Danger Will Robinson

Last week, I was contacted by The Thought Police. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mmmm, friendly non-judgmental echo chamber.

Why we can't have Nice Things

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it gets worse. Much worse.

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

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

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

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

This makes my blood boil. 

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

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

Not doing so is how we got Trump!

 

Bill Maher revisited

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

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

WTF, people?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was howling with laughter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here's what I do remember.

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

Suffice to say, it was a magical night.

Deal!

I am a terrible negotiator. Always have been. 

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

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

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

One particular year, I did have the cards. 

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

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

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

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

That is, until recently.

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

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

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

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

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

Sucking vegetable lasagna through a straw!

Where's my tool belt

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A dream he started to pursue before the Big C.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No tariffs will be collected

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

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

Or irony.

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

Not to mention the countless reams of paper. 

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

That was then, this now. 

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

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

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

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

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

Protest, Part 2

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

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

"Hell no, I won't Go!"

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

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

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

"We fucked up and elected a malicious imbecile."

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

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

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

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

Similarly, moments later the chant the became:

"Impeach Trump, Impeach Trump..."

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

"Impale Trump, Impale Trump..."

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

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

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

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

That's a protest for another day.

#FuckTrump

So much winning

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

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

These days I have no interest in going there again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

COVFEFE!!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We're so fucked.

The art of slowing down

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

Time does that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pass the cardboard...er, matzo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To wit:

There it is, the makings of real holiday celebration.

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

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

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

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

 

Old Man Rant #739

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

I'm done. 

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

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

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

And that's being generous.

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

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

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

And usually begin with: "Social First."

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

It's all so fucking backwards.

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

Moreover, it's all CRAP.

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

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

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

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

I'd start with Talent First. 

All of a sudden the light switch went on

 

Inertia is the enemy. Particularly when it comes to home maintenance. Stucco cracks remain unpatched. Leaky faucets continue to leak. Or, since they're in bathrooms that no longer get used, water valves are shut off. 

And faulty light switches, which control overhead lights I never liked since installation are simply ignored. That is until now. 

With my new hip in place and my mobility currently at 85%, I decided it was time to unleash my inner Bob the Builder. Or in this case, my Rich the Rewirer. This is more than a passing fancy and is actually a necessity, as I plan to downsize myself out of this 2400 square foot abode, annoyingly adjacent to a white trash family of an 80+ year old mother, her two losers son (both in their 60's) and a Malinois Shepherd that has been barking non stop since 2015.

Last week I had an electrician come to the house to look at some fixtures that needed fixing. With his trusty Voltameter 9000+™ he discovered a couple of them were getting power. They just needed to have their custom halogen light bulbs replaced.

Two light switches however — like the Lutron DV-603P, my favorite from the vast Lutron collection — needed to be swapped out for new ones. An hour after he left the house, he sent me an estimate. He wanted more than $1500 to switch out two switches.

Pardon the pun, but that was shocking.

I'm no fan of tinkering with projects that are electrical in nature. But a long time ago, I did hang the massive light fixture in the dining room. And I have installed a garbage disposal. So I'm not exactly a rookie.

I've been zapped before and don't need to do that again. Especially at this advanced age. And because my body now encompasses several large pieces of titanium (hips.) Not sure if Titanium conducts electricity, but I am sure I don't want to find out.

So I put on my big boy pants, and dialed up a YouTube video. It all seemed so simple. And hardly worth shelling out two car payments. Again, for lights I never use, but potential renters might.

As any DIYer knows, reality is never as simple as a YouTube video. 

I found the appropriate breaker. Removed the faceplate. Undid the nuts holding the switch into the box. And found something that barely resembled the one in the video. There were three wires instead of two.

Nevertheless I persisted.

To make a long story short (a bad word choice for a post of this nature), I'll turn it over to my trusty iPhone.

It took me about an hour, including a trip to the local hardware store, manned by a grumpy guy who knows little about hardware and even less about service, to switch the switch. The toughest part was stripping the thick 14 gauge wire. Wirestripping, which requires a certain finesse and dexterity that don't suit my still-fat fingers, is not my strong suit.

But as you can see, I did it. And I'm exceedingly proud that I did it. More importantly, it all works.

I like to think I've done my part to dispelling the myth of the Unhandy Jewish Man, one DV-603P at a time.

QQ: Que paso?

 

Before there were regular folks strapping mini feminine napkins to their ears, before they were wearing Trumper Dumper diapers, or ugly gold plated sneakers adorned with all kinds of Trumphenalia, there was QAnon. 

Where'd did they go? Where are the Q-drops? Where are the Q flags, the Q T-shirts, and the super secret Q handshakes?

I ask this not because these low digit IQ people make for some quality grist for the mill. Any writer, even an unemployed ex-copywriter can make hay out brainwashed cultists who'd eat a shit sandwich if they thought it would hasten the return of JFK to be Trump's VP. Oh did you forget that nonsense?

I ask because I have a genuine interest in this.

For years I followed their tweets, their gatherings and their loony spokespeople, which included a sitting US Congresswoman from Georgia who I shall not name. Nor post a picture of her stoney mug. If I didn't know better, and if not for the apparent ability to grunt and breathe, I would swear the appendage above her neck was one big sedimentary boulder.

In the interest of "know thy enemy", I was familiar with the ramblings of 4 Chan. And 8 Chan. As well as the various insignia, particularly the antisemitic shit, that accompanied them from Portland, Maine, to Portland, Oregon. Spreading their tin foil horseshittery, whereever they found fertile ground -- Everywhere.

But since the not-quite-a-landslide victory on November 5th, 2024, there simply is no need for Q. Or QAnon. Or even MTG, who despite her ardent love for Dear Leader, was passed over for any cabinet positions. And has been eclipsed in the media by far more charismatic, albeit evil, characters. 

Or could it be that with our DOTUS, Dictator of The United States, safely ensconced in the White House, Q and QAnon had served its purpose and was no longer necessary? 

Far be it from me to give the "stable genius", who has apparently passed on his superior intellect to Barron, who can turn a laptop computer on in 5 minutes, too much credit, but could the Q phenomena have been a psyop by the psycho himself? 

Let's not forget in the early days, he would use alias names and personas, to laud himself in the media.

"Hey NY Post editorial desk, this is John Miller. I just met Donald J Trump at the Met, last night, that man is a real estate genius. And he's handsome too."

"Hey Wall Street Journal, this is David Dennison, I just made three million dollars on a real estate deal put together by a young upstart named Donald J. Trump. He's not only ambitious, he's handsome too."

"Hey National Enquirer, this is John Barron, I was at restaurant recently and overheard Marla Maples tell her friends that she just had the best sex ever with this guy Donald J. Trump. I hear he's quite handsome too."

My theory, and granted it's just a conspiracy theory about conspiracy theorists, is that Q has morphed. And fallen in line with a new leader. Forged by greed, ketamine and an insatiable lust for power. Perhaps the second most famous and dickish man in the world.

Apologies to Albert Einstein...

Q= EM + X

Pity Poor Pete

 

Ladies and gentleman, may I introduce our studly (at least in his amoeba-sized reptilian brain) Secretary of Defense, Peter J Hegseth. The J stands for Genius, like all of Trump's henchmen. 

And henchwomen. 

Some of you, those who haven't been living in a self-imposed news blackout, have become quite familiar with this frat boy turned media slut turned cabinet member Ryan Seacrest doppelgänger. Particularly following his recent WhiskeyLeaks debacle and including a journalist on what was supposed to be a Top Secret Classified briefing about war plans on Houthi Rebels.

Houthi Rebels, again for those unwilling to withstand the tsunami of horseshit coming out of today's news cycle, are Islamic militants residing in Yemen, just south of Saudi Arabia. They are Shiites aligned with Iran. Iran is aligned with Russia. And Russia is now aligned with America, which makes this all the more confusing.

"Mr. President, if I had beautiful hair like yours, I would fashion it the same way."

"Thank you so much, flattery will get you everywhere, Vlad."

"How about Ukraine," Putin replies.

They both laugh.

Instead of developing their country, building infrastructure and repairing their piss poor country (see so many other nations in the Fertile Crescent) the Houthis have been lobbing missiles at Israel and at US cargo ships passing through the Red Sea into the Gulf of Aden. 

Hence the saber rattling.

Even more confounding is how a journalist from The Atlantic, not exactly a right wing bullhorn for the current regime, was put on the exclusive call. If it were the Wall Street Journal, the Washington Times or even Joe Rogan, it might be more understandable. But this was a fuck-up of the highest order.

It would result in some serious egg on the face of the administration. Which is ironic since the billionaires and Dark MAGA oligarchs are the only Americans who can afford eggs. Still.

Despite the "major fuckup", thank you Pete Buttigieg for putting it so succinctly in the vernacular of the day, there's a good chance, Pistol Pete will go unscathed. 

That is not surprising.

What may surprise you is that I believe he deserves the benefit of the dumb...I mean doubt. And given a second chance.

And you'll know why after this brief trip in the Time Machine back to the halcyon days of this 2011 post: https://roundseventeen.blogspot.com/2011/06/funbaggate.html

Good luck Pete.

Brain salve

As you can see, from the walking stick in the lower left hand corner, I'm still convalescing from my recent hip replacement. It has not been easy. Perhaps as a MOSL, Man of Semi-Leisure, I expected it to be. But forced immobility is just not in my non-sedentary nature. 

As you can also see I've tried to make the most of my supine hours laying around the house by boning up on David Sedaris. Reading is an activity that also demands non-activity. And doesn't come naturally to me. Or my age-shortened attention span, which is best suited for Facebook Reels or glimpses of Trump Truth Social posts, which spike my blood pressure and delay my full recovery.

I had read Me Talk Pretty One Day, years ago. It's a great beach read. I know I had it stuffed in my luggage when taking many family vacations. But reading on the beach, between bouts of toddler tantrums, sunscreen application, Mojitos and the occasional dip in the water, is not the same as sitting in a recliner, sipping a small tumbler of bourbon and nursing a surgical gash that is 14 inches long (at least from my POV). 

It allowed me time to absorb the nuances of his writing. It allowed me to sit with the composition. And savor his flights of fancy and self deprecation. In other words, unlike my prior skimming, it stuck.

Noteworthy for me, because when it comes to artistic material, my memory is as limited as a discarded Zune. Ms. Muse and I will often talk about movies. Her catalogue is very different than mine. But her recollection of that catalogue is nothing short of astounding. She knows scenes, dialogue, and even specific shots. 

And don't get me started on lyrics to TV opening theme songs!

Similarly, I was talking with my friend Jim J. recently, who was currently eyeball deep into Zuckerman Unbound by Philip Roth. Here too, as in all literary discussions, I found myself woefully unequipped. I've read a few Philip Roth books. I read a couple of his books in college, when a certain co-ed persuaded me to join her and sign up for a class of Jewish American Literature. I wasn't pursuing a deeper understanding of Bellow, Malamud and Wiesel. I was pursuing something else.

Jim also has an encyclopedic memory of what he has read. And must read, as a Professor of Screenwriting at Fordham University. When I inquired about Zuckerman, he said:

"You read Portnoy's Complaint, right?"

And I had.

"Remember when Portnoy..."

That's where he lost me. 

I suppose I could've fumbled my way like a book report given by a 7th grader who hadn't read the book, but I demurred: "Yeah, I don't remember a thing."

Perhaps that's why I'm drawn to Sedaris. For one thing, his short stories are short. Not clogged up with a lot of purple prose. He can meander quite a bit, but each meandering brings up a new volley of observations and quips about his (our) frailties.

Most importantly, they're funny. Many a day I found myself laughing out loud. And no, that wasn't the oxycodone, which I have put away and replaced with industrial strength Tylenol. 

If you are unfamiliar with David Sedaris and need a laugh (who doesn't these days?" I suggest you start here. Pay special attention to his efforts to become a painter, his days as a mover in NYC, and his feeble attempts to learn French -- hence the title.

Also, if you get a chance, go to one of his readings. You might see me at the next one.

Feathers, basketball and collaborators

Weeks ago I started a new series here on R17. I call it Unresolved Thursdays. Wherein I would address some of the things, observations, zeitgeists/etc. that I simply can't get my feeble, and growing more feeble, mind around.

Today's Unresolved issues cannot wait until Thursday. They are pressing against my cranium like a GOP Alabama State Representative pushing a door open that has been clearly marked Pull.

The first issue is unavoidable. Mostly because I've been housebound for the past two weeks and my home seems to be invaded by down feathers. 

They're molting. I don't even know what molting means, but I'm told by folks more familiar with furniture stuffings and pillow fillings, that the feather or down or whatever it is, sprouts through the pinholes in the surrounding fabric in order to make room for new growth.

WTF?

That would make sense to me if the feather and/or down were still attached to the duck, quail, or other unspecified barnyard bird that was still flapping its wings. But they've long been separated from their host former poultry self. I assume they were inert. 

"This is a Dead Parrot feather."

Apparently feathers and or down (both pictured above) have an afterlife. And now insist on peacocking around my house like so many scattered shoes and half emptied coffee mugs. Moreover, these little white buggers are hard to gather up. Of course it would help if I kept my Dustbuster™ fully charged. Or even halfway charged.

Another reason for addressing these urgent unresolved issues is because we are smack dab in the middle of March Madness. There was a period when this was the most glorious, albeit borrowed, the most wonderful time of the year. Namely because my Syracuse Orangemen were participants and occasionally #1 or #2 seeds in the NCAA Tournament.

Years ago, my alma mater was considered the Beast of the East. They were to college basketball fans in NY what the New England Patriots were to football fans in Assachusettes...ooops, Massachusetts. Those glory days have faded. Now they are cellar dwellars. Doomed by the portal, the realignment of conferences and the understandable early egress of star players lured by millions of dollars. And the opportunity to start for the Lithuanian Lattkes.

Feathers and or down, may have an afterlife, but my once vaunted Syracuse Orange do not.

Last but certainly not least, in terms of relevance, the neurons in my skull fail, and continue, to connect. Not just on little things like, "what did I walk into the bathroom for?" But on the much more serious dilemma of the day -- why have so many smart Republicans been duped by, or remain blind to, an American President who is dismantling America before our own eyes.

If I had hair, I'd be pulling it out. After I cleaned up all the feathers and or down.

A few words on Adolescence

It's been 4 days since I watched the last scene in the Netflix mini-series, Adolescence, and I'm still rattled. Perhaps it's fitting, as I am writing this post on my oldest daughter's birthday. I cannot believe it's been 29 years since we brought little Wachie (Rachel) into this world.

I think of all the things we did right with her, but fittingly, in light of Adolescence, all the things I could've done better.

If you haven't seen the 4 part series, you must. 

Since most the readers of R17 are in or affiliated with the advertising/entertainment/production business, there's the impressive wizardry of making each episode a one-taker. That is, like the iconic nightclub scene from Goodfellas the camera follows the actors in one long continuous shot. If an actor flubs a line or misses a mark, it's for naught.

Some would argue it's nothing more than a technical feat, but in the case of Adolescence, it serves a purpose and immerses the audience into the material. This is particularly evident in Episode 3, which is nothing short of breathtaking. Mostly because it's driven primarily by two actors, a psychiatrist interviewing the 13 year old boy accused of stabbing a classmate.

One could say these are two thespians at the very top of their game. But one would also have to acknowledge that the 13 boy, who played by Owen Cooper, a rail thin, pasty boy, had never performed anything, anywhere else, before shooting this. 

Ira Glass famously said it takes 10,000 hours of practice before anyone can master their craft. In my case it's a significantly higher number. And even more elusive. Toying with funny letters to Internet Scammers is hardly moving the ball forward.

But young Owen seems to have mastered this acting thing. Maybe the filming of this epic show took more than 10,000 hours. Or maybe he's some kind of theatrical savant.

Finally, there's the material itself. Adolescence is a stinging indictment of free range internet parenting, misogyny, teen confusion, toxic masculinity, social (anti) media and the goddamn iPhone, which has become a monster unto itself.

I can't help but wonder what Steve Jobs would think about its effect, the good and the bad, on life. 

Adolescence is the most talked about show on the telly. 

And there's every reason why it should be.

A Smash from the past

 Today's post is a repost. I don't often do that, but sleep deprivation, due to the pharmaceuticals and my convalescence, doesn't go hand in hand with stellar writing. Which begs the question, "what are you doing here?"

 In any case, I fished out an old correspondence with a scammer trying to recruit me for the Illuminati, always one of my favorite series.

Just a little recap.

A week ago I tried to end my correspondence with Illuminati Recruiter/Scammer Michael John by telling him my wife Vajayjay Hertz (I laugh every time I write that) had left me and run off with a Nigerian man, Mantu Abraham.

Unwilling to let go, my scammer offered to get my wife back to me by hiring a private detective. That turn in the story was too good to ignore.

Of course he has important Illuminati affairs to tend to, so I can't put the whole burden on him and offer my own brand of assistance.

He assures me my efforts are unnecessary.
The payment however is necessary.

No so fast buddy, I'd like to know a little bit more about the private detective we're getting.

His focus on my money however remains laser-like, despite the non-sensical haberdashery.

And so it's time to throw another curveball at him. Vajayjay is on the move.

And that's where we are at. 

Will the schmatta factory in Gabon succeed?

Will $1200 be enough to cover the costs of the private detective?

Will the scammer ever realize he has been turned into the scammee?

Tune in next week.

The Reviews are in

Years ago (oh great another pining for the past) I toiled at one of the big ad agencies. At that time there were many. Now there are few. Complements of the bean counters and the ruthless, craftless mucky mucks who control the 5 Holding Companies.

(Holds hand to cup ear)

I'm being told there now only 3 Holding Companies.

Soon to be one: HackCo.

In any case, we were pitching another one of those brandless, shitty chain of motor lodges that line America's service roads, like so many discarded Slurpy cups. The name of the chain doesn't really matter. Just knowing you can lay your head down for a night for about 89 bucks was the best they have going for themselves.

You know the culprits:

Quality Comfort

Comfort Inn

Quality Inn

Days Inn

Econo Lodge

Upon mulling this over with my partner John Shirley and the many talented kids we had working for us, we decided that of all things we could be, CLEANEST would be the best.

It was a single minded platform that could distinguish our nameless brand from all the competitors, all of whom were in clear sight once exiting the highway at the intersection of Bland and Craptastic. Moreover our  Clean strategy played into a zeitgeist we're all familiar with.

If after pulling up to the red light following a grueling day of driving, and you have to choose between the 4 equally abysmal chain options on all sides, which one would you go opt for? I suggested, perhaps I did so with too much passion, that you would choose the brand that associated itself with CLEAN. I don't know about you, but I'm picky where I lay my head down to sleep.

Sadly, and this was a long time ago, I was answering to a clownish buffoon who had well exceeded his capabilities. He disagreed. In a slovenly manner.

"Where's the data to back you up?" he slurred.

I just went on gut instinct and didn't have data then. 

But I do now. 

For the past year I found myself in the Hospitality business and now have first hand knowledge of what people are looking for in temporary quarters. Here's a compilation photo of the reviews (all 5 Star, BTW) for my modest Airbnb in Palms Springs.

A full 50% of guests remarked on how clean the place is. And the other 50% implied it.

Is this conclusive evidence that our CLEAN campaign would have been better than what replaced it? A bullshit, say-everything-and-in-effect-say-nothing campaign about 52 cable channels, free parking and free paper clips for the traveling businessman or businesswoman? 

Hardly. 

But we didn't win account. And I'll take some validation anywhere I can get it.

"Advertising, huh?"

For people of a certain age, mine, there is a recurring scene which takes place at dinner parties, weddings and I suppose Bar/Bat Mitzvahs, I don't know because thankfully I haven't been to one in the last 13 years.

"Come on, kid speed up the 'blechen flonken ich bayt Yisrael. Let's get to the festive meal, " my inner voice moans.

But painful Jewish ritual celebrations that always seem to require some kind of multi-hour long penance before the eating and drinking can begin, is NOT the recurring scene I am referring to. Besides I can't do any better, or get even close, than Sal Maniscalo and his vicious takedown of Passover Seders, see it here.

No, what I'm referring to is the meeting of new people. And the inevitable...

"Oh, retired now? But you used to work in advertising. That sounds interesting."

Maybe it was interesting before. Not so much now. 

Despite their mission to gain your attention there's not much interesting about E-Mail Subject Lines.

Because they're seen ad infinitum by millions of people Doomscrolling, there's not much interesting about banner ads.

And in accordance with Best Practices and social media banalities, there's nothing interesting about ads which all must conform and use the same layout as well as the same exact typeface, Calibri, if I'm not mistaken.

"Is there anything I might have seen I might recognize?" my new friend might inquire. 

Yeah, no. 

For a few reasons. About 20 years ago I became a lot less focused on making stuff, anything that could possibly get produced. And started focusing on making my nut. That included stashing away small bundles of cash for any rainy days that may lie ahead. I type that while staring out the window at the microburst drifting over Culver City --wettest, in terms of water, I've ever seen.

As well as the imbecilic, political maelstrom that has swept over our once-great country

I made a lot of stuff in the 80's and 90's of the previous century. Anyone who might, on the off chance, remember that would have traveled around the sun as often as I have. I doubt you've seen I made back then in fact I'd bet you can't remember what you had for lunch yesterday. 

I know because I can't remember where I left my Prevagen™.

"Did you make funny commercials?"

I did make some funny commercials, some unintentionally funny. But none of the hundreds of commercials I wrote, helped develop, or had any part in, were never great. Not one. And most, in cringy hindsight, barely any good. Thankfully they committed to film in the pre-YouTube era.

That is my vocational regret. I have many other vocational regrets, but that's enough digital soul searching for one day.

"Excuse me, I'm going to the bar for another Evan Williams and soda."

Oh Canada

 I'd hate to accuse our stable genius President of not thinking things all the way through, but on the "Canadian Issue" it appears his actions are bordering (SWIDT?) on insanity.

In the past two months he has constantly demeaned outgoing Prime Minister Justin Trudeau by referring to him as governor. (more on that later)

Additionally, despite renegotiating and rewriting the NAFTA agreements (Google: USMCA) which served all North American nations well, just 5 years ago, he has launched an all out trade war against one of our largest trading partners, to the north.

"They're ripping us off, I tell you. They're treating us horribly." 

It should also be noted it's the nation on earth with the longest land mass border with our once-respectable country.

And, because cooler minds and friendship prevailed for so many years, it is a wide open border. There's no wall. There's very little in the way of guarded border locations. In fact, like the many bison, bears and honey badgers that cross over the imaginary line that separate our two nations, a wilderness-knowledgable man or woman could easily walk into the USA. Or out. And it would be made even easier, if they had a good pair of snowshoes.

But now these Canadians are our enemy. Or so says the crybaby president who whines as often as he breathes.

That's going to stop he adds. Threatening to tariff the fuck out of our neighbors and bleed them dry, until they beg for mercy. 

Here's where it really goes off the rails. As if it wasn't already off the rails and free falling down an inhospitable canyon of cragged rocks, pointy trees and the aforementioned bear, bison and badgers.

He also wants to draw Canada into this new circle of hell and make Canada the 51st state. Clearly he has eyes on their vast natural resources. And since America was built on the foundation of global resource extraction, he can't wait to get his tiny vulgarian hands on their oil, lumber and first world manufacturing facilities.

It's also clear that he believes he can bully them into submission.

Given Canadian's exceeding politeness, I don't believe these hearty people are going to tap out so easily. They eat wolverines for breakfast. Some do, I'm told.

But even if the 41 million Maple Heads (I don't have a good pejorative term for them, but I'm sure Captain Ouchie Foot and his toadie Elon are workshopping them right now) do take the plunge, there's the stone that has not been turned over yet by the crack, strategic Trump Team.

41 million people would make Canada, our newest state, the largest in the Union. In land mass as well as in electoral delegates. Moreover, since these folks, who have a much more liberal bent than even the crunchiest Vermonter, it's safe to assume Canada would lean BLUE. 

That would not just be fatal for GOP presidential aspirations, but congressional as well as judicial. That's two new senators and a boatload of House Representatives that would be coming our way.

And there's nothing our closeted Speaker of the House or his close personal friend Jesus, could do about it. 

The only way around would be to pay each of the former Canadians a huge sum of money, like $130,000 in return for doing something completely disgusting and repulsive. 

I guess that could work.