Try these shoes on for size

A few months ago I documented my swearing in ceremony as a newly minted British citizen at the Consulate in Hancock Park. It was surprisingly moving. And something I, probably not most of you, had ever done before. 

Unless things change under the Trump regime, when you're born in America you are American. As such there is no event to mark the occasion of your citizenship. So yeah, it was exciting.

But, and there's always a but or a snafu in my life, they spelled my name wrong on the Certificate. Not sure a lot of Siegels have crossed their path before.

That required another digital trip back to the Home Office before I could even apply for a British Passport. That arrived yesterday. And to prove it's real and not an AI enhanced photo, I placed it on top of a book no one in America has read. Or will admit to owning. Other than myself.

As the owner of multiple passports I now feel like Jason Bourne. 

If only I had the opportunity to practice those Bourne-like Kenpo Karate moves I spent so much money and time learning and memorizing. I have always wanted -- and still do -- to land a spinning reverse elbow to the jaw of some ne'erdowell or a brain-impaired Republican (obvious redundancy.) Particularly the latter, who believes anyone immigrating to this country should stand in line and do it legally.

With British passport now in hand, I can tell you the year and a half bureaucratic journey has not been easy. And it was significantly easier for me as a man with access to technology, a modicum of means and the patience and time that would do in lesser beings. 

In other words, White Privilege.

Imagine, if you will, that I were a poor Haitian mother with two children. And that drug lords had taken command of my neighborhood after free for all gun battles on the street. How would I make my escape to the USA? Where would I start? How would I gain access to a computer? The Internet? And how could I afford all the fees for photos, fingerprints and birth certificates?

I wouldn't. And I couldn't.

Would be immigrants facing hunger, poverty, and violence are being told to wait in line and fill out all the forms, by immigrant descendants whose toughest task of the day is deciding to get door dash dinner from Chili's or Applebees. 

Damn, I want to hit these people. With an elbow.

 

Bittersweet victory.

I love chocolate. But chocolate has not always loved me. And played a significant role in my lifelong battle of the bulge. A battle it appears I have finally won.

Got on the scale the other day and clocked in at 174 lbs. Not my ideal weight according to the now-corrupted US Department of Health and Heroin, but within spitting distance. More importantly, I've been in the 171-176 range for the past three years. And wise Dr. Chiang, my GP who has helped ride life's ups and down for the past dozen years, affirms my victory. (If only our affairs in Iran were as clear cut.)

And so chocolate is back on the menu. In moderation.

Which brings us to Taza, mostly because Ms. Muse often brings me a wheel or two from the local Whole Foods store.

If you haven't sampled Taza chocolate and know of its limited availability, I suggest you spring for this unique treat. It is not your average store-bought vanilla chocolate. It's a little salty, a little gritty and a lot different than anything you've had before.

You might be wondering, "Why is Rich pimping this artisanal delight from a tiny chocolate maker outside of Boston. Is he their influencer?"

The answer is no. But it could have been yes.

Years ago the fractional CMO of the brand solicited creative teams to pitch the account and come up with ideas to launch the Taza brand nationwide. It was in the form of a contest.They sweetened the deal by offering a $2500 fee to the winning team. 

This was about 10 years ago. The freelance market had begun its long, frustrating descent so my partner Jean Robaire and I were game. We knocked some ideas around and developed what we thought was a winning campaign. Including a kick off sampling idea that would include 50,000 fans watching their hapless Red Sox at Fenway Park, sorry Boston but your sports fans are so easy to hate. 

That's why they're called Massholes. But Taza is made in Boston so we thought we'd get some home grown brand evangelists.

Our plan was to drop a huge dark Brown vinyl blanket over the Green Monster during the 7th inning stretch. Then unleash an army of samples who would walk up and down the aisles of the stadium and hand out free pieces of Taza chocolate, the one with 95% cocoa.

We would also have video cameras roaming around to catch on the spot interviews.  

It was but one of many, many ideas that we gifted up the makers of this all-natural, chemical free chocolate. Alas, we did not win the contest. And the task of launching the brand and putting the name Taza on the tip of the tongues of American chocolate lovers went to someone else.

So where is all this going? Well, I recently went to the Taza website, where the website and the marketing approach is still the same as it was a decade ago. They haven't done one thing differently.

The ad industry has lost its way. And so have the clients.

Long live the King

You may address me as, "My liege."

Until two weeks I had no ancestors with any hint of royalty. Not one centiMorgan -- that's DNA speak. My ancient ancestors consisted of Viking servants, victims of the St. Brice's Massacre and Jewish inbred toddlers. Then from out of the blue blood, and on the same day I learned my British passport had been approved, I discovered I shared .04% DNA with King Bela II of Hungary, who lived from 1108 CE to 1141 CE.

A King!

It isn't everyday that you're admitted to the United Kingdom and can draw a line linking my flesh and blood to the royals in Hungary. So naturally I did a little digging. And by that I mean I clicked the link describing King Bela II.

For reasons not explained he was known as Bela the Blind. OK, we're not off to a great start here. Furthermore, he only lived to a ripe old age of 38. So no longevity there, so I'll have to maintain my strict pescatarian diet and rigid exercise routine. His remains were excavated between 1936 and 1937 from the north aisle of the Royal Basilica of Székesfehérvár, too many letters.

Because of his blindness, his rule over Hungary was hardly a majestic one. In fact he turned over the governance to his wife and her brother Belos. More interesting are his ties to Kiev, which as most followers of today's events, know is in Ukraine. This, I suspect, is where my people came from.

Here's a chart that shows his likely progeny.

I'm already in contact with Ukrainian as well as Hungarian officials, seeking recognition of my long dormant superior bloodline. And any possible inheritances that might be due, in a very legal and binding manner. A sceptor. A ring. A dusty old bag of coins, a la Count of Monte Cristo.

Something.

Although I'm not gettin my hopes up.

Turns out, Ms. Muse can also trace her ancestors back to a King. And wouldn't you know it, that's King Bela II as well. 

Feeling guilty, and a bit foolish, about my lazy genealogical research I decided to dig a little further. And now wish I hadn't.

According to AI: It is impossible to give an exact number, but millions of people alive today—mostly of European descent—can mathematically trace their lineage back to King Béla II of Hungary (the Blind), given that anyone with medieval European ancestry who left surviving children is an ancestor to nearly all modern Europeans. [1]  

Curiosity killed the King.

 

Flamingo Revolution

I don't usually find myself writing about Ivanka Trump and her money-printing machine husband, Jared. The truth is there's enough douchebaggery coming from her demented father that I have no need to seek out more. Particularly from this spoiled douchette and the zombie with a face more punchable than Tommy Tuberville, Rand Paul and Matt Gaetz.

But, here we are witnessing the financial, ethical and moral collapse of the American experiment. Due in no small part to this murder of thieves who have diminished Marie Antoinette's role in history...

"Let them have TWO pencils."

So let's talk about the Flamingo Revolution. Chances you've never heard that term. I know I hadn't until my intrepid daughter decided she wanted a solo vacation, hiking the mountains of Albania.

See if you can find it on a map. I'll bet one of my pencils you can't.

The term was popularized by angry Albanians who discovered their prime minister had agreed to let JaVan develop an "undiscovered" island on the Adriatic Coast. The Kushner/Trump plans call for $1.6 billion --who knows how much of that was skimmed off the top of the US Treasury -- development of hotels, golf courses, and strip clubs, you know the usual trash associated with the gold plated Trump name.

I had assumed the natives gave it that name because they didn't want these South Florida carpetbaggers bringing their shabby South Palm Beach culture to the Fertile Crescent adjacent vicinity. What's next, black lawn jockeys on the lawn?

But the truth is, yes I did a little digging, the island is inhabited by beautiful flamingos, herons and other water life and the locals would prefer to keep it that way. And so, unlike lazy Americans who voice their displeasure once every 6 months, determined Albanians gather nightly in the square of Tirana, hoisting flamingo posters and cut-outs, hoping their hostility will ward off the interlopers from Florida.

Isn't it funny how the GOP, Red Hats and xenophobes take great umbrage over foreigners coming to our country and shoving their culture down our throats yet think nothing of the sort when they "discover" an spit of land they want to make their own, regardless of distance, sovereignty or borders? 

Jared and Ivanka can both eat a bag of Hermes scarves. 

------------------------------------

On a more positive note, here is Abby high above the hills and some of the photos from her trip...

IURL -- In UnReal Life

I'm not buying it for one split second. Not having it. There's something going on and frankly I don't like it. Where's this blind opening going, you may ask? And I'm glad you did.

There's this notion floating around that the President's poll numbers are dropping like a recently loaded oversized diaper. And as a result the Democrats are most assuredly going to take back the House, and possibly the Senate, come this November. 

Moreover, even if the Adjudicated Rapist/Twice Impeached/Convicted Felon behind the Resolute Desk manages to thwart mail-in voting, there's enough rage and outrage at the current administration that victory is a foregone conclusion. 

Well, I'm old enough to remember way back to 2016, when the pundits said the same thing about Hillary Clinton...

"There no way America would elect a con man to the White House," -- Ted Cruz

"He's an inveterate liar, with very small hands," -- Marco Rubio

"If we elect Donald Trump he will bring down the party," --Dead Lindsey Graham

It's not as if the media is lying. I just don't believe the pollsters have been polling the right people. Well, certainly not the field reporters sent out to take the temperature of American political sentiment. So who does have it right?

These guys, a pair of NYC comedians/journalists who have their finger on the bleating aorta of the America's heartland.

Naturally it's the funny guys who are able to snuff out The Truth. I've been following them for quite a while and have hit my head on the table several times, one requiring a large ice pack and almost necessitated a trip to the ER. 

Here's how one memorable exchange went:

"Trump has been in charge of the military since 2016...Biden was just a puppet, he might not have even been real...Trump was running things all along and taking care of our country..."

"But what about the inflation and the war in Iran?"

"That was Obama."

"I'm confused."

"You have to do your own research."

Even if each of us voted 100, 200, 900 times, it would not be enough to cancel out these cultish, ignorant Bible Thumping zombies. And there are millions of them. 

The insanity is overwhelming. Which I believe is the point of all this. 

If you ask me, the idea that people who put faith in Conspiracy Theory are just on the fringe and don't represent mainstream opinion is as worthless as a Trump phone or meme coin. THEY (the real Conspiracy Theorists) only wanted us to believe that to lull us into a trap. And implant microchips in our brain. And put us in Medbeds so they could feed on our natural fluids...

Wait, a minute... 

What happens in Vegas gets boasted about on the hotel web page

I hate Las Vegas. 

Too many people. Making too much noise. Smoking too many cigarettes. And losing too much money they simply don't have. It's a hot living hell right here on Earth. 

But it's a dry hell.

I didn't always hate it. On the few occasions I was sent there for work, I kinda loved it. I was being paid to be in Sin City. And all my expenses were being covered. $15 beer, sure. $92 Rib Eye Steak, medium rare, please. $100 Blackjack Minimum, hit me.

No one is footing the bill for me anymore. Not Vizio, not adidas, not Infiniti, and not Legends in Concert, the premier showcase for tribute bands and 18 different Michael Jackson lookalikes.

Nevertheless I'm headed there in December. For a concert, yes, but also to visit The Sphere and enjoy what I'm told is a one of a kind viewing experience of The Wizard of Oz.

Last week I booked a hotel room at The Venetian. Not one of the premier hotels on the strip but not the bargain basement either, like the still standing and unexplainable Stratosphere. Before pulling the trigger I came across this on their website...

Damn, this place is like heaven. At first glance, it would appear we are going to be treated like Pasadena Royalty. But upon closer examination, it appears the marketing folks at The Venetian have taken liberties and stacked the deck in their favor.

Let's have look shall we? 

Oh they have tile flooring in public areas. Isn't that nice? I believe Sizzler Restaurants also have tile flooring but they don't brag about it on the menu.

Braille signage, I'm happy they're taking care of their sight-challenged customers, but does that merit a mention? Or their ridiculously high resort fee?

Eco-friendly toiletries? I'm curious. But not that curious. Once my waste product disappears down the porcelain hole, it's gone. Out of body, out of mind.

Handrails. In stairways! And in hallways!! Not like those bums at the Flamingo or the Tropicana, where if you get overserved, you're on your own. Also, did you put those handrails in because of OSHA or was it to delight your discerning luxury-minded guests?

I warn young people about overpromising and the hazards resume inflation. Perhaps hotels should heed the same advice.

"Look honey, there's toilet paper in the bathroom."

"No way!!!"

The Commodification of Hate

Went for a little bike ride last Sunday. Just 32 miles from Wilderness Park in Downey down the bike path to Seal Beach. It's a quaint little town that still has that old-timey beachiness about it. It's a perfect place for Ms. Muse and I to sit outside Javatini, enjoy a cup of coffee and split a muffin or scone, depending on availability. 

On this occasion we met Rita, a 70 year old teacher who does volunteer work with the Guide Dogs of America.

She lives near by the coffee shop and was willing to share her beautiful dog with us, a retired Golden/Lab named Ally. Not sure how it came up -- I probably blurted something about Lake Ontario -- and she seized the opportunity to tell us about a store up the street called Beachin'.

The store actually has less to to do about beaching, surfers and the cool, laid back style that the name connotes and much more about Bitchin' about people who have no love for Trump, MAGA or dare I say, even America.

They peddle hatred. 

Not behind the cloak of a white sheet like their predecessors. But out in the open. Proudly. As if ignorance, myopia and fascism were something to boast about. It is if you want to let the world know you're a complete maroon.

Naturally, we had to see for ourselves. That's where we ran into Frank Ryan, owner/proprietor/Grand Wizard of this shit shop. Here's small sampling of his "wares"...

I'd show you more virulent crap Frank was pimping, but I don't want to get in more trouble with the Social Media Thought Police who have already blocked me and jailed me many times over for calling this an ugly reincarnation of Munich, circa 1933.

Walking around the store, I could hardly contain my disgust at the Troglodyte Trash. There was the obligatory misogyny, the juvenile homophobia and ironically enough, calls for retribution against pedophiles and pedophilia, oblivious to the fact that their merkin-sporting leader who has bragged about his sexual predation, is mentioned in the Epstein Files more times than Epstein.

I finally caught Frank's eye, probably while he was gift wrapping some swastika armbands, and said, "Nice store you got here. Doing a great job of furthering the cause of the Fourth Reich." 

His retort, if you can call it that, was to make some lame crack about my lycra bike shorts.

I shouldn't have been surprised. The default of all Red Hats is always some version of chest-beating male toxicity, again oblivious to the fact their octogenarian demented leader painted over with 10 lbs. worth of make up prances around doing his jack off dance to the Village People.

Before I exited the story, I suggested Frank make a visit to a library. Any library.

His perfect self-own, "I don't need a library, Pal, I have everything I need to read right here."

You win Frank, I can't and won't argue wth that, little man.

Partially unredacted: Transgender Women Are Just Ret***ed F*gs.

Speechless.

Ne do të shkojmë në Shqipëri.

This is Tirana's Rock. Chances are you've never seen or heard of it. Unless, like my youngest daughter Abby, you had an itch to visit Albania. More on that in a second.

The Rock is not a rock at all. It's a mixed use tower that, at 26 stories tall, will house office, commercial and residential spaces. It's still under construction, as evidenced by the crane at the top, which appears to be stabbing the visage of a man, Gjergi Kastrioti, an Albanian nobleman of the 15th Century. He also fought in the Albanian/Ottoman Wars, an earlier version of the rift between Christians and Muslims. 

I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest he probably didn't like Jews.

That's neither here nor there. Actually it's there. Way over there. Why you ask (I know I did) has my daughter flown close to 10,000 miles to go Albania? 

The simple answer is to go hiking. 

There's plenty of outstanding hiking here in the states, one could argue. But like her father, my daughter has a bit of wanderlust. It's why after living in Denver for a few years, she came home briefly to Los Angeles. And then packed up everything to go live in Brooklyn. 

I did the same thing, only in reverse, when I, a New Yorker thru and thru, ventured westward to California not knowing a soul in SoCal. And why my mother and her sister, left home in Glasgow to come across the pond while they were 17 and 19 respectively.

I suppose I should be thankful that Abby, and her sister Rachel, have a curious nature. Adventurous, as well.

"Here, have some tave kosi, the mutton was just slaughtered this morning."

I am grateful she is willing to get out of her comfort zone. And proud. I wish she would explore her creative side and get back to painting. Or writing. (She's won't acknowledge it but she is darker and funnier than I'll ever be.)

But, I'm also her father, and will likely be on pins and needles for the next 10 days worrying about her. That's not just my nature, that's my job. And only exhaling when she lands safely back at JFK airport. Or Donald Trump Airport in honor of JFK, should he be inclined.

"Ruaju dhe shijoje kohën me Abby-n. Të dua."