Stinky and me

                                        

Home ownership is not for the fainthearted.

Returned last week after being out of town and noticed that unmistakable smell of Heineken beer...er, Spilogale gracilis. A misnomer because there is nothing remotely graceful about skunk odor. 

Checked with the neighbors to see if they had anything similar and they didn't. I had my suspicions and actually thought my white trash neighbors might have left me a skunk carcass, a la RFK Jr.

The next day, during a pouring rain, which never happens in LA and aggravates my creaky hip to no end, I discovered a gaping hole in my crawl space screen. The screens might be the original ones that came with the house in 1947. And were barely hanging on by the thinnest of wiry threads.

SHHHHHITTTTTT!!!!

I fumed. Nowhere near comprehending the magnitude of my foul dilemma. You can't just call Murray of Murray's Skunk Removal and have them shoot the damn thing. Or, I'm sorry I forgot it's 2025, trap it humanely for its peaceful aromatic return to the woods.

Turns out not many companies are in the trade of skunk removal. And those that are, are currently busy with a flood of skunky requests stemming from the LA Fires. But wait it gets worse. 

Of course it does.

Years ago I had an issue with Norwegian Tree Rats that had commandeered the neighborhood. Those are easy to trap, especially if you grew up on cartoons, like I did, and knew of the unbeatable reliability of the spring loaded Victor traps. 

The only traps available for skunks cost $350 to rent, a small fee I am willing to pay out. But...

The trap requires leaving the crawl space screen off, so the critter can come out at night (did I mention they're highly nocturnal?)  Leaving the crawl space open is an invitation to other pests in the neighborhood.

It was at this point that I contacted Mr. Google and sought advice.

To wit, while I'm writing this, I have set up a Bluetooth speaker on one side of the house, playing a non-stop loop of a rattlesnake hissing. And on the other side of the house, with the crawl space open and with the lure of chocolate covered almonds. And I have set up a camera hoping to lure the bastard out.

And chase him away. Or hit him on the head with a dumbbell.

I feel like I am living an episode of Mutual of Omaha's Less-Than-Wild Kingdom. 

Let the waiting begin.

Editorial Update: Turns out my plan worked. the skunk left the comfortable confines of my abode and then I quickly sealed up the crawl space. And set up a Nest camera to watch the proceedings. And guess who has effectively been evicted from Casa De Siegel.

You can see more here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6spPIkIZ5jw&feature=youtu.be

Yin and yang

I'm sure my fellow bloggers, Tannenbaum, Gelberg, Eaker, all not coincidentally of Hebraic Seasonings, have had the experience of wondering what they're going to write about for their next post. I'm equally positive that they're simply overjoyed when a topic/subject/musing just gets dropped in their laps.

This is one of those occasions.

Last week I got an email from Brian Burch, one of two Brian Burchs' that I know from the business. He had sent me some photos that he found while cleaning out his files. Perhaps from the grey hair, but I'm assuming this Brian was doing a little Swedish Death Cleaning. 

The pictures were taken from a syllabus for a Copywriting Master Class taught by a fellow tradesman, Rodd Chant. He and I have never met, but since he is using our work for his benefit, I'm going to use his name (just for the sake of accuracy) and for mine.

As you can see from the photo above, the cited work is from ABC. Here are the other pics...

Brian asked if any money had exchanged hands for the use of some of this old -- really old, like 28 year old -- work. I told him no. But, that I was honored to be mentioned alongside work from David Abbott and Wieden + Kennedy. 

On the other hand it's a little, OK, a lot, long in the tooth. 

I'm not saying this as a humblebrag, but in some ways it's like an aged-out comedian being asked to repeat his one catchphrase. Even more humbling because it's advertising. And my perspective on it has changed even more than the industry I once knew.

For instance, I've been away from it for so long, I'm not even sure agencies still do outdoor, print or even brand manifestos. At one point I was doing one of these semi-poetic, corporate jerk-offs a week. Or one a day. I'm currently taking industrial strength pain reliever for my cartilage-free hip, I can't even remember. 

I do know that in retrospect, the TV is Good anthem, was one of my weakest. Not seeking any validation from my 8 regular readers. Just being brutally honest. I suppose that's the way the universe works, as some of the best stuff I've written (at least in my opinion) NEVER got produced. 

I'm looking at you Chivas Regal.

The same forces, the yin and yang of quality, are clearly at work and gave us Pete Hegseth, Tulsi Gabbard,  and  RFK Jr as the new Secretary of Health and Human Services and not the other 3, 841,923 real health care professionals in the country that are monumentally more qualified. 

"Come on kids, take your heroin."

My brain hurts

 

I've made a habit of reserving this day for my regular Thursday Photo Funnies. A cheap excuse to excuse myself from writing and just dumping a dozen or so photos from my trusty iPhone. Most the time the pictures are inconsequential, as are the captions. But occasionally I'll stumble across something interesting. Like the 1944 D copper penny I found while walking my dog. 

But the sad fact remains that I haven't been able to do much walking lately. And probably won't anytime soon, thanks to my right hip joint. Which has gone from a 3-4 on the McGill Pain Scale to an unbearable 8-9, meaning, "shoot me now, I'm done for this world."

In its place and because I don't know how much longer it will be until I see the relieving sharp end of a surgeon's scalpel, I may or may not be instituting a new series on R17 -- something I haven't done for a while.

I'm calling it Unresolved Thursdays, wherein I address (and seek counsel) on matters of the day that make absolutely no sense to me.

1. Gulf of America. What in god's name is President LumpyTits thinking by changing the name from Gulf of Mexico to Gulf of America? What does that accomplish? How does it benefit anyone or anything other than to prove he can impose his low-IQ will onto a frightened bunch of mapmakers with the gonads of a neutered seahorse?  Why not go all in and call it the Golf of America and sell the licensing rights to Titleist?

2. Kanye West. Yeezy. Queazy. Ye. I didn't stick around for the end of last week's Super Bowl. Apparently I missed a 30 second (at a cost of $8 million dollars) spot where this brainless narcissist was advertising a hoodie/T-shirt/face towel emblazoned with a swastika. We're not even one hundred years past the Holocaust and this hateful, ignorant mofo is celebrating the murder of my relatives. I don't know if Mr. West remembers any history classes, I suspect he never attended school  but  those sturdy looking Germans in their sharp dressed Nazi uniforms had no love for people of color.  

Also, Fuck You Ye.

3.  RFK Jr. This country has officially gone off the rails. Just a few months after electing a senile convicted felon fond of telling stories about electric boats, man eating sharks and Hannibal Lecter, the US Senate is considering his nomination for Director of Health and Human Services. A former heroin addict, who chainsawed the head of a beached whale, and lugged a bear carcass to Central Park in order to fabricate a biking accident. "Yeah, hi Jake from State Farm, you're not gonna believe what happened to my on my Schwinn 10 speed..."

The only thing scarier than not knowing to what to make of all this, is the knowledge that for so many people, it all makes perfect sense.

Ayahuasca, take me away.

A different drummer

At the risk of further offending some folks, I'd like to revisit the half time show at this week's Super Bowl.

I playfully posted that I had pushed the Mute Button on during the game shortly after the 1st half ended. I had no intention of watching Kendrick Lamarr. In fact, in the 50 plus years I've been watching Super Bowls, I never watch any halftime show.

It's just not what I'm there for. I want to see a good competitive football game. And some killer commercials that might even harken back to the 80's. Or better yet the raucous, Let's Spend-Internet-Money 90's. 

It was fail on all three counts.

What I didn't expect, however, was to get lumped in with the myopic, racist crowd that calls the January 6th Insurrection a Tourist Visit. If I'm reading the room right, there are quite a few people --nationwide-- weighing in on the Kendrick Lamarr extravaganza.

Let's be clear here, my musical tastes are my musical tastes. And no one has a right to be all judgey about them. Particularly when the issue of race is being brought into it. A quick scan of my musical library will show everything from Sonny Boy Williamson to Louis Jordan to Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings.

I know that's sounds like the equivalent of, "Some of my best friends..." 

I also don't want to sound too defensive here. Mostly because frankly I have nothing to be defensive about.

This, I believe, is where wokeness has gone off the rails. And handed the reigns of power over to Right Wing Fascists. The Left is just as guilty of painting with a broad brush as the brown shirts across the aisle. 

I don't want to listen to Kendrick Lamarr. And if it's any consolation, I don't want to listen to Drake either. Even less interesting is their 'beefing' with each other. Who give's a rat's ass? Arm wrestle. Run a 100 yard dash. Play chess. Just get it over with. 

Frankly I'd rather watch Steve Scalise have his ass whupped by Congresswoman Jasmine Crockett. That's a beef I can savor.

To also be clear, I believe the Black story in America needs to be told. Particularly these days. Black America is America. The good, the bad, and the ugly systemic racism which has brought us a self-evident white supremacist in the White House. 

That story can be told with music. Or with film. Or with the written word. There is no monolithic approach. Nor any monolithic response.

If anyone still feels the need to chide me over MY personal tastes in music, so be it. I'll live.

But if Roger Goddell is listening, I suggest the Super Bowl 60 halftime show be headlined by the Klezmatics. And bottle dancers. Gotta have bottle dancers.

Penny for your thoughts

These things don't happen to me. I suspect, if this pans out, they don't happen to you either.

Took my dog Lucy out for a walk the other day. Like many dogs, particularly older dogs, she's 11, Lucy can be very picky about where she hunches her back, puts on the face of shame, and deposits her business. 

On this morning she was extremely selective. To the point of me looking at her, "What are you waiting for,  an invitation? Take a shit already, I have bills to pay and excruciating hip pain meds to take."

I'm no stranger to this behavior as I, too, am very discerning about where and when I do my business. Reluctantly, in public. Perhaps the details are left better unsaid, but out of misplaced loyalty to my past employer, I would always opt for a Denny's. 

If it was an emergency.

As Lucy eventually concluded, after spotting the picture perfect "unloading zone", we headed back to the house. And that's when I looked down and spotted a penny. It was right in front of the old and now defunct Westcott Bed and Breakfast Inn, up the street from my Palm Springs rental.

Contrary to some of the old ethnic canards about people of Hebraic Seasonings, I don't make it habit of picking up pennies spotted on the sidewalk. Or in this case, an old gravel frontage that greeted guests at the Westcott. But having endured two weeks of illness and three weeks of political upchucking, I decided to pick up the head facing coin, in hopes of turning my luck.

Upon further examination, this was (and still is) no ordinary penny. 

I know what to look for in a penny from a brief tutorial given to me by my father who came of age when young boys collected coins. I think he gave it up when he started smoking Lucky Strikes at age 9. As many Bronx boys did. Just prior to learning cat calls and grabbing one's crotch.

This beat up old penny, that I normally would have ignored, is a 1944 D. That's older than me. Not by much, but still older. And it's a D, which probably means something. Just not to me. Or probably to you as well.

But that's where the magic of AI and a lesson in numismatics comes in handy. 

It's still early in the morning and I haven't had my fourth cup of coffee yet, meaning I have no reason to believe this is going to pan out. Remember, I said these things don't happen to me. 

But there's this...

I'm far too old to get way out in front of my skis. Especially with this bum hip that needs replacing. So I'm going to tread lightly here. 

But this could be the thing, a little innocent penny, that keeps me out of a Dirty Nursing Home!

Bring on the thoughts and prayers and advanced numismatic knowledge. Please.

Monday Morning Quarterbacking

It's Monday morning where you are, but it's last Friday morning where I am now. Writing this post about ads during the big game...er, Super Bowl, come and sue me NFL. 

How can I write about the ads if I haven't seen the ads, you may ask. 

In years past that would've been no problem. As every carmaker, beer pimper and packager of America's favorite overpriced, over salted processed foods had been releasing their shiny new toy weeks before the refs had warmed up their whistles in favor of Patrick Mahomes.

This year, there seems to be less of that premature exhibition. Or maybe I haven't seen them because I haven't been spending too much time watching TV. Or even on social media. I'm trying to cut down on both and disengage from the fury produced by too much news and too much disembowelment of America.

I did see a spot featuring Mathew McConaughey, who has quickly become the Great White Kevin Hart in his ubiquity. Unlike Kevin, Matty actually has some comedic chops. Of course it helps that he is supported by a stellar cast of celebrities who bring some zing to their 3 second, $3 million appearance in the Uber Eats extravaganza.

I also have some heart for the spot because one of the kids (they're all kids) involved in the making of the spot worked for me about 25 years ago at Y&R in Irvine.

I'll come completely clean here, I mistakenly did not give the OC crew enough credit back then. Perhaps it was because I had just spent a better part of my life working at once-vaunted Chiat/Day. They all had a spark of talent, but lacked, or I thought they lacked, a killer instinct for pushing themselves hard enough. 

I know now that was my ego getting in the way. So many of them have gone on to do great work. And this Uber Eats spot is proof of that.

Speaking of ego, I also caught a sneak preview of the Coor's Light Super Bowl spot featuring a cast of sloths. I relayed my thoughts on this to Greg Hahn, founder at Mischief (maker of the spot.) Greg and I have never met, but our career paths have crossed many times over. I'm a huge fan of his work and his willingness to color outside the lines.

Many, many years ago, I had written a spot about a boy who travels to the jungles of South America with his missionary parents. One day, during a ferocious storm (cinematic production value) the 4 year old boy gets lost. He can't be found. But he does not perish. 

He is raised by a pack of three toed sloths. Years later he is found -- maybe by some GOP real estate developers -- and brought back home.

Only now he communicates, moves and lives life as a human/sloth. Many funny vignettes, including the young man brushing his teeth, wooing a woman, and running cross country for his high school track team, followed suit.

To be completely honest, I don't even remember the client I wrote this for. Nor does it matter. As any creative in the the business knows, it's all a matter of turning the corner at the end. Any schmuck can do that. And probably did, yesterday.

To prove my point, take a look at this spot for Dodge Trucks that was rated the best Super Bowl spot of 2003: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D25KC6342HY

With a little word finagling, this could've been for Ford Trucks. Or Wheat Thins. Or even Coor's Light. Or Coor's Light via Uber Eats. 

This shit ain't rocket science.

He's a Shit machine

It's Thursday. And we're nearing the end of a long, tumultuous week under the new Trump regime or The Fourth Reich as I like to refer to it. 

We've seen the advancement of Tulsi Gabbard, a known Russian sympathizer, to Director of National Intelligence. Pam Bondi, an election-denying bleach blonde bimbo, being advanced to Attorney General. The bear carcass hauling and whale head decapitator RFK Jr., a former heroin addict, advanced to Director of HHS. And we saw the world's favorite Nazi, Elon Musk, breach our most sensitive data systems.

Like I said, it's been quite a week. So I wonder if I can interest you in a little game?

I've spent the better part of the last ten years offering up rational and I believe well informed opinions about our new Reichfuhrer. Much of which, to no fucking avail. Stupid people (and I probably should stop referring to them that way) are gonna stupid.

And if I'm completely and brutally honest, my approach is no less stupid. And so I'd like to take on a different tactic. One of concession, as unlikely as that may be. 

So here's how it works, I'm going to list 10 disgraceful, criminal, unpresidential and downright UnAmerican actions taken by our new esteemed president dating back his first term in office. You can take issue with any of them, in fact I encourage it.

1. Incited an Insurrection and sent thousands of people to the Capitol building to disrupt the counting of certified votes in order to steal an election.

2. Begged Georgia state officials to find 11,780 votes in his favor in order to swing the state red in 2020.

3. Stole Classified Documents and illegally stored them in his Mara Lago hotel, more specifically in a bathroom with lock purchased at the local Palm Beach Bed, Bath and Beyond.

4. Falsely claimed he won the 2020 election with no evidence of any type of "rigging", "ballot stuffing" or "irregularities" whatsoever.

5. Commissioned Rudy Giuliani, Sydney Powell, John Eastmann, Lin Wood and Jenna Ellis to go on a nationwide campaign of disinformation, resulting in ALL these lawyers being disbarred.

6. Attempted to blackmail Ukrainian President Zelensky into launching a dirty investigation of Hunter Biden. Adding, "You don't even have to do anything, my guys will take care of it."

7. Obstructed Justice in more than 10 instances while sitting behind the Resolute Desk -- Mueller Report.

8. Paid Stormy Daniels $130,000 in hush money so she would not reveal the details of his humiliating affair while his wife was breastfeeding his newborn son, Baron.

9. Heartlessly separated immigrant children from their mothers and failed to keep the documents necessary for reuniting them.

10. Falsely inflated business records in NY state, resulting in criminal prosecution of his lawyer, Michael Cohen and his personal finance guy Alan Weisselberg, both spent time in prison.

Here's where the game comes in. Red Hats are fond of saying the system has been turned against their beloved lumpy-titted savior. Adding that so many of these charges and claims are the result of Fake News.

I don't believe that for a second, nor should anyone with any critical thinking skills -- ooops, there I go again. And now the concession part. I will grant any fair minded Red Hat that 50% of the 10 claims I made above are completely false and fabricated.

But only on the condition that they, in turn, grant me the satisfaction of admitting 50% of the charges I have stated are completely TRUE.

Pick any five you like. The result is still the same: an asinine, cold hearted, worthless turd of a man who should be eating gruel out of tin cup while seated on a cement bench at our nation's fine penitentiaries. 

Some light reading

Last week was one of the most unproductive weeks of my life. And that includes the week I needed to recover from stupidly trying mushrooms in my misspent youth. Older, wiser and weaker, I spent last week alternatively napping, pooping, slurping soup and downing a copious amount of Tylenol in an effort to stave off the chills, hot flashes and assorted effects of The Flu.

If you haven't had a flu shot, I highly recommend it. Because this iteration of the Flu is a bitch.

In my semi-lucid hours I picked up a book I had started several months ago. Hint: I have many books I started many months ago. Thanks to my advertising-induced short attention span, I rarely reach the epilogue. But in Carl Sagan's case, I did.

This is a fascinating book that delves into the evolution of human intelligence, which any casual observer of the last 10 days can tell you is in short supply.

Sagan, the predecessor of Neil Degrasse Tyson, writes in a simple relatable style. Though I will admit certain passages regarding lobes, limbic systems and R-complex processes left me scratching my head. Nevertheless, the book takes us on a great journey exploring dreaming, hemispheric functions of the brain, and even a preview of artificial intelligence. 

Keep in mind the book was published in 1977, when I still had a full of hair and Apple computer was still being soldered together in a Northern California garage.

"Waz, what's a motherboard?"

If you have any interest in what makes us click, I suggest you make your way to amazon and click up a copy for delivery.

And while I offer no spoilers, I will leave you with this powerful summary that is uniquely fitting for our time:

There is today a resurgent interest in vague, anecdotal and often demonstrably erroneous doctrines that, if true, would betoken a more interesting universe, but that, if false, imply an intellectual carelessness, an absence of toughmindedness, and a diversion of energies not very promising for our survival. 

Such doctrines include astrology; The Bermuda Triangle; flying saucer accounts,; belief in ancient astronauts; photography of ghosts; pyramidology; Scientology; auras and Kirlian photography; the emotional lives and musical preferences of geraniums; psychic surgery; flat and hollow earths; remote cutlery warping; astral projections; Velikovskian  catastrophism; Atlantis and Mu; spiritualism; and the doctrine of special creation by God or gods, of mankind despite our deep relatedness, both in biochemistry and in brain physiology with the other animals.

They are mystical and occult doctrines, devised in a way that they are not subject to disproof and characteristically impervious to rational discussion.

It is only in the last day of the Cosmic Calendar that substantial intellectual abilities have evolved on Planet Earth. The coordinated functioning of both cerebral hemispheres is the tool Nature has provided  for our survival. We are unlikely to survive if we do not make full and creative use of our human intelligence.

Yes!

A long four years

As I mentioned yesterday, last week was very tough. In addition to being waylaid by the Influenza there was also the plane crash, the first commercial airliner involved in an accident for 16 years. The collision took the lives of 67 innocent Americans, including many young teens who aspired to a future in ice skating.

It might've occurred to a normal human being, particularly one who sits in the Oval Office, to offer some consolation and sympathy for the families of the passengers or the soldiers aboard the Black Hawk helicopter. 

In times of tragedy, that's what presidents do.

But it didn't occur to this one. Instead, he took the opportunity, when the nation still had its jaw dropped and the bodies were still buried deep in the icy cold Potomac, to, without any evidence, conclude that the accident was the fault of DEI candidates placed in positions that they had not earned or achieved.

The Tylenol I had been taking had successfully eliminated my flu-induced chills at that point but they came back with a fury! 

HEARTRATE: 83 BPM

I know I had sworn off Trump news in order to save my sanity, but this was a new low. A new low for a walking flesh bag of toxic narcissism and unchecked political avarice that has no precedent in American history. 

As you might have guessed I have still not processed his unabashed heartlessness. Nor his intellectual bankruptcy. When asked why he drew that accusatory conclusion, he relied, "Just common sense."

Oh, the same common sense that led you to believe President Obama was born in Kenya?

The same common sense that made you take out a full page newspaper ad calling for the Death Penalty of the now proven-innocent Central Park Five?

The same common sense that said you had won the 2020 election?

HEARTRATE: 97 BPM

Common sense is an anathema to Donald Trump. Let's not forget this silver spoon assclown thought you needed Salad ID before you could go into a store and purchase a head of iceberg lettuce.

And at this point in the investigation there is not one scintilla of evidence that DEI -- The Official GOP Boogeyman -- had any role the disaster. To the contrary, both pilots of the AA plane were white Americans. The air traffic controller was also a male. And one of the two pilots of the Black Hawk was a white male.

The army has wisely withheld the name of the other pilot, a female, most likely in fear of MAGA retaliation against the woman's family. 

That's the deplorable situation we find ourselves in America.

HEARTRATE: 138 BPM

And why? Because half the people in this country turned the levers of power over to a coldblooded, short fingered vulgarian/sexual abuser/felonious traitor who managed to correctly labeled three large animals on a Dementia test...

Where's my defibrillator?

The Magic Word is...

I am a Word Slut. That is I have an unusual fascination with words and their etymology. I think most people who call themselves "writers" do, and I do so hesitatingly. 

Being a Word Slut hasn't necessarily served me well. Apart from certain Jeopardy categories where it comes in handy. And on these blog pages, where I get to exercise a certain muscle for vocabulary that was often frowned upon in advertising copy.

I once kicked up quite a storm because I used the word panoply in a PayPal ad. I was unceremoniously raked over the coals for being too erudite. I look back on the days when I pissed off middle managers at PayPal with great fondness.

Ms. Muse also happens to be a Word Slut. 

Unlike me, she is a voracious reader. But we often attempt to dazzle each other with odd word choices. And sometimes, because she is smarter than me, I have found I'd being using a word incorrectly for so many (embarrassing) years. For instance, I always thought someone with a mercurial temperament meant they were excessively harsh or given to fits of temper, until I came to realize it meant being wishy washy.

You live and learn.

She is also fond of creating new words. For instance, there's "nagivate", which has an onomatopoeia-quality to it. It means to dish out unwanted driving directions while seated in the passenger seat.

While Ms. Muse has been sharing new words with me I've been schooling her in certain Yiddishisms, that even a woman who has worked in the entertainment industry has not heard. 

Recently, she and her friends performed a very good deed for someone in need. 

Living up in the foothills these days, that comes in handy. I told her she had done a Mitzvah. A Shiksa Mitzvah, if you will. Then, to prove she is not the only one who can manufacture new words, I suggested that Shiksa + Mitzvah = Shiksvah, a good deed for a fellow man/woman/child performed by a Gentile.

But it didn't stop there. 

I was recently explaining how I had called the police to look into a distressing situation with my last disruptive neighbors, an elderly woman living at home with her two functional/dysfunctional grown sons, who fight like angry cats and angrier cats. I just discovered they have hired a nurse to help with the mom's increasing dementia. If not for my phone call I doubt that would have happened.

Hence, a mitzvah for white trashy people = A Shitsvah.

What about telling a fellow altakocker in the sauna, "Getting a little furry back there, Murray, Maybe it's time to have that sweater sheered?" That would be a Shvitzvah.

You see where this is going. Well, I hope you do cause I don't, I just needed a bout of distraction while our country burns down on all sides. That would be a Shanda.