Dad 101

Let's get Meta. 

Yesterday morning's post was about catching more flies/bees with honey than vinegar. I wrote that piece last Saturday morning. Then rewrote it Sunday night. Then checked for typos on Monday. More typos on Tuesday. And then corrected the typos I made on Tuesday -- correcting typos -- on Wednesday morning.

I make a lot of typos. I attribute it to age. Or when I was working for PayPal, just not giving a shit. 

Last night, long after the post had lived its useful life, I got into a small argument with my daughter. It concerned money, naturally. And how she was not making the most of the money she earned by investing it wisely in her 401K plan.

It was infuriating. I have tried to impress upon my children the importance of saving. And more importantly, putting those savings to work in a wisely-chosen 401K equity plan. 

My portfolio, my investment portfolio not the one with all the dated, crappy laminated ads in it, has performed exceedingly well. Indeed it has allowed me to cease connecting synapses for the purposes of crafting ads for lime-flavored tortilla chips or brown, sugary carbonated water.

Thank god. And thank Charles Schwab.

When I discovered my daughter's haphazard, nonchalant approach to minding her money, I was upset. Not you-left-dirty-dishes-in-the-sink upset. But I'm gonna-redouble-my-efforts-spend-all-my-money-and leave-you-nothing upset. 

In other words SKI, Spend Kid's Inheritance.

Maybe some of you other parents out there have experienced the same phenomena. We can blame ourselves, for not teaching children about money/finances. But we can also blame our schools for eschewing these essentials and spending inordinate amounts of time on solving quadratic equations. Or revisiting the British partitioning of land between India and Pakistan and then leaving Kashmir up for grabs.

My anger was palpable. And still is.

But having taken a few breaths. Consulting with Ms. Muse. And a a generous pour of Bulleit Rye whiskey, I put my displeasure on the shelf.

And, in a proud moment of listening to myself, decided to go to my literary pantry and take out the honey and put away the vinegar.

I slept on the frustration and vexation and decided to write a memo to my girls. A two page primer on 401K's/IRAs/ Asset Diversification etc. 

In short, I listened to myself.

And the results couldn't be better...

On taking the high road

Heard an expression the other day, "You get more bees (or flies,) with honey than you will vinegar." OK, I didn't just hear that the other day. I heard it a very long time ago. But I just started paying attention to it recently.

And living it. 

The rewards are already starting to reveal themselves.

As some of you know, months ago I semi-retired from the ad biz. It wasn't an active decision. It's just that there's so little demand for freelance copywriters. And even less demand for cranky, curmudgeonly 66 year old freelance copywriters. So the business retired me. 

Which is fine because I don't want to spend my last remaining years on terra firma writing crappy emails, 35 character banner ads and even shorter 12 character Calls to Action. I've got better things to do with my time. Well...maybe I don't, but I'm done dealing with middle management twatwaffles.

"Be nice Rich. Remember honey, not vinegar."

To occupy my time, I took to becoming a Senior Influencer/Amazon Affiliate Marketer. That effort has not skyrocketed like I once imagined it would. Mostly because I haven't put much effort into it. Semi-retired life keeps me extraordinarily busy. 

But what little effort I did exert is now paying dividends. For example, months ago I wrote a glowing review of the Quad Lock Bike Mount/Battery Pack. You can find it here.  

It is by far the most efficient, stable and bike-mountiest of all the bike mounts I have sampled. And I said as much in my glowing review. Three weeks ago, the battery pack, which adds a good 1/2 day's juice to my iPhone's planned obsolescence battery, stopped batterying. 

Meaning I found myself tethered to some electrical outlet most the day.

I wrote to the good folks at Quad Lock and told them of my issue. I also told them that I had gone out of my way to pimp (and sell) their gear through this very blog. I asked them where I could purchase a new battery pack to replace the one that had become a paper weight. And within nano-seconds the friendly Quad Lock customer Service Representative said a new one was on its way to Culver City.

Gratis.

The old Rich Siegel, the vinegary one, would have sent a salty missive possibly threatening the Quad Lock company with smalls claims litigation. Not to mention and even more colorful R17 blog piece ripping them limb from limb. (Maybe I've been watching too much REACHER on Prime Video)

But the new Rich Siegel, learning newer, softer, sweeter ways, now has an extra battery pack at his disposal that somehow feels even more satisfying than the original. 

Bzzzzzzz.

Apple crushed it

There's been a lot of talk about Apple's new Crush spot lately. In fact, so many have weighed in on it the last thing we need is one more bloviation. Particularly from an old geezer who worked on the Apple account (for BBDO) and actually freelanced at the Cupertino office (albeit for 3 not so productive days.)

But that's not going to stop me from throwing some digital ink on the page. 

However I will have to tread lightly as I have two daughters in the business. And each of them has a connection to the "offending" spot that's on the tip of so many overwrought tongues.

My oldest daughter works in Production at Media Arts Lab, a division/subsidiary/arm/ stepchild of TBWA Chiat/Day, my alumni. They are dedicated to Apple and often work hand in hand with Marcom folks up north.  

My youngest daughter just started as a full time Producer at Cartel Editing in New York City, where you guessed it, the spot was cut together. 

Brilliantly, I might ad.

From a technical standpoint, the ad is every bit as good as some of the classic Apple work that has preceeded it. It's shot beautifully. It's dramatic in clever and eye popping ways. The music is vintage and right on the nose. And it holds your attention all the way through.

Strategically, it's also incredibly simple. There's not a lot of math going on. That perhaps is my biggest beef with commercials these days -- the lack of clarity. 

I'm not an iPad person, never have been, but if I was there'd be no mistaking the message here, you can get all this (music, photography, gaming, etc) all in one handy, super thin (and I imagine, super lightweight) device. 

So what's all the hoo-haa about it? Why are so many upset about this one commercial while completely ignoring the nonstop spigot of brain spooge that pounds us into submission like a demented ex-President, every minute of everyday. 

I'm looking at you Liberty Mutual. You too, Jardiance. And Jan from Toyota, we get it, Toyotathon is on. When is it not on? And who dresses you, your mother? Why don't you mothball that old lady red sweater and call it a day? 

My girls feel hurt by all this. Which I suppose is good because it means they've invested themselves in their jobs. And by hurt, I don't mean broken arm or broken heart hurt. I mean, something fleeting. Like stepping on a Lego hurt. 

The pain will pass quickly. In a week no one will be talking about the Crush spot. Particularly when there will be even more lurid details about Captain Ouchie Foot and his escapades with the actress who headlined Porking With Pride 2.

Besides, I told them, you're gonna need a thick skin to be in this business. And, I added hopefully, it's never too late to get out and pursue a different, perhaps more lucrative, career in pharmaceutical sales or private equity. Yeah, private equity, where leftover scraps of money (thousands of dollars worth) just fall off the table.

Just a thought.

 

Dan The Man

I'm not good with Death. Who is? But the Grim Reaper seems to be following behind in my fat footprints (Triple EEE) for as long as I can remember. 

For brevity sakes I won't list them here, suffice to say, I first experienced death at when I was 5 years old. On the way for a joyful summer at our Catskills bungalow colony, we were flagged down by a frantic young woman. I watched as my father and my uncle tried to help an old man who was having a heart attack on Route 17, right near the Ellenville exit. 

He didn't make it. The pain of that young woman losing her father on the side of the road was unbearable. For her. And for me.

Last Thursday Le Muerte paid another visit. A shocking one. My friend and former colleague Dan Duffy passed. At the age of 57. 

I still have to swallow twice to comprehend this. 

In addition to being exceedingly young, Dan was exceedingly nice.  Like Midwest/Pacific Northwest nice. Given all the people in this business that are not so nice, it made him quite special. In fact he was always asking how my daughters were doing and offered to help any way he could. 

In addition to being generous with his time, Dan also had a razor sharp wit. And a finely honed sense of sarcasm. Here's a demonstrative snippet of an exchange we had via LinkedIn Messenger, just 6 weeks ago, after my daughter landed a job at Cartel Editing...

Back in 2001, my partner John Shirley and I, did a job with Dan and the Hungryman team. We did a one day shoot in NYC with Director Bryan Buckley. The 12 hour day was wrapped in 8 hours. With barely three takes for each scene. That never happens. It was the fastest, smoothest, most efficient shoot I've ever been on. 

What I remember most about Dan was his beginnings, which not surprisingly coincided with mine. In the early 90's at Chiat. He was one of a handful of AV guys along with, Jon W. and Sean B. These guys  actually shot video (on 3/4" tape) at my wedding, which my late wife and I sadly never watched. 

They were all in their early 20's. All had a slightish build. And none of them were ever gonna play in the NBA. I'll leave it at that.

But they were all possessed by an energy, and perhaps ambition, that knew no bounds. Literally. If a production or a pitch required a left-handed, bright pink pogo stick with an oversized clown horn on the stem, these guys would come back with 3 viable options. 

And two others, as back up.

I'm not sure you'd see that today at an ad agency getting ready for a TV shoot (if agencies still did that kind of thing). Maybe it was the Lee Clow factor. Or maybe because what was to become VBE (Venice Beach Editorial) was the best damn agency production department on the planet. 

Dan was emblematic of a quiet "can-do" attitude that defined the agency in those days. Also not surprisingly, Dan (as well as Jon and Sean) went on to become hugely successful. What fool said nice guys finish last?

Knowing how Dan poured himself into his work, I can easily surmise that he brought that same zeal, determination, wit and warmth to his friends and family. I hope they can in some way be comforted by the outpouring of love for Dan, who touched so many people. The loss is real.

I've been uttering this mournful phrase with too much frequency lately, but I'll say it again, may Dan's memory be a blessing.

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

Addendum: I was able to hunt down an early ESPN SportsCenter spot featuring a young Dan Duffy. The good folks at Hungryman Productions (Thanks Caleb) found this needle in the haystack of more than 1000 SportsCenter spots. Look for Dan as the young Production Assistant schlepping a stack of 3/4 inch videotapes at about the 12 second mark.

https://www.espn.com/video/clip/_/id/17389520

On Suckage (H/T GT)

Found myself at a logjam yesterday. Trying to make this week's quota of blog posts. 

Was thinking about penning a long diatribe about our confounding (that's kind) justice system which moves with all the efficiency of 1960's-style Soviet Politburo. But that's not really an appropriate comparison, because when the commissars wanted to exact justice (mostly on folks who disagreed with the state, many times people with Hebraic Seasonings) they just rounded them up and shipped them off to the shores of Lake Baikal.

They still do. 

Or simply find an apartment building with large windows.

I have often wondered how my journey with RoundSeventeen will end and decided it should be the same as how my journey on terra firma ends. Seated in my Herman Miller chair, spitting lava about the societal machinations that do nothing well, but suck.

And at this point I need to thank my friend George Tannenbaum who inspired today's topic when he eloquently cobbled together a thought piece about, and I'm paraphrasing here, "finding the things you suck and not doing them."

Perhaps it's a writer thing, more specifically a copywriter thing, but it turns out the thing that George sucked at was exactly the thing I sucked at: production. Not of ideas or even clauses, sentences or paragraphs, but of TV commercials.

It took me years to get semi-adequate at writing ads. But when I was thrown into a TV production in my early days at Chiat/Day, I found myself in the shoes of Sgt. Schultz (Hogan's Heroes for you readers under 60)...

I distinctly remember sitting in the old AV building at 340 Main Street in Venice, with the editor Brendan and my art director partner Mary Ann C., looking at the first cut of my very first spot for Nissan. As they chit chatted back and forth about exposure, color saturation, heads and tails, I remember thinking to myself, "Holy shit I'm in over my head."

And of course I was. I wish to god that I kept my mouth shut and let the people who knew what they were doing, do it without my ignorant input. But I probably didn't.

It took me YEARS, to finally acquaint myself with this new universe of TV production. And, like George, I still had an incurable impatience for long discussions about who should wear the blue sweater. Or whether the car should be angled at 3/4. Or 7/8th. And why the actor without the mustache was better than the one with. 

What's wrong with mustaches?

I was more interested in what was available at the craft service table. Mmmmm, cheetohs.

It wasn't until years later that I understood all these little details matter. And add up. And can often make the difference between good and great. OK, it's advertising, let's say the difference between good and gooder.

It's also when I learned that my lane was Outdoor Boards. Give me a template, a color background and a decent product shot, and I'll knock out a hundred funny headlines. As Cliff Einstein used to say, "I know funny, I come from funny."

Though today's post may not be the best evidence.

 

Hospitality 101

I was going to lead today's post with a photo of Conrad Hilton, the world's first international hotelier who amassed over $3.1 billion over his welcoming lifetime. But as you can see I didn't. I went with a picture of his great granddaughter, one time model. And one time, perhaps all-time, icon of blonde vapidity, Paris Hilton.

Why? Because attracting readers to blog posts is not dissimilar to attracting visitors to hotel properties, it's about curb appeal. Paris has some, Conrad an old white man -- now a dead old white man -- has none. 

After 15 years as a regular blogger, I believe I've surpassed Malcom Gladwell's litmus test for proficiency and have logged 10,000 hours ranting, raving, glibbing, venting, scambaiting, and generally mastering the art of advanced adolescent bloviating.

Whereas I'm generally new to the world of hoteliering. But I'm learning fast.

It's only been two months since the Mojo Dojo Desert Casa House has put out the welcome mat and I've already acquired two 5 Star reviews. Behold...

There would have been third, but the last guests damaged some furniture and refused to pay for the repairs when I requested it. 

Note to self: don't do that again.

I'm sure Conrad and his 11,781 properties on all seven continents experienced similar situations and had a guest break a lamp in Reykjavik or bust up a nightstand in Dagestan. I should just take the tax write off and move on with it. 

COB, I believe it's called by accountants and 99% of my family.

One thing I do know, from my other occupation as a copywriter, old Conrad and his Hilton gang, believed in advertising. So much so that they moved their crown jewel account around countless times, like an old Jewish woman demanding the right seat in a restaurant. I believe I crossed paths with the Hilton Brand at least three times in my unstoried ad career.

If he he had a blog, I have to believe old Connie would have also used that platform to drum up new business. Or as I say, "Changing the sheets means staying in the black." 

Maybe I need to re-think that one.

Let me know if you're interested in staying at the MDDCH (City ID# 5634). And let me leave you with the the thoughts of one more satisfied guest...

Editor's note: the astute among you will notice this note was written Media Arts Lab stationery. My daughter works there. And has been known to come home with the odd pen, pad or coffee mug. Sorry Omnicom, also, COB. 

STF?

If you've never seen one before , and I was a member of that group for a long time, this is a Potty Squatty. Or, it may be called a Squatty Potty. I don't know. 

Without going into too much detail, they're intended to make the "Exit Interview with Mr. Brown" go smoother and faster. My daughters convinced me to buy a couple of these a few years ago. But since my daughters no longer live here at Chez Culver City, I can relegate these to the ever increasing storage bin(s) in my garage.

As I was consigning the Squatty Potty to Purgatory before its eventual destination in the Palmdale Eternal Landfill, I remembered a story my friend Paul had told me. He dropped by for a "wee dram of whiskey" the other night for some old man conviviality. OK, maybe it was more than one dram. And maybe there was some old man kvetching going on about kids, marriage, taxes, ex President Vonshitzenpants, etc.

As we drained the remainder of the Bulleit Rye (the green label) and opened up a bottle of some unknown bourbon given to me on my birthday, Paul started recounting the story of a recently vacated house in his tony Westside neighborhood. 

I don't remember all the details (I never do), but apparently the house has been hijacked by Squatters. Hence the long-winded introduction vie the Squatty Potty. And/or Potty Squatty.

"What do you mean, Squatters?", I asked naively.

Paul, being the diligent school teacher, explained, "A bunch of Meth-Heads moved in when they saw the house was unoccupied and now they won't leave." 

"What do you mean?", I posited again.

To ease up on the italics, Paul gave me a primer on archaic, misguided, leftist California Real Estate Law that favors people with sleeping bags, drug issues and an appetite for instant Ramen noodles over the rights of hardworking, tax paying individuals (you and me) who made the right life choices, labored laboriously and made the sacrifices ( "No Meth for me, thank you") to own a home in California.

At this point in my early morning rant, I'm going to switch from high octane coffee to some lightly roasted decaf, lest one of my arteries burst and leave indelible blood stains on my hardwood floors which have been sanded so many times in the past 50 years they need to be replaced. But fuck if I'm moving out of my house for that week long process.

I'm still scratching my very bald head about all this.

"Why can't the owners kick them out?"

"It's illegal."

"Why don't they just change the locks?"

"It's illegal."

"Why don't they move their stuff in and the squatters stuff out?"

"It's illegal."

I can think of no rational explanation for all this. None. And would have to file this, like my story last week about the pitiful state of our billion dollar Metros trains, in the "Why We Can't Have Nice Things" File.

Sadly, I can't also help to think of the vacant house behind me, the one that used to belong to late character actor M. Emmett Walsh. If that were to happen, the legal owners might be handcuffed in their pursuant actions, but I, as a quiet-seeking, short-tempered neighbor, would not!

Let's hope it doesn't come to that.

A way over Yondr

 

Almost had another senior moment get the best of me last Friday. Ms. Muse and I had tickets to go see Jon Stewart (& friends) at the Greek Theater. I was told afterwards that the tickets were actually a late Valentine's Day gift. 

Doh.

Prior to going, Ms. Muse noted that the event was to be phone-free, meaning no electronics or smart (not-so-smart) devices in the theater, at the request of the artists. OK, I thought, I'm tired of watching people watching their iPhones during a live performance. It's kind of pathetic and insulting to the rest of us who want to be "in the moment." 

Fine, I continued thinking, I was on a hot streak, we'll leave the phones at home and almost began the tortuous 45 minute drive to hilly, windy Silverlake, sans electronic devices. Only at the last minute did I realize -- thank you technology -- that the tickets for the show were actually ON the iPhone. 

Had we returned home to get the tickets we would have missed the first two "comedians", which actually might have been a blessing.

The resolve? 

Say hello to the Yondr bag, a kevlar-knitted bag with a specially designed magnetic locking device. I was skeptical at first, picturing lines longer than those at Mammoth Mountain after a 12 inch dump of fresh powder.

But what do I know? Very little apparently. 

We arrived. Waited two minutes to reach the entry, placed our electronica in the small pouch and were directed to our nosebleed seats, just a few rows in front of the hoot owls who perch themselves in the canyons above the venue.

After the show (a mini-review is coming) we waded through the lily-white crowd to relieve ourselves of the outrageously expensive watery drinks and headed for the egress. 

Again, I thought, before dealing with the 10 mile long snake of Teslas and beamers squeezing through one Exit Gate (If you've been to the Greek or the Bowl or Dodger Stadium or any other venue in Los Angeles that is unexplainably not serviced by any Metro trains, you know) I had calculated another exhausting long wait to get the Yondr bag opened so we could be reunited with our digital friend who we hadn't seen or heard from in THREE HOURS! 

But that was not the case. The Yondr folk, about 100 of them were situated all around the theater and opened the bags in a snap. Literally.

The mishegas I anticipated was no mishegas at all. In fact, dealing with Yondr process was a lot more informative and entertaining than many of the comics on stage. Sadly that included Sarah Silverman who sleepwalked through her set. Or had underestimated the strength of the gummy she had eaten just an hour before the show. 

Thankfully, Jon Stewart saved the night. And brilliantly riffed on getting old (Hello), our upcoming election - though I wish he spent a little more time picking apart the ex Precedent Shitgibbon, whose improved treatise on Gettysburg still has me awestruck - and finishing up with a brilliant apples and oranges comparison of Hebraic holidays and Non-Hebraic holidays. Who wants some charosses?

Articulately demonstrating that no one makes fun of Jews better than Jews making fun of Jews. 

It's a gift.

Thursday Photo Funnies

As  you can see from my trusty Apple Watch, semi-retired life agrees with me. When you burn close to 2000 calories in a day you can double up on salmon for dinner. And maybe 1/2 a chocolate chip cookie for dessert.

In addition to the biking, weight lifting and regular swimming (it's so addictive), I've substantially upped my walking. I like to go out just before the sun sets. Maybe it's because I spent a lifetime hanging with art directors, but that light is truly golden. 

Also, because of the pesky Southern California marine layer, it's often the only time we get full sunlight.

This excessive cardio activity has left me exhausted today. And my new dishwasher is scheduled to be installed, so my brain is in no shape to do some heavy clicking and clacking on the keyboard. 

Alas, it's onto the Thursday Photo Funnies: 

I have a fascination with transformer boxes. I love 

this one. Look closely and you can see 

the guy who installed it trying to duck out of the way.

My daughters abhor my taste in art for the Palm Springs airbnb.

Almost bought this spiny hedgehog at a local desert finery, 

but the price was prohibitive.

Perhaps for the best. Dinsdale! 

 

I'm constantly on the lookout for kitschy furniture.

$200 a pop for molded plastic! Not today, Kyle.

My new and often-mentioned Mustang Mach E California Edition.

You can feel the electricity. (sorry, I'm tired)

Since the Halloween decorations never came down,

my neighbors improvised and Easter-ed them.

Those ubiquitous Baby on Board decals 

have been updated for the 2020's.

Back the fuq up!

Last time I had my Chakras activated 

everything I ate tasted like tuna fish salad.

Went to a Chiat reunion last week and

saw my old rabbi...er, creative director/mentor Tony Stern.

Although you could mistake him for my dad.

I added a poolside hammock to the Mojo Dojo Desert Casa House.

https://airbnb.com/h/mddch

Why haven't you inquired yet?

And finally... Fuck this guy.

 

Why we can't have nice things

I hate to sound like a grumpy old man, but as one of the great maxims of writing states, "To thine own self be true." I think that refers to writing. Or maybe it was my doctor rationalizing my occasional Irritable Bowel Syndrome.

Nevertheless, I'm going to engage in some freestyle grumpiness.

A few weeks ago, I found myself on the Metro, LA's finest version of a subway. It should be stated from the beginning of this little journey -- I love Trains. I was headed to far-off Duarte, in Foothill country, to complete the sale of my Mustang Mach E, the best looking EV in the semi-utilitarian small crossover category.

Having negotiated what I thought to be a fair price and concluding all that mishegas with car dealers, the scummiest people on the planet next to GOP politicians, I was in a jolly mood. That is until I boarded the E-train. 

Within seconds, at a very early hour of the day, I was surrounded by stoners, loaders and potheads. Granted it lent itself to a very mellow atmosphere. Every passenger was sporting AirPods or headphones and was gently rocking to his or her own tunes. But by god, that smell!

There was a time in my life when cannabis produced a pleasant aroma. Perhaps because I was anticipating the sharing of said cannabis and an escape from the confusing curriculum of Calculus 298 and 19th Century English Literature. But those days, like my hairline, are long gone.

Last week Ms. Muse and I wisely avoided the parking dilemma and the flood of festival goers, and took the train from Sierra Madre (The Foothill's best kept secret) to the South Pas Eclectic something and something Festival. Once again we were overcome by the odor.

It was thick. And dank, as the kids would say. Not only that, I was certain, some of the ne'erdowells aboard the train were actively smoking the marijuana while ON THE TRAIN.

By the time we were approaching the Willoughby-like station in South Pasadena, I had my nose pressed up between the crack of the doors, gasping for some fresh oxygen.

The LA times recently reported that train ridership had sunk to new levels. And that troubled Metro executives were considering a new flashy marketing campaign to lure riders back to pre-Covid levels. 

Save your money (my money and yours, fellow taxpayers) and put some damn cops on the trains.

I may be suffering from some latent nostalgia, but it seems to me when I rode the NYC subway system in my long past youth, there were NY's finest aboard every car. Or every other car. Or maybe just hounding miniskirted women on the platforms. 

The point is they had a presence. 

And a deterrence factor.

Likewise, when riding the subways in Paris, it was not unusual to see police. Everywhere. Partout. Moreover these police were shouldering machine guns. Nothing says, "don't even try to smoke weed on these trains and make me un-holster my machine gun!"

If however the Mensas at Metro follow suit and do decide to whip up another useless marketing campaign, I'm more than willing to come out of semi-retirement and oblige them with my services. 

But don't be surprised if any and all of the concepts include something about machine guns.

Don't Tone It Down!

It's been little more than a year since I was pink slipped at PayPal. And in my estimation, I've been a very good boy about not saying anything disparaging about them. I'm not crystal clear about what I can and cannot say, according to the legalese clauses in my separation agreement. 

I figured silence, or near-silence, was my best bet.

I hate lawyers and their propensity to maul the English language. One could argue their lack of exactitude has put this country in the situation it is in today. As you sit and read this, the highest judicial court in the land is parsing and dissecting the Constitution in an effort to give our former president the freedom to commit crimes. Before, during and after he was in office. 

I don't know how to define Obscenity, but this takes it by a country mile.

I know you're wondering how this all gets to Miracle Whip, but it does. In less time than it takes to make an egg salad sandwich. Trust me.

You see, while I was at PayPal, a fine company with honorable intentions with astute leadership and crack marketing whizzes, I learned they had an entire team devoted to social media. They tweeted (or X'ed). They cultivated relationships. They even had their own Facebook page. And probably still do.

I have better things to do with my time than to hunt down the PayPal Facebook Page. 

Or do I?

Fascinated as I was about the prospect of people voluntarily following PayPal and all the innovations they were developing in the field of online payment systems, I thought, "Wait, what? People follow PayPal?"

And then I thought, I wonder what happened to the Miracle Whip generation of rebels who zealously eschewed mayonnaise and pledged their allegiance to the cause of No More Mayo, as outlined in this classic 2009 piece: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yKOfGvbUx-s

Further, in service to the 9 loyal readers of RoundSeventeen, I put on my detective cap and ventured down this yolk-based Rabbit Hole.

It should come to no one's surprise, that there is indeed a Facebook Group dedicated to Miracle Whip. Not a small group, mind you. There are close to 250,000 people (perhaps worldwide) who wake up every morning, eager to open their Facebook page and find out what the Kraft Miracle Whip Crafters have done for them lately.

As if we didn't have enough tsuras about the 2020 election did you know this was going on?

I can't believe I missed that. Nor can I believe they haven't brought the Plate Debate back for 2024.

Sidenote: If I were on the Miracle Whip team I would be mad at Kraft for also making Mayo. You can't have your cake and eat it too. Especially, when in the same breath you're stocking the shelves at the local supermarket with Miracle Whip AND with Mayo!!!

That's double dealing and cuts against the rallying call of their 2018 cinematic efforts...

OK, we've had a little fun at the expense of the hardworking and incredibly creative marketing folks at Miracle Whip. But now it's time for a little more. 

I know from experience (Hello, data driven Mensas at PayPal) that the digital people love to analyze their numbers. Looking for marketing opportunities. And vital insight that can spell life or death in the spreadable sandwich condiment category. 

Let's make their Miracle Whip day even more miraculous and start following their Twitter feed, @MiracleWhip. They have close to 16,000 followers and haven't put up a post in more than 3 years. If 1600 of us were to sign up -- I know I'm being overly optimistic -- that would be an out-of-the-blue 10% jump.

A sudden and dramatic spike would make them dance a fancy dance in their khaki pants. 

And, selfishly, because they would eventually find the algorithm was tricked by this blog, it would make me a happy man. Well, as happy as I get.

Never, tone it down. 

Never.

Teenage ignorance!

I have used this symbol (The upside down flag) before. Perhaps many times. After knocking out these posts, rants, and scammological nonsense for 15 years, I've lost count of what I've done. And hope to discover more of what I haven't done.

As I write this, on a rare sunny morning in Los Angeles, thousands of ill-informed, malignant, and often antisemitic college students are preparing to wreak more havoc on American campuses (campi?). 

I can't help but wonder, where were all these outraged "American" students in 2014 when the Chinese government began a systematic persecution and cultural genocide on the Uyghurs in northwest China? Or do those Islamic lives not matter?

I went to The Google and found no such protests. There were reports of one angry coffee clatch on the campus of Stanford University, but other than that, nothing. Not even a movement to boycott goods coming from China. 

Perhaps these selectively-outraged students are too enamored of their Airpods and affordable flat screen TVs and couldn't go without the accoutrement of their cushy lifestyle to make that type of sacrifice.

Similarly, when the Arab Spring (remember that?) arrived in beautiful downtown Damascus, so did the persecution of Christian minorities and various Muslim sects not in line with Syria's Assad government. 

UN statistics, more accurate that the fakakta numbers released by Hamas, say more than 500,000 people, including women and children, were slain by the Syrian government. Not to mention the millions who have been displaced and now live in refugee camps throughout the region.

I went to The Google again and found college students doing what college students do: hackeysacking, smoking weed and making tik tok videos. 

Were there any calls for a boycott of goods produced in Syria? Again no. Perhaps because Syria, like so many countries in the Less-than-Fertile Crescent don't produce any goods, other than strife, despair and inhumanity fueled by century old, inter-Islamic schisms.

What I didn't see was the call for the dismemberment of the Syrian monarchy? "From the Euphrates to the Sea, Syria shall be free!"

But I do hear a lot of renewed naive calls for a Two State solution. 

Maybe if these 20 something year old kids cracked open a book they'd know that a Two State Solution was proposed in 1948, when many countries in post WWII and during the collapse of the British Empire, came into being. In fact, the Two State solution has been on the negotiating table many times since. Always summarily rejected, by one side.

I choose not to go down that rabbit hole. Because there's an even more pressing matter at hand: the Dissolution of our own 50 State experiment -- America.

As I am clicking and clacking these very words, our former president and the current GOP nominee who has promised to toss our Constitution in the terlet and make himself dictator for a day, is sitting in a courtroom facing 34 criminal counts.

As if that weren't disturbing enough, 6 of 9 of our Supreme Court justices are sporting their high falutin' robes and rewriting Article Two of the Constitution with the stipulation that the President (if we ever have another one after Trump,) will have broad powers, absolute (or even partial) immunity and be accountable to no one. 

Least of all, We The People.

I'm not sure these myopic tent-loving, hate-spewing kids are familiar with 20th century history (actually I am sure they're not) but Hitler and the National Socialists didn't come to power in Germany via a flash in the pan military coup. They did it by the slow moving erosion of German law.  

Sound eerily familiar? If not, take it from this hebraic canary in the coal mine, it should.

This country, where students are free to voice contrarian opinions, march, protest and enjoy the freedom of speech are actively ignoring the demise of those rights, in support of a "nation" where those rights, as well as the rights of women, LGBTQ, and other assorted minorities, would NEVER exist.

Talk about irony? Talk about distress? 

Meet Moris

I know this is completely off-brand for an old, curmudgeonly veteran of the ad industry, who has spent more years arguing and bickering with planners, strategists (sometimes to the point of tears, theirs not mine) and even agency CEOs, but I have a soft spot for kids (anyone under the age of 50) who are trying to make it in business.

Or even get into this crazy business of communications, be it advertising, public relations, content creation, or whatever AI has in store for all of us. 

Sadly, my two daughters followed in my size 11 EEE footsteps and are now successfully plying their trade at MAL (Media Arts Lab) and at Cartel Editing in NYC. Both girls adamantly refused any help from me. Leaving me high and dry with my 10,000 LinkedIn connections, in my desire to help some up-and-comer.

That is until Ms. Muse told me the story of Moris Joaquin Hernandez, her Student Communications Assistant for the past 11 months, at the Pullias Center at USC. 

In May, Moris will graduate from USC with a BA in Communications and a minor in Marketing. Unlike my daughters, and indeed unlike many of you, he doesn't have any familial contacts in the business who can steer him one way or another. 

He is the child of immigrants and the first in his family to even contemplate the notion of college. Much less graduating from one of the finest and most expensive private universities in the country. 

I mention the monetary aspect only because I have an even softer heart for kids, who like myself, scrimped, saved, worked, and worked some more, just enough to keep the college bursar's office at bay. 

Here's the difference. 

I did it because my father, who could've footed the bill and made it easier for me, chose not to. Moris did it because he had no choice. Just a trunkful of grit. Determination. And ambition. 

That's a story that flies in the ugly face of the xenophobic narratives pushed by many these days. And it's a story that is waiting for the next chapter to be written.

About a year ago, I was booted off LinkedIn for some poorly worded political punditry. I wrote a letter to the CEO and persuaded them to let me back on the platform. Explaining that since I am longer needed, nor wanted, in the once-hallowed halls of advertising, I make myself useful by helping others by putting them together with opportunities. 

That was not an empty claim. 

This is something I do in order to pay forward the generosity of those who helped me when, not only was I completely clueless, I was shopping around a portfolio that is, was, embarrassing, at best. that includes Dave Butler, Mel Newhoff, Hy Yablonka and Bob Kuperman, who steered me into the Nissan Regional Group and a rare shot at the big leagues.

I've exchanged some back and forth emails with Moris. He's a smart young man willing to work hard at whatever entry-level job he's offered. Having got my humble start in the mailroom, I've walked in his shoes. And now I'd like to help him get one of those shoes in the door. 

I'm convinced Moris, a sports enthusaist and his talents with Adobe Suite and his digital prowess, will be a great asset to anyone willing to give him a shot. Why? Because he wants it more.

Perhaps that anyone is you. Or someone you know. Let's put this LinkedIn thing to work. And get Moris employed. Ideally in Los Angeles. Or in Texas, where his family resides.

I'm attaching his resume for your perusal. Ms. Muse and I thank you in advance. 

We know you'll be thanking us later.

We the jury...

Maybe you suffer from the same affliction, but I have an inability to detect history in the making when history is actually being made.

For instance, on September 11, 2001, I was scheduled to get on a plane to Phoenix to pitch the crown jewel account in advertising: Red Roof Inn. Even after watching those 767's fly into the World Trade Center I called my art director John Shirley and said, "Do you think this is going to delay our flight?"

The magnitude had simply not hit me.

Similarly, on January 6th, 2021, my late wife's birthday, I saw the carnage unfold at our nation's capitol and still concerned myself whether I bought the right flavored cupcakes for that night's celebration.

Today, I find myself, and maybe you do too, underestimating the significance of the trial going on in New York City, a fitting locale considering the lying, merkin-sporting, pussy-grabbing abomination grew up and bilked the city for all it was worth with federal housing development subsidies.

This is a former President of the United States of America, the highest and formerly, most prestigious office in the land. On the planet. In the known universe. And he is on trial, not for shaboinking a leading actress in the shaboinking film business, but for buying her silence about said shaboinking, and falsifying the hush money as some type of legitimate "legal expense." 

As one of the many TV pundits pointed out, "If it was all so legal, why did they go to the extent of creating shell LLCs",  lying about it to the press (aboard Air Force One), and get out in front of all this when Michael Avenetti was on TV every night, shouting with a bullhorn, about the alleged shaboinking, my new favorite word.

It is all so SORDID.

And LOW RENT.

And SINGULAR in its TRUMPIAN fashion.

Sadly, however, I fear the result is also so predictable. 

Not because he is innocent, we all know he shaboinked her. We all know she slapped him on the butt with a Forbes magazine. And told her how much she reminded him of his daughter -- disgusting pedophile. 

And not because he has a crack legal team, the best that his dwindling money can buy.

He's going to get off scott-free and take a thousand victory laps and gloat until he can gloat no more because it only takes one juror to acquit. 

Just one. 

I've been Jury Foreman twice in my life, once on a criminal case and once for civil. I have sat with 24 perfect strangers for longer than I care to recall. And I can tell you first hand, the reality you and I see on a minute to minute to basis is not the reality experienced by some folks, who need an owner's manual to remember to breathe in and breathe out.

There are some extremely dumb ass people out there. And all it takes is one man or woman, pining for a lifetime membership at Mara Lago and unlimited flying time aboard Trump Force One, to let this NYC Pizza Rat of a Man return to his scurrilous ways.

Mark my word.

Prettay, prettay rich

Americans love their vacations. They work 50 weeks a year, just for the opportunity to NOT work 2 weeks a year. 

Who am I kidding? How many of us actually take two week vacations? 

Two weeks with my family in a cramped hotel room, living out of a suitcase, and paying $14 for a beer poolside would always drive me bonkers and yearning to be stateside and seated at the Long Table of Mediocrity™, writing B2B copy about bidirectional flanges.

Still, I managed to enjoy myself on the many vacations we took to Hawaii, Mexico, even Europe, though I probably wouldn't go back to Europe during the winter months when the cold stinging wind from the Firth of Forth has the power to stop an invading Saxon army in its track.

Know who hates vacations? Jerry Seinfeld. He said so in an interview that was floating around social media last week.

Poor Jerry.

Poor, Very Rich Jerry.

I started thinking about what a cursed life this man must lead. Cursed, not just because he can't go anywhere he pleases without untoward attention at every turn. That's the cost of fame. 

But truly cursed because he has enough money for a lifetime, even if he were to live the life of Methusalah (932 years.) 

He has so much money that it means nothing, now. That's the cost of wealth.

This is a phenomena very few of us will know. Or understand. In fact, if you're reading THIS blog and find yourself in the same...going to the Google...obscenely priced Allen Edmonds Park Ave shoes, you have my deepest sympathies.

Imagine walking down Rodeo Drive and knowing that everything you see, is everything you can own. With a simple nod to your personal valet and a knowing wink, it, or everything, is stuffed into your Black Onyx Bugatti.

There's no coveting. No pangs of desire. No drifting off into an imaginary world to ponder, "If I buy this how will it improve my life? And is a double breasted blue blazer from Milan worth all that money to make me look 64 years old as opposed to 66?"

And what about houses? How sad it must be to walk into any Open House in America, or on the planet, and know that with a flick of a pen and a few quick signatures, within a week your movers could start laying out your socks in the top cedar-lined drawer of a hand crafted chest in your new Master Bedroom overlooking Martha's Vineyard or the private beaches of Molokai?

When everything is affordable, nothing is special. 

And when nothing is special, well, I might just consider tossing all that money out of a low flying C-130 and returning to my prior life as a line cook at Denny's, driving a 1966 Dodge Coronet and sleeping under 5 blankets to avoid paying the skyrocketing gas bills.

Or, on second thought, I'd hire a guy to write a screenplay and make that movie so I could see how it turns out.

Must Chew Better

Yup, Roundseventeen, and my concerns about ending up in a dirty nursing home, almost came to an abrupt and unexpected end.

Allow me to back the ambulance up a bit.

Ms. Muse and I had been invited to dinner, and a show (Funny Girl), at the Ahmanson Theater. Complements of my generous friend and under-appreciated Blogger Jeff Gelberg and his wife Vicki. In all honesty, Jeff is a much better writer than me. In even more honesty, let's be frank, that bar is not very high.

During the pre-show convivialities, we shared stories of previous theater outings, stories of outrageously obnoxious neighbors, and, I don't know how this came up, our collective appreciation for stand up Comedian and quite possibly the tallest Jew on the planet, Gary Gulman.

When it came time to order, I heard how delicious the salmon was at Kendall's Brasserie. But, having eaten salmon every night for the previous 6 nights, I decided to re-acquaint my taste buds with the charbroiled taste of red flesh and ordered the Steak Frites -- Medium Rare.

Big mistake.

The rib eye came out about three shades of red shy of Medium Rare. It was just past Steak Tartare. I should have sent it back, but it was our waiter's first night on the job and he was not the most attentive fellow on the planet. I didn't want to risk missing the opening number, so I decided to soldier on.

Also, at the risk of TMI, I was sporting a sore tooth (that was pulled last Friday). So I wasn't exactly bringing my A-level chewing game.

Do the math. 

At first I thought I could power through the errant pre-digested piece of meat now lodging comfortably in my esophagus, or whatever pipe it should not have gone down. I gave it several good attempts not wanting to disrupt the jovial storytelling at the table.

Then it became apparent to me, as I was flashing back to the mistakes I made at my Bar Mitzvah, the ferocious fights I had with father, the long-labored birth of my children (where I was not offered an epidural), the atrocious haircut of 1983, etc, etc, that I was in trouble. 

Big Oxygen-Deficient trouble.

I pushed back in my seat and could hear the chair screach across the tile floor. I gave myself some room. And instinctively coughed. Next thing I know the Gary Gulman joke stopped mid-punchline...

"Oh my god."

"Are you Ok?"

"Rich, do you mind if I steal one of your french fries?" (that was Jeff)

Within seconds, the flow of oxygen returned. I don't know where the chunk of Angus Beef went, nor did I care. I do know that I was rattled. Still rattled, thinking about the inglorious exit I might have made that night. 

Instead of Funny Girl it could have been, Funny Guy Dead.

Good to be back.

Shari, Shari baby

 

We ended yesterday's post with a picture of a stuffed squirrel mounted on a tiny red Barnstormer biplane. It was all part of a online dialogue I had been having with "Shari Goscinak", one of a thousand, or a million, Internet scammers who seem to contact me every hour on the hour.

You know it's a scam when you receive an unsolicited LinkedIn email that reads like this:

"I was viewing your profile and found you have led a fascinating life. And have acquired a wealth of wisdom. If it is no bother I like to chat further. And make great lifetime friends with you."

If I were really fascinating, and full of wisdom, would I be wasting my time clapping back at Internet scammers and digging around for photos of dead stuffed squirrels on the internet?

Without further ado, let's pick with Shari where we left off yesterday...

Turns out Shari is really into taxidermy. And knows just the right words to keep my interest.

Isn't that nice, Shari is into animal husbandry and wants to touch the dead squirrel. However, Shari is also batshit crazy. Please note how many unanswered emails she sent me.

That was just Saturday. Here's Sunday. Easy, girl, there's only so much of Richie to go around.

What's wrong with me? I'm not sure I can answer that,

Seems that in addition to Internet scamming, Shari has a yearning desire to learn taxidermy.

The correspondence never stopped. And so I decided to send Shari on her merry scamming way. 

And what better way to stop beating a dead horse than with a dead owl.

Meet Shari Goscinak

 

I was introduced to Shari", via LinkedIn on Friday 4/12.24.

But "Shari", an odd name for an Asian woman (maybe she hails from very North and Western parts) is not a career woman who takes No for an answer.

I was re-introduced to her on 4/13/24.

Oh Shari, I definitely want to keep chatting. 

No bother, Shari, no bother whatsoever. In fact, I was wondering how to fill my Roundseventeen blog today and thought about writing a lengthy piece about the situation in Gaza, or the Trump drama in NYC, but this is infinitely more fun.

Bringing Shari honor, can anything be more rewarding?

Moments later, I sent a picture. Hopefully it will win Shari's cold scamming heart.

....To be continued