Serenity Now!

The Algorithm has a special bead on me. In addition to filling my social media feed with political content and monetary dysphobia it also peppers me with listicles like: 10 things that happen to men as they get older.

Nine of them didn't apply as I have lost weight, not gained weight. And my bone density is increasing due to my disciplined iron pumping. Though I no longer try to lift beyond my capabilities because I don't want to risk another hernia. And the sight of a racquetball-sized lump where my belt buckle should be.

However, as the author noted, my hearing has become annoyingly sensitive. Like the aliens in The Quiet Place, a surprisingly good movie. At least the first one was.

My Spidey Sense tells me that my superhuman aural capacity is because, like many other aging men, I need to have something to be peeved about. Think about it. I don't work. I live alone. I can come and go as I please. And the dishes can pile up in the sink for as long as I like. Or until I'm expecting a visit from Ms. Muse.

So, and not to be too trivial here, I am like the blind man whose senses have overcompensated. Thus, I can hear my neighbor's (heretofore known as Meth Head) angry Malinois barking from 300 yards away. It's true. 

I live in a Mayberry RFD type neighborhood, where almost every household has a dog: big dogs, little dogs, yappy dogs. I hear them all the time. None of them bother me. They go unnoticed  like the overhead jets approaching LAX and fly less than 10,000 feet above my head. 

But I can distinguish Meth Head's dog like an incessant Siren Song that sends my blood pressure higher than a live volcano.

You may think I'm exaggerating, but with the recent rumors that he and his loser brother may be leaving the house, I have made it a point to walk my dog -- who never barks -- on his street and chat up some of the neighbors. Turns out they too take issue with the abused old nag of a dog. One went on to call him, "The Cancer of the neighborhood." 

So yes, I've become a grumpy old man, but I'm not the only grumpy one in the vicinity.

While I eagerly await the moving truck pulling up on Motor Ave., there is some relief. In the form of The World's Finest Natural Ear Plugs. They're made of inert bee's wax. They feel like a stiff clay between your fingers. And once passed the prodigious ear hair, and pushed down as far as they can go, the outside world can become a distant memory.

As the packaging indicates, they're mighty. And mighty expensive. And, most importantly, mighty effective.

Good Night Meth Head.

Wrong about EVERYTHING

Little anecdotal history here. 

Prior to Hitler ascending to the throne, Jews were fairly assimilated into German culture. Their contributions and achievements in art, science, music and literature, were accepted and appreciated. Many even fought for Germany in WW1. Yes, there was a virulent strain of anti-semitism, but there always had been and will be. It was fairly common throughout Europe. But it was a minority opinion.

All that changed when Adolf teamed up with Joseph Goebbels and went about the task of scapegoating Jews for a poor post war economy, cultural rifts and the disastrous Versailles treaty. Together they used the tools of mass media and the bully pulpit to vilify Jews. It was heavy handed. It was omnipresent. And it was effective. So effective that Germans looked the other way when their neighbors started disappearing. And German humor, which was already notoriously a low level, became non-existent.

I catch a lot of flack for comparing our current fascist regime to the one that preceded it in the 20th century. And while Trump doesn't have his crosshairs on Jews (yet), only a fool could argue his methodologies are not the same. Indeed, more effective, amplified exponentially by social media to an audience that is a gazillion times dumber and more spiteful.

His focus, in direct contrast to anything he says on policy, is to erase history and sway a large swath of uninformed voters that -- and this is hilarious, but not in a funny way -- that "TRUMP WAS RIGHT ABOUT EVERYTHING!

Let's ignore the fact that he had this printed on hats. Or that he wears these stupid hats while sitting behind the Resolute Desk. Paging "Dignity, is there a Dignity in the house?" 

Or the incomprehensibility of him referring to himself in the 3rd Person. Who does that?

But let's NOT ignore these facts:

* Trump was wrong about the Central Park Five (DNA proved it)

* Trump was wrong about Obama being born in Kenya (Birth certificate verified)

* Trump was wrong about the election being rigged in 2016 (he won)

* Trump was wrong about winning the 2020 election (Bill Barr disproved it)

* Trump was wrong that Covid was Democratic hoax (A million plus corpses proved it wasn't)

* He was also wrong that is would disappear in two weeks (we have new strains rising today)

* He was wrong about the Mueller Report (there was plenty to convict him on Obstruction)

* Trump was wrong about producing the greatest economy (statistics prove that was a lie)

* Trump was wrong about Mexico paying for the big, beautiful Wall (they didn't) (nor did it get built)

Trump was wrong about solving the Ukraine crisis in a day, negotiating peace in the Middle East, about lowering the price of eggs, not cutting Medicaid for seniors, and tarriffs and so much more. He was even wrong on the handling of the Epstein Files.

I know Red Hats will contend these facts are not facts. But here's something they can't argue with. Upwards of 20+ women have filed affidavits about being sexually assaulted by Trump and/or Epstein. 

If these multiple corroborated accusations were false and had the effect of defaming Donald J. Trump, wouldn't he, the most litigious "man" on Earth, who has the levers of power in his tiny hands and a voracious team of sycophantic lawyers at his disposal, haul these women into court? 

I rest my case.

For our friend

Still reeling from the recent passing of my friend Kathy Hepinstall. Many of you know her as the ad industry's premier freelance writer. I hesitate to use the word copywriter because she did so much more, including 8 published books and a mountain of incredible poetry. 

She was inarguably in a league of her own. 

Those of you who don't know her, should. I'd start with The Book of Polly, "a hilarious, battle royal between a mother and daughter, where the weapon of choice is love," said one NY Times bestselling author.

The book was optioned by Hollywood. Don't know if the movie will get made, but it should. I'd cast Allison Janey as the chain-smoking southern mom, but that's just me. I also would have cast Kathy as the daughter. Not sure she could act, but I am sure she could do any damn thing she wanted. And do it better than anyone could imagine. 

She was, as many have noted, a force of nature.

Sadly my interactions with Kathy had trailed off in recent years. But there was a time I had the privilege of being in an exclusive text/mail chain with her, two other incredibly talented writers. And Neal Hughlett. (low hanging fruit, sorry Neal.)

As writers are wont to do, we often tried to outdo each other, with carefully crafted bon mots. Mostly lame attempts to keep up with Kathy. I can't share many of these as there is considerable dishing on the ad industry, various agencies and assorted ne'erdowells who merited the snarky gossip. 

But between moments of moroseness, I did fish out these e-mail exchanges that made me smile. Mostly because they're so singularly Kathy.

(Click on the screeen grabs to enlarge)

This was for a book signing party, which I probably didn't attend.

These type of events only serve to remind me of my own laziness

and the collective jealousy of Kathy.

That's some affirmation. 

As our mutual friend Bob Rice once put it: 

A Kathy Hepinstall stamp of approval, shit, 

just having her breathe in your general direction would send 

                                                                 sales go through the roof.

Finally, I solicited Kathy for some wisdom on

the completely fictional and 

self-deprecating comments for one of my books.

There are no words for moments like these. The irony is, if there were the right words, or soothing Texan maxims, Kathy would be the only one who could write them.

Kathy, you were so loved. And now you are so missed.

May your memory be a blessing. 

Where's Elon

Like so many in Trump's orbit, who pass by like a fleeting parade of pageant contestants displaying their goods, Elon Musk has disappeared. Just as America was falling in hate with him and his psychopathic-oligarch-in-training son, X19hg7889232788*%#@.

They seemed to have fallen off the face of the Earth. Which is a distinct possibility given the weirdo has his own fleet of space-bound rocket Ships.  

"Roger E., the tower has cleared you for takeoff for Uranus. Don't forget to go to the bathroom before entering the sleep chamber. Have a nice 139 year flight."

All this is not how I, or probably you, saw this unfolding after the very public and seemingly consequential feud that erupted a month ago between the world's richest dickhead and the world's most powerful douchebag. 

Particularly after Elon dropped the Epstein bombshell. 

But Americans, like our lazy, half assed "journalists", have the attention span that can best be measured in metaphorical Angstrom units. Either that or his Bible-thumping Neanderthal supporters don't really mind pedophilia. Or rich old men chasing teenage girls. As long as it's not their own daughters. 

Though in many cases I believe they wish it were theirs.

"Honey, I think we're moving out of the trailer park. Crystal here, is our Golden Ticket."

Epstein, sex trafficking, and mushroom-shaped phalluses are no longer on the front page. Neither are the threats of forming a 3rd political party. Or Trump ripping up the many space and defense contracts assigned to Musk, that could in his own words, "save America trillions and trillions of dollars." 

Know what's on the front page? 

This:

When all the Cheeto-dust has settled, there were no consequences for either man. And I use that word (man), lightly. Elon got a $29 BILLION bonus. And Trump, who never cared if America saw him as a deviant raper of teenage girls only cemented his reputation as a Lady's Man, albeit underage ladies, albeit children. 

In other words, we've been duped. It was all an elaborate contrived con. 

It's the same old story: The rich get richer and America gets poorer.

The Big Bag Theory on the Birth of Cornhole

I was advised not to write about this. I won't say who told me not "go there", but I think the answer will reveal itself shortly.

Last week I was taking my daily constitutional around Culver City with my beautiful Golden Retriever/German Shepherd mixed dog, Lucy. As I'm often told, "that is one beautiful dog." 

She invariably gets more attention than my incredibly clever anti-Trump T-Shirts. Though this one, which embraces brevity and eschews any subtlety, does garner quite a few head nods.

Unlike some of the less responsible pet owners in Los Angeles, I make it point to pick up my dog's business. On the rare occasion when I run out of plastic bags, I will dutifully return Lucy home, get a bag and retrace my steps to the post-digestive deposit. What I lack in literary judgment I more than make up for in integrity. Or so I like to think.

With Lucy's business in hand, I searched out the nearest trash can. It was of the round cylindrical variety with about a 6 inch circular hole at the top. As I gently flipped the bag to its rightful place, it landed on the rim of the hole, sat there for a split second, and then dropped out of sight into the can.

Some previously unconnected synapses in the scatological portion of my brain started emitting neurotransmitting chemicals. Then, aided in no small part aided by a THC microdose Petra mint, I had a brainfart -- I apologize for the juvenile references -- and thought, "I wonder if this is how the guy or girl who is now a billionaire and lounging on a tropical island, came up with the idea for the game Cornhole!"

You don't have to dwell on the graphic nature of this connection any longer, suffice it to say that's a completely plausible possibility. But let's move past the dog poop portion of this essay and get to the meat, sorry, of the matter.

How do things/ideas/inventions come about?

For instance, it has always troubled me, perhaps troubled is not the right word, how, and I'll assume it was a caveman or a cavewoman, came up with the notion that we should eat cooked beef. To my scant knowledge, no other animal on the planet does. 

So where did the notion of adding Fire to a flank of Bison come about?

Could a bolt of lightening have struck a stray cow on the plains of North Dakota or Siberia or the Serengeti where some early homonid watched as the poor bovine went up in flames. Then out of curiosity approached the freshly cooked carcass, carved off a slice of filet with a sharp rock, and thought, "Damn!!!" Which would eventually give way to string of Outback steakhouses and Applebees in every strip mall in America?

I wonder about these things. And as you might have guessed, many more.

Perhaps as Ms. Muse and one of my astute LinkedIn followers suggested recently, "you need to get a hobby."

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The T-shirt above as well as many others are available for at https://www.bonfire.com/store/the-trash-trump-treasure-chest/

Putting My Money Where My Mouth Is.

As of late I've been driving a new vehicle. I still have my Mustang Mach E, which as saved me hundreds of precious dollars that I would prefer not go to Big Oil. But I've also been driving the CostCo Bandwagon.

When the kids were small we used to shop there regularly. We and the 18 million other residents of West Los Angeles, trying to cram into a parking lot built for a Denny's. Not a stadium-sized warehouse with enough goods to sustain a decent sized Central American country. 

It was said, OK I'm saying it now, and with apologies to Jay Chiat, "Don't shop at CostCo on a Saturday unless you're prepared to leave on Sunday."

But now I'm back. Thanks in no small part to Precedent Shitgibbon. Who, despite his campaign promises, has done nothing to lower the price of groceries (a good word, no one uses it much, but it's a good word, grocer-i-e-s.) 

Also and perhaps more importantly, while many companies were bending the knee to appease our new fascist overlords, CostCo stood tall, taller than a wobbly tower of pallets bearing shrink-wrapped Kirkland Paper Towels. Unlike many institutions, I'm looking at you universities of higher education, they defied the MAGA mandate to disassemble their DEI programs.  

At one time we were the "Melting Pot" of the world. I know this hasn't occurred to 77 million easily conned voters, but we were also the wealthiest, most powerful nation on Earth. That's no coincidence. 

I could get all preachy here and point out that without 19th century social progress -- which didn't sport a catchy acronym -- the Irish and Italians and for that matter all Catholics, would have been turned away at the shores. And Jews would never have been allowed on a golf course. Maybe that's a bad example.

The point is $5 rotisserie chickens!

If you go to your local CostCo and head to the food preparation area in the back, you will find (and probably stand on a short line) deliciously marinated, perfectly seasoned whole chickens which have just come off the spit. Moreover, these juicy birds are twice the size of the game hens they call "chicken" at your local grocery store. 

There's enough high protein meat on the bone to feed a family of 12, assuming you haven't discovered Kirkland Brand Condoms. 

"Rich, you sound like you are sold on CostCo?"

How sold, you might also ask.

I recently contacted my new financial advisor to sink some of my precious Stay-Out-Of-A-Dirty-Nursing-Home-Funds into CostCo stock. I'm hoping you will do the same and pass it on. And pass the chicken, please.

Nasdaq: #COST

 

A stroll down Memory Lane (Wilshire Blvd.)

Yesterday, you might remember, OK, maybe only 9 of you will remember, I mentioned how I have been disconnected to today's ad world. With the exception of some straggler assignments for the prince of Saudi Arabia (which I am not allowed to talk about, but might anyway) I haven't done any work in the advertising field. 

Truth is, between the interweb scavenger hunts and the poorly attended experiential experiences -- for lack of a better word -- and the other FFDKK, Frivolous Fuckwadian Digital Knick Knacks™, I  don't have a clue how Omnicom, IPG, and WPP make a damn penny. 

This was discussed at length and with great mockery, at breakfast with the esteemed Jeff Gelberg, a fellow copywriter who has spent the last 35 or so odd years in the same three letter ad agency trenches as yours truly. 

As we gazed into the rear view mirror, we laughed and cried. OK, we didn't really cry, Jeff might have got some tabasco in his eyes. Somehow our reminiscing took us back to lugging around those big black leather portfolios.  Hoping to impress some cynical Creative Director with our misguided ambition and our juvenile wordplay.

For reasons unbeknownst to Jeff or to myself, we still have the laminated remnants of our youth. As we split the tab for our ridiculously expensive breakfast ($65) we hit upon the idea of showcasing these antiquities of a different and now deceased era. 

Jeff called it a crossover. Like they used to do in old network TV shows, which he details at rotationandbalance.blogspot.com You can also see a small sample of his forever hermetically-sealed in thermo-blasted plastics.

Here's some of the stuff I lugged around. Jeff gets points for better photography.

I've always loved the purity and concise nature of outdoor boards.

This meets the 7 word maximum rule. 

Not sure this would fly in today's woke/anti-woke world.

I still think it's funny.

When possible, I always looked for ways to demonstrate the product.

Plus, it was an ad for water without showing water.

A double page magazine spread. 

What's that, you say? Oh nevermind.

And finally, my very first outdoor board.

Not sure it ever ran or if it was spec.

It doesn't matter. In fact, as Jeff and I said,

none of it matters. Not sure it ever did.

The Candyman is Here

There's an old adage that says, "write what you know about."

Of course if I abided by that maxim, and considering how little I know, this blog would have ended 4 days after it started. I've been told I shouldn't engage in so much self-deprecation, but the irony is that's one of the few things I'm good at. Hence, it's something I know about.

I can't write about advertising because frankly I don't recognize the business in all its algorithmic machinations. Nor do I know any of the people in it. They're all Digital Worst and strangers to my analog ways. 

That leaves me fewer choices than a fat guy at an all-you-can-eat-dessert-bar five minutes before closing.

However the well is not completely dry. As I slip, or sometimes fall, into my senior stage, I'm finding a myriad of new experiences. For instance take the pill boxes pictured above. The round one belongs to Ms. Muse. It's one that her father left her.

The rectangular pill box on the left belongs to me. Until recently I had been a complete stranger to the notion of carrying a pill box. My father, though he passed at 57, a tragically young age for a man who can best be characterized as being strong as a bull with an equally fierce temperament, never owned a pill box. 

Or for that matter, any niceties of civilized life. 

If he needed to go out and wanted to keep a stash of aspirin or cancer pills, he'd stuff them in his trouser pocket. Probably the same one jangling around some subway tokens, loose change and a pack of matches. He never owned a lighter. Which would have been seriously mocked by his Bronx hoodlum friends.

Me? I'm a pillbox convert. 

In addition to looking cool and manly, it's incredibly utilitarian. I don't know about you and heartburn and the soothing relief that can only come from a Pepcid AC, but like the old American Express ads used to say, I never leave home without it. 

In addition to my chalky little angels, I also like to keep some Tylenol/Advil or even something of an industrial grade painkiller on hand. Because falls, tweaks or muscle pulls can, and often do happen. Even if I'm sleeping.  And finally there's room for my Petra microdose mints. These come in handy if I forget to refill the other pills and if I double up the dose, allow me to simply forget the heartburn of the creaky knee joints.

It also comes in handy at dinner parties where I can offer unsuspecting guests some needed digestive relief. "Can I offer you a Pepcid?" I'll say. And proceed to open my pocket-size buffet bar of medicinal desserts.

Not long ago I misplaced my handy dandy pill box. Thoughtfully, Ms. Muse tracked down the original artist in Sierra Madre who makes them, and bought me another one for Father's Day.

I'm going to do my best to hold onto this one, but the sad geriatric truth is I keep losing shit. That's another topic I know a little something about. Which could be another blog post. If I can remember I just said that.

What's the Deal with...

Had breakfast with my buddy and fellow copywriter J., the other day at the S&W Diner in Culver City. If you know the area at all you know that despite restaurants coming and going (mostly going), S&W has been around forever.

Formerly known as Sam & Woody's, for a long time it was a lesbian breakfast place. Can I say that? In the early 90's it was half the size it is now and it catered to an all female crowd. They expanded the place, and the clientele, into the abandoned place next store. Thankfully they left it ungentrified. They still only take cash. The waitresses still address you as "hun." And perhaps because I've been coming here so long, they don't mind when I take my ceramic cup over to the Joe station and help myself to a refill.

As old copywriters often do, we spoke of the earlier, headier, and stupidly ambitious old times.

J: Can you believe the stuff we used to sweat about?

Me: I'm schvitzing just thinking about schvitzing. 

I might have transposed the dialogue here, but if J wants to have the punchline, he can write his own blog piece.

The topic turned to the Worst Commercial we had ever made. Not an easy choice amongst the seemingly thousands of spots each of us had committed to celluloid. Prior to the digital age and the interwebs, copywriters produced dozens - sometimes more - spots every year. Having thought long and hard about and between bites of now overpriced eggs and sausage, J. knew exactly the spot he had in mind.

In fact he showed it to me on his handy dandy telecommunications device. I'll spare him the humiliation and withhold any clues. Mercifully, there was loud clanking of dishes from the busboy clearing the table, so I couldn't hear any of the dialogue or voiceover. I didn't need to. The limp visual gag of a man in a Ushanka hat was enough.

That was going to be hard to top. Or in these case, slide under. But my library of crap runs far and wide and deep.

Way back when, ABC asked us to brand Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday Nights as a viewing destination. This despite they had a lineup of shows that were 8, 931,457 light years from anything resembling funny. Most didn't last one year on the air. Hiller & Diller (remember that?) might have gone two.

We decided, perhaps because the budget was $20,000 for three finished spots, to shoot the three worst comedians we could find and produce three unbearably unfunny commercials. After 24 seconds of intentional banality the announcer would turn the corner with, "Looking for real funny, Tune into the ABC ______ Night of Hilarity."

Yeah, we lied. Ad people do that.

If I could find the spots on YouTube I'd gladly show them. One featured a morbidly obese comic wearing a full suit of different colored balloons. After he told a "joke" he'd pop a balloon with a long needle. 

I laugh now, but wasn't laughing then. When we showed the rough cuts to the brass, Jamie Tarses and Stu Bloomberg, who patiently sat through all 90 seconds. Then, coming for air, turned to us and said, "What the hell is this?"

Because they had nothing else, they decided -- reluctantly -- to use the campaign. But because it only aired on ABC, nobody ever saw the spots.

Comedy is NOT pretty.

Hot. Hot. Hot.

I have it on good authority that we, Americans, or people formerly known as Americans, live in the "HOTTEST" country.

Not the free-est country.

Not the healthiest country.

Not the happiest, or most educated, or even most livable country.

The HOTTEST!

That good authority, as you probably know by now, is a 79 year old man who still pictures himself in a leisure suit at Studio 54 with a knack for bedding the most beautiful women in NYC. Not because he's handsome. Or charming. But because he has millions of dollars. At least they think he does. If they had spoken with any executives from Deutsche Bank, they'd know he was drowning in red ink that goes deeper than Lake Baikal.

But by then it would be too late, and in just a few hours they'd be doing the walk of shame back to Chelsea. Or Staten Island.

The media gives this little attention, perhaps because we've become inured to his low rent behavior, his prurient way and his gobsmacking ignorance.

It's bad enough he brings his syphilitic antics to the White House, but there, behind the Resolute Desk, he also drags out his 5th grade knowledge of mathematics. 

"Drug prices are going to go down. Not 40%. Or 50%. Or 60%. Or 35%"

I love when he swings the hyperbole in the wrong direction. 

"No, you'll see price drops of 1400%. Maybe 1500%. Or 900%."

Uhhhh, Mr. President.

It doesn't work that way. In the same it doesn't add up when you fire the head of the Bureau of Labor and Statistics because you didn't like or agree with last month's job growth numbers. Frankly I'm surprised he didn't get her on the blower and...

"Come on, gimme a break. I just need you to increase the numbers by 11,780%"

And while the behavior of his little brain may disgust us, the consequences of what goes on with his allegedly larger brain have an impact on all of us. Most importantly, older people like myself who depend on the state of the stock market and the economy in general to ride out my golden years in relative comfort. Or at least not dining on soggy vegetable lasagna at a dirty nursing home.

Because here's the thing. Analysts, money movers, makers and shakers in the finance world base their predictions, their buys and sells, their confidence, their everything, on objective numbers that they can trust, that are put out by the BLS.

How do Red Hats not understand that?

We may be the HOTTEST country in this world. But my hope is he goes somewhere even hotter, where the heat is eternal.

Ice, Ice Baby

This is my new KT Ice Sleeve with Direct 360 degree cooling. Duh. Believe me I can tell when copywriters are looking to fancify things. 

It's a sleeve, of course it has 360 degree cooling. 

If I were to enhance the product, I'd add some numbers and call it the KT 9000 Mega Sleeve +. But that's just me. 

The fact is I love this thing. And it has loved me back. 

A couple of weeks ago, Ms. Muse and I attended a free concert in the park in downtown Sierra Madre. It was a lively band, not necessarily a good one. They were an 80's cover band. The Thin Ties? The Skinny Ties? The Thin Skinny Ties with the equally Thin Voices? 

I forgot. 

What I remember most was caving in to the illicit-vodka induced festive mood of the night and engaging in some retro 80 pogo dancing. Not a good idea for a 67 year old man, with two Titanium hips and two worn out knees which had been thoroughly abused by a 20th century daily running routine of 3 miles a day, rain or shine. 

I miss running in the rain. It's Los Angeles, so it's never really rains, it's more of a drizzle. Or,  a thick ocean mist.

In any case, the resultant pain was excruciating. And my leftover Oxycodone pills did nothing to relieve the torture that increased with every step. The thought of replacing more joints with fresher, newer, stronger parts is appealing but those epidural needles that deliver the anesthesia are not. So I contacted Dr. Google and discovered how nice it is to Ice. Not to be confused with ICE, deputized gestapo-like Proud Boys who love the opportunity to throw their excessive beer-belly weight around and show fealty to King "Caddy-Flip-Me-A-Ball."

At this point it should be noted that I have violated a pact I have agreed to which entails no discussions or references to any medical maladies. If you socialize with folks born before 1970, you know what I'm talking about. Even if you don't, it's everywhere. 

"My diverticulitis is acting up."

"It's either my allergies or my deviated septum. Or both."

"I think my uvula is swelling up, do you mind looking.....ahhhhh"

Maybe I shouldn't be saying this out loud. I'm sympathetic to those who have health issues. And I know I'm blessed not to have issues of my own. Generally. But I'm also blessed with the KT 9000 Mega Sleeve+. Though it does take a good two hours to reach a certain palliative temperature, which requires me to be in close proximity of a freezer.

Unless, I dip into my retirement savings and buy another.

Stay Tuned, really.

I don't follow "the trades" or anything really about the going ons in Hollywood. Never have, never will. My media-savvy daughters are much more attuned to pop culture than I'll ever be. You can imagine my surprise when a friend sent me this link last week.

You might not know this, but back in the late 80s, I collaborated with screenwriters (copywriters) Tom Parker and Jim Jennewein at the initial stages of creating an original movie. We had just published MADWEEK, a full length advertising trade parody magazine that opened the doors for three obscenely underemployed copywriters, and were determined to put our warped minds together on the next big thing. 

The next thing happened to be a movie script -- 'Stay Tuned.'

As we were all aficionados of Groove Tube, Kentucky Fried Movie and National Lampoon, a send-up of TV in the late 80's seemed like a good idea. We spent many evenings and weekends cracking each other up and putting words down on paper. Occasionally. One of us had a connection to an agent, and before too long, 'Stay Tuned' became the highest paid script ever purchased (at least in 1989).

Unfortunately, my father's passing right about then necessitated my departure from the project, but Tom and Jim took it to completion. The film was released in 1992 and starred John Ritter, Pam Dawber and Eugene Levy.

It was a manifestation of something we learned while doing MADWEEK -- "dreamers dream, doers do."

My friends Tom and Jim went on to write a shit ton more scripts and produced a boatload more movies. A stellar achievement in a cutthroat business. 

My short attention span and pugilistic manner would have been disastrous in Hollywood. The stories they would tell me about studio notes, rewrites and 'D Girls,' still make me shudder like a piece of errant tin foil that found its way into my chicken salad sandwich. 

Had a small taste of that years later, when I teamed up with Rob Schwartz and we were hired to write an episode of 'Mission Hill,' an animated show created by Josh Weinstein and Bill Oakley who were show runners on a little series called 'The Simpsons.' We both discovered that sitting in a writer's room til 2 AM, surrounded by stale Burger King onion rings and a bunch of Harvard Lampoon grads who hadn't showered since their Cambridge days, was not the dream we had once dreamt.

Ironically and perhaps fittingly, I didn't find true happiness and freedom in writing until I started this blog 16 years ago. It doesn't make any money, other than operating as a self promo for my long-dormant freelance copywriting days. 

I don't get 'notes' or rewrite requests, unless Ms. Muse spots a glaring typo or one of my many run-on sentences (yes, she copyedited this draft). And I get to do and write what I please. Some days I don't even feel obligated to summarize the piece with a snappy, funny ending.

Last month, Jim contacted me and shared the amazing news that 'Stay Tuned', which over the years had become a 'cult classic,' was in development at Hulu as a new series, with 'Book of Mormon' starts Josh Gad and Andrew Rannells both starring and attached as executive producers.  

I know with talent like Gad and Rannells behind it, 'Stay Tuned' the series will be big on snappy, funny endings — who knows, maybe they'll even plug Round Seventeen in one of the shows — and have as many episodes as 'The Simpsons!'

So long Dirty Nursing Home.