Victime of the Gazpacho Police

Apologies for today's late posting of R17. The socials, as it were, have thrown me a curve ball. 

As you can see from the notice above, I've been booted from Facebook. That is not the rarest occurrence. I've been hit before for my torrid rants about Trump. And have actually toned down the rhetoric which has landed me in FB Jail before.

I've taken the same approach on LinkedIn, where I've been a good boy.

Not so much at Twitter where they simply don't give a rat's messy behind, unless the target is the guy whose name resembles this: 

See how I've cleverly communicated my point in a very legal and non binding fashion? One might ask what I'm doing on Twitter in the first place given its cesspoolian nature. And that's fair, but there's no better platform for immediate access to immediate news. And by that I mean Sports scores.

I thought I was being equally clever with the Zuckerberg folk, who also tend to look the other way at so many community standards infractions including: antisemitic pages, homophobic pages, and more hate than you can shake a Tiki Torch at.

I know every time I have reported these violations I've received a notice to the effect of, "This may not be the result you were seeking but we find every thing hunky-dory at Seb Gorka's Funtime Jew Haters Group."

So what you may ask did I do to trigger the Gazpacho Police at Meta?

Let me be equally circuitous. And let me just say I posted one of the pictures from this Google Search page...

Because some people choose to eat while doomscrolling through Facebook, I chose the most antiseptic and least offensive of the bunch. It could be Top Row, Second from the Left. Again, I said could be in case the AI robots are watching again.

That's it. 

I didn't add a snarky caption, as is my like. I gave no clues or hints. For all anyone knows I might have posted the photo because I watched Halloween 7 and was freaked out by the post-prom scene!

And yet here I am, on the outside looking in. This administration talks about bringing back Freedom of Speech. Just not for everyone.

We're not at 451, but the Fahrenheit is quickly rising!

EDITORIAL NOTE: Because Facebook is what feeds R17 readership, I'm going to put a pause on any further posts until I get this worked out. Also, Fuck Mark Zuckerberg and the entire technocracy.

324 pixels X 786 pixels of crap

 

I'm not that enthused by my visits to LinkedIn as of late. Frankly it has become another Twitter-like cesspool of Right Wing thinking. The same folks who chide those who post anything of a political nature, seem to have no problem by the frequent postings of adoring Red Hats. And the daily ramblings of DJTJ, who some allege, is under the influence of the Peruvian Marching Powder.  

"Another Shithole country, like my father says, but at least Peru is good for something."

When I do choose to doom scroll on LinkedIn, I am left gobsmacked. Recently there was some someone from the United Kingdom seeking an ACD-level team. Truth is, ACD-level means you have at least 3 years of experience. 

The post had close to 600 responses!

I thought I had a hard time getting my first job in advertising. Now I feel like one of those Richie-Rich guys, born with a silver spoon, or even one of those tiny spoons for the aforementioned powder, who cakewalked into a career in advertising. 

I just can''t imagine what it would be like. Nor do I want to.

I apologize to my copywriting and art director colleagues who may not find my humorous retorts to the plethora of ridiculous job listings out there. I have great empathy for you. Particularly the ones who were just a few years behind me. These are veterans of the Digital World, who witnessed and shaped all things Internet, but are often perceived as dinosaurs scouring the field for the last remaining maggot infested carcass. 

For the record, that's two consecutive R17 postings that have use the word carcass.

Worse, many of the listings I see begin with some thinly-veiled ageism when they state, up front, in the biggest, boldest type the socials will allow, that they are looking for folks who are Digital First.

Why not just say, "HACKS WANTED."

I will gladly marinate and eat some digital crow to anyone who can point out a great (and effective) campaign or rebranding, by thinking Digital First. 

Because I can point to a collection of advertising books, some even gathering dust on the shelf just above my computer monitor, that proudly document ad campaigns, that were not Digital First, but have etched themselves in the timeless lore that made working in this business so rewarding. Financially. And more importantly, creatively.

Given to self deprecation, I always used to say, that I was employed in the making of of ads that were frankly quite disposable.

Today, they are even more disposabler. 

This one goes out to Mark

This is a direct quote from June 9, 2018. When asked how he would know whether North Korean dictator Kim Jong Un would be a serious negotiator, President Mushforbrains responded, "I think within the first minute, I'll know." Adding, "It's just my touch, my feel, That's what I do."

If only Britain's Neville Chamberlain had been blessed with that special power in 1938.

One may doubt the veracity of his superhuman character judging talents. Particularly given that everyone he surrounded himself during his first term office turned out to be either a "Total Loser", a "Moron", a "Low Intelligence Person", a "Grandstander", a "Backstabber", "Overrated" or, given his own limited vocabulary, some mish mosh combination of all of the above.

I'd provide you with the names. But pointing out the monumental ineptitude of 2016 - 2020 did little or dissuade 77 million cretins from putting this Fleshbag of Incompetence™ back in office.

So let's turn our attention to who he surrounded himself on this go-round, as we circle the toilet bowl into a dark abyss of clueless fascism. 

Leading off there's puppy-hating Kristi Noem, our new Homeland Security Secretary. She loves to get dolled up and play Barbie in her various costumes and accoutrement. What she doesn't like doing is reading the US Constitution. In a Congressional hearing last week, she stated that habeas corpus, the very cornerstone of Western Civilization, "gave the President the right to snatch up any undesirable on the street and ship him or her out of the country."

That's 180 degrees from the definition as stated by our rolling-in-their-graves American forefathers, you know, the ones held in such high regard by Red Hats.

Next up there's Party Boy Pete, aka our new Secretary of Defense, a sotted half wit and would-be local newscast meteorologist, who, charged with the security of 330 million Americans, sloppily chaired a chat room on an unsecured platform and invited an unsuspecting journalist to listen in as American military forces were bombing Houthi rebels in Yemen. 

I know 99.7% of Americans can't find Yemen on a map and have no idea who's who in the Houthis, but doesn't this demand immediate resignation. I guess it doesn't matter to our "Suckers" and "Losers" in the armed services. 

Not to be outdone, our new Secretary of Health and Human Services, RFK Jr, was recently seen swimming in a DC creek (with his grandchildren) known to have high levels of feces and potentially fatal bacteria. I wish I were making this up but it doesn't seem all that shocking considering his 14 year long Heroin addiction, his Brain Worm and his compunction for picking up bear carcasses (carci?) to be relocated to New York City's Central Park.

Am I going to go through the entire cabinet? No, I am not. Suffice to say their level of qualification is just what you'd expect from the large man on the right who is grimacing and probably dropping a deuce in his presidential diapers.

Last week, I was privately chided by a clueless B2B freelance copywriter, about my inability to weave satire into my political rants. Sorry Mark, the surreal pathetic totality of what we see here is beyond satirization. 

Thursday Photo Funnies

My peripatetic nature has returned. Thanks to the skillful handiwork of Orthopedic wonderkind, Dr. Sassoon and my new Titanium hip, mobility has never been better. In laymen's terms, I've been walking. And biking. And swimming. And enjoying life.

As best I can, given our day to day sinking into a fascist hellhole. 

It also means I've been able to get out to Palm Springs, now that guests have stopped coming for a while during the triple digit temps.

Given that preamble, today's collection of photo funnies takes us all over the place, from the Museum in Ventura (pictured above) to just a few hundred miles north of the Equator in Costa Rica -- Pura Vida.

Let's go...

Sino-Nippon relations have reached 

a new benchmark with the grand opening

of Minsho Tokyo. We're so international here in Culver City.

We've also got a new Hydration Room for 

Californians seeking the latest in woo-woo

fake medicinal cures.

And coming soon, 

It's all Matcha And Nothing But the Matcha.

My feet will never cross the threshold of this place.

There are even stately new openings

near the Ivy Train Station, the latest in high tech latrinerry.

The desert, high or low, never disappoints. 

This was taken from my front yard.

And this was taken from the backyard.

My neighbor doesn't know it,

but I attached a thick chord around

the trunk of one of his ficus trees.

What good is a hammock if you can't make it swing?

The unbeatable atmosphere of Don Ramos, 

restaurants in Costa Rica don't get more authentic than this.

The chef came to our table with his little notebook 

and read us the options on the menu. 

Mi hermosa novia a bordo de su caballo a la playa. 

On the walk to the beach, in front of the

world's gnarliest and expansive trees. 

And finally, while walking beneath the tall jungle trees 

with their thick canopy,

  you don't want to fall and end up like this guy.

We will know

Pretty sure most of us have seen this. 

It's from a Simpsons episode -- known for their uncanny predictions about the future -- written in the 1990's, about the burial of our current president on April 12, 2025. Sadly, the funny guys and probably one funny token woman, were wrong. 

I make no bones about dreaming of the day when the oxygen on this planet is returned to the 9 billion living breathing human beings and no longer hogged or consumed by this Anti-Democracy Hellbeast.

I know this is a sentiment shared by many. Mostly people with operable brain function.

Last weekend while on an absolute beautiful early Spring day, we found ourselves on the bike path from Ventura to Ojai. I probably shouldn't mention this path lest it get too popular. But it is the kind of public recreational expenditure we need more of. That is, taxpayer money being used to better the lives of the folks that pay the taxes.

While returning on the mostly downhill slope from Ojai back to the sea, I thought, "we've been out of contact with the real world for close to three hours, what if the fascist fuckknuckle expired? We wouldn't even know it!"  

And then I realized the fallacy of that thought.

Because the inarguable truth is, there are so many people looking forward to him no longer being in our lives (and bulldozing the pillars of the American Experiment). As a testament to that, my current social media pages are flooded with all kinds of clever manifestations of 8647. 

Here are some of my handmade memes.

None of these are threatening. Or hint of violence as he claims was the intent of James Comey's sea shells. 

Sea shells!

Nor is anyone summoning a political opponent to face a firing squad, as he did towards outspoken Liz Cheney.

All of which leads me to believe that if the good lord were to call this festering fleshbag of ignorance and toxicity home, there would be much rejoicing in the streets.

The noise of which would easily reach the newly repaved bike path that meanders through the bucolic hills of Eastern Ventura and Southern Ojai.

Moreover, I believe, cars on the nearby Ojai Freeway, would pull over to honk their horns, scream with ecstasy and break out in song. I'm thinking the ditty will come from the Wizard of Oz. And there can be no doubt it's when the news is sprung on the Munchkinland.

That my friends will be Liberation Day.

Hey Gordon

I hate to get all meta on you, I try not to stare at my own navel to excess (mostly because I hate stretching) but I'm going to give thanks to a gentlemen named Gordon. 

Late Sunday night I saw that Gordo had posted a comment about a post I did on adrenochrome. To be honest it was not my most popular  R17 posting. To be really honest, my web traffic is down -- I take full responsibility for that -- despite being recognized at international airports.

The other thing is, I don't even care. But thanks to Gordy's chiming in, the web traffic showed a substantial spike. I don't get many RoundSeventeen readers from Fargo, North Dakota, but you're welcome here any time Sir Gordon.

You might be wondering what the fuss is/was all about. 

On the topic of adrenochrome, which not many people, including Ms. Muse, do not know about, I gave a little primer on the right wing phenomena and what I thought was a well reasoned debunking of yet another Red Hat conspiracy theory. The same theory that led to PizzaGate, where a Fox News devouring devotee took it upon himself to grab a shotgun and blast into a Washington DC pizzeria and liberate the children who were being sexually abused in the basement.

One problem: the pizzeria didn't have a basement. Just customers enjoying pepperoni pizza and calzones.

I also traced the canard to the long running blood libel against Jews. Moreover, speaking on behalf on my entire Tribe, I said flat-out that people of Hebraic seasonings simply do NOT round up gentile children and drain them of their blood to put on our matzo.

For a long time we had plastic covering on our furniture. I don't see how it would be feasible to have screaming children gushing fresh blood through the foyer and into the recently remodeled living room. Like you, Gordy, my father worked long and hard to pay for that couch from Bambergers. 

Nevertheless, my new friend from Fargo took time from his nightly viewings of the 700 Club, to accuse me of being evil. And in a deleted comment, called me a pedophiliac. 

Dem is fighting words, Gordorama. Next time I'll be less generous with my photoshop skills and print your name and your not-so-flattering face.

Not sure if he's ever met Tribe member but we have a little axiom: "You poke the Jew, you get the horns."

Good Morning Renfrewshire

This is 36 Cowlair's Road in Glasgow, Scotland. Like the grey skies above it and the moist grass below, it is a building not unlike a million other's in Great Britain. But it is special to me.

Last week, after spending 5 days in distinctively different and markedly warmer Palm Springs, I returned home to find a post (letter) from the District of Renfrewshire, Paisley. I had written them three months earlier and included a check for $21. Or stones. Or quid. Or sheep's knuckles, I can't keep track of their currency.

I had requested a copy of my mother's birth certificate. And to be honest, didn't think I'd ever hear back. To be even more honest and perhaps a bit elitist, I didn't think they had there wherewithal to keep track of records than now span close to a hundred years ago. 

But there it was, an official Birth Certificate from the District of Provan in the Burgh of Glasgow for Isabella Samson Horne Park. Including the location of her parent's, George and Isabella, apartment on Cowlair's Road.

I never met my grandfather George, who my cousin Robert in Wales, suspects was "not a nice person." But I now know his occupation was listed as Engineer's Machineman.

From what little I know of my mother's roots, I think George might have been guilty of a little 'resume enhancement.'

She rarely talked about her family. Though often wrote airmail letters to her 5 remaining siblings back in wee bonnie Scotland. 

Isabella (later Isabell) and her sister Mary (who passed away at a very young age in a tragic Brooklyn fire) boarded the Queen Elizabeth II and came across the pond between 1952 and 1954. They were only 19 and 17 years old, respectively.

It was an incredibly brave and perhaps impulsive decision to pick up and go to the States. If not for that monumental decision I would not have won the lottery of life and you would not be reading this. And I would not be walking out the door to head up the street for my physical therapy session.

Ugh.

And in case you're wondering I AM applying for British citizenship. And then a passport. And should Trumpica continue down the path towards Germany (circa 1933) with its own Gazpacho Police, I will have an escape hatch. 

Preppers prep, Scottish Jews plan ahead.

The ADCs of Adrenochrome

 It's Thursday and I almost made it a week without mentioning Donnie Two Dolls, Pencils and the $400 million plane gifted to Precedent LumpyTits™ from our longstanding ally and paragon of free world democracy, the Qataris.

But as I was going over my list of possible R17 topics to address, I came across a cryptic reference to Adrenochrome. I suspect many of you don't know this as it stems from the 4th Ring of Ignorance in the deep abyss that is Red Hat World.

I'm happy to provide a primer. 

I don't recall where I came across reading the latest adrenochrome story. It might have been something related to Marjorie Taylor Greene or bacteria-loving RFK Jr. I've been in Palm Springs the last few days with the intention of relaxing.  But my short term rental had other ideas including a light fixture in the Master Bedroom that wasn't functioning at all. And my new automatic garage door opener that was functioning too much, going down and then up, ad infinitum.

Thank god for YouTube videos. And my growing ability to fix things -- a sure sign of aging.

Adrenochrome is a chemical compound produced by the oxidation of adrenalin. It was first brought to light by Aldous Huxley and brought to even greater light by Hunter S Thompson as a recreational drug that could produce fantastic hallucinations.

But all that pales in comparison to what Right Wing Nutjobs (a redundancy, I admit) who claim that Leftists, Radicals, and Democrats, "oh my", are hoarding the drug for their satanic purposes. Personally I don't know why Satan gets such a bad rap. he throws much better parties than St. Peter and the white robe crowd.

I suggest Adrenochrome took a long time to catch on because the folks who don the Red Hat are not fond spelling multisyllabic words, but that could be my cynicism talking.

What they can spell is PEDO, short for pedophiliacs. And it's their contention that the triumvirate of Leftists, Radicals, and Democrats, "oh my", are harvesting small children. Not only for sexual depravities but also to harvest the adrenaline found in the blood of these small kids.

Of course there's no evidence of any of this. In the same way there's no evidence of 'Massive and widespread election fraud in 2020' that gave us President Biden. Who I'm told prefers ice cream.

But here's the real kicker. All of this nonsense is related to an ancient canard that is as old as the Bible, at least the 2nd half. 

This takes us to the 5th Ring of Ignorance, the blood libel that Jews regularly round up small Christian children so they can drink their blood and have something other than bitter herbs for dipping their matzos. I can tell you from experience that never happened at our Passover Seders. That's not to say there wasn't any torture, there was the repeated washing of the hands, the endless baruchas and the reading of the 29 pages before The Festive Meal.

It all goes to show, and apologies to donut-loving Homer Simpson: "Jews, is there anything they can't be blamed for?"

The best part of the ad biz

When I was over-employed, meaning I was paid way too much money for coming up with silly slogans or cockamamie ideas to sell salad dressing, fizzy sugar water or computer printers, I would often be sent up to San Francisco. 

Just as an aside, in the digital age spanning from 1983-the present, no one has ever come up with a decent printer. 

EVER!

I loved my time up in SF, also btw, nobody but nobody says "Frisco.". This was before the keys to the city were handed over the homeless, sorry unhoused, and they commandeered the streets. 

I loved it because after a long day at BBDO/SF or the Saatchi office/SF, the creatives, fellow corporate pimps like myself, would regularly head down to Grumpy's -- which has recently been renovated.

This was a rare treat for me, and my then present partners Steve L. and Dennis L.

In Los Angeles, spread across 19 municipalities, border-like freeways and torturous driving times, there was never an afterwork meeting place, where one could get over served and share nightmarish shop talk. I was going to crack wise about the myopic Hewlett Packard clients, but discretion is the better part of valor. And besides I've already dunked on fucking printers.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N9wsjroVlu8

Last week, my buddy Greg Collins, who is enjoying some late stage Renaissance and cleaning up at international awards shows and might qualify for a Golden Qatari Jet, was in town for a visit. To mark the occasion and indulge in some "false camaraderie" (a loving term coined by other T1'er Matt Bogen), some old timey ad folks got together at the Cozy Inn, which is within walking distance to my house.

I wanted to go but at the last minute didn't want to go. I believe the readers of this blog are all too familiar with this scenario. And though my leather recliner, a fresh bottle of Bulleit and a promising night of Jeopardy --including 3 unwatched episodes-- beckoned, I put on my shoes and went.

And I'm glad I did.

"Have one beer, bro-hug some old fellow copywriters, put in your 30 minutes and head back to Carlson Park, where my Meth Head neighbor's dog will still be barking, " I told myself.

I ended up getting cozy at the Cozy Inn (a not too shabby dive bar) for more than 3 hours. And as my friend Mike Folino would say, "it was like My Favorite People Party."

It was all about catching up with former colleagues, soldiers in the marketing trenches. And though I didn't get to chat too long with Greg, the star of the evening who was working the room like a new bride, I never would have heard the end of it if I failed to show.

Also, I never get tired of hearing, "Holy Shit Rich, you're so skinny. What did you do with the other half of Rich Siegel?"

 
 

Who wants Rice?

I'm an old man. Or so the calendar tells me. With my new Titanium hip restored to its former glory, I don't feel like an old man. Nevertheless, I'm not going to give up the privileges of an old man, er, older man. And by that I mean pass up the opportunity to revel in the hazy glory of the past. 

Last week, whilst cleaning out a closet that has become the 8 foot vertical equivalent of a Junk Drawer I came across a relic, pictured above. Thanks to some very clever design, it's not what it appears to be. in fact, it's a book. 

I hope the following pictures will do it justice as I remove it from its sleeve and walk you through it. 

But first, a short preamble. In 2009, or sometime near there, I was freelancing at TBWA Chiat/Day and was asked to work on Uncle Ben's. The client wanted us to address and correct the always touchy subject of Ben, a black man and his relationship with the rice. As you might imagine, Uncle Ben carried some unpleasant racial overtones, see Aunt Jemima, Land O Lakes Butter, etc. And represented a challenge in a those more-enlightened times

Our solution: elevate Ben to be the CEO/Spokesperson of the company. I won't go into details, suffice it to say our efforts lasted two years and included the shooting and production of 10 commercials that never saw the light of day. We also designed/wrote and produced this elaborate Brand Book that we had passed around to the top executives at Mars. Uncle Ben's Rice, was and still is, a division of Mars.

I showed it to Ms. Muse last week, who in turn suggested I share it with my 9 loyal readers, including Tamarindo Todd.

With no further ado...

At this point let's take a breather. Because what follows is a book within a book, including many of the maxims that served as a guiding NorthStar for Ben. In reality, many of them were lines I had written in case we got lucky enough to do outdoor boards.

Followed by some more wiki-based rice trivia.

And finally, the back of the sleeve.

I don't know if ad agencies do this kind of thing anymore. But I am happy I had the opportunity. And the seemingly endless exorbitant freelance checks.