UnBearable restaurant stories

Upon re-reading yesterday's post about The Bear, but ostensibly about my perspective of working so many years in the restaurant industry and knowing the kitchen inside and out and even behind drywalls (later on that), it occurred to me I had left so much out. 

I had, in the vernacular of the culinary proletariat, "86'd the good parts."

Indeed, I said to myself, "I could write a whole book about my time beneath the salamander (the flash broiler right above the pan built into the venting unit), the waitresses I have known, some in a biblical sense (though not as many as I would've liked) and the truly horrible megalomaniacal bosses I've had the displeasure of answering to."

Truth is, I don't have any more books in me, despite the millions of dollars to be made in the very lucrative book publishing game. But, I thought, I do have a blog and a bewildering number of people who like to nibble on my amuse bouche of glibness and nostalgia, so I thought I'd follow up with a Part II.

For one thing, I'll try to keep this evenhanded because if the truth were known, none of us would ever go out to eat ever again, stunning Yelp reviews and Michelin stars notwithstanding. Hint: It ain't pretty in there. 

For another, I owe my life in California to those first few baby steps I took in 1979 when I came here on a one way ticket. Hopped a bus from LAX to UCLA. Secured a sleeping spot (on a ratty old mattress on the roof) at a frat house. And within 2 days had gainful employment at the Good Earth Restaurant in Westwood Village.

"I've cooked burgers and omelettes, but never worked a wok before."

"Don't worry about it kid. Turn the flame up really high, throw the shit in the bowl with some sesame oil and keep stirring," said Les, the jovial 300 lbs. kitchen manager who seemed to know a bit about food.

A day later I was making a Cashew Chicken bowl for Dustin Hoffman.

Unlike The Bear I was never sent to Copenhagen to study under some masterful chef. I was however sent to a local hardware store to pick up rat traps. Here comes the drywall story.

I was working and managing one of West LA's most popular steak and rib joint, SH Kickers on Santa Monica Blvd. It was modeled after the roadhouse in Urban Cowboy. You kids can look that up. We had a rat issue. OK 'issue' is restaurant spin. 

We had RATS!!!

Lots of them. Behind the drywalls. Above the ceiling. And on more than one occasion, scurrying across the dining room (The House, in restaurant lingo) and taking shelter behind the mechanical bull. Little buggers even left a contrail of their getaway on the sawdust floor. 

Newsflash: a rat contrail is not an image any diner wants to see.

Bad service, overcooked meat, watered down drinks can put a crimp in your restaurant business, but it's been my amateur observation that people rarely pay a return visit to a place that has RATS.

We went rodent belly up in no time.

I've barely sliced into this 23 lbs. perfectly BBQ brisket of stories and I'm already out of time. Please come back for a second helping at a later date. 

Or maybe, I should get going on that book?

Yes, Chef.

I know I'm very late to the party but I was hesitant to write about The Bear. For one thing I just started this binging thing. And I've only been to Chicago once in my entire life.

That one trip made me fall in love with the city. We were shooting one chapter for our documentary Home Movie, featuring Ben Skora and the inimitable Darlene Satrinano. 

Here's a snippet: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SiVBS-QHEms&t=85s

Before we shot the piece we stayed at a fancy hotel on Michigan Ave. My room, on the 37th floor, had floor-to-ceiling views of the lake and a magical Heaven Bed™. I was living like a king. It was a very different time in advertising.

I seem to have gotten a little nostalgic. 

While I know very little about the Windy City, where The Bear takes place, I know quite a bit about kitchens, restaurant kitchens, where I wasted a good 10 years of my life, palling around with misfits, underachievers, and industrial substance abusers who just wanted to forget they were consigned to work in a kitchen the rest of their fucking lives.  

I watch the show and find myself amazed at how they have romanticized being in the kitchen. 

On the one hand it's beautiful to watch these characters lovingly go about their work. Delicately preparing their dishes as if it were going to be somebody's last meal. And fastidiously cleaning up afterwards until every remnant of the previous night's toils had been swept away and sanitized for a white glove inspection by the head Mucky Muck from the Board of Health.

On the other hand it's hard not to contrast that with my own tawdry experience in so many kitchens from one coast to the other. I learned early that if you can handle yourself as a Line Cook in a 120 degree sweltering hot kitchen, you can find employ at the drop of a dime.

Take for instance, my first job at the long gone Spring Valley Jack in the Box. When I drew the unfortunate luck of working a graveyard shift I would see the Assistant Manager (Steve S.) walk in at 11:38 PM (late of of course). He would immediately kick anyone out of the restaurant. Lock up the front doors. Clear the long flat grill which was the size of a door. Take a box of frozen patties out of the freezer and throw them ALL on the grill.

"Make 100 cheeseburgers, 75 Bonus Jacks and another 75 Jumbo Jacks, wrap them up and put them under the heat lamps."

This pre-emptive move put us way ahead for the long night and string of endless drunk/stoned/drunk&stoned kids who lined up for the drive thru well past sunrise.

"Yes, Chef", more likely, "Fuck yeah, Steve."

Years later I worked at a more upscale Steak and Lobster place in Syracuse. There in the back, was Abdul, a cruel, cruel man who took unusual pleasure of placing the live lobsters in the huge stainless steel pot of boiling water. He would taunt them. Dip their claw in first. Then finally in an act of mercy, more likely boredom, push their plastic-hard bodies beneath the bubbling surface with his 3 foot long wooden paddle.

And then he'd cackle. Loud enough that it echoed throughout the huge cavernous kitchen that served 300-400 meals a night.

Finally, at the tail end of my illustrious kitchen career, not once did I ever see anyone, anywhere sharpen a knife. We worked with what Dennys, TGIF, Cheesecake Factory, Merlin McFly's, Valle's, The Vineyard, etc, etc, gave us.

We didn't know better. More accurately, we didn't care.

Imagine my shock when I secured a job at the fancy Charmer's Market in Santa Monica and on the first day the head chef (a real chef) said to me...

"Where are your knives?"

"Uhhhhh"

He rolled his eyes, knowing I was going to be a short timer. He was right.

Bad Swordfish talking

Been thinking about blankets lately. More accurately, I've been thinking about them for the past 48 hours. Mostly because I've been huddled under one. Or two. Or three to stave off the chill from food poisoning. 

It could've been the after effects of the swordfish we picked up at Whole Foods. Or maybe too much saccharine entered my body after Ms. Muse and I mistakenly went to a rainy Sunday afternoon viewing of Arthur The King.

In any case, the salmonella/e.coli bout hit me with the force of an Al Kaline signed Louisville Slugger. 

Having spent excessive time shivering, sweating, shivering some more, it occurred to me that blankets are one of the oldest accessories known to mankind. Our ancestors, tired from a day of hunting and gathering and intimidating encroaching members of another homonid tribe, would curl up next to a fire and throw an old bison skin over them for warmth. 

And humility.

We've made so many advances over the millions of years since the early bi-peds. Why haven't the genii who gave us the Internet of Things taken a crack at blankets. 

I suspect that when the Pottery Barn, Pier 1 and Restoration Hardware people have filed for the Chapter 11 and chained up their last remaining store in Fairbanks, Alaska, some new Thomas Edison will look at our old fashioned bedding linen model and come up with something new. 

Why not a bed that reads our body temperature and automatically adjusts the surroundings for maximum comfort? Why should my jar of mayonnaise have creature comforts in the form of a perfect climate but I (and you) am denied the same luxury?

As my time walking and annoying this planet draws to a close I have spent inordinate hours wondering what kind of innovations will replace the ones we saw last week. Which seemingly have replaced the ones we saw two weeks ago.

Why do we have to mow our lawns? We have seedless watermelons. What about mowless lawns?

Hasn't the whole washer/dryer motif worn out its welcome? Seems to me that if strip mall shops have mastered the art of dry cleaning, we ought to have one in our very own closets. 

Wear a shirt then hang that same shirt in the Dry Cleaning closet and bam it's clean. Please bear in mind I have no idea what dry cleaning is or what it entails. I only know that it should be in my closet.

Finally, and I won't go into ANY detail here,  for reasons that should be obvious, but it seems to me the next Elon Musk is waiting in the wings to conquer our truly last frontier of antiquity -- Toilet Paper.

Apologies to Luke Sullivan, but Charmin can go straight to hell, there's gotta be a better way.

Fade to black

I'm still saddened by the passing of my next door neighbor M. Emmet Walsh. I'm sure that name is not familiar to many of you. On the other hand, considering Emmet's lengthy and far ranging filmography, you  should know the face. 

He was singular in that regard. In fact, he was honored by the late Roger Ebert who once said, "no movie featuring either Harry Dean Stanton or M. Emmet Walsh in a supporting role can be altogether bad." 

While I loved all his performances, I also loved having him live in the house right behind mine. 

And yes, I know the cedar fence needs to be sealed and stained again.

You can't see from the photo, but those cypress trees are about 50 feet tall. I remember when he planted them during my remodel in 1997. He told me, "I don't want you peering into my yard and discovering my dark secrets."

He had a very sarcastic way about him. I didn't want to point out that my two car garage precluded any so-called "peering". And that if anyone should want privacy it would be the naked man who climbs into that hot tub under the cover of darkness.

I hadn't seen Emmet for quite some time. He also has a house in the northern reaches of Vermont. I never got to tell him of my wife's passing who he often described as "lovely" and in the next breath, "unlucky." I mentioned he was sarcastic, right?

Nor had he seen my grown daughters in quite some time. 

Whenever he did, he would reach in his pocket and generously hand them each a two dollar bill. The girls treasured those oddities of currency. Almost as if they were more than two dollars. Now, with inflation and the possibility of an America-destroying Trump presidency, those bills are worth considerably less.

I'll never forget the time Emmet invited me into his home. I was walking my dog Nellie and ran into him. For one reason or another we started talking about SAG, the Screen Actors Guild. Through a career fluke at Chiat/Day I ended up in the union. Not to secure a career in the thespian arts. Though I did do some highly forgettable voiceover work. It was mostly because each year SAG would sent out Oscar screeners in the form of DVDs to their members. 

For my $109 yearly SAG membership I would be sent $300-$400 worth of free movies. Even Eric Trump can do the math on that. Emmet, being of a certain Hollywood league, received many, many more. He offered them all to me.

"Come inside, take whatever DVDs you want. I don't even have a DVD player." 

I'm sure he did. But it was buried under all the clutter. I don't think his cleaning lady had been there that week. Or month. Or decade.

Pardon me for reminiscing. Death tends to make me all melancholy. And while recalling the past makes me misty and puts a smile on my face, I'm also thinking towards the future. And who will take over the house. 

I hope it's someone quiet.

Get Out

I know this may be a fatal blow to readership but the other morning I had a dream.

The dream was so vivid and so frightening that I awoke with a shudder and took many deep reassuring breaths that the world I was trapped in, was only in my skull. Nevertheless it merits discussion.

I had fallen into a cult. The cult leader was a former All-Star at Chiat/Day advertising, whose name I will not divulge, suffice to say he was not well liked. Some even called him a Dick. Nevertheless, he was surrounded by scores and scores of sycophants. I realized something was up when I was asked to produce some ideas on a ridiculous 45 minute timeline. 

The working conditions were horrible. The desks were nothing but bales of hay.

Somehow I managed to escape the compound (located by Venice Beach) and found myself in a field, in what would now be Oakwood. I started running. But was tracked down by two teams of Catchers on supercharged golf carts. They dragged my sorry ass back to the compound where I was greeted by a slew of ad veterans, including my old partner Dennis L. and legendary writer Kathy H. 

( I hope they won't mind the name dropping)

There were many others, but you know how dream memories go. In the end I resigned myself to being stuck in this advertising hell forever. And then woke up.

I discussed this nightmare with Ms. Muse as well as my friend/ex-boss/ex-roommate/ex-writing partner/fellow traveler through life Jim Jennewein, who had an interesting take on the matter. He attributed it to my current transitional state -- from employed ad copywriter to semi-retired ad copywriter.

How astute, I thought. 

Furthermore, as I was telling Jim (now a professor at Fordham) how the industry had been broken and how wages had been halved and halved again by greedy beancounters eager to please shareholders and purchase a third vacation home near the Cayman Islands, I still held out hope. Misgiven as it was. And, still received hundreds of job alerts for companies seeking freelance writers.

That, he said, was a mistake. 

True, because there's no way in the data driven world of dreck and more dreck, I'd be selected out of 897 eager applicants. Nor would I want to, considering many of these so-called jobs, now pay by the word. I believe 2 or 3 cents is the going rate for a writer with 35 years of experience, like myself.

Therefore, in the interest of avoiding nightmarish dreams and to make my exit from the "cult" permanent, I have actively stopped seeking employ. Indeed --in the vernacular of the day-- I have changed my job alert preferences. See picture below.

Should any potential employer now respond I know without a doubt I will be the perfect candidate. And willing to move the discussions to the next stage. 

As long as the desks are not made of hay.

"He's my lovaaaaah."

As many of you (OK, who am I kidding there are only 9 loyal readers) might have noticed, I'm fond of making admissions. 

Recently I admitted to seeing things (Visual Snow Syndrome). I've turned my weird dreams into blog material. And I have always engaged in self deprecation and copped to the fact that I'm not as smart as some would assume me to be. 

Or maybe they don't.

The point is, I'm fond of making admissions because it's the cardinal route to good writing. Or so I'm told by Ernest Hemingway who famously said, "You just open up a vein and write." Then he went on to launch a couple of ounces of lead through the back of his skull, so maybe I have this all wrong.

Well, as the photo of this post might indicate, I've begun to watch a new series on TV. 

I'm no stranger to Sex and the City. Like many other estrogen-fueled shows, it played nonstop in my living room for many, many years. Which is why I often retreated to the Man Cave, for football, BBQ competitions or The Nazi Channel. 

I was a happily married man with two teenage daughters, what did I need to know about four frolicking females cavorting in NYC in perpetual and often frustrating search of their carnal mojo?

Life has changed of course. 

When re-entering the shallow end of the dating pool, it's safe to say I had no idea what I was doing. There was trepidation, naturally, but it wasn't the same kind of nervousness that I battled in my youth. I simply had no idea what to expect. 

In fact, my first sojourn went exceedingly well. A 2 & 1/2 hour Sunday Brunch that included lots or laughs, a Bloody Mary (maybe two), bacon, and a casual verbal invitation to "come up to Northern California for a weekend visit."  

Damn, I thought, thank you Old Spice.

But as many a veteran of the dating game will tell you, it's a rollercoaster that can sometimes get stuck in the middle of the ride. Or careen off the tracks into crowd of Indiana Bible Thumpers waiting to ride the Dumbo planes.

Thankfully I had a chance encounter with Ms. Muse, who I hadn't seen or heard from in 33 years. Resulting in a magical connection. Recently, we started excerpting a bit of dialogue Carrie shared with her Russian paramour, which led to my first viewing of a SATC episode. And now, despite all odds, I find myself enjoying the show.

Not only is it entertaining, it's quite informative. 

Particularly in light of the horror stories I hear from Ms. Muse as well as her "dating" friends, who have the funniest stories of the men they have encountered on the "apps." Profiles that include bare-chested selfies. Photos of fishing conquests. Disguised Trumpsters. And my favorite, first date poetry readers.

I don't want to get too binary here, but's it's safe to say that when it comes to women, we men are clueless.

It's also safe to say, and this is something I'm still learning, that it's easier to get what we want from women when we have a better idea of what they want. 

Cue the peppy SATC Music. 

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

Update: Oh and there's this little tidbit that warms my hometown heart

Who wants to shop for car?

I want a new car. I don't need a new car. There's a big difference.

I still have my beloved Audi S5. And I still get goosebumps driving it. Especially in Sport Mode, where I can hear the 330 supercharged horsepower respond to the stomp of my right foot. If only everything else in life did the same?

"Girls, can you do your dishes?"

"Lawyers, can you just give me straightforward answer?"

"Representative...Representative...Representative..."

I have my eye on the new Mustang Crossover. Not only for its good looks and faux utilitarian purposes, but because it's all electric. Meaning on my now frequent visits to Palm Springs, I can fire up some jigawatts and slide into the far left lane with the other privileged traffic-avoiding drivers.

And so I sallied down to my local Ford dealership. I had been putting it off because frankly there's little I dread more than going toe-to-toe with a car salesman or saleswoman. 

Somehow Detroit, as well as the importers, have managed to suck dry what should be one of the most pleasant purchases and experiences and reduced it to a root canal without the benefit of any rich Corinthian novocaine.

Nevertheless, I've been seeing so many of these Mustangs on the road I needed to see if it fit my bill. Again, I don't need the car, I just want one. 

On the lot, I met a very pleasant Hispanic woman, let's call her Maria, because that's what her mother calls her. She showed me several trim levels. 

"Is this vinyl seating," I asked.

"Vegan leather," she responded.

OK, we're not off to a good start.

Then Maria took me on a very abbreviated test drive, where I was on the lookout for the regenerative braking phenomena my neighbor told me about. Minutes later, she offered to work up some numbers for me for my perusal.

While she was going to the printer, I thought this was unusually pleasant. She was very soft spoken. Didn't pressure me at all. In short she was what every car dealer should be. Perhaps that's why she was Airport Marina's Salesperson of the year, two years running. 

According to the cheap plastic plaques in her cubicle.

I submitted myself to a credit check (mistake) and reiterated to her that I was NOT making a deal today. I was simply looking. Putting my ass in the seat and seeing how it felt. When she returned with my credit rating (749) she also brought back a very tall, bald man who had spent considerable time in the gym. Or in Serbia. Both will toughen you up.

Maria stepped away and then this imposing 6' 4" bald man, Alexia or Vlad, started showing me what he could offer. I told him not to get too far out over his homemade skis and that I wasn't looking to sign a deal.

That was countered by a string of car dealer cliches that still has me laughing.

"What if I reduce the drive off fee to zero and bump the monthly payment up $60?"

In other words the drive off fee is just pure profit for you?

"Come on, you like the car, you like the way it drives. What's it gonna take to get you in this vehicle today?"

It's gonna take you getting some mouthwash and stop invading my personal space.

"I'm just trying to help you help me."

What makes you think I want to help you?

"This deal I'm offering may not be available to you tomorrow."

I'll take my chances.

With that, I got tired of his strong-arming and began walking out.

He made one last ploy.

"Ok, Zero down and less than $500 a month lease payment."

 I got in my car. Savored his desperation. And now know where to start negotiations with the next Ford dealer should the want for the Mustang becomes a need.

"take the cannoli"

I haven't touched on advertising in quite awhile. 

And for that I apologize. It's difficult for a MOSL (Man of Semi Leisure) to focus these days. What with so much going on: The Fall of American Democracy, my extended bout with Covid, my rigorous exercise routine, my monk-like diet of salmon, salmon and more salmon and my new perpetatic lifestyle that takes me to Sierra Madre (home of Ms. Muse), Palm Springs (site of the MDDCH) and to Culver City (where Lucy can sleep all day and not whine about "another car trip.")

But today we get back to advertising and a very simple and arresting campaign executed on outdoor boards. My favorite medium, where I've enjoyed a certain amount of success. Not enough to merit a panel seat on any award shows or a 7 night stay in Aruba for the laborious judging, schmoozing and swag bag grabbing, however.

This campaign comes from Disney+, the modern day cousin to ABC. And they have returned to a reductionist approach that tickles my vocational fancy -- words. 

Written in the screenwriter vernacular font of Courier.

Maybe you've seen them around town...

There are others but I'm currently sorting out a mess with my lawyers and CPA so I didn't take the trouble of finding them all. Nor is there a need to.

They're all iconic scripted lines from movies we all love. And continue to love. And therein lies the beauty. Aesthetically, they're all very simple and stand out like an unsore thumb among the cacaphony of outdoor boards that tend to shout and scream and beg for your attention. As I told my friend and still working Creative Director Jeff Gelberg, when everyone is being loud, it's best to whisper.

Message wise, the campaign is even better. It says that Disney+ plus has a library. A vast library. One that could challenge the warehouse scene at the end of the first (and best) Raiders of the Lost Ark. 

Granted I'm new to this streaming phenomena and still don't care for the interface and the once intuitive way of channel surfing, but if I were looking to get on another streaming service, I'd certainly be looking at the one with the first name in moviemaking. And the reels and reels of great movies available for only an additional $4.99.

Of course the marketing brainiacs at Disney+ couldn't leave well enough alone. 

On a recent drive down Venice Blvd. I saw another board that read, "I am your Father." We all know that's from Star Wars. But some schmuck, who'd probably been to a focus group or 293 focus groups, convinced his or her boss, who went higher up the chain to convince another boss, to desecrate the simplicity of the outdoor board and run a pink light saber through the I.

I'm not even going to show you. Because I'm that disgusted. 

Also, I didn't take a picture, because Lucy had to make a doody and I had to rush home.

Welcome to the MDDCH

It's official. I'm a "man of the landed gentry." 

A very Presbyterian way of saying, "I've been officially certified as an Airbnb Host."

This was my uncle's house in Palm Springs. I bought it from him years ago so he would have cash in his pocket. Much of which he doled out to a bunch of his sketchy, opioid abusing local friends, who are now benefitting from his stupidity. And enjoying an inheritance that should have gone to his 4 nieces.

My uncle has since passed. And my long term tenants, maybe the best tenants I've ever had in my up and down career as a landlord, moved to Italy. Leaving behind much of their furniture so it would be turnkey-ready as an airbnb property. But turnkey is a tricky word.

Especially, it seems, when it comes to my life. 

You can't just hand over the keys to strangers and collect checks from them. No, the city has to stick its beak all up in my business. Meaning there are countless regulations and requirements that must be met. And that process can be expensive and take a very long, long time.

For instance the pool needed to pass a safety inspection. And that meant the two night lights which illuminate the pool had to be replaced and repaired because water had been seeping passed the gasket. Apparently the city gets very persnickity about water mixing with electricity.

Damn LED bulbs and scuba diving electrician cost me close to a year of my daughter's college tuition. 

I also had to adorn the walls with artwork, because the previous tenants took their fancy schmancy stuff across the pond and I was told guests don't like staring at blank white walls. I'm still facing the scorn of my daughters for my "icky" pop art choices. 

"Daaaaaaadddddd, no."

This funny video which came to me via Ms. Muse, says it all: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H5E5DkBXyfw

Tomorrow, my first official Airbnb guests will be checking out. They've been there for a week but claimed upon entering the place, "This place is amazing, wish we could stay longer."

Hopefully they won't choose to be squatters!

Should you or your friends require some of that desert magic please let me know. There might even be a "Rich Siegel is a Very Funny Writer" Discount if you play your cards right. You can see the MDDCH here:

 https://airbnb.com/h/mddch

Oh, the city makes me put this code (City ID #5634) up every time I mention the house. I don't want to get in any trouble with PS. That can get very expensive, quickly.

 

Doody Free

Two days ago, I admitted to seeings things that aren't there. 

Today I come clean again and admit I don't understand things that are there. 

Even more embarrassing, because I come from a long line of unstoried accountants, I have a tenuous grasp on taxes and how to avoid them.

I recently discovered I made a huge mistake when rolling over my late wife's IRA account. Unless my team of whip smart (expensive) lawyers and equally sharp (expensive) accountants can convince the IRS to forgive me for my idiocy, I'll be paying up the nose. Up the wazoo. Or up the ying yang. 

Either way, I'm a schmuck, which I believe translates into English as well as 43 other international languages.

Speaking of international languages and taxes, what's the deal with Duty Free shops?

I know they must serve some purpose because every time (granted it's not that often) I'm at an airport, I see people mulling about these stores. From what I can tell, they only sell perfume, alcohol and cigarettes.

Having established my ignorance of taxation perhaps I also need to include a sense of limited worldliness? Unless you're visiting the deepest, wettest remote village of the Congo (a new xenophobic Trump campaign phrase) is it not possible to purchase perfume, alcohol or cigarettes on all 7 continents of Planet Earth? 

And how much in taxes are you saving that makes it worthwhile to lug a jug of Maker's Mark or 10 cartons of Marlboro Reds through customs in Lichtenstein or the mile and a half long terminals at Denver International Airport?

Maybe I'm at an age where convenience supersedes the thriftiness that has been woven into my Scottish/Jewish heritage. 

If, and I'm just using this as an example, I were to run out of my favorite whiskey, smooth drinking mid-priced Bulleit Rye, and I get a hankering for a couple of fingers worth, I will NOT get in my car and drive the 1.3 miles to nearest BevMo where I can purchase a bottle for $23.99.

I will willingly walk to my nearby local liquor store. It's owned and operated by two nice Indian fellows --who I once mistakenly and politically incorrectly -- asked if they were from Pakistan. They unabashedly markup every bottle, all 4,781 bottles in their tiny little store. You have to see the jelly-tight shelves to believe it. 

And though they charge $27.99 for the same exact bottle of Bulleit, I have no issue covering the spread. Because retail is difficult. In fact between covering costs of inventory, labor, utilities, and the often exorbitant lease, I'll never understand how anyone in retail can turn a dime into a dollar.

Also, my liquor store, the one that is .3 of a mile from my refrigerator is somewhat of a shrine to carnal cinematic adolescence.

If they don't deserve my hard earned money, who does?

WTF, America?

 What do you call a guy who:

* Makes fun of people who stutter

* Mocks handicapped reporters

* Cheats on all three of his wives

* Scams would be real estate professionals and then gets fined $25 million

* Pilfers another $2 million raised for charities (veterans and children's cancer)

* Calls our soldiers "Suckers" and "Losers"

* Bangs a pornstar and then calls her "Horseface"

* Insists Hitler did "good things"

* Bankrupts 6 companies and stiffs creditors

* Cozies up to a murderous dictator who seeks to destroy America

I call that man the....

Yet, 75 million deluded Republicans want to call him the next President of the United States of America.

My blood is boiling. 

If I were to pinprick my pinky finger and let out a drop it would burn its way through my distressed pine desktop, through my aging oak floors, make wood pulp of the subfloor and any adjacent rafters and then bore its way through all 73 layers of the earth only to emerge from a remote corner of Tianamen Square before hurling its magma hot membrane into the stratosphere.

Said it before and I'll say it again, "I have never hated anyone as much as I hate this thing." 

That includes a former landlord who spied on the residents of his crappy boarding house. A former boss who used to go over my recruitment advertising copy while chainsmoking in his small office and lecturing me about the nuance of writing Help Wanted ads. And even the angry Meth-Head who lives in a nearby house, is fond of running power equipment at 3 in the morning and letting his dog bark for continuous 4-5 hour stretches at a time. 

And every day that passes, I impossibly hate him even more.

I'm still not over the fact that last weekend while conducting one of his Bund rallies, he literally made fun of President Biden's SOTU speech. Not the rock hard facts and undeniable economic records presented by Biden. But the manner with which they were presented.

See for yourself: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hncASorxwP0

Put that on a loop and watch it over and over again. That is a former President acting more deplorable than any 7 year old schoolyard bully. My brain is still having a difficult time processing the signals being sent by my ears and eyes. 

You evangelicals must be very proud. I'm 100% positive that of the billions and billions of people that have ever lived, Jesus decided to ordain this one our next savior. 

I wouldn't want to be within a yards of this creature. And certainly wouldn't want this creature within a 100 miles of the White House.

I know my friends on the right, the ones who fetishize the flag and like to think, and boast, that we're the greatest country on Earth, but here's a newsflash. Come November, if the electorate of this nation puts Trump back in office, we have not only forfeited any of the aforementioned claims, we have mocked them. 

Mercilessly.

MAHA -- Make America Human Again!

E P B M O L

I'm seeing things. No, that's literally what I was told at the doctor's office last Friday. 

This doesn't come as a surprise at all, as my mental faculties have been in decline as of late. Not in a major way that would be cause for concern, just the normal walking into a room and forgetting why. Not being able to retrieve a particular word, for instance, shelf. That happened last week. Or waking up on a Saturday, turning all my clocks forward and then turning then back again because I never know what day it is.

These are the typical de-occupational hazards of being retired. 

Someone told me that, but I forget who.

Back to my hallucinations, which produced great consternation for Ms. Muse who said, "When was the last time you had an eye exam?" 

Turns out it was during the Obama administration.

So I arranged for an eye exam at my ophthalmologist in tony Beverly Hills. There, I saw, or thought I saw, Gus from Breaking Bad, purchasing some very expensive frames. Are frame sales to Ophthalmology Offices what Gift Shops are to Museums?

I also saw this on my way to the bathroom...

No wonder the rest of the country thinks we're flakes.

When I finally did see the doctor, through blurry stinging eyes thanks to the dilation, I explained the cause for my visit which was apparently 7 years too late.

"When I look at a blank white wall or stare up at the ceiling upon waking in the morning, I'm seeing patterns."

"What kind of patterns?" replied the young doctor who was young enough to be my granddaughter.

"Yellow honeycomb patterns. I had a consult with Dr. Internet and got worried."

"Oh, Dr. Internet, I wish he would retire," she said.

She then explained in very reassuring terms that I had a mild case of VSS -- Visual Snow Syndrome. It's a thing. Really. You can Google it.

"Your eyes are in near perfect shape. With your glasses on you have 20/25 vision, which is pretty good. What you're seeing is an illusion. Your brain is fighting the blankness of a white wall. In other words, it's looking for patterns and when it can't find one it creates it. Oddly enough, this often happens to creative or artistic people. Does that describe you?"

Finally, I thought, some concrete validation that would relieve me of my Writer's Imposter Syndrome.

"Well, I'm a copywriter in advertising," I replied.

"Mmmm, maybe we should do some more testing."

Stifled but not silenced

It's been a long time since I've been booted off any social media platforms. I could tell you how long if father Time hadn't rewired my memory thigamajig.

Time really is a construct. And for me, and I suspect for my contemporaries, 3 months could be three years. Hell, 5 days ago could be 5 years ago. It's all a blur. 

Oddly enough I can tell you what I had for dinner on November 19, 2023 -- salmon. And on July 7, 2023 -- salmon. And August 3, 2022 -- salmon. I eat a lot of salmon.

Point is I've been a good boy when it comes to social media. I've consciously placed governors on the pistons of rage that churn night and day inside my skull. Which is not easy considering I've been having more and more nightmares about the Shitgibbon who has overstayed his welcome in our collective zeitgeist. And threatens to do so for another 4 years. Or more.

Last night I dreamt I was working at the Trump Organization. I was in an office high atop his dumpy 5th avenue tower. He and Eric were supervising a photo shoot of new employees and I errantly showed up without wearing a belt. Doofus (Eric) reached for his waist and slipped his thick faux-leather black belt off and handed it to me. 

I have a really bad case of TDS. Really bad. 

Though not unwarranted.

Making things even more hazardous is the situation in the Middle East. Notice how I didn't confine myself to Gaza? Because the sad truth here is that the current conflagration is but a subset of the conflict that has raged here for 76 years. 

And now it is raging on the streets of America. 

Where were all these concerned geopolitical experts when Assad and his thugs murdered 1/2 million Syrian citizens and exiled millions more. I don't remember anyone, more specifically uninformed college students, chanting "From the Bishri Mountains to the Sea, Syria shall be free."   

Nor do any of these Know Nothings who call for a Two State solution seem to recall that the Palestinians were offered a state of their own in 1948. By the UN. And the world community, who established many sovereign nations in Post World War II and the end of British Colonialism. 

And don't even get me started on the silliest of claims that the Israelis (Jews) are land grabbers. Name me one other country on Planet Earth that returned 23, 162 square miles of land, roughly twice the size of Albania, to a country that repeatedly waged war on it? 

I feel my blood pressure rising and suspect the LinkedIn police might be looking over my shoulder, so I'll call it quits here before I'm no longer a Good Boy anymore.

Have a nice weekend.

The downhill trajectory of skiing in America

I love skiing. I don't love paying for skiing.

I haven't been up to the slopes in a long time. Nor have I taken my newer svelter, leaner, meaner body out to the slopes. It might surprise you, but even in my stockier, girthier days I knew my way around the Black Diamonds and the occasional Double Black Diamond. 

Though not without, "What the fuck was I thinking?"

Could be a bad case of AIS, Athlete Imposter Syndrome, but being funny (?) and being athletic always seemed to be mutually exclusive. Which explains my total admiration for Peyton Manning, whose initial appearance on Saturday Night Live still lingers in my head as simply jawdropping -- timing, balance, subtlety. I guess those are qualities that work in both arenas.

I seem to have drifted off course into the tree section. 

There was a time when we'd regularly head up to Mammoth Mountain while all the non-Jewish people were adorning pine trees in their living room with trinkets and ornaments, wearing goofy sweaters and celebrating Jesus' birthday. 

Did you know Jesus was a Capricorn?

Which infidel among us wouldn't want to go to a movie depicting Jesus slamming tequila, dancing on the table and staying out til the crack of dawn (which you know he could push back for a couple more hours of depravity with the breath of his nostril)? 

Possible Title: The Last Depravity of Christ.

I've drifted again.

We basically had the slopes to ourselves and other aficianados with Hebraic Seasonings. Then the crowds, perhaps fatigued from the October-January Christmas festivities, started coming up Route 395 -- only the most beautiful highway in America.

And with increased demand came increased prices.

Today if you wanted to do a little schussing you'd first have to do a little (a lot) of shelling out:

Adult Lift Ticket Day Pass at Mammoth -- $209.00

Equipment Rental -- $120.00

Lunch (soggy cheeseburger, soggier fries, bowl of fruit, Corona Light) -- $43.00

Apres Ski cocktail -- $17.00

Lodging -- Can't afford lodging, get in car and go home.

Total cost for one day of battling crowds thicker than New Year's Eve in Time Square, getting in 7-8 runs (combined ski time 26 minutes and 41 seconds), 11 hours of back and forth driving, plus miscellaneous extras = No Fucking Way.

BTW, the same classist genii who are pricing skiers off the slopes seem to be in charge at Dodger Stadium where you'd have to gotten in on the ground floor at NVIDIA to afford a seat in nosebleed section in the Upper Deck.

I have a dirty nursing home to stay out of, no thank you.

Justice Denied

Got an alert from my iWatch the other day. My resting heart rate had notched up from 51 to 53. It doesn't take a pulmonologist to know why. I've been stewing, as is my wont. 

It's been said the wheels of justice grind slow in America. It doesn't help when some faux billionaire is cacking up the machinery with 7 year old molasses. And then, because he has the monetary wherewithal, and willing legal accomplices, slathering on a thick coat of quick dry cement.

This judicial morass had me so upset the other day, I penned an open letter to Chief Justice John Roberts...

Dear Justice Roberts,

 

You pig.

 

You lackluster lackey of the GOP.

 

You useless standard bearer of banality.

 

I say that with the greatest respect. Because if I were to put my true feelings into words, this missive might merit a call from the Secret Service. Or, at the very least, a ban on many of the social media platforms where I share my foulmouthed opinion. And dare I say, the shared opinion of many more.

 

It has now been more than a month since the lower courts kicked up the case regarding our ex president’s claim to “Total Immunity.” A phrase that, as you well know, appears nowhere in the law books at Yale, Harvard or even the DeVry Institute. A cockamamie term that was cooked up on ketchup-stained wholecloth. A legal fabrication sewn together by failed ambulance chasers at the behest of a clown who, even with a Colt 45 to his temple, could not name one seminal case to ever come across the docket of the Supreme Court.

 

“Marbury v. Madison? Brown v. Board of Education? Plessy v. Ferguson?”

 

“COVFEFE”

 

And yet the equally uninformed voters of this country vaulted this Bozo to a position where he could name three of your not-so-esteemed colleagues. 

 

The future of our 248-year old Republic hinges on the no-brainer ruling of this case. But to this date, you have done nothing.

 

Nothing!

 

Maybe you’ve been busy eluding reporters and dodging bullets about Justice Clarence “Tom” Thomas and his financial indiscretions. Maybe you’ve been busy measuring the curtains for the next 25 years of your ridiculously eternal office. Maybe you’ve been busy getting your robes starched. What you have NOT been doing is clearing the decks and moving this case front and center.

 

Now.

 

I’m no lawyer, thankfully. Though, as I often tell people – not without some measure of pride – I took a late post-collegial interest in becoming a fully-fledged attorney. So, while I did not have the grades for one of your fancy law schools I did quite respectful on the LSATs. I even have one of those beat up, but hipster cool looking, leather briefcases left to me from late father who was a CPA.

 

Though a simple layman with an advanced degree in Snark, even I know this “Total Immunity” claim, which would rocket one miserable Un-American Russian Stooge facing 91 criminal charges miles above the law, is nothing 100 pounds of horseshit stuffed into a 27 page brief.

 

Do. Your. Job.

 

Yours not-warmly but heatedly,

 

Rich

The story doesn't end there. Hours after I posted this letter on various social media platforms -- I'd like to think he heeded my wise advice -- Justice Roberts and his klan of neofascists did their job. 

They agreed, despite all the political and legal pundit's advice, to take up the case and consider whether one man, one walking talking fleshbag of cholesterol, hatred and unimaginable ignorance, is actually above the law.

Not now, mind you. Not in December when Jack Smith petitioned to court to settle this crock of bullshittery. But in April. The end of April. 

There is a very distinct possibility that despite 91 criminal charges against him -- charges which for all intents and purposes would have any of 330 million Americans sitting in a jail cell with no possibility of bond --he could be elected President of the United States of America.

If I drank Chamomile Tea I'd be guzzling it by the gallon. 

I can literally feel my heart racing.

Show Me My Money

I am of a certain age. 

I fall asleep before 11 PM. I make three nocturnal trips to the bathroom. And conversations with similar friends of a certain age, inevitably revolve around aches, pains and a whole assortment of medical maladies. Often delving into uncomfortably graphic TMI.

The other discussion that takes up much of our precious little time left, is the topic of Social Security and the optimum time to let the government know we'd like our money back.

My friend, let's call him Arnie Rolaids, is planning on waiting until he is 70 to max out his numbers. He's working now, though on certain days when it's raining, snowing, or the subways in NYC are running impossibly slower than our judicial system, he wishes he weren't.

I also wish he weren't working so we could see each more often.

My work, like my cash flow, is almost non-existent. Like critical thinking in the GOP. I'm eating ramen noodles and ketchup packet sandwiches until September when I can open up the SS floodgates and make it rain. Figuratively speaking, of course. 

Mmmmmm, ramen.

As someone descended from accountants and because I have now covered all 97 trillion square miles of the internet, I decided it was time to math this out. Mind you, I have no background in taxes nor am I aware of any and all legal implications. I present this in the same manner our former president presented all his financial disclosures...  

The following calculations are estimates and should not be expected to be entirely accurate, truthful or in any way subject to further examination. You are on your own for this. Should you have any questions, please direct them to my fine attorneys at Powell, Wood and Giuliani, LLC.

With that out of the way, alas.

Option A. Let's say I retire at 67 years old and become eligible for my benefits at $3000/month. 

Option B. Let's also say I decide to wait until I'm 70 years old and claim benefits at $4000/month.

That's $1000 difference per month. 

With Option A, I would collect 3 years (36 months) of my benefits. That's 36 months X $3000. For $108,000.

With Option B, I would collect $0 in those 36 months of waiting, but would start collecting $1000 more a month every month thereafter.

In order to make up the difference with Option B, I would have to live 108 more months past the age of 70 to start realizing any net difference. 108 months is 11 years. That's 81 years old.

And that's assuming I did nothing with the $108,000. Or stupidly sunk the money into crypto. Or purchased some fantasy politically themed NFT trading cards or gold plated sneakers.

Seems like a no brainer to me. 

Also, what am I going to do with an extra $1000? By the time I reach 81 years of age my brain will be mush -- like my food. I will have stopped getting the answers right on Jeopardy and asking the sticky fingered orderly to put on Wheel of Fortune.

"Big Money, Big Money!!!"