Open For Business

It's here. Finally the news you've all been waiting for. 

OK, some of you have been waiting for. Let's be honest, no one has been waiting for this, but I did it anyway. And like the publishing of my own books, 4 at last count, which nobody bothered to purchase, I don't expect this venture to make any money. Or defer my eventual trip to a dirty nursing home.

But hey, let's concentrate on the good stuff.

If you'll recall my post last Thursday was about my staggering inability to put together an online store in order to sell my fabulously popular anti-Trump T-shirts. The folks at CafePress made it easy to put together the Chinese-made sartorial splendor. But their American cohorts in the UX and UI departments made it impossible to figure out the mechanics of merchandising. 

And so I delayed. And bitched. And moaned.

Then last Friday, ex-Chiat legend Rick Boyko posted on Facebook that he had made his anti-Trump T-shirts available through a different platform -- Bonfire. I'll provide his link on this post later. 

It was as if Yahweh, the Almighty Lord himself, the Host of Hosts, were sending me divine assistance. And so I fired up a pot of my new Costa Rican coffee, logged into my new account at Bonfire and started plugging away. I had to retool some of my old designs since I was using an image of Captain Ouchie Foot's hair deck that I had Shanghaied from Shutterstock. 

So I created my own. And started building.

The process was simple, intuitive and, if I may, inspiring. So much so that I popped a couple of edibles and cranked out some new lines and designs. It wasn't until I put up the third T-shirt design that I realized I could forward the profit(s) --if there are any -- to the charity of my choice. 

I didn't have to think long and hard about that at all. When I do my walks in Culver City I always pass by the Village Well Bookstore at the corner of Culver & Duquesne. Without fail there are a bunch of crunchy kids there, fundraising for their crunchy causes: Amnesty International, Sierra Club, the ACLU and such. Because these kids can see and read my snarky, and sometimes vitriolic, T-shirts, they always think I'm going to be easy prey for the pitch. 

That, and they want to pet my dog Lucy. 

Truth is, I prefer to make my monetary donations to St. Jude's Children Hospital, which is not political in nature, and in my mind does more important work. 

Nevertheless, I decided on the ACLU, which I believe was founded by a bunch New Yorkers with distinctive Hebraic Seasonings, and does their diligence in the objective furtherance of justice. For both the left and the right. That's also important.

I hope you'll visit the site and have your credit card or PayPal (sing it Will Ferrell) ready and unleash your rage on the Worst. President. Ever. And more accurately, the Worst. "Human". Ever.

Visit Rick Boyko's store at: https://www.bonfire.com/no-dick-tators/

And head to the Trash Trump Treasure Chest at: https://www.bonfire.com/store/the-trash-trump-treasure-chest/

Where you'll find these new additions among others...

T-Shirt Derangement Syndrome

As my five or ten thousand friends and/or followers on Facebook know, there are days when I can go off on a tear of anti-Trump memes. Some have accused me of having the notorious TDS. 

That is ironic because if anything is deranged it would be supporting a man who declares war on another country based on gut feelings. Or claims to be a Dictator on Day One of his presidency. Or tells weird, winding stories about electric boats, man eating sharks and Hannibal Lecter. The list of his derangements could fill this page and a thousand others, but yeah, "They're eating the dogs, They're eating the cats, they're eating the pets of the people who live there."

Spare me the accusations of being deranged.

The other misconception is that I sit behind my computer and create these memes, and nothing but these memes, all day long. Nothing could be further from the truth. 

The reality is my prolific meme-making is a remnant of my former career as an advertising copywriter. Some might even say a good one. 

The process is strikingly similar. I'm presented with a brief, in this case, it doesn't come from some pretentious British blowhard, but from the News, CNN/MSNBC/NY Times, or closer to the truth, from videos of Captain Ouchie Foot speaking directly into a camera. 

He loves TV cameras. And those all-important ratings.

I stew on the situation. Let it rattle around in my oversized noggin which reduces the neck collar on every one of my T-shirts to a limp strip of bacon. And then, throughout the course of the day, lightning (OK, that may be hyperbolic) strikes and make with the funny. And sometimes not so funny. I rarely have control of the situation, It just happens and as long as my axons and dendrites are still functional, I will nurture the process.

Yesterday it manifested itself into a spoof of President George Bush -- another stable genius -- similarly prematurely claiming Mission Accomplished back in the halcyon days of 2003. Hence, I turned it into a T-shirt, which I will soon be wearing while taking my afternoon constitutional around Culver City.

I say this with as much modesty as I can muster, but people love these T-shirts. Whether I'm in CC or walking around Sierra Madre. Or attending the latest anti-Trump protest, including the last one that brought out 12 million equally "deranged" Americans. Folks stop me. They want pictures. They want to know where they can buy one.

I'd like to help them, but I can't. 

I make these shirts (for myself) on CafePress. There's a way to set up my own store on CafePress and even create a widget that I could attach to this very blog. But to say the process is confusing is an understatement. I like to think of myself as tech savvy, ish, but can't get past their "cleugy" interface. Even Ms. Muse, who is much more skilled with the 0's and 1's, couldn't make it work.

Who wants to come to my humble home and help? There's a bunch of free T-shirts in it for you. Including this new design...

The War on Melanin

Right now, as you are reading this, there is a 50+ year old man, let's call him Gabriel from Guatemala, who is hard at work refinishing my butcher block island counter in the kitchen. In hindsight, the counter should have been quartz or soapstone, but we ran out of money while doing the remodel close to 30 years ago.

Gabriel is one of the hardest working men I have ever met. The other day we had a complete conversation. He in his Half Spanish/Half English dialect and me in my Half English/Half Spanish intonations. 

The online Spanish classes I have been taking are already paying benefits. Though last week while at a local Peruvian restaurant I errantly ordered a shoe with red sauce and cheese.

He told me of his trek the USA, his father's drinking issues, his continual need to renew his working visa and most of all the travails involved in obtaining citizenship. Now, with Trump and his Red Hat brigade of Gazpacho Police it is impossible for him to travel to Guatemala to see his family of origin.

I'm no stranger to the citizenship bureaucracy as I am currently seeking dual legal status in the UK. It is a Gordian Knot of processes, paperwork, extraneous fees and waiting and waiting and waiting. 

If it's confusing for me, who is admittedly not the "smartest bulb in the package" (if I may borrow a phrase coined by our stable genius bomb dropping MFOTUS), imagine how difficult it must be for Gabriel, who often works two gigs in a day.

Gabriel mentioned how careful he must be as of late, with masked unidentified Proud Boys literally roaming the streets of Los Angeles and hauling off men bearing a trace of melanin. This potentially includes my nephew, who was adopted by my sister-in-law and her husband, while he was an infant. This young man is one of the brightest, kindest teenagers you will ever meet and has more humanity and potential than any of the lily white trash canvassing our city and playing GI Joe Douchebag. 

If my blood was boiling before it's now at temperatures only available on the surface of the sun or deep in the lava pools of a volcano ready to erupt. 

It bubbles up higher when chatting -- arguing -- with a know-nothing Red Hat who claims they can come to our country if they do it legally. Oh, like the caucasian crybabies from South Africa who got the red carpet treatment from President Fuckknuckle?

Also, I love the term "our country." 

Do these clueless 2nd Amendment Fetishists need to be reminded, it wasn't our country until some white privileged disgruntled 17th century seafarers stepped ashore, planted a flag and announced, "This is Mine Now!"

Followed by a wave of European immigrants (again very white and including my own) who, in order to become an American, had to take a shower to be de-liced, recite the Pledge of Allegiance, sign an X on a piece of paper and were handed a citizenship card which decades later turned into a MAGA hat.

We are no longer the "Bright Shining City on a Hill." 

We have become a "Shabby Strip Mall of Ignorant Conspicuous Consumers Ready to Clobber or Deport Any Person of Color Who Threatens to Take The Last 75 Inch Flat Screen TV On the Shelf."

We should all be ashamed.

  

Costcoooooooo

If you've never been to a CostCo, you don't know what you're missing. If you've never been to the Costco in Alhambra, you haven't been to a real CostCo.

Imagine stepping into the Tower of Babel and hearing 98% of all the languages spoken on Planet Earth. Then imagine you are surrounded by miles of aisles stocked with the usual 5 gallon bottle of Kirkland Vodka (which surprisingly tastes no different than Ketel One), 25 lbs. jugs of mayonnaise and two separate aisles devoted to Kombucha and Kombucha-adjacent beverages and hair care products.

Yesterday I spoke of my father's day gifts and how it was difficult to buy me a present because of my fortunate position to get what I want when I see it. I could have that 3 foot diameter wheel of Sharp Cheddar, another fine Kirkland product, but something else caught my eye.

Standing in the middle of all this conspicuous consumption was a guy named Sam who pitching something that looked like a cross between a Sleep Number Bed and a a pod that Sigourney Weaver strapped herself into to escape the Alien. I'm referring to the first Alien movie, not the 23 sequels and Alien Breakfast Cereal that followed.

While Sam was delivering his pitch to a young Hispanic man, I stealthily crawled into one of the open pods.

For your amusement, Ms. Muse snapped a shot of me while I was entering deep tissue massage nirvana. To wit...

 In hindsight we should have also captured a wider shot to show off the shiny chocolate brown shell, made of the unrecyclable fiberglass....well, whatever they make fiberglass from.

As Sam finished up his well-rehearsed pitch to the young man whose wife was pulling him away so they could score a deal on a bale of disposable diapers, he turned to me. And my hard-to-disguise O-face as the compression sleeves redistributed the blood in my veins and the swirly nubs made tsunami waves up and down my spine.

Make no mistake a 10 minute massage in the PodMaster 9000 is nothing like laying on a table in Antigua or Costa Rica and having an attractive young woman running her silky smooth, generously oiled hands over all my nooks and crannies. But damn that machine was to die for.

And when Sam showed me the 5 digit price tag for this puppy, I almost did. 

Happy Daddy

I am a hard person to buy gifts for. I've heard this for years. And apparently many other dads have heard the same thing. 

It's not that I don't have my interests: cycling, swimming, weightlifting, gardening, bourbon and barking dog silencing gadgets. It's just that I am of a certain age of non-delayed satisfaction. That is, if I want something I usually go out and buy it for myself with little or no hesitation. 

Going out is a misnomer. Why go out when I can, like some sort of King, order it from my desktop and have it brought to my doorstep by Amazon Prime.

This What-Should-We-Get-Dad for his Birthday or Father's Day or Hanukkah has plagued my daughters for years.  And quite possibly your children as well. 

But this year they outdid themselves. 

Having returned from a magical vacation with Ms. Muse and bludgeoning my daughter's ears with stories about the magnificence of Costa Rican coffee, you can imagine how happy I was to get this...

Four pounds of primo beans from the land greedy developers and over-builders forgot. If you haven't tasted coffee harvested from the "region of high, sharp peaked mountains where crops ripen evenly and produce a clean acidity and rich full bodied coffee", well then you just haven't had a great cup of Jose yet.

The astute among you may have also noticed the hand painted coffee mug, featuring Abby's rendition my dog Lucy. It's pretty damn close, but truth be told one of her ears is always standing up.

But wait there's more.

Since shedding a ton of weight -- I use that phrase figuratively -- my wearable wardrobe has significantly decreased. My closet is sparser than the bookshelves at Mara Lago, assuming they have any. 

When my uncle passed away in 2020, he left behind a bunch of clothes that were way too small for me. I disposed of most of them but held on to his very comfortable Eddie Bauer flannel shirts. In fact, one of them -- a Medium, no less -- has become my official MOSL (Man of Semi Leisure Everyday Shirt.)

You can imagine how delighted I was when, after a thorough search of Ebay and Etsy or both, I was gifted a second, identical shirt by my thoughtful kids.

A man can have everything, but never enough Eddie Bauer soft flannel long sleeve shirts.

I'm wearing it right now as I type this. 

But to be honest, I don't know which one!

Wednesday Walkabout Photos

As some of you might know, I have reduced my semi-prodigious output on this blog -- now in its 16th inglorious year of daily postings -- from 4 days a week to a manageable 3. This in accordance with my newfound status as an MOSL, a Man Of Semi Leisure.

Sadly, that meant excising the very popular Thursday Photo Funnies. Replaced by, well you know from the title of today's post. 

With my new Titanium hip in place and functioning at 98% levels (I'm choosing to ignore the creaking noise) I have been happily out and about. Last weekend for example, I managed an easy 10,000 steps. Fueled  in part by adrenaline and my searing hatred for our Merkin-Sporting Dictator. 

OK, preamble over, let's get to the photos and the pithy explanatory captions. 

Including the shot above of Habanero Salsa (I love spicy foods) and the refried black beans. Both purchased at La Flama, after a night of dining on Himalayan Food with my friends Paul and Deanna. 

"Best Black Beans you've ever tasted," says Paul. 

And I agree.

One of my favorite signs seen at the No Kings Protest.

Damn, it was good to be in the company of critical thinkers.

Here's Ms. Muse and friends sticking it to the man 

on the wild streets of downtown Pasadena.

The final repairs have been made to this (???). 

It fronts an apartment building on Culver Blvd.

With water spouting from the marlin's mouth, 

it is the height of 1960's Kitsch.

The recently bombed fertility clinic in Palm Springs.

Compliments of another Right Wing loony, 

who roam too many of our streets.

And what's a night out in PS 

without a visit to Showtunes Night at Quadz. 

A new cultural experience for me and Ms. Muse and her cousins.

Way, way east of PS, we biked by this new

development -- a massive 600 acre community, 

compliments of Mickey.

Is that the Pope?

Right here in Ventura?

No, but awfully close.

This was captured

on my home security camera about midnight.

My snarling (sound on) Trumpster neighbor and his gnarly barking dog, 

taking issue with the upside down flag hanging off

my front porch. What did I say

about Right Wing Loonies?

Long Live the Queen

This morning while you are having your non-fat soy latte, half calf/half decaf and maybe a breakfast burrito prepared by a young man or woman who may or may not, but probably not, be a member of MS 13, I will be deeply ensconced in the process of planning my escape from the Fourth Reich.

Let me back up and remind the casual R17 reader that I have begun the lengthy journey of establishing dual citizenship. 

For those who may be deceived by my distinctly Hebraic sounding name, I am not seeking an Israeli passport. Though my limited understanding is that I can easily obtain one, given my aqualine nose, my circumcised manhood and my eager willingness to eat creamed herring and chopped liver.

When the new Diaspora zigs, I plan on zagging.

Turns out I can get British citizenship by way of my mother, who was born in Glasgow, Scotland. In fact, according to one Mr. Google, my permanent standing with the Queen and United Kingdom was sealed, possibly under the Magna Carta. 

To that end I only to provide a copy of my Mother's birth certificate, my birth certificate which shows she is indeed my mother and a valid US passport. All of which I now have in hand. And I have been instructed by the British Consulate to bring everything for verification and an appointment with the Biometrics specialists.

It all sounds so official. And it should, seeing as they have nicked me for processing fees, double verification, and all manner of governmental bureaucracy that one might expect with such an official endeavor.

When all the boxes were ticked I was told to visit their Application Support Center. Ooooh, we're getting closer. Actually very close. Their office is on South La Brea, just eleven minutes away from my front doorstep. Or 4.3 miles as the unladend swallow flies.

I googled their address and expected to see a small office building. Surrounded by tall hedges. And maybe even guarded by purple velvet ropes and some bespoke Beefeaters, stoicly standing guard against all who haveth no business with the Queen. 

Instead, if you look at the picture above -- provided by Google Maps -- the place is in a strip mall. Next to a California Steak & Fries and a Walgreens. 

I wanted Pomp & Circumstance. 

I got Spicy Buffalo Chicken Sandwich & Metamucil. 

 

Thank You President Trump.

Good morning. It's Monday where you are. It's Thursday morning where I am currently scheming out my weekend plans. 

And with any luck I will be attending the No Kings Protest with Ms. Muse and thousands of other "Real Americans" fed up with the ascending fascism that is sweeping the country like so many overzealous masked ICE agents and misguided Marines. 

And with even more luck I will be enjoying toasted Everything bagels and lox as well as some tasty White Fish Salad, on Father's Day with my two vocationally-misguided daughters who have chosen a career in advertising.

If things don't go as planned, and one of my custom made T-shirts makes me a target for the Thought Police, both here in the digital world as well as the real one, please consider setting up a Go Fund Me to get yours truly out of Critical Thinking Jail.

These are indeed scary times we live in. 

Scarier even, for people like me who like to rock the boat and exercise my First Amendment Right that Red Hats say is so precious. Funny how these Constitutional-fetishists claim the Second Amendment -- the one that guarantees their right to play G.I. Joe -- is sacrosanct, but other parts, like Habeas Corpus and Posse Comitas, are outdated. 

And fluid. And can be ignored.

"Why are you using those foreign Latin words? You some kind of Mexican-lover? This is 'Merica, speak 'Merican, damnit, you radical commie!"

As I just stepped away from my sarcastic rhetorical persona, wherein I give voice to the dimwitted ugly Americans who support our Bleach Blonde Fake Bronzed Fuhrer, to refill my cup with coffee, I had a disturbing thought.

In the 10 years since this billionaire-asshat came down the gold-plated escalator, nothing in America under his nonstop cretinism, has improved. Literally nothing. And in fact, it can be safely argued that he made us all the worse. So much worse. In every aspect. 

Well, not one.

I now have two drawers full of anti-Trump T-shirts that I proudly made via CafePress. And each day, I take out a clean one before taking my 3 mile constitutional to downtown Culver City. I like to think they're funny. And I like think they're smart, meaning I don't engage in spoon-fed or broad humor. You can safely argue they're neither. 

But the man or woman on the street says otherwise. In fact, I love strangers stopping me and dishing out the compliments. Or requesting photographs. But I like it even better when they don't. 

They walk by and I can hear one person say to the other...

"Didya see that guy's T-shirt? It said..."

There's a BEAT. 

And then they both start laughing. Often out loud. That is worth its weight in gold. 

Hark, I hear a harkening.

This is my second consecutive post about advertising. I don't write much about advertising these days. Mostly because I just don't care. And neither do the folks in M&A, who have no background in ads, the making ads, the effectiveness of ads or even the culture of ads. 

They do however have a knack for money; the hoarding of it. (two posts about the industry and a semicolon!)

Sadly, their money grubbing comes at the expense of the folks who actually do the ads. 

That's why when I heard of the vocational demise of Mark Read, CEO, or some other bloated title, at Ogilvy, I knew I'd have to write about it. Mostly because I knew my friend and fellow blogger George Tannenbaum would be writing about it. I also knew I could scoop him because he had turned this week's Ad Aged blog over to guests (fellow serfs) toiling in the biz.

George has a personal beef with Mr. Read and has taken him to task over his infamous claim that the failure of modern day advertising is that it "harkens back to the 80's and 90's."

Ouch, a stinging indictment. 

It just so happens that was also the golden age of idea-driven advertising and brand stewardship. Hence the image above -- it's a Winch -- seemed most appropriate. Winches work, CEO's (by and large) don't.

I'm not sure Mr. Read, like his predecessor Sir Martin Sorrell, both greedy wankers, ever made an ad or had a hand in making an ad in all his life. For all I know Mark too may have had a prodigious background in Wire. Or Paper. Or Plastics. 

Or Bloviation.

But that never stopped either from pontificating, and profiting, obscenely, from those that do. Or did. 

I never worked for Ogilvy. 

Which is odd in itself, because after a lifetime of office jumping at big agencies, and then desk jumping at the Long Table Of Mediocrity™ as a freelancer for close to two decades, I've worked at almost every other major ad agency on the planet. 

Keep in mind this was years ago. Today there are but two or three major ad agencies left standing. And as George has repeatedly pointed out they are --after the hedge fund managers and vulture capitalists picked at it -- an unrecognizable carcass with little or no flesh on the bone.

Like George I have a lasting distaste for advertising CEOs. The target of my personal disdain shall remain nameless. Fact is, I never referred to him by name but always by the name of a cocktail that sounded so  fittingly similar.

I'll burn that bridge when I get to it.

Good night, Mr. Crawford

Heard through the advertising grapevine that one of my advertising colleagues has just passed away. Not sure if colleague is the correct word. He was a director/radio pioneer/and provocateur and we hired him to direct a campaign for the Nissan Dealers of Southern California. 

Way back in the last century. When I had hair. And not in my ears.

Unless you're older than me or a longtime resident of the San Francisco area, chances are you've never heard of John Crawford. And chances are you never will. My understanding is he was a very private individual. His digital footprint is non existent. I know, I looked.

He came to my attention back in 1991. He was Billy on the Street long before Billy Eichner was a glint in father's oysters. John was a great improvisor. And would turn regular pedestrian interviews into comedy gold.

We brought John and his run-and-gun crew of videographers (that's right, we shot the whole campaign about 6-8 spots on Beta) to interview business owners in Southern California who might be suffering the adverse effects of the Big Nissan Sales Event, that we posited was drawing millions of people to the dealerships. 

It was winter -- you know, as winter goes in SoCal -- and we went to an ice cream store.

John: "Seems kind of slow in here, how are sales?"

Pimply Faced Ice Cream Scooper: "Uh, not good."

John: "Could be every body is visiting a Nissan dealer. With $1500 cash back on a new Maxima, can you blame them?"

Scooper: "Uh, Ok, yeah."

It may not seem so funny on paper, but the authentic responses and the cutaways to the running footage of the cars, made for some award winning work. OK, they were Belding awards, but so what.

The best of the bunch involved a guy who was selling his used car from a lot in Venice Beach. We lingered on the For Sale sign in the window and called him on the phone.

"Hi, I'm interested in your 1973 Buick Riviera. Is it still for sale?"

"Dude, it's been for sale for three months."

"No one's biting huh?"

"I suppose if it had a backseat they might."

"Could also be because Nissan is having a huge sale. Air conditioning is standard on the Sentra. Does your car have air conditioning?"

"If you open the windows. The passenger side window is kinda stuck."

We had hours and hours of this hilarious happy hands-at-home kind of footage. And John, being the consummate pro, helped us pick out the best pieces and shorten time (for 30 seconds spots) with some clever intercutting. This was all when advertising was fun.

In the end we had Dealer spots unlike anything, anywhere. 

In your face Jan (Toyotathon). 

Thank you John. And Rest in Peace.

I can fix that

A few weeks ago, Ms. Muse came by after she had put in a full day working at USC. 

My Culver City house is about 5 miles directly west of the campus, the equivalent of a one hour drive in Los Angeles. Nevertheless she came by because it gives us enough time to bike down the Ballona Creek Path, see the ocean, and still get back before darkness sets in and the Mar Vista Gang kids reclaim their territory.

As we were returning home and navigating the broken cement path I heard a distressing POP! Sure enough, that sound was followed by an unmistakable hissing. Followed by...

"Awww, fuck!"

Flat tires on a road bike are never fun. Flat tires on a road bike made in the 2020's, with all the electronics, hydraulics, paper thin rims and Gator Skin tires that seem to be hermitically sealed with Gorilla glue, are even less fun. 

As we were only 2 miles from my house, I debated walking the rest of the way home. Then the testosterone kicked in.

I checked my handy dandy under-the-seat bag and found I had two tubes, a CO2 cartridge and the heavy duty plastic forceps needed to separate the tire from the rim. 

Long story, mercifully shortened, after a couple stops and starts, I was able to get the bike up and running again. And it got me thinking.

Because as of late I've been doing a lot of repairs, that have long been unattended, around the house. Around my vacation rental. And even some at the house of Ms. Muse. 

I didn't take any courses in Gerontology while going to Syracuse University, but I'm of the belief that this current fascination is not uncommon among men of a certain age -- mine. In fact, if I can indulge in a little introspection, I believe it's tied to youthful vitality. 

Like the old guy who can't stand the idea of his car keys being taken away, I'm holding on for dear life. Holding onto my resourcefulness. My independence. And my stubborn belief that I can fix this or that or the other thing. Despite my mechanical disinclination. My sore back. And my girthy fingers, which make it impossible to work an Allen Wrench in tight places.

To be frank, there's something very satisfying about having the wherewithal and the determination, to successfully complete a task. I would expound on this but there's a knock at my door. It's the appliance repairman to replace the failing burner ignition whoseywahatsits on my obscenely expensive Wolf Gourmet Range.

An old, older, man has to know his limits. 

  

Attica, Attica, Attica

On Tuesday I was released from Facebook jail. It had been ten days since I was booted off the platform. For unknown reasons. And while I like to think Facebook friends were agog about my sudden disappearance, I'm 67 years old and now know the world does not revolve around me or my never ending stream of Trump meme's.

The fact is, the detox did me good. In the same way my waterlogged iPhone did me good while on a recent vacation in Costa Rica. If you haven't watched the Social Dilemma, a documentary about the deleterious effects of social media, I suggest you bump that up on your To View list.

While pacing the cell of Facebook Jail, I was also looking at another possible indictment from the good folks on LinkedIn. I awoke Monday morning and found a plethora of notifications from their Thought Patrol. 

Either some disgruntled Red Hat who I had checkmated with facts and logic had reported me or their increasing use of AI to hunt down violators of the their very fluid Community Standards had been scraping my posts and comments. 

Sometimes from many years back.

You can call me delusional or paranoid or an egotistical combination of both, but it appears I've attracted undue attention due to my anti-Trump fervor. Which isn't all that surprising given his agenda is now fueled by his puppeteer billionaire technocrats running this Matrix-like arena; I'm looking at you Bezos, Zuckerberg, Thiel, Garvin and the KetaMusk.

You might be wondering, as I was, what triggered the Facebook incarceration. I know I was. 

The last post I remember was a stock photo of toe tagged cadaver. It was close cropped on the feet. And the tag was completely blank. Moreover, I simply posted the photo with no words or captions. I left the interpretation solely up to my astute Facebook friends, who did not disappoint.

Odd that this would trigger such a harsh response, particularly considering that on their sister platform, Instagram, you can search for toe tags and find hundreds of corpse postings of a similar (sometimes much more gruesome) nature.

I won't belabor the point, suffice it to say, I will be more careful. And I will think twice about what and where I spew my anti-Trump vitriol. I suppose this is a good time to quote Mark Twain who famously said, "I would have written a shorter letter if I had more time."

I'll also be taking this opportunity to reduce my RoundSeventeen output from 4 days a week to 3. 

My British dual citizenship cannot come fast enough.

 

Math 101

2 + 2 = ?

You might have seen our stable genius president claiming that incoming students at Harvard University, where young Barron will NOT be continuing his higher education, cannot answer this simple equation of arithmetic.  

Of course that's a ridiculous statement. Expelled from the mouth of man who makes nothing but ridiculous statements (lies) to make his nonsensical point. Whether it's about colleges, trophy wives, electrical boats, man eating sharks, Hannibal Lecter, or most ironically 'acing his Cognitive Test.'

But, like it or not, it sticks. 

If I may use the vernacular of the day, he's putting out fresh red meat for his carnivorous Red Hat base, who can no longer hunt for themselves (see critical thinking) and depend on his firehose distribution of bullcockery on an hourly basis.

Harvard is NOT teaching remedial math. 

According to James Chisholm, spokesperson for the university's Faculty of Arts and Sciences, they do offer Math MA5, a college level calculus class designed to reinforce algebraic background necessary for the successful completion of required Calculus course.

Excuse me for nerding out, but this is kind of dear to my heart. I was a Math Minor in college. I still have a slew of Math textbooks gathering dust in my garage. 

Let's take a trip back to high school, shall we. 

Most students take algebra in 8th or 9th grade. It is difficult, to say the least, because it involves a whole new language. Whereas before young minds had to navigate numbers, now thanks to the Greeks who herded sheep 4000 years ago, students had to learn add, subtract, multiply and divide numbers and letters.

Algebra, was then followed by Geometry and Trigonometry. Most students don't go beyond this. And high schools of lesser rigor don't even require a journey this far. BTW, it seems like a good time to mention that the most recent undergraduate class at Harvard had a Math SAT score of 790. 

I had a 660 and my parents dreamt of my future career as an engineer. Or a physicist. Instead, I played with words and wrote crappy ads about fizzy sugar water, computer printers and Chinese-made sneakers.

But here's the thing, collegiate Math level courses are HARD. Incredibly hard. I look at some of the stuff I knew back then and scratch my now bald head, "How did I do that?" and "What's this fascination with parabolas?"

The answer, and it's clear why the President doesn't get this, is it takes hard work. And consistency. Miss a class or a day or a week of Math classes and you will fall far, far behind. I know from the two classes I had to repeat for credit. 

Given that most college freshmen and freshwomen, haven't taken algebra for 3-4 years, since high school, it is completely understandable why they would need to refresh those skills in order to tackle Calculus 1.

Of course Trump doesn't understand this. He doesn't understand that if a shark is within ten foot of a electric powered vehicle submerged in highly charged water he too would be electrocuted. 

Also, just because, I love this: 

Person Woman Man Camera TV

Red Hats. Republicans. Regressives.

More out of habit, or perhaps keyboard muscle memory, I clicked on the CNN webpage. I know it's fashionable for Red Hats to accuse Trump contrarians like myself of getting their information from unreliable or, gasp, FAKE, news sources, but frankly never understood the charge.

They get their news from OAN, NewsMax and Epoch Times, hardly Pulitzer-worthy institutions. And it seems noteworthy to mention that Fox News paid close to a billion dollars for disseminating outright falsehoods.

Back to CNN, where the click bait-y article above, caught my attention. I could not read the article, because I refuse to sign up for their subscription services. On this particular topic, I do not need proof of the R-word's resurgence. I see it everyday on social media.

That is, I saw it everyday, until my recent booting off Facebook. Not for nothing, but every time I reported it, the offensive language went unpunished. 

"We know this is not the outcome you wanted to see but our professionals have determined this does not violate any of our precious Community Standards. Your shit however does and your days are numbered on this treasured platform."

I'm not surprised people --and by that I mean people on the right -- are slinging pejoratives like this around. I'm convinced that was the magic behind Trump's return to the White House. He has lowered the bar on public discourse and his insanity has given permission for low information Americans to revisit their old ugly habits and their long history of "othering."

Joe Rogan, Host of America's Most Neanderthal Podcast, proudly had this to say, "The word 'retarded' is back, and it's one of the great cultural victories." 

He, like so many of his uninformed listeners/viewers are intoxicated with Male Toxicity. Compensating for their deficiencies by punching down and picking on people who are least able to defend themselves. Go ahead, pound yourself on the chest Joe, like your not-too-distant simian relatives.

Less than 20 years ago, our better halves prevailed. We elected an African American for president. We expanded healthcare for people who could not afford it. We granted full rights, including the right to get married, to gay people. We decriminalized marijuana. We advanced social progress.

It's was if we as a people recognized that we as families include people of color, people less fortunate, people of varying sexual preferences, and yes, even people of limited cognitive abilities. It's almost as if we came to understand the pain inflicted on them, was pain inflicted on us.

Well, almost. The pendulum has swung backwards.

If permission to use the R-word (and by proxy, the N-word, the C-word) represents a cultural victory, I proudly choose to align myself with the losing side. 

 

 

 

Until the other shoe drops

Freedom of Speech is a funny thing. 

That is, I can show you the photo above of a naked left foot. And although it may trigger some prurient thoughts for those given to feet, it is by and large an innocent image that would run me into zero trouble with today's right wing book burners and delusional Trumpophiles.

If, however, I were to show you the remainder of the photo, including the right foot, sporting a toe tag, lovingly attached by an honorable member of the funeral services industry or a coroner, that could land me in some serious hot water.

So hot, that I could be removed from the Facebook platform with no recourse or opportunity to plead my case. Or, in this instance even know what the case is. They have provided no details. Only that I've been banned. And unless the Review Board, responsible for upholding the strict Community Standards of Facebook, reverses the case, permanently banned.

That's exactly what happened to me several days ago. 

Given my outsized sense of justice, a trait I share with Ms. Muse, I have decided not to remain silent on this. Mostly because this puts us all on a slippery slope to authoritarianism that seems to be getting more slippery by the hour.

You see, I know for a fact the folks at Meta don't take issue with toe tags or even grisly photos taken in the morgue. How do I know that? Because a simple search on Instagram (a Meta company) revealed the following:

(I have removed the photo showing the many photos that are similar, if not identical to mine, for fear of troubling the LI Thought Patrol)

If my Toe Tag cadaver violates Community Standards, why then are these photos, which are very visible and more upsetting, still posted on their platform?

In my mind I've just executed a perfect Perry Mason Gotcha moment. If I were a lawyer I'd rest my case with a declarative slamming shut of my expensive briefcase.

One can only deduce that my photo -- again posted with no caption, commentary or clues -- was not  offending the Community Standards. It was the commentary that followed. Many of which were of a raw nature. Many were political. And many were similar to the sentiment expressed here, in a meme which had been widely floated on the interwebs...

Keep in mind, I just posted a photo of a tagged foot. 

I didn't say who it belonged to. Or even suggest who I might have hoped it belonged to. And yet, I am being held responsible for the statements and sentiments of others, by the Corporate Thought Police who now find themselves in bed with the most disastrous President/Traitor in American History. 

The implications are frightening. 

Imagine if everything you posted and all the comments it generated were subject to the apparent whims of state-appointed political hacks. Especially fascist ones sporting Red Hats.

That said, the only conclusion I can draw is that I wasn't being banned for that individual photo but for the totality of my fervent anti-Trump stance. IOW, Zuck is bending the knee to FFOTUS, Felonious Fascist Of The United States of America.

Not to get all grandiose, this would be my second Perry Mason moment. Damn, I should have been a lawyer.

With apologies to Pastor Martin Niemoller:

First they came for the smart ass ex-copywriters, 

And I did not speak out