Hallelujah!!!

My neighborhood is changing. Seemingly all at once.

A couple of weeks ago I told you about the hoarder house up the block. It was something right out of a reality TV show. In a neighborhood of multi-million dollar homes  (only because of our convenient Westside location) it was the residential equivalent of a landfill.

In fact the workers who were tasked to clean up on the house after it had been foreclosed and the older couple who had been "living" there had been evicted, told me, "I've been foreclosing on dumpy houses for more than 25 years, this one was by far the worst I have ever seen. I still can't get the smell out of my nostrils."

They invited me in to see the cleaned up version. I passed.

A few doors down, in the more habitable section of Le Bourget Ave. -- named after the airport where famous antisemite/pilot Charles Lindbergh landed the Spirit of St. Louis -- another young couple just moved out in search of larger space for their growing family. I didn't know them, but loved seeing them walk their toddlers up and down the street.

Next door to them, there was an elderly couple, I assume elderly, truth is they could be my age. I have trouble with this when I see people who could be 66 (like me) but because of their sedentary nature, appear to be 20 years older. I suspect someone passed away and the house appears to be empty.

Finally, my next door neighbor, the ones with the big dog that had started barking at all hours of the night, are moving out. The house, a beautiful two story Spanish house, has been listed and soon moving trucks will be arriving. 

Naturally I'm thrilled.

If you'd like to be my next door neighbor, I'm happy to provide details. That is if you're quiet, don't have any barking dogs and wont trim the one tree with heavy foliage that permits me to enter my backyard jacuzzi in my Rich Siegel Birthday Suit.

I won't be popping any champagne however, until the nocturnal, fireworks-firing, power tool-abusing, fabulously-dysfunctional folks on Motor Ave -- the street behind us -- bug out. 

They, and their angry German Shepherd, that has been barking non-stop since  1:37 AM, October 13, 2015. 

I'm saving a bottle of Dom for that.

The Shame Chronicles

I'm not a big Jennifer Coolidge fan. Perhaps because I haven't watched White Lotus. Or perhaps it's because every time I turn on the radio I have to listen to her hawking a credit card. Not even sure which one it is, but I do know they are a client of TBWA Chiat/Day, my beloved alma mater.

So I'll refrain from any criticism. 

Though I will gladly dish out kudos to the clever writer who, while hawking double cash back, sneaked by legal, slid under the nose of the client, and managed to get Jennifer to say, "I'm double dating, double dipping, double header, double whammy..."

There's enough sexual innuendo from Stifler's mom for two commercials.

Speaking of sexual innuendo, I was chatting with some old copywriters, old being 40 years and up. We were talking about the beginnings of our less than prestigious careers as professional word pimps and how we each had the option to foray into the lurid world of pornography.

I remembered the time that I was so desperate to escape Recruitment Advertising that I went for an interview as a Copy Editor at Hustler, in the big green curvy building near Wilshire and La Cienega. 

The money was good but the path, not so much. And as you might expect the inside of the building was distinctively shabby. Dirty carpets, thick clouds of cigarette smoke in the hallways, and employees who looked like they had been up all night fine tuning the Chester the Molester cartoons...

"Can Chester own a petting zoo?"

Thankfully, that went nowhere. That is until at my first real advertising agency job as a junior writer, one of the older staffers pulled me aside in the stat room with a proposal. Mind you, this was the late 80's and the not-so-immaculate conception of porn rentals.

"You've seen these boxes at video stores right? And the two to three paragraphs of copy they put on the back. Well somebody has to write that stuff. That somebody could be you. I'll give you $250 a pop if you're up for it."

That was the pitch. In hindsight, I'm sure he was clearing $500 a box and just farming it out to underpaid yet ambitious junior copywriters. He stopped giving me assignments after my first attempt, when I used the word throbbing three times in one sentence.

But the best tale belongs to one of my friends who was freelancing and had landed a gig at playboy.tv.

According to the brief and because they were being outflanked on the hardcore end of the spectrum, Playboy wanted to let their customers know that their signature soft core airbrushed beauties were now engaging in more "activities."

To accomplish said feat, my talented writer friend (Porn Name: Smoky Mountain) decided to fall back on a time tested advertising technique that still rules above all in the retail world -- The Sunburst. Placed strategically over the Naughty Parts.

To wit, he bravely submitted this and others which I cannot display on this family friendly blog:

He was promptly let go and didn't get paid. 

Nosetramus predicts (misspelling intentional)

"Rich, you should be a political strategist," so says my friend Jim, who was visiting for the weekend, during one of our many world-solving discussions.

What brought on such praise other than the fact that I had introduced him to my local Homestate Cafe, home of the best damn brisket tacos north of El Paso. 

I had simply laid out my scenario for the failing Trump campaign, now floundering and considering a retreat from the September 10 debate with the woman who possesses twice his IQ.

First there's the pressing issue of Abortion.

Not for women. It's abundantly clear that, according to the GOP, women have no right of body sovereignty. Nor any right to determine what they can and can't do as far as fate. 

Men, on the other other have every right to direct their future. And it is also abundantly clear that the Convicted Felon/Republican Presidential Candidate will abort the vice presidential campaign of Jethro T CouchDefiler.

Vance will be out. (He won't be fired and there won't be any mea culpa on the part of the Orange Menace, they will concoct a plausible reason why he must step aside. That's how politicians roll.)

I would bet serious money or the remaining value on my 2015 Audi S5 that the hillbilly will be crying into a half emptied jug of Ohio-brewed moonshine.

In his place, and wearing high heels, will step Nimaratta Haley, sometimes called Nikki. Sometimes called Nancy Pelosi by the Challenged One. 

I know she has previously said she wouldn't consider the offer. But Nikki has said a lot of things she never meant. Again, that's what politicians do. On both sides of the aisle. He will dangle that offer in front of her and she will snap that up like a fat guy at a Golden Corral looking at the last 2 chicken wings in the buffet line.

If she happens to demure. He will offer her a Faustian deal.

Because here's the truth -- he doesn't want the job. He wants to step into the office and pardon himself, thereby escaping any accountability and a lifetime of soggy prison lasagna.

"Can I get any ketchup?"

Once he is off the hook and beyond the reach of the law, I believe he will gladly hand her the reins of power. 

When the Democrats raise bloody hell, and make no mistake they will, he will simply claim that the precedent was set when Uncle Joe stepped aside and passed the torch onto Kamala. 

In a month's time following Trump's only peaceful transfer of power, the whole sordid affair will vanish. And then the GOP can get back to their Neanderthal agenda of a federal abortion ban, rescinding marriage rights for gay people, burning books, and passing out AR 15's to every man, woman and child in America. 

Well, just the white Christian ones.

PS. You heard it here first.

You're what?

They're undecided. I'm confused.

How does anyone in their right minds reach this point, a mere 75 days away from the most important election in our lifetime, and still not know which way to pull the lever?

Many presidential elections often come down to "choosing the lesser of two evils." 

This is not that case. 

There is one evil, a man convicted of 34 state charges. He was also impeached twice. Found civilly liable for a case of sexual assault. Fined $25 million for running a scam university. And a host of other reprehensible behaviors that qualify him for the Most Evil "Man" on Planet Earth. 

The other candidate is 180 degrees from evil. 

You may disagree with some of her political stances, but you can't legitimately argue she's evil. Moreover she just picked a running mate who in addition to being a veteran and a school teacher, is also the father to a 17 year old son who we just learned is neurodivergent.

In the past few days, we've seen supporters of the Evil Candidate, publicly mock and shame that son who could not contain the pride and love he has for his father with the tearful outburst, "That's my Dad!"

My two daughters see some of my shoe choices, roll their eyes and say the same thing, but never in the same tone of voice.

The point is, these are two different camps of people. Clearly I'm in the second camp. And though I can't comprehend people in the first camp willing to put a lying, ignorant grifter back in the White House, I do understand the attraction. Some folks are attracted to the dark side of human nature. 

The same kind of people who like gory movies, or even snuff films. They're drawn to Mixed Martial Arts and drool at the possibility of seeing a knockout. Or a limb twisted into unnatural angles. They worship strength, or more accurately, the blustery, blowhard illusion of strength. 

Oddly enough, these are the same people who profess to follow Jesus.

In short, the two candidates are as different as a three week old puppy and and angry porcupine.

So how does one land in the Undecided Camp? Have their moral compasses been demagnetized? Have their cerebrums been detached from the cerebellums? Are they suffering from some kind of Sybil Syndrome? 

I feel sorry for the political operatives/strategists/planners, in both camps, who will be staying up late at night, poring through the mined data, and attempting to come up with an approach that will sway the stubbornly unswayable.

Frankly, that's going to harder than selling Infiniti automobiles. 

Dogs are great, people are Hell

I don't own a dog. I have a dog. 

I know that's a difference without distinction but word choice still matters. At least to me. Frankly, I'm not sure what matters to other people these days. 

There seems to be less and less consensus or agreed upon principles that constitute our social contract.

Since I have a dog, Lucy, named after her ginger-hued hair, I also have responsibility. Primarily to Lucy. I feed her the same food she was fed at the Shop and Adopt Shelter where we got her 7 years ago. She was very skittish and had a nervous stomach, so I thought it best to stick with the brand she liked. And made her healthy.

I give Lucy water. Sometimes when I forget or am caught up in my 4-5 daily workouts, she will plop herself down next to the empty water bowl. Not subtle but an effective way of saying, "Put some damn H-Two-O in the bowl."

And I walk her. A lot. So much so that my late afternoon 3.5 mile jaunts are starting to wear her out and require multiple slow-down-old-man stops. Just as well, since my right hip, the original one not the titanium gizmo on the left side, is due for a rotation and balance.

In short, I take care of Lucy. Because I love her. And because in a figurative way, she takes care of me.

I wish I could say the same for my neighbors. 

I won't go into too many details about my ongoing battle of nerves with my next door neighbor, suffice to say that even after reluctantly, but politely, asking her to refrain from letting her dog out at 2 or 3 or 4 o'clock in the morning, she does. 

And he wastes no times barking at the possums. Or rats. And consequently awakens me from a deep REM sleep, which undoubtedly included a randy dream about Charlize Theron.

Did I mention I asked politely? Which is not always easy for me. Particularly knowing she's a Trumpster. And even more so, because despite the forced smile and sheen of neighborliness, she promptly and flagrantly ignored my call for common courtesy.

And so I did what many do in situations like this. I hauled my ass over to NextDoor. And solicited some advice.

I don't know where these people come from but it most certainly isn't Planet Earth.

Suzie Sunshine (not her real name): I had a neighbor do something terribly loud and disruptive daily in the wee hours of the morning. Pleading with her several times didn't help, so I placed a bouquet of flowers with a thank-you-card on her doorstep, explaining that I need my beauty sleep. It worked! You catch more flies with honey than vinegar. Best of luck, and let us know how that turned out, would you?

Oh wait it gets better.

Saccharin Sharon (also not her real name): her dog needs to go out in the middle of the night and barks incessantly, keeping you awake. take her dog out at 11 with yours so it does not have to go out in the middle of the night and bark incessantly. Treat her with kindness rather than with spite.

And finally.

Cloying Chloe (possibly her real name): I like Sharon's idea. However you might try asking her if she would like to walk WITH you.. who knows maybe she will think of you as a frieND instead of that guy next door..it's worth a try.

All of these well-intentioned suggestions are so off-brand for me. My response was decidedly on brand...

Neighhorhood Curmudgeon: Maybe I should go over and offer to do her dishes too? I don't need new friends, especially proven inconsiderate right wingnuts, I just need some damn peace and quiet.

Rosemary's Caveman

 

On slow nights when Ms. Muse and I are not taking dance lessons in Pasadena or closing down the Buc in bucolic, but sometimes rollicking, Sierra Madre, we will stream a movie. Can't say I'm hep to all the new releases coming out, but have always considered myself up to snuff on movies of my era.

Turns out I was wrong. 

When she found out I had never seen Rosemary's Baby, the decision of what to watch that night had instantly been made. It should be noted I've never been a fan of horror movies. But I do fancy films that have dark undercurrents, especially when they are related to Satan and/or religion. 

There's something intriguing about tales of evil and their attribution to some god-like figure who rules the Underworld. I can't figure out how the mapless, goat-herders of 3000 years ago squared the circle when they claimed God was the creator and Master of All. And yet somehow he is in a constant battle with Lucifer/Beelzebub/ Baphomet, et al. Who, apparently he cannot slay with exhalation of of his lordly omnipotent nostrils.

Nevertheless, the movie is considered a classic and it was directed by fellow landsman Roman Polanski. So we gave it a shot.

And I actually found it interesting. The acting was a bit broad, yeah I'm looking at you Ruth Gordon, but the movie had slyly captured the feel and grit of NYC in the 60s/70s. I particularly enjoyed the non-linear psychotic dream sequences, which were both freaky and had a certain student film motif about them.

As the end credits rolled, I found myself pleasantly surprised. I don't know why it had taken me that long to sit down and cross this one off my must-see movies list. But I did. And then quickly found myself checking out Polanski's filmography, where I discovered he had also directed The Ninth Gate. 

Another satanic movie that I had seen a long time ago. It starred Johnny Depp, the pretentious self important actor/spokesperson for Savage cologne. According to Rotten Tomatoes, it has a 43% rating. 

Not good.

That got me wondering. How, I wondered, could an accomplished film director who gave us iconic films like Rosemary's Baby, The Pianist, and Chinatown, put out a such drek.

Then I had a pre-milleneum flashback. And the time our client, homestore.com, flush with embezzled cash from their shareholders, commanded us to make a 60-second Super Bowl epic spot with Joe Pytka. Literally. 

"If you want to make your stupid little documentary about people living in weird homes, you've got to give us something we can get buzz about."

And so we did. 

I don't blame Pytka at all, but it was not his best work. Mostly because it was not ours. The script sucked. And was uneven. And contrived, at best.

Thankfully, no one saw it. Or will remember it.

Not even the Internet.

Maybe the 8 sad people who still read Ad Age. 

He. Is. Not. Human.

I don't know how he does it. But he does. And for that I must give credit.

I've said it before and I'll say it again, "There isn't a day that goes by when I don't hate him more than I did on the day before."

And this has been true since he descended down his fake gold-plated escalator in what looked like a Pat Paulson Run for President Stunt way back in 2015, when if you'll remember this country was on the distinctively right track. 

Just not the track. Many racist fuckknuckles in this country couldn't wait the 'white the ship.'

Mind you escalating hatred for him comes after so, so, so many incidents: 

1. "Very. Fine. People." (Wagging his tiny vulgarian finger.)

2. "I don't see why Russia would interfere."

3. "Come on black people, vote for me, what have you got to lose?"

4. "It's gonna be wild!"

5. "I need you to find me 11,780 votes."

And that's just off the top of my over-caffeinated/acetiminophen-addled head. Last week, in another rambling campaign "news conference" -- a weak attempt to stem the Harris/Walz momentum -- our demented former president said the following, on camera, in front of the media:

He said this while referring to Miriam Adelson, the gold digging, bleach blond wife of billionaire and overzealous Zionist Sheldon Adelson, after she had donated a huge sum of money to the Trump Campaign.

My father and my uncle both served in the US army. Neither saw combat as many of the "Suckers" and "Losers" (a phrase coined by Trump according to his former Chief of Staff and 4 star General John Kelly), but they served. 

I simply can't imagine how family members of service people who gave their all in defense of this country now feel their service and Medal of Honor was devalued by this hateful, ignorant, money grubbing jackwagon. 

Even more puzzling is how the folks who are enlisted now and stand at the front lines all over the world, ready to defend Americans, including this worthless twatwaffle, will be pulling the lever for him on November 5th? 

My mind is sufficiently blown. Like the sun rising in the east, the only thing I am sure of is that he will say or do something more repulsive tomorrow.  

The unreal but very real tale of Sweet Bobby

I apologize for last week's spotty postings of R17. I was lodged in the Sierras at 7000 feet above sea level and in apparent dead zone for the vaunted AT&T coverage. 

Actually, lodged is a misnomer and an obscenely generous way of describing sleeping on rocks, peeing in the bushes and rigging up make shift coffee maker because I failed to bring all the right camping equipment.

So gone are my days in a tent that on the way out of the Upper Gray's Meadow campground, near the Onion Valley Trail, we tossed our old and failing Coleman Evanston 8 Man (pfffft) Tent in the fucking dumpster. If I ever venture into the woods again it will be in a top of the line motorized camper van. 

One with a damn Bidet.

But you don't come to these pages to hear me gripe. Ooops, there's a moment of sad introspection. OK, well today is different.

On the 4 & 1/2 hour drive up to the Trumpian hinterlands of Inyokern County, gateway to Mammoth Mountain as well as Yosemite, my daughter suggested we listen to a podcast. I've never been a podcast person, until Ms. Muse started me on a regular diet of the ReWatchables (an infinitely listenable chat with three cinephiles including the brilliant Bill Simmons.) And an 8 part series called the Wedding Scammers, which I reviewed here several weeks ago.

Apparently the Freudian crabapple has not fallen far from the tree, because my youngest daughter is equally fascinated by the scamming world. And the mysterious manner with which one person can influence and manipulate another seemingly intelligent person. 

In this case, to utter psychological Hell. 

I wont give too much away, but the story concerns a bright successful woman in her early thirties who is employed as a DJ at one of London's hipper radio stations. In the beginning episodes you can feel her youthful energy and feel the potential of a life, as yet fully unlived.

By the end, a full 11 years later, you can also hear how all that vibrancy has been drained out of her, by a catfishing love story where there was no love.

It is heartbreaking. And jaw dropping.

If you get a chance, listen to Sweet Bobby by Tortoise Media. It is relevant in so many ways. Particularly with an upcoming election that can literally determine the fate of mankind. But also as a cautionary tale on the ills of social media. 

As much I didn't like drinking chunky style black coffee and waking up with the imprint of a billion year old sedimentary rock permanently embossed on my back, it was great to take a 4 day respite from the news and the infinite doomscrolling.  

Enjoy.

Weak in the news today

I wasn't planning to write about Death twice in one week. But as my Bubby (aka, my 85 year old grief therapist who comes to my house twice a month) often says, "We makes plans, God laughs."

I didn't want to upset her -- old Jews don't like to hear younger Jews talking about their atheism -- so I just laughed.

Needless to say, my plans went awry when I heard the shocking news that Jeff Weakley had suddenly and unexpectedly passed away. 

Jeff was a mainstay in the Los Angeles Freelance Copywriter community. I know he was on staff somewhere, but the times I ran into him were always at a different agency. Sometimes Chiat, sometimes Team One, sometimes even Y&R in Irvine.

Because of his Southern California omnipresence, his loss was felt far and wide. Like my good friend Greg Collins, he was from the Volunteer state. And like Greg, always greeted you with a smile, a laugh, or an aside that made the years of not seeing him, vanish instantly.

His warmth was instant. 

 

Also like Greg, he was immensely talented. And defied the presumptions coastal leftists like myself have made about people from Tennessee and the obligatory, "they got no foot coverin's" jokes that sprang to mind.

Like most copywriters, Jeff also had a handful of screenplays in his top drawer. Unlike most copywriters, Jeff saw the weather vanes in the ad world turning and rather than rejecting that trend, he embraced it. And schooled himself in all manner of digital/AI/ data mining.

So complete was his deep dive, he even took on a new moniker: Les Guessing, an ode to knowing the facts and making decisions based on the data.

Years ago he reached out to me and asked for permission (Who does that?) to use my likeness and the many years of content found on these very pages for a little experiment. He also asked for a photo of me with hair and who was I to deny him that?

I don't know what to make of it, but you can see it here: http://www.shartificialintelligence.com/

My heart goes out to Jeff's family and in particular his beautiful young daughter. My thoughts are with her and with anyone who still hasn't recognized that life is so incredibly short. 

May Jeff's memory be a blessing.

 

Nooks, crannies and fine chianti

Several weeks ago, I was contacted to work on a small assignment. NDA and professional discretion prevent me from saying too much about it. But I can reveal it was a tagline exploration. 

Of the hundreds of taglines explored, one of mine made its way to the contender list. But then lost because I used a word not often seen in the dumbed down vernacular of the day. Not at all surprising considering  75 million Americans plan to vote for a presidential candidate who talks about man-eating sharks, cancer causing windmills and the many fine attributes of fictional serial killer, Hannibal Lecter.

He's also a convicted felon.

Lesson: Never overestimate the intelligence of the American people. 

This all came home to me the other day when I went to my local Pavilion's supermarket to drop $400 for groceries. Those same 75 million Americans believe the shark-fearing man has a plan to lower the prices for groceries, which rose following the worldwide pandemic. 

He doesn't have a plan other than to tell you, "Prices will come down, because CEOs who run supermarkets are afraid of me."

Yeah, OK, Grandpa Ramblemouth.

Back to supermarket. As I was nostalgically walking down the aisle and remembering days past when I ate bread, loved bread, now I only dream of it, I walked by and spied a package of Thomas' English Muffins. There, right on the package, was a testament to the power of branding.

See if you can spot it:

That's right. I'm talking about the nooks. And the crannies. I'm talking about the nooks and the crannies.

If you're anything like me, not the bread denying weight-obsessed waif I've become, but the casual observer of life's little oddities, you know that when you hear the words "nooks and crannies" you immediately think of Thomas' English Muffins. 

Conversely, when you hear the words Thomas' English Muffins, you immediately picture a perfectly measure pat of Irish salted butter dripping across that rough tableau of warmly toasted nooks and/or crannies.

I'm no planner or strategist, but my spidey sense tells me that when the genii at Thomas' made that move and hung their pastry chef hat on those words, the average American consumer (again, never to be overestimated) had no idea what a nook was nor had they ever associated it with a cranny.

Or an English Muffin.

My point: Unconventional wisdom beats conventional wisdom (AI and Data mining) every day of the week, twice on Sundays, the best day to enjoy a Thomas English Muffin.

Rest in Peace

It's Tuesday morning as you read this. It's Saturday morning as I write this. 

And if all goes according to plan, meaning we've packed the Acura to the gills, remembered all the camping accoutrements, and secured the same sites at Upper Grey's Meadow that we have been visiting year in and year out for the past two decades, it also means the final remains of Deb, my late wife of 29 years, have been laid to rest.

Here's a map to set your bearings straight.

My bearings are all discombobulated at the moment. 

Deb and I both come from a long line of Jewish traditionalists. Burial, not cremation. A shortened shiva, not the week long agony. And a headstone, perhaps even one with a witticism (Deb's father Bob had his headstone inscribed with the telling footnote, "No onions, please.")

In other words, this ash-spreading business is/was all new to me. But as my grief therapist -- my Bubby, as I refer to her -- says, "You're doing a mitzvah, you're fulfilling Deb's last wishes."

This meadow, in the picture above, is hardly unique. You can find thousand like it in the Sierras. It overlooks Rt. 395, America's Most Scenic Highway and is bookended on the other side by Nevada's White Mountains. 

The picture hardly does it justice, as it sits at 7000 feet above sea level. Just beyond the ridge on the right side of the picture and in the valley below, you can see the infamous Manzanar Internment Camp. Another testament to America's xenophobia.

But just as the sun goes down and the light takes on a purplish hue, the meadow takes on a magical feel. 

It is quiet. It is surreal. And the warm wind that comes up from the valley feels like velvet across your bare arms and legs. Every year we visited, we made twilight visits with our cocktails, pub cheese and a handful of stories of our kid's latest adventures/foibles/verbal gems.

One year, actually many years ago, when Deb was healthy, and while Paul was telling a story about one of his weird 2nd grade students or Colin was emitting gas and trying to blame it on me, she leaned over to me and whispered, "This is my Happy Place, Rich. This is where I'd like to be laid to rest."

I never thought that day would come. 

And now it has. 

Even 2 &1/2 years later it all seems so unreal. 

Tonight I will drink a glass of Lillet (Deb's drink of choice) in her honor. Followed quickly by a few shots of Bulleit Rye Whiskey to get that excessive sweetness out of my mouth.  But most of all, I will take inventory of my life savor the gratefulness for all the laughter, love and kindness she has brought into our lives.

Good night, Deb.

All the news that's fit to hide.

I come by my love of newspapers in a very organic way. As a young boy, I delivered the newspapers. And, in time, had not one route, but two.

I remember my father coming to me, shortly after we had moved into the not-so-welcoming suburbs and the somewhat backward town of Suffern, NY, and saying the local kid who had been delivering the Rockland Journal News was giving up his route.

"You should apply for the job and get yourself some extra spending money."

"But then you won't have me to mow the lawn, pick up the leaves, take out the trash, and clean out the garage," I countered.

"Pfffft, that's funny. You're funny Richie."

I came from a family of moonlighters. My father waited tables at several restaurants, grabbing shifts at different times of the day so he could go to night school. My grandfather drove a cab, one with a medallion and one without, just to make ends meet. When I came to advertising and entered the freelance world, I learned the art of double-dipping. Even triple-dipping.

Not long after I gave up my two newspaper delivery routes, I went to work in the city with my father at his office in South Chelsea, which is now the toney High Line area of southwest Manhattan. On my walk from the heroin shooting gallery also known as the Port Authority building on 42nd street, to the not-so-glitzy office/industrial cable spool warehouse on 15th, I must have passed 17 news stands.

If I didn't pick up a newspaper in the morning, I had my choice of all the NYC rags (Post, Daily News and the old Grey Lady) on the Shortline bus back to Suffern. They were scattered about every seat. It was best not to think of the travails each paper had gone through and just pick the one that appeared to have been less man-handled.

In college, I had two roommates who were working journalists, Len B. and the late John Bonfatti. Both always came home from work with hot off the press edition of the Syracuse Post Standard, including tales of how the Syracuse Men's basketball team dismembered less-talented squads like St. Bonaventure or Sienna or Le Moyne. 

I've walked you down this long road to emphasize the ubiquity newspapers have played in my life. But that road has reached a Dead End.

In 2024, if you're not willing to shell out $100 a week -- or some other ungodly number that rivals the skyrocketing price of bacon --for home delivery, you simply CANNOT purchase a newspaper.

They can't be found.

Not at a Starbucks.

Not at a liquor store.

Not at a 7-11.  ("No newspapers, sir, but we still have hot dogs on the rollers from last Wednesday.") 

While my knowledge of current events is quite (immodestly) robust, my take on ancient history is lacking at best. If it comes as a category on Jeopardy, I usually take that as a cue to relieve my bladder. 

Suffice it to say that while promiscuity, corruption and maybe even the introduction of hummus may have contributed to the fall of the Roman Empire, I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest the decline in the availability of the newspaper and the inverse rise of an uninformed populace, will be the downfall of the American Experiment.

That and Elon Musk.  

Mara Largo

According to Economic Times and Yahoo News, our esteemed ex-president/current felon has raised membership fees at Mara Lago, the highly overrated flea bag hotel where the Atlantic meets the border of New Germany.

Perhaps in an effort to sell access to power (should the American people be stupid enough to return this weirdo to office), Grandpa Ramblemouth upped the rates to $1 million. This, for the privilege of enjoying his 24/7 omelette bar, free ketchup and proximity to overly made up silicon queens who believe they're living their best life.

It's a bargain, right?

Perhaps many of you new R17 readers don't know this or have chosen to forget, but there was a time when I thought that I, too, would like to be a member of this prestigious club. And actually reached out to Willy Ruiz, the Mara Lago Club Membership Director to inquire about what would have been the opportunity of a lifetime.

Because of a slew of other things going on, I've chosen to repost those inquiries for your amusement. Suffice it to say, I can no longer afford the price of membership at this now more exclusive joint...

Here then is my extensive correspondence with Willy (in chronological order):

https://roundseventeen.blogspot.com/2019/10/lets-join-golf-club.html

https://roundseventeen.blogspot.com/2019/10/lets-join-golf-club-saga-continues.html

https://roundseventeen.blogspot.com/2019/11/world-class-prestigious-fabulous-doral.html

Adventures in Carlson Park

Believe it or not, there is a 3 Bedroom, 2 bathroom house behind this enormous tree, whose wingspan measures more than 75 feet across, the width of the entire 8,000 square foot lot.

Until recently, there was an older couple, with their cat and 4 dogs, living there. Sometimes it was 3 dogs. And sometimes it was 2. It was a very fluid situation. 

My next door neighbor as well as Ms. Muse, accuse me of being a modern day Edna Kravitz, I'll let you Google that reference. But the truth is I like to think of myself as "environmentally aware." 

And why not? I spend a lot of time at my house. It's my biggest asset, not that I'll ever sell it and see that equity. But it is my best guarantee of never ending up in a Dirty Nursing Home, my worst nightmare.

"Mr. Siegel, try one more sip of pureed broccolini. It's so goooood."

My other nightmare would be to live like the people in this house did. 

I say did, because they were recently evicted after the house changed ownership from a foreclosure. The good news is the couple, a man and woman in their 70's, were relocated to an apartment via social services. At least from what I hear from the new owners who are skinning the house down to the bones.

The bad news is what the new owner found inside, including enough junk to stuff a landfill. Or two. 

The crew of workers (most likely immigrants, you know stealing those primo jobs from eager young Americans) were there for weeks. Hauling off countless trucks, packed to the gills with old refrigerators, dog bowls (maybe even dog carcasses) and ratty couches that even JD Vance would say, "no thanks" to.

I'm glad this eyesore will no longer be.

Am I happy?

Well, happiness, like time, is a construct.

In other news I now have TWO neighbors fond of letting their barking dogs out at 2, 3 or even 4 in the morning. 

Who does that? 

More puzzling was their similar response. 

Let me preface this by saying, if someone came to my door and had an issue with me, my dog or any type of disturbing noise coming from my abode, my initial reaction would be of distress. Followed by a passionate promise that it would NEVER happen again. EVER. Because I am a considerate person.

When it was pointed out to my neighbors, both of them, that I was being rudely awakened at the oddest hours of the morning, I was told, "they're barking at the squirrels, I'll see what I can do."

You'll see what you can do, how fucking generous.

This is why we can't have nice things.

Also, you'll see what I can do...

The RoundSeventeen Radio RoundUp Minute

Sometimes, many times, I just hate Apple. 

I'll tread lightly here as my daughter works for them. Sort of. And to be fair I have a menagerie of their products, including a Mac, a laptop, an iWatch, Airpods, a dozen or so iPods laying around the house, and more. Plus, thanks to their skyrocketing value I've doubled, tripled and quadrupled what money I did sink into their stock. OK, I gave back a little yesterday.

In other words, my hate is tempered. It's more of a beef. And it has to do with iTunes. I miss it. 

Via the purchase of new music, the ripping of all my old CD's and the pirating of songs from the Chiat Day public broadcasting in the 2000 oughts, I had amassed quite a library full of music. And not just Classic Rock one would expect from an old geezer like me. 

I had old timey jazz. Original blues from deep in the heart of Mississippi/Alabama/Louisiana, the Jew Hate Belt. 

I even had some classical music, to go to sleep by. 

Then, with the advent of the iCloud and streaming, it all disappeared. Oh you can tell me how to find all those mp3's by logging into this, downloading that and searching such and such. But I'd have better luck finding a photo of myself when I had hair and could slip into a 32 inch waist pair of dungarees.

As a result, I now find myself listening to music via Spotify or Pandora. Not the subscription-based versions, but the free ones. After all, I have no problem tolerating the occasional radio spot in order to listen to unlimited music any time I choose.

Only, it turns out I do. Because the radio spots I hear on Spotify and Pandora SUCK.

If I may borrow a colloquialism from my old boss and Advertising Hall of Famer, David Lubars (he'd hate that I mentioned his name), these radios spot "suck so bad they also blow."

Or something to that effect.

If you happen to go about your non-purchasing of music the way I do, you know what I'm talking about.

"Hand me that intercom-thingy" says the newly informed shopper at the cashier, adding, "Tide Pods clean 87% better than blah, blah, blah."

It's played so often, Ms. Muse can do a pitch perfect imitation of the over exuberant buyer. BTW, over exuberance seems to be the currency of the realm. 

"Can you read that with more smile?"

"More smile?"

"Keep smiling, I'll tell you when it's too much."

It's not just Tide. It's the entire roster of Spotify/Pandora sponsors who put so little effort into the writing/production/creation of these aural ear maggots, you'd think they believe they can beat potential customers into a purchase by sheer bludgeoning.

How bad are the radio spots? Dead Air, a radio station's worst nightmare, would be better.

Could I, or anyone from the Golden Age of Advertising, do better? At the risk of sounding immodest, I'd bet the equity in my house we could. Sadly, because of my atrocious record keeping and the slew of poorly executed data transfers from one Apple Computer to the next, I can't lay my hands on the hundreds of radio spots I did.

But apparently, I've written about the demise of this one great medium before and found a spot I did create, with the help of the great April Winchell. This was back in the 1990's, during the Internet boom when clients would let you get away with just about everything. And with considerably less smile.

I invite you to enjoy. Or not: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sCFhfnyTPDk

Upside Down

 

Today's world bears little resemblance to the one I recognized two weeks ago. Before Ms. Muse and I set sail for a week in southeastern Alaska, over on the far right of the amended map above. Followed by another week of travelogging our adventure on these very digital pages.

Demagogueic despair has been replaced by old timey American optimism. 

Of course I'm referring to President Joe Biden's generous and America First decision to suspend his race for a second term. And gracefully, turn over the reigns to his highly capable, highly youthful Vice President. Who, just for the record, has more years in public service than either Captain Ouchie Foot or his running mate, Jethro T. Couchdefiler.

Though I'm hesitant to refer to anything these two embarrassing clowns have done, as "public service." 

If it hasn't become apparent to you by now that neither of them have the future of the American Public, particularly women, at heart then I'm afraid nothing will. Including an $83 million judgment against the proud self-admitted "pussy grabber"/pornstar banger.

But something has stuck in my craw.

It's been two weeks since I've had a good political venting, you can be sure something was bound to stick in my craw. And you might assume it was the horrific, shameful, disrespectful, racist and misogynistic showing at last week's NABJ news conference. 

I'm still processing that debacle in my head and wondering what made him think a complete anti-Dale Carnegie approach to winning friends and influencing people would garner more black votes. Or more women votes. Or more human votes.

He couldn't have fared worse if he showed up in a white robe bearing a burning cross.

That's not the event that has me stewing and gasping for logic.

A few days ago, the biggest prisoner swap between the USA and Russia, as well as several allies holding Russian prisoners, was successfully manifested by Joe Biden and the 47th President Kamala Harris. It was by all accounts, even right wingnut media, a staggering feat of diplomacy, timing and determination. 

Securing the release of 4 innocent Americans, from a murderous dictator, is something every American can be proud of and take joy in.

Except one.

No, Grandpa Ramblemouth took the moment and ran in the direction he always runs -- to disgrace. 

Instead of rejoicing in their restoration of freedom, he tried to score political points. For himself. Falsely claiming that he could have secured the deal without paying a price or swapping a prisoner. Perhaps forgetting the time he secured Otto Warmbier from North Korea. By handing over a cool $2 million to his 300 lbs. lover, Kim Jong Un. 

Again, he criticized all those involved, never once expressing any empathy or grace towards the prisoners who suffered under Putin's ("smart, strategic guy who likes me so I like him") iron thumb.

Yes, the world is different than it was two weeks ago. But some things remain constant, including the widely held sentiment: I look forward to living in a world where he no longer does.

 

 

Thursday Photo Funnies (Northern Edition)

This week's episode of Thursday Photo Funnies is a little different. Usually I scour my iPhone in search of "weird" -- that word is getting a lot of airplay as of late, and rightly so because the GOP is so fucking weird -- photos, which admittedly does not take long.

Today however, I'm posting pics taken on our recent cruise into Alaska. These have not been vetted by Ms. Muse, who is currently pre-occupied right now, so I'll take my chances. 

The photo above was snapped at the very north end of the Tracey Arm Inlet. That's the face of North Sawyer Glacier. It was actively calving as we sailed by on a picture perfect day. For reasons unfathomable (particularly to me), it did not rain once on our entire 8 day voyage.

With no further ado...

Before boarding the SS Zaandam, we spent a night in

Vancouver. Try to escape the world of advertising,

"But it keeps dragging me back in."

Vancouver is a beautiful city. With weird intimidating art.

I put dibs on this life raft, just in case things went south.

Zoom in and you will see the Stanley Park Seawall Bike Path.

Quite possibly the most scenic bike path in all of North America.

One day...

Another beautiful sunset, blah, blah, blah.

Doesn't matter where I am, if I see a furry,

I'm taking a picture. 

You can't throw a rotten salmon carcass in Alaska 

without hitting a waterfall.

Or, if you're in Ketchikan, a totem pole.

I got nothing.

Ketchikan is a decidedly "tourist" town. Thankfully we found Fat Stan's,

the most undecidedly tourist bar, filled with

hard drinking Alaskans.

Ms. Muse takes a break and poses with her 

2nd favorite bear.

Our tour guide Casey handed me this plant and said it was edible.

I opted for the Tuna Melt sandwich back aboard the Zaandam.