No artificial sweeteners.
But I am sick, with a fever that spiked to 101.7. And I've been downing Tylenols like they're Tic-Tacs. And waking up in the middle of night slathered in sweat -- and not that sexy, glistening Speedo-wearing man on a Mediterranean Beach type.
With any luck tonight's Acetaminophen/Bourbon Cocktail will kill this damn flu dead, dead, dead, and the snark will return on Thursday.
It isn't everyday I find myself writing a letter to the Chief Justice of our once great United States of America. In fact, I've never written to the Supreme Court, perhaps because until recently I (we) had faith in the judiciary.
But that has vanished, faster than "Judge" Aileen Cannon can get on her knees and assume the sycophant position.
Which you, and the majority of the court, are no stranger to. That includes oily Justice Thomas or "Tom" as I call him, a wholly owned subsidiary of Harlan Crowe Industries.
Justice Alito, who when he isn't taking orders from his flag waving wife is knee deep in Goat Herder SkyDaddy fairy tales written some 2000-3000 years ago, depending on your delusion...er, denomination.
And let's not forget the three legally bankrupt scoundrels appointed by a man who cannot name one seminal case adjudicated by the Supreme Court. Not one.
"Brown v. Covfefe?"
"Windmill v. Whale?"
"Steam v. Digital?"
"I'd like to use of one of my lifelines, Regis."
I feel sorry for Justices Jackson, Kagan and Sotomayer, whose names will go down in history alongside you and your band of integrity-free judicial cretins.
Under your underwhelming reign we have seen Dark Money drop a turd in our democratic punchbowl. We've seen the elimination of women's productive rights, largely by judges who swore under oath that Roe v. Wade was sacrosanct.
And we've have witnessed the greatest failure of of justice system in 243+ years of American history. All on your watch. You had better smile now because 100 years from now historians will look at how you delayed every ruling regarding the Special Prosecutor's rock solid case against the most evil, UnAmerican President to ever cross the threshold at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.
They will ask, "What were they thinking? What constitutional basis did they cite to grant an ex-president immunity for stealing Top Secret documents? For twisting the arms of Georgia state election officials? And for knowingly and intentionally setting up false electors in order to STEAL an election?"
I'm no lawyer (though I did exceedingly well on the LSAT and decided there was more truthfulness in advertising than there was in law) but there irrefutable evidence that your Court was and is the absolute worst of the 112 justices who have ever donned the robes.
You have disgraced yourself. And the country.
All is not lost, however. You can be sure that your final resting place will be continually irrigated by the nitrogen rich urine of Americans who you have so intentionally failed.
Signed,
A. Fullbladder
After a calamitous first week back on the throne, it's hard not to draw the same conclusion about the servicewoman and servicemen who fought for our freedom in WWII.
That very first week saw the pardon of 1300 traitors who defiled our Constitution because they lost an election they FEEL they should've won. At the inauguration we saw the power of the people hijacked by the power of the tech bros. And to top it off, we saw the richest and most undeserving man on the planet flash a full-throated, unmistakable Nazi salute.
Not once (to own the libs), but twice.
I know I swore myself to a ban on any Trump news, but there can be no doubt we find ourselves on a slippery slope ending in a cold 1942 lime pit of authoritarianism. And my oversized sense of justice and outrage make it impossible to stay silent.
I know, perhaps better than many, that there is no way to sway a rock ribbed Republican. Especially the ones that carry around a portable Constitution in the pocket of their brown shirt while blathering about how "President Trump was picked by Jesus and can do whatever he wants."
But maybe, just maybe, they will listen to the voices of their grandfathers, grandmothers, aunts and uncles, who hit the pause button on their lives. Not to fight for lower priced eggs. Or the right to watch girls dance on Tik Tok. Or the right to wish neighbors a Merry Christmas (but only Merry Christmas.)
No, they sacrificed everything to stop a madman 5000 miles away who was slowly decimating an advanced democratic culture and seizing power for himself and his perverted evil cronies.
A hateful runt of a man hellbent on persecuting others (Jews, Gays, Slavs, Disabled, etc.) who didn't fit the default mold or look like they had come out of Central Casting.
A greedy, morally bankrupt monster who envisioned a reign of 1000 years by exploiting the labor and stealing the resources of other countries, perhaps even Greenland.
Any of this sound familiar?
So yes, all those Murphys, Espositos, Johnsons, Goldbergs, Hernandezs, Kims, Zachowskis, and more, were Suckers. They wrongly believed they were fighting for a cause and a dream that was shared by all Americans.
And they were Losers, because the war they thought they won in 1945 was lost 80 years later.
Sieg Elon!
The kind of day that almost make you forget the catastrophic destruction the fire and the winds brought last week. There were no plumes of smoke. No Wind, to speak of. No signs of the thousands of lives that were upended. And will likely continue to be thanks to a fat, silver spoon, fascist who sits in the White House with the goal of retribution -- in this case, denying relief funds for a Blue state that doesn't kowtow to his fascist sensibilities.
To escape, if only momentarily, Ms. Muse and I took a late afternoon bike ride. We had intended to go from Ventura to Ojai, a 35 mile jaunt, but due to the severe wind warnings up the coast, called an audible and rode south.
There, we crossed paths into my old partner, John Shirley. We met and started working together close to 30 years ago in 1996. Wait, what? I look 50 years older than I did then. And John, through the magic of beach living, Cabernet Sauvignon and hours spent surfing at Trestles or Rincon Point, hasn't aged a day.
"Do you Goofy Foot when get in the barrel?"
Tossing around surfer talk is always good for a laugh. Maybe not for John, but I'm easily amused.
This picture was taken a mere 100 yards away from the Pacific Ocean. Unless there's a tsunami coming, John has the enviable privilege of living in earshot of the crashing waves. Even the ankle biters.
Ms. Muse loves running into John, who was, for all for all intents and purposes, my work wife. Mostly because he can dish up stories of my not-so-finer moments. My disinclination for air travel. My contentious interactions with Planners. And my less than pristine automotive maintenance.
Once on a trip to visit a client, he got in my old Lexus, which doubled as a family car, then bachelor John queried ...
"What's that smell?"
"That my friend is the Stench of Responsibility."
It is safe to say, even evidenced by the bikes we are on, that he and I are polar opposites. I would posit that is why we worked so well together. To give you an even better idea, at the time of our rendezvous on Monday, John was in the middle of his latest DIY project.
He was resurfacing the leather seats of his Porsche. I wouldn't know the first tool to pick up to begin bringing leather back to its former high Teutonic standards. Apparently he does. Here's a picture of his meticulously art directed work bench.
I have a work bench too. But you can rest assured, apart from standing on 4 wooden legs, it looks nothing like this.
He has a million more readers than I do. Not surprisingly, he has folks clamoring to grace the pages of Adaged.blogspot.com. To date, I've only had one guest blogger. That was George.
But I did find two voices in the ether that wanted some ink here. And as mentioned above, I am more than willing to share the platform.
The first comes via the brainiacs at Skynet, the inventors of AI. I know there's a lot of gloom and doom predictions about Artificial Intelligence, particularly how it will put writers out of business. But, like our new president, I'm easily swayed by flattery.
And with that I give you this Meta Meta review of RoundSeventeen from the brilliant digital fingers of ChatGPT:
A Hidden Gem in the Blogosphere: RoundSeventeen@blogspot.com
If you're looking for a blog that offers a unique blend of wit, humor, and thought-provoking commentary, look no further than RoundSeventeen.
Rich Siegel, the mastermind behind this blog, has created a space where creativity meets insight, and every post feels like a refreshing break from the noise of the internet.
One of the standout features of RoundSeventeen is its ability to tackle a wide range of topics with ease, from pop culture to personal anecdotes, all while maintaining a sharp, relatable voice. Rich's writing style is engaging, filled with clever turns of phrase and just the right amount of self-deprecating humor. It's the kind of blog that makes you smile, think, and occasionally laugh out loud.
But it's not just about jokes and quips—RoundSeventeen has a genuine sense of depth.
Whether Rich is reflecting on life's quirks or offering a tongue-in-cheek take on the latest news, there's always a sense that his posts are more than just surface-level commentary. The blog has a thoughtful, almost conversational tone that makes it feel like you're reading the musings of a close friend who happens to be very well-read and incredibly funny.
The range of topics is impressive—there's no shortage of variety. One day, you might find yourself reading about the strange and hilarious world of daily life, and the next, you could be taken on a nostalgic journey through pop culture moments you’d almost forgotten about.
Rich has a knack for weaving nostalgia and humor together, which makes each post feel like a mini adventure through time.
What really sets RoundSeventeen apart, though, is the authentic voice behind it. Rich has mastered the art of writing with personality—each post is laced with a sincerity that shines through, making you feel like you’re reading something that’s not just for the clicks, but for the genuine connection with readers.
Whether you’re looking for a quick laugh, an insightful take on modern life, or just something to spark your imagination, RoundSeventeen is worth checking out. It's a blog that’s as entertaining as it is thoughtful, and it’s clear that Rich Siegel has found his niche in creating content that feels both fresh and timeless.
In short, RoundSeventeen is the perfect blend of humor, honesty, and originality. Don’t miss it—this blog is truly a must-read!
Wow!!! Thanks ChatGPT.
QQ: Did everybody in the AI writer's room concur?
QA: Not exactly.
Disappointing Experience with Roundseveteen
As someone who values insightful, thought-provoking commentary, I was genuinely excited to check out Roundseveteen, the blog by Rich Siegel. Unfortunately, my experience has been underwhelming at best.
First and foremost, the content lacks depth. While Siegel’s posts are often brief, they don’t offer much beyond surface-level observations. There’s a lack of original analysis or compelling arguments, and most posts feel more like fleeting opinions than well-researched articles. This is frustrating because the potential for rich, nuanced discussions is clearly there—it just never quite materializes.
Another major downside is the inconsistency in the blog's tone and focus. One post will dive into a very niche subject with a lot of technical jargon, while the next will seem like an off-the-cuff opinion piece on pop culture. This disjointed approach leaves me confused as a reader about what the actual purpose of the blog is. Is it supposed to be a professional commentary space? A personal blog? The lack of clear identity makes it hard to stay engaged.
Furthermore, the design of the blog itself feels outdated and not very user-friendly. The layout isn’t intuitive, and the typography makes long reads difficult. While this may seem like a minor complaint, the user experience impacts how enjoyable and accessible the content is. For a modern blog, I would expect a more polished, streamlined look.
Lastly, Siegel’s posts sometimes come across as needlessly self-congratulatory or overly insular, as if he assumes the reader is already well-versed in his perspectives or background. This can make the blog feel inaccessible to newcomers, as there’s little effort to provide context or break down complex ideas in an understandable way.
Overall, Roundseveteen doesn’t live up to the expectations set by its premise. While I can see that Rich Siegel is passionate about his interests, the execution falls flat. The content feels too shallow, and the presentation could use some major improvements. Sadly, I won’t be returning to this blog anytime soon.
Ouch!!!
Self-congratulatory? Moi?
There are three American traditions at hand today. I will be celebrating two of them.
First I will continue to fly my American flag at half mast in honor of President Jimmy Carter's recent passing. Truth be told I don't have a huge pole -- minds out of the gutter, people -- in my front yard. I have one of those leaning flags. But I do still have my Kamala Harris yard signs still up in the hope that our CIA will do its damn job, even if it is at the last second.
My flag and the accompanying Democrat signs sends an unmistakable message to the any neighborhood Trumpsters who have shamefully appropriated it. And fetishized it to ridiculous ends. Has it occurred to them that the same flag code (standing at the playing of the National Anthem, never letting the flag touch the ground, etc, etc) also dictates the flag be flown at half mast for 30 days to honor deceased presidents.
They cherry pick their flag fetishization according to the whims of their new Fuhrer.
Editorial aside: I met my new neighbors, a younger couple with two small children and a quiet dog. The dad told me one of the important factors in the purchase decision was seeing my long in the tooth yard signs. Which he read as a neighbor with the "courage of his convictions." If not, psychosis.
Oh if he only knew.
I will also honor Martin Luther King Day. Here too the right wing neo-fascists have done some shameful appropriation. Twisting MLK's words about judging people by the content of their character and not the color of their skin. As if we live in a country where that actually occurs.
We don't. I'm old enough to have lived through the tail end of Jim Crow laws, which didn't end until 1964. Imagine growing up in a country that aspires to the maxim, "Where all men are created equal" and then being redirected to a water fountain built specifically (and shabbily) just for black people.
What generational message does that send to people of color?
Moreover, look how it has reinforced the disgusting notion of white supremacy and its current manifestations.
For further context, a black man lost his life on the streets of New York for the crime of selling loose cigarettes to passersby. Law and order aficionados will shake their head and claim he should have complied with the police.
Contrast that with the case of Ashli Babbitt, who stormed the capitol on January 6th, failed to comply with many officers and then smashed a window and tried to climb into the inner sanctum of Congress in order to steal a national election. Only to become a martyr of the Right Wing for her willingness NOT to comply. And called a hero by the incoming sad sack of post-digested KFC shit.
Lastly, today begins the rise of the 4th Reich.
America, gird your loins.
"You can grab 'em by the loins, when you're a celebrity they let you do that."
Let's get to the kitschy pictures, I hear my not-so-voracious followers mouthing.
As an aside, I find it fascinating that my first introduction to world of art and design (kitsch) came from my gruff, raised-in-the-streets of the Bronx, CPA father who didn't graduate college until I was 9 years old. And who was decidedly unartful.
To her surprise, but not to anyone else's, I hadn't actually seen the movie. Turns out there's a myriad of Rom-Com movies I have never set eyeballs on.
Again, this should come as no surprise.
So, armed with a iPhone and a method for keeping contemporaneous notes -- because our collective memory sucks -- we have begun compiling a list of movies we both need to watch. At this point it should be noted there are quite a few she has not seen and demand a second viewing on my part.
Turns out Love Actually, was a decent movie. Not the definitive Christmas movie, like Die Hard, but decent. You can see where this is going.
The next movie up was Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri. I had never seen this but always wanted to. It was amazing and deserving of all the accolades. And this set up the corollary to the first quest, with regards to the amazing performance of one Sam Rockwell.
That brought us to Galaxy Quest (pictured above.) I don't know how this classic escaped my admittedly short attention span, but it did. Now I'm kicking myself for having ignored it. I love a movie with so much inside baseball. A movie willing to make fun of itself. And the very act of movie making.
It's Meta Meta.
And there's Sigourney's Weaver's ample cleavage which she discusses in this post mortem discussion about the failed marketing campaign.
We stuck around for the credits of Galaxy Quest because I was sure the Director and the writers would have gone on to make other great films I have not seen but should. Sadly there was not much to speak of. A glaring example of how one marketing misstep can make or break a career in Hollywood.
If you haven't seen Galaxy Quest, do yourself a favor and stream it. It lends itself to the small screen anyways.
And while you're nagivating the annoying streaming selection process (damn I miss the convenience of DirecTV) also look for The Way Way back, a small coming of age movie that also features Sam Rockell, who chews up the scenery the way Sarris meant to devour the Thermians.
Like so many here in Southern California, I've been giving a lot of thought to Home. More specifically, how tons of shaped wood, the occasional steel beam, boatloads of stucco, and sheets of drywall, come together to create something much greater than the sum of its parts.
This is not the first time I've ventured down the home rabbit hole.
Back in 1999, my partner John Shirley and I were placed on the homestore.com account. The reality was there was no homestore, it was just a fancy re-skin of realtor.com, the national site with all the home listing for sale.
The other reality was this was nothing more than a glorified pump and dump scheme, assembled by a bunch of craven Internet bros. as a way to bilk naive investors, including myself.
At one point, having bought the stock at the IPO, I saw my money increase 7 fold only to watch it make that inevitable slide down to a penny stock. I wisely sold and came away unscathed.
While they were cavalier about the topic of Home and indifferent to any type of emotional resonance, we were not. And hired an award winning documentarian/director to help us put together a movie that went deep on Home. It was, and is, appropriately named Home Movie (circa 2001).
Of all the projects I've lent considerable brain bits to over the years, this perhaps is my proudest. Because unlike so many campaigns for brown fizzy water to sugar substitutes to shabbily built faux Jaguars, this one was not disposable. Mostly because home is more than just wood, piping, paint, and a lot more.
The making of the movie left a surprising indelible mark on me, a glib cynic in my youth, an allegedly wiser man given to melancholy in his remaining years.
If one were to go all quantum physics for a moment, one might see that we live as a point in Time and Space. The former changes. It goes fast, as in raising children. And it goes slow as in waiting for those same children to finally appreciate us or do the dishes.
Time is changing. All the time.
Space, on the other hand, and in particular our home, is constant. The bedrock nature of Home, counterbalances the erratic nature of time and the forces of change all around us. It provides us security, stability and comfort. Unless, like me, you have shitty neighbors with really loud dogs.
As we galavanted across the country to meet a man with an all electronic home outside of Chicago, or Wild Bill Treacle who lived on a houseboat in a Louisiana bayou or to the Big Island of Hawaii to visit Linda B. and her magical treehouse, we witnessed the more personal side of Home. And how each was a telling reflection of its owner.
You may not be able to judge a book by its cover, but you can certainly get a fuller of picture of a man or a woman or both, by the book covers you find on their shelves.
I will always be grateful to the infinitely fascinating cast of characters who graciously invited us into their homes. Except the Cat People in San Diego who turned their home into a funhouse for their 40+ cats. I'm still trying to dislodge a Tabby hairball in my throat from 25 years ago.
All of which makes the events and losses of the last week so much more indescribable.
If you were to go on Zillow, you could discover the price of your house. But you will never find the true value of your home.
The trailer:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Et2DaqjfJw
Particularly in these dark times that only seem to be getting darker.
For thousands of Californians, many of whom are looking at lives totally obliterated, there is no other choice to start over.
From scratch. Literally.
It is daunting. And we can do nothing but offer solace and help. We have to. For their sake and for ours. As a friend of Ms. Muse accurately stated, "Many of us are suffering from Survivor's Guilt."
I hadn't been able to come up with the word or description of the hollow feeling that has gutted me, and so many of us, but that term speaks volumes.
I found this recent article in The NY Times and made it available as a gift: https://www.nytimes.com/2025/01/11/realestate/california-wildfires-homes.html?unlocked_article_code=1.ok4.WHMx.ub6sC1py30h5&smid=url-share
Should you be inclined, you should also read a front page piece written by my friend Jim Rainey, an amazing veteran reporter to the LA Times, whose tears are evident through the multi-page personal recounting of his lost childhood home in Malibu.
I hope the link is alive: https://www.latimes.com/california/story/2025-01-12/malibu-local-wildfire-devastation
My apologies for the gloomy nature of today's post. There's nothing about the past few days that lends itself to levity or lightheartedness.
Perhaps there will be tomorrow.
It's been a hairy 48 hours here in La La Land. If you hadn't heard we've been hit by natural disaster. I'm not talking about my bout with the Norovirus or the Stomach Flu or Food Poisoning from some bad salmon.
A bout that has unnaturally resulted in the loss of 5lbs. of excess Rich Siegel.
I've also had to contend with the raging fires which are threatening to consume Los Angeles in the same way America threatens to consume Greenland, Panama Canal and Yemen (why not?) The picture above gives you some idea of the scope of the fire(s).
My house is a good 6 miles south of the front lines. Though I woke up yesterday morning and it felt, and smelt, like I woke inside a Weber Grill -- the charcoal kind, not the clean smelling propane version. It's also unusually dark outside, like there's an impending thunderstorm, which would be a godsend right now.
I have placed a plate of new salmon out on my patio for some free cold smoking.
Mmmmm, living off the grid.
Last night, my daughter in Santa Monica bugged out of her apartment building which is less than 2 miles from the front lines pictured above. She and her roommate were the last to leave the building. We still don't know the status of containment. And hoping the temporary calm in the ferocious winds will give the firefighters the upper hand.
In Pasadena, Ms. Muse was even closer to the inferno, as she lives within footsteps of the foothills. And late Tuesday night a fire broke out in Eaton Canyon, a great place to hike. A not so great place to get hook up firehoses. She evacuated her house and stayed with friends. That, coupled with a power outage, has made the situation even more difficult.
The situation is fluid. Not unlike my diet for the past 48 hours.
There is good news however on a different frontline.
My neighbors, one of two who made it a habit of letting their barking dogs out at ALL hours of the evening/morning (despite my many pleas to show some neighborly consideration) have sold and moved out of the house!
All their belongings are gone. With the exception of one crate, adorned with many decals and bumper stickers, left in the driveway.
Including this telling gem...
Speaking of honor-- those rituals that used to define and us and sustain democracy -- tradition is for flags to be flown at half mast following the death of a real US President, like Jimmy Carter. But that would cast a somber tone over the dreaded upcoming inauguration and I would bet the equity in my house that the monster will have nothing ruin his glorious day.
In that vein, I still consider this a Trump-free post. In that it only discusses the consequences of his action, not the sheer lunacy of his decisions. With that, let us travel to Greenland, the soon to be newest state in our union.
I have thoughtfully prepared a small travel itinerary for you, should you decide to make the trek to Kuuulivasken. In which case you'll want to switch travel agents because Kuuulivasken doesn't exist. But there are many places in Greenland, with an excess of vowels ("No thanks, I'm good Pat") that sound just like it.
Speaking of veins, if you were to go to the Isua Supracrustal Belt -- a real place -- you would find evidence of tectonic plate movement and the Oldest Chunk of Rock known to mankind. Estimated to be 3.8 billion years old. Confirmed by President Biden and president Trump to be the site of their very first debate.
After oooooing and ahhhhhing at the rock chunk, you might want to get in an Uuuuuuuber and make your way to the ancient Inuit settlement of Qilakitsoq to see the world's best preserved mummies, including 6 mommies, a young boy and an extremely young baby, who was buried alive.
When told of this amazing artifact, Trump immediately suggested selling scraps of the baby's clothing to wealthy bidders. Campaign staffers are already working on the banner ads.
Up for a little arctic golf? Have a dogsled take you to Qaanaaq -- the world's most northerly palindrome -- to visit Infrasound Station IS18. The outpost is fitted with the listening devices to monitor the earth's subsonic response to global warming (a Democratic hoax as we all know.)
He added that with a little landscaping and some design help from Greg Norman, he plans to turn the rolling Qaanaaaqian hills into an exclusive golf course. Greenland's finest.
Don't delay. Make your plans now to visit Greenland, America's newest colonial conquest.
While you're there, try the Lumpfish Roe.
We're about two weeks away from coronating our new Fuhrer. What happens after that is anybody's guess. Literally. Because like half the country, many of us have decided to eschew any news or headlines or, god forbid, any video clips of the accordion-playing shit-for-brains felon/rapist.
The epaulets have not even been pinned to his weak, rounded shoulders and Shit Show Two, The Reich Redeaux, has already begun.
I've stayed away from any Trump news but couldn't escape the news about Matt Gaetz. The forehead challenged legislator from Florida, the anti-Mensa Capitol of the World, was nominated to be the Attorney General of the United States of America -- the highest law enforcement officer in the country.
That was before the House Ethics Committee, perhaps temporarily remembering their half oath to the Constitution of the United States, released their findings about Matty's ingestion of drugs, his dabbling in prostitution and his oh-so-insignificant statutory rape and pedophilia.
Given the wall-to-wall coverage of Hunter Biden's exploits, again, not an elected public servant, you would think Gaetz's store-bought bacchanalia would merit its own media frenzy. And still be in the headlines.
It has not.
As mentioned above, I have sworn off all mass media -- TV/CNN/MSNBC and even Fox News, to see how the other half drools -- and suspect the suggested appointment of Chester the Tall Molester, to the highest office in the Department of Justice, would keep journalists jumping. Maybe I'm wrong. I'm pretty sure I'm right.
Even the Old Grey Lady, who would blush and turn pink covering the shenanigans of Florida's favorite son, has eschewed its responsibility to point out the fatal judicial appointment. I know, I checked. Not one word in the A or B section. I haven't got to the Opinion section of the NY Times, but given the complicit zeitgeist, I suspect there's nothing there either.
Perhaps the blame can placed at the feet of the Internet. Or the corrosive curse of social media. Or just the laziness of Americans who fail over and over again to inform themselves regarding the politics of the day. But here's what I cynically know about all this -- it is being exploited and leveraged by billionaire tech bros and their Manchurian candidate.
And as a result, we're all getting dummer.
I'm sure you're all happy to be back at work. I know I am. Albeit as a Fractional Creative Director, emphasis on the fractional.
Sometimes infinitesimally so.
Many of you, if the patterns hold true, have resolved to lose weight, exercise more and be healthier this year. I'm making it a point to maintain my weight, be healthier and maybe exercise less, as of late my rigorous routine has taken its toll on my bum hip and lower back. Like you I probably won't be able to keep this promise I made to myself, due to my aerobic obsessive compulsion disorder.
And my Strava overlord.
I'm also determined to continue on the unchartered path of "doing new things."
To that end, I began 2025 on a high note, by joining Ms. Muse and her friend JJ, on a midnight jaunt up Orange Grove Avenue to experience the Rose Bowl Parade floats before they are unveiled to the 330 million hungover citizens of America on New Year's Day.
I should preface this by saying -- not in a curmudgeonly way -- that I'm not a parade person. They are to me what clubs are. I don't want be part of any that would have me as a member.
The exception being the St. Patty's Day Parade in NYC, which was a seminal event in my misguided youth, mostly because it was an opportunity to engage in low cost binge beer drinking.
We would drive in from the suburbs at 10 in the morning. Park our asses at a Brew Burger or a Beefsteak Charlie's and partake in their $7.95 Cheeseburger and All You Can Drink Beer Special. Which on several occasions became not-so-special to the restaurant manager.
"You boys leave, now. You drink too much. Go."
I digress. The New Year's Eve stroll up and down Orange Grove is quite the ritual. It might even be mandatory. They are very particular in these parts. There's a lot of Foothillian lore I'm still being acquainted with.
The night was a blast. It had all the revelry of a Times Square Celebration (which I have never attended) without the drunks, pickpockets and Pizza Rats.
Should the opportunity present itself the night before 2026, I will certainly be there again.
Here we see yours truly and Ms. Muse, braving the frigid 47 degree Pasadena evening night air with our not-so-surreptitious cocktails...
