5 Reasons Not to Vote for Grandpa Shitforbrains

I'm going to harken back to my clickbait-y days at PayPal, where knowledgable, best practices data miners taught me everything I need to know about professional copywriting. You know, in lieu of my  40+ years worth of in-the-trenches experience.

To that end and in praise of the audience-attracting Listicle, I give you 5 Reasons Not to Vote for Grandpa Shitforbrains:

1. Supreme Court -- We have not yet begun to tally the damage this Turd Monster has done to this country. Including the disastrous Roe v. Wade rollback. And the impending decision from Heritage Foundation appointed Supreme Court justices with regards to the ridiculous claim of Total Presidential Immunity. 

Should he win another 4 years, he could get 1-2 more lifetime appointed judges who will do the bidding of this 21st century Neo Nazi. 

I don't know about you, but when I bring my car in for service, I like to think the mechanic knows a thing or two about flick-flacks, carbonators, and oil viscosity. Similarly, I like my orthopedic surgeon, who has begun replacing vital joints in my body, to know a thing or two about sockets and balls and hip flexors.

Is there any doubt in your mind that the imbecile spouting off about sharks, batteries and just recently, guillotines, can't name 3 seminal Supreme Court cases in the 246 year history of the United States of America? 

I would bet every last dollar of the Siegel Empire that he can't name one. 

2. History -- Speaking of history, which is an important thing to be acquainted with if you're going to accept the mantle of Leader of the Free World, how do you suppose this flea-bitten gudgeon would fare on a simple 11th grade high school history exam? Suppose there were a question about Gettysburg. 

Suppose...

We're only at #2 and I'm already shaking from adrenal overload!

3. Honor -- Last week my daughter asked if I could've been drafted for the Viet Nam War. I told her I was 2 years too young, thankfully. Donald Trump however was a ripe age of 22 in 1968, the height of the war. Like many Americans he couldn't tell you why were were fighting (See #1 and #2) there. Nor was it important (as nothing but his hide has any import), because he had his family physician (Dr. Vinny Boombatz) write a fake letter about fake bone spurs, so that he wouldn't have to join the "suckers" and "losers" in the real jungles of southeast Asia.

Also, did you know that Trump's disdain for Senator John McCain did not arise from any political or philosophical issue? 

In 1996, the short-fingered vulgarian applied for a federal $350 million loan intended to subsidize low and moderate income housing but was essentially a cash grab. 

The project was turned down by Senator McCain who said, "I have nothing against very successful project developers...I do however object to asking the taxpayer to bear the risk of development for one of the wealthiest  entrepreneurs in the country to help finance a project that will predominantly benefit upper-income Americans."  (from Confidence Man by Maggie Haberman)

4. WTF? -- I have always contended that the best way to campaign against Donald Trump is to quote Donald Trump. I am not a religious man. I am of the firm belief that when we pass, we return to the state of consciousness we had before we were born. That is not the prevailing zeitgeist in this country, where many will vote with their bibles (and their pocketbooks). Are these same zealots in line with this:

“Religion is such a great thing. It keeps you, you know, there’s something to be good about. You want to be good; you want to…It’s so important. And I don’t know if it’s explained. Right. I don’t know if I’m explaining it right now, but when you have something like that, you want to be good. You want to go to heaven, okay? You want to go to heaven. If you don’t have heaven, you almost say, ‘Oh, what’s what’s the reason? Why do I have to be good? Let’s not be good. What difference does it make?”

Jesus H Christ!

5. What difference does it make? -- If by now, close to 10 years after he descended that golden escalator, followed by his reluctant Slovic Trumpette, it should be abundantly clear you've been hoodwinked, by a schmuck who promised Mexico would pay for wall, they didn't. 

He promised 6% GDP growth, never happened. 

He promised a new GOP healthcare plans, coming in two weeks, it's been 14 years. 

He promised Infrastructure, ehhhh, thank you for playing.

He promised immigration reform, nope.

He promised coal mining revival, go talk to a coal miner.

He promised to balance the budget, but added $8 trillion of debt.

He promised to beat China in a Trade War, how's that going?

He promised peace in the Middle East, uhhhh, Gaza.

He promised to produce evidence that the 2020 election was stolen, where are the bamboo fibers?

He promised so much winning, and won nothing.

He's hopeless. 

And if you plan to vote for him, I'm afraid you are too.

I'm so tired of being tired of him. 

Where's that damn Shark?

Are they really commandments?

Separation of church and state? My ass, in two parts.

If this nation of ours -- borne from the pursuit of religious freedom as well as the freedom from religion -- truly lived up to the ideals of our American forefathers, we wouldn't have "In God we trust" printed on our currency. We wouldn't have Blue laws on the book, prohibiting any commerce on Sunday, even though Jesus observed Shabbat on Saturday.  And we wouldn't have religious fanatics pulling and pushing the levers of this power.

Last week the irrational fascination with Imaginary Sky Daddy or The Flying Spaghetti Monster, seen here...

...took a delta-elbow turn for even greater irrationality. The state of Louisiana has mandated The Ten Commandments (brought to you by your elder brothers of Hebraic seasonings, you're welcome) be posted in all public schools including those of higher dis-education. 

The joke floating around the interwebs, almost faster than the Huak Tuah Girl, is that it would be nice if Louisiana children could actually read the Ten Commandments. I could do jokes about poor bayou kids with no foot coverin's and even less teeth, until the social media police come and rescind all my digital bloviation privileges.

But there are even greater stakes at hand that must be addressed.

Following the order of in-god-trination (SWIDT) Donald Trump made a beeline for the nearest microphone in order to weaponize the move. And to align himself with the good bible-thumpiung, god-fearing people in Louisiana,  the Bacardi State. 

He also posted, in his signature all cap motif, “I LOVE THE TEN COMMANDMENTS IN PUBLIC SCHOOLS, PRIVATE SCHOOLS, AND MANY OTHER PLACES, FOR THAT MATTER. READ IT — HOW CAN WE, AS A NATION, GO WRONG???”

But he didn't stop there. 

In a move not noticed by mainstream media, he also had private talks with his team of crack legal eagles who currently have a monumental power-of-the-presidency case sitting before the Supreme Court. The highest court in the land.

That, it seems, s just a small stepping stone. 

Our Two Corinthians-loving ex-president has also called for a ecumenical conclave of Christians of almost every nomination. As well as a few imams and rabbis, for the optics of equal Abrahamic participation. And plans to present his arguments before the council, that while Ten Commandments should be mandatory for all schoolchildren and abided by by all 8 billion residents of Planet Earth, he should be afforded Total Immunity. 

Because Jesus and Jerry Falwell Jr. said he deserved it.

"I SHOULD HAVE TOTAL IMMUNITY. I NEED TOTAL IMMUNITY. MAYBE JUST FOR DAY ONE OF MY ADMINISTRATION -- BUT PROBABLY MORE. 

SOME OF THESE COMMANDMENTS JUST DON'T MAKE SENSE. IF I COVET A BIRDIE ON THE TOUGH 14TH HOLE AT DORAL COUNTRY CLUB, I SHOULD HAVE IT. EVEN IT MEANS USING MY LEG IRON. OR TAKING A GIMME. I MEAN COME ON!!! I'M THE RULER...PRESIDENT." 

Pastries, Pastrami and Picasso

"It's taken me 66 years to learn that."

That's not just my cold opener this morning, that's a phrase that been leaving my mouth with more frequency. And more resonance.

I'll give you an example. I woke up this morning with a dream, a vivid dream playing in my head like one of those Facebook reels on autoplay. Hint: if you watch one bikini-clad woman doing jumping jacks, you will be met with an onslaught of bikini-clad women, doing a variety of high cardio exercise. 

In this dream, I owned a beautiful downtown apartment in an undetermined city with a sprawling view of a bay (undetermined) that reached out to the ocean (also undetermined.) I could, with the help of a sketch artist, show you the exact layout of the 2000 square foot apartment. I told you it was vivid.

At some point in the dream, my old boss from Chiat/Day, who I recently ran into at a small reunion party, was scoping out the view of my luxury pad and said, 

"This is really nice Rich, I'm so happy for you. You deserve this."

"Thanks," I replied, "it's taken me 66 years to learn that."

I've given this quite a bit of thought. And realized the converse is also true: It's taken me 66 years to unlearn the notion that I don't deserve that.

And that's completely understandable. My parents were working class poor. And they were raised in the post depression era, where the next meal was never guaranteed. And where every penny, every accumulation of anything in value, even string and coffee grinds, had to be saved. And locked away for further enjoyment or utilization. 

This may or may not be true, but I seem to remember my mother blowing up balloons for my brother's birthday party on November 6th. Then carefully untying the knot in the balloons so they could be inflated a week later for my sister's (two years younger) birthday party a week later on November 14.

Unlike the unwanted hair that started growing out my ears in my senior years, this annoying parsimonious mindset has been with me my entire life.

And now I'm doing my best to excise it. Because, and I find myself saying this as well, 'pleasure delayed is pleasure denied.' 

Last week, Ms. Muse and I found ourselves at LACMA. We had intended on seeing the new Motion Picture Museum, but there was a private event. So we pivoted. Here's the obligatory lamppost shot...

Following the Picassos, Monets and the interesting Simone Leighs, we were feeling a bit peckish. Having scaled back on red meat, I had a particular hankering for cured meats, seasoned Hebraically. And so in an unlikely and impromptu move, we made our way over to Canter's Deli for an unplanned and exorbitantly expensive pastrami sandwich.

On our egress, Ms. Muse treated herself to some of Canter's finest cookies. 

Money can't buy happiness, but not spending money can't either. 

"It's taken me 66 years to learn that."

Great Again?

They say they want to make America Great Again. I'm hardly the first to ask this, but when was it great?

Most Red Hats won't answer the question. I will. Not because I know, but simply because it bolsters my theory. Of which I am about to lay out. 

I know that yesterday I claimed I was not a very good persuader but I'm also not a very good quitter. So I'm going to throw on my Math Teacher tweed sport coat and take on the persona I would have inhabited had I not slipped into the glorious and glamorous world of advertising, home of the ubiquitous SKIP AD button.

I'm going to suggest that when MAGA speak of a different time when America was great, they are referring to 1954. 

In this post World War era, America was prospering. But that's not what really tickles this white dream...er, wet dream. Seventy years ago, gay meant being happy, black lives didn't matter, women were in the kitchen and Jews were not allowed on many of the country's finest golf courses. 

(Pssssst, while you guys were hitting little white balls into a cup, we were forming cabals and taking over the world's banking, media and mustard making institutions.)

But let's be honest, Americans don't choose their presidents based on social or moral progress. That's far too nuanced. And we're not the most politically astute people. Our idea of patriotism is shouting USA, USA, USA in the streets and adorning our bridges with 500 foot flags. Truth is, most Americans can't tell you the difference between a communist and a fascist. Or a socialist and a socialite.

In fact that woman from Georgia, uses the terms interchangeably. Often in conjunction with the Gazpacho Police. 

What will decide the next election, and many thereafter, are Kitchen Table Issues.

There can be no doubt that in the post-Covid era, we faced inflation. I know this will come as a shock to Red Hats, but so did the rest of the world. Not that it matters. USA, USA, USA!!!

Let's clear the kitchen table and break out the Texas Instrument calculator. 

Mind you, the following numbers are anecdotal and may or may not resemble actual facts. But when one presidential candidate lies about every number he has ever quoted and then goes on to talking about batteries, sharks and choosing electrocution, does it really matter? 

In 1954, a housewife (sorry ladies) might have purchased a dozen eggs for $1.29 in 1954. Adjusted for time and cost of living, let's say that would be the equivalent of $4.29 in 2020. Then came Biden's God Awful Crushing Commie/Fascist Inflationary Times in 2023 and the price went up to $5.29 !!!!!!

That's an extra dollar for a dozen eggs!!! And he had the gall to eat ice cream on the television.

If that housewife were to buy a dozen eggs twice a month, that's two extra dollars. Over the course of a year, she would have shelled out $24 dollars just for the privilege of keeping her family fed with Western omeletes.

Which came first, the increase in the price of eggs or the chickenshit bump in gas prices? 

If we were to extrapolate a bit (and we will) the average household, at the height of Sleepy Joe's  Soul Crushing Inflation, might have been spending an additional $547.93 a year to buy eggs, gas and Slim Jims, etc. just to be an American and live in the greatest country on earth™.

That's mind blowing. 

MAGA people will tell you "Freedom isn't Free." But apparently $547.93 is a cost they're just not willing to bear. Nor are they willing to concede that during that time, wages have increased an average 4.92%, their 401K plans increased 13.7% and that the economy of the US outpaced the economies of the developed world.

None of that matters. 

Because come November, they're sticking with the shark-fearing, twice-impeached convicted felon who loves the uneducated, calls our soldiers Suckers and Losers, doesn't take responsibility for the death of more than a million Americans, retribution-promising, ignorant wannabe dictator who just last week said, "haul out the guillotines." 

USA, USA, USA!!!

Same Same

I could never be mistaken for the Jaguar type. 

My tastes are more pedestrian. Less on style and more on substance. You could comb through my closet and not find one piece of clothing priced over $100. With the exception of my $1000 Brooks Brothers Funeral/Wedding/Bar Mitzvah suit, which ironically is fit for so many occasions, but no longer fits my leaner, meaner torso. 

Nevertheless, in 2002 I was hired by the surprisingly rascally John Doyle (a Three Stooges Fan!), to be the Group Creative Director on Jaguar Automobiles. I willingly dove into the rich history of this rich guy's motor company. And picked up several quotes from the design team who were faithful to the brand's credo: "If you can't tell it's a Jaguar from 100 feet away, we haven't done our job."

To wit...

They made beautiful automobiles. And then they stopped doing their job. 

Perhaps it was to speed up production. Perhaps they started listening to focus groups. Perhaps they were looking to cut costs. Cost cutting seems to be the defacto reason for much of what ails this world.

Take a look at the picture at the top of the page. One of those cars is a Jaguar. Without zooming in for a look at the badge on the bonnet, can you tell which one?

The sameness is stultifying. 

And as my friend George T. often points out, it hasn't just afflicted the glorified middle managers running the car companies, like Jaguar, it has invaded and metastasized the ad industry.  

Nothing demonstrates that better than the way they pimp weird-sounding pharmaceuticals using the same jingle factory, choreographed by the same washed up off-broadway dancers and "art directed" by the same craftsmen/craftswomen who can skillfully design 1000 words of possible side effects (including rashes, infection, explosive diarrhea) into an almost invisible scroll that takes up 27 seconds of a 30 second spot.

Don't know if you've noticed but there's a new Jardiance commercial out. Same song. Same wardrobe. Same Stepfordian cast. Same colossal waste of of money.

My old partner and I did quite a bit of traveling during our tenure at Chiat/Day. We'd often comment on the sprawling cookie cutter housing developments we'd see along the way, whether it be in Iowa, Massachusetts or Arizona. John Shirley, a genuinely funny man (for an art director) would often riff about one neighbor stopping by to visit another...

"Oh, you put the couch on the right side of the room! We should try that honey." 

He'd do the same joke again and again. But at least it was funny.

Jack Preacher

After 66 years on Planet Earth it is finally dawning on me that I might have missed my calling. Perhaps I was not cut out to be an advertising copywriter. Mostly because copywriters are supposed to persuade. To allure attention and repurpose that attention towards a sale. Of a product or a service the reader/viewer/consumer had no idea of needing. Or wanting.

I'll come clean here, I'm not sure I ever persuaded anyone, anywhere to buy anything.  

Seriously.

Take my 8+ years of harping on Red Hats to slap themselves on the cheeks and wake the fuck up. I've come at them in every form and fashion. Supplied raw data from the BLS, Bureau of Labor and Statistics. Facts, verified by Snopes and other nonpartisan organizations. Even video, of their Dear Leader saying the things he said he didn't say. And more importantly, things Red Hats don't believe he said. 

I've tried the soft touch. The hard sell. The come-in-through-the-side door Swiftian Modest Proposal. 

I've transcribed, truthed and trolled until I can do so no more (but probably will). 

All to no avail. Because Trumpsters cannot be unTrumpstered. 

And that's when it hit me that I'm much better at preaching to the choir. 

I know that in certain ad circles, preaching to the choir is poo-pooed. But that hasn't stopped Apple from becoming the largest and most successful brand in the world. Affirmation, so I've heard from my 5th or 6th therapist, is a powerful force. It's right up there in Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. 

Right next to a snooze button on an alarm clock and great lime flavored tortilla chips. 

Besides, now that I've hung up my copywriting cleats, I'm going to fully embrace my role as Preacher. 

Also besides, as I look out onto this choir of 8 loyal readers, it has occurred to me that through my incessant trolling activity, I have successfully culled the Red Hats who no longer want to be badgered by my unique brand of badgery, from the R17 herd.

And who can blame them?

With that I will share my latest handiwork, a choir-affirming T-shirt that not only stops the nearby residents of Culver City in their tracks, but is also gaining traction online. 

I ought to be selling this fashion forward T- shirt, but haven't a clue how to go about it. You'd think after all these years of fueling this nation's capitalism, I'd know how to fuel my own. 

I'm not only a bad copywriter. I'm an idiot.

There's Art out there

Once again it's time for Thursday Photo Funnies. Wherein I take a well deserved break from all my exhaustive research, my scholarly explorations and my routine lambasting of the Captain Ouchie Foot, and the sorry brain dead state of the GOP, and comb through my expanding library of photographic weirdness.

Today's photos have been curated from Culver City, Palm Springs, Sierra Madre and LACMA, where weirdness is on full display. And wily artists convinced collectors to shell out millions of dollars for something I could have easily done with a few coats of premium shellac...

It's called Plank. Because that's exactly what it is. 

A 12 foot high plank

painted and shellacked with a shiny shade of red.

Damn, I have a garage full of unfinished planks just waiting to be painted.

And sold to unwitting art collectors.

Speaking of art, I found this in the box of stuff 

left here by my youngest daughter when she moved to NYC.

Sadly, she would not let me keep Titty Banana, 

which would be perfect for my Palm Springs airbnb.

This shaggy dog was spotted behind the wheel of an open air

Jeep. He probably drives better than 99.8%

of Southern Californians who won't put their damn phones down.

 

Writers have many pet peeves, but none so acute as the 

mauling of the English Language. "Harmonizing the Digital and 

Physical Worlds?" Gimme a fuckin' break.

 

Don't remember where I spotted this. But I must remember 

to take my damn finger off the lens.

At the Culver City Farmer's Market

you can find cherries for $10 bucks a pound and 

unabashed cruelty to dogs.

On my last trip to Palm Springs, the 27 year old washer failed to spin. 

And the 27 year old dryer failed to heat up. 

I treated myself to some peace of mind and new appliance euphoria.

  

Those are not real children perched on the wall of this 

tony house situated up against the mountain. 

I love the creepiness. Stay weird, PS, stay weird.

Alas.

This final piece of artwork is homegrown. 

And can be found in the front yard of a very eclectic home, 

near the Jackson Market (CC), where they have mastered the art

of the custom built sandwich. Trust me on that.

Oh Lordy

For the third week in a row I screwed up. 

Last night I had dinner, delicious Himalayan food at Taras in Culver City, with my friend of over 40 years, Jim. And like an idiot, or a cerebellum-challenged near geriatric, failed to snap a photo.

Last week, Ms. Muse and I had dinner in the desert with friends and former colleagues Valencia and Rick.

And a week prior to that, we dined with fellow Tribe Member and burly bear, Matt and his lovely wife and former colleague of mine, Nic.

I like to think that I don't have any pictures because I'm fully present in the moment, unlike the bozos you'd see at a fireworks show who capture the pyro-magnificence on their 4 inch iPhone screen. 

What, you may be wondering does any of this have to do with Triscuits and their over zealous cracker diversification? Patience, grasshopper.

Over a tumbler of fine bourbon and Jim's Coca Cola, we went about solving all the world's problems. Jim literally had a list of what currently ails us stashed away on his phone. We eventually got around to talking about Gaza, Israel and the insane Tribalism.

Why, I posited, can Christians, Jews and Muslims all just identify as Abrahamics? The truth is, as monotheists (well, not me), we all have more in common than any of us like to think. If you were to take a blind taste test, I seriously doubt you could tell the difference between humus handmade in Haifa from humus equally handmade in Amman.

This led us to further discussion about religious stratification. I asked Jim if he knew the reasons for the great Islamic schism that pits Sunnis against Shiites. He didn't have a clue. BTW, a clue was all I had. 

I'm no Islamic scholar and have better things to with my time than dissect the Quran. I only have the faintest idea that it all (including hundreds of years of senseless violence) has to do with who Mohammed passed the torch to. 

Seriously? Jesus Christ, are humans stupid!

On my second tumbler, we turned our attention to Christianity. It should be noted that before my mother was 'given' permission to marry my father, she had to take Jew classes as well as a bath to officially convert and leave behind her membership of the Presbyterians. So before any angry letters/emails/comments are sent my way, I'm falling back on my Ethnic Executive Privilege.

"What makes someone a Methodist and another person an Episcopalian? Are Lutherans that different than Baptists? Couldn't they save on jerseys, parking lots and other religious accoutrement if they just consolidated?" I pondered aloud.

Jim, though a graduate of esteemed Notre Dame university and well versed in Christianity, did not have an answer.

That's when I had a brain fart and made a beeline to my pantry. And DID snap a photo to make my point.

 

"That's it, Rich" Jim exclaimed, "it's all about Brand Extensions." 

The astute among you will notice I have great difficulty with the cardboard sealing mechanism. Hey Triscuit people, we don't need a Turnip Flavored Crisp, we need a box that grown men can open and close.

BTW, hummus on a Triscuit...delicious.

Prepare for cheesiness

It has probably occurred to you -- that is, if you are among the 8 loyal readers of this blog -- that I don't write much about advertising lately. 

It has certainly occurred to the crack RoundSeventeen Web Analytics Team who've been holed up in their cubby holes, combing through all the data, and depressingly concluded, "traffic is way down since Rich semi-retired and now finds himself writing about yoga poses he cannot do. We should send our resumes to Rotationandbalance"

Previous posts notwithstanding, that's about to change. 

Not for the long term, mind you, just for today. I refrain for many reasons, not the least of which is I have two daughters currently in the biz, plying their wares as Producers, and don't want my crankiness to have any unwanted halo effect on their burgeoning careers.

More importantly, since leaving the business (and vice versa), there's not much to say that George Tannebaum hasn't already said. And done so way more eloquently than I ever could. Besdies, how many times do you want to hear me drone on about The Long Table of Mediocrity™? Or, FFDKKs, Frivolous Fuckwadian Digital Knick Knacks™. 

Editorial aside: I haven't actually trademarked those two phrases, but for a while they did gain a lot of traction. You can pop them into the search bar in the upper left corner and read all about it. But you won't. And who am I kidding? No one really cares.

As it should be.

A better use of your time, or at least the next 9 minutes, would be to watch the short film entitled, The Journey. 

I'll try not to give too much away, suffice it to say it's about advertising. More specifically, it's about an adman. Even more specifically, it's about an adman and his stellar work for an unnamed Pizza company.

You needn't have worked in the trenches for a pizza company to appreciate the sentiments, but I did. And the only thing of value that I took from the experience, with the exception of regular lucrative freelance paychecks, was this little gem from a planning document...

It, more than anything, explains why no one, I mean no one, Outpizzas the Hut. Whatever the fuck that means?

Nor need you have any experience with jingles. I did once. And believe me there is no fresher memory that comes to mind than playing a version of the jingle over the phone, from the recording studio, to Lee Clow only to have him reply, "...that's not how it should go, it should be more like..."

Yes, he sang it to us. Chef's Kiss!

Enough rambling.

 Go watch The Journey. 

And have some tissues ready for a life (lives) misspent.

Fasten your seat belts

I'm a very good driver. I'm not just saying this. Allstate has given me the Good Driver discount (all $1.38 of it per month) and my track record speaks for itself.

I'm probably tempting the fates, but in all my 50 years of driving I have had only 1 moving violation, a speed trap on the PCH, and no accidents. 

OK, there was time while in college that I got behind the wheel of my 1966 Dodge Coronet 400 and drove through 14 inches of freshly fallen snow and purposely took out some mailboxes in the backwoods of Syracuse. Not my finest moment but no one got hurt, least of all the Dodge Coronet which was heavier than an Abrams Tank. And it sported ribbed red leather bucket seats. Front & back. I miss that car.

So imagine my dismay when returning home from LAX, with my oldest daughter in tow, and she blurted out..

"Dad, I think you just ran a red light. I saw the camera go off."

"DOH!!!"

The consequences of that momentary, literally a split of a split second, are still haunting me. 

In addition to wasting half an afternoon at a Santa Monica Courthouse, where I was chided by former LA Mayor James Hahn (now a traffic judge adjudicating overdue parking meters), I was forced to attend Traffic School. 

Attend might be a bit of misnomer. When I was nabbed doing 51 in a 50 mph zone back in 1993, I literally did have to sit in a classroom. There, I sat with 25 other poor souls listening to a series of overly ambitious but under-talented stand up comedians, plying their wares while gussying up the DMV driver's manual. 

Note to traffic school operators: Comedy and Remedial Driver's Education do not go together. 

Belly dancers could possibly make it more palatable.

Mercifully, in 2024, the entire miserable process can be done online. Thank you intrusive technology and Coronavirus. So what once took 8 hours now only takes 4. But make no mistake it's still a hellish and childish experience worthy of nothing. 

Moreover, with my time on terra firma coming to a close, it was a painful waste of 4 hours that could have been better spent on my Peloton. Opening up my hip flexors on a yoga mat. Or toying with scammers on Facebook who think I'm handsome and interesting and want me to send them a Friend Request.

To give you an idea of exactly how wasteful, I wisely took a screen grab of the type of nonsense put forth by the Cheap Easy Fast team of driving experts. Behold...

Tedious, right? 

Even more tedious than my work at PayPal. But at least at PP,  I was handsomely paid. Mostly for writing done by ChatGPT.

Shhhh! 

The DNC should be DNQ

I spend a lot of time and effort elucidating the piss poor nature of the GOP. But make no mistake, the Democrats are just as bad. 

Possibly worse. 

Before I begin to dissect the appropriately-represented party, let me state that I come from a long line of Democrats/progressives. My mother's family were working class laborers in Scotland. And though I know little of their political background, I think it's safe to say they had a healthy and colorful disdain for anyone who had enough money to heat every room in the house. 

They did not.

My father's lineage is equally telling. My paternal grandparents came from Eastern Europe, in a borderless region near Lithuania/Belarus/Ukraine. They too were uneducated. And slaved for the man. When my grandmother came over and settled in the Bronx, she was a shop steward for the garment workers and had very, what could only be termed, Bolshevik leanings, which in those days meant fighting for better wages, working conditions and a Ladies Bathroom.

I was a registered Democrat. That is until I started seeing their inherent fecklessness. Nowhere is that more apparent than in 2024.

Today, they find themselves in danger of losing the Senate. Not being able to hold onto the House. And several points behind in the most crucial presidential election. Ever.

They're behind, to a candidate who is also a convicted felon. Who is also facing 54 other charges in three separate indictments. A man who owes half a billion dollars in civil judgments. Who has been impeached twice. Who engineered the demise of Roe v. Wade. And has been captured on videotape proclaiming his right to grab pussy!

In short, the worst political leader to ever set foot on this planet, with the possible exception of the failed Teutonic art student and his questionable leather-clad sexual proclivities.

Making the matters worse is an astounding inability to message, the Democrat incumbent president has a track record most candidates would kill for:

* Unemployment is at record lows

* Manufacturing gains are at record highs

* the stock market (people's 401K plans) have skyrocketed over the last 4 years

* inflation -- a worldwide issue -- has been tamed

* people are no longer dying by the millions from COVID

* our armed forces are no longer at war

*  infrastructure is being rebuilt thanks to bipartisan legislation

* GDP growth is on track

* Putin is being rebuked

* and, President Biden, unlike his opponent, has NOT threatened to be a DICTATOR on Day One

Democrats have figured out the governing part of the equation. 

But when it comes to packaging and marketing, they seem to have gotten their playbook from the same genii responsible for this...

We're fucked.

That time we almost went to band camp

Right now, as you're reading this, some young (they're all young) NYC art director or copywriter or content creator is busy packing a suitcase full of white Capri pants and overpriced Fedoras for a big trip to France next week. 

Not just France, Cannes. Go ahead try to say that out loud without sounding like a pretentious snot.

You can't. 

I can't and I've been writing  -- whining -- about the place ever since I learned my partner and I were disinvited to go there in the late 90's, where surely we might have won a trinket or two. Which would hardly have made up for the permanent damage that voyage would have been done to my liver.

On the other hand I'm glad I didn't go, because I'm a terrible flyer (still). Moreover, I would have been forced to spend inordinate time with the same agency brass ass who wanted us disinvited. I've never been good hiding my I'm-disgusted-with-you Face.

Nevertheless, it would have been an opportunity to revel in the world's greatest advertising never seen by the world. Mostly because it came from Brazil. And even more mostly, because it never ran.

And while I'm by no means an ad nerd -- you'd know if you were-- it still would've been fun.

But that was close to 30 years ago. Before Martin Sorrell and gang got on the bogus ad tech train. Aided and abetted the demise of print advertising. Fired anyone over 50. Then 40. Then 37.5. And then stripped the agencies for every last thin dime they could squeeze from the joints. 

And they never fixed the copy machine. Never.

But now, I have to ask, what are they celebrating? What are they awarding? And who even cares?

Silver-worthy Subject Lines?

Gold-worthy Banner Ads?

Titanium-worthy Referral Cards?

"The Lion for Best CTA under 19 characters goes to 'Buy it Fuckface', let's bring back the team from Brazil for their 23rd Lion."

I could go on about the pathetic devolvement of our once-thriving industry. But as more evidence of my personal growth, I've decided to go another direction. Towards the light. A very bright light that gives me hope for the business, the same business my daughters have decided to pursue.

I miss work like this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_CbPljOAEQU&t=2s

You know that last word should have been Damnit!!!!

The Teflon™ has been broken

I ruined my favorite non-stick saute pan. And I did it in the most glorious fashion. 

Don't know where you were Thursday afternoon, but I was at home about to retreat to my garage to lift some weights when I unexpectedly heard the "the jury has reached a verdict." I immediately ran to the living room to turn on the TV, which is no longer a simple operation. One has to power up the TV, find the appropriate app, and then sift through a bunch of prompts to get a live feed from MSNBC. 

Though in hindsight and knowing what the results were, it would've been more amusing to watch the crestfallen "Journalists" at Fox or NewsMax. 

Ari Melber informed the viewers that it would take 30 minutes for the jury to fill out the forms and take their seats back in the courtroom. Those 30 minutes felt like the 32 hours we waited for the birth of my first child. 

And again, I was given no epidural.

Melber and Weissman reiterated the point that if the jury came back with just one conviction, out of a possible 34, it would be a victory. An inflection point in American history. 

When the verdicts came in it wasn't just one conviction. The onscreen infographic kept flipping and flipping and flipping, like a ticket tabulator at an old NYC deli, "Now serving justice to number 34. NUMBER THIRTY FOUR."

And with that and a sudden surge of adrenalin, dopamine and caffeine, I opened a kitchen cabinet grabbed a heavy duty Calphalon 1 quart saucepan as well as my favorite aforementioned saute frying pan, and ran to the sidewalk. 

There, fueled by a rage that been been building in me since 2015, when this orange menace brought his particular brand of misogyny, ignorance and xenophobia to America, I let loose with a fury of pot-banging the likes of which had not been heard since the turn of the millennium.  

The sturdy Calphalon pan, which could easily challenge Apple's hydraulic crushing machine, remained unscathed. 

The flat teflon coated saucepan is no longer flat. And now sports a concave or convex (depending on which side you're looking at) surface that has rendered it useless. But it will make a funny family heirloom should my daughters ever decide to procreate.

"Your crazy grandfather did this when he found out Ex Precedent Shitgibbon was found guilty on all 34 charges. He wanted you have this and his wisdom teeth that he had pulled in 2007. Don't ask."

Following this micro-burst of accountability that felt as glorious as a late summer afternoon Manhattan thundershower, I was asked by someone on social media, "what happens next?" 

I have no clue.

But I do know this: If the DNC can't beat a convicted felon and the GOP elects a convicted felon, we as America deserve the awful fate we have coming to us. And it will be a very long time before any of us are celebrating ever again.

Begging the question, how am I going to make my salmon tonight? 

"We go from pigeon pose right into backward lizard."

According to my doctor there is only so much Tylenol or Advil a body can take. In addition to building up a tolerance for the stuff, it's generally not good for the liver and kidneys, which, in my case, has already take enough abuse.

While we're on the topic of pain medication, I'm now kicking myself in the pants for throwing out my late uncle's secret stash of morphine to ease the daily old man aches. Those tiny blue heroin-adjacent pills scared the hell out of me.

Of course if I could kick myself in the pants, I probably wouldn't be diving head first into the Peloton Beginner's Yoga program. 

But I can't, so I am.

It may be too early in the morning for uncomfortable imagery, but I'm no stranger to Yoga. In fact, fifteen years and fifty pounds ago, I embarked on Power Yoga as part of the Tony Horton's P90X. I worked that program faithfully for three straight months and the only thing I lost was a hundred bucks and some gym shorts that split in two when I attempted the same.

Suffice it to say Yoga is not the stocky, or even the formerly-stocky, person's friend. 

This is best illustrated by the late Chris Farley...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BYB3Fx0a8-4

I came to enjoy the Tony Horton Power Yoga, if only for the respite from the rigorous parts of the regimen which involved Burpees, Leg Lifts and Chin Ups. The pull up bar, which I cleverly fashioned from 1inch thick steel piping material  is also a known foe of the overfed.

I also came to appreciate Tony's no nonsense approach to the benefits of Yoga. As well as his instructive method. 

I'm not a particularly woo-woo or crunchy kind of guy. I'm from NYC and upstate New York. Hence much of the "wisdom" being imparted by the Peloton teachers tends to go over my head. 

Or stick in my craw.

"Allow the oxygen to come into your lungs and all the way down to your quads."

"Bring in the light of the stars into your soul."

"Hold the stretch and feel all of its grace."

Yeah, right.

Nevertheless, he persisted. 

I'm staying with it. Not because I enjoy it. There's really nothing enjoyable about contorting one's body into shapes and positions that would be difficult for even the stretchiest of octopi. The reward comes later, or so I'm told by Ms. Muse who stands 5'9" tall and almost all of it leg. She's a natural at this stuff. And never lets me forget it.

But as I discovered late in life, it's always best to get out of one's comfort zone. As I have also discovered, when it comes to yoga, I don't have a comfort zone. 

Yet.

Namaste.