A Modest Type O+ Proposal

Last week, following the shooting tragedy in Arizona, some rather unfair charges were leveled at Sarah Palin, and other Republicans, who have engaged in heated political rhetoric. Those leveling the charges seem more than willing to give a pass to Democrats who engage in similar tactics, including the President who once said, "If they bring a knife to the fight, we bring a gun."

To refudiate these charges (malaprop intended), Ms. Palin accused those in the media of "blood libel." I have no intention of defending or ridiculing Sarah Palin. That ground has been covered by pundits on the right and the left.

Frankly, like many others, I wish this intellectual lightweight would vanish from the political landscape. I cannot believe there are some who actually believe she is fit for the office of President. She's not fit for night time television game shows. I know I could beat her at Wheel of Fortune and fairly confident I could take her down in Jeopardy. Unless the categories that came up were Caribou Stalking, Caribou Hunting, Caribou Shooting, Caribou Skinning, Caribou Cooking and Hair Bumps.

But I would like to address the less-talked-about topic of Blood Libel.

Believed to have been started during the First Crusade, Blood Libel is another canard, among many, that contends Jews ritually murder non-Jewish children and collect their blood. The blood is then placed on the table at the Passover Feast and used for dipping, not unlike a salsa, for Jewish Matzo.

Wacky, right?

I've been to countless Seders, and hosted many more, and witnessed some pretty unsavory foods on the table, like charoseths, karpas and zeroa, but not once have I ever seen my wife, or my aunt, or my grandmother ever put out a bowl of gentile blood (we don't even own a proper gravy boat.)

But maybe that's exactly what we should be doing.

The old standby joke about matzo is that it tastes worse than the cardboard box it came in. The fact that the Matzo and the box bear more than a slight resemblance doesn't help the matter. Perhaps some fresh goyish blood would.

We have three months before Passover, the question is which little children in the neighborhood should we include in our ritual slaughter? There's the two little boys that live next door to us. But my teenage daughters often babysit for them. And they make decent money at it. It probably wouldn't be wise, or very Jewish, to cut off that revenue stream.

Then there's the neighbor who just had a little baby girl. She's only 6 months old. And she's really adorable. Her blood would make a tasty addition to our holiday feast. But it could be hard to get to her. Her mother is always around. And she doesn't walk or crawl or ride a bike or even a skateboard...wait a minute.

There's that obnoxious, portly 11-year old boy from up the street. I don't know his name, but I think it should be Portlee. He's constantly skateboarding in front of my house. He's always falling on his fat ass as he tries to 'get air' off the curb. It's so damn noisy. Portlee could practice that trick for the next 1000 years and I guarantee he will never utter the phrase, "nailed it" with any veracity.

If we were to slay Portlee, drain his blood and serve it at our next Seder, the world would actually be a better place. Let's face it, chances are he would have graduated from a skateboard to a jetski and turned into a beer-guzzling, hell-raising river rat. Lord knows we don't need more of that. More importantly, Portlee will have contributed his body to the furtherance of an ancient and honored Jewish tradition that celebrates the liberation from bondage.

Because no man, no woman and no child should live under the yoke of slavery.

Particularly the children.

We need their blood.

Shark Sighting

Thanks to Don Draper and the good folks at A&E, admen (and adwomen) are no longer at the top of the list of most disliked professionals. We've been supplanted by dentists, politicians and perpetually-late cable TV repairmen.

Also gaining a lot of momentum, divorce lawyers.

In fact, having spoken with a few friends who have been through the process, I'm surprised these attorneys do not don bulletproof kevlar vests. Which makes it all the more shocking that this particular barrister would choose to advertise his profession on the back of his $111,000 ZR1 Corvette.

Perhaps the driver of this exquisite sports car is not in any mortal danger, but wouldn't that vanity plate provide ample temptation to the newly single man (now separated from his wife and his money) to walk by the length of the vehicle with a sharp key or ballpoint pen perilously projecting from his pocket?

The shame of fame

I suppose it's the price to be paid for living in Southern California, but my daughters seem to be obsessed with fame. Of course it doesn't help that they actually go to the same private school attended by some of Hollywood's A-list families.

Years ago I had the displeasure of sitting through a school production of Anything Goes.

Directly behind me were Demi Moore and Ashton Kutsher. They were rude and obnoxious, as if their daughter, Eagle or Raindrop or Chickweed, were the only kid in the play.

Thankfully, they transferred out of the school, presumably to be in the company of other over-indulged celebrities. Good riddance.

We have a new AA++ celebrity at school this year, whose name I dare not speak but who's quite handy with a soccer ball. I have it on good intel that he, and his celebrity wife, are actually quite down to earth and pleasant to be around.

I suppose I might have come to California in search of a little fame, but I abandoned that a long, long time ago. It is, as many discover, a false dream. And truth be told I'd much rather have dignity than fame.

The Candyman must be turning in his grave knowing his likeness had been turned into a cartoonish, nappy-headed salami. (Can I say nappy-headed? Is that politically incorrect? Apologies in advance if I have delved into any political incorrectness.)

The greater offense belongs to the Roll N' Rye Deli who have besmirched the image of the one-eyed Rat Packer to shamelessly hawk fatty, well-cured meat.

Thankfully, I will never have to worry about anyone ordering a Salami Davis Jr. on Rye with a side of SiegelSlaw.

Here We Go

Weeks ago I ragged on a Red Lobster commercial I had seen on the air. I had mistakenly thought it was the work of the agency, Grey in NY. It wasn't.

I was misinformed. But so was an irate agencyspy.com reader of my commentary who claimed it wasn't a good idea for me, as a freelancer, to quote "shit" on other people's work. I didn't dignify the anonymous commentator then, but I will now.

First of all, I don't poop on other's people work. As Lee Clow once stated, 95% of advertising is total crap. In my mind, that total crap is fair game. If that anonymous commentator would like stand in defense of that 95% of crap, well it says more about him, or her, than it does about me.

Secondly, the Red Lobster spot in question hardly qualifies as "work." In reality, it's s creative brief put on film. Nothing more than food porn backed by a cloyingly happy voiceover.

Let that be the last word on Red Lobster.

Which brings us to the current Bud Light campaign, which is not in and of itself, bad. I actually like a couple of the individual spots. In particular, the plane survivors who willfully ignore the woman who has found the radio transmitter in favor of the passenger who has located a beer cart full of cold Bud Lights.

What I take issue with is the force feeding of the contrived catchphrase, "Here We Go."

I know, because I've sat in excruciating meetings with these people, that a team at Anheuser Busch headquarters is convinced that phrase will be turned into marketing gold. They've already got novelty manufacturers in Shanghai ready to push the start button on the talking Here We Go Bud Light Bobbleheads.

Maybe they'll succeed. But I hope they don't. Because I hate catchphrases.

Siegel, out.

Jipped

One of the beautiful things about Facebook is how it reconnects people who haven't been connected in a long, long time. Or for that matter, ever connected.

Recently, my first cousin Robert, who lives in Wales, reached out to me from across the pond. As strange as it may sound, I had never met or even known about Robert for my entire life. My mum (that's the ways Scots refer to their mothers) never spoke much about her family or life in the motherland. I suspect it made her very homesick.

After a few email exchanges with Robert it has become clear to me that the sense of humor I once thought I had inherited from the Jewish side of the family, can also be traced to my very British lineage. Robert, like most Scots, has an incredibly sharp, dry wit.

Anyway, while on the topic of genetics, take a look at this photo my cousin had in his possession. The stunning woman on the left was me mum. The handsome tuxedoed man on the right with the full head of hair, was my dad.

I may be a little biased, but they strike me as a classically beautiful couple. I don't know what happened during the fertilization process, but sadly I was not on the receiving end of any those finely-formed chromosomes.

The frumpy, bald Jew in the middle was Abe Rothman, my great grandfather.

Looks like I got all of his genes.

Mmmm, porcine

Over the Christmas break, we loaded up the minivan and headed north on the 101.

We stopped in Santa Cruz for a night at the boardwalk and discovered that, even when surrounded by the beautiful redwoods of Big Sur and the pristine waters of Northern California, carny people are carny people.

Not making any judgments here. After all there's something charming about knocking down milk bottles with a softball and winning a giant stuffed bear that smells of salt air, stale cigarettes and Early Times Bourbon.

We followed Santa Cruz up with a journey to Petaluma to visit my sister in law.

And in between we stopped off in one of my favorite cities, San Francisco. My daughters love SF as well. But not for the same reasons. They love the opportunity to visit restaurants and eateries they've seen on the Food Network.

While scouring the Mission District (and looking for the home in the opening credits of Full House) we stopped for lunch at the Tartine Bakery. The line to get in was half way down the block (which put me in a sour way) it was self serve (strike two) and there was no place to sit (where's Denny's?). But I maintained my composure and we waited it out. And boy was it worth it. (I hate when my wife is right.) Truth is, I'm pretty sure I will go to my grave never tasting a sandwich that will top the spicy turkey pesto panini at Tartine's.

Before we left the city we walked through the Ferry building in the Embarcadero. There we sampled cheese, bread and olive oil from the overpriced boutiques set up to fleece tourists. It's also where I spotted Boccalone, home of the tasty salted pig parts.

What an odd handle for an eatery, I thought. Then I remembered the early days of my advertising career, when I would present work to the Creative Director and he would reject the idea saying, "It's good, but it's a little too on the nose."

I never really understood what that meant.

Now I do. And I think it might apply to Boccalone, Tasty Salted Pig Parts.

It's a little too on the nose.

Or in this case, snout.

To the rectory

Though thoroughly agnostic and born of an Episcopalian mother from the working town of Paisley, Scotland, I identify myself as a Jew. Always have, always will. I don't keep Kosher. I don't study the Torah. And I couldn't begin to tell you the difference between the Tanakh and the Talmud. Nevertheless, as my friend Ellen puts it, I have this undeniable strong sense of Jewishness.

Which makes it all the more ironic that my wife and I are attempting to send our daughters to Saint Monica's Catholic High School. Oh yes, you read that right.

Plaid skirts. Ornery nuns. And crucifixes on any wall that can support a nail.

Why? You may ask.

The numbers tell the story. I can no longer afford to send my girls to private school where the tuition is simply prohibitive. And we tried one year at a public high school, where after 4 months, some of the teachers still don't know my daughter's name. And Catholic school offers a happy-but-guilt ridden middle ground.

Not to mention that Saint Monica is an affordable college prep campus and that 99% of all graduates go on to a 4 year college. 99%! Fewer Catholics get into heaven.

At the open house several weeks ago, my wife and I sat in a large auditorium to listen to the Monsignor and get a feel for the school. At one point in the presentation, I needed to use the bathroom. I was led to a restroom in the back, where I spotted the silvery vending machine pictured above.

Odd, I thought. As I left the bathroom I asked the Vice Principal why there was a condom machine in the men's room? I may be new to Catholicism but my understanding was that condom use was not permitted, even in these more enlightened times.

The Vice Principal summoned the Monsignor, who took me by the shoulder and literally said, "How can I be of assistance, brother?" He led me to the machine in question, chuckled and whispered, "This is a unisex bathroom, brother. This machine does not dispense condoms. It dispenses feminine napkins." I felt relieved. And I liked being called brother.

And with that, we exited the bathroom, his arm wrapped around me, laughing, not the way two middle aged men should be exiting any bathroom.

This Catholic School thing could work out swimmingly. My daughters will get a great education. And the whole experience will provide me with years worth of comedic mileage.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to read up on "plenary indulgences."

The Glove that says Love

My wife is easily pleased. She'd have to be, since she married me. (See how I connect with my readers by writing exactly what they're thinking as they're thinking it?)

A month ago, it was Chanukkah or Chanucha or Hanukka, any spelling -- given the proper amount of phlegmy sounds-- will do.

Mostly we concentrate on giving gifts to our two lovely, if not spoiled, daughters. Deb and I lead modest lives and don't find ourselves wanting for much. But in the spirit of the season we do engage in some marginal gift exchanging.

To make a boring story shorter, on the 7th night of the Jewish Festival of Lights, I gave my wife the magical Kevlar-coated Ove' Glove. And just as I suspected, she was thrilled. Actually, she was beyond thrilled. She was ecstatic. How was I to know that a simple machine-washable oven mitt could produce such joy.

I don't think I'd ever seen her that happy. Well, that is until the 8th night of Hannukah, when I completed the matching set and gave her a second Ove' Glove.

Drizzle Alert 2011

The first post of the New Year and he's talking about the weather. That can't be a good sign, can it?

But the truth is, lots of people are talking about the weather. The blizzard in NY, the rain in LA or the 20 feet of snow in Mammoth Lakes. (No one seems to be talking about the ridiculous $92 lift tickets at Mammoth Mountain however. I'm sure I'll get around to raging about that in the near future.)

In any case, we just concluded one of our rainiest Decembers on record. I believe we topped 8 inches. I'm sure this brings a snicker to friends up in Seattle, where it rains 8 inches between the brewing of the 2nd and 3rd pot of coffee. Nevertheless, it's the Southern California equivalent of a monsoon.

Just ask the man pictured above.

While patiently waiting for the Number 5 bus to Culver City, he found shelter under the world's largest umbrella, complete with a convenient picnic table stand. Had the wind been cooperative, I suspect he could have caught a good updraft and Mary Poppin'ed himself straight through to the Baldwin Hills.

Happy Holidays

We're going to take a well deserved break here at roundseventeen until the beginning of the New Year. Until then, hope you have a Merry Christmas.

Or, if you are Finnish or descended from the people of Fennoscandia, hope you have a Happy Beiwe Festival. Which as many of you know is the celebration of fertility and sanity. In fact, many celebrants will paint their doorways with butter, so that Beiwe, the goddess of spring and sun, can eat and begin her journey to return.

Mmmmm, butter.

A little laugh

Reindeer, radar and urinating elves. They all come together in a spot we wrote and produced for Acura.

I know our current campaign for the Season of Reason Sales Event is dominating the airwaves. Seems everytime I turn on a football or basketball game I see the pompous stocking lady or the Christopher Walken sound-alike guy talking about his new quad-chambered, double-vented chestnut roaster.

It's just a shame this spot doesn't get the airplay it deserves. Particularly since it required us to spend a frigid dusk-til-dawn night in the mountains outside Wrightwood.

By the way, for those of you with a sharp eye and a penchant for HBO dramatic series, the midget/small person/dwarf (I don't know the politically correct terminology) also had a 'small' part in one of the latter episodes of Boardwalk Empire.

In that scene, dripping with irony, he complains about putting on a silly costume, selling out his dignity and entertaining the bigwigs for a few lousy greenbacks.

Ouch.

Tis the season

Last week I wrote about some of the incredibly gauche Hanukkah displays popping up, this week we take on the Nativity scene. But not just any Nativity Scene.

You see the man on the right, just outside the manger? In Catalonia, he is known as The Caganer (in English, "The Pooper" or "The Shitter"). If you look even closer, you'll see the man's pants have been dropped and he is 'depositing his frankincense and mir' on the rock.

From what I've gathered on Wikipedia, the custom was started in Northern Spain by farmers as a way to celebrate not only the birth of the Saviour but also the rebirth of the soil, which needs fertilizer, which needs a man pooping in the yard.

If I wasn't so busy with work right now, I would book four tickets for my family to fly to Andora and travel around the countryside just to take in the various and colorful Caganer displays. My oldest daughter, a budding photographer, could take pictures of the Nativity Scenes and we could turn it all into a cool coffee table book.

Dear Random House....

Well, maybe next year.

You might be wondering what would it look like if The Caganer were not some decrepit old man, but someone more contemporary and famous. Oh I don't know, like our President...

OK, you might not be wondering that, but the good folks at caganer.com have.

Happy Endings

There was a time when the seedier side of life was kept to the back pages of the LA Weekly. Or cheap flyers passed out in Times Square or Las Vegas. But I guess the pundits are right: print is a dead medium.

Spotted this mobile outdoor board on Sepulveda Blvd. while driving my daughter to Hebrew School. I was shocked when I first saw it. Not that I'm any sort of prude mind you, I'm a bit of an absolutist when it comes to free speech. In fact, I find myself in agreement with the lawyers representing the freakish Fred Phelps and his cult of crazed Christians in the upcoming Supreme Court fight. It may be ugly. It may be hateful. But it is constitutional.

But back to the $100 full body massages.

Upon seeing this sign, I was so taken aback, I didn't do a double take, I did a Batman U-turn. And parked the car right next to the sign. This created two dilemmas.

First, my daughter, who is still in the last stage of childhood innocence, wanted an explanation of Massage Outcalls.

"You know honey, when someone rubs your back and soothes your muscles."

Followed by more inquiries about "Full Body", "Thai" and "Swedish."

Followed by the second, more difficult question, "If it's just a sign for someone to rub your shoulders for $100, why did you stop the car to take pictures of it?"

Just as I predicted

Over the summer, Red Lobster -- fine purveyors of ocean bottom food for over 50 years -- conducted a review for their advertising account. As expected many agencies took the bait and agreed to grovel at their feet, that is, participate in the review.

It wasn't for the opportunity to do breakthrough work in the sale of crustaceous products. Red Lobster has never, ever, ever produced a noteworthy campaign.

The winning agency in this review would have the opportunity to keep that long streak of mediocrity alive. (Oh and rake in a few million dollars for their trouble.)

Having been in the ad business for more than 20 years, I had a pretty good idea what the 'next' Red Lobster ad campaign would look like. In fact I wrote about it in August and agencyspy published my prognostication.

I don't know if you've been anywhere near a TV in the last three weeks, but true to my word, the lobster folks have rolled out the first offering in the new campaign, you know, the one that breaks with the traditions of the past, disrupts the marketplace and puts Red Lobster in a whole new mindset.

It's not up on youtube, but being a resourceful and diligent blogger, I have tracked it down for your viewing pleasure. And I use the word 'pleasure' with tongue firmly planted in cheek.

Thankfully, some rabid shellfish fan has created a Facebook page for the new Red Lobster Surf & Turf Event.

With the exception of the man in khaki pants eating buttery lobster, my speculative script was spot on. If only my predictive powers were as accurate with NFL and NCAA basketball games, I could make a killing with a sports bookie, buy a beach house in Malibu and forget this sordid business of advertising.

Tossed salad and scrambled eggs.

I hate what my daughters choose to watch on television. I suppose if I had boys, it would be a lot different. 24 hours a day of sports. Video games. And World's Dumbest Criminals Caught on Tape.

Damn you Y chromosome, damn you.

The latest crap appearing in my living room is the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. With that much silicone, plastic and nouveau riche affectations, it seems to me they ought to remove the word "Real" from the title.

In any case, one of the wives, Camille Grammar, is now the ex-wife of TV star Kelsey Grammar. I only show mild interest in her segments because I had met Kelsey a long time ago.

I was in a studio, located right above the Hollywood Athletic Club, scoring music to one of the first Nissan commercials I had ever written. It was exciting at the time. But then I was young and stupid and fascinated by all the buttons on the recording board.

When we were done the engineer invited me to stick around for a pay per view boxing match. He ordered some pizzas and said his friend, Kelsey Grammar, was coming over to catch the fight. It was a Friday night and even though I wasn't a big boxing fan, how often was I going to get the opportunity to hang out with Kelsey Grammar, a guy who was literally rolling in money from both CHEERS and FRASIER.

I'm sure I pictured him throwing around money like a drunken billionairre. "Hey kid, here's $1,000 bill, hand me a slice of that pepperoni pizza wouldya?"

The truth is, I had one half of the scenario correct.

When Kelsey showed up at the studio, he was four sheets to the wind. He was carrying two six packs of beer and he had a quart of whiskey. Half of which he'd already drank or spilled on his trousers.

We've all had those kind of nights. At least , I have. So I don't want to be too judgmental. But at the time, the letdown was palpable.

I didn't really care about the fight. And now, even less about Kelsey Grammar. So I packed up my briefcase, said my goodbyes and left.

Without the $1,000 bill.

Do you like gladiators?

In the freelance world of Southern California advertising, I'm affectionately referred to as, "the busiest guy in town."

In years past, this might have bothered me. I would prefer to be known as the "the most talented writer in town" or "the smartest writer in town" or possibly, "the best looking writer in town." (I'm pretty sure Simon Mainwaring has a lock on that one. I'm tired of hearing agency people swooning over that handsome Australian guy. "Oh, we should hire him back.")

Enough about Simon, let's get back to me.

There's a reason why I'm always busy. It has a lot to do with the fact that I stupidly undercharge for my services. I know writers with half the experience and a quarter of the awards I have, charging almost twice what I charge. By all accounts, I should be raising my day rate, I just don't know how.

The other reason I stay busy --and the reason for the screenshot above -- is that I can be very resourceful.

My wife claims I spend way too much time on the Internet, but the truth is the Internet is a great fountain of potential job assignments. I scour job boards, sign up for Monster and Careerbuilder alerts and find jobs where other writers would never think of looking.

Of course, not every lead produces income. Sometimes I'll be sent job openings that just aren't appropriate.

The Orange County Gladiators are looking for a Mascot. I can muster up the energy. I can be friendly and outgoing. I can engage and entertain fans. And on some occasions, I'm even good with children. What I lack however is the ability to withstand high temperatures in a costume. My swarthy Mediterranean genetic make-up produces sweat the way an account planner produces unintelligible marketingese.

So I'm going to have to pass on this job.

It's all yours Simon.

What does this button do?

Mosque bombings in Pakistan, Congressional stagnation, tinpot Korean midgets on the warpath, let's face it there's not a lot to smile about on cnn.com lately.

All that changed last week when Rick "the Iceberg" Ehlert stopped a cruise ship in its tracks. Fueled by copious amounts of tequila, the 44-year old California resident somehow managed to get past the Authorized Personnel Only Door and successfully dropped the anchor of the MS Ryndam.

BTW, I can only assume his poison of choice was tequila. These type of shenanigans are rarely induced by beer or wine. "I say, this Cabernet has a delicate fruity quality and quite a memorable finish. Let's go to the upper deck and release the 2 ton anchor."

I notched some pretty abhorrent behavior myself while under the influence.

I've driven when I shouldn't have driven. I've drunk-dialed ex-girlfriends. Once, I even put myself in harm's way, getting between two German tourists and a redneck looking for a bar fight cause, "they need to speak 'Merican." (Me? Standing up for Germans. I must have been really drunk.)

I even recall an incident from a long, long time ago, when my buddy Jim and I got it in our heads that we should go out on Santa Monica Blvd and harpoon an inflatable 3-dimensional Orca Whale featured on an outdoor board for Sea World. There we stood at 3 AM, hurling darts at this inanimate leviathan. Only to discover later that the vinyl whale was not inflatable and was actually filled with styrofoam peanuts.

So in that spirit of been there, done that, let's lift a glass and toast Mr. Ehlert. You have set a new standard in drunken irresponsible behavior. I eagerly await your next stunt.

Jew gotta be kidding

We are in the thick of the season. And when I say season, of course I am referring to the Chanukkah season. As evidenced by this rather over-the-top decorating extravaganza spotted on Overland Ave.

Maybe it's the generational gap talking here, but when I was a kid, we had a simple menorrah and that sufficed. It stood in stark contrast to the lights, the trees, the wreaths, the ornate nativity scenes and the plastic Santas on the lawns of my mostly Roman Catholic neighborhood. And I was fine with that.

There was something dignified about treating a religious holiday with some understated reverence.

Years ago, before children, mortgages and ear hair, my wife and I tooled around Spain and Portugal. One of the most beautiful things we saw was a synagogue built in the 1500's. It was nothing more than a simple white room --sort of the Hebraic predecessor of the Apple Store -- delicately adorned with one simple row of deep ocean blue tile that rimmed the ceiling. It might have been the most incredible building on the entire Iberian Peninsula.

Not that my people are beyond hideous design and ostentation.

If you've ever been inside a Judaica store, you know from which I speak -- monstrous menorrahs, krass kiddish cups and flashy door mezzuzahs with motion detectors. I'm pretty sure it all violates the 11th Commandment brought down by Moses. "Thou shalt not fashion silver and gold into crap."

I'm just thankful that when my kids were smaller there weren't these elaborate displays for sale. Because I know my daughters would have talked me into the giant dreidel-spinning Hanukkah bear. And despite the running, swimming and various other aerobic activities, I know I still don't have the lung capacity to inflate one of those.

Mmmmmm, mcribby

Seems everywhere I turn, people are talking about the return of the McRib Sandwich. Talk about clueless? I didn't even know it was gone.

But I do know folks are excited. I see commercials for the McRib. Outdoor boards for the McRib. There's even a Facebook page for McRib devotees.

I'm no food snob.

I love a good dive for Mexican or Thai food. And when we travel abroad, there's nothing I enjoy more than some local cuisine sold by a street vendor. But I generally resist eating at any establishment that has its own indoor playground. And/or a pervy clown.

Maybe the McRib merits all the attention its getting. I'll never know. I've never had one. And like the meat in the McRib it's destined to remain a mystery to me.

My goodfellas

One of the things I miss living in Southern California is the mob. I'm sure the Mafia is out here, it's just that I don't see it and I don't have any connection to it.

That's probably a good thing.

The same was not true when I lived in NY. When we lived in Jackson Heights, Queens, my father had all kinds of mob connections. They literally lived in our apartment building. These were not the $2,000 suit-wearing made men of movie fame. These were low level guys, working stiffs, who were probably quite familiar with the ins-and-outs of nearby Kennedy and La Guardia airports.

I remember the Tuesday Night poker games in our dining room. 3 Jews and 3 Italian guys, smoking a ton of cigarettes, knocking down cheap scotch, tossing dollar bills on the table, and enjoying a night away from the wives.

It didn't make sense to me then. It makes a lot of sense to me now.

I bring this up because the other day I was out running and heard an old Todd Rundgren song on my iPod. It was the song we used to announce last call at the bar I worked at in college. (Funny how music and odors can bring back such strong memories).

I loved bartending in college.

It paid for tuition and put me closest to the two things I loved most: liquor and women. And of course, I never would've had that job had it not been for my dad and his "friends." You see, he knew the two brothers who owned the bar, Sal and Tony. Or Frankie and Paulie. Or, Sonny and Fredo. I've long since forgotten their names.

I only remember my father telling me these guys were connected (always with a small 'c') and that I shouldn't screw up. Fact is, I couldn't have screwed if I tried. These guys were the most easygoing bosses I ever had. They let us eat. They let us drink. They let us goof off. It was almost as if they set up this legitimate business and didn't care whether it made money or not.

It didn't make sense to me then. It makes a lot of sense to me now.