Lasagna with LaSorda

(With all the World series excitement and the jitters about next Tuesday's Election -- possibly our last -- I dug into  the R17 vault. There, I found a post from March 2020, just as the pandemic was hitting. Here then is my tale of working with the LA Dodgers, who I hope have just been crowned the World Series champs of 2024)

With little to do these days but watch my life savings dwindle and ration every dried pinto bean we have in the pantry, I decided to clean out my desk.

There, I discovered an ancient artifact -- a film slide. If I'm doing the math in my mind correctly and if I take proper gauge of the high waisted pants and already thinning hairline, I'd guess the photo was taken in 1992.

Let's see I'm 44 years old now, this is 2020, carry the 1, subtract the remainder, well, it doesn't matter how old I was then.

More importantly, the question you may asking is why am I standing next to longtime Dodger Head Coach Tommy La Sorda? The answer begins, like so many of my life adventures, "we were shooting this commercial..."

That's the thing about us grizzled ad guys and it explains why we do so much pining for the old days. It's because we had fun. Not the same kind of fun one has when writing an email blast or crafting the perfect micro-targeted banner ad. We travelled. We hung out on film sets. We got treated like royalty. And we rubbed elbows with A-listers.

You could argue that La Sorda was never an A-lister, particularly after the dry spell following the '89 World Championship. Though it would be wise not to mention that to Tommy's face. He could be quite testy.

Because the year was 1992 and YouTube had not been invented yet, nor had the internet, the only record of this commercial is locked in a musty vault, somewhere on the backlots off Gower Ave. And the 3/4 inch videotape it was recorded on, is being gnawed on by some crafty cockroaches and dust mites.

Fortunately the script is engraved on my cranial hard drive.

We were doing a sales event for Nissan (when weren't we?) My partner and I decided to enlist the help of rookie Eric Karros, who was starting as a first baseman with the Dodgers. Eric was signed at MLB minimum wage, which at the time was $109,000. Not a lot of money, even in those days.

So we had him power walk through a faux dealership showroom and point out the magnificent savings on Sentras, Altimas and Maximas.

"$1500 cash back on an Altima? Hey, those Hall of Fame guys don't need to save money, but I do." 

Embarrassing? Yes. But it put food on the table and it staved off a pink slip from the legendary hard taskmasters at Chiat/Day.

To be honest, I can't remember why La Sorda was in the spot. I believe it was part of the deal Nissan had arranged with the Dodger organization. And so we wrote some lame joke about Tommy making a cameo appearance at the end of the commercial.

He tosses a baseball to Eric, who naturally drops the ball. Tommy responds with the predictable eye roll and the even more predictable...

"Rookies!"

I told you it was embarrassing.

New Boss in town

Was chatting on a Zoom call the other night with my buddies from Team One. My Band of Brothers who went through the Chukuma-dug trenches in search of the next award winning Lexus commerical. 

At one point, during the mid-90s, the stack of dead storyboards stood floor to ceiling in our humble El Segundo office.

Good times. 

Better times now because we're not dealing with that mishigas and trying to appease an elderly Japanese man who barely knew 78 words of English, thus making the task of selling him a sophisticated luxury car commercial concept (no small feat even among English as first language marketing folk) next to impossible.

Nevertheless there are battle scars. 

Each of us, it seems, occasionally suffer from 'Deadline Dreams'. That is, we find ourselves stuck somewhere needing to come up with an idea or face some kind of peril. I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest this is a common occurrence for those of us employed or formerly employed in the "I'll give you ideas if you give me money and the promise of a comfortable life business."

My Deadline Dreams always involved Lee Clow, which is understandable since I spent the better part of my career -- at least the productive part -- hawking ideas at Chiat/Day. These pressure-filled dreams don't make for a fitful night of sleep. And at the risk of going TMI, I have woken in the middle night in a puddle of my own self induced sweat.

But not so much lately. 

Ms.Muse has alerted me to a super secret of the gentile world, a secret previously unbeknownst to those of Hebraic (neurotic) Seasonings. I'm about to share it with you. It's called "manifesting." Meaning you can have a better life and the things you want, if you believe you will have a better life and the things you want.

"What?" he said rhetorically to no one but his not-so-clean keyboard.

It's true. For the past few weeks I've been chanting to myself, shortly before the Ambien kicks in, "no Lee Clow dreams, repeat, no Lee Clow dreams." And it has worked. It's like some kind of shiksa magic.

This got me thinking, always a treacherous proposition, particularly during these trepidatious times. It's time, high time, that I give my Ego and SuperEgo a rest. I'm ditching the filters and the niceties that regulated my behavior for oh so many years. 

There's a new boss it town. My ID. And he doesn't care about rules. Or deadlines. Or the the perception of others.

My ID tells me I can stay in bed until 10 or 11 o'clock in the morning, if I want to. (assuming my dog Lucy won't pee on the carpet.)

My ID says have that chocolate chip cookie, hell, have two, you burned 1800 calories today.

My ID balks at balking and commands me to do what I want, when I want and as often as I want.

I only have so many years left on terra firma, I'm giving my fate over to my ID. And in that vein, hoping I can manifest a Harris victory next Tuesday and send the orange antichrist back to the backwaters of Florida, where it belongs.

On trefe

 

I have an admission to make. Actually, it's more of a confession. I put it in parochial terms because...well, that will become self evident.

I love bacon. I'm not going to apologize for it. Or hedge in any way. 

I'm sorry if this offends my fellow members of the tribe, but the truth of the matter is I'm not taking dietary suggestions from the same goat herders who said I shouldn't wear two different cloths. Or prescribed how many slaves I could or could not keep. Or had the temerity to say who I could or couldn't love. I choose women but have no issue with others making different choices.

Prior to my late wife's passing, I did not spend much time st the supermarket. I'd find myself going at the last minute to pick up some beer. Or eggs. Or toilet paper. But rarely did I need more than one of those handy plastic baskets. On the very few occasions where I had to do a full shop, I was often told by the cashiers that I was a "terrible shopper."

"What do you mean?"  I would respond.

"You picked all the expensive brand name stuff, when you didn't need to. And the produce you picked is all wrong."

This happened more than once.

One cashier added, "If you were my husband I wouldn't let you near this store."

Needless to say, I've worked hard on my supermarket game. And no longer buy the rock hard peaches. I learned first hand that some folks like them that way.

I'm still prone to picking brand name goods I recognize. And I spend a lot more on fresh fruit and vegetables than I ever have before. And still haven't figured out how to tell if a melon is ripe or not. However, per my doctor's recommendation, "If you want to cut down on drinking, buy the more expensive stuff." 

Hello, top shelf whiskey and Cabernets. That was the best advice he ever gave me.

But when it comes to bacon, this 66 year old man of significant Hebraic Seasonings is All Pro. I will literally stand at the semi-refrigerated display where the bacon and sausage are located, and flip every package over to inspect the bacon from the rear view window. It isn't until I find the thick center cut bacon with a full slab of red meat on the other side that I will make my final choice.

The way I see it, if I'm going to end up standing before the Pearly Gates and having to justify by breakfast meat choices, I want to know my eternity in the Hot Place was offset by some premium, meaty, chewy and crispy bacon. 

SFX Homer Simpson: mmmmmm, bacon.

Oh and Ms. Muse promised to buy me this...

Can't be fixed

I'll be the first to admit that when I got into the ad business I didn't know a thing. Not a thing. And this despite an expensive four years at Syracuse University. Which by the way is one of the most respected (expensive) communications schools in the country. 

I have no idea why. 

My biggest academic deficiency was in TV production. Again, this is odd since the school, even in the late 70's, was chock full of the coolest state of the art production equipment. I wasn't interested in camera lenses, audiotape or monstrous lighting packages. I just wanted to write funny shit.

Turns out  transforming funny shit on typewriter paper (god I'm old) into funny shit on videotape is an art, and science, unto its own. Hence my ignorant blathering to clients and car dealers, "Ah, we can shoot this for under 100k."

After much scolding from the producers at Chiat/Day (the best production team in the business) I learned very quickly that when it came to numbers, production and the realities of business, I needed to keep my tenderfoot mouth shut.

If you were to look back on the Chiat reels you'd know why. Everything they did, especially TV spots, was top notch. Perhaps that's what gave birth to the creedo...

"They gave us a budget and we proudly exceeded it."

That was at the beginning of my career. 

It was completely different at the end of my career, where my my last employer would produce a TV spot for under 23 bucks. With a kid out of high school who pinched a high powered portable light from his dad's garage. Another youngster with a lavalier mic that he got from the Pomona Public library and an amateur cinematographer with a second hand iPhone 14.

Welcome to the Bronze Age of TV production.

Having watched their stock fall faster than DJT MAGA Media Worldwide -- or whatever that dunce calls it -- my last employer switched gears. They're now back in the helpful hands of a big time ad agency. Putting out big high production value TV spots as well as a considerable spend on outdoor boards, not one of which is memorable. 

They even got themselves a big time celebrity who is arguably on the downslope of his long career.

And it still sucks.

Proof positive that good advertising is often a magical mix of professional production as well as proprietary thinking. They're still haven't figured out the last part.

 

I'm shedding

 

About 7 years ago I bought myself a mid life crisis car. Actually, given that I'm 66 and closing in quickly on 67, it was more of a late mid-life crisis car. I didn't go all nuts like many friends seeing the sun arching towards the horizon. I went with a Certified Pre-owned Car. That's fancy dealer talk for "used."

After months of searching I found a late model 2015 Audi S5 with less than 25,000 miles on it. I drove all the way out to Ontario to get it. Having stupidly told the dealer I was from Culver City, he knew he wouldn't have to lower the price. Much. My negotiation skills are below par. Like Trump's.

He knew I wanted that car. And I'm glad I bit the bullet and went for it. 

In the 7 years I've owned it, I've put less than 10,000 miles on it. And today it will make its last journey down my driveway onto a CarMax flatbed.

I'm going to miss its full throttled and throaty acceleration. It's nimble handling. And its exclusivity. No one in the past 7 years has sat behind the steering wheel. With the possible exception of the stern Teutonic Audi mechanic at Swiss Motors on Sepulveda. As well as the occasional valet. Though I don't frequent many restaurants with valets, I'm a hole in the wall type restaurant guy with no need for fancy stuff.

Nor a fancy car, apparently. In fact, as the title of this post indicates I've been disposing of many of my less-than-worldly goods because I have found in the later stages of my life -- I don't need them.

It's kind of liberating.

To be honest the Audi has been gathering dust and pollen from my inconsiderate neighbors who planted shitty trees that drop sap all over my driveway. Can somebody out there please buy this damn house?

And, as of late, I've been enjoying the new Mustang Mach E. Not only for its remarkable torque. The ability (though sometimes spotty) to use Apple Car Play. And the higher cabin, which means I don't need a crow bar or the aid of a passerby to extract me from the ridiculously low bucket seat on the Audi.

On behalf of my back, as well as other assorted achey parts of my decaying body, Auf Wiefersehen Audi S5, may your new owner enjoy you as much as I did.

Arnie Two Palmer

I hate our news media. I also hate to say that because it puts me in bed with Red Hats. I don't want to be in bed with stupid people.

They hate the media because, with no evidence to support their claim, they believe it's too liberal and conjures up stories to mislead the American public. This, despite the fact that the #1 news source for right wingers -- Fox News --paid a near trillion dollar settlement for spreading a ridiculously false story about Dominion "rigging" their voting machine. They didn't.

I hate the news media for their lack of focus. Perhaps because of their "always-on" scheduling, they have to keep feeding the insatiable desire for Breaking News. 

What about Pants-Breaking News?

On Monday night I was eagerly looking forward to the news media skewering our former president, a man with no sense of the dignity or respect for the office, or anything else, who went on a 12 minute public ramble about the incredulous size of Arnold Palmer's penis! You need to read that sentence again. 

But instead of a 3 hour laugh fest and political pundits trying to keep a straight face whilst discussing "President Trump" and his very un-manly fascination for another man's endowment, we got barely a blip. 

I'm sorry, have we normalized and sane-washed this man to the point where he can drone, and drool, about  PGA penii and not give it the full Ken Burns-like attention it deserves?

I'm old enough to remember Howard Dean, a smart, articulate charismatic presidential candidate getting booted from the race for one moment of excessive onstage exuberance. Now we have a twice-impeached GOP candidate, a convicted felon, a sexual assaulter, who tried to overturn an election, conducting a town hall and stumping for the office and lovingly discussing Arnold Palmer's excessive stump!!!

I've said it before and I'll say it again, fast forward to 2124, and a group of American historians holding a retrospective conference about this nation's 45th president. You would need a fleet of hydraulic presses to lift their jaws off the floor.

The absurdity of it defies description.

Moreover, the fact that this race is a toss up puts me at a significant loss for words. And brings out my inner 14 year old. With that in mind I leave you with these famous presidential quotes, modified, and brought down to the level of Donald J. Trump.

"Four score and seven years ago, our forefathers brought forth great logs of lumber..." -- Abe Lincoln

"We have nothing to fear but fear itself, oh (SFX-Unzipping)... and this" -- Franklin Roosevelt

"Ask not what your country can do for you, ask 'oh my god how do sleep with that?'" -- John F. Kennedy

On Paisley

 

Every 8 weeks or so I'll get an email from 23andme, the genetics people. They seem to know more about my aversion to broccoli and other cruciferous vegetables than I do. These bimonthly emails also show me new relatives in the crooked and unruly Siegel Family tree.

With more than 99% certainty these new relatives are other folks of Hebraic Seasonings (Greenbergs, Feldsteins, Steinsteins, you get the picture) who escaped the cold, woodsy area of southern Poland/Western Belarus/Northern Ukraine. One however came up as a distant relative from my mother's side, and the wee bonnie country of Scotland.

Into the peaty Rabbit Hole I jumped.

Sadly, my mother did not talk much about her family who lived and stayed in Paisley in the County of Renfrewshire.

She would often correspond with them in hand written letters on blue airmail paper that folded into its own envelope -- the legendary Scottish thriftiness. She'd stay up late, smoke cigarettes at the kitchen table, crack open a Heineken (or two) and weep as she read each missive from the family she left at the age of 19.

Hate to ruin your image of me as a burly manly man but I think I caught a whiff of her sentimentality. Or maybe it's because I became a 'writer' and didn't pursue a promising career as a forklift driver (true story.)

As an example about the hushed nature regarding her family, she had three sisters and three brothers. In all my 66 years I only had the pleasure of meeting two of them. In fact, I can barely name her brothers. I believe they were Jimmy, George, and Paul, or some Beatles-like variation. The distance from Liverpool to Paisley is only 227 miles.

I was equally unschooled about my mother's native religion -- Presbyterian. In fact, I can't tell you what separates Presbyterians from Lutherans from Baptists from Methodists from Catholics. OK, I know Catholics believe in the papal system, but other than that I got bupkis.

I do however have a shiksa official girlfriend, Ms. Muse, who is somewhat knowledgeable on the topic and drew a Venn Diagram for my edification. I was happy to learn that the majority of my DNA (51% British Isles, 48% Eastern Europe and 1% Curmudgeon) stems from people who were not at all dogmatic about their religion. 

Their fehhhh attitude mirrors my agnostic secular grasp of Judaism. 

Sorry, I refuse to take my world view and wisdom from the 3000 year old divine transcription of goat herders and brain-addled village elders.

I was also pleased to learn that I descend from men who not only wore kilts but also wore their fierce political beliefs on their sleeves.  One of the granddaughters of Robbie the Bruce was born and raised in Paisley. 

It gets too complicated from here and is above my historical pay grade, but the rebels of Paisley had some thing to do with the Jacobbites and the fight for independence against the King. I think. I could be reading the various Wiki pages all wrong.

It's my background and I'll interpret -- or distort it -- anyway I like. I choose to believe they were freedom loving, principled people with good brains and even better hearts.

Also, Fuck Trump!

Move over Kornacki, I have the results

Like many of you I'm on pins and needles about the upcoming election. 

One side is optimistically talking about policy changes, plans for the next 4 years, and the power of sane governance. The other side is talking about electric boats, man eating sharks, Hannibal Lecter and the driver of Arnold Palmer. 

I have no idea who is going to win, just the way the pundits and media would like it.

I do however know who is going to lose: America.

In the same way we lost in 2020. 

Allow me to elaborate. Regardless of how tight the race is or isn't, the convicted felon will claim a premature victory. BTW, him being premature is no surprise at all. If only his eternal demise would follow suit.

He'll claim victory at the same time he'll claim the election was rigged. Ironic, because he'll have no evidence for either. 

We know he'll do this because he's done it before. The fact that he can do it again is a permanent stain on the GOP. They had a chance to impeach and convict him in the weeks following the January 6th Tourist Visit...er, Insurrection, but true to their feckless nature, failed to take action. Thank you Mitch McConnell, Lindsey Graham and Kevin McCarthey.

There's consequence to all this failure. And propaganda. And sore losing. 

It all erodes faith in our democracy. Prior to this monster's descent down the gold plated escalator, one of the pillars of American Exceptionalism was our free and fair elections. We lived and died by them.

We even had a crooked president (Nixon), who despite his craven hunger for power, put America and its institutions above himself. He resigned. He might have falsely posited that it was for good of the country and wanted to avoid jail time (sound familiar, Republicans?) nevertheless, he quit.

This is political decay of the highest order. Compliments of the man who had a reverse Midas Touch and a slew of bankrupt companies, sexually assaulted women and betrayed colleagues to show for it.

On November 5th, America will lose again.

And should the felon/wannabe dictator eek out a legitimate victory, we will lose America.

 

A love letter to Pennsylvania

Dear Keystone People,

Pundits now tell us that because of our arcane Electoral college, sophisticated polling and predicting, the fate of America and the Free World, rests on your sturdy Pennsylvanian shoulders. Because of the ridiculous tightness of the race, they say, the candidate who captures PA, will also capture the presidency.

If my preferred candidate also held a townhall and then proceeded to dance and sway with the music, like he was at some Jeffrey Epstein Freak Off, I might be able to understand why it's close. But she hasn't. And moreover she can find your lovely state on a map and name at least a dozen cities therein.

The other guy is still clinging to Person, Woman, Man, Camera, TV. 

My first experience with your fine state came about in 1970, when my family lived in Suffern NY, an hour's drive from Port Jervis where the mountainous tri-states meet. 

One summer, my father packed my brother and I in the car and said we were going camping. His childhood friend, Herman, a car dealer from Asbury Park, had private access to a secluded campground in Shohola, right off one of the slow moving tributaries to the Delaware river.

This was deep in the woods and greener than anything this Bronx born boy had ever seen. By day we floated down the stream on rafts. And in the darkness we slept in sleeping bags carefully sewn into screened-in hammocks hung on nearby birch trees. 

It was love at first night.

Years later, My father, also smitten, arranged for a family vacation in Amish Country. Or maybe because it was nearby, aka not expensive. 

We tittered and giggled as we passed roads signs for Intercourse, PA, which is surprisingly close to another interesting Keystone township...

We also spent 2 days in Hershey, where the smell of factory-produced chocolate chokes off any oxygen for a good 20 mile radius.

My second roommate in college was from Allentown. He was a 19 year old Renaissance man, schooled in science (at Carnegie Melon for a while), art, graphic and industrial design. In addition to introducing me to works of Carl Sagan (and others), he also introduced Lenny B. and the late John B., both newspapermen, into my life and later became roommates at a cheap Syracuse apartment. Off campus. Way off campus.

In 2021, my late wife's doctors arranged for an interview at UPMC, University of Pittsburgh Medical Center, the only hospital in America doing live liver transplants. My two daughters were literally fighting with each other for the opportunity to donate a 1/3 of their live liver (the only organ in the body that regenerates itself.) Sadly, she did not qualify for the surgery. 

In short, I love Pennsylvania. 

And the people of Pennsylvania. 

In the name of all that is holy, and I believe the American way of life -- the one of openness, respect, generosity of spirit and celebration of freedom -- is holy and worth saving, vote. Vote for the candidate who can say the name of your state without his dentures falling through his piehole. 

Or, if you're still impossibly undecided at this point, vote for the candidate who can spell Pennsylvania.

We've had a good 248 year old run, it's up to you to make sure we have a shot at another 248 years.

,LA/2024

A pineapple a day

As my Eternal Dirt Nap looms closer and closer, I have made it a point to try new things. That is, things that may not be so new to you, but because of my stubborn ways and 66 years of precedence have all seemed new and unseemly to me.

Case in point, I recently went on a cruise ship to Alaska and the inlets of the southeastern part of the state. The trip was amazing. I don't use the word awesome on a regular basis, but our 49th or 50th state is truly the definition of the word.

Upon returning to the comparatively ugly state of California, I was telling my friends P. and D. about our trip. (Because of the upcoming sensitive nature of this post, I won't mention their real names.) At one point in the conviviality, P. who had never been on a cruise ship before, asked if I had seen any pineapples hanging on the doorknobs of the 5, 893 staterooms of the SS Zaandam.

Pineapples, I inquired, innocently?

"Yeah, you know pineapples... it's how swingers let other swingers on the boat know they're swingers."

At this point, I'm pretty sure the spicy lamb vindaloo erupted through my nose.

I consider myself a well rounded and well informed person, despite my 66 year resistance to new things. This little nugget of prurient wisdom came from left field, particularly if that left field were on the island of Oahu and was home to the Dole Corporation.

I had never heard of the surreptitious pineapple thing before. But it made perfect sense because -- I assume -- swingers have to maintain a certain degree of discretion to their particular way of life. In the lifestyle, as it were.

Weeks later the pineapple discussion reared its spikey head again in another social setting. This time with the always jocular cousin of Ms. Muse and his husband. There was great shock again. Mostly because bon vivants like us had never heard of this Rendezvous By Citrus Fruit Communication System.

I'm tempted to book my next cruise just so I can witness the pineapple in action, firsthand.

Well, not exactly firsthand.

Suffice it say, my antenna for Ananas Comosus is on DefCon 1. 

So you can imagine when I found one in my own home -- see picture above. That is, my rental home in Palm Springs (which I'll add is great during the cooler, wet months coming soon).

In exchange for getting out of their long term lease, the previous residents left their furniture and belongings here (hence it's now an airbnb).  While putting a new mattress in one of the guest bedrooms, Ms. Muse noticed the foot-high art deco-ish lamp on the nightstand.

Hello. 

Mind you I'm no prude. And in our rewatching of old classic movies from the 70's, we recently took in Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice. If it's not harming anyone else or involve heavy machinery, I'm all about the You-Do-You or You-Do-Small-Groups-Of-8-10-People philosophy.

Right now,  I'm going do me, and run to the local linen store to buy new sheets.

 

Just Do It

Just started a new book, given to me by the thoughtful (and younger) Ms. Muse. This is not at all unusual for me, as I start a lot of new books. Finishing them is a different story. Ironically, I could write a book about all the books I never finished. 

I bought the 600 page Confidence Man by Maggie Haberman when it came out about 2 years ago. I have yet to crack into the 300's. By the way, if you think Trump was a scumbag president, you'd be wrong. He's been a scumbag way before he was president. He' s been a scumbag since he emerged from his weird-haired Scottish mother, his whole miserable, gold-plated life. 

He may take back his place in the White House -- thanks to the unfathomable stupidity of the American right -- but once the embalmer sprays that final coat of bronzer, this monster is going to the Hot Place.

But back to the book.

I should add that it's not unusual for Ms. Muse to hand me books. In fact, at the conclusion of our first date , she passed on two books to me: a Steven King novel, and the Official Twilight Zone Compendium. I didn't get to start either of those books. Because I promptly lost them!

An inauspicious, but now funny, beginning.

But I'm off to a good start with Younger, Next Year (the book pictured above). I cracked the book open this morning and have already made some good headway. 

It could be the subject material, which is near and dear to my heart. As well as my lungs, my muscles, my bones, my brain and my other brain. In short, it's a manual for longevity. And while I'm not afraid to die, I'd like to put it off for a while. I have people to meet, places to see and adventures to be taken with my kid's inheritance money.

I also have a shit ton papers that need to be organized before my demise. And I'd like to be above ground long enough to see Him/It go below ground. 

The good news is I've already got a head start on the I'm-Going-To-Outlive-Fascism Plan. Turns out the best gerontologists on the planet concur that "movement is the best medicine." In short, they're long on exercise. And believe most Americans get too little of it.

I count myself among the exception and probably get too much. About 2 hours plus. A day. Because now that I'm no longer writing half-assed social and digital crap for PayPal (or anyone else willing to meet my exorbitant day rate) I've got a lot of time on my hand. 

So, when I'm not doing laundry, picking up after myself, or installing a new bidet in any functional toilet I can find in the house, I'm exercising. Dr. Lodge suggests making exercise an addiction. I'm well past that and now into obsession mode. 

I haven't spoke about my grief journey in quite a while. Probably because I wrote about it too much at the beginning. 

However, I can attest to the fact that if I wake up feeling down or melancholy, I know it will dissipate the minute I get on the Peloton. Or in the pool. Or in the garage to pump some iron. Or even on the yoga mat to contort my body in ways that are more painful than any of the aforementioned.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to strap on my walking shoes. ChatGPT can write a reasonable fascimile of these blog posts but it can't put 12,000 steps on my iWatch.

Lost in Translation

Over the course of the last 5, 10, maybe even twenty years, there's been a lot of talk about the demise of the ad industry. With the exception of doors being shuttered and the Infinity Desk™ being ripped from the rebar-reinforced walls of the Barbarian Group, there's been very little in the way of physical evidence to support those claims.

Until now.

As I often do during my late afternoon walks around Culver City, I find things I never knew existed. Equally as often, I will post these pictures in my long running series, borne from a reluctance to write (for free), the Thursday Photo Funnies. 

Last week, for instance, I came across the Blue Door on Venice Blvd. Never saw it in my 30+ years of living here.

You have to look close to find the appropriately named, tiny theater for Culver City's eclectic and undiscovered artists. It's wedged between a nameless Halal Chicken restaurant and a defunct mom and pop auto parts store. I think. 

Truth is, I rarely venture to the north side of Venice Blvd. 

Recently I came across the note (Exhibit A,  pictured above) closer to the tonier sections of my fair little town. If you read the note you can see it was addressed to a marketing staffer at the very tony Erewhon Market. 

I've been inside the local Stepfordian Erewhon, home of the $9 Naval Orange and the $23 shot of artisanly grown lemongrass and thrice fermented blowfish brains, said to increase virility as well as Wordle solving skills. But I have never purchased anything there, opting for the less expensive though equally pretentious --in a hippy dippy way -- goods at the Trader Joes across the street.   

Perhaps I'm making a mountain out of a rice bowl, but it appears the carefully crafted note with its  stunning caligraphy, that this appreciative missive was written post presentation. Written by a man who travelled across the Pacific in order to woo the 20 something marketing professionals at Erewhon. 

From its location -- I found it in the shrubbery just outside the Culver Studios -- it seems they were not impressed.

More importantly, the casual disposal of this note seems to indicate just how far the notion of a "branding strategy" and its impact on retail sales has fallen. Thank you bean counters, data miners and the wizards of performance marketing. 

Mission accomplished.

I know what you're thinking, you got all that from a discarded Thank You note? 

Yes, yes I did. 

And you can dive further into this starchy rabbit hole at the premier of my one act play, Dearth of a Rice Salesman, soon appearing at the Blue Door Theater in downtown Culver City.

Thursday Photo Funnies

It's been a pulse pounding week here at Roundseventeen. What with the election and the increasing possibility that America will no longer be America. The Shining City on the Hill looks as if it may be eclipsed by the dark forces of authoritarianism, stupidty and the re-acsendance of our nation's most pathetic, do-nothing narcissist. 

Yes, I'm a pessimist --  Expect the worst, prepare to be surprised.

I either got that from politics or from my near 12 year tenure at Chiat/Day.

Let's lighten the load, if only temporarily, and indulge in some Thursday Photo Funnies. Keeping in mind that funny is in the eye of the beholder or in this case, the lens of my trusty iPhone.

Upon our many late afternoon walks, 

Lucy and I came across this Halloween decoration.

Her bewilderment = my amusement.

We also came across a giant red shoe at the Culver City Steps.

CC, if you didn't know, is home to the original MGM and 

Munchkins holed up at the CC Hotel. It's kind of a big deal.

The heater at The Plunge (our municipal pool)

was on the fritz.

There was much shrinkage, 

but I still knocked out a mile in under 30 minutes.

I've now installed not one,

but two bidets in my home.

I get my Plumber's Participation Trophy next week.

Our city now has a Snicket.

Does yours?

Come on Colgate, just put all the 

good shit in one tube.

Red Hats. Did they grow up 

eating lead paint chips and making model airplanes?

I know I shouldn't snap pictures

while driving on the 10,

but how could I resist? How?

Also, thank you Rudy Giuliani.

It's not every day that you come 

across a brand new Spiralizer apple

thig-a-majig discarded on the curbside.

Cash has been tight lately, maybe I should 

apply for one of these high comission jobs?

And finally, there's this douchebag incel.

Congratulations buddy, now you're famous. well almost famous.

Now go back to your Call of Duty game.

 

 

An army of one

Was walking Lucy (my dog, I love dogs) the other day and was fortunate to run into a homeowner who was wheeling out his trash can. Fortunate, because this was no regular homeowner. He had a Harris/Walz 2024 yard sign prominently displayed in his front yard.

Not all that unusual in these critical times for democracy. 

But he also had another sign, that was unusual, that read: Veterans for Harris/Walz. 

It got my attention. And in the many times I've walked by his house I'd always been hoping to chat with him. And on this beautiful fall morning on Southern California with the temperature hovering about 85 degrees, the opportunity presented itself.

I approached this gingerly, knowing not everyone wants to discuss politics with a perfect stranger.

"Hey, do you have a minute," I said.

"Sure bud, what's up?"

"I saw your yard signs, which I like, and was wondering if you can relieve me of some anxiety? I like to think people like yourself, veterans and current service men and women feel as you do and will vote against a man who has shown such unbelievable disrespect towards our military."

I grimaced before he answered.

"Well, I'd like to tell you yes, but I can't. I can tell you that officers and anyone who's been in for a while or older like me, can't stand the Orange Man. He is fucking dangerous (his words)."

"Well that's good."

"But the rank and file, not so much. They're young and dumb and all gung ho and they eat up his shit (again his words.)"

Adding...

"I have two young sons 19 & 26, both in, and they don't see it like we do. They think we're being overly dramatic and think he's a strong leader."

Turned out this guy was yearning to talk about the situation and we stood there for a good 15 minutes. It was enlightening. As well as disheartening. 

I could feel my pulse rising and shortened the chat so I could return home and pop a low dose Petra Cannabis Infused Moroccan Mint.

Before I departed I wanted to ask if his sons were Suckers or Losers? Thankfully Lucy was tugging on the leash and my brain filter kicked in.

Sorry about the rash of Trump postings lately. I just want this nightmare to be over.

 

On Sportsmanship

 It's early on the season. Way too early to make any predictions. Though I do like the way the Washington Commanders have grabbed the bull by its horns and steamrolled other teams with their incredible new quarterback Jayden Daniels.

I love seeing kids making the most of their opportunity. And establish themselves as stars in the NFL, arguably one of the toughest sports to excel in -- mostly because every athlete there is top shelf.

Also like to see the Commanders do well with the new team name after holding on to their old racist name for far too long. You can call me woke all you want but the disrespect went on for far too long. Imagine if you will, if the New York Giants had gone by the name the New York Hebe's. 

Or if the Tennessee Titans took on the moniker of the Tennessee Crackers or the Tennessee Chicken Bangers or the Tennessee Grand Wizards. 

Scratch that last suggestion, I'm sure (and my friend Greg C. will attest to this) they would love that, as a last bite at the apple of White Christian Patriarchy.

In any case, the Super Bowl will be just around the corner. This got me thinking. 

And so while driving to to the Montrose Octoberfest last weekend, I turned to Ms. Muse and drew an analogy. Naturally we were talking about Trump, mostly because I have such agita about the upcoming election. Although she despises Trump as much as I do, she prefers not to vocalize her visceral feelings about the sad sack of shit. Or talk about  IT as much as I do.

But she puts up with my obsession as much as I put up with her insistence on top sheet linens, which I abhor. 

I digress.

In rerunning the many times he has spoken on the subject I posited the following: imagine if the Minnesota Vikings face off against the resilient Kansas City Chiefs in Super Bowl 53. And further imagine, one week before the big game, Patrick Mahomes standing in front of a microphone and stating,

"The only way we can lose the Super Bowl is if  it's rigged. That's the only way. And they can do it because they're nasty, disgusting people. I call them communists. They are. They're communists."

I'm pretty sure the totality of Americans would upchuck their Campbells Chunky Chicken Soup (now with 23% more white meat.) 

Because it's UNSPORTSMANLIKE. 

Remember sportsmanship? It's one of the more endearing qualities Americans love and cherished. Always have and always will. Or maybe not, because we now have a whiny, narcissistic, convicted fraudster and felon, yelling the same horsecockery months before his big day.

In fact this bloated malignant tumor has been yelling that ever since 2015. 

He did nothing about this alleged rigging when he was president. Only because he won.

He did nothing but whine about in 2020. Only because he lost. 

And now he is bitching about it again. Because he thinks he'll lose again. To a recently-turned black woman. Gasp!

In all that time he has produced not one shred of evidence of this alleged rigging. He doesn't even possess evidence of a concept of the rigging.

Sportsmanship, once a hallmark of the American Zeitgeist, is now officially DEAD.

Thanks to you know who.

MAGA, I’m all for it.

Reporters are fond of asking Red Hats, when Donald Trump says Make America Great Again, when do you think that was? These same Red Hats, not known for their intellectual or historical acumen often fumble the ball and can’t put their finger on a date. A year. Or even a decade. 

Maybe they shouldn’t be faulted for that. 

If, for instance they replied something like 1953, when America was enjoying post-War prosperity, the elitist reporter might respond, “Oh when black people were forced to drink from segregated water fountains?”

Another respondent might answer 1911, to which another member of the Hebraic media cabal might reply, “Oh when women were denied the right to vote?”

In other words, it’s a loaded proposition. Particulalrly for Republicans who can’t be bothered by details. Or facts. Or truth.

But it is not a question to be ignored. I just wouldn’t answer it with a numerical date.

Instead, I’ll tell you when America was great: 

When we decided a woman's body belonged to a woman. And only she and her doctor had a right to decide that body’s sovereignty

·     When we started living up to our own creedo that “all men (and women) were created equal"

·     When we accepted our role as a world leader and stood up for freedom and liberty and stood against (and tall) against military adventurism (Russia/China/Iran)·

      When we had grand aspirations and even grander abilities to exceed our own grasp

·     When we exhibited compassion and empathy and shared the blessings of being the most prosperous nation on earth

·     When we stood for the best of human nature and not the cruelest, most selfish and most craven 

·     When America exceptionalism was exceptional for all the right reasons

Sadly, we have descended so far. And have a long way to go to get back on track. 

And a cheesy, fucking Chinese-made red golf cap won’t help one bit.

Let's hope we remember exactly when America was great on November 5th.

(Pardon the different typefaces and poor formatting. I wrote this piece in MS Word and imported it. t got all messed up. And I don't have the wherewithal nor the will to fix it.)

What's past is prologue

(This is a timely repost from November 2016, right after the rigged election that wasn't rigged and Donald Trump, despite losing the popular vote, snuck into the White House -- the most monumental political catastrophe in American history. Turns out I was quite prescient.) 

You know who really lost last week?

These guys.

The rough-riding, camo-wearing, weapon-sexuals who for weeks preceding the election, stated in no uncertain terms, that if their guy didn't win they were prepared to go all Wolverine on us and stage their own Lexington Concord.

By the way, I'm sure the folks pictured above are much more familiar with the Red Dawn reference than they are to the very birth of our nation.

But you know and I know that on the night on November 7th, these white trash assnuggets were polishing their 5.56 polymer tipped ammo and chomping at the bit to wreak some revenge on the cultural elitists, global elitists and kale-eating nutrition elitists who stole their election.

If things didn't go their way, these Rambo-wannabes warned, blood would run all the way from 5th Avenue down to the Pacific via Wilshire Blvd.

Intricate maps were drawn up. Complete with stealthy diversions, Patton-like flanking maneuvers and tactical positions marked up for the group's best snipers. Finally, they thought, an opportunity to leverage all those weekend warrior training trips to the woods.

And lob homemade hand grenades at Them. You know Them, the enemy who wants to destroy this great country with education, access to proper healthcare, sensible banking regulations, alternative energy sources and equal rights for all citizens.

What kind of un-American bullshit is that?

Guess what Bobby Jo Kalashnikov and Betty Bag O'Bullets, your guy won.

Not with more votes, he didn't win more votes. But he won nonetheless, with the same gerrymandered system you so vocally distrust and want to destroy. The one that was rigged by, how did David Duke put it, oh yeah the Jooos - who, as it turns out, are the world's worst puppetmasters and stringpullers.

Well the doomsday scenario they so desperately wanted did not materialize. Alex Jones will have to conjur up some new false flags. And all that preparation will have be to put on powder.

At least until 2020.

What's the expiration date for freeze dried beef stroganoff?