Money, money, money...money.

 

Feel that? A sharp cold wind that slaps you across the face and says, "wake up, pat your pants, your damn wallet is gone." 

You didn't leave it at home. 

Some fucker, who hasn't done a day's worth of honest work in his miserable life, has picked it clean. And while you scurry around and cast a suspicious eye on anybody in the vicinity, he's already set his vulturous eyes on your portfolio and the Social Security contributions you've made since your first job, hand delivering newspapers in the neighborhood.

I don't think I need to say the name of this thick-headed thief, suffice it to say to say that 77 million Americans see virtue, leadership and character in him, while the remainder of Earth's population (all 8 billion of us) see a feckless, narcissistic, pedophile who is plundering the planet for his own insatiable greed.

"We need to have Greenland."

"Canada should be ours too."

"I'll just take the Iranian oil."

The latest scam, which will be forgotten by Friday, revolves around his $10 Billion lawsuit against the government of the United States of America. He was literally suing the same people that voted him into office and who go about their day looking for an opportunity to pound their flabby chests and shout "USA,USA,USA." 

Just for the record, $10 billion is 25,000 times the meager $400,000 presidential salary he so graciously decided to "donate" back to the American people. If I got a 25,000X return on any of my investments you can be sure I would not be writing this blog and would be lounging on the deck of a Tahitian bungalow that sits over the water.

The mind boggles.

But it gets worse. Much worse.

Because his lawsuit was specifically aimed at the IRS. And had he proceeded, he would've had to divulge certain personal financial documents that have been cooked by a staff of accountants who are on call 24 hours a day. 

So he shrewdly dropped the lawsuit and made an agreement with his own DOJ, who used to work for the citizens of this country but are now a wholly owned subsidiary of Vandalize Industries, LLC.

That agreement, the one that has spiked my blood pressure this morning, includes the establishment of a $1.8 Billion Dollar Slush Fund, chaired by a commission of Mara Lago loyalist miscreants, who will use the dough to settle cases of "patriots" (Proud Boys, Oathkeepers, 3% 'ers, and other Neo-Nazi  fringe groups) who feel they've been persecuted by the US Government. 

So the folks who sold you Elon Musk and his sham mission to eliminate fraud, waste and abuse, are now abusing our intelligence and counting on us not to see this blatant flim-flamming financial end around. 

If it weren't so criminal, it'd be funny.

But it's not, it's fucking criminal!!!

The Very Big Apple

I thought it would be a good idea to follow up yesterday's post about my NYC trip with a Thursday Photo Funnies, which is not very dogmatic about its name and can appear at any time. This seemed like a good time because my short term memory is as wayward as the 37 hairs on Trump's head.

Beginning with the photo above, of Abby and I face-timing with Rachel, my oldest daughter and the newest resident of Venice, CA. That's us on the rooftop deck of Cartel Editing near Chinatown.

On to the pics.

NYC is the gift that keeps giving,

with something new, odd or funny to see at every turn.

Oh, we're just getting started.

During my 23 miles of walking, my shoelaces need to be tied.

As I leaned my foot up on a ledge, 

I spotted a dead pidgeon stuffed in a planter.

I also had to visit 51 restaurant bathrooms. 

Where they take the TP placement seriously.

This one was, by far, my fave.

Also saw stuff that defied description,

but made a good palate for the 8 million

residents who all have something to say or show.

This was spotted at McCarren Park. 

Bad Juju is a phrase often used by my old partner John Shirley.

This was also in the park: Young hipsters dressed 

in wigs and old lady clothing.

Okay, then.

And of course, there's the unrivaled beauty

of NYC.

The famed Jenga building, which I know Ms. Muse will appreciate.

The lake in Central Park.

The view from my hotel room in Williamsburg.

And finally, there's this. A replica of New York City, built

over the course of 21 years, all to scale, all amazingly accurate.

I was even able to spot the Electcheter Towers where we lived

on the 22nd story of a 23 story building. And where, in 1967, all the kids gathered on the rooftop,

where we could hear the Beatles playing and the girls screaming

more than 3 miles away. 

New York City, just like I pictured it

Took a well-deserved but long overdue trip to New York City. 

It was not only a chance to spend some quality time with my youngest daughter Abby, who works as Producer at Cartel Editing, it was an opportunity to escape the political nightmare that has become the fetid zeitgeist of our age.

It had been 10 years since I last visited the city of my birth. Don’t know why I’ve waited that long other than the fact that I hate flying on planes. I tend to white knuckle from the minute the pilot says to put your phone in Airplane Mode until the reverse thrusters do their thrusting and slow the plane to a safe taxi-ing speed.

Another drawback to being in the Big Apple is the density. It is impossible to escape the masses. Some of whom don't smell daisy fresh.

That’s me on the L Train, before 293 commuters stormed into our car to grab the last inch of handrail real estate. You might have noticed I’m wearing one of my trademark anti-Trump shirts (Are Cankles Fatal?). And while I generally abhor crowds, I must say Gothamites are noticeably more zealous in their appreciation of well hewn wit.

I only had 72 hours in the city that never sleeps. And I was determined to spend that time with Abby. That being the case, I did not have the opportunity to call on lifelong friends, or get upstate, or even catch a second breathe. It’s safe to say we packed 10 day’s worth of activities into 3. I did get to enjoy some latkes and mortgage-worthy bagels and lox at Barney Greengrass with my friend Jim.

It was a lot. 

And I was reminded how much I love “The City”, despite the crowds, the traffic, the non-stop buzz that hums 24 hours a day like a over-aged refrigerator about to blow a compressor.

I won’t wait another ten years to come back to a NYC that is noticeably, cleaner, safer and more presentable than I ever remember it. On the other hand, the hotel just emailed me the bill for my abbreviated trip.

Are they serious?

Meanwhile...

Next week will be the last airing of the Late Show with Stephen Colbert. 

Despite my recent foray into Buddhism and the pursuit of a calmer mind, I am spitting fire when I see the fascist consequences of 77 million ignorant voters putting an equally ignorant fascist behind the Resolute Desk. There can be no doubt that Colbert's departure is the result of rising authoritarianism and the repression of Freedom of Speech. 

It's even more disturbing that fellow members of the Tribe, who perhaps in a previous life were Camp Kapos, have been willingly complicit. Folks like Bari Weiss, Howard Lutnick, Larry Ellison and even Alan "I Kept My Underwear On" Dershowitz.

"Deep breath in.....and long, slow exhale."

Back to Colbert. Wasn't always a SC fan. Years ago, I was freelancing at the Wonderful Agency and was asked to write some Super Bowl spots featuring him for the Pistachio account. As you might imagine, I was tickled green. I dug deep, stayed up late, and sunk my teeth into this assignment seeing as it gave me an avenue for some high IQ political humor.

Stephen never saw the scripts as they were tossed out in favor of something more palatable -- dumbed down. And exceedingly broad. Nevertheless I became a fan. And watched as Colbert grew into the role as talk show host and grew more comfortable as an equal to his former colleagues Jon Stewart and John Oliver. 

Trump was and is, the comedic gold gift that never stops giving. I'm sure Colbert will find another venue to collect the golden eggs and keep skewering.

I could have chosen one of a 1000+ plus pictures for this post, but went with the one you see above. Astute readers/viewers will recognize this from the Covid era when having guests and audiences in a theater was prohibitive. Necessity may be the Mother of Invention, but let's also give credit to the Father, in this case a deadly highly contagious disease, left unabated by a douchebag adulterous con man.

Colbert, Seth Myers and perhaps Kimmel, thought outside the theater box and brought the shows home. That is, they took advantage of technology and literally produced the shows from their dens or upstair's attics. Stephen even had his wife on set. And Seth Myers had his two little boys scurry through his makeshift set. With the gloss and high production value stripped away, the shows actually got better.

Not only were the shows a testament to resilience and what could be done in the face of Covid, they were the salve that softened the turbulence and upheaval of 2020. My day would not be complete without staying up to midnight and watching the first half of the show. If for no other reason than to smile and escape the hell the world foisted on us from every angle.

"Again, exhale out..."

Thank you Stephen Colbert, for everything you've done for us.

"You may now open your eyes and return the world outside."

And FUCK YOU Trump, for everything you did to us.

A Tale of Three Eras

It's only taken me 20 years or so, but I've finally jumped aboard the Mad Men train. Having spent the majority of my life in the ad biz, and being intimately familiar with its crazy machinations, you'd have thought I would have had a seat in First Class with one of those panoramic overhead views. 

But I wasn't on board.

I was more intent on double dipping as a freelancer and squeezing as much out of the creative juju still left in my rapidly aging brain before it all turned to mush. Only to be revitalized in 2015 when a certain orange abomination threatened to destroy -- and still does -- our American way of life.

You'd also have thought that I would be Mad Men curious given one of my former partners, Josh Weltman, was a consulting producer on the show. And my one time Voice Over pal, Joel Murray, had a recurring role on the show. But again, I never watched too much TV in 2007 and was laser focused on staying out of a dirty nursing home in my golden years.

Now? I'm hooked.

I got into the ad industry in 1983 as a mailroom clerk. My entry was more like Peggy Olsen's and light years apart from Don Draper's. But much remained the same. In the early 80' s people smoked in their offices. The big wigs had bar carts with spirits in jagged Waterford decanters. And secretaries who would join them for late afternoon icy libations. And red hot libidinous activities.

Moreover, as a clerk who would push the damn cart around the entire office, I had access to the entire organization. And saw it in a way few people do. Traffic, Account, Research, Media and of course Creative, were all in my purview. I also had daily opportunities to open super secret intra-office memos.

Though I never did :)

I'm only halfway through the first season, so I'd appreciate no spoilers. I'd like to see where this all goes. Though, sadly we all know where it goes. Because at the turn of century, we saw the rise of the technologists and the sciencification of our industry. And with it, the fall of creativity.

The industry today bares no resemblance to the ad biz I knew. And is a gloomy anathema to the agency world Don Draper knew. 

In the wind

I have some good news and some that gets-stuck-in-my-throat news.

First the really good news. My MethHead neighbor is moving out. Last week his crappy house officially hit the MLS. Affording me a unique visual opportunity to see how he and his "LOSER" brother have been living all these years. 

By way of a short recap I will relay some of the unneighborly behavior that has fueled my antipathy for this Culver City miscreant who one neighbor described, literally, as "The Cancer of the Neighborhood." You see I'm not the only one who has had nasty encounters with this man, who is perpetually angry. And who kept the weirdest hours, often running power equipment in his garage -- with the door open -- at 3 in the morning. 

Additionally, he would often set off industrial grade fireworks from his driveway, setting off car alarms and inducing a chorus of dogs wailing through the night.

Speaking of dogs, he had a Malinois (French for Bad Noise) who lived outside and BARKED outside, less than 50 feet from my bedroom window. And did so 24/7/366.

Back in 2014 I ventured over there and spoke to his mother (that's right, this man of 60 years old and his older brother lived with their mother) and politely asked if they could do anything about the excessive noise. Her pungent two word response from the mother of the Cancer of the Neighborhood was, "Fuck off."

Lest you think I'm overstating the malignancy, here's a short video captured on my Ring Camera of said Tumor and his rancorous mutt walking by my house in the wee hours of the night...

I haven't even mentioned the potato guns he and his childhood friend used to shoot at houses, the firecrackers he tossed at a teenage girl who just got her driver's license, or the rock salt he would sprinkle on lawns of folks he didn't see eye to eye with. 

But, as I often tell Ms. Muse, this guy (a die hard Trumper) is his own worst punishment. He is a miserable fuck who has to live with a miserable fuck 24 hours a day. Oh and his brother.

Adios MethHead!

As it is, I would have been rid of him anyway. Because the other news, as I've teased in the past few blogs, is I'm moving too. The house I've lived in, built, and turned into a special home, for the past 34 years, has become too big for me. There are empty rooms that once reverberated with the joy of two little girls and my late wife. 

It haunts me. And it comforts me. I can love it and I can hate it.

Also, the traffic, the density and the ambient noise of the westside has become too much. My doctor and my financial advisor have both suggested a change. And so, within the next month, I will be relocating to bucolic Eastern Pasadena, a stone's throw from even more bucolic Sierra Madre, home of Ms. Muse. 

Change is hard. But change is also good.

Both can be true at the same time. 

 

Keep calm and carry on

I know King Charles is a busy man. Between his royal duties and, most recently, feigning enthusiasm  and grace while spending 4 days with the most insufferable basket-cockle on Earth, it has to have taken its toll. However I am happy to announce in three weeks the king, I should say delegates of his majesty, will bestow upon me, my rightful and legally binding citizenship of the realm.

Some R17 readers know, but most don't, as readership here has dropped in concurrence with my retirement, that close to two years ago I began a journey to claim my dual citizenship. You see I am first generation American and me mum was born in wee bonnie Scotland.

Seeing how this country is falling apart at the seams and could be one or two pogroms away from scapegoating anyone from my father's Hebraic family tree or for that matter anyone taking photographs of seashells on a beach, I thought it be a good idea to have an escape hatch. Hence my pursuit of official recognition with all its attendant benefits, of British citizenry.

Between gathering proper documentation, filling out online applications which are steeped in a bureaucratic language that does not resemble the Queen's tongue, email mishaps, and a local consulate that has no sense of urgency, it has not been easy. 

Nor inexpensive. 

Months ago I was shown an official certificate of acceptance. However, and perhaps due to their unfamiliarity with semitic surnames, they misspelled my last name as S I E G A L. It cost me $600 to have that re-issued. Which I still have not received. 

Three weeks from now I will don my Sunday Best, my one-suit-fits-all formal ceremonies and make way to the British Consulate in the Larchmont area near Mid Wilshire. I was not given any advance warning of a test or any requirements of knowledge pertaining to the Magna Carta, General Montgomery or proper etiquette at a formal tea. Nevertheless...

"I'll take 17th Century British Bluebood for 1000, Alex."

Once completed, I will re-engage my contacts with the UK office of Citizenship and embark on my pursuit of a British Passport. 

In light of all this and in recognition of the wit and wisdom of my ex-Team One mates, I will thereafter take a pronoun and suggest I be addressed as Sir Richard of Culvershire. 

Cheerio.

A short stroll

Spotted this photo on my Facebook feed. It sparked a vivid memory. I know exactly where this photo was taken because I had passed it so many times in my youth.

I apologize in advance for this fit of nostalgia. 

Memories have been flooding my mind as of late and will continue to as I move through the next month. I'm moving. Downsizing but not downgrading. From the house I raised a family in, to a smaller more manageable abode in the Foothills/Pasadena area. If you watch the TV show Shrinking, you'll know why. More on that at a later date.

For now let's concentrate on the Route 17 (pictured above) and the many, many bungalow colonies in the Monticello area.

We stayed at a place called Kolomer's Korner, which later became Freed's Bungalow Colony. Don't bother looking for it listed among the signs, because it isn't up there. Indicating the very low position it had amongst the plethora of ritzier shacks held together with rubber bands and rusty nails recycled from the 19th century.

My parents could not afford the one bedroom abode we rented for the summer, so they went in on it together with my uncle Sam and his two kids. Three adults --although the men stayed in the city to work midweek -- and 5 kids, ages 2-10. 

Did I mention the one tiny shared bathroom? 

Sounds miserable, right? But as a kid who had known nothing but cement, honking horns, fatal hot dog water, low level mafioso characters/neighbors, and 8 million ornery New York City dwellers, it was heaven. A Swiss mountain enclave just 100 miles north of Manhattan.

There was a pool. There was an ice cream truck that came around late afternoon. There was a pack of bratty but-too-poor-to-be-spoiled kids. 

And there was a camp. 

My pirate-imitating ginger brother is easy to spot. The rest of us, not so much.

There's no point to this hazy walk down memory lane. But then again, as Buddha teaches us, what's the point of anything? Oh wait, that's Nietzsche. 

I think the Nietzsches' were in Bungalow 24A.

Questions abound

Finished a book last week. I know that shouldn't seem newsworthy -- and it's not -- but you'd be surprised how many half read books I have laying about. And because a friend and former colleague mistakenly believes I have an opinion worth listening to, I also have his new screenplay on my computer.

You might have noticed that I've taken the time to photograph Christoper Hitchen's Mortality booklette right next to an old Andy Award. I found it during my most recent round of Döstädning, Swedish Death Cleaning.

The connection may be too on the nose, but after I showed the award to my daughters, now employed in the current dismal industry of Advertising, its headed right for the Culver City recycle bin. 

I can only assume the heavy head (probably made from a melted down chassis strut of a 1962 Pontiac) is worth something on the scrap metal market. Certainly more than it means to me now. 

Back to Mortality. 

As readers of this blog know I'm a big fan of the Hitch. His eloquent debunking of religion, all religion but particularly the pugilistic Abrahamic ones, has always resonated with me. Perhaps that has spurred my new interest in Buddhism.

Or perhaps the testament to his battle with esophagal cancer struck a chord in this 68 year old man who can literally count the grains of sand left in my timer. Not to get all morbid on you or to infer my health is anything but excellent, however, if I'm going to embrace the Eastern notion of impermanence, I have to be brutally honest about my own.

If you're familiar with Hitchens (and you should be) or have seen him in speaking engagements on YouTube, you know he can be combative. And self deprecating. And funny. Surprisingly funny for a man seated at that great saloon of Life and seconds away from Last Call.

In one telling passage, he recalls the failing of his voice. An unmistakable voice with its own cadence and its hammer-like impact. He curses the disease that has robbed him of his stage. But takes refuge in his lasting ability to put words on the written page. In essence, that is his identity.

He fights to the very end. It's admirable and inspiring. And I don't inspire easily.

When the time comes, I plan to put up my dukes as well. I just need to find a way to square that with the Buddhist image of myself being a leaf floating down a river. 

How do leaves fight?