Dad 101

Let's get Meta. 

Yesterday morning's post was about catching more flies/bees with honey than vinegar. I wrote that piece last Saturday morning. Then rewrote it Sunday night. Then checked for typos on Monday. More typos on Tuesday. And then corrected the typos I made on Tuesday -- correcting typos -- on Wednesday morning.

I make a lot of typos. I attribute it to age. Or when I was working for PayPal, just not giving a shit. 

Last night, long after the post had lived its useful life, I got into a small argument with my daughter. It concerned money, naturally. And how she was not making the most of the money she earned by investing it wisely in her 401K plan.

It was infuriating. I have tried to impress upon my children the importance of saving. And more importantly, putting those savings to work in a wisely-chosen 401K equity plan. 

My portfolio, my investment portfolio not the one with all the dated, crappy laminated ads in it, has performed exceedingly well. Indeed it has allowed me to cease connecting synapses for the purposes of crafting ads for lime-flavored tortilla chips or brown, sugary carbonated water.

Thank god. And thank Charles Schwab.

When I discovered my daughter's haphazard, nonchalant approach to minding her money, I was upset. Not you-left-dirty-dishes-in-the-sink upset. But I'm gonna-redouble-my-efforts-spend-all-my-money-and leave-you-nothing upset. 

In other words SKI, Spend Kid's Inheritance.

Maybe some of you other parents out there have experienced the same phenomena. We can blame ourselves, for not teaching children about money/finances. But we can also blame our schools for eschewing these essentials and spending inordinate amounts of time on solving quadratic equations. Or revisiting the British partitioning of land between India and Pakistan and then leaving Kashmir up for grabs.

My anger was palpable. And still is.

But having taken a few breaths. Consulting with Ms. Muse. And a a generous pour of Bulleit Rye whiskey, I put my displeasure on the shelf.

And, in a proud moment of listening to myself, decided to go to my literary pantry and take out the honey and put away the vinegar.

I slept on the frustration and vexation and decided to write a memo to my girls. A two page primer on 401K's/IRAs/ Asset Diversification etc. 

In short, I listened to myself.

And the results couldn't be better...

On taking the high road

Heard an expression the other day, "You get more bees (or flies,) with honey than you will vinegar." OK, I didn't just hear that the other day. I heard it a very long time ago. But I just started paying attention to it recently.

And living it. 

The rewards are already starting to reveal themselves.

As some of you know, months ago I semi-retired from the ad biz. It wasn't an active decision. It's just that there's so little demand for freelance copywriters. And even less demand for cranky, curmudgeonly 66 year old freelance copywriters. So the business retired me. 

Which is fine because I don't want to spend my last remaining years on terra firma writing crappy emails, 35 character banner ads and even shorter 12 character Calls to Action. I've got better things to do with my time. Well...maybe I don't, but I'm done dealing with middle management twatwaffles.

"Be nice Rich. Remember honey, not vinegar."

To occupy my time, I took to becoming a Senior Influencer/Amazon Affiliate Marketer. That effort has not skyrocketed like I once imagined it would. Mostly because I haven't put much effort into it. Semi-retired life keeps me extraordinarily busy. 

But what little effort I did exert is now paying dividends. For example, months ago I wrote a glowing review of the Quad Lock Bike Mount/Battery Pack. You can find it here.  

It is by far the most efficient, stable and bike-mountiest of all the bike mounts I have sampled. And I said as much in my glowing review. Three weeks ago, the battery pack, which adds a good 1/2 day's juice to my iPhone's planned obsolescence battery, stopped batterying. 

Meaning I found myself tethered to some electrical outlet most the day.

I wrote to the good folks at Quad Lock and told them of my issue. I also told them that I had gone out of my way to pimp (and sell) their gear through this very blog. I asked them where I could purchase a new battery pack to replace the one that had become a paper weight. And within nano-seconds the friendly Quad Lock customer Service Representative said a new one was on its way to Culver City.

Gratis.

The old Rich Siegel, the vinegary one, would have sent a salty missive possibly threatening the Quad Lock company with smalls claims litigation. Not to mention and even more colorful R17 blog piece ripping them limb from limb. (Maybe I've been watching too much REACHER on Prime Video)

But the new Rich Siegel, learning newer, softer, sweeter ways, now has an extra battery pack at his disposal that somehow feels even more satisfying than the original. 

Bzzzzzzz.

Apple crushed it

There's been a lot of talk about Apple's new Crush spot lately. In fact, so many have weighed in on it the last thing we need is one more bloviation. Particularly from an old geezer who worked on the Apple account (for BBDO) and actually freelanced at the Cupertino office (albeit for 3 not so productive days.)

But that's not going to stop me from throwing some digital ink on the page. 

However I will have to tread lightly as I have two daughters in the business. And each of them has a connection to the "offending" spot that's on the tip of so many overwrought tongues.

My oldest daughter works in Production at Media Arts Lab, a division/subsidiary/arm/ stepchild of TBWA Chiat/Day, my alumni. They are dedicated to Apple and often work hand in hand with Marcom folks up north.  

My youngest daughter just started as a full time Producer at Cartel Editing in New York City, where you guessed it, the spot was cut together. 

Brilliantly, I might ad.

From a technical standpoint, the ad is every bit as good as some of the classic Apple work that has preceeded it. It's shot beautifully. It's dramatic in clever and eye popping ways. The music is vintage and right on the nose. And it holds your attention all the way through.

Strategically, it's also incredibly simple. There's not a lot of math going on. That perhaps is my biggest beef with commercials these days -- the lack of clarity. 

I'm not an iPad person, never have been, but if I was there'd be no mistaking the message here, you can get all this (music, photography, gaming, etc) all in one handy, super thin (and I imagine, super lightweight) device. 

So what's all the hoo-haa about it? Why are so many upset about this one commercial while completely ignoring the nonstop spigot of brain spooge that pounds us into submission like a demented ex-President, every minute of everyday. 

I'm looking at you Liberty Mutual. You too, Jardiance. And Jan from Toyota, we get it, Toyotathon is on. When is it not on? And who dresses you, your mother? Why don't you mothball that old lady red sweater and call it a day? 

My girls feel hurt by all this. Which I suppose is good because it means they've invested themselves in their jobs. And by hurt, I don't mean broken arm or broken heart hurt. I mean, something fleeting. Like stepping on a Lego hurt. 

The pain will pass quickly. In a week no one will be talking about the Crush spot. Particularly when there will be even more lurid details about Captain Ouchie Foot and his escapades with the actress who headlined Porking With Pride 2.

Besides, I told them, you're gonna need a thick skin to be in this business. And, I added hopefully, it's never too late to get out and pursue a different, perhaps more lucrative, career in pharmaceutical sales or private equity. Yeah, private equity, where leftover scraps of money (thousands of dollars worth) just fall off the table.

Just a thought.

 

Dan The Man

I'm not good with Death. Who is? But the Grim Reaper seems to be following behind in my fat footprints (Triple EEE) for as long as I can remember. 

For brevity sakes I won't list them here, suffice to say, I first experienced death at when I was 5 years old. On the way for a joyful summer at our Catskills bungalow colony, we were flagged down by a frantic young woman. I watched as my father and my uncle tried to help an old man who was having a heart attack on Route 17, right near the Ellenville exit. 

He didn't make it. The pain of that young woman losing her father on the side of the road was unbearable. For her. And for me.

Last Thursday Le Muerte paid another visit. A shocking one. My friend and former colleague Dan Duffy passed. At the age of 57. 

I still have to swallow twice to comprehend this. 

In addition to being exceedingly young, Dan was exceedingly nice.  Like Midwest/Pacific Northwest nice. Given all the people in this business that are not so nice, it made him quite special. In fact he was always asking how my daughters were doing and offered to help any way he could. 

In addition to being generous with his time, Dan also had a razor sharp wit. And a finely honed sense of sarcasm. Here's a demonstrative snippet of an exchange we had via LinkedIn Messenger, just 6 weeks ago, after my daughter landed a job at Cartel Editing...

Back in 2001, my partner John Shirley and I, did a job with Dan and the Hungryman team. We did a one day shoot in NYC with Director Bryan Buckley. The 12 hour day was wrapped in 8 hours. With barely three takes for each scene. That never happens. It was the fastest, smoothest, most efficient shoot I've ever been on. 

What I remember most about Dan was his beginnings, which not surprisingly coincided with mine. In the early 90's at Chiat. He was one of a handful of AV guys along with, Jon W. and Sean B. These guys  actually shot video (on 3/4" tape) at my wedding, which my late wife and I sadly never watched. 

They were all in their early 20's. All had a slightish build. And none of them were ever gonna play in the NBA. I'll leave it at that.

But they were all possessed by an energy, and perhaps ambition, that knew no bounds. Literally. If a production or a pitch required a left-handed, bright pink pogo stick with an oversized clown horn on the stem, these guys would come back with 3 viable options. 

And two others, as back up.

I'm not sure you'd see that today at an ad agency getting ready for a TV shoot (if agencies still did that kind of thing). Maybe it was the Lee Clow factor. Or maybe because what was to become VBE (Venice Beach Editorial) was the best damn agency production department on the planet. 

Dan was emblematic of a quiet "can-do" attitude that defined the agency in those days. Also not surprisingly, Dan (as well as Jon and Sean) went on to become hugely successful. What fool said nice guys finish last?

Knowing how Dan poured himself into his work, I can easily surmise that he brought that same zeal, determination, wit and warmth to his friends and family. I hope they can in some way be comforted by the outpouring of love for Dan, who touched so many people. The loss is real.

I've been uttering this mournful phrase with too much frequency lately, but I'll say it again, may Dan's memory be a blessing.

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

Addendum: I was able to hunt down an early ESPN SportsCenter spot featuring a young Dan Duffy. The good folks at Hungryman Productions (Thanks Caleb) found this needle in the haystack of more than 1000 SportsCenter spots. Look for Dan as the young Production Assistant schlepping a stack of 3/4 inch videotapes at about the 12 second mark.

https://www.espn.com/video/clip/_/id/17389520

On Suckage (H/T GT)

Found myself at a logjam yesterday. Trying to make this week's quota of blog posts. 

Was thinking about penning a long diatribe about our confounding (that's kind) justice system which moves with all the efficiency of 1960's-style Soviet Politburo. But that's not really an appropriate comparison, because when the commissars wanted to exact justice (mostly on folks who disagreed with the state, many times people with Hebraic Seasonings) they just rounded them up and shipped them off to the shores of Lake Baikal.

They still do. 

Or simply find an apartment building with large windows.

I have often wondered how my journey with RoundSeventeen will end and decided it should be the same as how my journey on terra firma ends. Seated in my Herman Miller chair, spitting lava about the societal machinations that do nothing well, but suck.

And at this point I need to thank my friend George Tannenbaum who inspired today's topic when he eloquently cobbled together a thought piece about, and I'm paraphrasing here, "finding the things you suck and not doing them."

Perhaps it's a writer thing, more specifically a copywriter thing, but it turns out the thing that George sucked at was exactly the thing I sucked at: production. Not of ideas or even clauses, sentences or paragraphs, but of TV commercials.

It took me years to get semi-adequate at writing ads. But when I was thrown into a TV production in my early days at Chiat/Day, I found myself in the shoes of Sgt. Schultz (Hogan's Heroes for you readers under 60)...

I distinctly remember sitting in the old AV building at 340 Main Street in Venice, with the editor Brendan and my art director partner Mary Ann C., looking at the first cut of my very first spot for Nissan. As they chit chatted back and forth about exposure, color saturation, heads and tails, I remember thinking to myself, "Holy shit I'm in over my head."

And of course I was. I wish to god that I kept my mouth shut and let the people who knew what they were doing, do it without my ignorant input. But I probably didn't.

It took me YEARS, to finally acquaint myself with this new universe of TV production. And, like George, I still had an incurable impatience for long discussions about who should wear the blue sweater. Or whether the car should be angled at 3/4. Or 7/8th. And why the actor without the mustache was better than the one with. 

What's wrong with mustaches?

I was more interested in what was available at the craft service table. Mmmmm, cheetohs.

It wasn't until years later that I understood all these little details matter. And add up. And can often make the difference between good and great. OK, it's advertising, let's say the difference between good and gooder.

It's also when I learned that my lane was Outdoor Boards. Give me a template, a color background and a decent product shot, and I'll knock out a hundred funny headlines. As Cliff Einstein used to say, "I know funny, I come from funny."

Though today's post may not be the best evidence.

 

Hospitality 101

I was going to lead today's post with a photo of Conrad Hilton, the world's first international hotelier who amassed over $3.1 billion over his welcoming lifetime. But as you can see I didn't. I went with a picture of his great granddaughter, one time model. And one time, perhaps all-time, icon of blonde vapidity, Paris Hilton.

Why? Because attracting readers to blog posts is not dissimilar to attracting visitors to hotel properties, it's about curb appeal. Paris has some, Conrad an old white man -- now a dead old white man -- has none. 

After 15 years as a regular blogger, I believe I've surpassed Malcom Gladwell's litmus test for proficiency and have logged 10,000 hours ranting, raving, glibbing, venting, scambaiting, and generally mastering the art of advanced adolescent bloviating.

Whereas I'm generally new to the world of hoteliering. But I'm learning fast.

It's only been two months since the Mojo Dojo Desert Casa House has put out the welcome mat and I've already acquired two 5 Star reviews. Behold...

There would have been third, but the last guests damaged some furniture and refused to pay for the repairs when I requested it. 

Note to self: don't do that again.

I'm sure Conrad and his 11,781 properties on all seven continents experienced similar situations and had a guest break a lamp in Reykjavik or bust up a nightstand in Dagestan. I should just take the tax write off and move on with it. 

COB, I believe it's called by accountants and 99% of my family.

One thing I do know, from my other occupation as a copywriter, old Conrad and his Hilton gang, believed in advertising. So much so that they moved their crown jewel account around countless times, like an old Jewish woman demanding the right seat in a restaurant. I believe I crossed paths with the Hilton Brand at least three times in my unstoried ad career.

If he he had a blog, I have to believe old Connie would have also used that platform to drum up new business. Or as I say, "Changing the sheets means staying in the black." 

Maybe I need to re-think that one.

Let me know if you're interested in staying at the MDDCH (City ID# 5634). And let me leave you with the the thoughts of one more satisfied guest...

Editor's note: the astute among you will notice this note was written Media Arts Lab stationery. My daughter works there. And has been known to come home with the odd pen, pad or coffee mug. Sorry Omnicom, also, COB. 

STF?

If you've never seen one before , and I was a member of that group for a long time, this is a Potty Squatty. Or, it may be called a Squatty Potty. I don't know. 

Without going into too much detail, they're intended to make the "Exit Interview with Mr. Brown" go smoother and faster. My daughters convinced me to buy a couple of these a few years ago. But since my daughters no longer live here at Chez Culver City, I can relegate these to the ever increasing storage bin(s) in my garage.

As I was consigning the Squatty Potty to Purgatory before its eventual destination in the Palmdale Eternal Landfill, I remembered a story my friend Paul had told me. He dropped by for a "wee dram of whiskey" the other night for some old man conviviality. OK, maybe it was more than one dram. And maybe there was some old man kvetching going on about kids, marriage, taxes, ex President Vonshitzenpants, etc.

As we drained the remainder of the Bulleit Rye (the green label) and opened up a bottle of some unknown bourbon given to me on my birthday, Paul started recounting the story of a recently vacated house in his tony Westside neighborhood. 

I don't remember all the details (I never do), but apparently the house has been hijacked by Squatters. Hence the long-winded introduction vie the Squatty Potty. And/or Potty Squatty.

"What do you mean, Squatters?", I asked naively.

Paul, being the diligent school teacher, explained, "A bunch of Meth-Heads moved in when they saw the house was unoccupied and now they won't leave." 

"What do you mean?", I posited again.

To ease up on the italics, Paul gave me a primer on archaic, misguided, leftist California Real Estate Law that favors people with sleeping bags, drug issues and an appetite for instant Ramen noodles over the rights of hardworking, tax paying individuals (you and me) who made the right life choices, labored laboriously and made the sacrifices ( "No Meth for me, thank you") to own a home in California.

At this point in my early morning rant, I'm going to switch from high octane coffee to some lightly roasted decaf, lest one of my arteries burst and leave indelible blood stains on my hardwood floors which have been sanded so many times in the past 50 years they need to be replaced. But fuck if I'm moving out of my house for that week long process.

I'm still scratching my very bald head about all this.

"Why can't the owners kick them out?"

"It's illegal."

"Why don't they just change the locks?"

"It's illegal."

"Why don't they move their stuff in and the squatters stuff out?"

"It's illegal."

I can think of no rational explanation for all this. None. And would have to file this, like my story last week about the pitiful state of our billion dollar Metros trains, in the "Why We Can't Have Nice Things" File.

Sadly, I can't also help to think of the vacant house behind me, the one that used to belong to late character actor M. Emmett Walsh. If that were to happen, the legal owners might be handcuffed in their pursuant actions, but I, as a quiet-seeking, short-tempered neighbor, would not!

Let's hope it doesn't come to that.

A way over Yondr

 

Almost had another senior moment get the best of me last Friday. Ms. Muse and I had tickets to go see Jon Stewart (& friends) at the Greek Theater. I was told afterwards that the tickets were actually a late Valentine's Day gift. 

Doh.

Prior to going, Ms. Muse noted that the event was to be phone-free, meaning no electronics or smart (not-so-smart) devices in the theater, at the request of the artists. OK, I thought, I'm tired of watching people watching their iPhones during a live performance. It's kind of pathetic and insulting to the rest of us who want to be "in the moment." 

Fine, I continued thinking, I was on a hot streak, we'll leave the phones at home and almost began the tortuous 45 minute drive to hilly, windy Silverlake, sans electronic devices. Only at the last minute did I realize -- thank you technology -- that the tickets for the show were actually ON the iPhone. 

Had we returned home to get the tickets we would have missed the first two "comedians", which actually might have been a blessing.

The resolve? 

Say hello to the Yondr bag, a kevlar-knitted bag with a specially designed magnetic locking device. I was skeptical at first, picturing lines longer than those at Mammoth Mountain after a 12 inch dump of fresh powder.

But what do I know? Very little apparently. 

We arrived. Waited two minutes to reach the entry, placed our electronica in the small pouch and were directed to our nosebleed seats, just a few rows in front of the hoot owls who perch themselves in the canyons above the venue.

After the show (a mini-review is coming) we waded through the lily-white crowd to relieve ourselves of the outrageously expensive watery drinks and headed for the egress. 

Again, I thought, before dealing with the 10 mile long snake of Teslas and beamers squeezing through one Exit Gate (If you've been to the Greek or the Bowl or Dodger Stadium or any other venue in Los Angeles that is unexplainably not serviced by any Metro trains, you know) I had calculated another exhausting long wait to get the Yondr bag opened so we could be reunited with our digital friend who we hadn't seen or heard from in THREE HOURS! 

But that was not the case. The Yondr folk, about 100 of them were situated all around the theater and opened the bags in a snap. Literally.

The mishegas I anticipated was no mishegas at all. In fact, dealing with Yondr process was a lot more informative and entertaining than many of the comics on stage. Sadly that included Sarah Silverman who sleepwalked through her set. Or had underestimated the strength of the gummy she had eaten just an hour before the show. 

Thankfully, Jon Stewart saved the night. And brilliantly riffed on getting old (Hello), our upcoming election - though I wish he spent a little more time picking apart the ex Precedent Shitgibbon, whose improved treatise on Gettysburg still has me awestruck - and finishing up with a brilliant apples and oranges comparison of Hebraic holidays and Non-Hebraic holidays. Who wants some charosses?

Articulately demonstrating that no one makes fun of Jews better than Jews making fun of Jews. 

It's a gift.

Thursday Photo Funnies

As  you can see from my trusty Apple Watch, semi-retired life agrees with me. When you burn close to 2000 calories in a day you can double up on salmon for dinner. And maybe 1/2 a chocolate chip cookie for dessert.

In addition to the biking, weight lifting and regular swimming (it's so addictive), I've substantially upped my walking. I like to go out just before the sun sets. Maybe it's because I spent a lifetime hanging with art directors, but that light is truly golden. 

Also, because of the pesky Southern California marine layer, it's often the only time we get full sunlight.

This excessive cardio activity has left me exhausted today. And my new dishwasher is scheduled to be installed, so my brain is in no shape to do some heavy clicking and clacking on the keyboard. 

Alas, it's onto the Thursday Photo Funnies: 

I have a fascination with transformer boxes. I love 

this one. Look closely and you can see 

the guy who installed it trying to duck out of the way.

My daughters abhor my taste in art for the Palm Springs airbnb.

Almost bought this spiny hedgehog at a local desert finery, 

but the price was prohibitive.

Perhaps for the best. Dinsdale! 

 

I'm constantly on the lookout for kitschy furniture.

$200 a pop for molded plastic! Not today, Kyle.

My new and often-mentioned Mustang Mach E California Edition.

You can feel the electricity. (sorry, I'm tired)

Since the Halloween decorations never came down,

my neighbors improvised and Easter-ed them.

Those ubiquitous Baby on Board decals 

have been updated for the 2020's.

Back the fuq up!

Last time I had my Chakras activated 

everything I ate tasted like tuna fish salad.

Went to a Chiat reunion last week and

saw my old rabbi...er, creative director/mentor Tony Stern.

Although you could mistake him for my dad.

I added a poolside hammock to the Mojo Dojo Desert Casa House.

https://airbnb.com/h/mddch

Why haven't you inquired yet?

And finally... Fuck this guy.

 

Why we can't have nice things

I hate to sound like a grumpy old man, but as one of the great maxims of writing states, "To thine own self be true." I think that refers to writing. Or maybe it was my doctor rationalizing my occasional Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

Nevertheless, I'm going to engage in some freestyle grumpiness.

A few weeks ago, I found myself on the Metro, LA's finest version of a subway. It should be stated from the beginning of this little journey -- I love Trains. I was headed to far-off Duarte, in Foothill country, to complete the sale of my Mustang Mach E, the best looking EV in the semi-utilitarian small crossover category.

Having negotiated what I thought to be a fair price and concluding all that mishegas with car dealers, the scummiest people on the planet next to GOP politicians, I was in a jolly mood. That is until I boarded the E-train. 

Within seconds, at a very early hour of the day, I was surrounded by stoners, loaders and potheads. Granted it lent itself to a very mellow atmosphere. Every passenger was sporting AirPods or headphones and was gently rocking to his or her own tunes. But by god, that smell!

There was a time in my life when cannabis produced a pleasant aroma. Perhaps because I was anticipating the sharing of said cannabis and an escape from the confusing curriculum of Calculus 298 and 19th Century English Literature. But those days, like my hairline, are long gone.

Last week Ms. Muse and I wisely avoided the parking dilemma and the flood of festival goers, and took the train from Sierra Madre (The Foothill's best kept secret) to the South Pas Eclectic something and something Festival. Once again we were overcome by the odor.

It was thick. And dank, as the kids would say. Not only that, I was certain, some of the ne'erdowells aboard the train were actively smoking the marijuana while ON THE TRAIN.

By the time we were approaching the Willoughby-like station in South Pasadena, I had my nose pressed up between the crack of the doors, gasping for some fresh oxygen.

The LA times recently reported that train ridership had sunk to new levels. And that troubled Metro executives were considering a new flashy marketing campaign to lure riders back to pre-Covid levels. 

Save your money (my money and yours, fellow taxpayers) and put some damn cops on the trains.

I may be suffering from some latent nostalgia, but it seems to me when I rode the NYC subway system in my long past youth, there were NY's finest aboard every car. Or every other car. Or maybe just hounding miniskirted women on the platforms. 

The point is they had a presence. 

And a deterrence factor.

Likewise, when riding the subways in Paris, it was not unusual to see police. Everywhere. Partout. Moreover these police were shouldering machine guns. Nothing says, "don't even try to smoke weed on these trains and make me un-holster my machine gun!"

If however the Mensas at Metro follow suit and do decide to whip up another useless marketing campaign, I'm more than willing to come out of semi-retirement and oblige them with my services. 

But don't be surprised if any and all of the concepts include something about machine guns.