Serenity Now!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good Night Meth Head.

Wrong about EVERYTHING

Little anecdotal history here. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

But let's NOT ignore these facts:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I rest my case.

For our friend

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

She was inarguably in a league of her own. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Click on the screeen grabs to enlarge)

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

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

and the collective jealousy of Kathy.

That's some affirmation. 

As our mutual friend Bob Rice once put it: 

A Kathy Hepinstall stamp of approval, shit, 

just having her breathe in your general direction would send 

                                                                 sales go through the roof.

Finally, I solicited Kathy for some wisdom on

the completely fictional and 

self-deprecating comments for one of my books.

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

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

May your memory be a blessing. 

Where's Elon

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

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

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

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

Particularly after Elon dropped the Epstein bombshell. 

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

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

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

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

Know what's on the front page? 

This:

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

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

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

The Big Bag Theory on the Birth of Cornhole

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How do things/ideas/inventions come about?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Putting My Money Where My Mouth Is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The point is $5 rotisserie chickens!

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

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

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

How sold, you might also ask.

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

Nasdaq: #COST

 

A stroll down Memory Lane (Wilshire Blvd.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This meets the 7 word maximum rule. 

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

I still think it's funny.

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

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

A double page magazine spread. 

What's that, you say? Oh nevermind.

And finally, my very first outdoor board.

Not sure it ever ran or if it was spec.

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

none of it matters. Not sure it ever did.

The Candyman is Here

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or for that matter, any niceties of civilized life. 

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

Me? I'm a pillbox convert. 

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

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

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

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

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

What's the Deal with...

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

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

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

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

Me: I'm schvitzing just thinking about schvitzing. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, we lied. Ad people do that.

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

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

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

Comedy is NOT pretty.

Hot. Hot. Hot.

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

Not the free-est country.

Not the healthiest country.

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

The HOTTEST!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Uhhhh, Mr. President.

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

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

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

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

How do Red Hats not understand that?

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

Ice, Ice Baby

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

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

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

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

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

I forgot. 

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

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

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

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

"My diverticulitis is acting up."

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

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

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

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

Stay Tuned, really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So long Dirty Nursing Home.

ETA TBD

It's Wednesday morning where you are. It's Monday morning where I am. And it's Palm Springs, where I am standing firm against the searing 105 degree heat. 

Standing could be a misnomer, as I am often laying down in the chaise chair by the pool, attempting to stem the heat with cold libations in anticipation of my gardener showing up to discuss the leaky irrigation system which seems to have my neighbors in a bit of a tiff.

Oh my, a hazard. From a broken sprinkler head. And a precious waste of water. Mind you some of these neighbors sport sprawling lawns of grass that consume more water than a lying politician giving a deposition.

To be fair, it's more than one sprinkler head, it's the corroded irrigation lines that were jerry-rigged by my crazy uncle when he owned this place and fancied himself some kind of Bob the Builder.

But I digress. 

Let's talk about neighbors who are infinitely more charming. And less hyperbolic.

Several months ago, the house next door to me was sold. This was after the previous owners had been there for more than 30 years. All of them unpleasant. I don't need to go into detail about their bloodthirsty pit bulls. The monster trucks. And the commandeering of parking spots anywhere within a 50 foot radius of their house, which I had never been inside prior the young couple with kids moved in next door and invited me in for a tour.

What a breath of fresh air. 

But it gets better. 

When they moved in I left a basket with cheese bread and salt. My late wife Deb had schooled me on this Jewish welcoming tradition. And I finally had an opportunity to participate. So I did. A week later, while cleaning the never-ending accumulation of stuff on the driveway, I found a paper airplane.

I hadn't seen a paper airplane in ages. And have always been a fan of them ever since we used to launch them from our 22nd floor apartment in Flushing, Queens. I looked at the raggedly paper plane and noticed there was a hand-scrawled message...

"Thank you for the cheese bread. It was delishes (misspelling intentional.)"

It had been written by their 5 year son R. 

Wow, I thought, that is so cool. And so I did what any still-a-boy-at-heart grown ass old man would do and got out a sheet a paper and sent him a return plane...

"I hope you shared it with your sister."

Days later I got another plane. This one with kid stickers on it. So I returned the favor in kind with stickers I have had since my Chiat/Day days.

I shared the tale of the burgeoning Carlson Park Airport with my daughters, who suggested I save all the planes in hopes of having enough for a Children's Book.

I like that idea.

I look forward to driving home today (Wednesday) and finding a new plane from R. in my driveway.

Life, liberty and the judicious pursuit of pedophiles

Today's post comes to you at the behest of Ms. Muse. In case you haven't guessed, she takes her part time R17 job quite seriously. And after reading last week's post about the failure and humiliation of CNN, which is now distinctively right wing media, she urged me to to do a follow up -- a scathing piece regarding the Media (with a Capital M) writ large.

I pushed back and said I don't have the journalistic wherewithal to tackle a story that is much bigger than myself. Hell, I don't even know if I used the phrase "writ large" in the previous paragraph, the correct way.

As I have admitted quite freely and numerously, I'm an intellectual midget. 

Is that word even acceptable?

Sometimes I actually crush Jeopardy and can keep up with the Tournament of Champion contestants. And other times I'm so far in the imaginary red, I need to be escorted from the stage before they commence with Final Jeopardy.

In short, I know what I don't know.

But all that was before the South Park airing of the season premiere in which Donald Trump's micro-penis played an unusually (and ironic) large part and was referenced many, many, many times. 

And that came in light of the huge merger between SkyPrance, owned by David Ellison (son of TechoTool Billionaire Larry Ellison and Paramount+, owned by Shari Redstone, billionaire daughter of Sumner Redstone. Somehow having billions of dollars is just not enough.

It was also before Paramount cancelled my beloved Stephen Colbert and the Late Show. All in deference to the Mad King/Pedophile who sits behind the Resolute Desk. 

OK, I do know a little about all this. For instance I know that CBS paid the backstage pageant peeper $16 million and extorted another $20 million worth of free airtime on the former Tiffany Network, so he and the GOP could push their bullshittery on unsuspecting and terminally uninformed MAGATS.

It's nothing short of EXTORTION -- if he can use unnecessary All Caps, so can I -- but it's not criminal because, as Speaker of the House Mike "Kneepads" Johnson puts it, "It's all being done out in the open."

Not dissimilar to, "Come on guys, just find me 11,780 votes."

As I said last week, we are not only losing our Democracy, we are losing our grasp on anything that resembles Truth.

But it's not all doom and gloom and fascist state media. Last week I had predicted this whole Epstein affair would be gathering dust, supplanted by some new White House douchebaggery. I was wrong. This story has legs, all of them attached to underage girls who were raped by unapologetic pedophiles.

There can be no doubt that the "fat orange jobby" is in the files. Along with other high profile names. Our taxpayer dollars were used to investigate the sordidness and our taxpayer dollars should be used to prosecute all the Pigs that were named. 

All of them. 

  

On Friends and Foes

Two Jews and a Muslim from Bangladesh walk into a bar. An Irish bar, aptly named Jamieson's. And that's where the stereotypes end. And so there really is no punchline. Or even a joke.

But there were lots of laughs.

Meet Jeff Gelberg, author and proprietor of the wildly popular blog rotationandbalance.blogspot.com. And Mahmud Hussain, art director extraordinaire who often goes by the name Moody. Not all my friends come from the world of advertising. But many do. 

Which seems very natural to me because we'd all spend so much time bullshitting, thinking, more bullshitting, and occasionally coming up with ideas that could change the trajectory of a Fortune 500 company. Perhaps turning them into a Fortune 100 company.

My friend Matty often refers to this as 'false camaraderie.' But I disagree. In retrospect there's nothing false about it. The colleagues I had/have from the ad world are some of the brightest, creative and empathetic people I've ever met in my life. And that even includes Neal -- a little inside joke among my Team One buds.

It was only natural that the laughter and joy we all shared within the cubicle farms, and sometimes the Long Tables of Mediocrity™, would spill out into after-hours socializing. 

And so it was great to sit down, break bread and enjoy a noontime beer with Jeff and Moody. When we weren't kibbutzing or leering at the women passing by on Culver Blvd or badmouthing past shitty, self aggrandizing bosses who never met a vodka bottle that didn't need emptying, we turned our attention to the current situation 'Murica finds itself in.

I hate to to turn the tone of this post dark, but I must. 

Moody had been traveling abroad to visit his mother in Hong Kong. On his return to our once-great nation, he told us how his blood pressure began to rise as he approached the US Custom's Gate at Tom Bradley Terminal. He had wisely turned off his Face ID on his phone. And deleted any apps that would leave a trace of any anti-Trump sentiment. 

If the Feds knew he was friends with yours truly, he could've found himself on a plane to El Salvador. Or worse.

I almost choked on my once-a-month cheeseburger knowing we have reached an unprecedented level of such UnAmerican neo-fascism. Now I can feel my chest throbbing and my elevated blood pressure. If my MethHead neighbor's dog starts barking anytime soon, I could be needing an ambulance.

Do not be fooled by the smiles in the photo above. We, all of us including the naive, uninformed caucasian crowd who say they love America, are on a rapidly increasing Death Spiral. Foisted upon us by a senile, bigoted, silver spoon convicted felon with a vomit-inducing appetite for underage women.

Release the Epstein Files.

"Check, please." 

The Wednesday Photo Funnies

It's been a while since I've done a Photo Funnies post, so I thought I'd start off with one of my faves. 

This little plant -- if I were resourceful as I think I am I would've used my Plantnet app to identify the little bugger -- was seen growing out of a sewer drain in the driveway of Ms. Muse's house in bucolic Sierra Madre.

Not to get all woo-woo with you, but I do think it's a hopeful metaphor for the dire situation our country finds itself in. That is, a green sprout of growth and potential, rising from a cesspool of corruption, greed, hate and pedophilia. 

Come on, release the Epstein Files. 

Because there's a lot to get to, let's not waste any more time.

Spotted this little gem, which manages to take potshots at 

two Trump calamities at once with just four well chosen words.

Here's another 4 -word gem that might be short on wit, 

but makes its point extremely well.

And finally, in compliance with the Comedy Rule of Threes,

here's another, directed at Red Hats.

Two weeks ago I was at the Sierra Madre July 4th parade

and spotted this 1966 Dodge Coronet. 

I drove a bright red one in college, 

the second car I owned that had major brake failure.

After the parade I spotted this odd sign for the Dye Pretty Hair Studio.

A clever play on words? 

Maybe, but it's adjacent to and part of the Kensington Nursing Home. Doh!

For no particular reason I'm including this photo,

screengrabbed from the Palm Springs Facebook Marketplace.

The searing heat does something weird to these people.

I probably shouldn't be letting everyone in on the secret, but if you're on the way

to Central California, the Cold Spring Tavern is a must stop destination.

Have the Tri-Tip sandwich.

While there, check out the graffiti in the outhouse.

This was the only printable one for my family friendly blog.

OK, maybe not so family-friendly.

Also, Fuck Trump.

 

The Medium is the Message

Dear CNN,

We're done. This may come as news to you, which wouldn't be a surprise since you left the official business of News a long, long time ago. Fact is, I haven't been watching your network since the fiasco of last November. 

When I wanted to catch up with the rapidly deteriorating world, I would occasionally turn to your website. But I'll no longer be doing that and have no intention of paying for what was once free -- i.e. your particular brand of journalism.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not falling prey to the "president's" branding of your network as a purveyor of Fake News. 

With the exception of the the whole snotty brat kid, Nick Sandman, who was taunting a native American and the completely unwatchable saccharine-sickly handoffs between lughead Chris Cuomo and his bro Don Lemon, I found you to be a reliable source of news. 

Albeit way too heavy on punditry and useless round table discussions.

I find it funny that those who disparage your network have no issue with Right Wing Media and their unabashed bias. The folks calling you Fake News are the same ones watching state-mandated propaganda and paying $ billion settlements, I'm looking at you Fox News, for willingly distributing disinformation.

I'm often amused when after presenting verifiable facts, Trumpsters will reflexively ask, "Oh why don't you stop watching CNN?" Thank you, I will. And when I stoop to their level and query where they get their news, they often stumble for an answer.

I already know what media they consume. 

Because they don't read, it comes from TV like NewsMax or OAN. BTW, they're also facing penalties for peddling the Dominion Hoax. Or it comes from Steroid Joe Rogan, a man with the IQ of a 10 lbs. steel dumbbell. Or even better they tune in to Alex Jones, the guy who lost a billion dollar settlement for spewing some bullshit about Sandy Hook and the murder of 20+ children being a False Flag. 

Alex is not only a purveyor of Fake News, I contend he is a Fake Human Being.

The irony is that just as Centrists and Critical thinking people like myself are abandoning CNN, Uninformed and obscenely gullible Red Hats will soon be be leaving Fox as they are being sued by Trump for publishing the Epstein Letter. Not that I ever expect to see this reach an actual trial where Trump would have be deposed and further documents have to be entered into discovery.

This will be mediated out of court by high priced lawyers. Are there any other kind?  This promises to be a battle of the deep pockets. Rupert's billions vs Precedent Shitgibbon and the money he raises by selling off his compression socks and used diapers to his kultists who are now preparing to be extras for the filming of Idiocracy 2, the Remayke.

In the end, when this nightmare is finally over, Americans will find themselves starving for democracy. 

And even something more important, Truth.  

 

The legacy of LinkedIn

We're starting a new week. 

And it remains to be seen if the Epstein File Bukake of News will finally fade out. As in all past Trump transgressions, ethical, criminal and moral missteps that would have sunk the career of any other politician, I believe this will fade from our collective memory. And be relegated to one of those corrugated cardboard boxes gathering dust in a chandeliered bathroom at Mara Lago.

But today's post concerns, I thinks concerns is probably not the right word choice here, is the disappearance of the LinkedIn Ladies of Personal Brand Building.

They were popular about 10 years ago. The same time Gary Vaynerchuck was crushing the Crush Rush and Grant Cardone, the gazillionaire real estate huckster was promising to 10X your income, your protein consumption, and your penile tumescence.

Thankfully, I don't see their posts anymore. 

I suspect that's because I whipped out the "R" word -- retired -- and let the LinkedIn algorithms that I was no longer looking for copywriting opportunities. Hence my brand was already built. If you can call it that. And was now entering a slow steady state of decay.

And with that I was no longer being shown the Limber Ladies of LinkedIn who danced profusely while spewing personal nuggets of career wisdom that only a 25 year old Kappa Kappa Gamma could dish on their iPhone videos.

"You have to believe in yourself. If you don't, who will?"

"Discover what makes you, you. And let the world in on you."

"Kale."

Similarly, Gary V. no longer pops up in my feed. I don't miss his online videos either. Particularly when he'd get overly excited and spittle would fly from his mouth while urging viewers to crush this, crush that, and go all Godzilla-style and crush small towns and hamlets. 

It might be the timber of his voice, in addition to his vapid platitudes, but this is the only crushing I'm interested in:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7k6XTvlGc_s

Finally there's Mr. Cardone. Happy not to see him pimping his school of "real estate secrets." Geez, who else do we know that made billions in real estate by siphoning federal subsidies, stiffing contractors and sharing his proprietary methods and sources...

But I still doom scroll at LinkedIn. After all, if my close to 10,000 followers, and again, I don't know how that happened...

...were to purchase a T-shirt or a hat or a coffee mug from my new online store, I'd safely be able to avoid ending up in a dirty nursing home. Or at least I'd have one of those rooms with a panoramic view of the parking lot.

Stay Clear of Old Hateful

As I write this on July 15th, 2025, the current farce de jour is MAGA world's disappointment on the Epstein Files cover up. They were foaming at the mouth with the prospect of owning several major high profile libs, but were told, "There's nothing to see here folks, move along."

They have been lied to for years, but didn't care. But this violation of their trust has them fuming.

So much so that they've paid little attention to the fact that Trump was completely bamboozled by Vladimir Putin. Or the fact that thousands of people were dying in Ukraine, but at least "they're not Americans."

But the real story here is the real stories that are seemingly not here anymore.

Because while we're talking about Epstein Island and who was schtupping (raping) underage women, we're not talking about the 27 children who passed away in the Texas Floods because of GOP malfeasance.

And when we were talking about Republican bloody hands we were no longer discussing the botched Iran bombing. 

When we were talking about the Middle East fiasco we weren't talking about the illegal and immoral ICE raids.

When we were talking about our own domestic Gaspacho Police, we weren't talking about his stupid $45 million military parade.

When we were talking about his sad birthday party, we were no longer talking about Alligator Alcatraz.

When we were talking about unchecked American bloodlust, we were no longer talking about the abolishing of the 14th Amendment.

When we were talking about losing birthright citizenship (including my own tentative status) we were no longer talking about Pete Hegseth and his incompetent command.

When we were talking about our alcoholic and leaky Secretary of Defense Kegsbreath, we were no longer talking about Secretary of Health RFK Jr. wading in sewage filled waters.

When we were talking about about Trump's brain deficient cabinet of losers and cosplayers, we weren't talking about the President of the United States doubting whether he had to uphold the US Constitution, the same Constitution he took an oath to defend while being sworn into office.

If my brain were at full capacity and I hadn't taken an edible to lower my blood pressure, this list could go on and on and on. I see it. You see it. Red Hats don't see it. I doubt they ever will.

Let's check back a week from now. I guarantee we will not be talking about Epstein and the nation's zeitgeist will again be hijacked by some new jawdropping demonstration of his monstrous UnAmerican narcissism.

GUARANTEE!

Sales Rise When You Proselytize

I am such an idiot. A stubborn, never-listen-to anyone, bonafide idiot. A living, breathing, walking talking example that NOT all Jews are good with money. Had I known the design your own T-shirts and coffee mugs retail business was so lucrative, I would have thrown my anti-Trump memes in the ring a long, long time ago. And easily surpassed the meager returns on my sagging 401K.

"Just back the Brink's truck into the driveway boys, and put those bales of cash on the shelves in the garage, right above the box marked Belding Bowls. Can I get you some coffee? It's from Costa Rica."

As many of you know, and are probably making space in your chest of drawers and kitchen cabinets for all the Siegel merch on hand, I reluctantly took the sage advice of Ms. Muse and put together a collection of custom made wearables and drinkables on Bonfire. 

For the 8 people on the planet who haven't bookmarked the site, you can find the viral sensation here.

If that fails, you can always query one of the thousands of people you will no doubt spot on the street bearing the trademarked™ the signature Siegel sentiment. Which, I can only assume will be growing exponentially as the orange buffoon continues to self destruct by sending Gestapo goons to our streets. And hides his mushroom pecker behind the dated, unflattering skirts of his clueless Attorney General, Pam Bondi.

And yes, if you haven't guessed, this too will appear on a T-shirt. 

Sales have been so astronomical I am having difficulty fitting my already-oversized head into my car and passing through the doorways of my house which was built in the late 40's and not very accommodating to a  nouveau-wealthy and self satisfied Custom Swag Tycoon.  

Moreover I've had to take some crash courses in Excel in order to keep up with the flood of incoming orders and the bookkeeping, which is all Greek to me, despite coming from a family of CPAs.

And now, the obligatory (though hardly necessary) call to action. 

If I can decipher Bonfire's complimentary Promo Code widget, I will add it to the end of this post. But since many of you are employed (or were employed) in the creative arts, I will give the next 5 buyers and exclusive opportunity to write and/or design their own T-shirt to be added to The Trash Trump Treasure Chest.

Not to get too far out ovcer my stips, but this is nothing less than your chance for immortality!

What are you waiting for? 

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The code for you frugal buyers is Unleash25. Have at it.