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?

Rumble in the Jungle

I like to think my musical tastes are quite eclectic. But the truth is, if you were to lift up one of my headphones, or have a seat in my Mustang Mach E, you'd probably hear old man geezer Classic Rock. 

You might, on occasion, hear some Frank Sinatra, some classical, or, if I'm feeling melancholy, even some Max Richter. But more than likely it will be Led Zeppelin, Santana, Jethro Tull or Yes.

Upon re-listening to many of the Yes albums of yesteryear, I now find their lyrics embarrassingly childish, obtuse and self indulgent. 

Talk about woo-woo.

All of which makes the picture from above, from Jungle's recent open air appearance at the Hollywood Bowl all the more confusing. Right?

"What the hell is he doing there?" you might be asking.

Last week  Ms. Muse was celebrating a birthday. And like me, she treasures experiences more than actual physical gifts. At least that what we keep telling each other. Though I do enjoy a good appliance and often experience appliance euphoria. For example, I love my new electric lemon juicer. Particularly since I have two lemon trees that are more fertile than OctoMom, remember her?

Long story, short, I bought us two tickets to the bowl, to see and hear Jungle, completely in the dark regarding their music or their showmanship. The YouTube videos I did see suggested that it was a mix of R&B music and some innovative choreography.

Besides, you can't really go wrong with a night at the Hollywood Bowl.

Turns out the show was short on choreography but heavy on the chronic. 

I came of age in the 70's and have been to many concerts where the Mary Jane was quite prevalent. This was Reefer Madness. We were surrounded on all sides. By people not smoking one joint but by couples, much younger couples, chainsmoking spleef after spleef after spleef. The cloud hanging opver the Bowl that night was thicker than even the most stubborn June marine layer.

I don't know how these people stood up on two feet. Which they all did throughout the show. 

Ms. Muse and I, known to suffer from occasional lower back pain, were the only ones sitting, and laughing, about the "musical adventure" we found ourselves on.

My favorite part of the show came with the opening act, which by the way was never mentioned on the ticket or the Bowl listing. A young man who goes by the name of BAS. He had the build of a husky football player, accentuated by his thick fur parka that was given up by an unfortunate cheetah or leopard.

While the band was playing a steady beat behind him, he was urging the crowd to chime in with the charming chorus of: "Bitch, don't play me like that." They don't write songs like that anymore.

I never had going to a rap concert on my bucket list. But now that I have, I can cross it off.

Happy Birthday, Sheryl.

Bless the stupid

Was having a chat with my friend/fellow father/fellow landsman/fellow copywriter/fellow blogger/fellow observer of human nature, the other day. It was not unlike many chats we've had before. Perhaps you've had the same with the sane people you know.

"How can there be so many stupid people in this country that can't see him for what he is? Why do they  want this ignorant rapist/grifter/adulterous/document-stealing convicted felon to ascend to the highest office in the land?"

I know this question gets asked everyday, from Portland, Maine to Portland, Oregon. Only in Oregon it's often followed by...

"Hey, we forgot to burn some sage in the laundry room."

To be completely frank about the question, there is no answer. And all the head scratching in the world will not explain this man's Svengali-like affect on the millions who adore him. His ear bandage. His diapers. His sneakers. His worthless NFT trading cards. And now his new $100K "gold" watch. Seen here with the amended Tiny Hands.

I know, I have to work on my photoshop skills.

So people can't afford bacon or their kid's daily intake of 24 eggs, but they sure as hell are willing to empty out their retirement accounts in order to wear the Trump label on their wrist?

I don't get it. And 2/3 of the country also doesn't get. And so I saw no point pursuing this line of discussion with Jeff.

But it did occur to me that if not for the masses and masses of stupid people in this country, the ones who claim Olive Garden has the best Italian food or that the moon landing was faked with CGI  (ignoring the fact that CGI wouldn't be around for another 35 years), I would surely be headed to a dirty nursing home.

In fact, Jeff and I, who both made a living in the once-lucrative advertising business, ought to be grateful for the exceptional American stupidity.

"Chesterfield preferred by 9 out of 10 doctors who smoke cigarettes."

"Now with 23% more Retsin"

"Wassssssuuuuuuuuppppppp"

"Jardiance, the little pill with the big story to tell"

"Liberty, Liberty, Liberty...................Liberty."

And for that I am grateful. 

Thank you Stupid People. Not for bringing our Democracy -- I'm sorry, Constitutional Republic -- to the precipice of extinction. But for providing me with a career in smart-assery and avoiding that institutional mattress and the even more detestable nursing home food.

If not for the stupid, I might have remained driving that damn forklift at the industrial wire cable warehouse in Compton, CA. Although by now I like to think I would have been promoted into forklift management.

Thank you stupid people. Please stay home on November 5th.