On Swedish Death Cleaning

Came across the interesting concept of Döstädning, the art of Swedish Death Cleaning.

Don't remember how I came across it. Either Ms. Muse alerted me to it or one of the eight loyal readers of this blog picked up on some anecdote I made last week. In any case it resonated, because as of late, whether I knew it or not, I have been disposing of stuff -- Döstädning. 

With a similar regularity to my consumption of creamed herring in a jar, a delicacy I believe comes from Sweden.

I may be a little premature on the death part of this equation, I don't plan on dying anytime soon, despite my creaky and painful joints and tendons. But I am getting serious about the cleaning part. 

Did a little digging into the Döstädning phenomena and it turns out, genteel and considerate elderly parents in Sweden conduct the massive sweep of their abodes and dispose of their disposables in order to spare their grown children, many of whom probably have back back pain like myself, of the burden when they have taken the next step in their mortal journey.

That plays no part in my current endeavors, none. 

I love my daughters and have provided for them in all manner possible. They in turn have still not learned to make their beds, put away their shoes or do the dishes. Payback can be a bitch.

The truth of the matter is, I don't have the real estate in my brain to keep track of all the stuff I find in this massive (for one person) 2400 square foot house. Until I downsize my home, I have to downsize the detritus of my 67 years on the planet. 

Just off my left shoulder, pinned to the door of my armoire/writing desk, I have an assortment of stuff that means nothing to nobody. 

There's a Media Lanyard from that time I went to Las Vegas to interview Top 20 College Basketball coaches for a Stand up to Cancer documentary. The film blew chunks (college b-ball coaches are not the most interesting men on the planet) but it was a fun boondoggle.

There's a photo of me and a 100 lbs. Chimpanzee from an Earthlink TV shoot (I'm the one on the left.)

And if you look closely there's a string attached to two nails. I had a brain fart and couldn't remember what the hell that was. Then recalled how I surreptitiously lifted it from a pre-production 3D model of an Acura commercial I wrote about a dozen years ago.

https://youtu.be/odszX23uE3s?si=Fj6HQ03RlcSAI4Ew

Why is it in my house? My daughters don't know what half this stuff is. And now that they are in the business they're completely unimpressed by it all. It's all destined for the landfill in Hesperia. Why delay the delivery? 

So while most of you are enjoying your extended break from work, I've decided to take the next ten days off from writing R17 posts. And get down to the serious business of Döstädning. 

As well as the consumption of Lasco's finest creamed herring, an acquired taste, at best.

Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Happy New Year.

Vocational Thursday Photo Funnies

As the 8 loyal readers of RoundSeventeen know I often give myself a break from the many, many hours it takes me to scratch out three barely readable blog posts every week. That mini-vacation takes the form of a stroll the thousands of photos I have on my iPhone. 

Not normal photos, mind you. I have an eye for the weird and unconventional. Perhaps brought about by the odd art books my father would bring home from his workdays in NYC. He had a taste for Kitsch. 

He never encouraged my career goals in the arts, as it were, and always stressed the need for a solid profession that would  yield financial independence. We often fought about that. But, willingly or not, he did cultivate in me an appreciation for the weird.

And I was fortunate enough to land a career that accommodated that. And produced semi-financial independence. Mmmm, social security checks.

With that, I thought it'd be fun to look at all the skills I have on my somewhat perfunctory LinkedIn page...

Mea Culpa: I don't really have any knowledge of Sewer Design.

But my brother was once the financial comptroller

of a small company in the Valley that produced

manhole covers. That's close enough.

Years ago we shot about a dozen spots with the new Uncle Ben.

We made him the CEO of the company. In one spot we see Ben 

carefully trimming a bonsai tree in order to cope

with the high stress of running a rice company. We even

had a bonsai consultant on set. So, there.

In the pre-Trump days I went to town on Kim Jung Un.

So yeah, I consider myself knowledgable and skilled on the 

topic of North Korea, aka DPRK.

I know nothing about anything else on this list.

Gas processing, need I say more?

As the grandson and son of former cab drivers in NYC,

I take great pride in my Parallel Parking.

With 360 degree top down view on my Mustang Mach E,

my PP game is "on fleek."

Do people still say that?

Take Two Tide Pods and call me in the morning"

I have been off the Trump Train for more than a month now. And I'm starting to feel the toxins leaving my body. I'm convinced they're gathered in dormant hair follicles adjacent to my eardrums. They are now sprouting. Requiring excessive maintenance and pruning. But that's for another day.

While I've maintained radio silence, relative, about President Ramblemouth, it is impossible not see what is going on at the level below him -- his cabinet and his kakistocratic cabinet picks.

In his previous regime we saw how Captain Ouchie Foot weaponized the DOJ. He went through three separate Attorney Generals including Matt Whitaker, a former toilet salesman who sold bowls for men with ouchie mama penile equipment. 

Oh yeah, Google it if you don't believe me.

He also weaponized the military, pitting upper brass, men and women who paid their dues and rose up through the ranks because of their superior service and adherence to the Constitution, against the grunts. All of whom by the way, he considers Suckers & Losers.

And now, with the selection of RFK Jr., a man with substantial brain damage, thanks to an insatiable head worm, to be in charge of our nation's medical care, we are seeing the weaponization of our health. 

This is hardly surprising. 

If you'll recall at the very beginning of the Pandemic (I'm sorry, the Democrat Hoax that took the lives of more than a million Americans) pundits were saying this could be the crisis that spelled the end for the Tiny Fingered Vulgarian. The pundits, all of them wrong, reasoned that there would be no way to fight Covid without the expertise of Dr. Fauci, a man who had honorably served the USA for more than 50 years.

But instead of making the virus Public Enemy #1, our esteemed Shitgibbon turned his cross hairs on Fauci. Resulting in more chaos. The suggestion that we drink bleach. And death threats against Fauci and his family.

Now with the appointment of a nut job who saws the heads off whales, eats roadkill bear, and claims that heroin can be a performance enhancing substance, we are seeing the continuation of a deadly and completely illogical platform. 

Illogical to us that is. 

It makes perfect sense for a delusional God/Man to further divide us and pit people with legitimate medical expertise against Red Hats who believe "Daddy will take care of us."

It is one more step towards the Total Negation of Truth.

"Brawndo's got what plants need."
 

An experiment gone bad

It's been said the best way to stave off the decay of old age is to endeavor in new activities. If my mind is working properly, sometimes the synapses don't fire, I've mentioned this before on these here digital pages. Several times.

Recently, with some cajoling by Ms. Muse, I stepped out of my comfort zone and into a Speedo (a modified, more humble American Speedo, not the overly-randy Euro version) and played a little inner tube water polo at the Palm Springs Swim Center.

Also, with some nudging by Ms. Muse, I ventured out on the SS Zaandam (Dutch for come aboard our city-sized cruise ship and eat and drink like they're running out of the stuff) and sailed into the Tracey Arm Inlet in Alaska. 

Also on the new experiences frontier and because I'm always running out of paper essentials, I've installed two, count 'em, two bidets in my house. One upstairs in the Master Bedroom. And one downstairs in the Guest Bathroom. 

Giving me total access to cool refreshing streaming water. 

And I'll say no more about that.

Last week, having finished my book Younger Next Year, an informative and helpful handbook for aging and de-aging, I scoured the house for a new book to begin. That's when I came across my daughter's copy of The Guest by Emma Cline. 

At this point I should mention that unlike their father and much like their late mother, both my girls are readers. I should also mention that every time I spot them with their nose buried in a book, I NEVER recognize the title.

That's to be expected, given the age difference and the fact that we live and socialize in two completely different circles. Being naturally curious and having an abundance of time on my hand  (before my brother landed himself in the hospital again) I decided to enter the fast paced, easy reading world of Chick Lit.

In no time I was turning pages faster than a fat guy plowing through a bag of BBQ-flavored potato chips. This, I thought would've have been an excellent primer for Senor Hemingway, whose writing is tedious, labored and just fucking dull. It took me an hour to get 7 pages into A Movable Feast. And I had a natural inclination to want to read about his Parisian carousing, as I've actually visited Le Polidor and dined on their famous Steak and Pom Frite.

But Hemingway is no Emma Cline. 

She writes about NYC hookers, intimidating pimps, extravagant parties in the Hamptons, transactional sex and even swimming. I was on board. 

Until I wasn't.

After 100 pages in, the book started meandering. And the travails of Alex started going nowhere. This was beginning to feel like a female counterpart to Holden Cauliflower in A Catcher in the Rye. So I did the unthinkable, I started reading reviews. And though I may be wrong, it appeared my literary spidey sense turned out correct. 

The book apparently, doesn't have what every book must -- an ending. And so I have returned it to the pile of stuff my daughters deposit here and never seem to take away, including books, sweaters, and underwear with less fabric than a cocktail napkin.

Chick Lit. Experiment -- FAIL

Dubai, dashed.

Though I'm semi-retired and semi-working as a fractional Creative Director and a man of semi-leisure, I do spend time on LinkedIn. It's not easy to turn off 40 years of hustling in the ad world. And it's still a good place to troll Trumpsters, though I'm doing considerably less of that these days.

Last week I received an invitation to link up with HH Sheikh Hamdan Mohammed Bin Rashid Al Maktoum. Try getting that on a Starbuck's cup. Which makes no sense since Hamdan -- he says I can call him Hammy -- is the Crown Prince of Dubai and probably has his own Starbucks, inside his own palace, inside his own city.

That's how I imagine things work in the UAE. 

And fortuitously, it actually looked like I'd be going over there to see for myself. 

Moments after accepting his invitation to connect on LinkedIn, he sent me a message. Mind you I receive a great deal of invitations, mostly from attractive young Asian women who invariably studied at Harvard or Stanford. They all hail from Singapore. They all work in the Marketing Department of Cosmetology at Estee Lauder. And they all find my credentials fascinating and charming. 

All of which is bullcockery, except maybe the last statement. In other words, I have an oversized nose for sniffing out scammery. But Hammy, the Sheik for you mere peasants and civilians, sent me this...

When a man of his magnitude offers help to a man like me -- read: to a Jew like me -- you don't pass up the opportunity to engage.

Could I use help from a member of the royal family who lights his hookah with $1000 bills? Of course I could? The garage door on my rental home needs replacing. The carpet is fraying. And at some point, I'll need to re-landscape the backyard which will require the expensive services of an architect and a contractor. 

And have you seen the price of bacon and eggs? 

So naturally I engaged. And that's when his Sheikness offered me a job. As an Ambassador, no less. In your face Kim Guilfoiled.

You can only imagine my excitement. 

Unfortunately, this exchange took place minutes before my scheduled physical therapy session, a tortuous hour of stretching, bending and balancing on a tiny teeter totter that threatens to send me to the ground once again. I decided to screen shot the messages and renew my correspondence with his Majesty the following day.

Sadly, however, he and his billions of dirham (the official currency in Dubai) have vanished. Our back and forth chat had gone as well. And my dream of becoming an Ambassador, despite my bad back, has faded into the ether.

But all is not lost. As I was furiously searching for the Crown Prince's linkedin profile I discovered there are many other Crown Prince's and Sheiks on the site. 

Time to start sending out some invitations.

Deal of the century

My friend and fellow advertising blogger, Professor Tannenbaum recently weighed in on the big merger. In fact, many folks, all of whom are much smarter than me, have opined on the matter. And why not? It's only the biggest merger our industry has ever seen.

With the possible exception of this one that happened way back in 1989. 

I was going to demure on the matter. You know, given my lack of business credentials and any manner of gravitas (see Tuesday's post about the Caganer.) But then I thought I have close to 40 years experience in this business and enough war stories -- many of them not interesting at all -- why not?

For instance I think it would be a shame if my former Omnicom overlords passed up the opportunity to change the name of the new entity to OMNIPIG, which is not only evocative but also cleverly uses all the vital letters of both signatories. 

From a purely personal standpoint, I have experience with the genesis of merger mania. 

I began my career at Needham Harper & Steers, which we mailroom clerks called Needless Hardons & Tears. When the powers that be in New York and Chicago discussed combining Needless...er, Needham with DDB, the principals Gerry Rubin and Larry Postaer at the LA office, said, "No thank you."

In what I can only imagine to be a deft and delicate move, they broke off to form RPA and managed to keep the Honda account. In testament to their longevity and integrity, they still have that account some 40 years later.

After schlepping boxes and moving furniture sometimes diva-like creatives, I got my writing career started at Abert, Newhoff & Burr. A small and nimble (before that became some coy marketing descriptor) agency that itself had broken off from Chiat/Day. Back then there were several small boutique agencies that had split off from the Mothership including Stein, Robaire & Helm and Keye Donna Pearlstein. 

All did outstanding work and all made outstanding money for themselves and their employees.

If there's one reason to be optimistic about the merger it's the emergence of smaller independent boutique agencies who are finding ways to create great work for large clients. You know who they are. Frankly, I can't remember if I took my painkilling medicine this morning or not. They have odd names like FlapJack, Gooey, and Untied Shoelaces.

Finally, I read somewhere that Omnicom paid close to $13 billion to acquire IPG. First of all I don't understand how an ad agency or even a network of ad agencies is worth $13 billion. There's no infrastructure. There's no physical product. In many cases, virtual cases, there's not even real estate to be had. 

They're basically buying people, overworked, underpaid, unappreciated people who, when management is not around, can be heard saying things like, "This is my fifth weekend in a row working on this damn Pizza Hut, Two Toppings for only $6.99 Medium Pizza promo. I gotta get outta this business."

Dear OMNIPIG Brass, 

If mediocre advertising is what you're looking for, I can be lured out of retirement for 1% of what you just shelled out. You know where to reach me.

Grumpy Young Men (and Women)

 

I am the world's slowest reader. I started this book about two months ago. And even with my exercise respite, due to a back injury, as well as my continuing physical therapy to relieve bone spurs on my right hip, I have just now completed the book pictured above.

All of which is ironic given the premise and promise of the title. 

And though it's hard to take anything I write seriously (see yesterday's post about the Caganer) I do highly recommend reading this handbook for aging, written by Chris and Harry. Sorry, Dr. Harry. Particularly if you are of a certain age. And would like to live to another certain age, perhaps even one with three digits.

I gave a preview of the book back in October, when I gobbled up the first few chapters on the importance of movement. That was followed by some obligatory fundamentals about nutrition. Which boils down to the notion we should stop eating processed foods. The sugar, the chemicals and the additional sugar found in our groceries (did you know Trump just discovered the word groceries, Google it) is killing us. 

Not coincidentally, I have all but eliminated processed foods from my shopping list. Though Chicas Blue and White salted tortilla chips do manage to sneak in to my cart. Nevertheless with the exception of some canned foods gifted to me in my mother's will that will remain unopened well past my demise, my pantry is as barren as the bookshelves at Mara Lago.

Having my new lifestyle affirmed in the area of exercise and diet was, and is, very satisfying. But the book goes on to talk other variables that are in our control and contribute to longevity, including alcohol, intimacy, friendship, sleep and emotional IQ.

These two old codgers even discuss Grumpiness with a Capitol G. It's a real thing. This passage hit me like some bratty kid had thrown a brick at my head. But before I could lash out...

Do not trust your temper. Think about the strong possibility that the seething injustice you are about to crush is nothing. Do not become a grumpy old man if you can possibly help it. It is dreadful. But it is normal.

For all the Do's and Don'ts, this book is remarkably uplifting. And it's an easy read. For shits and giggles, I recently cracked open Hemingway's A Movable Feast. Which is not an easy read but does make a fine chemical-free alternative to Ambien. 

Give the grumpy old person in your life a copy and discover why I believe 66 is the new 44. 

Feliz Navidad

Merry Christmas. 

I know as a radical, leftist, commie fascist man of Hebraic Seasonings-- a conglomeration of political terms that only makes sense to Red Hats -- I'm supposed to be at the front line, fighting the good fight in the War on Christmas. But the truth is, I'm ready to concede. 

It's a cultural war as well as an imaginary one. Concocted by the same people who festoon every pine tree they can get hold of with lights and ornaments and flood the planetary zeitgeist with egg nog, ugly sweaters and Hallmark movies, and then go on Twitter (X) to complain how Christians are being persecuted.

Hold my slivovitz.

Political overtones notwithstanding, I love Christmas. 

But probably not for the same reasons you do. It gives me ample excuse to bring back and speak about the Caganer. Not that I need an excuse, it's my blog and I can do what I want with it. 

And if I want to ramble on about the Catalonian ritual of decorating all Nativity scenes with a little peasant man who comes to the manger, not with frankensence and myhrr, but the urgent need to pop a squat, I will do just that. 

Those of you who continue to visit these pages, despite the panoply of typos, bad syntax and myriad Trump hit pieces, know that every year I write about El Caganer. This year I was fortunate enough to find a new photo of the Caganer doing his business, or "Conducting an Exit Interview with Mr. Brown", as it were.

Those of you who are unfamiliar will be shocked -- I know I was -- to discover that in many parts of Spain the locals put out nativity scenes, with all the usual cast of characters: Joseph, Mary, the baby Jesus, the Wise Men, and the mohel to to do the bris. 

OK, maybe not the last one. But they do include a Caganer. Who is dutifully in the kneeling position preparing his birthday gift: brown playdoh.

Why? You may ask, thinking Rich is a heretic and surely going to the hot place for engaging in such fibbery.

But it's all true. And I have the receipts. That is, new photos of the Caganer in action. You can Google it. Or for a more colorful description you can look back on my 15 years of writing about this most unique and ink-worthy tradition. 

Merry Christmas!

My favorite. "Either go big or go to the mall."

Medicare for All

I'm little more than a month into my news moratorium and I must say it feels good. Though I choose to eschew anything Trump-related, that does not mean some does not get through. 

I'm aware of the clownish picks he has made for his cabinet, his equally clownish declarations about putting a tariff on anything that moves and the over-the-top clownocity of a grown 78 year old man (the president to be no less) wearing an ugly blue suit and a bright red golf cap. 

Can he not afford a stylist? And how does Melania let him leave the house like that?

The voluntary sifting does not preclude me from catching other news, including the blockbuster story of the United HealthCare CEO who was gunned down in midtown Manhattan.

Let me begin by stating that with one possible exception (see Colonel Von Stauffenberg) I do not support political or economic violence. I take no joy in the taking of this man's life. 

On the other hand I'm hardly in mourning. I was more upset when the leftover Baked Macaroni & Cheese from last week's Thanksgiving feast spilled out onto the floor rendering it inedible. Though I did consider the alternative, considering no one was looking.

Since Karma caught up with UHC CEO Brian Thompson, social media has been flooded with stories of folks denied healthcare coverage by insurance bean counters and healthcare insurance brass with their eye on a yacht. 

Or a second yacht.

I have plenty of teary stories about the battles we fought over vital oncological drugs and procedures that would fill up an entire issue of the New England Medical Journal. I choose not to go down that well worn path.

The larger issue  and one that will not be addressed for at least another 4 years is the fucked up system of healthcare coverage in this country. A system that is not replicated anywhere else in the world. With the possible exception of Sudan, Somalia and Fredonia. 

Even North Korea has universal healthcare. Although every treatment involves getting slapped in the head with a fish.

Americans, at least the ones who voted in the majority last month, are averse to the type of universal healthcare now prevalent throughout the free world. They see it as some kind of commie plot meant to drain us of our rugged individualism and our precious bodily fluids. 

We are an exceptional people. Exceptionally fucking dumb.

For the life of me, I'll never understand why our health insurance is tied to our employment status? We don't ask our bosses to insure our cars. Our houses. Or even our jetskis. All of which are disposable and replaceable. 

Why then do we entrust our bodies to the same people who have no problem asking us to work nights, weekends and cancel vacations just so we can pitch the Pizza Hut account?

Two weeks ago I went in to see my doctor about my nagging back. After a 20 minute visit where he determined I had a bad back strain he prescribed me some Meloxicam -- sadly a painkiller with no euphoric side effects. 

"Get dressed, let me know how it heals."

With that I walked out and right past the billing nurse. Because I'm on Medicare. And that's the way it should be. 

If we had Medicare for all, Brian Thompson might still be alive. Granted he might be the Assistant Manager at a local Pizza Hut instead of a greedy SOB who denied healthcare top people in sore need of it. But he'd be alive.

"Mr. Thompson, we're running low on pepperoni..."

RIP, Bri.

----------------------------------------------------------

Addendum: Having written this two days ago and having observed the fallout on both sides of the equation, it occurred to me that the real shame of this scenario has everything to do with our two-tiered justice system. 

For close to a year now we have seen the perversion of justice like...if I may borrow a phrase...like we've never seen before. Rudy Giuliani is on the hook for $150 million dollars because (and he admitted it) he made false drug accusations about two Georgia State Election Officials. They are having a monumental time collecting that debt.

We've seen the world's richest douchebag, Elon Musk, skate on charges of election interference when he PAID people to vote. His buddy ship with the next president will make that charge disappear.

And of course, we've seen the next President/Seller of Fine Cologne brush aside 91 indictments, a prison sentencing and immunity from all future acts because well...he's fucking rich.

This will not end well. Ask the French.

The Sanity Claus

I got home from my extended Thanksgiving out in the desert to find my neighbors across the street had put up a unique Christmas decoration. 

BTW, I hope you had a great holiday, I had the pleasure of spending some quality, as well as the obligatory not-so-quality, time with my two grown daughters, who have inherited their late mother's superior cooking skills. I won't bore you with the details about the pan-roasted Brussel Sprouts, the twice baked macaroni & cheese or the homemade apple crumble.

I knew upon seeing the inflatable Black Santa, I would have to do a blog post about it. To which my youngest daughter said, "Dad, no, you shouldn't write about Black Santa."

Even after all these years they fear I'm going to say the wrong thing. But I refuse to be intimidated about writing posts on touchy topics, like race, politics, money, religion and the proliferation of Facebook videos glorifying porn stars. 

OK, I'm not going near the last one.

So here's what I have to say about 13 foot high inflatable Black Santa -- I LOVE IT.

I love it, because Megyn Kelly would HATE it. 

Maybe some of you are too young or don't remember, but Ms. Kelly was once a Fox News (HA) anchor, aka bleach bottle blonde. That was before she got thrown under the Jeffrey Epstein bus, co-owned by Roger Ailles. 

In 2013, Megyn went on national TV to declare, quite forcefully and with all the gravitas one would associate with the standard bearer of journalism, that, "Santa Claus was a white man!" 

Excuse me while I retrieve some paper towels and some 409 to clean the coffee spray from my keyboard as even typing that tripe caused me to do a spit take. And this is a dozen years after that lobotomized bimbo took her self righteous stand.

If there are any children in the room, you may want to ask them to leave. Because here's the thing, Santa Claus is a fictional character. He doesn't exist. He's not white or black. He's not even a man. If he were a man he'd be roughly 200 years old and surely shitting in his red flannel pants. And who wants to clean that up. Not Mrs. Claus, she's got a bad back. Maybe because she's over 200 years old too.

Santa Claus is spun from whole cloth. Just like his flying reindeer. Including the whiny one with the red nose.

It's more than ironic that the people who chide liberals and Democrats for engaging in identity politics are the same folks who vociferously claim the caucasoid nature of Santa and are willing to fight anyone who says, or thinks otherwise. 

Santa Claus is a figment of someone's imagination. To assign him, and I assume Mrs. Claus, a particular skin pigmentation would be like saying Moby Dick also drove a bus. Or that Dracula had asthma. 

WTF?

Moreover, and more seriously, the assertion of his melanin-free complexion contributes to a linguistic form of racism that reinforces this distorted and hateful notion that whiteness is the optimal skin color to which all others must default to. 

Make no mistake, it's purposefully divisive. 

I have a newsflash for Ms. Megyn Kelly the newswoman: Santa Claus is no more white than Jesus was.

Money in the bank

I got paid last week. 

Not in compliments. I don't usually get complimented. Curmudgeons who get grumpy because nagging back pain keeps them from their rigorous exercise routine tend not to get showered in a lot of flattery. 

And not in paybacks, in the form of refunds from my two grown daughters who are still teething at the paternal teat for cell phone usage and auto insurance. Thank you ill-conceived "family plans."

I got paid in real US legal tender, from the still legal US government. A rather longwinded way of saying I got my first Social Security check!!! Moreover the check was larger than I had suspected thanks to a last minute (and unexpected) COLA, Cost Of Living Adjustment, of an additional 2.5%.

Let's Go Brandon.

This excitement --are you feeling the excitement -- is tempered by the fact that this is by no means free money, like the bennies regularly handed out to US oligarchs, this is my money. Being returned to me after it was taken from me and I completed my indentured servitude in America's fastest drowning business, advertising.

For those of you who are younger than me (everyone) the process of securing the money owed to you by social security is not a simple one. 

I could have started collecting checks years ago when the data miners dropped a huge turd in the freelance copywriting punchbowl. Or I could have waited until I was 70 and tacked on another $1000/month in payouts. But I decided I'd go with my full benefits when the US government, in all their wisdom, decided I was entitled to a vocational breather. 

That was officially at 66 years and 7 months. Your mileage may vary.

But the tedious SS process pales in comparison to the bureaucratic abattoir that awaits you in the Medicare world. The learning curve is steep. Almost as steep as the step in my backyard that led to the fall that led to the cranky back that now requires an expensive visit from Manny the Masseuse with the magic hands.

A little more than a year ago I ran into LA Times columnist/writer Steve Lopez at a party in the Foothills. He has committed significant digital ink to the topic of retiring/semi-retiring. And we had a great chat about how to navigate the maze. If you don't read his column, you should.

I may not be the fastest walker in the herd, but I will tell you in advance, it can be confusing. More confusing than finding a football game on the streaming apps. 

As I detox from Trump, now a month into this cleansing process, you can expect to hear and read more about the retirement travails that lie ahead. 

But that'll have to wait, it's time for my mid-morning nap.

Scituate's finest

 

After yesterday's second trashing of the recent jaGUar campaign (and their tired vehicle line up) I thought I'd spread some good juju about a campaign I love. But sadly don't see enough of -- Goodby's work for Sam Adams beer.

I should preface this and say I'm a tad biased. 

After all, my sister in law has lived back there most of her life. And her three kids, and now their kids, are in and around the Marshfield area. So taken was I by the beauty of the Massachusett's coastline that years ago, I was tempted to pick up roots and move there.

Crazy, right? Who leaves Southern California to go back east and live in a saltbox?

The point is, I have some familiarity, other than the yearly Yankees v. Red Sox rivalry, to recognize New England authenticity. And that's what I love about the work, it rings true. Albeit in a glossy, manufactured, focus group-friendly kind of way.

For starters the campaign is distinctively tied to the beer. Samuel Adams beer, not my cup of suds, is unmistakably Bostonian. I could cite the connection to the real Sam Adams, but then I'd have to Google American History, not one of my favorite Jeopardy categories.

For other starters, I love how each spot begins with a crafted musical/graphic sting. Not sure why more ad agency people don't employ this technique. There's a reason why jingles worked in the 50's and 60's. In fact Ms. Muse has an encyclopedic knowledge of all them. As well as an awesome and often amazing ability to recall lyrics to every song known to mankind.

Years ago, when I was doing a radio campaign for Bizrate.com, I worked with April W. (did not secure her permission), who suggested we kick off each spot with a chorus of singers, "Another nightmare story about someone who got screwed online...e-screwed."

It was delicious. In the same way the announcer says, "It's your cousin...from Boston."

And then there's the character himself, who may or may not be a second cousin of Ben Affleck. Or Matt Damon. Or even the guy that doesn't like apples. 

He's salty, like a good Arthur Treacher's Fish and Chip basket. But he's not your typical ad spokesperson. I'm looking at you Toyotathon Jan. The client deserves mucho credit for taking the beach path less traveled. 

What I love most is that he's obnoxious, in an almost lovable kind of way. He's unfiltered. Brash. And set in his ways, come on, who wears a backward cap like that anymore? In other words, he's just like people from Boston.

Best of all, charming as it may be, I don't have to listen to that accent for more than 30 seconds at a clip. 

No offense cousins. 

Copy Everything

I've got a bone to pick. I hear you loud and clear, "Rich, when don't you have a bone to pick?" 

And that's totally fair. But if no one points out what's colossally misguided with this world how will it get any better? And so I take my job as righter of wrongs very seriously.

Moreover, while the Jaguar fiasco has gotten a little long in the large feline predator tooth, I have a special interest in the debate as I was, at one time, Group Creative Director on the account and feel I have a right to hold the current marketing genii to task.

More specifically, I take issue with the new tagline: Copy Nothing. 

I may be proven wrong when jaGUar shows us the new line up of vehicles sporting the Growler or the tamed version of The Leaper, but as far as the last 20 years go, jaGUar has COPIED Everything.

As any good lawyer knows, you can't make an assertion without having the proof. And on this I have substantial proof.

Take this 4 door sedan...

Now let's take a look at the Lexus ES 300...

Without the badge wear, you would not be able to tell the difference.

What about SUV's you say. Surely the cheeky lads in Coventry have broken new ground and fashioned an SUV unlike any other on the planet.

Here's the Lexus 350...

And here's the groundbreaking jaGUar F-Pace...

Uhhhhh.

Well they did use a fancy blue background. 

Ok, so I'm cherry picking. But I do enjoy winning an argument, though all the ample proof I've offered regarding Trump being an Idiot Savant of misogyny and feeblemindedness over all these years, was of no apparent use.

Let's take a look at the convertible jaGUar, a sports car where they have made a name for themselves.

And let's take look at the BMW's version (for variety's sake) of the two seated roadster.

Wait what?

When we were trying to breath new life into the brand (way back in 2002) we stumbled upon a maxim written by the head of design at Jaguar. "If you can't tell it's a Jaguar from 100 feet away, we have failed to do our job."

The commodification of the brand and the ill-conceived X-type -- now just $199/month, sorry, bad habit --has not done them a bit of good. 

I'll be shocked if this new marketing effort does anything to help.

Shocked, I tell you.