I'm no billionaire

You don't have to be smart, or even a stable genius, to make money in real estate, you just have to be staked. I know this for a fact. 

My father was not a wealthy man. He was working class. And grew up in the post Depression era. his mother saved string. His father took whatever money was saved by not having to buy new string, and blew it all at the racetrack.

Nevertheless, he made something of himself. Not for nothing but he did  after he spent a year in an Army prison for smoking the reefer in 1947. My father was not your everyday CPA. 

When I moved out to California and started making a life for myself he suggested I get some real estate. Are you kidding, I was barely making ends meet writing shitty copy for help wanted ads in recruitment advertising. That's when he fronted me $30,000 to buy a condominium in the not so desirable souther areas of Culver City.

It was 800 square feet and had 2 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a dining room (more of a nook), a tiny living room, and a kitchen the size of a powder room. You could fit two people in the kitchen but then there wouldn't be any room for a pot roast or a chicken.

I dutifully paid him back because I didn't want that nut hanging over my head. And in a stroke of good fortune the California real estate market obliged me with a huge profit on the condo. I sold it for nearly 3 times what I paid for it. 

I took that profit and bought out my my uncle and his modest home in Palm Springs. It was a way for me to avoid capital gains tax. And for him to have some cash in his pocket for his golden yet-cranky years.

With the miniscule rent he was paying me I was also able to bail out my sister-in-law who had gotten underwater on her townhome. I still rent it to her. At ridiculously under market rates, but I'm glad to be in a position to help her out. 

The point is, real estate been very, very good to me. So to assume that Donald Trump is some kind of business wunderkind is to conflate his success with some kind of plan. Or even a concept of a plan.

Any idiot, including me, can make money in real estate. As the saying goes, "Land, they're not making any more of it."

Just something to keep in mind considering I was fronted $30K in 1990. Ex President Grandpa Ramblemouth was given $400,000,000 by his tax cheating father. And yet he still finds the need to pimp sneakers, bibles, trading cards and shabby books.

OK, maybe the last one doesn't help make my case. I've also got books to sell as well.

  

Thursday Photo Funnies

I can't keep up with other bloggers who post 5 times a week, without fail. I prefer the more civil work (if you can call it that) schedule, the ones chosen by the writers on late night talk shows. The Monday thru Thursday lazy man's regimen of funny business. 

Hopefully, funny.

And even on that curtailed routine, I often run out of gas and must defer to my semi-regular series of photojournalism (if you can call it that.)

So let's get to it before the pain meds (see yesterday's post) kick in and I'm napping in the man cave. 

I suspect this is AI, but a man can dream can't he?

This is some local artwork found on my nightly walk 

to the Jackson Market-- home of the best ciabatta pannini, which

I can't eat anymore.

As noted above, I've eschewed bread-y foods

for more fruits and vegetables, like the ones

I can grow in my garden. 

Worst birthday cake inscription ever, 

compliments of Schatt's bakery in Bishop.

Fortunately, my daughter (Schmabby) has a 

great sense of humor 

and loved it.

Zoom in for the Tusker Beer Logo, a Kenyan beer. 

My oldest daughter spent 5 months there.

For 5 months I couldn't breathe.

Some sample art pieces on exhibit from the Wendt Museum.

They have some very unusual stuff.

I like unusual.

We don't have flying cars yet, but we do have driverless Waymos.

These things still freak me out.

If my Cannondale Super Evo 6 bike had fenders,

I'd want one of these too. 

Yeah, right?

Did I mention I've been doing yoga lately?

Don't bother turning the picture over, it's not me.

I didn't get my daughter's permission to use this photo

but they don't read my blog, so it doesn't matter.

Batter Up

This morning I find myself reaching for the Acetaminophen and the NSAID. Tylenol and Advil, for the pharmaceutically challenged. My local supermarket sells a generic bottle that includes both for "Dual Action Pain Relief."

That's what it says on the bottle and that's what my body craves.

You see last Sunday, we found ourselves on a hike the Arroyo Seco, just south of Pasadena's stately Rose Bowl. The trail was remarkably well kept (Of course, Pasadena, right?). And unlike similar trails through all of Southern California, there were no signs of homeless encampments. 

I'm sorry, unhoused temporary living quarters. Hate to get curmudgeonly about that, maybe it's the lower thoracic region talking. 

At the south end of the Arroyo there are a bunch of little league fields, a skateboard park, horse stables and a batting cage. My eyes lit up when I saw the batting cages, as indicated by the picture above.

It didn't take much prodding to get me in there. I forked over my twenty bucks and requested the cage with softballs (they're easier to hit) and the 45 mph pitching machine. I asked for a longer bat, seeming to recall my youth and the success I had enjoyed with a 34 or 36 -- that's bat lingo.

Being barrel chested and carrying extra "heft" doesn't come in handy for many sports but when executed correctly and solid connection is achieved, it can send a softball over many outfield fences.

Sadly, the only bats they had in their barrel were of the metal kind. I'm an old school guy in many ways and preferred to re-enter the batter's box with a trusty wood Al Kaline Louisville Slugger. But as in real baseball, you gotta take the pitches you're given.

Maybe you're wondering how I did. 

I know I was wondering how this 66 year old man would do after a 40 year absence from the baseball arena. Unlike my friend George Tannenbaum who headed south of the border to play minor league ball for the Zappatillos, I only played in the Advertising Softball League at the very beginning of my ad career. 

And to be honest, I was much more interested in the post game recreational activities than the actual games.

After a few initial whiffs, I started coming around. The batting cage proprietor gave me some helpful hints. 

"15 minutes is a long time. You don't have to swing at every ball. Take a break. And get used to the seeing the ball by practicing a bunt. Make contact. And don't try to hit a home run every time."

It worked. And I started hitting. 

"You did pretty good for an old guy."

Thanks, I thought. 

Maybe.

It is only now that my hands have stopped tingling from the vibrating metal bat, I hate those things. I wonder what batting cage guy has any tips to restore my back and my ability to get out of a chair.

Oy.

Bidet 2024

As I went about taking Lucy (my dog) out for her morning constitutional, I had been giving thought about what I would blog about today. One thing stuck in my craw. But then I thought, it's a very sensitive area. And I'd have to be very restrained on the matter. 

Restraint is hardly my strong suit and can often result in IBS.

When I returned from our walk, carrying a green disposable bag of Lucy's business, I noticed the Amazon guy had been here and left a box on my front stoop. 

Like many of you I wondered what had come. 

These days I often forget what Me and Jack Daniels had purchased a few nights ago. I was hoping it would be that collection of 3 comfy fall weather shirts, since my closet has been effectively thinned out, along with my shrinking torso.

Instead, it was my brand new Bidet. The Luxe Bidet Neo 185 with slide-in installation, 360 degree self clean mode and UV resistant material.  

I never thought of myself as a Bidet guy. 

The conversion happened in Canada, a few weeks ago while Ms. Muse and I were staying at a hotel in Vancouver about to board a cruise ship the next morning towards Alaska. I never thought of myself as a cruise guy either, but I'm all about trying new things. Except broccolini. Cruciferous vegetables, though good for the digestive system, will never pass these lips.

Our Canadian bathroom featured a full fledged bidet toilet -- not just the fancy add ons like the Neo 185 (I love products that end with a number, so Matrix like.)

This thing had everything. Hot and cold running water. Two wands for extra coverage. A laser guided dryer. Turbo Mode in case you also wanted to hose down the shower. I'm not sure, but I think there was also an option for a light show upon the completion of your business.

In short, it was amazing!

It was at that point that I vowed to get my own bidet. 

I'm about to head out of town for the weekend and will not have time to install it. Nor to give a much anticipated test drive. And I know you'll all want a full throated description of its operation and aquatic performance, but that will have to wait.

But I'm already calculating the money I won't be spending on Toilet Paper. Or a new toilet auger (look it up) to replace the old one that collapsed from overuse. 

Most of all, I'm looking forward to that clean, fresh minty feeling I'll be able to enjoy all day long.

Damnit, I didn't get the expensive ultra-luxury model with the minty water cartridge.

A dog in this fight

This is my dog Lucy. Here we see her sleeping on my next door neighbor's couch. These are my good neighbors. I know I write about some of the awful inconsiderate people who live in close proximity to my curmudgeonliness, but L. and G. are the complete opposite.

On occasions when I can't take Lucy on road or when Ms. Muse and I boarded the SS Zaandam to explore Alaska's Tracey Arm Inlet, my good neighbors offered to house Lucy. She's such a sweet and quiet dog that needs nothing more than food, water and love. L. and G. often tell me, "we love her, we'd watch her for free."   

Oftentimes when I return home, I have the distinct feeling they don't want to bring Lucy back to me. Not only is she a beautiful dog she is incredibly lovable. 

Sometimes I just want to eat her up. (Oh you must have seen that coming.)

Yes I'm still giddy about last week's "presidential" debate. 

And kvelling over yet another quote from our stable genius ex-president that will be recorded in the official archives for history and posterity's sake. I pity the poor historians of the future who, between facepalming and kneeslapping, will find themselves laughing uncontrollably at, "They're eating the dogs, eating the cats, eating family pets." 

That one will rocket above the other classics:

"Person. Woman. Man. Camera. TV."

"I see the disinfectant where it knocks it out in a minute. Is there a way we can do something like that, by injection inside or almost a cleaning."

"He said I looked like his daughter and wanted me to spank him with a Forbes Magazine."

I imagine that when it comes time for future scribes to detail the catastrophic years of the Trump regime including the four years when he held the GOP hostage in absentia from Mara Lago, there will be a lot of fact checking. As so much of what he has said or done will not pass the smelly diaper test.

To that end I have set aside funds and instructed my daughters to post-humously remove one digit from my left pinky. With just enough DNA so that future scientists may reconstruct me and access my personal  Trump hard drive. Future me will be ready to dispense all the tea...

"Yes he did that."

"Yup. he said, 'one of the wettest in terms of water'."

"Right at the eclipse"

"Paper towels? To hurricane victims? Yes."

Mmmmm, communism. And Bacon.

 

It's Tuesday morning as I write this, hours away from Fight Night. Which I am looking forward to. And also dreading. Point is, I don't know whether this topic was addressed or not, but I'm going to proceed as if it weren't, given how TV journalists are notoriously lazy and more concerned with their coiffures. 

As I mentioned in a social media post earlier in the week, I hope one of the moderators asks our twice impeached, felonious ex president, "what happened to that big, beautiful new healthcare plan you had promised?"

Promised, repeatedly, I might add.

"We just put the finishing touches on it and we will be rolling it out in two weeks," he said.

Two weeks later...

"We'll be unveiling it in two weeks."

And 3 months after that.

"Two weeks, it's going to be tremendous."

As we all know two weeks passed. Then two years passed. And we are now in the second decade of waiting for the GOP alternative to ObamaCare.

It's not coming because the GOP doesn't govern. They are more concerned with painting the Democrats, or anyone interested in improving the lives of average Americans, as Communists.

While we are on the topic of average Americans and because I had some downtime between my vigorous workouts, I took the time to research just how much the average American spends a year on healthcare insurance. Prepare yourself...

Holy crap you say. If you didn't, I did.

Now ponder this, if capitalist-loving Americans had the same kind nationalized healthcare (which is a right, not a luxury) as the 90% of the free world (I made up that number, just as Trump often makes up his numbers) and 100% of the communist world, that would put a lot of greenbacks back into the wallets and purses of every day citizens, including the ones that vote against their own self interest.

How much money? Well, because my swimming doesn't start for another 45 minutes, I'll tell you. The average single American would have more than $162/a week. The average American family would have $461 more every week.* 

That's a lot of bacon, even if the price of bacon had actually gone up 5 times the price, as alleged under the Biden administration.

In other words, if Red Hats simply put all that GOP bullshittery and demogoguery aside, and let the adults do some adult governing, we could have our healthcare and eat our bacon too. And not that crappy, fatty stuff that's only revealed when you open the vacuum sealed package. I'm talking about the thick applewood cured center cut bacon, that's all meat from one end of the strip to the other.

Mmmmm, applewood.

Wait, wait, hold on Mr. Tax and Spend Radical Leftist, I can hear my one conservative screaming from behind his or her keyboard. Where's this money gonna come from to pay for the nationalized healthcare?

Well, and I'm just spitballing here, we could take it from the Pentagon. After all, we do have the mightiest fighting force on the planet. And always will.

Plus, if I have heard Republicans/xenophobes and Marjorie Taylor Greene correctly, aren't they the ones clamoring for the good old USA to stop waging wars and defending other countries? In which case we should stop funding the War Machine. 

Right, Red Hats?

I say "America, healthcare and bacon first."

* Your incredible communist savings may vary

"ladies and gentleman, if I can have your attention please..."

Brace yourself for impact. 

"Brace. Brace. Brace."

Actually, you can relax, particularly if you thought I was going to nosedive into a story about how a four hour travel day from Vancouver BC to Los Angeles turned into a 16 hour nightmare and a lost iWatch.

I'm not going to bore you with that story. Mostly, because it's boring but also because we each have a story just like it. 

In fact, most of us (the flying public) have more than one. 

In fact again, that is why the FAA recently passed a Passenger Bill of Rights. It's the federal government's weak attempt to hold airlines accountable for their FUBAR operations, their inexcusable contempt for the people who pay their bills (us) and the unbelievable lengths and widths they will go to cram as many passengers as possible into uncontortable aluminum tube.

If the government and neo-fascist activist judges weren't so busy posting the Ten Commandments in public school classrooms, they would initiate a compulsory order for every airline to post the Passenger Bill of Rights in every terminal.  And every gate, where those rights are routinely violated.

If I'm reading the new PBR correctly, I'm entitled to more than $1000 in compensation for the delays and the inadequate disbursal of meal vouchers as well as hotel vouchers. But trying to make good on this remuneration is where the rubber never meets the road.

On AA for example, my favorite airline for a humbling dose of travel misery, it is impossible to find the necessary form to request the aforementioned compensation. It is the digital equivalent of a phone tree on an infinite loop of facepalming roadblocks. Sending an email to the AA Customer Service Department (as if it really exists) is equally aneuerism-worthy.

I've been ghosted more than a freelance copywriter willing to throw words on a page for $35/hour. 

Taking a different route I was able to find a different possible path to semi-satisfaction. All I had to do was provide my AA Frequently Homicidal Flyer number. As well as my 13 digit ticket number. 

When was the last time you were on a plane? Do you know your ticket number? Do you know where to find the ticket number? Do you know the surface temperature of Uranus? 

I think you get the point without any further possibly-offensive descriptors.

You can't find it. And they purposely make it that way. In the same way they will inform you: "Because of the high volume of complaints, we may not be able to address your issue as quickly as we'd like."

Let's be clear, they don't like to address any issues.

Because if they did maybe they wouldn't have such a high volume of complaints. I'd be curious to know when -- if ever -- they don't have a high volume of complaints.

The situation is so out of hand, it's even impervious to my old standby solution. I penned a two page letter to Robert Isom, CEO of American Airlines and I overnighted it to his desk in Fort Worth. I told Mr. Isom that I had also cc'ed the Department of Transportation and Secretary Pete Buttigeig. 

Ghosted again.

Is there answer for all this corporate malfeasance? We may not live in a democracy much longer but we can still count on capitalism and the free marketplace of ideas. It applies to most industries, but for today's sake we'll focus on flying. 

It means fewer, but significantly bigger seats on every plane.

On time arrivals and departures. Guaranteed.

Full meals and complimentary bar.

Curmudgeon Airlines. The way humans were meant to fly.

Or, if I were to get all Dudley Moore with it:

Curmudgeon Airlines. You'll pay more, but we won't treat you like shit.

You gotta know when to fold 'em

The topic of top sheets and how I've eschewed them often comes up between Ms. Muse and I. It is a source of great curiosity. For both of us. Akin to walking through the woods, finding a cool flat rock, turning it over and discovering something you've never, ever seen before...

"What? I can't believe what I'm seeing. That's impossible."

It is a running gag that never fails to produce a giggle followed by the shaking of the head, followed by, "You're a weird one Siegel."

In fact, I was all set to write a non-consequential post about top sheets (she likes them, I don't) only to discover that I had already covered that California King Size area of almost-blogworthy real estate.

But that does not mean we have the entire linen closet sufficiently explored. 

Because, as the picture above would indicate, Ms. Muse and I have equally discordant, though not contentious, views with regards to towels. Which, if I'm doing the math correctly, have even more components than their bed-related cousins: the flat sheet, the fitted sheet, the shims, shams, pillowcase, and dust ruffles. 

Towels if they ever appeared as a category on Jeopardy would leave me just as dumbfounded as British Royalty, Roman Gods, and not surprisingly, Table Settings.

If you were to ask me for a towel, I would likely ask you, "Big one or small one?"

That's about as much towel stratification I've got space for in my oversized head. Turns out there's a whole lot more to this towel business than I ever expected. Just ask the folks who manned the counters at the now defunct Bed Bath and Beyond.

What Darwin did for the classification of animals and plants, Martha Stewart, or her predecessors have done for towel taxonomy.

It is only since last Thursday that I have come to learn there's is a difference between a hand towel and a dish towel. I don't know what that difference is, suffice to say I might have dried my face with the same towel that I used to wipe up the errant bacon grease that spattered on my counter.

This stuff is important, I'm told, if I'm going to be successful in the hospitality business and the renting out of my Palm Springs vacation home, now sporting a brand new refrigerator as well as new washer and dryer. 

See more here: https://www.airbnb.com/rooms/1024804526943007430?source_impression_id=p3_1725644530_P3WkBhjPPu2gPzmr

The new larger and more efficient washer and dryer are being put to good use to keep the linen closet stocked with all the aforementioned linenage.

By the way, who says you can't teach an old dog new towels. I now know the difference between a bath towel and a beach towel, the latter have stripes.

The Apprentice

The finish line is in sight.

Then again, considering the events of the last presidential election, we could very well be at the beginning line. Should he lose -- and he should -- we are most assuredly going to hear complaints about rigging, stuffed boxes, dead people voting and ballots printed in China, remember? The ones with the bamboo fibers.

It will be a mirror of the 2020 election, which he only conceded last week, "it looks like we lost by a whisker."

And really, that's what you're looking for in a president, someone who doesn't recognize a fact or accept reality for a good four years or so.

Similarly, what you look for in a businessman or a businesswoman is someone who actually knows something about business.

He doesn't know squat about business. And he's got the string of bankruptcies to prove it. Steak, wine, water, airline tickets, football teams and now social media platforms. He's tried it all and lost it all. 

Let's not forget he started 3/4 of the way down the third base line heading for the home plate, with 1/2 billion bankroll from his KKK father.

All of which makes NBC's decision to put this know-nothing on the air as some kind business guru in The Apprentice all the more ridiculous. Like fake bandaids on a right ear, ridiculous.

I haven't secured any permissions, so I'll tread lightly here, but it turns out I have two colleagues who actually appeared on The Apprentice seeking sage advice from the ignorant money-burning blowhard. And I'm ashamed to admit this, but my family and I watched this clown in action.

Many of you are too young to remember The Apprentice, but there was never the dispensing of any business advice: expand in this area, cut costs here, license that, sell this, improve this aspect of your operations. 

Again, there was NEVER that.

I know it was a game show with the inherent limitations one would expect, but he was dealing with C-suite level people. And they feigned deference and adoration, which is all he ever wanted. And still does.

One of these former colleagues even offered up a small anecdote of the on set shenanigans that took place: 

10 minutes after meeting, while standing on our marks for our first shot, he was leaning over my shoulder, whispering in my ear, in a heavy NYC accent, pointing out how hot Ms. Valenzuela was. For example. 

That doesn't seem off brand at all, does it?

The other colleague was actually a client. 

Again, without naming names, she was the CMO of a fast casual dining restaurant. We had won her business in 2003 and for a year, turned her marketing budget, made of straw, and spun it into gold. We produced more than 70 TV commercials for under $300,000. And in one year increased same store sales more than 13%.

I'm no businessman, though I sometimes play one on the internet, but those numbers seemed pretty good to me. Plus we had made some fun stuff. See for yourself.

https://youtu.be/tCb1IOQBY6c?si=YhbtLWI0-ruFc1zU

But she sought wise business counsel elsewhere. 

I guess you could say I lost out to the Donald. But in hindsight, the loss was not mine.

The Forgotten Stuff

 

Just came across an article stating that "US Steel to close old mills and plants." 

Oh no, I thought, I hope they're not talking about the 6 new manufacturing facilities former President Trump boasted about way back in 2018 at one of his Bund rallies in Tampa, Florida (naturally).

The astute among you, or those who like me have been stricken with Long Term TDS, know that wild claim was just that. Or in the street vernacular that has replaced civil talk in the political arena -- it's Bullshit.

There never were 6 new plants opened by US Steel in the year 2018. Of course the rabid crowd, perhaps affected by the sweltering brain-melting Florida heat, couldn't care less whether it was true of not. They just needed a cue to savor their savior and shout: USA, USA, USA !!!

In the pantheon of Trump's misdeeds and denigration of the office of the presidency, the US Steel flim flammery is way down on the list. It took a current headline about the whiny CEO at US Steel, a man who makes more than 10 million dollars a year and is obviously incapable of leadership -- "we don't have enough money to keep the old plants running" -- to jog my rapidly failing memory.

In fact, when it comes to cataloguing all of Trump's douchebaggery, my brain is increasingly looking like a basement bathroom at Mara Lago. 

A grab bag of recollections mixed in with some old fat guy T-shirts and socks I never wore.

Between the Insurrection, the two impeachments, the endless harping about "rigged elections" and so much more, it's easy to forget the day-to-day diarrhea-like deluge of his delinquency. (sorry, I'm a sucker for alliteration)

Remember this:

You forgot about Greenland, didn't you? None of us can be faulted for that. I'm sure the Greenlandians, Greendlanders, Greens (?), have not. They escaped being a punchline to yet another Trump folly he thought would put him up there with Seward and his now genius decision to purchase Alaska.

Fun fact I discovered while browsing at a Ketchikan bookstore on my recent trip: The US government invested billions of dollars in Alaska, and willingly trained pilots, in the 1960's as a bulwark against Cold War Russian aggression in the far west.

I have digressed.

According to Trump's plan, the US would acquire Greenland from Denmark in exchange for Puerto Rico, which he considered to be a nuisance. Sovereignty, national pride, the lives of the people affected, were never considered. To him, like everything else, they were just props, that he could trade and swap like properties on a Monopoly board or baseball cards. 

How disposable were the people of Puerto Rico? Did you also forget this?

This is the President of the United States of America tossing paper towels to the survivors of a hurricane that left 3.4 million people without food, water and communications!

At the time, I thought there is no bottom to this man's depravity. That was 6 years before last week's Arlington Cemetery incident.

There is no god.

 

In the fast lane

I am falling down a rabbit hole. More importantly, I know I am falling down a rabbit hole and expressly writing about it. As therapists and pundits will tell you, recognizing a problem is half the solution. And so I'm taking ownership of this before it gets officially added to my growing list of obsessions.

Ms. Muse and I just returned from a long weekend in Palm Springs. It's a long drive out there. Especially if you don't arrange the trip wisely and time it just right. As in all drives in Southern California. 

Supermarket -- between 2 and 3 PM

Dry Cleaners -- between 10 AM and Noon

Newspaper retrieval -- there isn't enough time to traverse Los Angeles to find a damn newspaper

On this well-timed trip through the heart of the Inland Empire, home of Trumpsters and scorching 3 digit temperatures, we decided to listen to a podcast. More specifically, a true crime podcast detailing the scams, grifts, felonies and misdemeanors and just all around scummy activities of Mr. John Meehan (pictured above.)

He doesn't look like evil incarnate, but by the time you reach the end of the 8 part podcast episodes, you'll be wishing to toss this Freelance Anesthesiologist into the hottest vat of lava that Satan has available.

Some of you may be thinking I'm late to the podcast party. And you'd be correct. The whole Dirty John story is quite dated. So dated that I've come to find out they've already made and aired a TV series about the horror, years ago.

This, it turns out is a blessing. It means I have a lot of catching up to do and many more salacious goodies in the podcast candy store to choose from. 

In recent months, and on other long drives, we've conquered The Wedding Scammers, Sweet Bobby and Scamanda, which I thought couldn't be topped. 

That is until we binge-listened to the dastardly tale of Dirty John.

There's a secret sauce to these pulpy stories. One that explains their magnetic power and Rabbit Hole worthiness. And this is apart from my long held weakness for anything that involves conning or grifting and separating fools from their money and the truth. I trace this back to my childhood viewing of The Flim Flam Man starring George C Scott and curvy Sue Lyon.

These current tales of flim-flammery are told in such way that it mirrors a Rabbit Hole. 

They tease you in at the beginning and before you can catch your breath you're spiraling down a slippery funnel that gains speed with every episode. You, the listener, know what the marks (victims) need to know. Their missteps and gullibility are so off the charts, that I've often swayed out of my lane wanting to scream at them through the many speakers of my Mustang Mach E.

"He's a scumbag, run. Run in the other direction. Are you fucking stupid?"

Another explanation of their attraction lies in the notion of justice delivered. The listener is implicitly promised that in the end there will be a heaping helping of payback to these oily bastards. A comeuppance that will make the 8 hours of listening feel justified. And so you naturally stick around to the end.

I won't lie and say it always goes the way I want it to. Or that my hunger for schadenfreude is satiated. 

But in the case of Dirty John, it is. 

Enough said.

https://open.spotify.com/show/1Da3FTjfC4Oy9rrhs1xLz5

Dear Lord...

 

Right now I am praying. 

If my cursory observations are correct, so are 82 million other Americans. Praying that our American Experiment wont come crashing to an end on November 5, 2024. Or December 15, 2024, when the certified votes are certified. Or on January 6th, 2025, when the certified votes are counted. Or on January 20, 2025, when President Harris is inaugurated.

I think we can all agree that it's not praying that will secure our future and the future of mankind. It's voting. 

And getting 100 or 200 thousand people off the couch (no JD Vance joke here) to cast a ballot for sanity. Because oddly enough, that's all it takes to save us from voluntarily driving off a cliff, a la Thelma and Louise.

But this post is not about politics. 

It's about prayer. That's right, I'm about to touch the other highly charged rail of American culture -- religion.

Not surprising, I'm going to focus on the Abrahamic faiths, Islam, Judaism and Christianity. Mostly, because I know very little about other religions. And because when it comes to prayer, these three have the most low hanging fruit.

Perhaps one of those low hanging fruits clobbered me on the head. Maybe an unripened gourd, because frankly when it comes to prayer, I don't understand it. Nor the notion of self appointed prayer warriors.

I get the warm, communal feeling one gets when sitting in a congregation and davening, or bowing, or singing with 500-600 of like-minded believers. I am not immune to that. And fondly recall sitting in a synagogue with my family joined in the bonds of fellowship.

My problem is with the process. That is, how are prayers supposed to work? 

If god, G-d, The Lord, The King of Kings, knows all and has a pre-ordained plan, why are we convinced we can change that course simply by asking for it? Seems kind of wishy washy for the Host of Hosts.

Moreover, since clergy, of all stripes, are always asking us to "pray with us", is this a numbers thing? That is, does a prayer become more effective if it is chanted in unison? By hundreds? By thousands? Millions?

Is volume the deciding factor? I can assure you the wailing and the crying and the pleading were quite loud during the famines in Africa, or during the Middle ages when the villages ravaged by the Black Plague or even from the cold forsaken barracks of Auschwitz, Dachau and Treblinka.

Why then did these prayers fall on deaf ears?

I'm going to take a leap of faith (sorry) here and suppose (just for a moment) I were the Master of the Universe.

There I am minding my own business, collapsing Black Holes, sending galaxies to their demise, moving the tectonic plates along the Pacific's Rim of Fire, when suddenly, I start hearing voices.

The voices grow louder.

And louder.

Then it comes in clear. 

Frustrated fans in the Keystone State are bemoaning the fate of the Pittsburgh Steelers since the departure of Ben Rothlisberger. 

"Wilson is washed up and Fields is a washout."

Do I stop my celestial business to attend to this matter, restore Rothlisberger's arm to full strength, and divinely alter the fate of the AFC North? 

No, I do not. Why? Because I'm the Almighty. As is ALL and as in Mighty. And as history has proven, I (god) cannot be bothered by 'prayer.' You humans need to knock it off.

Or, as JD Vance famously said to his son, "Shut the hell up."