"I thought we were friends?"

After much dithering, dathering and streamifying the other night, Ms. Muse and I sat down to watch The Stepford Wives. Turns out it's one of many iconic movies that slipped by my radar and emerged 66 years later still unwatched. 

All this cinematic ignorance has bewildered Ms. Muse. Particularly since I've made a career in the low art of pop references and the commercialization of its many tropes. 

Mind you, I have always had a general acknowledgement of the term, Stepford Wives, but never actually watched the movie made in 1975. Had I known there were bare breasts and aural soft porn in the movie, I might have hightailed my 17 year old butt to the theater. 

Was it a great movie? No, but it was intriguing. Especially since I recently saw a later incarnation of its theme in a very well made movie called Get Out. Editorial aside: three weeks ago while in the Men's Locker Room at the Culver City Plunge (where I swim) I saw Daniel Kaluuya. He had swum in the session before me. 

The movie does have some stickiness. It remained on my mind. And still does. Perhaps because of its message about groupthink, which exists today. And the willingness of those in power to subjugate those without power, yeah, I'm looking at you, Red Hats.

Another indicator of stickiness? Signature dialogue.

In our vast catalogue of inside jokes, Ms. Muse and I have now added the line, "Would you like some coffee? I thought we were friends?" 

If you don't recall the scene, I have generously fished it out from the internet ether for your enjoyment. See if you don't find yourself repeating line ad infinitum.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a5DSJUhH-SY

Finally, on the viability of a movie, there is the obligatory post movie conversation. 

Some movies, though classics, merit minor or no discussion. We watched Bad Santa, starring Billy Bob Thornton and the legendary John Ritter. It's one of my favorites, mostly because it pulls no punches and has very little in the way of any socially redeeming qualities, like our notorious ex president (soon to be convicted ex-president, fingers crossed.) But, perhaps expectedly, it was met with, "Meh" from Ms. Muse, an unabashed Christmas lover.

On the other hand, Stepford Wives led to a natural discussion about Women's Lib (you kids can look that up.) As well as the implications about life in 2024 and the relentless Republican attack on our Better Halve's.

Like many of our discussions, this one, regarding the role of women in modern life, led to another gem from the collective past we share in the world of advertising. And the still astonishing encyclopedic ability of Ms. Muse to summon up show openings, song lyrics and jingles, word for every specific word.

I'll leave you with this...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N_kzJ-f5C9U

No justice, no shit

"ATTICA!"

"ATTICA!"

"ATTICA!"

That was the defiant tone I had hoped to bring to a Santa Monica courthouse last week as I was determined to do battle with our twisted justice system that dishes out $500 tickets to hard-working (OK, not so much anymore) taxpayers for one minor lapse of attention while sailing by a Reich-installed red light camera.

The same selective system that ignores a physical attack by a homeless dude on one of the respected members of the citizenry (me). Or lets a degenerate faux politician incite a riot in a deplorable attempt to bring down America.

In other words, I was loaded for bear.

But that's not exactly how things went down. When I arrived at the courthouse, 15 minutes early -- because that's how I roll and the righteous adrenalin had got the best of me -- I was greeted by a bailiff. He was even older than me. And far from fired up, he was quite weary. Probably from all his years in law enforcement. 

"You're not gonna beat this ticket. No one does. And there are so many red light camera tickets now. The docket is full. Meaning the judge has no interest in hearing your case or seeing your best F. Lee Bailey impersonation. So go in there, plead guilty, agree to traffic school, and the judge will cut the fine in half. 

Or, plead Not Guilty, which from your tweed jacket with the elbow patches and the faux leather briefcase bought from a local Goodwill Store, you clearly want to do, and the judge will set a court date, around Christmas time. And you'll end up paying the full boat. Guaran-fucking-teed."

So much for Plan A.

But this is where it gets interesting. 

After 10 minutes of bureaucratic legal procedures, the judge who was once mayor of Los Angeles, said, "when I call your name, approach the bench, make your plea, answer the questions, you'll get your paperwork and we'll have you out of here in 20 minutes."

That was sounding good. Even better, there were only 6-7 violaters, so this would end mercifully quick. Even if my name were called last, which I fully expected.

"Siegel, Richard...," the judge said unexpectedly.

Damn, it was my lucky day. sort of. But being the first left me a little confused as to where to go. There was a table for Defendants/Plaintiffs. There was a high desk cordoned off for the Court Clerk. And then there was the box the judge sat in. 

His perch was literally 7 feet above plebe level. 

As of late, I find the whole judges-are-like-gods thing quite infuriating. Alito, Thomas, Cannon are completely unfit for that damn once sacred robe. OK, I'm digressing, this is best saved for another blog. 

So I step out from the gallery and head towards the clerk.

"STOP! STOP RIGHT NOW!" I hear, a bolt from above.

The judge, literally stands up and is shouting at me!

"Do not take another step forward. Don't you ever step foot inside The Well," the judge scolded again. 

(Me, fighting the urge to laugh)

"Haven't you ever seen a TV show about being in court?What is wrong with you man?"

(Me, fighting the urge to laugh and to tell the judge I was Jury foreman. Twice.)

"Stand over there," he said shaking his head and rolling his eyes. "How do you plead?"

Knowing this schmuck, who clearly hates his job adjudicating traffic and parking tickets in the not-so-golden years of his life, could summarily toss me in the cement cell for showing the slightest sign of disrespect, I grit my me teeth and fight the urge to laugh. Save it for the blog I tell myself. Save it for the blog.

"Sir, how do you plead?"

"Guilty. Thank you your honor."

Attica will have to wait for another day.

The sound of strident

It only took me 66 years, but I'm now in the best shape of my life. By the way, the illustration above is not  me. Nor is it remotely accurate. You can fill in the blanks.

And while I'm now the fittest I've ever been, I'm also the loudest I've ever been. 

This was pointed out to me by my very spry and unfiltered daughter last week whilst watching Jeopardy.

"Damn, Dad you're so loud."

"What? Sorry. What? Still kicking myself over that Double Jeopardy and What is The Verrazano Bridge?"

"No, you're loud. You make noises every time you move."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. I'm gonna have another glass of that red wine from Sonoma, you want some? uffffff."

"See, you did it again." she said, correctly.

Now that it was pointed out to me, I can't stop hearing myself. 

I've become a walking, talking, grunting machine. Some people have tinnitus, a non stop ringing in the ears. I have the endless groans of an old man -- albeit a physically fit one -- following me everywhere I go.

Why do they have to put my favorite brand of sun dried tomatoes on the top shelf?

Unnnnnggg

Why are duvet covers so damn complicated and unwieldy?

Grrrrrrrrrr

Is it me or my Audi getting harder and harder to get in to? And out of?

Ahhhhhhh

I'm well aware of the fact that I'm treading over well-worn territory. Weeks ago, Ms. Muse and I went to see Jon Stewart at the Greek where he did a masterful riff on getting old. 

"You've heard the saying about African Americans never aging, 'Black don't crack.' Well that doesn't apply to Jews, we age like a week old avocado."

Nevertheless the noise phenomena intrigues me. I'd like it to stop, but it probably won't. At least until I go completely silent. Doh.

I could start stretching and doing yoga, but my endo/mesomorphic body doesn't yield like others. Think of trying to bend a football. Not a Tom Brady under inflated one.

So I've resigned myself to my own involuntary cacophony of unwanted sound.

Maybe I can make myself useful and come up with some new Onomatopoeia for the sounds an old man, or an old woman, emits. Because as the chart below indicates, similar to the chart above, there's some glaring vacancies.

Ufffff.

Rise Up

Thought I'd step off my political soapbox (which is gonna need some  2 X4 reinforcement as of late)  and reminisce about advertising. And in a nod to my contrarian nature, thought I'd tell a good story. Because Lord knows I have a shit ton of bad ones. 

Which sadly, I've told many times over right here on these digital pages.

This memory came to me last night while doomscrolling through the LinkedIn site. I can't get over the sorry state of our once vibrant, exciting and playful industry. I stumbled across a post from one of the founders of Goodness MFG. Let's call him Tom. I haven't secured his permission, or that of the other OGs, so I will limit myself to their first names.

Suffice it to say, all these guys are legends and cut their teeth at Crispin. When Crispin still was Crispin.

John Shirley and I had been called in for a one week freelance gig to help them with their upcoming pitch for Craftsman Tools. We were pitted against some other freelancers. This type of Round Robin competitive approach never bothered me. It was used often by Team Detroit (A JWT offshoot dedicated to Ford). With the victor handsomely paid for work that never saw the light of day.

This kind of winner take all strategy fueled my inner Lord of the Flies nature. 

Moreover, I had a special relationship with Craftsman Tools ever since my father started subscribing to the Time Life Series of Home Repair books and transformed himself from a Bronx-born Jewish CPA into a studly hand-me-that-miter-saw-and-let's-get-busy-manly-man.

Round after round of work got killed. And round after round of late nite pizzas and Budweisers were consumed in pursuit of the campaign that fit like a perfectly honed tongue and groove joint. If you've been reading these pages for any time you know I abhor the idea of staying late and working past that first Jeopardy buzzer.

But this was different.

After all, Tom and Paul and Bob, were Crispin guys. And even modestly successful Chiat guys like John and I, looked up to them. Additionally, they were low key, though energetic, and wildly engaging and enthusiastic.

Somewhere at the midpoint level, they let the other freelance teams go, and charged us with coming up with something. 

Something amazing.

After many stop and starts, we did. It's best explained by a T-Shirt we had made featuring one of the designs we had made...

The idea was to celebrate those weekend fixer-uppers, like my dad, who bought and used the bulk of Craftsman tools. And made their mechanically declined sons to learn the difference between a jigsaw and a router. 

This was one of many faux Union Labels we had mocked up. All featured the banner, "The Order of Craftsmen." Wisely working the brand name into the campaign itself. But the best thing about working was these guys was their absolute fearlessness. I've had many, too many, creative directors try to reel things in. Tone it down. Make it buyable. 

The direction here was, "This is great now make it weirder, push it out there, make us nervous."

I wish I had more remnants of all the work we pumped out in that short, intense and exhilarating point in time. Perhaps even better,  I do have memories of working hard, laughing hard and experiencing the camaraderie of working with the industry's finest.  

I hope that kind of fun still exists, but the data, the reams and reams of ad tech data, sadly suggests it does not.
 

My wife hung the traitor flag

Perhaps I shouldn't be doing this. Or perhaps my mind is clouded by anger, frustration and unprecedented powerlessness that I've just thrown all caution to the wind as well as any sense of self-regulation to give a shit whether I should or shouldn't do something. 

Nevertheless, I'm going to write about this, because frankly, our country is on fire!

Last week it was reported that this upside down flag, a symbol of distress that was used by the Stop the Steal (Pfffffffffffffft) folks shortly after the January 6th Insurrection, in 2021, was flown at the home of Samuel Alito. 

In short, a federal judge, who was sworn to political non-partisanship, was openly and unethically displaying the opposite. And not just any federal judge, this was a Supreme Court Justice, you know the ones who gleefully take on a godly appearance. And have a seat on the bench until the day they die. 

Or until they've successfully brought about the death of this country.

Mind you this is the same bench where Supreme Court Justice Clarence "I've got a big Winnebago" Thomas sits. In case anyone has forgotten, his wife Ginnie was actively egging Presidential Chief of Staff Mark Meadows (recently indicted in the Arizona Fake electors case) to overturn the results of the 2020 election. 

And I've got the receipts to prove it. OK, I don't have them, but Special Prosecutor Jack Smith has the incriminating texts to prove it. 

But none of this out in the open criminality seems to matter anymore. Why? Because the DOJ has been weaponized. Not against our esteemed former president, but FOR him.

To wit, the 9 Supreme Court justices are weighing the matter of a president having "Total Immunity", making permissible anything and everything he or she does outside the not-so-long reach of Johnny Law. And 2 of those 9 judges are already in the bag -- they should be in the clink.

No other president in our 248 year history has ever claimed to have Total Immunity. 

But then no other former president has ever blackmailed a European ally in favor Russia, sexually abused and defamed a woman, found guilty of tax evasion and fraudulent business practices, sparked an Insurrection, attempted to throw out the votes of 81 million Real Americans and openly declared that would make himself a Dictator on Day One of his impending inauguration.

SFX: Striking a match

That's me lighting a new soy candle and asking Alexa to play some calming Spa Music.

The other day, Ms. Muse asked if I had given any money to the Biden campaign. I hadn't yet, but if money is what it takes to save this country, I will start now. 

Check out my new customized license plate frame for my new Ford EV.

I'm also thinking of painting a message on the roof of my house. Maybe that will pass.

Beat the clock

I'm in a new relationship. And like all relationships, it requires introspection. Course correction. And action. The problem is, when am I going to get to all that?

Particularly since the relationship I'm talking about is with Time itself.

Consider this, I've been working since the age of 11 years old. When my father, in need of gardening/landscaping/home maintenance help, discovered he had two healthy boys living under his roof. He had cheap labor, the cheapest. All he had to do was bark some orders and feed and clothe them on a regular basis. All of which he'd been begrudgingly doing.

When I was 14, I experienced my first career change. And went from Indentured Servant to Newspaper Delivery Boy. 

Since that tender and informative age, I have been working. Non-stop. Like always. 

High School -- Working.

College -- Working.

Spring Break -- Working.

One day after arriving in California with nothing in my pocket -- Working. 

Even when I was a freelancer and had the luxury of time between gigs, I was working. 

Mostly working at getting more work.

Coming from working class, post-Depression roots, that's how I was built. Now I'm convinced the very ethic that gave me life will also be the death of me. In short I'm having issues slowing down.

Relax. Stop rushing. Take a deep breath. 

These are easily said, not so easily done. When I inhale deeply to engage in some mindfulness, my mind immediately goes to I have to lift weights, swim and hop on the Peloton today. I have to run to the store to get toilet paper, salmon and stock up Pepcid AC. I have to record Lawrence O'Donnell and his take on today's Shitgibbon shenannigans.

Not only is my To-Do list endless. It's also quite rigid.

For no apparent reason, other than the fact that I have lived a life governed by the clock and the calendar, I assign these duties specific start times. 

For instance, I could hop in any of my three cars (anyone in the market for a 2009 Acura MDX?) and run to the Pavilion's supermarket any time of the day I like. But, like a Pavlovian pup trained to follow a stimulus/response, I tell myself I will go at 2 o'clock. 

Or 3' o'clock.

But never at 2:23PM. 

Or any time that ends with other than a 00 or a 30.

I've become a victim of my own discipline. 

And as I result, I have this uncanny ability to guess the time of day, without looking at the clock or gauging the sun's position in the late Spring sky, with remarkable accuracy. This may sound like a gift, but as of late it feels like a curse.

I entertained thoughts of sitting on my porch, cracking open a bottle of Cabernet from the Alexander Valley, and polishing off the rest of Maggie Haberman's 600 page tome, but than I remembered I'm all out of Cascade Dishwashing pods. 

And once you've experienced the superior glass cleansing there's really nothing else that will do.

See you tomorrow.

The Smart of the Deal

I am not a smart person. I'm not. Nor am I saying this as some type of humblebrag. Or an endearing expression of self deprecation. I may know a little about a lot of stuff. But I don't know a lot about specific stuff.

In other words, I can't go deep like Randall Cunningham or Brett Favre, who by the way, is also not smart.

I am however wise enough to recognize smart people. I seek them out. And like to surround myself with them. Hoping that through some late stage osmosis, some of that brilliance will migrate my way. 

I'm still waiting.

Sadly, the world has a serious deficit of smart people. Even sadder is when this admittedly small group is bifurcated -- I hope I used that word correctly -- and some of these "smart people" voluntarily line up behind Captain Ouchie Foot. 

Before I proceed perhaps I should define what makes a smart person, smart. In my book. And again my library is quite limited, it is not about reeling off facts. Knowing the great Hellenic leaders that gave rise to civilization. Or being able to locate Senegal on a map of eastern Africa and then naming the country it surrounds on all sides. 

It's about having those attributes, in some form or fashion, but it's also about leveraging that accumulation of knowledge to navigate life and emerging successful. With at least an above .300 batting average.

This is what I find so confounding. 

Think about it, there are legitimately smart people who have scaled the heights in their chosen field, attained wealth, notoriety, and influence, who have bet their entire legacy on America's Biggest Loser. This, despite watching other allegedly smart people do the same and end up in the clink. Or drizzling honey biscuits at the Cinnabon at La Guardia Terminal 3.

Shall I name names? 

Yes, I shall:

John Charles Eastman -- This man was a former Dean at Chapman College of Law. He attended the University of Chicago and was a member of the law review. Clerked for Federal Judge Michael Luttig (more about him later). And has argued in front of the Supreme Court. Had he not been sucked into Trump World, his old white guy portrait would still be hanging in the hallways at Chapman, gathering dust for the next 1000 years.

General John Francis Kelly -- An arguably brilliant strategist/warrior who rose through the ranks and served under two president before agreeing to become Chief of Staff during the most tumultuous regime of any US president. Kelly, a distinguished soldier with a chest full of medals, clearly knew how navigate the battlefield but decided to bow down and kiss/lick the orange ring. For what, general, for what? All that sycophancy got you bumped down to Seargant Schmuck.

Justices Roberts, Alito, Thomas, Gorsuch, Kavanaugh, and Barrett -- The Google is telling me there have only been 112 Supreme Court Justice in the history of the United States of America. That is some rarified air. I think it's safe to say that you have to be quite smart in order to reach that apex of the judicial world and claim a robe. And I assume a mahogany-lined locker in the Supreme Court Dressing Room. 

And yet right now, while you're reading this drivel, between your next status meeting and email about filling out your timesheets, they are effectively sledgehammering one of the pillars of our democracy. 

"No man shall be above the law" and is effectively being replaced with "The porn star-banging, tax-cheating, insurrection-inciting, election-stealing douchebiscuit from Jamaica Estates shall be above the law."

 

I do not and cannot understand why obviously smart people (though clearly lacking in character) throw in and continue to throw in, with a "man" (?) who promises to be a Dictator on Day One if re-elected to the highest office in the land.

If I may double back to Judge Lustig. If you don't know of him or have not seen him, he is a lifelong conservative Republican, the kind you could disagree with, but still admire. He along with folks like Liz Cheney and Adam Kinzinger, are a part of a herd that has been thinned and hollowed out. Left on the side of road along the Trump Hershey Highway.

Luttig has joined forces with left-leaning Professor Lawrence Tribe to have the 14th amendment invoked and preclude another term for America's Worst American. Sadly that effort is losing steam.

If people do not come to their senses, the not-so-smart people will put Trump back in the White House. 

Much to the delight of a very smart man, Vladmir Putin.

 

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.