Wednesday Photo Funnies

One of the downsides of retirement is waking up and never knowing what day it is. Our entire lives have been structured around school, work and responsibilities, the construct of time had become set in cement. 

Which gives rise the upside of retirement -- never knowing what day it is. I had planned to do a Thursday Photo Funnies this week and then realized Thanksgiving was upon us. So, on this shortened week of ever decreasing R17 eyeballs, let's call an audible and proceed with the pics.

Starting with the photo above, the beautiful green envelope. As anyone employed, or simply a hanger-on in the entertainment business will tell you, there's nothing like mailbox money. These checks, at one time significant, can barely cover the cost of a Starby's latte. But thanks WGA, it's the thought that counts.

Spotted in my neighborhood, two old dudes restoring 

a 1956 Bel Air Nomad. 

A beautiful vehicle that they could not stop talking about. 

"I think I left the oven on, bye."

I knew Lucy has a superior ability to smell,

but didn't know she could also spell.

Found these two items, appropriately next to each other, 

on a bookshelf in a closet.

Not sure this photo conveys the amazing girth of this tree.

I pity the trimmer who drew the short straw.

Pretty sure the reason this former player is now in the booth 

is his very poor eyesight. 

Ooooo, manual lymphatic drainage.

Tell me more.

We all know what this means.

Palm Springs is a little weird.

Exhibit A. This statue in front of the 

Palm Springs Swim Center.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

Consequences of a Boney Ass

 

I am not a wealthy man. At least not in the conventional sense. And unless NVIDIA or Apple has a 1000/1 stock split, I will never be a moneybags type of guy. 

Not complaining however, because as I have mentioned before, I have enough. That is enough to keep me out of a dirty nursing home. And should that fate befall me, I'm planning on selling a kidney just so I won't have to eat dirty nursing home vegetable lasagna. I've had it twice at the assisted living places my uncle occupied. Not good.

The nursing home directors should know vegetable lasagna is not putting their best foot forward to attract new customers. But they don't.

However, as noted above, I am wealthy in the unconventional sense, in that I am and have always been extremely healthy. Even in my pudgier...no, chubbier...no, stockier days. Despite having two outpatient surgeries in the last 3 years (left hip replacement and a hernia repair) I have never spent a night in a hospital bed.

Never.

When half the world was getting Covid (the Democratic Hoax) I was not. I don't get colds. Or the flu. Or headaches. Or even hangovers. I probably shouldn't be saying this all out loud, but it's true. And I certainly appreciate the mighty good fortune.

With my dramatic weight loss and 4-a-day workouts, I feel even stronger. I should use the past tense here. Last week while emerging from my backyard hot tub, I fell. Falling is never good when you're in your 60's. And even less good when you no longer sport a layer of me-fall-down-ass-padding.

To make matters worse, I was not wearing my Apple iWatch, which dutifully monitors my stand uppiness and offers to send assistance whenever it detects a victory by Earth's gravitational forces...

"Have you fallen down? Would you like us to send assistance?"

Indeed I had fallen down and as the commercial says, "I could not get up." 

I laid down on the cold Trek deck, in a pool of condensed hot tub water and could not move for 15 minutes. My brain was sending signals to my arms and legs, but they were replying, "Not yet, we're busy soaking in the texture of the deck and enjoying the scent of Night Blooming Jasmine."

At some point I was literally laughing at my predicament. "Stupid klutz," I said to myself, "this is a fine mess you've got us into."

Clearly I extracted myself from the situation. 

Yesterday, having toughed out a week achey nights and long days of heating pads and ice packs, I decided to see my doctor, who like Ms. Muse, could not understand why I waited this long to see if I had broken a rib or my tailbone.

I had not. But I was hoping he'd bring me in his office and slip me some morphine-grade painkillers to take the dull edge off. Apparently doctors don't do that anymore.

There is a silver lining to all this and I'm told this is a phenomena known to all older...no, aging...no, late mid-life people. When one pain comes on, the other pains dissipate. Since this happened, I haven't felt any wincing creakiness in my right hip.

Ah, life's silver linings.

Trickle Up Economics

Right now, as I am writing this, there is a Mexican woman, who barely speaks 100 words of English, tidying up and cleaning this rather large 4 bedroom, 2400 square foot house made messy by a very hairy dog and a not so hairy old man, me. 

She is a very sweet lady who manages to understand my mangled Spanish. I know about 500 words. And another 50 words I would never use around her, taught to me by the busboys and kitchen workers from my early and filthy restaurant days.

Tomorrow my gardener will be here to mow, blow and go and trim the ficus trees that seem to be on some kind of steroidal Miracle Grow. He might be the hardest working man I have ever met. He is also Mexican. Or Guatemalan. Or Colombian. I don't know. Nor do I care. 

Nor do I care about their immigration status. And would remind those salivating over the prospect of "mass deportations," conducted by our own military, be careful what you wish for.

I would also remind them that legality is a construct and differs greatly from morality. Perhaps white people have forgotten that this land, the stuff right under your feet, was taken from Native Americans. There was nothing LEGAL about crossing the Atlantic and stealing, by extreme force, land that was not theirs. 

Manifest Larceny is a better description.

I would also remind them that there was nothing LEGAL about kidnapping Africans and shipping them to North and South America to do the backbreaking nation-building work that gave birth to generational wealth.

For centuries indigenous people who lived in Northern Mexico crossed freely back and forth over what is now a sovereign border, another Euro-construct. If anything, they have more of a legal claim to this land than you or I do. 

And certainly more than Elon Schmuck.

Having lived the majority of my life in Southern California, I only know that I love these warm, friendly, industrious people. I only wish my country loved them back. For all they contribute. 

I didn't study economics in college. And couldn't tell you the difference between Keynesian theory and that of Adam Smith, but I do know this. The immigrants who came up from the South are the lifeblood of the west. They pick our food, paint our houses, build our factories, and sadly they are a source of cheap labor. 

Which means the folks on the rung above them have more disposable income. Which means they can save money and invest money in the companies of the people on the rung above them. And so on and so forth. Until you reach the gold plated rung where 8 (men) sit ogling their enormous wealth and transalting it into power.

We've given Trickle Down Economics a good 50 years to prove itself. It hasn't. And only created Billionaires and people who will never be Billionaires.

It's time to give Trickle Up Economics a shot. A rising tide lifts all boats. Including the yachts.

 

The New Jaguar

When you write as many blog posts as I do (4x a week, over the past 15 years) or exponentially more as my friend and fellow blogger George T. does, you don't look a gift horse (or cat) in mouth when the universe presents you with one. 

Ipso facto, today like so many others, I'm going to sound off about the new Jaguar campaign.

Back in 2002, when my whiny petulance and insistence on greater creative control grew beyond its rightful limitations, I was let go from TBWA Chiat/Day. "We got quit", as my former partner John Shirley would put it.

A mere 4 weeks later I was hired to be the Group Creative Director on Jaguar at their AOR agency, Y&R. In Irvine, only 56 miles south on the 405 from my house. In other words, Jaguar is a brand I'm intimately familiar with. 

Or, at least was.

The big knock on the new "brand film" that is being shared in digital ad circles is how they neglected their distinctive British heritage. Instead they decided to put on a haute couture fashion show (not even sure I'm using that term correctly) with a mish mosh of actors and an even mishier, moshier ejaculation of colors. 

I assume this appeals to someone. Just not sure it appeals to luxury/performance auto buyers willing to shell out 6 digits for a car that must compete with BMW or Mercedes Benz. 

It is painstakingly substance free. And it's difficult to contain my contempt for the "work." 

Though to be fair, much of today's automotive advertising is geared towards the Tik Tok crowd. Apologies to George T., but it harkens back to a point he has made, ad infinitum, "give me a reason to investigate or even buy this damn car."  

They don't. The brass at Jaguar, a conclave of stuffy old white men never did. And any urging on our part to revisit the brand's DNA and legacy as maker of the world's sexiest, sleekest cars, fell on deaf ears that were bursting with tufts of white hair.

But it's not like my boss John Doyle, one of the world's premier art directors, and I, didn't try. I fished this out of my vault of dead ads that never went anywhere...

This double page newspaper ad originated from the strategy department who told us that when people actually drive the car they are 17.3% more likely to buy it. Don't quote me on the statistic. So we tried to beat people to the punch and recreate the feeling of a test drive to spark their interest. The designers and engineers who built the car would have loved the way we paid homage to their innovation and their British heritage.

The muckety mucks would have no such thing. 

Weeks later we came back with ads that were not so copy heavy but still chock full of a certain Jaguar-ness. And they were distinctively art directed in the manner that made Doyle a legend and accounted for his panoply of appearances in all the best award annuals.

I'll never forget the stuffy old twat who, while I was reading the copy out loud to a room full of suit wearing execs, told me, "next campaign, please." 

He did say please. 

The CMO and the CEO at the time were however intrigued with a campaign brought in by our NY team, a bunch of ass-kissing hacketty hacks. Or maybe they were from London. Who knows, who cares? They skinned the new models in Jaguar-like paint -- see the photo above. And they wanted to buy a song from Fleetwood Mac, "you can go your own way."

Get it?

There was no accounting for taste then. And apparently there is no accounting for taste now. 

Meow!

PS. why would you not want to lean into this?

 

News, 2.0

Not that we are going to do anything about it, but Ms. Muse and I spend a lot of time talking about new business startups. We also spend a lot time discussing our next vacation trip. And as you might have guessed, vacation plans are much more fun and lend themselves to better flights of the imagination.

Beachfront living (if only for a week) with unlimited rum punch >>> Xcel sheets and P&L prognoses.

Because we are both at an age, as some would say, we thought there is a huge business to be had helping lovelorn men assemble an effective profile page on the myriad dating sites. 

Not that I'm an expert on the matter but I'm told my initial profile page was head (albeit, bald) and shoulders amongst the many hopeful suitors.

They, again I'm being told this, likely contained shirtless photos and more often than not, a picture of a man, holding in his breath, and peacocking before the camera with the latest bass, trout or marlin, snagged from the nearest body of water.

Given how clueless men are about things that interest women, rom-coms, astrology and all manner of bedding & linens, and given how men are so eager to beat out other male members of the herd, it would not be difficult to have them part with some significant shekels for any much needed aid.

The other possible business we've talked about is closer and dearer to my heart.

Many of us, I'm assuming millions, have recently abstained from the news, be it in print, social media or even MSM and the nightly broadcasts of CNN and MSNBC. It's been a full two weeks since the Electile Dysfunction of 2024. And for someone who ate freely at the smorgasbord of news that kept us abreast of all the latest GOP and Democrat foibles, it has not been easy going cold turkey.

That's not to say that I haven't felt less stressed and angsty about life, I have. And in many ways it's wonderful. I do not miss his ugly pock marked bloaty face. His bleach blonde head merkin. And his signature tiny hand gestures that are more befitting a high school junior running for student body council.

But, I don't like the feeling of being uninformed. Though half the country seems to revel in it. 

The same folks who sing the celebration of capitalism but don't seem to know that the government is not responsible for grocery prices. The market is. The forces of supply & demand are. And because the nuances of macro-economics are far more nuanced than their tiny brains are capable of processing. 

But they don't care about any of that, because their guy bellowed louder. And affordable eggs and bacon trump democracy.

He will continue bellowing even louder for the next 4 years. Surely, Ms. Muse and I thought, there's gotta be a way to deliver the news without mentioning or referring to the Insurrectionist Assbag determined to be our own American Dictator -- Kim Jung Trump, as it were.

I wish the powers that be at MSNBC, where ratings have nosedived, would heed the call. They have smart people like Rachel Maddow, Lawrence O'Donnell, and Ari Melber, not to mention a stellar cast of pundits like Andrew Weisman, Joyce Alene, Beschloss and Baker. These are people I respect, even though their naive opinions turned out to be wrong, thanks to ingrained GOP corruption. They weren't dishing out disinformation they simply had too much trust in the proletariat. And the system.

Keep these intelligent professionals and journalists. Just filter out everything that has to do with Captain Ouchie Foot and I'll come back. 

I suspect, millions of others will too.

#6 has the ball...

Against my better judgment, and at the urging of Ms. Muse, I'm leading this post with a photo taken over the weekend. We were in Palm Springs repairing, discarding and replacing stuff at my uncle's modest house. He had a lot of stuff. A whole closet, seemingly, devoted to the storage of drill bits. 

In between duties as a new Real Estate King and Lord of the Manor, I was at the Palm Springs Swim Center, quite possibly the finest aquatic facility in all the land. The Manager of the place once told me they were one of the few pools that actually had the equipment to heat and cool down the water. That's some fancy schmancy water control. He also invited me to participate in an elders "Inner Tube Water Polo Game."

And reminding myself of a pledge I made to try and experience new things, I thought why not. I enjoyed water polo in high school. It was literally the only team sport I did well in. And I like to tell myself the only sport where I wasn't picked last or next to last.

This was a little different, as I had to maneuver my way around the oversized inner tube which I swear had been lubed in advance with Saudi Arabia's finest petroleum products.

Added plus, I got to wear one of those funny water polo hats. Which for some reason or another I associate with Australia. The rest of the day I affected a poor Down Under accent as it seemed like a distinctively Aussie past time. Those people love their water. If, I mean when, the country goes Full Freidrich Fascist, I will pack my belongings and become an Aussie ex-pat. 

Note: Matt Knapp (one of the funniest and brightest guys I ever worked with), if you're reading this, I hope you have a room for me.

As it turned out, not enough folks showed up for the polo game. The pool temperature was a comfortable 79 degrees but the brisk Palm Springs winter air was a frigid 62. Brrrr.

And so my new friends Nick, Jeremy, Michael, and I did some Inner Tube Water Polo Drills and took some very satisfying shot at an empty net.

"He shoots, he scores."

As I was leaving the water, the pool manager apologized and said the low turnout was because of the Arctic temperature. As which point, I was about to reflexively and sarcastically say, "Ahhhhh, bunch of pansies."

I bit my tongue and realized as quite possibly the only cisgender male in a 50 mile radius, I probably shouldn't say or think things like that.

See, I'm even training my mind to try new things.

Eat the Rich

This is a story about the Haves and the Have Nots. Told by someone, me, who falls into the category of Has A Little, hopefully enough to stay out of a dirty nursing home. 

Though if I maintain this rigorous exercise routine, continue to eschew processed food and ever put a permanent cap on the Bulleit Bourbon, I may live longer than Methusaleh. And then who's gonna empty my diaper?

Last week, in stunning technicolor, we saw the benefits (actually white man privileges) of having a significant amount of money. Enough so that he could turn to Lady Justice and with his tiny anal-looking lips and say, "Fuck You."

That to me was the greatest pain of the election. It wasn't that 1/2 this country elected an illiterate, vulgarian silver spoon baby who has never worked an honest day in his life and has a hurricane path of stiffed creditors in his wake. 

Like him, more than 50% of the people we live next to have never picked up a book after completing their "education". Nor are they able to discern fact from fiction from conspiracy theory. Yeah, we have Space lasers, control the weather and the ability to rig elections. Though we didn't bother to use any of those weapons to rig the last one.

Like I said, people are stupid. After 67 years this comes as no revelation.

What is most galling however is the way Rich People get away with their skullduggery. 

Take the South African who put the trash can on wheels. Just before the election Sir Musk was brought up on state charges for election interference because he was offering $1 million to unregistered voters to register. Who do you suppose those folks would have voted for? Days before his appearance in court, his high priced lawyers successfully obtained a delay.

Mmmmm, where have we seen the delay, delay, delay tactic to kick the can and the Constitution down the road before?

No man is above the law, the saying goes. or went. But with enough money and a cadre of $2000/hour lawyers, some men can't be touched by the law.

Last year I got nabbed by a pesky red light camera for the crime of crossing through the intersection a mere 2 tenths of a second too late. I had to fork over three hundred bucks and spend an entire day swallowing and regurgitating the California vehicular regulations. 

And it's not just in the criminal arena.

Tax codes are largely written by rich white men. And guess who benefits from those proprietary tax codes? 

"Let's see, we have a $92,864 deduction for private jet fuel. Another $781, 543 deduction for resurfacing the hull of the yacht. Oh and another $1,297, 627 for resurfacing the hull of your second yacht. Looks like you're getting a refund from the government. Again."

My iWatch is telling me that my blood pressure is reaching dangerous levels. I'll just leave this right here.

There was a rigging in 2024. 

And in 2020. The whole system has been rigged. 

Always has been.

The rich get richer. The rest of us get peed on.

My Fucket List

Unlike some (politicians and ad agency presidents who promise a raise but never deliver) I am a man of my word. So when I say I am committed to trying new things, as I did yesterday and in the past on these very digital pages, I mean it.

Witness the picture above, wherein I am receiving my very first pedicure after living 67 years without one. 

The first thing you'll notice is I carefully blocked the pedicurist's face so she would not be subject to any  public shaming. I do after all have the world's ugliest and possibly widest feet. Or so I'm told by my daughters, who for years suggested I experience a legitimate pedicure so that my feet would be less..."ewwwwww." 

Ms. Muse, slightly more diplomatic, is also not a huge fan of my EEE shoe fillings. And successfully corralled me into doing it as kind of a lark.

At this point, you should know neither of us are into "feet." 

We're all adults here, with the possible exception of my buddy Paul, and know that a significant part of the population ARE into feet. Whatever floats your boat shoes, I say. Just as we now know more than half the country are also into watching a man mimic giving fellatio to a microphone.

Get a room. Or a large stadium so tens of thousands of uneducated diaper-wearing Kool Aid drinkers can watch.

I digress. Kicking the Trump punching bag has a become a natural reflex. 

Must. Restrain (and re-train). Myself.

I will say I rather enjoyed the careful and detailed attention to my feet, a part of my body that is getting  more difficult to reach on account of my bum hip and ridiculously stiff torso that seemingly does not respond to any amount of stretching and yoga. But I suspect my daughters enjoyed the pedicure, albeit vicariously, even more.

All joshing aside, it was a very pleasant experience. I don't know if it was worth the forty bucks (including the exorbitant tip) but it has occurred to me that after a lifetime of making sure those around me were provided for and pampered, it's high time I spend the fruits of my labor on myself.

To that end, it's also time to get my back waxed. I have heard other swimmer's at the pool whisper, "Let's swim on the other end of the pool, away from The Bear." 

Mmmmm, wet bread

One of the advantages of living in a city as big as Los Angeles, is the gift of discovery. There's always some thing to see or experience, that in even after 42 years of residence, l haven't seen or done before. 

Until the advent of the Metro line trains feeding in and out of downtown Los Angeles, I never had any reason to go there. Much less any desire to step along the urine-shellacked streets of Skid Row.

Nevertheless that's where Ms. Muse and I found ourselves this past Sunday night. Being an aficionado of  French Dip sandwiches, she had suggested an outing to Coles.

I'm not a particular fan of au jus meals, I prefer a crunchy toasted texture, you might say we are wet sandwich incompatible. Nevertheless I was game for a jaunt to downtown LA for some old fashioneds brought to life by the grimy aroma of urban mismanagement.

And the place, though noticeably more even more downscale than one might think, did have its own charm. Its own understaffed charm. There was one bartender and one waiter.  Serving close to 50 people. Though some of those people appeared to be regulars and only there for the cocktails. Many of them had their heads on their arms draped over the 100 year old wooden bar.

To be honest, I'm not sure there wasn't a guy in the kitchen, taking the orders, and then jetting over to legendary Phillippe's, only to bring them back to Coles and rebrand them, if you will.

Ms. Muse opted for the Roast Beef, I demured. Maybe it's my long running viewership of The Daily Show and their nightly skewering of Arbys (Arbys, when your mouth wants to pick a fight with your stomach.)  

Also, since my pescatarian diet restricts my intake of red meat, I was gonna make sure it counted and chose the pastrami, which wasn't Langer's worthy or even Cantor's worthy, but still respectable nonetheless. Made even better by Cole's trademarked Atomic Mustard -- a fiery blend of mustard and horseradish. 

For my gentile readers, if you're not gastrically familiar with horseradish, I suggest you tread lightly.

In all, if you haven't experienced Cole's I suggest you do. If for no other reason than to say you did. When we returned to bucolic Sierra Madre -- a million miles from Skid Row, Los Angeles -- we sprayed the bottoms of our shoes with Lysol. Then put them in a double paper bag and popped them in the microwave.

Just before we left I trepidatiously decided to use the Men's Room. 

I'm glad I did.

It would appear Mr. Bukowski and I were the only ones who chose not to pee on the sidewalk.

Sir Immanuel Kant

Today is Day One of my Trump-free life. Actually it's more like Day 7, as I've managed to go a week without posting about him. Nor reading any news that might involve him. Which is not easy considering how this oxygen hog injects himself into the news on a minute by minute basis.

I'm going to do what the media couldn't, I'm going to ignore him. At last count there might be 70 million of us who have now sworn off the Pussy Grabber in Chief, so I know I'm in good company. 

I also know that it will be tempting to comment or post on any number of his upcoming foibles, whether he wants to rip down windmills to save the whales and prevent cancer or he plans to drain the oceans of any and all sharks. 

It was all low hanging fruit for the past 10 years. 

Make no mistake it was a lot of fun and I felt like I was hardwired to mock he who was and still is mockworthy. I imagined myself as a staff writer on Kimmel or Colbert or even The Daily Show and gorged myself on his unbelievable fucking insanity.  

But unlike those staffers, who must be as exhausted as I am, I was not getting anything out of it but algorithmic hits of dopamine. 

So now I'm changing my diet. And my social media habits. In just one week of my detox I'm already starting to feel lighter. And less inclined to carry the psychological burden he so relentlessly imposes on all of us. And our zeitgeist.

Despite the election results of last week, I still feel America cannot begin to calculate the damage he has done. But the kids at the back of the room, the ones who never studied, never picked up a book, never learned to recognize the patterns of history (in this case, fascist patterns) can have him. 

As I move forward, I choose to follow the wise words of one Albert Einstein...

Also, not for nothing, I plan to leave my significant Yard sign collection supporting Kamala and the cause of grace, empathy and humanity over affordable prices for bacon and eggs. My proclamations of being anti-fascist have already produced tangible results.

Last week it appeared someone lost a 100 dollar bill on my front yard. 

Upon further exploration however, I discovered it was a counterfeit.

If that's not the perfect encapsulation of his flim-flammery, nothing is.

Go Make America Great Again, Red Hats, we're all waiting.

Of Lee and me

The timing was not ideal, but the tonic for my soul was perfect.

Following the disastrous Election Day last week, there was a special screening of the movie "Here's to the Crazy One." A celebration of Lee Clow, Chiat/Day, their collaboration with Apple and many of America's best brands and the making of advertising history. I don't know how it happened, but I was fortunate enough to play a very small role in it.

Come Wednesday morning and the incumbent hangover, I wasn't sure I wanted to go. But at the urging of Ms. Muse, who wisely said, "It'll be good for you to turn off the politics of the day, which you have no control of, and be with your people."

And it was. I reconnected with so many friends and colleagues of the past, people I hadn't seen in close to 25 years. And I had an opportunity to meet some new Chiat people from the era just before me. It was wonderful.

And the movie was great. 

I know I might be a little biased here, having put in a good 12- 20 years of my life into the place. Two stints on staff and many years as a freelancer/permalancer where I made enough money to ease some of the lasting pain and perceived slights I might have endured earlier. 

I say that in a loving -- and lucrative -- manner.

Assembled from historical Chiat footage, snippets of the legendary ads and the luncheons Lee conducted with many creative people who were in the trenches, like me, the movie takes us through a chronological and emotional 50 year journey. 

My favorite part was the new footage they shot of Lee visiting the old haunts. Though I wish there were more time at the Warehouse, the building where I got my start, my very excited and intimidated start, back in 1990. It's also where they filmed an episode of ThirtySomething (for you Boomers.)

Thankfully, our luncheon, discussing ABC and other assorted adventures, like trying to pee in a bucket while traveling cross country on a tiny Lear jet, ended up on the cutting floor. The last thing I wanted to see was a 50 lbs heavier version of myself who had clearly, and sloppily, indulged in too much day drinking.

But as I think back on the night I couldn't help but to be reminded that I had the opportunity to work with so many amazing, creative, intelligent people. Folks who know how to navigate intricate marketing challenges, summon the collective abilities of teams, and through determination and strategic maneuvering, produce results that stand the test of time. In other words, the industry's, and the nation's finest.

The auditorium was packed with them. All of them. 

As I embark on my own personal detoxification of Donald Trump, it was clear that any one of the people in that theater would be a better choice to lead our country. That includes the acne-scarred teenager who dished out the popcorn.

 

My next T- shirt

 

If the word is unfamiliar to you, as it was to me, allow me to spare you the effort of running to your online dictionary.

redcrudescence - The unexpected return of a particularly unpleasant experience.

I think it's safe to say many R17 readers are dealing with a major bout of recrudescence. 

Tuesday's turn of events has all of us, facepalming ourselves and thinking, "What the fuck happened to America?" Have we forgotten the chaos, the humiliation, the ignorance and the mayhem of 2016-2020. Oh and what about the Covid corpses left in the wake of a man who kept telling us, "Ignore the loss of grandpa and grandma, everything is under control. Drink another shot of Clorox bleach." 

Here's the thing, born just a generation removed from the Depression, my family has endured living under  a very dark cloud for a very long time. We wear our pessimism like a well-tailored overcoat. 

Expect the worst and be pleasantly surprised by any other outcome. That and the ability to laugh at our foibles has given us the strength to move on. 

And we will.

Yesterday, for instance, after digesting the undigestible news of Trump's victory, I took a gander at the business news and the soaring DJI and NASDAQ. 

Here's the incredible irony, the same Red Hats who bitched and moaned about the cost of a dozen eggs and a pound of bacon in 2023, the ones who don't have two nickels in the stock market, elected a bankruptcy-prone doofus.  And in doing so, put a significant bump in my stay-out-of-dirty-nursing-home-fund.

Thank you, political Neanderthals. I think.

Here's another thing. I took a few moments to take inventory of how little the choice of a US president actually has on my life. Maybe I'm looking through rose colored glasses here, but the effect is kind of minimal. 

I'm retired. I have a comfortable home. I even have a vacation home - that is still available for rent in lovely Palm Springs (dm me for details.) I have Medicare. And in two weeks the US government will start depositing Social Security checks in my bank account.

I have my fingers crossed all those plusses in my favor will remain in place.

Similarly I have two daughters who are healthy, happy and thriving in their careers. And will remain so, despite whatever mishigas this monster will wreak. 

In other words, other superficial, sanguine words, I'll be OK. And I'm trying not to let this historical turn of events and obscene evasion of justice bring me down. Below that surface however, is the concern for family and friends who have considerably more at stake. Those that have been marginalized, including women, brown skinned people, and members of the LGBTQ community.

But guess what my myopic Red Hat friends? You have those people in your family and in your circle of friends as well. And they're scared. And because of your shitty cretinous choices, they have every right to be.

Enjoy your bacon and eggs.

Where's my walker?

Figure A.

 

"Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh Reilly, Oh Reilly Auto Parts."

As with all good advertising jingles, this one is stuck in my head. Mostly because I'm at an age when parts need replacing. A few years ago, after willfully enduring needless pain, I gave in and took a trip to an orthopedic surgeon who told me the cartilage on my left hip had all but disappeared.

"Bone on bone," he chuckled.

"Ouch," I did not chuckle.

It's likely the right hip, a few years down the road (aka: a few thousand miles of biking, hiking and schlepping) the other one, will need to go as well, he told me. It appears that time has arrived. Perfectly coinciding with the frazzled nerves I am currently experiencing.

I have some funny ideas about the human body. 

Not ha-ha funny, and not about everybody's body, just mine. I know getting an A+ in Freshman Biology at esteemed Syracuse University doesn't make me a "doctor" but I am regular student at the Google Medical Center.

My feeling, and I could very well be proven wrong, is that if I do enough exercise the stinging, often debilitating pain on my right side will dissipate. It will, in the words of our former president while referring to Covid, "just disappear."

And so, counterintuitively, I have not decreased my exercise regime, I have increased it. 

"Hey pesky Femoral Head and Acetabulum (see Figure A.) you think you can keep me down? I've got a potful of caffeinated coffee and some leftover Percoset that says otherwise."

Of course, the pain hasn't disappeared. And tomorrow I will attempt to raise my mileage in another foolhardy attempt. 

Perhaps this is surprising, and I say this with all modesty, I get many emails and private DMs telling me I'm smart. Clearly that is not case. 

When I see the surgeon next week I will ask him if it's possible that while on the gurney and the propofol has me off somewhere in O.R. Margaritaville (hat tip to Ms. Muse) if in addition to replacing my hip joint maybe they can also install a new brain? This one is not working.

"Oh, Oh, Oh, Oh Reilly, Oh Reilly Auto Parts."

 

Hark, I hear an ad

It's Election Day. 

And you might have suspected I'd write a long tome about pulling the lever for the right candidate. But the truth is if you don't know by now that there is only one choice for the future of America, all my head banging and impassioned advocacy has all been for naught.

The other truth is, my mind is still putting itself back together after the brain scrambling events of the weekend, where the GOP candidate -- who was experiencing technical audio issues with his microphone -- unexplainably began fondling the equipment and then began to improvise and perform an act of fellatio on the said microphone. 

He did this before thousands of cheering fans in Wisconsin, who I can only assume are easily amused about anything that isn't snow. There were also dozens of cameras recording what has to be the most vile stunt by any President, Former President or Hope to Be President of the United States of America.

But, mercifully, I am not writing about phallicly-obsessed former president who, just 2 weeks ago was also drooling, loudly, about the size of Arnold Palmer's penis. 

Or have we already forgotten that?

Instead I'd like to shine the R17 klieglight on my former passion -- writing and creating great advertising. And to do that, I bring your attention to Gregg Benedict. I don't know Gregg, though we are connected by LinkedIn. But I am very familiar with his daily postings wherein he curates and displays great advertising and harkens us back to a time when those words could be transposed, that is when advertising was great.

Take the poster, in red, pictured above. It's deliciously funny. It also reminds me of a headline I wrote for Outback Steakhouse about 25 years ago: "If God didn't want us to eat beef, he wouldn't have made cows so easy to catch."

What these two lines have in common is the engagement they require from the reader. Akin to 2 + 2 = ?

What they don't have in common is the Red Star poster got produced, the Outback Steakhouse line did not. 

We all have stories like that. But they don't diminish our appreciation for whip smart colleagues who managed to punch through the wall/walls of weak minded middle management who now rely on useless data and ChatGPT to write their crappy ads, email blasts and digital garbage.

Gregg doesn't know I'm writing about him and his robust collection of great work, but I suspect he won't mind the additional eyeballs of my 8 loyal readers (who manage to put up with my sloppy typos.). And the appreciation he deserves for bringing these gems back to life.

Here then is just a small sampling of the work he brought to our attention in just the past few weeks. Enjoy. 

Thanks Gregg. And also, Fuck trump.

On the Eve of destruction

It's been almost 3 years since my late wife passed and as many of you already know I've been on a grief journey. Not sure I like the word 'journey' since it has been appropriated -- in the stupidest manner -- by marketing people and purveyors of everything from dish soap to tortilla chips.

Today, one day before our most consequential election, EVER, I find myself tragically saddened again. Grieving for the loss of America, a country I thought I knew and loved. 

Clearly I don't. 

And have not recognized this once-great nation for close to ten years.  The fact that we may be inviting a further cleaving of America tomorrow is cause for even more despair.

We once had dignity. We've always had loonies on the fringe right and the fringe left. But they were kept on the edges by bright men and women who had more than a 6th grade education in Civics and History. Those educated people have left the building. Or they've consumed enough Cheetos and Kool Aid to have forgotten their responsibility to the Constitution. And to the belief that was at one time the glue that bonded us all.

RIP Dignity.

We once had compassion. There's a huge statue standing in the harbor of NYC. It was given to us by France. In recognition of what made America great, our willingness to accept poor, unwanted, or politically persecuted peoples, from all over the globe, and give them the freedom they deserved and the opportunity to better their lives. And in turn better the lives of all Americans. A rising tide lifts all boats. Now, it just lifts yachts of billionaires and well connected millionaires.

RIP Compassion.

We once had morality. This one is, or was, a work in progress. For a people who claim to abide by biblical values, we often put those values on the back shelf in favor of convenience and greed. A hundred years ago there were places and businesses that were "restricted" from the folks who gave us the first half of our allegedly precious Judeo-Christian values. 

And for the longest time, people of color were not treated as people but as 3/5ths of a human. In many instances they still are. How far have we descended? Just days ago, the monster's comedian took to the stage in NYC, the most diverse city on the planet, and said Puerto Rico (an American territory that should be a state) was, "a floating island of garbage."

RIP Morality

We once had sanity. I'm going to violate the "Rule of Threes" to add a fourth loss here. Because in the non-stop gushing of douchebaggery that flows from the monster's mouth, the latest has left me gobsmacked, which is not easy to do after 10 years of his obscene presence. He took to the airwaves, aided by Tucker Carlson, and suggested that Liz Cheney, a former Congresswoman, daughter of a Vice President, and staunch conservative one time ally, should be put before a FIRING SQUAD for exercising her 1st Amendment rights and disagreeing with his candidacy. That's not President-talk, that's Dictator-talk!

RIP Sanity

What made us the greatest nation on Earth has now made us the greatest disappointment.

RIP America

Editorial update: Since this writing, our ex-Potus (Phellator Of The United States of America) has mimicked Phellatio on a microphone AND called for the murder of American Journalists. Jesus Christ, what's it gonna take to wake Americans up to this UnAmerican Beast?