testy, testy 1...2...

Had an interesting chat with my boss yesterday? And the topic of retirement came up. Not because he's trying to push me out or anything. I wasn't handed a Musk-like memo that said, "You either go hardcore or you can go home."

He was just wondering.

To be honest, I'm wondering too. If I retired I'd have a great deal more time to spend with my daughters. More time with friends. More time to glean wisdom from Ms. Muse. And much, much more time to spend with myself. 

That's the dealbreaker. I would drive me crazy.

That's when Peter, let's call him Peter because that the name on his driver's license, had a suggestion. 

"I understand the need to always be making something. That's what drives the creative psyche. So why not use the platform (R17) you've built over 13 years and accumulated 8 possibly 9 regular readers, and branch out to do a podcast?" 

That was a head scratcher, particularly since I had just dragged a crusty blade across my scalp and was feeling a tad itchy. Note to self: re-up order of Dollar Shave Club (my alma mater) 4 and 6 blade packages.

Truth is, I've given the podcast thing some thought in the past. And have appeared on several podcasts, including one with Rob Schwartz (my former TV writing partner), with Barry Fiske ( former colleague and fellow Orangeman), and with Pete Turner, a seasoned Afghan Veteran who spent 7 years in combat if I'm not mistaken.

Pete even has a side business where he sets novice podcasters up with the equipment and the tips and tricks of the trade. 

How hard can it be? You set the microphone up and talk into the bulbous end. Talk or rant. Or spew. Or rail. Or riff. Or unload. Or vent. Or string some words together that somehow manifest Howard Beale from Network fame..."I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore!!!"

Hell, if the ad industry's leading xenophobe and DEI poo-poo'er can do it so can I.

What say you Roundseventeen readers? (just a little market research before I go any further)

Also, in terms of potential names, do any of these make you all tingly?

PodSeventeen

Curmudgeon's Corner

The Hurl

Audio Lava

CrankyShorts (I'd go with Cranky Pants, but I rarely wear Pants anymore)

WTF?

 

It's been said that if you have your health you have everything. And in that respect I truly am a blessed man.

I don't mean to tempt the fates, but I am exceptionally healthy. I've never been seriously ill. Never had a doctor say something like, "Uh-oh." Never even spent a night in a hospital bed. 

I did spend two miserable nights at St. John's Hospital in Santa Monica. But that was for the births of my two equally-healthy daughters. That was not fun.  As I had to sleep on a recliner chair while Deb was in labor. She got an epidural. I had a gummy edible and some leftover soup crackers.

On top of all that I may be the last man in America to have NOT gotten Covid. My health is so exceptional I was able to remain 44 years of age for a good 20 years.

But now I am 64. 

And facing the greatest health challenge of my life: signing up for Medicare. My phone has become Spam Central, ringing off the hook (sorry for the old man reference) with pitches from Medicare Consultants.

Why on earth does healthcare coverage necessitate outside paid consultants?

They not only reach me by phone, they clog my mailbox with letters, flyers, and pitches that make me yearn for the pleasant dulcet tones of local political ads. 

The deadline for me to make my life-altering Medicare choices is drawing near. And though many kindhearted readers of this blog have showered me with compliments for being whip smart and impressively knowledgable -- OK, maybe I've gilded the lily -- the truth is when it comes to this shit my brain is like a garbage breakfast scramble, "tuna fish, pineapple and Ready Whip, sure why not?"

I suspect Marjorie Taylor Greene, Lauren Boebert or Kari Lake could make more sense of Medicare than I could.

The other truth is, I was always more than willing to let Deb handle this part of our lives. I miss her patience, intellect and attention to detail. Hard to believe that at one point in the past 65 years, I could solve differential equations and calculate the volume of a 3D rhomboid bisected by a 2D parallelogram. 

But HSA, family deductibles, out of pocket costs, PPOs and HMOs, are as foreign to me as rational logic is to the MyPillowGuy™.

Why does it have to be like that?

I suppose for the same reason why we still measure in inches and miles, while the entirety of the industrial world is on the standardized and simpler metric system. 

'Murica, fuck yeah!

On that note, I will retell the story of how I was stricken with a sudden bout of bronchitis while traveling in London about a decade ago. I know earlier I said I was exceptionally healthy, but 11 hours on a British Airways flight, seated next to a man wearing cheap cologne, and who had just smoked a carton of Apple Reds, left me severely depleted of oxygen.

We bolted over the St. Vincent's Hospital and a team of three doctors including a fancy schmancy pulmonologist rushed to my attention. I was given a temporary bed, hooked up to an oxygen machine and left the hospital 4 hours later. All for the cost of $50. The rest was covered by the good liberty-loving folks of the Kingdom, who had the good sense to institute the single payer NHS (National Health Service) in 1948.

Last time I looked, the United States, Syria and Somalia were the only countries on the planet without universal access to medical attention. Good company, huh?

If affordable, efficient universal healthcare is what qualifies as Communism in the pea brains of our homegrown Red Hats, then put me down for a few heaping helpings of that sweet, sweet Bolshevism.

The inbRED Wave

This is the Blue Damselfish, sometimes referred to as the Blue Dam. Actually, I might be the only one to refer to it that way, but only because my Google search for a Blue Dam came up empty.

Why would I want to talk about a Blue Dam? Well, it was on full display at last week's trepidatious election. And the Blue Dam prevented this country from going down the toilet due to a fictional Red Wave.

I was sure the Red Wave, or even the Red Tsunami, was going to happen, mostly because the media and many pollsters told us it was going to happen. Moreover, the precedent had been set, many times over, for the opposing party to sweep into Congress in the two years following a victory by their opposition. 

It happened to Clinton.

It happened to Bush.

It happened to Obama.

And it happened to Captain Fuckknuckle.

At this writing, the House and Senate majorities are still up for grabs (UPDATE: The Senate is Blue). But the gubernatorial candidates picked by our failed traitorous, Insurrection-inciting past POTUS, went down to defeat. In many ways this was more important than Congress, because it is the governors who sign the state certifications of presidential electoral votes. 

Besides, what has Congress ever done, except give themselves pay raises, trade on insider information and endlessly fund raise for political parties (both D & R) that are only in it to enrich themselves.

Nevertheless, by Wednesday morning, we -- meaning those capable of critical thinking -- were quite relieved. In other words, it wasn't the Libs that got owned, it was misguided the Red Hats who, for reasons unknown, still follow in the shit-on-the heels footsteps of an America-hating, narcissist with the intellectual firepower of a headless turkey. 

More importantly, and I've got my fingers crossed on this, we are finally starting to see the collapse of rubber stamp party support of the orange haired buffoon.

With the ascent of hard-hearted Ron DeSanctimonious, Republican strategists and GOP politicians are abandoning ship and boarding their political lifeboats. 

Think about that.

It wasn't his shameful embrace of Putin and the hopes of building a Trump Tower in Moscow that gave them pause.

It wasn't him paying $130,000 to a porn star to sit on his mushroom dick, while his wife was nursing his newborn, that gave them pause.

It wasn't him adding $7.8 trillion to our national debt, with NOTHING, to show for it, that gave them pause.

It wasn't him ignoring COVID and leaning into a microphone and declaring, "I take no responsibility," that gave them pause.

It wasn't him blackmailing Ukraine to initiate a false investigation on Hunter Biden that gave them pause.

It wasn't refusing to accept the 2020 election results and claim (without a shred of evidence) that it was stolen, that gave them pause.

It wasn't his failure to conduct the peaceful transfer of power that gave them pause.

It wasn't his incitement of a violent Insurrection that gave them pause.

It wasn't his relentless attacks on the pillars of American democracy and the subsequent erosion of our electoral system that gave them pause.

It wasn't even the discovery of Top Secret Classified documents at his shabby, mold-infested country club garage that gave them pause.

It was his failure to help Republicans grab even more power so they would have America in their greedy, grubby, craven hands that finally...finally gave them pause.

Fuck the GOP!!

Armoire Robbery

Yours truly came within a zebra's hair of being swindled out of $500 last week.

I don't know which would hurt more, the loss of the money (which is getting scarcer these days) or the permanent damage to my inflated ego. 

Many of you will recall I wrote an anti-scamming book years ago -- Tuesday With Mantu, My Adventures with a Nigerian Con Artist, available on Amazon and various websites wherever crappy self published books are sold.

Here's how it all went down.

As of late I have been actively decluttering the house. It's a big house for one person. And we always made the mistake of buying too much furniture. Lucy, my whiny dog, has made a bed out of everything that has a cushion on it.  And everything else collects dust and hair, the way a Shitgibbon Bund Rally collects high school dropouts who are now self-proclaimed PhDs in Political Science.

My sister in law was going to take the armoire pictured above, but the logistics of getting it from my place in Culver City to hers in Lakewood seemed daunting. So I turned to the interwebs and put up a listing on FaceBook's Marketplace. I added some brief, clever copy in the vein of Hemingway, "For Sale, Baby Shoes, Never Used." 

And within minutes my computer started dinging.Not surprising because I am, allegedly, a professional at this.

The first inquiry, actually, the second too, came from a woman who was leery about going to a stranger's house to see his armoire. Both wanted to make sure I was real and put me through a gauntlet of verification thigamajigs. As the father of two grown daughters I understood completely and would hope my girls would be equally cautious.

They went silent, and then I heard from Robert Tajawoski. 

Robert asked how old the armoire was. The condition. The size. All the kind of questions one would expect from a careful buyer of used armoires. After a little back and forth he decided he wanted it. And said he was out of town but that the guys who work for him would come buy tomorrow to pick up the behemoth. Sight unseen.

Damn I was good at this, I mistakenly thought.

To secure the Armoire he offered to pay me $500 (full asking price) via Zelle. I'm more of a Venmo guy but who was I to argue about a quick sale and wired money placed in my bank account? Money which could immediately be turned into a two inch thick Tomahawk steak or expensive, sushi grade Ahi Tuna.

Then I got an email...

Like I said I'm not that familiar with Zelle and Robert was kind enough to "help" me navigate the process. 

I didn't have a Zelle Business account (as requested by the email) and I told Robert he'd need to send another $500. He acted a little perturbed  (all part of the game) and asked if he could trust me to refund the money after I got my initial 500.

I agreed. And moments later, I received another email from "Zelle."

He'd given me $1000. The selling price was $500. So I owed Robert $500. 

Perfect I thought.

Then my spidey sense kicked in. I checked my Wells Fargo account and there were not two $500 deposits made. Nor were they pending. I told Robert, who was growing impatient, I was having difficulty figuring out how to "refund" his money and called Zelle. There, I learned there was no such thing as a Zelle Business Account.

Having made myself familiar with many types of scams, I recalled a scene from Mamet's House of Games (an excellent primer in con artistry), in which Joe Mantegna silkily tricks Lindsey Crouse to hand him more money than they had initially agreed to exchange. 

Realizing what was transpiring, I told Robert, whose name on his Zelle account was Josh Stanley, to politely go fuck himself. I also told Robert I was forwarding all our chats and correspondence to my cousin Ira Silverbergstein who works in the FBI's Internet Fraud Division, Interpersonal Banking Unit. Seemed plausible and appropriately threatening. 

Besides, I thought, if he can make shit up, so can I.

I didn't hear from Robert again.

The Brotherhood of Chikuma

I'm told I'm a very lucky guy. In that I have good health. I have financial stability (as much as one can possibly have in these turbulent times.) I raised two wonderful daughters. And I had a loving marriage that lasted 29 years --26 of them were happy, as the old Henny Youngman joke goes.

I don't do it enough, but I need to soak in the bath of gratitude once in a while.

Today is one of those days, as evidenced by the screengrab of last week's Zoom call with my colleagues/friends from Team One.

When did I work at Team One, the agency that literally built the Lexus brand, you may ask? 

Way back in the halcyon days of 1993. We, I'm referring to the Creative Department, came after the heyday demonstration ads created by Court Crandall, Kirk Souder, Mike Mazza, Steve Silver and more. All legends in their own right. 

You young ad kids would do well to study their work. Elegant. Simple. And dependent upon the intelligence and discernment of the viewer/reader. 

In their wake, we came in and had what they never had, a CMO from Japan who barely spoke English. A toddler's understanding of marketing. And a vocal belligerence that rivaled the Captain in Bridge over the River Kwai. 

It was Advertising Hell.

And for that experience, I am grateful. 

Because in that misery was forged a lasting friendship that has sustained itself for close to 30 years. Like last week's Zoom call, we have been getting together, sharing stories, busting chops and keeping up with each other's lives for as long as I can remember. 

We have that rarest of bonds -- familiarity. And often pick up where we left off, whether it's on a call or the fortunate, though rare, occasion when we hoist beers and bourbon in person. As a result, we often break down into fits of laughter that have us reaching for the Ben Gay the following day.

Last week's gathering was smaller than usual. For reasons unknown, we missed the presence of John Hage, Robert Prins, Jeff Spiegel and the inimitable Stan Toyama, whose spot-on impression of our curt marketing overlord never fails to trigger painful flashbacks and riotous chuckles.

Perhaps they will join us next time. And Matty can re-enact his on-the-fly riffing about the Focus Group of one schizophrenic guy.

"I hated that commercial, why is he wearing a blue shirt?" he said.

"Well, I loved it," he replied.

"I don't like the drawings in the cartoon," he also replied.

Adding, "Why is it a cartoon?"

And finally, "Are there any more M&M's."

Maybe, I'm not doing it justice. Maybe you had to be there. Hopefully next time everyone will be. 

Thanks gents, I love you all.

Butcher Dox

Don't you hate it when a friend or family member loses a ton of weight and then can't stop talking, actually humblebragging, about their new slimmer self? 

The time they had previously opened their mouths for Ho-Hos, Ding Dong's and Mallow Cups is now being used to drone on about protein optimization, semi-keto, and inedible vegan substitute cheese. 

Not to mention their altered eating and exercising routine, including endless monologues about intermittent fasting, resistance training and the occasional finger fishing.

Today, with the exception of finger fishing, I am that friend. 

Sort of.

Since Deb's passing I have committed myself to weight loss and health gain. I'm down about 40 lbs. and holding steady in the 180's. I weigh less now than when I graduated high school. And physically, I'm stronger now than when I was 44. 

And as many of you know, I was 44 years old for a good long time.

Several factors were, and are, involved. Including my Apple Watch, which effortlessly holds me accountable every day. My membership on Strava, an athlete's log of activities. The almost complete elimination of refined sugars. And finally, my reliance of boxed meat/seafood delivery services.

A month ago I decided to sample the goods from Butcher Box. I'm always hunting for the best quality and value in these services and thought because of their glossy digital advertising -- I guess this shit does work -- I'd give them a shot.

Now I wish I hadn't. 

That's right, I'm turning a corner. "Who wants to hear Siegel blather and bloviate about his slimmer, trimmer body?" 

First of all, the Butcher Box food sucks. 

The salmon steaks were thin, dry and had a certain plastic flavor not unlike the wrapping they came in. The frozen salmon burgers were even worse. Indescribable discs of chopped salmon and assorted other fishes (I suspect) that even my scrap-happy dog would not go near. And the complimentary Lobster Knuckles, whatever the fuck that means, were as Ms. Muse put it, quite knuckly.

Secondly, and more importantly, their purchase operations are deceptive. 

By that I mean, my intention was only to buy one box, for sampling purposes. Little did I know it was subscription-only. Meaning, the good folks at BB would continue to pawn off and deliver their sub-par patties, filets and knuckles to my doorstep until I went to the trouble of canceling, which as any online shopper knows is never that easy.

When I received an email telling me my 2nd box of Super Premium Grass Fed Organically Harvested Meat and Fish was on the way, I dropped my 230 lbs. bench press bar (had to work that in) and made a dash for the phone.

Too late, I was told.

Moreover, I was also informed that a refund for this food, which will now sit in my freezer in case of an 9.3 earthquake or a Putin-signed missile dropped on California, was not possible.

So now I'm out about 150 bucks that was stolen from me by the good folks at Butcher Box. 

Do you think it's possible for me to exact $150 worth of pain upon these meat bleeders?

Can I turn my years of copywriting experience in the other direction and unsell a product?

How many potential new customers can I dissuade from Butcher Box and send to one of their many fine competitors?

I don't know but in the vernacular of the day, Butcher Box has fucked around and now they're going to find out.

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

Should you be inclined to help me in my continuing fight against these food pilferers, feel free to visit the Butcher Box Facebook page and leave a comment, like:

1. "I was going to sign up for your meat and fish delivery service but then I heard some dude named Rich Siegel say your sirloin was purloin off a camel carcass. Hard Pass."

2. "How are your Lobster Knuckles? One of your customers, a guy named Rich Siegel, said there were tough and knuckly."

3. "Rich Siegel says you put sawdust and rat parts in your Salmon Burgers. I didn't know salmon ate rats. How do they catch them?" 

Blessing #27 -- Windex Pete

 

As noted earlier, I'm compiling these memories of Deb for my daughter's sake. 

So that they will have a lasting document of her beauty, warmth and limitless kind spirit. Many of these memories/blessings came before the girls were born. Or happened in their absence.

This was neither. 

We were all in New Orleans visiting potential colleges. 

I loved the potential college trips. There's something inviting and promising about universities. Perhaps it's all the young people with their lives in front of them. Perhaps it's the college bookstores with their well-rounded selection of logo-adorned fleece wear -- available in Dad XXL. Or maybe it's my own flashbacks to a time when I was free from the heavy responsibilities and skidmarks of life.

On this trip, which started with a wing-ripping turbulent pass through a violent Gulf of Mexico storm, we were checking out Tulane as well as the nearby Loyola School. After a long day of campus cruising and a visit to the Treme District, which was every bit as gritty and funky as the HBO must-see show, the girls wanted some alone time. 

Truth be told, so did Deb and I. 

In a rare display of unthriftiness, I had secured a separate room for my daughters. They were old enough and independent minded enough to be set free. Which allowed Deb and I to visit the hotel bar and become acquainted with NOLA's very own Sazerac -- a rye based cocktail that necessitates no ice or any manner of watering down.

For the unfamiliar, it is quite delicious as well as potent. 

I did not know it at the time, but one Sazerac demands another. And possibly another. By the time we walked out of the hotel, and it might have been on  Deb's birthday, January 6th (Fuck you Insurrectionists for tainting that date), we were both smiling from ear to jazz-filled ear.

We started walking around the French Quarter, remarking how dingy, dirty and unappealing Bourbon Street had become. We made our way to the fringes where we found Lafitte's, the oldest and darkest bar in all of Louisiana. There, we came across Windex Pete (pictured above), a staple in the Treme.

Pete, who also appeared to have an excess of Sazeracs, cornered Deb and I, clearly looking to hustle us for  some greenbacks. Feeling kindly and generous during my heyday freelancing days, I obliged. I even filmed the encounter, which you can see here...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7yBxFVbh9d4&t=2s

Now you know why my burgeoning career as a cinematographer went nowhere. If you listen closely you can hear Deb giggling at the beginning of the video. 

(PAUSE, to dry my eyes.)

And if you make your way to the end, you can hear yours truly cackling with delight. I gave Windex Pete a $20 for the personal performance. When I asked him where we could go to see good live jazz -- not the touristy crap -- WP offered to take us to the other side of the city if I paid for the cab and bought him a drink. Or two.

After much back and forth and Deb tugging on my jacket, we declined. In hindsight I wish we had gone.

Nevertheless, and if I may paraphrase Bukowski, "we were with the gods, the night flamed with fire, and we rode life straight to perfect laughter."  

A New Orleans memory/blessing I will never forget.

Strangest Things

There are few things in life that be described as singular and beyond compare. 

Having a baby comes to mind. 

Finishing a marathon is another.

Driving a 600 horsepower NASCAR around the Fontana race track certainly qualifies.

And then there's a visit to Culver City's own Museum of Jurassic Technology. Which technically isn't in Culver City, but in 2022 the truth can be stretched. And that will be the only hint I will give regarding the nature of the unique displays you will see, should you decide to part with $12.

Last week I escorted Ms. Muse through the dimly lit and narrow hallways of this ancient building on Venice Blvd. And didn't have to wait too long before her jaw hit the floor. The Duck's Breath is one of the more milder among the plethora of oddities. (I like the word plethora, but was prohibited from using it in ad because, "...people won't understand what it means.")

SPOILER ALERT: There is an underlying theme that runs throughout the "museum", which is nothing more than a converted home/apartment building. And while I do not dare reveal the theme, I will provide previews of our favorite exhibitions:

1. Mouse Pie  -- Animals, rodents and insects, play a large part here. And none more telling than the dead mouse pie. Literally, an apple pie with two long-deceased white mice laying on top of the eternally soggy crust. This particular piece has been a staple of the "museum" since my first visit back in the late 80's. The mouse pie was thought to have magical curative powers and could save the life of an infirm toddler. Babies and small children are another sub-theme throughout. 

2. Old Wives Tales -- In the back room, which isn't fair since once you're inside they all seem like back rooms, you'll find a monstrously large, stuffed jackrabbit encased in glass. In the 1700/1800's, rabbits played a big part in pioneer lore. I forgot all the details, but in order to ward off evil spirits a mother nursing a child would shout "Rabbits, Rabbits, Rabbits." Perhaps this was the inspiration for Tim Burton's BeetleJuice. 

Similarly, if a prairie mom did not like the way her man split the wood or brought home foul meat, thereby  igniting her wrath, she'd look him straight in the eye and declare, "Rabbits to you, good sir, Rabbits to you."

3. Trailer Parkopoluzza --An entire room dedicated to the study of signature Americana. Here, you will learn and see -- in magnificent tiny model diarammas and earnestly written plaque copy --the origin of the Trailer Park. Seminal innovations in Trailer Park history. And of course, the fatal disasters (mostly wind related) that have plagued Trailer Park residents -- America's original Nomads.

As a fan of kitsch, I can safely say it is breathtaking in scope and overwhelming in its commitment to the "museum's" through-line, which I will leave you to discover.

Get thee to the Museum of Jurassic Technology (give that name a think) and don't forget to go upstairs to the aviary/tea room. We didn't sample the tea or cookies, as our appetites had been dampened upon the viewing the dead mouse pie as well as the plethora of dirty incontinent birds flying around the aviary.

All politics are local

 I have a gripe.

OK, let's be completely frank, I have an endless supply of gripes. Hence, the longevity of this overrated blog. But today's is kind of timely, particularly with an election coming up.

Every four years or every two years or every two minutes (it seems) we are bombarded with a slew of political candidates who promise us the world only to deliver more emails requesting donations. The purpose of that money is to secure their newfound position so that they can reap the rewards for years to come.

When taxpayer money is finally used to address the issues of the day, it always seem to be directed in two directions and never in one.

Wealthy people get tax cuts, loopholes, subsidies and even PPP loans that are used to buy Italian shoes, imported supercars, private jets and even 2nd and 3rd yachts.

Poor people, though more deserving, also get a host of taxpayer bennies: EBT cards, social services, school lunches, assisted housing, etc. I'll bite my tongue here because I realize it's not fashionable to bemoan help to those less fortunate. And I'm not.

I'm simply asking, "why can't some taxpayer revenue be thrown the way of the middle class?"

More specifically, why can't the state or the county repave the Ballona Creek Bike Path (pictured above)?

On a recent weekend ride, I was asked how many miles I have logged on this once-scenic route, before every underpass began sprouting makeshift housing for the unhoused, the homeless or those suffering homelessness (that should cover all the necessary semantic gymnastics.)

And so I did a little math in my head. I've been riding this 5.3 mile stretch of path that takes me from the belly of Culver City to the wide open Pacific in Playa Del Rey for 30 years.

Some weeks I would cover it about 6 times a week (30 miles)

Some weeks I would do none (0 miles)

On a conservative guess, let's say it's about 10 miles a week.

10 Miles a week X 52 weeks a year (I'm quite OCD when it comes to exercise) = 520 miles/year

Let's round that off to 500 miles a year X 30 years = 15,000 miles.

Let's round that down even further to account for being busy at work, taking care of kids, the daily rigmarole of life, and the occasional bouts of inertia and laziness, to 10,000 miles.

I've logged 10,000 miles on this bike path and it has been repaved and smoothed out ZERO times.

And I'm here to testify, it is a fucking mess. Thanks to the tectonic shifting, asphalt erosion, wear and tear, the path has more minefields than the 38th Parallel. And I have the bent rims, flat tires and broken fingernails to prove it. 

Also, changing flat tires sucks!

What I'm trying to say -- now that I've worked myself up into a lather -- is Hey Mr. or Ms. Ambitious Politician, you want my vote? Spend a little of my hard-earned money on me. Tell me you'll fix the fucking bike path.

And then, and this is just a thought, Do It!

To Kill An Empty Blog post page

  

At the risk of sounding like an old grumpypants who pines for the past, I'll say it again, "they don't make movies like they used to anymore."

I know this is a common trope used by men, and women, of my age. But it's true. Things were better before. 

Gardeners used rakes instead of noisy leaf blowers. 

Cars had batteries under the hood and not hidden like Anne Frank under the spare tire. 

And movies (and plays) had characters not cartoon heroes in spandex, throwing fireballs and trashcan lids at equally ridiculous villains.

I bring all this up because we went to the Pantages Theater to sink our teeth into Aaron Sorkin's version of To Kill A Mockingbird. Ms. Muse remembered the original black and white film starring the inimitable Gregory Peck. My memory, like my ball and sockets joints, was not so on point. 

In fact, in my hazy, sometimes boozy mind, I thought Boo Radley was played by the guy who starred as Lurch on the Adams Family. It wasn't. It was a very young and imposing Robert Duvall, still one of my favorite and underrated actors.

The show? Perhaps a little long in the tooth but captivating nonetheless. Maybe because in Sorkin's updated theatrical version, the script was modified to reflect some of the prickly prejudicial and political situations of today.

In one particularly reflective monologue, we are told how the Alabama State officials voted 66-3 to reject a common sense law that would require juries of a diverse nature. A thinly-veiled reference to our current Upper Chamber who obediently and blindly march behind an ignorant white supremacist. 

As well as a shot across the bow to those unnamed ad fools who still don't see the value and necessity of DEI.

In another moving scene we see the rape victim's father accuse Atticus Finch of bearing some "Hebraic Seasonings." A phrase that will stay with me for a while. Though in retrospect seemed a little high falutin' and deliciously subtle coming out of the mouth of a lowlife Alabama drunkard would-be Red Hat.

All in all, the show is worth seeing. 

Cautionary tale, if you go to a Saturday showing be aware that they also have an afternoon matinee. So double check your purchase, and the correct time, otherwise you'll be denied entrance for the evening show and forced to accept tickets in the nosebleed section, next to the guy in charge of the long high overhead spotlight while sucking on a can of oxygen.

With apologies to Siskel & Ebert, I give To Kill a Mockingbird Two Aquiline Noses Up.

If Apple Ruled the World

Last week I received an email from Apple. Mind you, I'm not prone to answering, much less looking, at the ton of spammy email that arrives in my box without fail, every....damn...morning. 

From politicians and their lame reverse psychology tricks ("It looks like we've already lost") to offers from Butcher Box (good packaging, not so good quality). And like you, and millions of other Americans, I click, command shift, scroll, and toss that annoying shit right in the trash can. 

I don't care how catchy their subject lines may or may not (mostly not) be.

But, I was drawn to this one because it was from Apple and it just so happens my oldest daughter Rachel works at MAL -- Media Arts Lab, the agency that handles their advertising and sorta, my alma mater. Rachel (in red) is seen here with my equally-beautiful and intelligent, other daughter, Abby.

The email was for the Apple Titanium Credit Card. 

Granted, the last thing I need is another credit card but it had a certain minimalist appeal. And they were offering Cash Back on every purchase. I was never a credit card rewards guy until I discovered I had thousands of dollars worth of rewards on my Chase Card not long ago. 

So I did the uniquely American thing and signed up. 

When the card arrived several days later it had that signature Apple touch of innovation and simplicity.

To activate the card, all I had to do was place my iPhone on the box. And like magic it worked. Moreover, it also put the card directly into my iPhone wallet. It was all so seamless. And intuitive. 

Ports and charger chords notwithstanding, the good people at Apple have heeded Steve Jobs' advice: "Let's make things easier for the consumer. Not harder."

If only other companies followed suit.

Why, for instance, do we still have Phone Trees? The man or woman who invented these aberrations should be forced to sit in a jail cell and listen to this mind-impaling babble before every meal for the rest of his or her miserable life.

Why, after enduring phone trees, are we then connected to a service representative who demands the same personal information we punched in 27 minutes and 33 seconds prior to a live human?

And why, please someone explain this, are all live representatives in Pakistan, India or Kashmir? I have nothing against them, nothing. In fact my chosen Siri voice is Indian.

It's charming when Siri is reading out driving directions to me or telling me what the word 'obstreperous' means. But when I am fuming about some mishap/mistake/or downright screwing by an American company, I want to vent my frustration in full-throated American English vernacular. And not have to interject that with...

"Excuse me"

"Pardon me"

"Can you repeat that?" 

Additionally, in light of last week's purchase of Twitter by Chief Douchebag, Elon Musk, I like to think soft-spoken billionaire Tim Cook (or Tim Apple, as ex Precedent Shitgibbon liked to call him) would do a much better job as Head of the New World Order.

 

A post about Islam

 

As the title indicates this is a post about Islam. But first, a word about Germans. Neither Muslims nor Germans have a great recent history with my people, so perhaps it's a natural lead in.

Last week my Audi S5 would not start. The battery died. If I had asked my neighbor for a jump start we'd have to find the battery on the damn car. Not an easy task. It's buried beneath the spare tire in the trunk. The boot, as the British would say.

Turned out the battery was the size of a carry-on suitcase. 

I've never owned a "performance car", how was I to know? The new battery, the Uberkockinfuffen 7000 cost me close to $400. It worked like a charm but the emergency ignition locking mechanism on the dashboard began to rattle. It seems the Germans are still out to get me.

That necessitated a visit to my local Fancy European Car Shop in nearby Palms. Having dropped the car off, I began the 2 mile walk back to my house, where I discovered my new replacement hip (also Teutonic) was fine for biking but needed to acclimate itself to walking. Note to self: stretch, you lazy bastard.

On the way back I also passed the King Faud Mosque, near the old NFL Films Headquarters. It was a Friday afternoon and the men had just started piling out of the mosque. From a distance, I could see a middle aged woman, in a hajib, and two young children standing on the corner. She was holding a sign and clearly in need of assistance.

Despite the exorbitant cost of my auto repairs, I decided I'd give her some money. Particularly since none of the exiting men were. This is not to disparage them. In fact, as you'll see, it's the opposite.

I opened my wallet and gave the mother of the two young kids what I could. She smiled at me.

"Inshallah", she remarked, and couldn't be more grateful.

I was tempted to tell her I was Jewish and was simply making one tiny gesture at reconciliation, but decided against it. Mostly, because that would have been self-serving, and moreover, stupid.

As I continued walking, I was directly behind a younger man in his 30's. As he made his way back to his car, I could see him carefully folding his prayer rug. And that's when (pardon the allusion) it went off like a bomb in my head. 

This was scene that harkened me back to my youth when the more religious Jews walking to and from temple, would carry their beautiful, velvet tallit bags. The words and the rituals might have differed in flavor, but it was the SAME thing.

In fact, as we were taught in Hebrew school, and just as Christianity is derived from Judaism, so too is Islam. And in many ways, much more directly. We learned of the 500-600 years in the Middle Ages when Muslims and Jews in Iberia, in the Fertile Crescent, in North Africa, co-existed peacefully. At least more peacefully than those who do cross fit and those who don't.

I was walking and nursing my bum hip so I had time to reflect on this a little more. And recounted the many times on this blog and elsewhere when I had spoken/thought poorly about our Abrahamic brothers. To be frank, I am ashamed of myself for doing so.

Indeed, in the time since then, I've become friends with an ad colleague, Mahmud (I hope Moody won't mind me mentioning his name). And like to think that our friendship/partnership has helped me evolve. And softened and changed my earlier hardline stances on the matter.

It's a continuing process. And if I can paraphrase Winston Churchill, "Show me a man at 64 who thinks the same way he did at 44 and I'll show you an idiot. Or a Red Hat." 

Put another way, as Ms. Muse likes to say, it's the emergence of Rich. 2.0.

Mmmmm, cranberries

Thanksgiving is about three weeks away so let's talk about cranberries.

This year, thanks to my overly documented widowhood (my apologies), I'll be handling the cooking duties on my own. With some assistance from my two daughters. And none from my brother, who will be dutifully watching the Detroit Lions lose another Thursday football game.

It will not be easy. As milestones go, this might be the most difficult as it was Deb's favorite holiday. Nevertheless, we will make the best of it and express gratitude that we have each other.

But back to the cranberries. Not the berries themselves, but the gelatinous goo that is made from them, as seen in the picture above. And seen quite a bit in the ad world last week thanks to the work of the in-house team at Orchard, makers of Ocean Spray Canned Cranberry Sauce.

If you haven't seen the spot, relax, you are about to:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NpJ7mcm8MnY

Pretty amazing huh? Apologies to Mark Reed of Ogilvy fame, but this spot harkens back to the 90's, when absurdist theater was in vogue. And when advertising was, in my humble opinion, at its height.

I love everything about this spot and was surprised it only had about 15,000 hits on Youtube. I thought with all the free press and buzz it generated it would be closer to 15 million.

I love how the spot pivots not on the taste of canned cranberry sauce (which I prefer to the homemade stuff which we won't be having this year) but on the jelly-like texture and its tendency to wobble. Which some would argue is the least appealing aspect of this maroon coagulate.

In other words the data people were sent from the room.

"The wobbling scored a 73 in negativity in our quant testing."

"Yeah, leave."

I love how the tension builds. And especially how the metronome in the soundtrack gets us there.

I love the casting. The blended family is de rigueur these days, but this one feels more authentic and not so forced. Kudos to the art director who went with the subtle pale brown color palette in the decor and the costuming, all of which make the three purplish stars of the spot pop and do their thing.

I love the odd haircut on the Asian American man hosting this soiree. And know from experience that many clients would shudder and squeal about his less than normal look.

"The host's haircut registered many eyerolls in focus groups and scored an 81 in negativity among our female respondents."

"Didn't we tell you to Go!?"

And I love how this spot pokes fun at the consumer-dancing-for-joy motif that is ridiculously found in so many other lame spots that pollute our airwaves. 

Man bites cheeseburger, breaks into dance. 

Woman brushes teeth, breaks into dance. 

Kid gets a new backpack, breaks into dance. 

Dog gets a treat, breaks into dance.

Mostly what I love about this spot is that it was a spot and not an email or a banner or a landing page or some other micro-communication piece that has gone through 23 rounds of revisions, only to be seen by 22 people. 

When creativity mattered

Came across an homage to this campaign last week on Linkedin.com. 

I don't recall when the campaign ran on TV (remember that?) But I suspect many of my younger colleagues are unaware of this amazing body of work (more on that later).

Moreover, unlike the previous generation of ad practitioners, I don't believe the current crop of adlike object makers (ADLOB) are students of the past. And if they are, it's all digital centric.

"Remember that guy who came up with the CTA, Learn More?

"That was great, but what about Hurry, While It Lasts?"

"Call me old school, but I prefer the clean, minimalist muscularity of  Click Here."

I don't know why this campaign -- and don't get me started on the weird abuse of that word in these dreary days of advertising -- fell by the wayside. But I do know it's indicative of the fall of our industry.

Where is Dos Equis today? 

Does anyone recall their advertising in the last 5 years? 

10 years?  

I can tell you I was huge fan of these spots when they ran, mostly during sporting events. And found myself rewinding the DVR just to catch the brilliance of the written lines. Not only were they well-crafted, they were economic in their brevity. And they were fired, like a machine gun, one after another after another. I imagine the writer's room (for lack of a better phrase) was a gagfest that would rival anything in Sid Caesar's day -- again, you kids can start Googling.

There's no way to confirm this, but I suspect the culprit and the executioner of this Most Interesting campaign, came from inside the house. Meaning, it was the client. Suffering, as many of today's clients do, from lack of vision and short attention syndrome. 

And then there's the careerism. 

A new marketing manager enters the fray. He or she wants to make their mark, at the expense of the hard brand building that came before them. And boneheadedly puts his or her foot down. In this case, on the carotid artery of the industry's most fascinating-- and oldest -- spokesperson.

"Bring me a new campaign. I'm only going to be here 18 months (industry average) and I need a case study as a stepping stone to propel me to the next level. I'll be in the Hamptons this weekend, but let's see some new work by Monday morning. Chop, chop."

My intermitent-fasting stomach is already churning. 

But before I go, I invite you to enjoy this amazing body of work. And extend my kudos to the talented folk who once ruled the roost of the ad world.

Enjoy: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=guMrgRKKENI

Look, for my favorite 15 second spot on Rollerblading.

Deaf Con 3

This guy has been on a tear lately. His name is Kanye. Or Ye. Or Yeezy. Or Big Dopey AssClown, as I like to call him.

Lately, he's been spewing antisemitic bullshit whenever he finds himself in front of a microphone. And if it hasn't been clear, I'm not a fan of antisemites. 

Whether they're black, like Cheesey Yeezy. 

Or white, like Marjorie Failer Green. 

Or orange, like Captain Fuckknuckle.

I wrote about this talentless crapper about a week and half ago on my Facebook page and caught some flack from several readers who claimed this mentally deficient schmuck was a genius. The same guy who famously and unashamedly said, "I don't read books."  

You know, like most conservatives.

He may have some musical ability -- none of which are apparent to me -- but that doesn't make him a genius. The fact is, I don't care for rap music. Even this statement brought about some heat. And some pretty unfair inferences. 

Last time I checked, musical tastes were completely subjective. And not subject to broad brush painting.

I don't like country western music, Jackson Pollack paintings, the writing of Ernest Hemingway or whatever it is Rothko does that merits such high praise. 

What does that say about me? 

But as previously mentioned I don't like antisemites. Particularly when they are given a bullhorn and can spew their ignorant bullshit and incite violence and even more hate.

And so, I'm gonna jump on my little soapbox and fight back. 

I was particularly amused by his statement that, "we are Semite, we Jew, so I can't be antisemite." Schizophrenic syntax aside, what the fuck does that mean? 

It should be pointed out there there are tribes in Ethiopia that identify as Jewish. And when faced with political prosecution and extreme poverty, the state of Israel sent planes southward to rescue them and fly them back to safety. 

I doubt this shitbag, low-rent rhyming "genius" could find Ethiopia on a map. 

The genius billionaire also went on to claim that Jews have "suppressed the black voice" and "kept him down." He reportedly said that while driving his Bugatti Veyron back to his 50,000 square foot estate in Beverly Hills.

To be sure there are Jewish record executives who have exploited talent for their own monetary gain. Just as there are non-Jewish executives doing the same. In the record business. In the oil business. In the arms manufacturing business. In the Bugatti dealership business.

But perhaps Weazy ought to learn how rabbis and Jewish activists were the first to stand shoulder to shoulder with Martin Luther King in the fight for civil rights. And how white Ashkenazi, "Fake Jews" he likes to call us, are still allies and still working -- harder than most other "white" people -- to level the playing field.

Maybe someone could get this impossibly dumb genius some books and teach this hateful AssClown how to read.

I'm now officially at DefCon 1.

Blessing #25 -- The Wet Tuxedo

 

I got married in October of 1992. 

Unfortunately I always managed to get the date mixed up and joked with Deb that it was either the 22nd or the 24th. It's difficult to remember because our wedding day was also the day of the World Series. The decisive 6th game in a tense and exciting series. 

Not that I'm the biggest baseball fan in the world, but I should never have agreed to set the date during the Series. This was before the unprecedented ascendancy of the Super Bowl. And the Big Show was always the big ticket. Moreover, many of the guys at the wedding saw it the same way. 

In fact, after Deb and I were hoisted on chairs and paraded about the the room at the Riviera Country Club. And after much bourbon and beer had been consumed. And after I got permission from my new wife to have the bartender put on the TV, we caught up on all the action. But do not suffer from the idea that the occasion was dampened. 

It was not.

It was the best day in my young 34 year old life. Not only had I found a beautiful woman who would stomach my peculiarities and my growing hirsuteness in places I would prefer not to be hirsute, she unguardedly signed up for a lifetime of it. 

A head-scratcher, if there ever was one.

A few weeks ago, while cleaning out our jelly-tight closets of junk, crap and miscellany, I came across 3 videotapes of our wedding/reception. Shot by a couple of junior AV guys from the Chiat office who have gone on to great success in the field, thank you Sean and Jon. 

Sadly, or perhaps not, the video is on 3/4" cassette tapes, the industry standard at the time. I could have the  tapes transferred or digitized, but I suspect watching them would result in a pool of tears that would require repairs to my already old hardwood floors. And the rotting subfloors, installed in 1947.

I do remember the day was filled with laughter, joy, and the unbeatable warmth of friends and family who were genuinely happy to help us celebrate. It was, in a word, magical. I smiled so hard that day, my neck and jawline were hurting the following morning.

That was the morning Deb and I were to fly off to Tahiti and spend a week in Moorea. 

Prior to that morning, we spent the night at one of the more declasse hotels in Santa Monica. Again, this was before Lowes and Shutters and the fancy boutiques developed in the area. But, and this is where the title of this post comes to life, our 8th floor quasi-luxurious room looking out onto Santa Monica Bay, had a working jacuzzi on the patio. With what I hope had been clean water.

For reasons that still elude me, and while Deb was slipping out her modestly expensive wedding dress into a bathing suit, I found myself submerged in the 104 degree bubbly water while still attired in my rental penguin suit. 

"What are you doing?" said the newly-minted Mrs. Siegel, wondering if she had made a terrible mistake.

"Look it has variable jets," I countered while snapping off the top of another hotel minibar bottle of Maker's Mark.

And so began our 29 year adventure of insanity; laughing and loving and raising our two beautiful daughters that ended all too soon, almost a year ago.

Happy Anniversary Deb. 

Cue the sound of a fresh Kleenex emerging from the box.

And a belated thank you to Deb's father, Bob Weinblatt, may his memory be a blessing, who graciously retrieved and returned the Wet Tuxedo to Gary's Rentals, while we snacked on coconuts, drank Hinano Beer and skinnydipped on a deserted mile long beach on the other side of the world.

"Sir, why is this tuxedo all wet?"

"That's a headscratcher, Gary, a real headscratcher."

Home, sweet home

I just sent in my voting ballot this week. In fact, I've already received electronic notification that my mail- in ballot has already been tallied. In other words, election integrity.

I love mail-in voting and frankly don't understand what the fuss is all about. I suspect if Republicans adapted to mail-in voting and started winning elections, they'd have no problem with it either. They only whine when they don't win.

The big issue in my little corner of the Earth concerns Single Family Residents and the current zoning laws. 

Some sage-burning do-gooders think R1 zoning is a remnant of a racist, elitist past. Really? At the time, Deb and I were just looking for an affordable home on the west side of Los Angeles. Also it should be noted, there's an African American family across the street from me. As well a young Asian American multi-generational family. And on either side of my house there's Jorge #1 and Jorge #2.

In fact, these Fauxtopiasts believe that by eliminating all zoning ordinances they can solve the current homeless problem, reduce climate change and bring about a fanciful world heretofore never experienced before.

And the guy in tent #2 with the plethora of stolen bicycles and sagging corner, agrees.

If they had their way, building developers would be allowed to purchase one of the single family residences in my neighborhood, and with my luck, it would be the one right next door, knock it down and put up a 4-plex or an 8-plex (again, with my luck, the latter) within spitting distance of my humble abode. 

And the theory -- and that's all it is -- is that sprawling apartment building would include housing for low income people. Because you know, as altruistic folks go, no one is more giving than speculative home builders.

Corollaries to this CBD-induced theory, include the notion that by building affordable housing next to door to my once semi-quiet home means Culver City teachers, firemen and dishwashers at the local restaurants will be able to live in Culver City. This, they argue, will reduce commute times, pollution and the inherent class warfare that stems from unabated Capitalism. 

Sure, and Vladimir Putin will put down his arms, embrace America and start putting up Sizzlers all over Mother Russia.

I remember when I first came to California and fell asleep on a beach up in beautiful Malibu. Apart from the 3rd degree sunburn I suffered, I thought, "Wow, I'd love a house here beside the beautiful majestic Pacific and be able to enjoy the beach everyday." 

Sadly, I could not afford a home there on the salary of a short order cook. Or, even later in life as a semi-successful ad guy. But I didn't write a letter or petition the Malibu City Council to build me a home on the cliff, with an oceanfront view, a modern kitchen with a Wolf 36" six burner oven and a heated lap pool in the backyard! 

Because that's not how this works. 

That's not how any of this works.

I don't want to appear cold-hearted or indifferent to the needs of others. We, the country, have a homeless problem. And I have no idea what the solution(s) are. 

But I do know it doesn't include infringing on my rights as a hardworking taxpayer who has played by all the rules, made the right strategic decisions, and carefully maintained my home and its rising equity so that I do not have to spend my final drooling, incontinent days on this blue rock, clicking that Morphine button in a dirty nursing home with dirty carpet and even dirtier eating utensils.

Not. Gonna. Happen.

Pumpkins of the past

One of the givens about grieving is the inclination towards nostalgia. It's often accompanied by tears, a shallowness of breath, slow movement and a pining to do things differently. Next time. Only the cruelty of life is there is no next time. 

Nor, it seems, is there a way to write anything meaningful this Wednesday morning.

And so, I am reposting something from the past. This was written in 2009. 13 years ago. But it seems like 13 lifetimes ago...

Jay Chiat would be proud

One of the things I love about Halloween is the celebration of the macabre. My youngest daughter Abby seems to share that inclination. 

After viewing some of the contestants on extremepumpkins.com, Abby was set on re-enacting the drowning pumpkins display she had seen online.

We carved faces that approximated the terror of drowning, then placed the two pumpkins in old aquarium that at one time was the home to our pet turtle named Candy. Candy met her demise when our dog mistook the tortoise for a chew toy. 

I'll spare you the bloody details.

After submerging the pumpkins in 30 gallons of water and weighing them down with some leftover bricks, Abby wanted to give her own personal signature to the piece. And added the hand-crafted plea for "HELP."

Then in true "good enough is not enough" spirit had an idea that trumped her original concept. 

Making it darker. 

More subtle. 

And more deliciously twisted. 

Happy Halloween!

We'll take your money now

Don't know if other Linkedin members have seen it, but now the "Church" of Scientology is pimping their wares on the professional's social media network. 

I'm the last person on Earth to stand up for some supposed social media etiquette. I post many of my political memes, rants and personal stories on the site. 

And will continue to do so despite the protestations of others. 

My reasoning is simple: writers write. And any communications I put out are an example of my "professional" skills, meager as they may be.

Additionally, for all I know the Southern Baptists and the good folks at Chabad are also on Linkedin trolling for members. In a world of so many competing brands (religions, included) I understand the need to advertise and get "the word" out. 

"Looking for a new god? A new and improved god now with 23% more Retsin? Let's chat."

"Put down that cheeseburger and let us introduce you to the wonderful world of Leviticus."

"It's One god. But it's Three parts. Why don't we go inside and I'll explain."

So why should the clean cut robotic people at Scientology be any different? Here's a screen grab from their officially designated social media charlatan: 

Did I watch the one minute video? No, I did not. 

I know enough about Scientology to --pardon the pun -- steer CLEAR of it. For those not in the know, David Miscavige is the CEO/President/Theta 1 Grand Puba of Scientology. He's just below Tom Cruise. I know this from watching Leah Remini and her riveting docuseries about leaving the "church" and the mysterious disappearance of Mrs. Miscavige.

"Shelly?"

In fact, if you were to utilize the R17 search button in the upper left hand corner, you'd see I have opined quite often on the topic. And even merited a nasty response and blocking from Kirstie Alley, a Shitgibbon-supporting Scientologist. 

Does it get any better than that? No, it does not.

Do I have anything further to say on the beliefs or practices of Level 8 Scientologists and their victorious return to Zebulon bearing the magical fruits of Theta X 23/B? Not a word. These folks are notoriously vindictive and so I'm gonna play nice. 

For the most part.

But I don't want to leave you empty handed. So compliments of another linkedin member/colleague, I'll leave you with this video, that has all the hallmarks of Scientology, but none (ok maybe a little) of the sour cultish aftertaste.

They don't want you to sign up for their religion. 

They only want you to try the Malibu Chicken and sample the dessert bar.  

Info Wart

What is this thing?

I know it's not human. 

Oh it eats and breathes and walks and talks like a human. But no human I know would behave like this. No human I know takes such delight in the pain of other human beings. This thing takes in oxygen but expels a toxic sulfurous cloud of hatred 24 hours a day. No, this is not a human.

I know it's not American.

Americans I know are generous, compassionate, caring people who understand they have won life's lottery and want to share the blessings of this once great country. Americans I know smile at each other. Say good morning to strangers. Hold doors open for other Americans. And generally want to leave this world better than the way they found it. Maybe that changed in 2016, I'm hoping that was just an anomaly.

And I know it's not a man.

It peacocks around with all the facsimiles of a man, strength, bravado, determination, but those are only to mask its massive insecurity, ignorance and frailty. Because only a weak, pathetic imitation of man would take delight in the unimaginable pain of parents grieving the loss of a child. 

And not only revel in that, but hawk his snake oil weight loss and muscle building dietary supplements (which it obviously does not use) while these devastated mothers and fathers bury their bullet-ridden children.

Last week I watched a split screen presentation of a judge reading out the compensatory damages for each of these thing's defamatory offenses. Offenses which by the way resulted in harassment and death threats from Red Hat Ammosexuals who were convinced this shooting in Newton, Connecticut which mowed down 20 6 year old CHILDREN was staged to make gun nuts look bad. Newsflash: you people who love your AR-15's more than little kids don't need any assistance in that arena.

While the judge was parsing out the $1 billion judgment, this creature was jumping for joy and salivating over the climbing numbers. Not sure I've ever felt such disgust in my life.

I know a little about deep eviscerating grief. 

But nothing can compare to that of a parent who has suddenly and inexplicably lost a tiny child, who will never have a 7th birthday, a graduation, a marriage, or a life. And to have that grief compounded exponentially by a fat turdbag is just beyond the pale. This creature has for all intents and purposes become the lily-white spokes-hole of today's Republican Party.

Soulless.

Devoid of decency.

Conspicuously and spectacularly un-Christian, in thought and manner.

I don't know what this thing is. 

I only know it's alive. And wish it wouldn't be.