you're spending money, buying art work, furniture and pool gadgets, you'll soon end up at the Holiday Villa Independent Living Home enjoying the vegetable lasagna.

WRITER: So I'm not getting a raise?

EDITOR: No.

Thoroughly Modern Richie

Modernism Week is almost upon us. 

In two weeks time the artsy fartsy crowds will be clogging up the boutiques on Palm Canyon Drive and it will be impossible to get an Aperol Spritz at any of the tony bars within 5 miles of the giant Marylin Monroe Statue.

Truth is, I don't even know if her likeness still stands in downtown Palm Springs.

The other truth is, I don't know much about art. And even less about the Modernism Motif. But I am learning as it has become essential to decorating my rental property. Not just essential, but mandatory according to PS Ordinance 347B/kw. 

So I took it upon myself to undertake a primer on Modernism or what the Nazi's called "Degenerative Art" -- this according to Wikipedia.

If the Nazis didn't like it, there must be something good about it. They also called it "Jew Art" and/or "Negro Art." In my book, that's about as high a recommendation there is.  

This is more than ironic. I really hate to reference our 25 year old ABC TV work, the Yellow campaign that changed my life (mostly for the better), but in its day people referred to it as "having a uniquely Post Modern flavor." 

Being the art troglodyte, I'm not even sure that one could properly equate Post Modernism with Modernism. You can call me a Neanderthal but I'm pretty sure I beat you to the punch.

As of late I've had a few "heated" discussions with my daughters about Modernism and how to incorporate it into the humble abode. My abode until the oxygen intake stops, I reiterate to them. Amongst their suggestions, I selected these two pieces that I agreed have a modern feel but also the appropriate whimsy and snark. 

I agreed to hang these pieces if they agreed to buy them. 

To date I have not received their contribution.

I often joke that my late uncle, who lived in the house for 20 years, was possibly the only gay man in Palm Springs without a sense of taste or design. However, he did own a prized and apparently-valuable signed Calder Print that I brought back from its Culver City location and hung in a prominent location in its former home.

No point to any of this, suffice to say that if you have an itching to explore your degenerative side and want to soak in the Modernism as well as the unbeatable desert sun, you know who to call. Or write: siegelrich@mac.com 

Inquiries are coming in hot. 

Did I mention the 12 person jacuzzi?

An Open Letter to Nikki Haley

 

Dear Nimrada,

Congratulations on your victory in New Hampshire. You beat out 14 other hopefuls for the GOP Presidential nomination and now there is only one left in your crosshairs. With the next primary in South Carolina, the Hillbilly State...er, The Palmetto State, I'm here to suggest the timing could not be better for you.

Take the Killshot, Nikki.

I'll remind you that in 2019, a floundering Joe Biden resurrected his campaign in South Carolina. You don't need a resurrection, you simply need to build on the momentum you've built and a willingness to put the injured dog down. 

If you don't emerge victorious here, you won't have another opportunity. 

The good news is you have a month. You have the funds. And you have the campaign to beat Captain Ouchie Foot already written. 

By a stable genius, no less. 

Here's the deal Nancy Pelosi, Nancy Pelosi, Nancy Pelosi, you will not sway the hardcore Trumpsters. If he was right about one thing it's that he COULD shoot someone on 5th Avenue and not lose one of his supporters. In fact, he'd probably gain some if the person he shot was a POC, a woman, or a radical Communist/Fascist/Democrat/Tree Hugger. 

They are that deep into the Kool Aid.

But there are Republicans questioning the monster's mental capacity. And there are Independents who are on the fence. And there are people on their couches, who never vote, but just might do so to save our country from this babbling bag of bullshittery.

For a modest fee, I'll write and edit and produce the spots. It's what I do for a living and I can assemble a team of post production pros at the go with the drop of a check. Moreover I have catalogued all of his gaffes. Not just the recent ones about YOUR failure to secure the Capitol on January 6th. Or de-banking. Or "...solling problems because this institute is on a death penalty (???)"

I am a walking talking compendium of Precedent Shitgibbon's mental missteps: ramparts, paper roads, dead birds/whales and my favorite, "We gotta go back to steam on our aircraft carriers, Admiral. All this digital crap...you have to be an Einstein to operate this stuff."

I know it's silly for me to expect you to heed the advice of a political lightweight and outsider. But here's the thing, Nimrada, I have an uncle, ok, a cousin, a second or third cousin, who was really, really smart (I'm pointing to my head.) He was a PhD. Dr. John Siegel. A professor. He taught Political Science at Princeton. He was a great expert, a great brilliant genius. In other words, I got good genes.

As copywriter of more than 40 years, I also have words, I have the best words.

I await your instructions.

Best,

Rich

 

On Otherhood

Had an interesting dinner party discussion the other night. For discretionary purposes I won't identify the participants. I wouldn't want friends and family to think that every social interaction is subject to reappearing in digital ink.

Also, because after enough red wine, there's a good chance I'll get many of details wrong.

Suffice to say the topic concerned identity and perception. More specifically how one presents themselves to the world. Even more specifically, in regards to members of a marginalized community or even a historically marginalized community.

I like to think that as a man of Hebraic Seasonings as well as distinctively WASPy heritage, I have a unique vantage point. From the outside. And the inside. 

I have a foot in each camp.

I'll be the first to admit I lean into my more Mediterranean lineage, more than my Scottish one. Mostly for jokes and not because I feel victimized or in any way restricted by my background. Though in the 1970's, as a newcomer to the overwhelmingly Roman Catholicism of Suffern, NY, I did hear my share of "Dirty Jew", "Hebe" and even an occasional "Kike." 

And bloody noses, ensued. 

Even as recently as the 1990's, I was prohibited from doing an Orange County advertising presentation because I was, and I quote, "too NY deli."

That fried my latkes.

I find it all very funny now. In fact, it's a point of pride. Not worthy of a parade, mind you. But those of you who have felt the sting of antisemitism know of which I speak. And I'm sorry to say, those of you haven't, never will.

That goes a long way to explaining why some -- myself included -- lead with their identity. It's a coping mechanism. A retort, if you will, to an unaccepting world. Particularly in a country that proclaims, "all men are created equal" and then fails to deliver on the mission. 

In so many ways. Explicit. And implicit.

For instance:

Imagine declaring love for your partner and then needing the approval of a Kentucky Bible-thumping hillbilly with a fifth grade education to get a marriage license. 

Imagine driving while Black through Brentwood, white knuckling the steering wheel in the hopes some overzealous cop doesn't notice the sometimes off/sometimes on rear signal indicator.

Imagine being a brown skinned Native American crossing paths with some angry white boys with the nerve to shout, "Why don't you go back to where you came from?"

Imagine sitting in a synagogue and between prayers about Jedidayah, Job and Judah, you felt the need to spy the doors lest some terrorist (foreign or domestic) comes bursting through the doors with an AR15. 

We, those of us who don't fit the default settings, lead with our identity as a measure of defiance. As if to say, "you want to label me, fine, I accept that label and I will wear it as a badge of honor."

We lead with our identity, because in an era of rising White Christo-Fascism, all too often this nation never lets us think otherwise.

The Walled Off Hysteria

 

Woke up muttering "Walled Off Hysteria" to myself-- a not so clever wordplay, I'll admit. I don't recall the context of the dream, but I did like how the phrase illustrated the utter foolishness and hypocrisy of ex Precedent Twatwaffle.

He is a sad sack of diseased camel haggis who is one click on the Doomsday Clock away from ascending to power. Again. 

This, despite his monstrous mendacity.

Think about it, when asked why he didn't build The Wall, you know the one that was the keystone of his 2016 campaign, he will, without flinching, say, "We did build The Wall, more than 500 miles of big beautiful Wall." 

Mind you this is the same Wall that was going to solve our illegal immigration problem.

"It's a big beautiful Wall. That I built. Cause nobody knows more about building than me."

And yet, in one heaving, heavy, sweaty breath later, he has no problem proclaiming that President Biden and the radical fascist communist Democrats have an open border and billions of immigrant (vermin, in his words) are coming in to our country.

How can that be?

How do you have a Wall and an open border? At the same time? He's like an Escher painting without any of the charm, or art, or whimsy. Just a fork-tongued douchebiscuit who speaks from both sides of his anus-like mouth.

It's not just The Wall. 

Without any hint of irony, he will proudly posit that thanks to him, Roe v. Wade was reversed. But when anti-choice Republicans lost in federal, state and local elections, he flipped and said the GOP is all wrong on the issue of reproductive rights. 

If I may pinch a line from an old Geico commercial: That's not the way it works. That's not the way any of this works.

I don't know if you'll remember, but in the midst of the Coronavirus debacle, the DJI hit 30,000. And in a desperate clutching onto any good news moment, Captain Ouchie Foot called for an impromptu press conference, at the White House, not at the Four Seasons Total Landscaping Headquarters. There, in a two minute head scratcher, he declared it a historic landmark that the Dow had hit some kind of "sacred number."

Last week, the BLS (Bureau of Labor Statistics) released some incredible numbers. Job creation was up. wages were up. Manufacturing was up. Gas prices were steady (despite Houthi turmoil on the Arabian Peninsula) Inflation was down. And the Dow Jones Industrial hit an all time high, inching towards 40,000.

But, if we're to believe this septagenarian flim flammer, Bidenomics is a disaster for this country.

I've already overstayed my welcome with my 9 loyal readers and only covered three instances where this ignorant pussbucket of a man has twisted truth and logic until it is simply unrecognizable. There are more. 

It is January 20, 2023 as I write this. One year from now we may be on the precipice of many, many more.

Dear Oncologus, God of Untreatable Terminal Cancers, help us. Help us now.

Friday on my mind

Thank God It's Friday. Oh I know it's Monday where you are, but here in the land of the clockless, calendar-less semi-retired, it's a glorious Friday. And I have to thank God for that.

Well, that is if there were an actual God who reigns over us like an overbearing, needy old man. A cranky monster who needs constant worship, unending deference and a slew of "prayer warriors" to fulfill a simple wish like a Super Bowl victory for the NY Jets or a bowl of gruel for a starving kid on any one of the 7 continents.

Sorry. 

God and I are not exactly on speaking terms. We might be in a few years when we come to meet. But for now I'm going to speak my mind and enjoy my newfound liberty from other illusory constructs, like Time and Space.

As many people my age - although in no possible way do I see myself as a 65 year old man, I'm still 44 at heart - will tell you, "I wake up every morning and never know what day it is." 

It's disorienting. In a pleasing way that I'm growing into. It's hard to shake the wake up and work regimen that had been beaten (sometimes literally) into me by a father who seemed to have invented the American Work Ethic. 

It wasn't enough to be a 14 year old boy lugging 50 lbs. of the The Journal News for a paper route. When my father found out there was another route available in the next neighborhood, he convinced me to expand my territory, like a reluctant young Vanderbilt, and expand my character-building by working TWO paper routes.

The longest stretch of down time I've ever enjoyed came in 2021, when Deb passed. And there was nothing enjoyable at that. Three cloudy weeks that for the life of me I cannot remember. 

Thankfully I was able to rejoin my PayPal colleagues and get back to the business of creating crappy newsletters and other FFDKK™, Frivolous Fuckwadian Digital Knick Knacks. 

Of course, it's not all hammocks and daytime Manhattans for me. I still do occasional work. 

Like when my friend Jason calls me and says he needs an entire ad campaign written in a day, But for the most part my day is about exercising, errand running and excessive enjoyment that I'm not one of 761 applicants for a Creative Director position at the Cheesecake Factory.

A Mid-East Primer

If you're Jewish, you walk around each day thinking, "Has the world gone absolutely meshugga?" In the same way critical thinking Americans scratch their head and wonder what the hell Red Hats see in a philandering, lying, scumbag ex-president.

When I allow specific Hebraic neurons to connect to each other, steam emerges (at very high pressure) from both my ears like a Chuck Jones cartoon.

I won't attempt to dissuade any of you about the current and 75 year old situation in Israel - a legitimate state created by the UN like so many others in a post British colonial era. I like to think I'm informed on the matters, including the recent past as well as the ancient past, but I'm a relative lightweight. 

But you know who isn't? This guy, a Scottish professor from the other side of my genetic family tree.

I suggest you give it a good read. And even share with those armchair quarterbacks who clearly should not be speaking on that of which they do not know...

FROM: Dr Denis MacEoin, a non-Jewish professor,  to the motion put forward by The Edinburgh Student's Association to boycott all things Israeli, in which they claim Israel is under an apartheid regime. Denis is an expert in Middle Eastern affairs and was a senior editor of the Middle East Quarterly. Here's his letter to the students.

TO: The Committee Edinburgh University Student Association.

May I be permitted to say a few words to members of the EUSA? I am an Edinburgh graduate (MA 1975) who studied Persian, Arabic and Islamic History in Buccleuch Place under William Montgomery Watt and Laurence Elwell Sutton, two of Britain 's great Middle East experts in their day. I later went on to do a PhD at Cambridge and to teach Arabic and Islamic Studies at Newcastle University . Naturally, I am the author of several books and hundreds of articles in this field. I say all that to show that I am well informed in Middle Eastern affairs and that, for that reason, I am shocked and disheartened by the EUSA motion and vote.

I am shocked for a simple reason: there is not and has never been a system of apartheid in Israel .

That is not my opinion, that is fact that can be tested against reality by any Edinburgh student, should he or she choose to visit Israel to see for themselves. Let me spell this out, since I have the impression that those members of EUSA who voted for this motion are absolutely clueless in matters concerning Israel, and that they are, in all likelihood, the victims of extremely biased propaganda coming from the anti-Israel lobby.

Being anti-Israel is not in itself objectionable. But I'm not talking about ordinary criticism of Israel . I'm speaking of a hatred that 

permits itself no boundaries in the lies and myths it pours out.  Thus, Israel is repeatedly referred to as a "Nazi" state. In what sense is this true, even as a metaphor? Where are the Israeli concentration camps? The Einzatsgruppen? The SS? The Nuremberg Laws? The Final Solution? None of these things nor anything remotely resembling them exists in Israel, precisely because the Jews, more than anyone on earth, understand what Nazism stood for.

It is claimed that there has been an Israeli Holocaust in Gaza (or elsewhere). Where? When? No honest historian would treat that claim with anything but the contempt it deserves. But calling Jews Nazis and saying they have committed a Holocaust is as basic a way to subvert historical fact as anything I can think of.

Likewise apartheid. For apartheid to exist, there would have to be a situation that closely resembled how things were in South Africa under the apartheid regime. Unfortunately for those who believe this, a weekend in any part of Israel would be enough to show how ridiculous the claim is.

That a body of university students actually fell for this and voted on it is a sad comment on the state of modern education. The most obvious focus for apartheid would be the country's 20% Arab population. Under Israeli law, Arab Israelis have exactly the same rights as Jews or anyone else; Muslims have the same rights as Jews or Christians; Baha'is, severely persecuted in Iran, flourish in Israel, where they have their world center; Ahmadi Muslims, severely persecuted in Pakistan and elsewhere, are kept safe by Israel; the holy places of all religions are protected under a specific Israeli law. Arabs form 20% of the university population (an exact echo of their percentage in the general population).

In Iran , the Bahai's (the largest religious minority) are forbidden to study in any university or to run their own universities: why

aren't your members boycotting Iran ? Arabs in Israel can go anywhere they want, unlike blacks in apartheid South Africa . They use public transport, they eat in restaurants, they go to swimming pools, they use libraries, they go to cinemas alongside Jews - something no blacks were able to do in South Africa .

Israeli hospitals not only treat Jews and Arabs, they also treat Palestinians from Gaza or the West Bank.

On the same wards, in the same operating theatres.

In Israel, women have the same rights as men: there is no gender apartheid.

Gay men and women face no restrictions, and Palestinian gays often escape into Israel, knowing they may be killed at home.

It seems bizarre to me that LGBT groups call for a boycott of Israel and say nothing about countries like Iran, where gay men are hanged or stoned to death. That illustrates a mindset that beggars belief.

Intelligent students thinking it's better to be silent about regimes that kill gay people, but good to condemn the only country in the

Middle East that rescues and protects gay people. Is that supposed to be a sick joke?

University is supposed to be about learning to use your brain, to think rationally, to examine evidence, to reach conclusions based on solid evidence, to compare sources, to weigh up one view against one or more others. If the best Edinburgh can now produce are students who have no idea how to do any of these things, then the future is bleak.

I do not object to well-documented criticism of Israel . I do object when supposedly intelligent people single the Jewish state out above states that are horrific in their treatment of their populations. We are going through the biggest upheaval in the Middle East since the 7th and 8th centuries, and it's clear that Arabs and Iranians are rebelling against terrifying regimes that fight back by killing their own citizens.

Israeli citizens, Jews and Arabs alike, do not rebel (though they are free to protest). Yet Edinburgh students mount no demonstrations and call for no boycotts against Libya , Bahrain , Saudi Arabia , Yemen , and Iran . They prefer to make false accusations against one of the world's freest countries, the only country in the Middle East that has taken in Darfur refugees, the only country in the Middle East that gives refuge to gay men and women, the only country in the Middle East that

protects the Bahai's.... Need I go on?

The imbalance is perceptible, and it sheds no credit on anyone who voted for this boycott. I ask you to show some common sense. Get information from the Israeli embassy. Ask for some speakers. Listen to more than one side.

Do not make your minds up until you have given a fair hearing to both parties. You have a duty to your students, and

that is to protect them from one-sided argument.

They are not at university to be propagandized. And they are certainly not there to be tricked into anti-Semitism by punishing one country among all the countries of the world, which happens to be the only Jewish state. If there had been a single Jewish state in the 1930's (which, sadly, there was not), don't you think Adolf Hitler would have decided to boycott it?

Your generation has a duty to ensure that the perennial racism of anti-Semitism never sets down roots among you. Today, however, there are clear signs that it has done so and is putting down more. You have a chance to avert a very great evil, simply by using reason and a sense of fair play. Please tell me that this makes sense. I have given you some of the evidence.

It's up to you to find out more.

Yours sincerely,

PS My ex-boss/roommate/writing partner/Fordham Professor/cherished friend Jim Jennewein, shared this letter with me. Jim is a resigned Catholic who now embraces the best of Judaism. And I am thrilled he will be spending more time back in California. 

A mind bender of a movie

If you were to scour the more than 3000 posts here on RoundSeventeen (not an endeavor I suggest unless you suffer from some demented sadomasochistic streak) you'd have a hard time finding much in the way of movie reviews. 

Critiquing movies happens to be an art unto itself. I know this because during my college years, that, in retrospect cost way too much money for way too little in the way of actual education, I took a course in Cinema Review. 

I never had any real interest in it, other than getting an easy A. I wanted to be the guy writing the movies not the poor schmuck writing about writing the movies. Neither really came to pass. But advertising and vanity self-publishing been very, very good to me.

All that notwithstanding, I would highly recommend a visit to your nearest theater for 2 & 1/2 hours of a singularly fascinating movie-going experience and a tour de force performance by Emma Stone. 

This is where it gets difficult. 

If you're like me, and you have all my sympathies if you are, you like walking into a movie completely blind. So when Ms. Muse offered to give me the logline on the picture (I like referring to movies as pictures and always hear those words coming out of the mouth of Robert Evans*) I held a finger to my lips and said, "Mebs, mebs, no speaky."

That said, I will not divulge any of the details, suffice to say there are myriad details that still haunt me, three days after viewing the picture. And that includes everything from the acting, the writing and the art direction which sits at the intersection of Steampunk and Wes Anderson.

Cinematic aside: I've never been a huge fan of Wes Anderson. His movies leave me cold and unengaged. I always leave the theater thinking, "feh, what am I missing here?" Only the Fantastic Mr. Fox, with the underrated George Clooney, had me wanting more. 

Why not FMF 2?

Cinematic aside II: Upon our egress we couldn't help notice one sheets (that's Hollywood-speak) for many upcoming new movies. All, almost-new movies. Maybe it was due to the Writer's strike but there's a slew of uninteresting sequels in the overpriced popcorn and fizzy sugar water pipeline. Remakes of everything from Dune to Spiderwoman. 

Because the underserved superhero crowd demand another Spiderman regurgitation.

If the braintrust (Sony Pictures) up the street from my Culver City home want to do another redeaux, why not Stay Tuned II? 

I know John Ritter has passed but he has a talented son. And the media landscape, which now includes streaming and the glut of lame reality TV shows is ripe with potential. And I haven't even mentioned the resumption of mailbox money.

Mmmmm, mailbox money.

* Another recco: Watch The Kid Stays in the Picture, a fascinating documentary on the life and mischief of one Robert Evans. 

 

 

The Fall of A Giant

It's been a while since I've written about Captain Ouchie Foot and all things sedition-related. You've probably been relieved about that. Or, more likely, haven't noticed.

But don't take my silence on this existential matter as anything but me being temporarily distracted by my new business goings-on out in Palm Springs. Namely the preparation of my vacation rental home. And the accumulation of receipts to validate my massive upcoming tax write offs.

And now it appears my two current interests have converged.

Last week, Fox News announced they were no longer to accept advertising from Mike Lindell, the former crackhead turned bedding mogul turned insane, disinformation-peddling, orange ass-kissing Russian Stooge. 

I love Mike Lindell. He is a walking, talking Schadenfreude-Polluzza. Every time he opens his often slobbering mouth, an Independent Voter gets his, or her, or their, wings.  Because what spews out is often no more rational than the rambling homeless guy at my local park who stuffs balloons under his oversized sweater, as well as a basketball, and pretends to be a pregnant woman.  

Lindell might be the 2nd best reason not to vote for ex Precedent Shitgibbon. I think we all know what or who would be the first.

As it turns out, I have been scouring the linens aisle at my local desert Walmart Superstore. I recently spent the better part of day and a night washing, bleaching and not folding all the linens left by my previous tenants as evidenced here...

That's just 20% of the total linen inventory -- the linventory, as it were. 

Hence I decided to treat myself to a new set. Thinking a little color would be a nice addition. They're 800 thread count and as comfortable as the little toy lamb I used to carry around as a toddler, also evidenced here...

It should be noted the lamb, the two front teeth and hair are all MIA.

I would be remiss if as a Certified Amazon Affiliate Marketer, I did not sufficiently pimp the aforementioned linens and receive a massive commission check. But the truth is, I don't remember the brand. And frankly had no idea there were dozens and dozens of cutthroat competing companies in the International Linen cartel.

And now, sorry Mike, it appears there will soon be one less. 

But should you, or someone you know be in need of a pillow, may I heartily recommend this one: https://amzn.to/47v7Vel

Or literally any other pillow on the Amazon page. Because the last thing you want is a lumpy pillow, which are not good for sleeping, but are good for producing a laugh, as evidenced here...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IbhgPKVgb9M

 

72 and Sunny

Today is a new edition of my Thursday Photo Funnies, my fallback blog posting when I'm too lazy or tired to do any real, or "real", writing. 

As my 9 loyal readers know, I usually snap pictures on my late afternoon walks in Culver City. Or even Sierra Madre, home of Ms. Muse. But as I've been spending an inordinate amount of time in Palm Springs, I thought I'd share a little bit of the desert with you. 

In a preview of your getaway weekend at my constantly being improved (repaired) vacation rental.

My uncle moved out of this house in 2019. It took us months and months of 16 hour days to clean out the remnants of his relentless hoardfuckery: measuring cups, extension cords, drill bits, screws, nails, and wood joiners, even floor to ceiling stacks of reams of white paper.

Now, I'm out here clearing out the leftover stuff from my previous long term renters who actually got married in the backyard. 

I swear some of the cobwebs in the garage were left from 2003. With all the desert detritus gone, I've now hired a deep cleaner --a friend of Ms. Muse's cousin -- to come in make this place competitive with all the fancy houses in this very toney neighborhood.

As she scoped out the house, she found the linen closets. And delivered the funniest line of the week. "I've seen the way your cousin's boyfriend folds the fitted sheets. He's DEFINITELY NOT gay."  

Without further ado:

Sunsets in the Springs are a little disappointing 

as the light goes away early over the mountains. 

But sunrises are incredible.

 

Spotted at the nearby WalMart, where because of 

certain memory lapses and repeated visits, 

I've actually started spotting regulars.

City ordinances mandate a WARNING sign by the pool.

Wish there were something funnier than this.

Neighbor up the street is doing some demo work.

I can't even imagine how much those

tiny glass tiles originally cost.

As a dedicated cyclist, 

this is refreshingly welcome.

One of my late Uncle's favorite places.

Considering his crankiness,

that speaks volumes.

This place is very gay.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

And finally, a shot of all the unfolded sheets.

I have enough white linen to outfit a small Klan clan.

A  LATE  ENTRY

Apparently my daughter's interests extend 

into the Inland Empire. 😆

We're so lonely

Recently my friend, fellow blogger and man of similar Hebraic Seasonings, George Tannenbaum, gave a lengthy treatise on the fatal blow dealt to the ad industry by the bean counters. Greedy bastards who buy up companies -- ad agencies or otherwise -- and then reduce costs and sell off bits and pieces to stuff their wallets. Or, more accurately, give additional bloat to their offshore accounts in the Caymans.

Frankly, I never understood how any of that works. 

How are the pieces worth more than the sum? It's the kind of accounting trickery that should come natural to me, as the son, brother and nephew of certified practitioners of the art. 

It still leaves me clueless.

I never knew why anyone would actually buy an ad agency. Particularly in light of the tenuous revenue streams, which these days is less of a stream and more of a drying out puddle.

Apart from the chairs, coffee machines and the Long Tables of Mediocrity™, what is one actually buying?  

This is especially relevant in light of the fact that clients can, and often do, change agencies on a whim. Or because some petulant, hot-headed copywriter called a client a screaming dipshit with the intelligence of an after dinner mint. 

I don't know that from experience, it's just something I heard. Although I have come to learn that my old boss Lee Clow often referred to me as being excessively 'petulant.' A charge that in hindsight makes so much sense. And explains my current need to shop at Walmart (see yesterday's post.)

Also, in hindsight I should have paid at least as much attention to selling good ideas as I did with coming up with them. The selling is the hard part.

But back to George's blog. And the stunning revelation that Marty Sorrell got in hot water, often, it appears, for expensing his dilly dallying with women of the night. 

Really Sir Martin?

One would think women would be flocking to be near a man of such high regard in the Wire Paper and Plastics arena.

In any case, it reminded of one of the funniest commercials/self promos I have ever seen. And by reaching out to Jonathon Schoenberg (also assumingly a man of Hebraic Seasonings) I was able to obtain a copy, which I now submit for your amusement...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8elyqvexxJs

 

Take my money Sam

Warning: this post has every possibility of coming off as classist. And yet, I will proceed. Because my recent discovery of Walmart and the Walmart lifestyle have been nothing if not life-changing.

It should be noted that my previous experience with Walmart has never been anything more than laughing at the many memes floating around the internet. Sadly, they almost exclusively are mocking the shoppers  who roamed the myriad rows in search of necessities. And maybe some not-so-necessities.

"Honey, do we have a dog nail clipper/potato peeler?"

Make no mistake Walmart is not only a shopper's paradise, it is 200,000 sq. feet of Nirvana, if like me, you enjoy people-watching.

But I'm going to refrain from that low hanging fruit and focus on the aisles and aisles of consumerist smiles.

As Ms. Muse and I walked into the Walmart Superstore in Palm Springs, we were immediately struck by the in-store McDonalds. That's right, there's a Mickey D's inside the Walmart. 

A fitting parable that captures the Bezo-fication of America.

If they were smart they'd have those trays that could attach to the oversized shopping cart so that Walmartians could chomp on their quarter pounders while roaming through the hardware section. Or sporting goods. Or electronics. 

A throwback to earlier, happier days...

I have many, many other ideas that could improve the Walmart experience, now that I have crossed that rubicon. But I'm not gonna print them here. 

I can't give this stuff away. 

Not far from the McDonalds, just past the H&R Block that's also inside the Walmart, you can also get your cuticles cut and polished. By a trained Nailititian. I can only assume.

Now, at this point, you might be thinking, especially those of you who live in Gotham or you Westside Elitists (a teasing term I hear almost on a daily basis from Ms. Muse, who is a Foothill girl through and through), it can't get any more ridiculous than that.

Well, you can just return your nose to level off with the horizon.

Because wedged between the Cleaning products on the right and Boys Socks and Underwear on the left you will find also find a self-contained Jewelry Store. 

"He went to WalMart!"

I suppose that could come in handy for any young lovestruck couples, who upon concurring on the same lounge chair cushions, salt and pepper shakers and 18V Impact Drills, decide right then and there in Aisle 27G, they must cement their eternal love with a Walmart-Branded .83 carat diamond ring. 

Don't mind that yellow tint, that's just the fluorescent lighting.

I want to sue

In case you haven't been following the less-than-scintillating travails of my life (obviously I don't write about all of them), I've been doing a lot of driving lately. From here, in what was frumpy Culver City to fashionable Palm Springs to fix up my less-than-fashionable vacation rental. 

It's hard to keep up with the Sinatras and the Hopes.

As such I've logged many miles on the always under construction Rt. 10. As well as the windy and truck-laden Rt. 60. 

What first comes to mind, besides the glut of Jesus Radio out here in the Inland Empire, are the countless billboards from ambulance chasing and misanthropic lawyers who seem daring -- and hoping -- you to get into a fender bender so they can re-landscape their vacation rentals.

From the omnipresent Jacob Emrani and his iconoclastic (I'm being generous) upside down photos to the pedantic Jacoby and Myers to the prurient Adrianna, who it seems worked the pole before passing the bar. I would show you a picture of her billboards but that would require me pulling the car over and snapping a shot while parked on the side of the road.

In addition to being a bit pervy it's also a bit dangerous. Maybe that's Adriana's strategy?

As if the overabundance of these billboards weren't enough, they're also downright ugly. An awful indictment of our industry. 

Well, your industry. 

I'm out. 

Almost completely.

The sad thing is, outdoor boards were once a shining reflection of what we did best. I always loved a good OOH assignment. Challenging. Restrictive. Pointed. 

Everything a person in the creative arts could want.

Now? My biggest challenge is getting the caked-on orange juice off the bottom of the refrigerator. And stopping the bleeding from where I cracked my head open on a protruding nail in the Palm Springs house.

I should call Jacob and sue the owner. 

Oh wait, that's me.

 

Top this

A wise man, or a wise woman, once came to the insightful observation that it was best to "be the dumbest person in the room." 

In the advertising arena, this can prove to be quite challenging. Particularly when meetings often involve 2 dozen participants. All of whom with unspecified duties. And none of whom can identify Willy Mays, Louis Jordan or even Spiro Agnew.

However, if the room in question is even smaller, let's say a closet, and let's get even more accurate and suggest it's a linen closet, then I have no problem claiming superior ignorance.

Turns out, at the ripe age of 65, I have come to discover I have lived a clueless life when it comes to the panoply of linens and linen-adjacent products. This was made clear to me when on a recent occasion Ms. Muse asked me for a hand towel.

"Hand towel? Those must be smaller than the bigger towels that I use for drying off after a shower," I thought quickly.

"No, honey, that's a face towel, " she replied as I apparently opened the lid on a Pandora's box of cluelessness.

Turns out, and I seriously had no idea or paid any attention to this, that just as there is a taxonomy that help us identify animals, plants and plants that eat like animals (Venus Flytrap), there is an equally sophisticated system of classification for towels. 

Indeed, I have been making the cardinal mistake of packing a bath towel instead of a beach towel for my almost daily swims at the nearby Culver Plunge. Or the not-so-nearby Rose Bowl Aquatic Center. Or my new favorite pool and very much not nearby, Palm Springs Swim Center.

I'm also more than a little embarrassed to admit that in my haste and ignorance I've even brought a dish towel to my excessively sweaty Peloton workouts.

I know as much about towels as Trump knows about windmills. Or big wet islands, with respect to water.

But wait, it gets worse.

It may be hard to believe, but I have gone my entire life sleeping on beds without a top sheet! I'm a non-Top Sheet person. This is an endless source of amusement -- and bemusement -- to Ms. Muse. 

And while she can hardly understand how I arrived at my current station in life without top sheets. The explanation is quite simple -- I grew up that way. 

My mother came to America when she was 17 years old and was literally fresh off the boat. Her working class roots in the hardscrabble streets of Paisley Scotland meant the Sampson-Horn Park family (of the storied MacDonald Clan) often went without all of life's niceties, like edible meat, firewood and top sheets.

And now? Well now I am learning to sleep under an 800-thread count linen covering. 

I'm living the American dream. 

 

How much is that?

Yesterday, I talked about my refurbished ( a process with no seeming end) vacation home in Palm Springs. Today I'm talking about clipping coupons. And shedding unnecessary expenses which have been unnecessary for far longer than I like to think.

I recognize the incongruity of it all. 

But the truth is, and this goes for almost everybody working in advertising, as of late there's not much money coming in. 

And a lot more of it going out. 

I'm looking at you Allstate. You guys clip me for every little thing: home insurance, car insurance, sewer line insurance, life insurance, earthquake insurance, life insurance, ad infinitum. 

I even have an umbrella policy and I don't own any umbrellas.

You too Pavilions (insert name of your favorite supermarket here). Every time I step up to the cash register I feel like one of those mob guys handing over a white envelope thick with 20's. Mind you, I eat pretty simply. And eschew the expensive stuff for generic whenever possible. 

Does Kirkland or Signature sell salmon?

And you, AT&T, don't think you're going unscathed. I'm down to 2-3 hours a TV a day. Mostly the news. And mostly to get my daily fix of Trump Schadenfreude. His legal, political and monetary problems have a soothing effect on me and bring down my heart rate from all my excessive exercise.

But that's all about to change. 

Because I recently started streaming (at the Palms Springs residence, which according to Ms. Muse, needs a fancy name.) And now I'm about to cut the AT&T/DirecTV leeches off my back and begin streaming here at home, which doesn't need a fancy name.

Maybe this newfound thriftiness is my Scottish/Jewish heritage coming to the fore. 

Or maybe it's this recurring nightmare that on the day I spend my last twenty dollars, doctors will be selling a vaccine for immortality for $21.

My Desert Oasis

Happy New Year. And welcome back. I'm told I now have 9 loyal readers as opposed to the long running gag of 8. Consider this the welcome mat for our newest R17 member.

I ended 2023 on a down note, so I thought I'd bounce back and begin 2024 on a sweet one.

Besides I'm in an unusually jolly mood these days, despite my exhaustion.

Allow me to to back the U-haul truck up a bit and explain. Pictured above is my vacation home in Palm Springs. I can't believe those words are coming out of my fingertips. 

The house used to belong to my exceedingly cranky uncle. Quite possibly the only gay man in Palm Springs with absolutely no sense of taste or design. I have the BEFORE pictures to prove it.

I bought the house from my uncle 15 years ago and rented it back to him. Due to his HIV+ status, he retired at the very young age of 47, way back in 1988. He was one of the longest known survivors of HIV+. I'm convinced he lived until 2020 just out of pure Bronx-born stubbornness. I'm also convinced I've been blessed/cursed with the same pugilistic gene.

The early retirement ate through his savings faster than Chris Christie could get up for thirds at a Golden Corral. So buying the house was a simple way to put cash in my uncle's pocket. And it fit nicely into my plan to have a getaway place where I could rejuvenate myself with ionically charged desert air. 

If you've ever spent time in Palm Springs you know of which I speak.  

After a major re-haul of the house, inside and out, which included more than a dozen trips to gather up all the extension chords, carrot peelers, and enough reams of white paper to stock a small office on K Street, I rented the house to a couple of young guys. 

Unlike my uncle, they had a tasteful sense of design and lived in the house for close to three years. Recently one of them got relocated to Europe, Milan to be specific. We agreed that if they left the house completely furnished I would let them out their lease. And so I have been volleying back and forth to get the house in order. Mostly to figure all the smart technology devices they left behind. 

I now have more passwords than Trump has criminal charges. 

I've also been getting the little things and extras that make the house my vacation home. I still can't believe I'm saying that.

Certain Palm Springs ordinances prevent me saying anything too specific, suffice it to say, my hospitality is an open book. Especially if it keeps me out of a dirty nursing home, wink, wink. DM me for details at siegelrich@mac.com should you also like to enjoy the quiet, calming desert vibe.

By the way, I have an app on my phone that enables me to start heating the the jacuzzi as I'm loading up the car and soaking in the water the minute I arrive. Let me know your desired temperature.

Here are some more unprofessional photos to entice you.

He won't be there, but I had to find a good use for this photo.