La Lotus e Blanco, Parte Dos

Perhaps because many of us just completed the third season of White Lotus, the similarities of our very luxurious vacation in Costa Rica, as well as some of the surprising insights, could not be avoided.

Let's begin, where we began. 

We were staying at the Punta Islita resort on the Guanacoste Peninsula. Like the White Lotus, it is incredibly secluded. It's a 3 hour drive from the international airport in Liberia -- don't ask. But it's only 54 miles, as the crow, or as the plentiful and always captivating Macaw flies. Lending it a certain similarity to driving on the 405.

As we approached the hotel, and a fitful end to a long, long day of traveling, I spotted a sign in the dark jungle bush saying Punta Islita only 6KM. But as our crazy over-talkative driver noted,

"These are six of the toughest km (thankfully just 3.2 miles for those of you who are not runners might know) you will ever be on. And it will take us 45 minutes to cover the short distance." (again, not unlike the 405)

And indeed he was right. The road was not paved, as it appears the Costa Rican government ran out of asphalt. And it was bumpy. And rutted out by merciless jungle downpours, which we got to experience on Night 3 during the hotel's famed beach BBQ.

Additionally, the place which we finally saw in detail, the next morning, was visually similar to the White Lotus in Thailand. A mix between tropical and jungle. I would share some pictures. And perhaps even grab some screen shots form the HBO hit series for comparison, but...

Barely, 15 hours into our much anticipated vacation and drawn like a moth to a flame, I could not resist the early morning draw of the hilltop infinity pool, as seen here in the resort's website page:

As I stepped further and further into the delightfully warm water, I submerged my body to approach Eduardo, who was manning the swim up bar. Americans love a swim up bar. With 10 AM cocktail, carefully crafted with coconut, lemonade and variety of Central American rums in hand, I slowly made my way back to our lounger and felt something solid in the pocket of my new Birddog shorts/swimming attire. 

You guessed it.

Apparently my iPhone does not enjoy pools as much as I do. Like the Ratliffs, I would have a complete Social Media Detox. 

Was it easy? No it was not. Was it impossible? Again, no it was not. 

In fact, it was refreshing in an unexpected way. Especially when observing many Americans, who paid a shitload of money to experience something unique, were so often seen NOT talking to each other, NOT soaking in the unmatched natural beauty, and NOT taking a vacation from themselves.

Besides it gave me more opportunity to practice my Spanish. And chat with Antonio, Jose, Elo, Mario, Eduardo, y los todos empleados amistados. 

Y mas importante, aprende el signifado de Pura Vida!

I think Ms. Esteves, my 10th grade Spanish Teacher would rethink my B+ grade.

Costa Rica es muy Rica

My intention was to return from Costa Rica after 9 glorious, sometimes adventurous, sometimes calamitous, days in Costa Rica with Ms. Muse, and escriba mi travelogues en todos en Espanol.

That seemed a little over ambitious in the same way I eschewed the help of my kayak guide and tried to exit the two person craft on my own. More on that klutzy affair later, after the industrial pain killers kick in.

Upon further reflection it seems the best way to return to RoundSeventeen -- and again my apologies for leaving the 8, pardon me, 9 faithful readers of this blog,  in the lurch -- is with a distinctively R17 anecdote.

After a non-eventful 6 hour early morning flight to Liberia Airport, we thought it'd be a good idea to trade some failing US dollars for some bloated Costa Rican Colados. The exchange rate was outrageously high. One US dollar is the equivalent of 50,000 Colados. 

Maybe 500,000. Maybe 5 million. 

All that meticulous luggage packing had seemed to go to naught. I had visions of needing extra satchels to have some walk around money. Or that I'd look like P Diddy at one of his Freak Offs, just showering people with brightly colored Costa Rican Money, peeled off a huge stack of bills that meant nothing to me. 

As we were waiting in line, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"Oh shit," I thought, "I told Sheryl it wasn't wise to bring our low dosage THC infused mints to a foreign land, now we're gonna spend a night in the Costa Rican clink, which will look nothing like the deluxe room we had booked. And would probably not have a minibar. Or more importantly, a plunge pool."

I turned around expecting the worst (thank you neurotic New York upbringing) and was greeted by Todd. Or Tim. Or Tom. I can't remember but Ms. Muse assures me it was Todd. From Thousand Oaks.

"Aren't you the RoundSeventeen Guy? I'm one of your loyal 8 (now 9) readers. My name is  Todd/Tim/Tom."

I was admittedly confused. 

"I thought I recognized you by the baggage carousel and said to myself I have to say Hello."

Even as I write this, I can't believe this happened.

As if that weren't mind blowing enough, he turned to Sheryl and said...

"You must be Ms. Muse. I'm Todd/Tim/Tom."

We all shook hands. And then because we needed evidence this wasn't some sort of prank or hallucination brought on by the consumption of too many of the aforementioned edibles, Ms. Muse said you should grab Todd/Tim/Tom and get a picture before he gets in a cab and goes to Tamarindo.

Hola Todd/Tim/Tom, muchas gracias para su numero de lectores. Y "Pura Vida." 

Tomorrow, the Western Hemisphere equivalent of The White Lotus begins.

Apologies

 Apologies for the unannounced sabbatical. RoundSeventeen will return on the 29th. Possibly.

Danger Will Robinson

Last week, I was contacted by The Thought Police. 

I had just finished another one of my scathing (I think they're scathing, that's debatable) about President LumpyTits. It was innocuous, compared to others. Many others. And it didn't feature any cursing or pejoratives about the absolute schmucks who put this assclown back in office.

I've been on a tear recently. Mostly because this fool has tossed thousands of dollars of my investment profit right into his golden toilet. Newsflash Red Hats: he flushed down yours as well. 

His second term behind the Resolute Desk is even more terrifying and destructive than his first. And my anger knows no bounds.

So much so that having posted my thoughts on FaceBook I was about to put it up on LinkedIn.

Here's where the algorithm came in. I suspect. I clicked on the New Post button and got this...

It's as if they were reading my mind. Which is readily accessible to any 3rd grader. Or a puerile 14 year old. 

Nevertheless, it felt quite ominous. In the same way college students from foreign lands -- many of them brighter, smarter and endowed with a work ethic rarely demonstrated by our own homegrown Tik Tok addicted students -- were sent letters from DHS, asking them to self deport.

And similar to the way many law firms, who had past litigation with our new Dick Tator, have been bullied into silence. And complicity. Agreeing to perform legal responsibilities in service of our nakedly cretinous King.

However, as Ms. Muse pointed out to me, there is a silver lining here. As the 8 loyal readers of this blog know, I'm a LinkedIn recidivist. I don't have the fingers or toes to count up how many infractions I've logged. The last violation earned me PERMANENT PROHIBITED. 

It took a Herculean effort to get back on. Including a FedExed  hand written letter to the LI CEO.

I'm not looking for employment. Nor is anyone currently looking to hire a 67 year old freelance copywriter, especially one who is distinctively not Social First. Nor has any Perineum Inflammation Experience that would even get me a job doing Pharmaceutical Advertising. 

In other words, I don't need LinkedIn, But I like having LinkedIn. 

So I thought twice about the warning. And posted what I wanted to post on BlueSky. 

Mmmm, friendly non-judgmental echo chamber.

Why we can't have Nice Things

I know the names of several famous French philosophers, Voltaire, Descartes, Robespierre, etc. But I couldn't tell you what separated the thinking of one fancy cheese-eater from any of the others. 

I do know one of them, was a virulent antisemite. You'd think I'd have remembered his name. But alas I've been busy with more important issues of the day. Yesterday I left the keys to my car on the front seat. Thereby alerting nearby thieves, "Here come take my Mustang Mach E." 

Oh, and I didn't do it once. I did it twice in one day. Note to self: Look into Prevagen.

Today, however, I became a fan of Rousseau. He could or could not be an antisemite, after all, in those days, it was as common as soft brie. 

I came to discover Rousseau wrote a treatise on the Social Contract, that is the theory that we all abide by a certain a set of unwritten rules in order to maintain a sense of civilized society. I can't be the first to notice that the contract has been decimated as of late, in ways both big and small.

My daily late afternoon walks, lengthening everyday thanks to my newfound, and painless mobility, often take me by the Ivy Station of the Expo train line. 

It's adjacent to the tony Shay Hotel, home of LA's finest rooftop bars. It's also home to a panoply of sketch characters who tend to congregate under the elevated line. They gather there not to discuss French Philosophers but to smoke weed, distribute their refuse and, when the impulse strikes them, hop on board one of the trains overhead.

Two weeks Ms. Muse and I boarded a Metro Train to attend the Hands Off Protest in downtown Pasadena. As any Metro rider knows, the TAP system of paying the fare is cumbersome at best. And the machines to transact loading the card seemed to have been designed by the same folks who gave us vacuum tube computers and perforated punch cards.

The aforementioned weed smokers can't be, and won't be, bothered by all that mishegas. They simply jump the turnstyle or walk thru the exit gate, whose protruding plastic wedges do little to discourage the transportation freeloaders. 

And of course there are no consequences for violating the vehicular honor system, which is part and parcel of the social contract.

But it gets worse. Much worse.

Yesterday there was an article in the LA Times about squatters who have illegally moved into houses owned by the Metro People. These huge beautiful houses were vacated years ago, along a corridor earmarked for a highway connecting the 110 to the 210 freeway. That never happened. 

Nor did the No Trespassing signs stop squatters from moving in. Not only did they feloniously force their way in, they cut deals with the city so they could stay in. I don't know who pays for their electricity, gas, and water, but I suspect it's you, Tommy Taxpayer and me, Law Abiding Sucker.

Now the city wants them out. Hold onto your chappeaus, because this is where it gets good. And by that I mean Not So Good.

The city is currently negotiating a deal with the squatters, sorry, the unhoused, to provide them with low cost rental units AND pay them up to $20,000. In cash. If they'll move out of the houses they have no legal claim to.

This makes my blood boil. 

And maybe not for the obvious reason. Because this flagrant rewarding of people who commit crimes has a steeper price tag than one might imagine. It's not only a perversion of common sense, these well-intentioned Democratic city politicians are literally feeding the GOP political machine. 

You can be sure these $20,000 bribes will be picked up Republicans and exploited, rightfully I might add, as financial malfeasance. It's a gift to Red Hats at the hands of people like me, and maybe even you, who just want citizens and their governmental leaders to abide by the social contract. 

Not doing so is how we got Trump!

 

Bill Maher revisited

 Today's post is a repost from 11 years ago. Presented to you again, in light of the recent backlash Bill "I'm a Douchebag" Maher is facing for his sycophantic visit to the White House. And the ridiculous praise he has heaped on the man that once sued him and called him a low life loser. 

Maher even had President LumpyTits sign a piece of paper listing all the insults he had hurled at Bill. Why he would want that, confounds me. In the same way I am in disbelief of the Red Hats who sported ear bandages and wore diapers to his Bund rallies. 

WTF, people?

Yesterday, I wrote about our whirlwind experience with ABC and showed an ad we did for Politically Incorrect. That's when I suddenly remembered my hotblooded exchange with its star, Bill Maher.

Of course to tell this story correctly we've got to jump in the time machine.

In 1997, Chiat/Day teamed me up with a freelance art director, John Shirley.

Apart from our toothy grins, John and I had absolutely nothing in common.

He was a blond haired, surfer dude given to earrings, chin air and picture books.
I was a "stocky" Jew from NY who chose to wear my facial hair above the lip.

What we did have in common, and still do, is an ability to make each other laugh.

Shortly after we won the ABC account we were invited to NY for something called an upfront. All the stars were there. After a few top shelf cocktails, compliments of the Disney shareholders, John did what I could never do.

He literally inserted himself into snapshots with the stars. Think of it as reverse photobombing.

He even convinced Robert Pastorelli to strike a Sears Roebuck catalogue shot.

I was howling with laughter.

While he went about securing photos with every actor who had ever stepped foot on the ABC lot, I was busy relieving Disney of its massive quantities of bourbon. And it was on one of these frequent trips to the bar that I ran into Bill Maher, who in case you haven't guessed, is a lot shorter in real life.

I'm a big fan of Bill Maher.
I like his show.
And loved his movie Irreligious.

But at the time, Bill was not a fan of our Yellow campaign; and said as much to the press.

I like a good entanglement as much as the next fellow, but even more so when it comes to my work. So after some introductory niceties, Bill and I got into it. I had three inches of height and 50 lbs. on him, so we really got into it. Contentious is a good word.

This was a long time ago and I'd love to quote you some of the witty reparte that went back and forth, but that dialogue is forever lost somewhere along the shores of the Knob Creek.

I could as I might have done in the past, fictionalize it, now with the advantage of hindsight and a sober mind. But that would be wrong.

Here's what I do remember.

The argument ended with Bill Maher loudly calling me an asshole.
And me, equally, if not louder, returning the favor.

Suffice to say, it was a magical night.

Deal!

I am a terrible negotiator. Always have been. 

I learned quite a few skills while toiling in the corporate world, most of them too late. Like listening to others. Not flying off the handle. And keeping my mouth shut over creative differences. Had I picked up on those earlier, my rollercoaster career might have taken a more fruitful path.

Though I'd still be scratching my head and awakened at 3 in the morning worrying about dirty nursing homes.

Negotiation was never in the cards for me. Mostly because -- and I hate to quote President LumpyTits -- I didn't think I had the cards. Hence, when it came to switching jobs, I never asked for enough money. When I had employee reviews, despite some banner years, I simply accepted what they gave me. 

One particular year, I did have the cards. 

Our work was on the tip of everybody's tongues. Some loved it, some hated it. Nevertheless it was written and spoke about in magazines, press releases, even on national TV. So I demanded a little something extra in my Christmas stocking, a strained metaphor because what I really wanted was gelt.

Maybe demanded isn't the most accurate term. But I did go see the CEO and played my hand. At the time (and those times have definitely passed) I could've walked and found meaningful and $rewarding$ employment anywhere I chose. But I wanted to stay. More importantly, the CEO wanted me to stay.

It was good Christmas-slash-Hanukkah that year. Little did I know that soon my two daughters would be going to private grammar school, where tuition was well into the 5 digits, just to learn how to finger paint and sing songs about Kumbaya.

Nevertheless, I felt vindicated. Pleased with myself, thinking I've grown up and became a real businessman.

That is, until recently.

If you've ever walked by a Starbucks at 7 in the morning or a casual dining place, like Dennys, at noontime, you are sure to notice a group of altacacas. Old men, like myself, though I know I can bench press more and swim faster than any of them, reliving their glory days in between kvetching about lower pain and Sciatica.

As of late I've been an attendee at one of these gatherings. Mostly with old colleagues and advertising creative folks who have shared the same journey. On a recent one of these klatches, there was frank discussion.

Perhaps, too frank. I've come to learn that many of these friends were much more adept at the Negotiating Game. And spoke openly about their vocational spoils! 

Turns out, I am and will always be a terrible negotiator.

With the recent economic disaster, a deliberate shot in the foot by the imbecile sitting behind the Resolution desk, it's clear that with my decimated portfolio, I'm destined for that dirty nursing home. 

Sucking vegetable lasagna through a straw!

Where's my tool belt

Yesterday, my friend Chris Erskine wrote a charming piece about installing his own kitchen faucet. Let me back up and qualify the word 'friend'. 

Chris, as many Angelenos know, is modern day Erma Bombeck. A humorist for the LA Times and author of Daditude, which I was gifted by my daughters before I even knew who he was. We met on one occasion at one of his Foothill walks. And shared post-hike beers at a local pub.

Like me, Chris is a widower in his 60's. Also like me, Chris was lucky enough to find a partner that has an appreciation and love for his uniqueness. I'm convinced, and I think he'd agree, that people crazy enough to call themselves writers have to be unique. Or weird. Or quirky.

Or as Ms. Muse likes to say, "a bubble off plum."

As the weather warms up I have to make a point of joining his monthly all-are-welcome hikes in the greater Flintridge/La Canada area. But right now, like Chris, I'm in Spring Cleaning mode. as in "there's so much shit in the house that needs fixing."

His tale of installing a new kitchen faucet caught my eye because his sourcing of knowledge and mechanical know how came from the same place as mine -- YouTube videos. A far cry from the way my father taught himself to avoid paying for home repairs, the vaunted Time Life book series.

He had the entire catalogue. And could build a bookshelf, install an attic ceiling fan, or put in his own Finnish Sauna off the master bedroom (which he actually did.) Had he the convenience and ease of YouTube videos, my father, a CPA from the Bronx, could have summoned his considerable handiness and built a sailboat. 

A dream he started to pursue before the Big C.

As some readers of this blog know, I recently took on the task of replacing light switches in my house. Electrical work is a little trickier than plumbing work. Through trial and error and jolts of light voltage lighting up my nerve endings, I've learned to hit the breaker panel before any work commences. Also learned the proper way to use electrical caps. And the delicate art of gently placing stiff old cables back in the electrical box.

The toughest part of the job was opening the plastic wrapped packaging the new switches came in.

Having done that and experiencing the associated joy, I am moving on. 

A few weeks ago, my daughters bought me a new kitchen cutting board. They were put off by my old one which had been a staple in this house for many, many years. They suggested it was riddled with hidden salmonella and E. Coli cells, lurking in the crevices between the tink planks of maple. They further suggested that I throw it out. 

I come from post depression parents who rarely threw anything out. And now I am determined to bring it back to life.

As I write this, I am eagerly awaiting the Amazon arrival of my new Orbital Palm Sander with the quick hook and loop paper holder-- the Skil SR211601. My favorite in the 21000 Series.

BTW, I decided to chuck my old palm sander because it was impossible to figure out how to get the sandpaper in place. And there were no YouTube videos for that!

No tariffs will be collected

Amidst the financial tzuris of last week there was one moment of glee. After barely a year of being in the hospitality business, my Airbnb house, formerly my uncle's incredibly ugly house, was awarded (hence the trophy icon) the prestigious Guest Favorite moniker.

Had you told me that 5 years ago, when I was cleaning out the unbelievable detritus and old lady furnishings from the place, I would not have believed you. The running joke was that my uncle was the only gay man in Palm Spring's with no sense of design. 

Or irony.

The smallish house with the huge private backyard was a mess. And required a total re-haul, inside and out. That included a new kitchen and appliances, two bathroom remodels, new furnace, new air conditioning, new pool equipment, paint (inside and out), a new garage door and the removal of close to a ton of extension chords, drill bits and wire hangers. 

Not to mention the countless reams of paper. 

My uncle, also in possession of an outsized sense of justice, was an inveterate letter writer. Sound familiar? He had enough paper to dash off a missive to every resident of Southeast Asia. If he had a beef with them, legitimate or imagined, he would have.

That was then, this now. 

Since retiring, I have made the operation of the rental house my full time gig. Well, part time. I am limited by the restrictive Short Term Rental laws in Palm Springs (ironically instituted in part to my uncle's Nagawriting™ to city officials) I only have a Junior STR certificate. That means I can only rent the place 6 times a year. 

Last week a woman from Toronto, as well as her mother and a friend, were there for 9 days. And on none of those 9 days did she text me with a question or a request. I must be doing something right and have successfully worked out the kinks. That includes the funky electrical wiring that is endemic to all Palm Spring houses built in the 1960's.

When they left, she penned a lovely 5 star review for the Mojo Dojo Desert Casa House, a name that was scorned by my two daughters, who wrongfully believed I was going about this Airbnb thing all wrong. This latest 5 star rating is in addition to all the other 5 star ratings and has qualified me for the Guest Favorite status.

The only question that remains is where the next 5 star rating will come from. It might even be you. And you might, just saying, qualify for a discount given that you know (or read) the owner.

Here's the magic link: airbnb.com/h/mddch

Protest, Part 2

Yesterday, I wrote about the Hands Off protest that took place over the weekend. I wrote the piece last Friday in anticipation of the rallies. More than 5 million Americans hit the streets to express their disgust with King Donald and President Musk. Today I give you the post-protest post.

Some would, or have, argued the whole protest thing was a waste of time. 

"Hell no, I won't Go!"

To the contrary, it was an epiphany. I haven't marched, held up a sign, or worn a rebellious T-shirt since my post-hippy days at Syracuse University, when upset college students let the administration know how upset they were when Mint Chip Chocolate Ice Cream was removed from the dining halls.

I have no illusions that Saturday's massive rallies (incredulously underreported by the Lame Stream Media) will actually change or alter the downward spiral this country finds itself in. 

Nevertheless, it was refreshing to be in the company of so many like-minded people -- aka critical thinkers -- who are just as upset, outraged and despondent, hoping beyond hope that Red Hats (now thousands of $$$ in the hole becasue of their failing 401ks) will have an epiphany of their own:

"We fucked up and elected a malicious imbecile."

There was a certain electricity in the air. You could feel it. That is when the ground wasn't shaking from people screaming at the top of their lungs.

"Lock Him Up, Lock Him Up..."

I called an audible and actually got some more zealous members of the crowd to join me.

"String Him Up, String Him Up..."

Similarly, moments later the chant the became:

"Impeach Trump, Impeach Trump..."

That also called for an alternative take and produced appropriate rage laughter.

"Impale Trump, Impale Trump..."

Bending a crowd to your will with pithy slogans can be quite intoxicating.

As Saturdays go, I can think of no better way to spend the day. Ms. Muse and I took a variety of public transportation modes to reach downtown Pasadena and were joined by her good friends Jen and Mary.

Together, we screamed, we roared, we laughed and pointed out the amazing creativity and resilience of our fellow citizens. And then decided to skip the rally in downtown LA and reward ourselves for our brief stint as revolutionaries and commence day drinking and glutinous gastropub dining.

This was a wise choice. I can attest from previous experience that riding the scuzzy Metro Line train into Pershing Square. Nothing puts a damper on the day lie the smell of fresh urine.

That's a protest for another day.

#FuckTrump

So much winning

I was going to post a picture of myself donning Deb's pussy hat that she wore to the January 21st, 2017 million woman march in DC, but in that photo. I'm sixty pounds heavier with three embarrassing fleshy necks. Vanity said, "That's a hard pass." 

And so I went with this pic, snapped in downtown Las Vegas while on a business trip with Jean Robaire, while getting paid and shortly after being up about $1000 at the roulette table.

These days I have no interest in going there again.

While I didn't go with the original Trump-protest photo, I did attend 2 ferociously anti-Trump marches this past weekend. Actually it's still Friday morning and by the time you're reading this I could very well find myself in the clink. 

Or worse, shipped down to a dirty gulag in El Salvador.

Who knows, considering the rapidly deteriorating condition of our once great nation. Hard to believe that just over two months ago, we were on a completely different trajectory as a country. 

In any case, those are the plans. As I have often said, "democracy is not a spectator sport, it's participatory." And so this weekend, Ms. Muse and I, and an estimated 5 million other people across the country, will get out there and participate.

We will don two of my dozen, custom-written anti-trump T-shirts, peacefully assemble with other like-minded critical thinkers and express our disdain, distaste and fury over the decimation of our democracy. And our economy which recently had been, according to the Economist magazine, "the envy of the world."

But now we're placing ridiculously crafted tariffs on islands only populated by King Penguins.

COVFEFE!!!!

In fact, the Stable Genius has placed these tariffs on every country around the world, with the conspicuous exception of Russia, whose only exports are vodka as well as disinformation. And North Korea, perhaps because Trump is still madly "in love" with Kim Jong Un? 

The given rationale for starting a global trade war, was to bring manufacturing jobs back to the good ole USA. Those jobs are not coming back. In the same way there never were 6 new US Steel plants opened in Trump's first term. 

Here's a map I made in 2017 to show were they weren't...

It should also be noted that we are a service/imagination design based economy and no longer  a manufacturing. BTW, manufacturing jobs will be the first to be replaced by robots. 

More BTW, BTW, the intention to create new jobs comes while the unemployment rate in America is historically low at about 4%. That number will surely climb as he and President Musk cut thousands of jobs. The new tariffs will also send inflation up. Demand will drop. And even more jobs will be lost.

In other words, we're headed down the same road as Trump Casino, Trump Water, Trump Steaks, Trump Hotel, Trump Vineyards, bad infinitum.

Elon and the senile sweaty pig may be the only people left who afford the newly minted $5 million Trump Gold Card. 

We're so fucked.

The art of slowing down

A little more than 20 years ago, my friend, former roommate and younger brother of my one-time writing partner, wrote a book — pictured above. My copy is gathering dust in my garage, along with a host of other accoutrement from a life I barely recognize or remember. 

Time does that.

You can read more about it by purchasing your copy (still available on Amazon) here.

The point of the book is self evident. And the task at the time was way easier for Augie, than it was for me. As in 2003 I was commuting more than 106 miles a day to beyond the Orange Curtain. Had two mortgage payments, and two daughters in an obscenely expensive private grammar school, where they could fingerpaint and sculpt clay, with materials that must've been imported from artisans in the hills of Tuscany.

Fast forward 22 years later and I have successfully exited the rat race that once consumed me. And sadly, like many fathers/providers, defined my identity.  

I was, until recently, convinced I had stockpiled enough nuts to make it to the finish line. Considering how much the current regime has destroyed my blood pressure, that finish line may be closer than I had thought. A silver lining, as it were. 

Additionally, I have been sidelined as of late, due to consecutive bouts of deteriorating health including Norovirus, Flu, a painful fall on my tuchas and most recently, a THR, total hip replacement for those of you yet untouched by the surgeon's scalpel. 

Happy to say, that is all in my rear view mirror, now equipped with one of those magnifying attachments to enlarge images. Old people hacks. And slowly returning to my vigorous exercise routine.

Suffice it to say, I have begun taking the Slow Down message to heart. Because now I have time to.

If you haven't retired yet, or the industry hasn't retired you, to be more accurate, the transition is not as simple as you might expect. It was made even more difficult during my last decade in advertising, where it was not unusual to get briefed on an assignment at 10 AM and expected to have solved it by the check in time at 4 PM.

Fuck that and fuck those clueless people who agreed to such bullshittery!

Sorry for the burst of rage, I just took a moment to look at my 401k funds. What's left of them.

The point is I am slowly embracing the Slow Down philosophy. And not surprisingly, it is taking time. And it will take time for you as well.

I wake up. Lay in bed as long as I'd like. I look at the clock less often. I do as I please. And don't do what I don't do what doesn't please me. I eschew drama, and there's still plenty of it. I putz around the house. And just successfully replaced a hallway light switch, my second in a week. I read. I write. After a lifetime of providing for others, I can concentrate on providing for myself. It's an unusual, but good feeling.

In the near future I look forward to warmer weather, when I can reacquaint myself with my hammock.

Pass the cardboard...er, matzo

Years ago, some enterprising young Iranians focused their antisemitic efforts by staging a Holocaust Cartoon Contest. They offered up $25,000 to the aspiring cartoonist who could come up with the most vile, disgusting ugly cartoon that mocked the murder of 6 million tribe members (one out of every three Jews in the world's tiny Jewish population.)

Not to be outdone, a couple of Israeli guys said, "Hold my slivovitz" and staged their own similarly themed contest. And raised the ante to $50,000.

It was all very distasteful. But the thick, almost impenetrable Hebraic skin goes a long way in explaining our longevity. Particularly in world that is often antisemitic, anti-Israeli, or anti-Jew. Call it what you want, they all stem from the same chalice.

In the same self deprecation vein, not to mention heretical, I bring you the cartoon above which pokes some good natured fun at the upcoming Passover celebration. The caption is: "we mark the door with blood, so god knows which first born babies to smite."

It's not laugh out loud funny, but it does question the fallacy of the lord, and does appeal to my wide, and growing wider, streak of atheism. 

BTW, being Jewish and being an atheist are not mutually exclusive. I would posit that our willingness to embrace cynicism and question everything, has also contributed to our standing as one of the longest surviving tribes since the Garden of Eden.

Two weeks ago, Ms. Muse offered to drive me to the supermarket in order to re-stock my barren refrigerator and pantry. 

The minute we entered the store, we were assaulted by the full on Easter onslaught. There were plastic eggs (the real ones are still too expensive), chocolate bunnies, and yellow and pink streamers festooned on almost every aisle, from pickles to peanut butter. I was surprised there wasn't a man or a woman sporting an Easter Bunny Costume, hawking Easter paraphenalia to any unwary shopper in hopping distance. 

This may be a by-product of our new authoritarian regime, as state legislators in Texas are currently eyeing a bill that would outlaw Furries. And Fur-adjacent characters.

Nevertheless the Easterization of the store was quite ubiquitous. The lone exception being the end cap (sorry for the marketing retail talk) display on Aisle 13 -- Ethnic Foods/Strange Rituals.

To wit:

There it is, the makings of real holiday celebration.

Let me save you the trouble of zooming in. You have your Borscht, Red Beets, Sardines, Chicken Broth, grape juice (our sugary equivalent of the Easter chocolate) and you've got a fine selection of Baron Herzog Cabernet Sauvignon. 

I took the liberty of looking. They even had some Special Reserve from February 2023, a particularly good month, I'm told. 

400 years of bondage in the hot Egyptian sun and this is how we celebrate?

In the words of Jon Stewart, we gotta do better.

 

Old Man Rant #739

Let me start this post by stating I have no desire to start. Work, that is. 

I'm done. 

Between delivering newspapers, mowing lawns, flipping burgers, tending bar, scrubbing hospital pots, cleaning up god-awful college dining rooms, driving forklifts, flipping steaks, omelettes and flounder, clerking in the mailroom, and writing (pimping out my brain cells) thousands and thousand of ads, most of which never even got made, I am so done.

Nevertheless, I am still fond of scrolling through LinkedIn. Mostly as a distribution channel for this old blog, but also to stay abreast of what's going on, in what was my industry. 

I don't need to tell you, it ain't particularly good. 

And that's being generous.

There's the upswing in successful indie agencies, but those toiling at the 5 major holding companies, I'm sorry, 3 major holding companies, soon to be 1 major holding company, have been left holding the bag. Sadly, this includes many friends and former colleagues.

When a job listing does come up, I watch, incredulously, at the dozens, sometimes dozens of dozens, of applicants all fighting for the same tasteless, meaningless morsel of underemployment. 

More often than not the opportunity is a demotion. Involving the promotion of some new drug, Flexicol or Ubivix. Or, if it's for a legitimate carmaker, beer or even a casual dining chain, the salary as well as the qualifications are insulting at best.

And usually begin with: "Social First."

In other less polite words, and I know this from my experience at PayPal (started by Peter Thiel, the Right Wing's own George Soros) they are less interested in people who can develop big ideas and most interested in dispirited people who are familiar with social media templates -- banner ads, email blast, carousels, ad infinitum. 

It's all so fucking backwards.

If I were to apply -- and again I have no interest in doing so -- I wouldn't make the first cut. Mostly because all the "Social First" work I have done in the past never made it into my portfolio. It's out in the ether somewhere. Probably in the vicinity of Uranus. 

Moreover, it's all CRAP.

But here's the irony of it all. The people I know who have mastered social media, and made it work for them, often going viral in a small but vital arena, are folks my age or older. 

Take Bob Hoffman for example, whose posts and columns gave way to lucrative speaking engagements, around the world. Or my friend and fellow blogger, George Tannenbaum, whose blog is read industry-wide and who posts new ads for his rapidly growing small indie agency, GeorgeCo. I know of no other two individuals who have mastered "social" more than these self admitted geezers.

Not to toot my own social media horn, but even some of my prolific Trump-trolling has amassed some significant eyeball coverage.

All this is to say, if I were looking to staff a creative department, I wouldn't begin with the phrase Social First. 

I'd start with Talent First.