Thursday Photo Funnies (Aesthetics Edition)

It's Thursday, time for Photo Funnies. This week's edition is a little different that previous posts. Even after 15 years of writing RoundSeventeen, we like to stir things up and keep it spicy.

So, instead of pictures I've accumulated on my iPhone while walking around Culver City, Palm Springs or even Sierra Madre -- I've become, as Ms. Muse puts it, quite peripatetic -- today's snapshots come off a website.

I would provide the link, but when I first opened the click baity page I was given a warning and it immediately switched over to a spam site, never a good sign. Nevertheless I quickly screen shot the pics, so that I could share them with you.

I'm a giver.

Father's Day is only a couple of months away,

I'd get my order in now before these decorative socks get sold out.

Mother's Day is even sooner,

a culinary gem like this is nothing to sneeze at.

I like to sleep with my feet uncovered by the blanket.

Not everyone gets me :) , this designer does.

This one, not so much.

There's art in this world,

you just have to know how to find it.

It's a fan and a light.

In the same way the window curtain rod is also a towel rack.

You'll never lose your iPhone again.

It also comes in blue,

for Kens.

Fresh off my root canal this week, my dentist reminded me,

"Only floss the teeth you want to keep."

Today's Soup: I Should've Stayed in Junior College

Yeah, no. I'll stand.

"If only I didn't have to cover so much distance between

rinsing the dishes and putting them in the dishwasher."

A timely celebration

Today is my birthday. And no, I'm not doing the fake age thing again. 

As many of you recall, I fibbed about being 44 for about 20 years. I'm 66 today. And truth be told I don't like to make a big deal about how many times I've been around the sun. After all, as Ms. Muse often tells me, "Time is a construct."

She did however insist on throwing me a little soire in honor of my increasing geriatricity. Where we will naturally be playing this...

That is, if the Amazon Prime guy comes through with the last minute addition.

But today is also a more important birthday. 

Because it was 15 years ago today that I got an email from my friend, former boss, Syracuse alumni and generally all around great hirsute guy, Mark Monteiro. "Rich, I'm having a lot of fun with my blog Lost Angeles, you should give this blogging a try. You seem to have a lot on your mind."

And so I did. And yes I do.

That was FIFTEEN YEARS AGO! 

Life has thrown me a few curveballs since then. I even took a few fastballs to the head. And yet here I am. still cranking out posts. Still finding an outlet for my twisted thoughts. Still semi-amusing my 9 loyal Roundseventeen readers.

Is it a remarkable display of discipline? A testament to tenacity? A pathetic demonstration of self indulgence? Or a labor of love? I'd have to answer, "Yes." And I'm guessing my friend and fellow blogger, the man who speaks for so many of us in the ad industry, George Tannenbaum agrees. 

Advertising put food on my table, nice cars in my driveway, and a bevy of fat guy shirts and pants that no longer fit, in my closet. Writing this blog has given me what advertising never could. A sense of freedom, where nobody gives me feedback or chides me for typos. A platform. And an audience, albeit a non-paying one. 

I would hesitate to call myself an artist. But through the "art" of this crazy blogging routine, I have met so many great people, received so many kind words, and, dare I say, made many people smile and laugh. 

Perhaps my father, who would often tell me, "just study Accounting and get your CPA so you have something fall back on in case this writing thing doesn't work out", would finally approve?

There's a chance that 15 years from now, when I'm 81, I'll still be doing R17. 

Hopefully not from a dirty nursing home.

Thank you all for stopping by.

I'm an Idiot

I have a confession to make. 

I've been scammed. Duped. Hoodwinked. Bamboozled. This is hard to admit, especially in light of the fact that I wrote a book on scamming. Actually a How To Guide on Scambaiting, that is, getting the best of scammers by outwitting them at their own game.

But now I find myself on the short end of the scam stick.

Allow me to unwind this story from the beginning. 

Being a late adopter to cultural trends, I recently caught Binging Fever. When MAX started showing up on my Peloton, The Sopranos started showing up in my workouts. Each almost hour-long episode of arguably the Top 5 shows made for the flat screen, was a perfect complement to my sweating/burning and earning calorie routine.

It took me a couple of months to work my way through 6 seasons. But I loved watching it a second time and picked up on some of the storylines that had escaped me on my regular Sunday night live HBO viewings.

As is the case in everything we do these days, the algorithms noticed my viewership. And bombarded me with anything that's even remotely Sopranos related. Or Sopranos-adjacent. Sure, I'll join the Stateline Diner Facebook Group. Why not, I've eaten there a coupla three hundred times or so. Mostly in the wee hours of the morning.

I also got cornered into joining a Sopranos Aficianado Fan Group. Why? Because I'm a lonely old man and I'm not writing crappy emails for Dollar Shave Club or PayPal anymore.

During one of my forays on the FB group chat, the Sopranos one not the Diner one, I got into a heated back and forth with a Garden State douchebag making derogatory comments about the mulinyan. I'm not a fan of bigots and call them out on their pigheaded behavior.

Moments after taking a righteous stand, I got a friend request from Robert Iler, the actor who played AJ in the Sopranos. I've never claimed to be the brightest LED bulb in the package but it didn't seem so far fetched that a former child actor -- and come on this guy was a 10 watt bulb at best -- would be trying to live off the fumes of his former fame.

The same operating theory held true when, weeks later, I got a similar request from the guy who played Johnny Sack, the chain smoking boss of the New York, who now wanted to dip his beak into my business.

Hell, I write some damn funny comments of Facebook. It didn't seem all that unusual that these D-listers would want to be my Metaverse friend.

Then I got a request from Big Pussy. And something didn't smell right. (No letters, please)

I knew something was stinky in downtown Paramus, when all three of these 'actors' started pitching cheesy Sopranos memorabilia on their newsfeeds. And sure enough, after a perfunctory perusal of the Reddit pages, my suspicions were solidified like the 6 month old ice cream served at Stateline.

I woke up to the con. My wish is that 75 million voters wake up before the next election.

From one old man to another

The president of the United States of America is in one of these two vehicles, iconically referred to as the Beast. Not named after the former president but rather for its excessive tonnage, monstrous military affectations and a killer 8 track stereo system custom built for its 927 year old occupant, Uncle Joe.

"Get me some Beach Boys, Roy Orbison and Ricky Nelson, I love that Garden Party. Great song."

His motorcade rolled through my frumpy little neighborhood last week. In fact, this photo was taken a mere 20 yards from The Plunge, my hometown swimming pool where I like to knock out 4 miles a week. Not so subtle, humblebrag.

I know I've strung a bunch of political posts here lately, but I'm frothing with anger about our current situation. In a text conversation my good friend and Internet security guru, Jeff Gelberg, he suggested I switch off the MSNBC and tune in to the latest episode of Jeopardy for a 30 minute respite from the nonstop turmoil.

When I say tune in, I mean stream, as I have recently cut the chord with DirecTV in order to save $145 a month for TV I don't watch that often. More on that at a later date.

And while I'm fascinated by politics, don't mistake that for any political expertise. My less than stellar political acumen explains my many trips to the HR office, a long list of angry ex colleagues, and my numerous years stuck in the morass of middle management. 

Nevertheless, he persisted.

Today I offer up a new strategy for the Democratic Brass that seems to have no idea how to convey a message. 

And by new I only mean it's new because in the brain fog that seems to follow President Biden, he might have forgotten. 

Remember way back in 2019, before Covid, before the Insurrection, before we found ourselves staring at the fall of our democracy...oh, I'm sorry, our Constitutional Republic. I love how Red Hats get all weak in the knees when feigning fealty to the Constitution, especially those who carry a pocket version in their Walmart shirts. 

While on the stump, then civilian Joe Biden promised that if elected he would commit huge resources and energy to curing Cancer. Since taking office I have not seen or heard one word to make good on that promise. 

Which is a mistake.

I'm happy that after 200 Infrastructure weeks (TFG) and no concrete action, pardon the wordplay, Biden put together and passed a bipartisan plan, not Make America Great Again -- whatever the fuck that means -- but to Make America Work again. Our highways, schools and airports were literally crumbling right beneath our feet. And it was smart to fix the things that affect us all.

Cancer is even more consequential. And I suspect a trillion dollar expenditure to take it out of our miserable vernacular would be met with overwhelming support. Even from the knuckle draggers and the three toed Neanderthal from across the aisle. 

Come on Joe, make good on your promise to Fuck Cancer.

Because in doing so, you will not only cement your legacy as a transformational President, you will also...

 

Justice Interference

If you follow the news lately -- I do -- you know that our former president/sneaker salesman has made his share of headlines lately.

None of them good. 

He's on a losing streak that would make the old Chicago Cubs or even the Syracuse University Football team blush. For me, and for 81 million other critical thinking Americans, it's been a non stop gusher of Schadenfreude. I often say his pain is inversely related to my joy.

As of late I feel like I've been given the VIP table at the Golden Corral of Trump disappointments, defeats and financial dismemberments. His comeuppance has been a long time coming.

As of late I'm sure you've also heard him moaning about all this being a wildly sewn complex conspiracy of concerted effort that he calls Election Interference. Which is rich coming from a man who begged a state official to, "Just find me 11,780 more votes, which is one more than we need to win Georgia which I won by a lot. A lot."

The same man whose legal team assembled a cavalcade of pseudo-electors. Non-sanctioned, unofficial, handpicked hacks who would effectively throw out the will of the American people and throw in another 4 years for the man recently dubbed "America's Worst President."

Ever.

Again, the same man who, in conjunction with a team of 'legal eagles' who have now all been disbarred, including Rudy Giuliani, Sidney Powell, Lin Wood, Ken Cheeseborough, Jenna Ellis and more, schemed to stop the January 6th certification of an American  president in the halls of the capitol and underhandedly steal an election.

Pardon the longwinded re-setting of the table, but I have come to a new understanding of the situation. A ju-jitsu interpretation of the events that have unfolded. You see, I don't believe, and I don't think anyone who can string two synapses together, believe this panoply of criminal charges brought against him has anything to do with Election Interference. 

Rather, this 315 lbs. lump of leftover lard has cleverly reframed the scenario.

What he calls Election Interference is actually Justice Interference. 

That is, the DOJ is not pursuing him to prevent him from getting elected. No, he is running for office in order to use election funds to fend off the tidal wave of legal bills, soon to be approaching $1 billion. 

To date his Kool Aid drinking followers have pitched in close to $100 million dollars of money that could have been used to pay down their credit card bills, put groceries in the refrigerator, or even covered the cost of a few days at Epcot Center (so they could feel more worldly and well-traveled), to defray the legal bills of a schmuck who plays golf every day, flies around in a private jet, lives in a country club, has his own omelette bar. 

Oh and calls himself a billionaire.

It is the Ultimate Con.

And as in every good con, the mark(s) never saw (see) it coming. More importantly they refuse to believe they've been conned.

American Non Fiction

This is Thelonious Ellison, aka Monk. It's also Stagg R. Leigh, aka Thelonious Ellison, aka actor Jeffrey Wright. 

If you've seen the movie American Fiction, you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't seen the movie, you should. It's a minor masterpiece. I haven't viewed all the contenders for this year's grand Oscar but American Fiction leapt over previous favorites, Poor Things and The Holdovers. 

I still have 57 minutes of Oppenheimer left to watch. I might be done by March.

I'm still laughing over many of the scenes in American Fiction. And I'm still mulling over the premise which turns on itself. Not just once, but many times over. 

Again, IFYKYK.

Suffice it to say that it deals with the very tricky issue of race in America. And does so in such a delicious, clever way that I found myself smiling from ear to ear with what the first time writer/director Cord Jefferson pulled off.

Writing about movies is a trepidatious endeavor. It's almost impossible to unintentionally spill some details. Or inadvertently reveals some spoilers.

Writing about movies about race (as a decidedly white man or even as a Mud Person as the folks in Klan like call me) raises the difficulty level.  Exponentially.

And so I will wisely demure. 

But I can address the larger issue at play -- media narratives and media consumption. Both of which have an undue impact on our daily lives.

Last week it rained here in Los Angeles. It only rains here about 13 or 14 days a year. If we're lucky. And when it does, it's often nothing more than a light drizzle. When I lived on the East Coast it would rain every 4-5 days, or so. And NEVER merited any news coverage.

But because it's so rare and seemingly reduces the driving skills of millions of daily freeway drivers to that of ritalin-deprived 5 year olds at a bumper car amusement ride. It gets the full DEFCON 1 treatment. As a result I will often field calls or texts or email inquiries from friends Back East to the effect of...

"Are you guys OK? Has the crawl space under your house turned into a lake? Are you getting FEMA funds?"

Same kind of thing happens when there's a minor earthquake. 

Or a smash and grab robbery at the Puente Hills Mall.

It's all media conflation. And it's all done for ratings. And the precious few ad dollars that are being spent on news programs. Let's be totally frank here, Sean Hannity and Anderson Cooper are simply two sides of the same oily coin.

I suspect the same thing is going on with our former president's meteoric poll numbers. There is no way in the world Americans could possibly be that delusional. I hope I'm right. 

And if I'm not, I would hope a hero like Stagg R Leigh, would step up to the fore and preemptively smoke his sorry ass.

Cannon Fodder

Somebody explain this to me. How is this woman sitting on the bench? How is she wearing the robe of a federally appointed judge? How is she in charge of one of the most critical cases of presidential abuse and criminality in the history of the United States of America?

Aileen (yeah, "I lean" towards Insanity) Cannon should not only be disbarred, she should be indicted.

Every time I read one of her rulings and see how she subverts the DOJ in their pursuit of accountability with regards to Top Secret documents, my head implodes like a junior Oppenheimer project. For god's sake they had to find a SCIF (Sensitive Compartmentalized Information Facility) to view papers that were previously kept here...

and here...

"Sir, there's a problem in the Cabana House Men's Room."

"You mean where my Get Out of Debt....I mean my important papers are?"

"Yes, we're all out of hand soap."

These are the very same classified papers that he claimed he declassified. 

In his head.

My gardener, with a vocabulary of less than 500 English words, could supervise this case better, and more fairly, than her.

As a law abiding citizen I have had limited engagement with our judicial system. I have however served as Jury Foreman on two occasions, one civil and another criminal. 

There was the schnorer who tried to bilk Keck Medical Center for $4 million because his foot hurt. And a two time loser who held up a 7-11 store less than a quarter mile from the police station and was captured on high definition security cameras. In both cases, the verdicts were no-brainers. 

But the judges in each cases went through all the motions to guarantee a just outcome. They never showed partiality. Not even a whiff of it. The same cannot be said for "Judge" Cannon who recently ruled in favor of ex Precedent Shitgibbon and his requests to have the list of government witnesses made public. Thus subjecting them to intimidation and threats.

The two favorite weapons preferred by Red Hat acolytes. Or have we already forgotten this incident from the 2020 election cycle...

It's all so infuriating. But it gives me great motivation to eat healthy, exercise and stay optimistic. Because I want to live long enough to Make America Trumpless Again.

In the middle of the night.

There was a time when I would wake up 4-5 times a night to urinate, or if I may take this opportunity to say, pee. Thanks to my curbed consumption of coffee, I'm now down to 2-3 times a night. And like fellow wanderers of the night often have trouble falling back to sleep.

Last night I arose at 3 AM. It was my first night back in Culver City after fully recuperating from Covid while staying at my Palm Springs house. Laying there in bed, I could not help but to notice the total silence, an anomaly in Los Angeles. Especially for someone who lives a mile from the 405. And another mile from the Santa Monica Freeway, which hum along at 78 decibels through all hours of the night.

It should also be noted that I can hear a barking dog from 7.3 miles away. And will hunt down the offensive pup and write the owner a longwinded letter why they should bring the damn dog inside.

But it was silent last night. At one point I thought I had died and woken up in some kind of Twilight Zone. It was eerie. And instead of getting up to look out the window for signs of life, like my Meth-head neighbor lurking around in the backyard, I decided to lay still and soak it in.

This is where it gets weird. 

As I lay (lie) there a word popped into my head. It's not a word I use. Or even know. A word much more likely to appear in George Tannenbaum's blog than mine. Knowing I would forget the experience by the morning, I grabbed my phone and asked Siri to look it up and then did a screen grab.

I'll spare you the trouble because I'll assume you're not in the habit of tossing around fecundity in the next status meeting or dinner party...

That is not at all what I suspected. 

In fact it's about 180 degrees from what I thought. With its harsh stream of consonants, it sounds like a Teutonically-rooted insult, "You fecundatious SOB."

Can't say I'm not a bit disappointed. I'd love to drop that one on some uninformed Red hat (pardon the redundancy). 

With the mystery solved I was able to go right back to sleep.

You're probably thinking what Ms. Muse often tells me, "Siegel, you have a weird brain."

Thank you.

The Little Pill with the big story to tell

With all the talk about the Super Bowl and the Super Bowl Advertising, there's been very little about the NEW Jardiance commercial. 

It's been completely refreshed. With a new lead and an entire new cast of commercial miscreants, including Man Boob guy who can't get the copier to work cause it wasn't plugged in -- that's some funny piece of business. 

I suspect the singing is the same. Only because the lip synch is a little off. I can't imagine why the stable genii at Jardiance felt the need to do a rehaul except for the fact that the previous overzealous singing/dancing/wardrobe-changing lead actress turned out to be a Trumpster.

So fuck her. Take your cultiness to Russia.

Rant over.

It's time for Thursday Photo Funnies. I am just on the tail end of Covid Rebound, which kicked my ass worse than the original. As such, I decided to bug out to the desert to convalesce. And to take care of last minute details at the Mojo Dojo Desert Casa House. And to do a lot of of walking. A lot of walking. 

It's so beautiful out here.

Even Lucy knows unusual desert and 

can appreciate the stellar scenery.

Well, almost.

Check out the snow covered mountains. 

It looks like CG. But it's real.

This is from the Ring Doorbell Cam, that's the

view from my front door. Those same mountains 

are in the distance.

This expansive estate is just 3 minutes from my house.

This is starting to feel like an ad for Palm Springs. 

Sorry, not sorry.

It's not all cookies and cream ice cream. 

Instead of shelling out

Stay Out Of Dirty Nursing Home money to fix the busted icemaker, my

 brilliant daughter had a decidedly Old School fix -- trays.

I know I shouldn't get too excited about

my new bar sink before, but I never had a bar sink before.

But not as excited as these lucky kids

in their new functional Musk Truck.

One last shot, because it felt like the universe

was talking to me and clamoring for a nod on

Round 17.

Push Lucy, push.

Sleeper Bowl

I did not have a spot in the Super Bowl this year. Actually ever. 

Years ago, I came so damn close. You can read that tale of misfortune here. I thought I had been royally screwed. But hindsight is always 20/20. 

And now I thank my lucky stars I never collaborated with 237 people to produce a $3 million extravaganza with Aerosmith and Al Gore, that would no doubt be ripped to shreds by millions, maybe even billions of people.

Not that anyone else's opinion matters to me now. If I'm being completely honest, I rather enjoy the naysayers. Reading or hearing the thoughts of folks who have never produced anything, good or bad, in their entire life makes for some Grade A sado-masochism. 

If you're into that kinda thing.

I guess I am because I treasure the opportunity to troll. Or come to my own defense. Or, as this blog of 15 years running proves, climb aboard a soapbox.

Must be the frustrated lawyer in me.

Apart from the untold scrutiny, there are a myriad reasons why I'm happy NOT to have had the spotlight a few days ago?

Don't know if you had noticed but Super Bowl spots tend to be very broad in tone. I suppose some could argue otherwise, but I have made a conscious effort to steer away from that kind of populist fare. Sure, Budweiser's Waaaasssuppp made a lot of fanfare a decade or so ago, but it's not something that would ever spring from these fingertips. Ever.

I still cringe when people say, "It give me all the feelz."

Speaking of contrarian, unpopulist fare, we once did a series of spots for ABC, which nobody ever saw, featuring the world's worst comedians. They were purposefully bad. And boring. And dull. Point being, that if you were looking for real laughs you needed to tune into ABC (a faulty premise, if there ever was one.)

I remember showing this campaign to the top brass in Century City and they looked at us as if we had 12 fingers and two heads. I still love those uncomfortable headscratchers.

The other thing you might have noticed last Sunday was the cavalcade of celebrities. Again, not a fan. Last thing I need is input from Jennifer Coolidge's Latte Boy.

There are already way too many cooks in the kitchen, including CMOs, spouses of CMOs, Mistresses or BoyToys of CMOs, Account People, aspiring account people, Planner, Strategists, Assistant planners, Assistant Strategists...you get the picture...I could make the Herculean effort to list them all out, but like so many of Sunday's spots it would feel like I was trying too hard.

I'm done trying too hard. Fact is, if I never do another TV spot in my life I'd be more than happy.

If, however, you need some outdoor boards or some smart print, you know where to find me.

Like a boss

Tomorrow is the Super Bowl. I know it's Tuesday where you are but it's Saturday morning where I am right now. 

But for you the game has been played. The last of the chili has been eaten. And the ad literatti have already begun squabbling who had the best spot.

Maybe they'll be a couple of standouts, but nothing and I mean nothing will top the premier of Apple's 1984 which stiffened the necks of millions of Americans 40 years ago. There's a lengthy NY Time's article about what has come to be known as the Super Bowl's first blockbuster spot. 

You can read it here. 

There's probably a paywall thingy, but then I'm assuming most of you have a NYT subscription. And if not, you should. The value of a good 'truthy' news cannot be underestimated in these tricky times.

In my online discussion with one of the junior producers of the spot, I had made an observation about Steve Hayden, the copywriter behind 1984. I told this producer "Steve was one of my favorite bosses."

Seeing as my career is for all intents and savings-draining purposes over, I was asked to list my favorite bosses. She suggested I do it privately. But, as I approach my 66th rotation around the sun, I see little need for that kind of unnecessary discretion. 

That said, if you're reading this and don't see your name here, please take no offense. I don't know why I'd assume any of my former bosses would be reading this blog. They barely wanted to read my drivel when I gave them store-bought deference. 

These three jeffes just happen to be my most favorite. Mostly because under their guidance, I produced the best work of my rocky up and down career.

1. Lee Clow -- it goes without saying that I had the privilege and extreme good fortune to work for the guy who also spearheaded Apple's 1984 spot. I always had a father/son relationship with Lee, albeit in a vocational manner. In all the years I worked for him, and unlike my own dad, he never yelled or berated me. Though he did give me a good talking to, "you can be a little whiny and petulant, Brian." But, as many will attest, his style of bossdom always brought out the best in people. Better, myself included, than any of us even thought of ourselves. That's pretty special.

2. Steve Hayden -- the aforementioned copywriter of 1984 was also my boss ten years after the seminal spot at BBDO. I was hired to be a writer on Apple that was undergoing some very difficult transitional post-Jobs years. Steve was also mild mannered in a very professorial fashion. Though I didn't get much in way of good work produced at BBDO, he guided me through some very tough times. And taught me a valuable lesson or two about gutting things out. Oddly enough, we also share a juvenile sense of humor about the world. That comes in handy.

3. Mark Montiero -- also a product of the Chiat/Day days. Mark hired me to work on Lexus (a disaster) and also pursue new business (a dream.) In fact two or three weeks after I started there, I was asked to pitch in an assignment when the other copywriter had gone on vacation. It was for Castlemaine XXXX beer. A brand that had enjoyed great success Down Under and wanted to replicate that story here in the states. In the brief time I worked on that account, I wrote one of my favorite lines...

A little wordy for an outdoor board, but that didn't phase Mark. He brought this and a slew of other work to the client and sold it on the spot. Written, sold and produced in about two weeks time. Unheard of. 15 years later, in 2009, Mark also suggested I start a blog. This blog.

That's enough apple-polishing for today.

Ooooops, almost forgot to mention my all time favorite boss. 

When your career spans more than 40 years that kind of thing can happen. I worked for my best boss for 20 years. Sadly, he didn't help me produce much in the way of any good memorable ads. However, he did assist me in making something more important -- money.

It may not be true anymore, but there is nothing more satisfying than being your own boss. 

Ads that never made the cut

These days I don't spend my time pursuing work in advertising. Those days are gone. 

Besides what are the chances some copywriter-less agency or client would choose me out of 763 other applicants? Particularly when my day rate is more than 87 times more than them. 

Combined.

I do spend considerable time reaching out to past colleagues. Just to stay in touch. And to keep my fat fingers on the pulse, the fading pulse, of the industry.

Just caught up with an art director who works, and still works, with my last employer. While bitching and moaning about the lack of leadership, the layoffs and the plunging stock price, I happened to be paging through some of our older correspondence. See, this kid also worked for me while I was a Group Creative Director at Y&R in Irvine back in the 2000 oughts.

He had fished out some old print ads we did for Sony Electronics. 

For the most part the work stood the test of time. I've screen-grabbed one of them for your perusal. It's a bit autobiographical in that my grandparents did come from Grodno. Or one of the other grayish shtetls in the Litvak Area of Eastern Europe before they escaped the Kossacks, Aryans and other ne'erdowells seeking to scalp them and bury them in a pit of lime.

This ad and several more like it that spanned the entire fakakta Sony line up of products did not get approved. Instead, they bought a forgettable slew of crap from our NY office. Sold to them by two slick ad hacks who took every opportunity to stab me in the back.

It didn't occur to me then but it's glaring now. I was not at the top of my game. Otherwise I would have raised bloody hell.

But I didn't because I had two small children. I was commuting more than 100 miles a day. And prior to taking the job in Irvine, I had been suffering from a series of panic attacks. 

Debilitating panic attacks. 

I didn't even know what they were at the time. I knew how to cover them up. With bravado. Humor. And a stoic front. But the truth is, I shouldn't have been in front of clients. And certainly not to conduct presentations worth millions of dollars.

Why am I picking at this scab now? Because I can. 

Because many people in our industry are going through similar, if not greater troubles. And because I really wish I had a print ad in my book with a statue of an oversized foot in Grodno, Poland.

That's what it's missing.

 

I FOUGHT THE LAW

A RESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA MUST HAVE FULL IMMUNITY, WITHOUT WHICH IT WOULD BE IMPOSSIBLE FOR HIM/HER TO PROPERLY FUNCTION. 

AS SUCH I DECLARE TOTAL IMMUNITY FROM ANY AND ALL DEBTS THAT I HAVE INCURRED DURING THE PAST 65 YEARS ON THIS PLANET. 

ANY MISTAKE, EVEN IF WELL INTENDED, WOULD BE MET WITH ALMOST CERTAIN COLLECTION PROCEDURES BY VARIOUS RADICAL LEFTIST CREDITORS SEEKING TO STEAL MY MONEY.

EVEN EVENTS THAT "CROSS THE LINE" SUCH AS THE PURCHASE OF EXPENSIVE ARTWORK OR A PLUSH NEW COUCH THAT FAR EXCEEDS MY BUDGET, MUST FALL UNDER TOTAL IMMUNITY, OR IT WILL BE YEARS OF TRYING TO DETERMINE RIGHTFUL DEBT FROM NOT RIGHTFUL DEBT. AND IN MY CASE, I THINK WE CAN AGREE IT'S ALL NOT RIGHTFUL DEBT.

THERE MUST BE CERTAINTY. 

EXAMPLE: YOU CAN'T STOP POLICE FROM DOING THE JOB OF STRONG & EFFECTIVE CRIME PREVENTION BECAUSE YOU WANT TO GUARD AGAINST THE OCCASIONAL "ROGUE COP" OR "BAD APPLE." SOMETIMES YOU JUST HAVE TO LIVE WITH 'GREAT BUT SLIGHTLY IMPERFECT."

I'M NOT SURE WHAT THIS HAS TO DO WITH MY TOTAL IMMUNITY FROM PAYING ALL BILLS INCLUDING THE MORTGAGE ON MY HOUSE WHICH IS OWNED BY ONE OF THE GEORGE SOROS FUNDED BANKS WITH GLOBALIST TIES TO DARK CABALS OF INTERNATIONAL BANKERS, BUT IT DOES.

IN SHORT AND IN CONCLUSION TO THIS VERY LEGALLY BINDING DOCUMENT WHICH FORTHWITH STATES MY TOTAL IMMUNITY, I AND I ALONE, SHALL FOREVER IN PERPETUITY WILL BE RELEASED FROM ANY AND ALL DEBTS. 

GOD BLESS THE SUPREME COURT. AND GOD BLESS THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 

Full Speed Ahead

This is the Russian Troika -- a unique equinal configuration that allegedly produced speeds unmatched in its time. Note how the two outside horses have turned sideways so that they may spot wolves. Or Nazis. or both.

Why do I bring the troika to your attention? Because as of late it's been brought to mine.

Years ago, during the leaner, less flush years of my freelance career, I was contacted by the Troika Media group and contracted to do a little job for them. Don't ask me the details of the gig because I don't have a clue. In the same way you wouldn't have a clue what Troika does, or did, according to their LinkedIn blurb. 

Behold...

That's the kind of business "writing" that will short circuit a temporal lobe or two. 

The Troika has come back into my life because despite their ability to deliver "resilient brand equity" (?) they have fallen on hard times and landed in bankruptcy court. And I've been asked if I'd like to join the class action lawsuit against Troika in order to settle any debtor claims.

I'd love to get in on that action and pick up a discarded stapler, some Pendaflex files and maybe a Herman Miller knockoff chair. The problem is I'd have to produce documentation. 

And lots of it.

If memory serves, and often times it doesn't, the Troika folk had me over a barrel for $3000. You work 20 some add years as a freelance copywriter, you're bound to hit a few speed bumps, including the English-challenged Troika people who won't pay their bills.

So yes, I'd love to recoup my Three Large. 

But here's the other thing, while the details and dates of this unfortunate experience escape me, the mirror in my bathroom doesn't. 

And there is NO WAY in the world I would have walked away from an unpaid $3,000 invoice. Let's not forget I'm the same guy who applied for club membership at Mara Lago for no other reason than to yank their chain. In other words, I'm sure I made it abundantly clear to the Troika people that I was not the kind of person they wanted to stiff.

Now that I'm working on my third cup of coffee and synapses are starting to fire, I believe I FedExed a letter to the CEO of Troika and told him I had a cousin working in the SDNY (and how hard is to believe that a guy named Siegel has a cousin who happens to be a lawyer) and that I'd be willing to drop a dime on his miserable "transformational business solutions partnership" if remuneration was not forthcoming.

The invoice for $3000 that went unpaid for 30 days, then 45 days, then 60 and then 90, was paid on the 91st day. The day after FedEx made their delivery.

Polyester Frank

I'm in the hunt for a new car. As such, my social media feed is a constant nonstop flow of ads from every carmaker under the sun.

Buying a car at my age is a lot different than buying a car when I still had hair on my head.

I'm older, wiser and much less forgiving with car salesmen/saleswomen. Having spent the better part of my advertising career dealing with these grease weasels, I know the Four Corners™ they use to squeeze a healthy profit from every transaction. 

Every. Damn. Transaction. 

I'll have none of that because frankly I'm in the driver's seat. I have a wealth of information at my disposal via the internet. I'm more than willing to pit one dealer against another. And I'm willing to be rude to get what I want. Not what they want.

Yeah, I do mind you asking. Why would I tip my cards and let you know that not one dealer has come even remotely close to meeting my ridiculous expectations? This is a negotiation not a chat with my BFF.

Chances are that none of the 20+ dealers that have come-a-knocking will have exactly what I'm hoping for. And that's OK because I'm not in a rush. And I'm not willing to budge. I'm playing hardball. 

And I'm playing the long game. 

Furthermore I'm not ashamed to admit that my distaste for car dealers and my need to needle them stems from an incident that happened way back in 1988. Oddly enough when Ms. Muse and I worked together at Bozell Advertising.

Reader's Digest version: I had been assigned to work on the Southern California Chrysler Plymouth Dealers Association who had just signed Ricardo Montleban as their spokesman. 

After months of preparation and carefully gaining the trust of Mr. Montleban, I was summoned to the Downtown Athletic Club, a fancy ballroom where I would unveil the new 10-spot campaign to a roomful of oily, polyester-clad, hood-pounders. 

Upon completing my strategically sculpted presentation to the seemingly unimpressed crowd, I went to go sit down. 

At which point, Buzzcut Frank from San Diego, a loud mouth man in an even louder sport coat, leapt from his seat and proclaimed, "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm not sinking a goddamned dime of my money into any of this shit!"

Revenge is best served cold. And 36 years late.

Hoping for some negative

You don't hear much of people's journey with the Coronavirus.That doesn't mean you shouldn't. It simply means folks have more interesting tings to write about.

I don't. So here goes.

It's Saturday morning as I write this and I'm on Day 4 of my Plaxovid regimen. I love the Plaxovid. But only because it has staved off (apparently) the severe hospitalization type reaction to the virus. But make no mistake the stuff tastes like shit.

Plax, as I like to call it, leaves a weird metallic residue in the mouth. And the kind of breath that could (apologies George Carlin) knock a buzzard off a shitwagon. And all the mints and mouthwashes in China can do nothing to rinse the foulness from my piehole. 

Lest you think my Covid Journey, my very first Covid rodeo as it were, has been a piece of cake, albeit one baked in a steel foundry, allow me to dissuade you of the notion. 

One night, I believe it was Night 3, though I wouldn't swear on a Bible on that,  I awoke in pool of sweat. Not only was my body on fire with a fever, it was also simultaneously trembling from the chills. I rolled out of bed at 4 in the morning. Having been nominated as the World's Best Sleeper by my father in 1974, I never thought I'd be the kind of person that would be awake before the sun rose.

Thankfully, the misery was short lived. 

Because what has made this Covid experience unlike the ones many of you have experienced is the fact that prior to seeing those two dastardly lines on the testing kit, I had been toughing out a gnawing issue with my left jaw. Months ago my dentist, who had just completed a lengthy root canal said to me, "I know you don't want to hear this, but you'll probably be back in here soon for another root canal on the adjoining tooth." 

Doc, I thought, you don't know the Siegel constitution. I can fight off any impending gum inflammation with the sheer power of my will. 

Stupid, me.

Yesterday, my tooth was throbbing like (insert your own NSFW metaphor here) and then multiply it by ten).  

Fortunately my dentist, a jovial man of similar Hebraic Seasonings who often teases me, "Ooooo, root canal...I love doing root canals" prescribed me some Tylenol 3. The good stuff with the codeine.

I received a text that the meds were ready and decided to walk the mile to the drug store. Namely to get some much needed exercise. But also to build up the anticipation of those sweet opioids traversing my neural network and telling those pain receptor nerves to sit right the fuck down.

"Sir, we have your medications, but you'll have to wait until we get approval from the DA's office to release them to you."

"I'm positive for Covid, you don't want me sitting here. Wait, the DA's office?" I whispered.

"New regulations regarding the dispensation of narcotics," he said with a straight face.

And so I waited. 

And waited.

And waited some more.

Is this what we have come to? A true Nanny State. Where good, innocent people have to suffer because of the bad behavior and abuse of irresponsible people. And yes, I'm well aware how this might come off as right wingish. Or even a bit Trumpy. 

But come on, why is the Court System managing my healthcare?

"Your Honor, in the matter of Siegel vs. L29 Lower Left Bicuspid #2,  Plaintiff is petitioning the Court for approval to ingest Tylenol 3 and court-sanctioned relief from what Mr. Siegel describes as 'a freight train running through the middle of my head'."

You can run but you can't hide

 

The Chinese Plot to destroy America and take ownership of our vast national wealth including our prized Combination Pizza Hut & Taco Bell corporate stores is one step closer to completion. 

Yesterday after driving home from Palm Springs I noticed a little tickle in my throat. I thought it could have been my body rebelling against the 8th cup of coffee of the morning.

As I made way through Chino Hills, the tickle gave way to a light cough. Again, too much coffee and not enough morning nutrients thanks to my rigid intermittent fasting.

As I was gliding under the skyline of downtown LA 90 minutes later, I started feeling a bit of a headache. This, I attributed to the burgeoning root canal that lingers on the left side of my cheek because I stubbornly refused to go see a dentist.

As I entered the house and Lucy made a beeline for the automatic pet feeder which failed to stop dispensing kibble, I made a beeline for the bathroom to fish out a Covid test. With the swabbing, snorting and drop-dripping done, I felt confident that I had once again skirted the scourge that had ravished America. The C line made its appearance and the T line was not visible.

Yet.

10 minutes later it started appearing. Faint at first. Maybe it was a fluke. Maybe a drop of my Kopi Luwak, coffee made from Monkey Poop, had fallen on the specimen collector and triggered a false positive.

"Surely," I thought "after 4 years of dutifully avoiding the Coronavirus, I wasn't getting it now." 

And just as surely, I was wrong. 

I'm on Day 2. 

Rest assured I won't be walking you through the gory, mucus-ey details of this experience, which is a trench many of you have been in. At this point it's nothing more than the beginnings of a mild cold. The pharmacy has not filled my prescription for Plaxovid. But as the picture above indicates, I do have some very fine "medicine" from Kentucky. 

Should be an interesting day.