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. A mere 4 weeks later I was hired to be the Group Creative Director on Jaguar at their AOR agency, Y&R. In other words, it's 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. 

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. S 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. 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. 

 

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?

 

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