The Screeners Are Here

It's SAG screening time again. And the good folks at the Screen Actors Guild, my fellow thespians, are interested in my opinion on the top films of the day.

I am more than happy to give it to them. As well as my $108 a year for guild fees to keep my membership active. And to keep me eligible for SAG jobs I'll never get.

The fact is, I haven't been on an audition for at least 15 years. And when I did, it was only for voiceover work -- easily, the most overpaid job on the planet.

You may be saying, "Siegel, I never knew you were an actor."

And the truth is, I'm not. But years ago, I did the scratch tracks for spots we were presenting to ABC. The client became so enamored with my nasally, awful-though-comedic voice, they decided to stick with it.

In the industry, this is called "Demo Love".

Long story, thankfully shorter, I did the VO on many ABC promo spots in the late 90's. It was only later that I found out that residuals were not paid on media promo spots. So my daughter's college tuition windfall was more like a gentle summer breeze. Or the quick burst warm exhaust coming from the tail end of a Santa Monica bus.

Nevertheless, my voice was on several commercials. I got called back on several auditions. And I gained entry to that most exclusive club in Hollywood -- SAG.

Every year I get free movies. Well, not exactly free. But the math works heavily in my favor. This year for instance, I've received three DVDs, see above. And I've been given free rentals of three additional films on iTunes.

These are all freshly-minted movies playing in theaters.

As you might have guessed, I'm not all that fond of going to the theater. It's expensive. It's noisy. And I always find something repulsive on the seats -- people.

But for $108 I get to watch, from the comfort of my own home, Argo, Silver Linings, The Sessions, Hitchcock and The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.

Of course, my wife and daughters are going to make me sit through Les Miserables, so that puts me just above the point of breaking even.

A Parallel Universe

A long, long, long time ago, fate intervened in my life while I was standing in line to register for my freshmen classes at Syracuse University.

How? You may ask.
Well, following the not-so-wise advice of my father, a CPA, I enrolled in some introductory Accounting classes.

I had taken some Accounting in high school. And my father wanted me to pursue more of them while at Syracuse. He argued, quite forcefully, that Accounting was a solid career choice. Or, at the very least, a dependable back up plan should my aspirations in writing not pan out.

He was convinced they would not.
And considering my lowly status in the advertising world, perhaps he was right.

Anyway, back at the registrar's office, I stood in the line for Accounting 101 (a torrid exploration of debits, credits and capital expenditures). When I finally reached the front of the line, I was told there were only openings in one session.

"I'll take it," I said, naively unaware of the failure rate for students who sign up for 8:00 AM class. Any 8:00 AM class.

This freshmen axiom is particularly true in upstate New York. In the winter months. When the thermometer doesn't get into double digits until June.

And so it was that I failed Accounting 101.
And never made it to the infinitely-more exciting world of Accounting 102.

Which is probably a good thing. As it would have changed my life. And altered the very nature of this blog, which would probably consist of entries that looked like this:

I can't believe I missed the deduction for the regional sales meeting in Nashville.

I amortized the heavy machinery for 15 years. Take that Uncle Sam.

Checking account successfully reconciled. Does life get any better?


I'm not sure the current iteration is much better, but I am much comfortable at a keyboard than I ever was at an adding machine.

Alcohol Tobacco Firearms and Thin Mints

(image borrowed from fellow blogger George Tannenbaum at adaged.blogspot.com.)

Later today, Vice President Biden is expected to make an important announcement regarding new gun control legislation in America.

Some will say he has not gone far enough. Then, they'll yawn and go back to sipping their iced lattes, scheduling their pilates classes and complaining about the proposed light rail system coming way too close to their neighborhood.

Some will say he gone too far. They'll get all locked and loaded. And then make testosterone-fueled youtube videos of themselves daring the ATF, CIA or NWO (that's New World Order for those of you not familiar with crazed conspiracist theory) to come knocking at their doors.

The hypocritical liberal apathy and the right winged reactionary rhetoric are both equally disgusting.

When will sanity return to the United States?

The framers of the Constitution and the second amendment did not, and could not, foresee the kind of deadly weapons that are now being used to commit mass murder in our schools. By the way, what part of well-regulated is so difficult to understand?

The topic of gun control hits fairly close to home. And by close I mean we had a neighbor, just two doors away, who dealt guns. Big guns, little guns, guns of every flavor, right out of his garage. This was not more than 25 yards from my home.

And while it did not please my wife, or myself, or any of the other neighbors, the Federal Government had no problem with it and had issued him a license to sell these weapons right in my little corner of Culver City.

Every three days or so, the UPS truck would show up with a new delivery. And as soon as the new guns would show up, the new customers would arrive. Leaving the house with their long cardboard boxes. And their scopes. And their bullets.

It was all very lucrative. So lucrative in fact that my neighbor, let's just call him AssClown, was able to stay at home and ring up the register. And not having to go to a real job left him ample time to get soused.

Did I mention that this licensed Federal Gun Dealer was also a certified raging alcoholic? Can you think of a better combination? I can't.

Thankfully, he, his Filipino "bride", his obnoxious barking Huskies, and his mini arsenal, packed up and left the neighborhood a few years ago. He sold his house to a nice young couple with a 9 year old daughter. They don't sell guns. But his daughter is relentless with the Girl Scout Cookies.

Relentless.

When are we going to pass some meaningful legislation regarding the proliferation of Girl Scout Cookies?

It's Tampini Time

Less than 10 days ago, I was in Paris, France. High atop the legendary Montemarte. And taking in the incredible artwork of Salvador Dali.

As you may or may not know, Dali was fond of bending clocks, the symbolism of eggs and elephants, and anything pertaining to the emergence of quantum physics and the growing influence of science in the 20th century.

He was a master of surrealism.

But make no mistake, Senior Salvador has in no way cornered that market. Because this week, upon my return to work and a subsequent chat with the always well-informed Carolyn Casey, I discovered our own homegrown surrealism.

It's the tampini.
(Apparently wordcorrect is having as hard a time with this word as I am with the whole concept.)

Think of the the Tampini as the more refined cousin of the butt chug.

You may remember butt chugging. This is when college frat boys run an enema-like funnel into a new recruit's derrierre and then quickly pump it full of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. Bypassing the liver and the kidneys, this apparently increases the speed with which alcohol is absorbed into the system and thus producing a very fast, though potentially fatal, buzz.

The same science is at work with the Tampini, where a tampon is soaked in vodka and placed directly into an orifice located below the belt line. And because no vodka actually passes over the taste buds, one can assume that even the cheapest rot-gut swill distilled from moldy Polish potatoes will do.

Ketel One, no thank you, not when there's Safeway's Select Brand Vodka, conveniently, and poetically, located on the bottom shelf.

I get an eclectic crowd here at roundseventeen and I know I've piqued the curiosity of more than one of you. But if you're tempted to knock back a few Tampini's, I have one simple nugget of advice: you might want to skip the olives.

At least we had Paris.

If you have read any of the last three posts, you must be thinking my recent trip to Europe was a complete disaster. It wasn't.

I may have been hyperbolic in my complaints, but the truth is, for all the bronchitis, plane mishaps, ill-designed toilets and bad French manners, my family and I still had a great time.

Take the picture above for example.

I snapped this outside a store in the Saint Germain district that specialized in nuisance control. It isn't everyday you get to see a storefront of unusually, large dead rats. If I'm not mistaken the store was located next to a lovely patisserie.

Seeing things you wouldn't normally see is part of the charm of travel.

In Glasgow, we also had the opportunity to see my Aunt Helen, who I love dearly. She is in her late 70's and wanted to see my wife again (we visited 23 years ago) and to finally meet my daughters. And this was something I wanted to make happen.

But I also had my own selfish reasons. You see apart from the thick accent, Helen is remarkably like my mother, who passed away 8 years ago. Her mannerisms are the same. Her contagious laughter is the same. And her gentle spirit is the same.

So as much as this trip was a gift to my daughters and giving them an opportunity to meet their aunt, it was also a gift to myself. Because being with my aunt is the closest thing on earth to being with my mother.

Once in Paris, we also witnessed the birth of Cash Monet, my eldest daughter's alter ego. A French pop star with a thick accent and a penchant for shopping the Champs Elysees. Ms. Monet had us all in stitches. Watching my daughter's world open up and seeing Europe through their eyes and their perspective change, was another gift I'm glad I gave myself.

And then there were all the small things.

Riding the trains. In London. And in Paris. Mimicking the woman's voice who announced each train stop. The chocolate croissants and cafe au lait from the bakery across the street from the hotel. The incredible Dali Museum at the top of Montmarte. The hot panini's we would buy from a crepe stand near the Odeon. The Eiffel Tower on New Year's Eve.

It was also a learning experience.

In the Marais district we spotted signs like this:

A stark reminder that 70 years ago, people like us were butchered simply because we choose to believe one fairy tale over another. It was a little chilling to say the least.

But I promised myself this would be a positive post. So I don't want to end with a reference to Nazis.

Did I mention the hot panini's sold off the street carts? They were so good I'd spend 11 hours on a plane just to have one more.

Just not a plane from British Airways.

Home Sweet Home

At the risk of seeming like a provincial rube, here are some additional thoughts on my return to the United States after spending two weeks in England, Scotland and France:


I like the way American toilets flush. I like the predictable swirl of soft water and not some haphazard release of the Aswan Dam that sends errant fecal matter into the air of a bathroom designed for a dwarf.

I like the liberty of ordering what I want on a menu. I'm not interested in pre-fixed choices. I don't want your starter plates. Or your firsts. Or your seconds. Or even your delicious mandatory desserts. If I want two appetizers for my meal, that's what I'll order. And any scowling or whispered grumblings on your part will do nothing to dissuade me.

I like Oxygen. I like filling my lungs with clean, fresh air, which ironically enough is in greater supply in Los Angeles than it is on the streets of London, Glasgow, Edinburgh or Paris. Where, it is not uncommon to see children chain smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. By the way, if you're standing on line to get into the Musee D'orsey and you light up up a fag while surrounded by other would be museum goers who may not be interested in contracting emphysema, you're not some culture-loving bon vivant. You're a Grade A douchebag.

I like American money. Our coins make sense. A blind man can tell the difference between a penny, a nickel, a dime and a quarter. Why would you make coins that are worth two Euros or pounds, look and feel the same as the same 30 cent coin need to operate a pay Toilette? Oh yeah, I don't like paying to use a bathroom.

I like American TV. The once great British Empire has been reduced to a Simon Cowell orchestrated freak talent show. Like us, the Brits have upwards of 500 separate cable channels. Unlike us, every one of those channels is populated by some worthless variation of American Idol. So You Think You Can Juggle. Is Your GrandMother A Pop Star? Show Us Your Magic Act. Can You Do It On A UniCycle? Are You Blightey's Next Great Throat Singer?

I like personal space. The historians may say what they will. They may explain the early 20th century rush to Ellis Island as a collective journey to start a better life in the New World. Personally, I think those historians are wrong. I'm convinced those Germans, Jews, Poles, Italians and Potato-Eaters  simply wanted to come to America to put some distance between themselves and their smelly, obnoxiously loud neighbors.

I like retailers who understand that the customer is king. On New Year's Eve, we stopped in at a pharmacy near the Eiffel Tower to pick up some OTC cough syrup. While I was retrieving my medicine the store manager began a fracass with my daughter, claiming she had knocked a jar of cold cream off the shelf. My daughter claims she did not. Then the manager motioned for me to pay for the lost merchandise. And she did it in a most unpleasant manner that can only be affected by a snooty Parisian. I looked at her, smiled, and as we walked out the door, sarcastically reminded her of three little words that could only be uttered by an American: Nor Man Dee.

The British American War of 2013

I can be an unusually stubborn man. Fortunately, I married a woman who can endure my obstinate nature but who is also strong enough and wise enough to overrule my more stupid instincts.

Following our Trans-Atlantic journey through hell (see yesterday's post), we attempted to fight off the jet lag and enjoy some dinner in the Covent Garden section of London. I told my wife I was feeling well enough for a meal but, having downed enough codeine-flavored cough syrup to sedate a rhino, I almost fell head first into my bangers and mash.

She knew something wasn't right when I refused to eat and even worse, when I left 7/8 of a Guinness Stout on the table.

So at 6 AM the next morning she dragged my feverish ass across the street from our hotel to the very convenient St. Thomas Hospital, where I was attended to in the Accident & Emergency Section.

Upon my immediate reception, I was told, almost with a certain nationalistic pride, that all my healthcare costs would be picked up for by the British taxpayer. This, I thought was fair, considering the torment I had experienced on the airline that represents the realm.

For the next 6 hours I was given more medical attention that I had accumulated in my entire life of 43 years.

Blood tests. Urine tests (twice). Chest X-rays. EKG. Even an HIV test, which for some reason my wife thought laughable. In total, I saw one receptionist, two nurses, three technicians, one radiologist, two doctors and a consulting supervisory doctor who wanted to admit me to the hospital for overnight observation.

Of course I had no intention of staying in a hospital room, when across the street I had a perfectly good $350/night hotel room with cable TV and a fully-stocked minibar. My low oxygen count be damned.

The doctors concluded my bronchitis had been inflamed by the 11 hour plane ride and that I had picked up some nasty airborne virus as well, which for reasons rational or not, I blame completely on Dirty Gepetto.

I exited the hospital with 38C degree temperature -- I think that's 115 degrees Fahrenheit but I'm not completely sure -- and a couple hundred British pounds worth of unpronounceable antibiotics.

I also left with my 2013 New Year's Resolution: Take down British Airways.

I don't know if one man, armed with nothing more than a blog, an unusual commitment to writing letters, an inexhaustible supply of righteous indignation and a serviceable knowledge of social media can change the way an airline inhumanely hauls humans from one location to the next.

But as the Brits might say, I'm ready to give it a go.

Welcome To British Airways

"Our non-stop 11 hour flight to London's Heathrow Airport will begin shortly. So please sit back, relax, take advantage of your 29 centimeters of generous legroom and enjoy your flight. And don't think for a moment we have forgotten all that unpleasant Colonist business about Lexington Concord, the dishonorably discharged tea and your precious declaration of independence."

So began my 2012 European Vacation back on Dec.22, which literally seems like a lifetime ago.
Or at least one lung ago.

Allow me to explain.

Before embarking on our family jaunt across Western Europe I had suffered a bout of bronchitis. As these yearly bouts go, it wasn't all that severe. And in fact it had all but cleared. That is until I boarded a 747 and was directed towards Seat 23D, in what British Airways calls their Economy Triumphe Classe. Or some bullshit marketing-driven name, because the more appropriate monikers like Buchenwald, Bergen-Belsen and Dauchau had already been taken.

When I saw the "seat" I literally thought I was being filmed for some Punked reality TV show.

How bad was it?

Next time you're at the supermarket, stop by the breakfast food section. Remove a Jumbo Grade AA egg from one of the cartons crafted from recycled cardboard. Now imagine trying to jam an Ostrich egg into the severely undersized vacated container.

Those, were the first class seats.

On the plus side, every seat was thoughtfully furnished with its own personal entertainment center. Sadly however, the 5 inch screen was jammed so close to my face, all the images were blurred. It was an hour and a half into some lame romcom before I realized Jennifer Lopez was actually Mathew Perry. (By the way, Mathew Perry and the notion of inflight entertainment do not belong in the same sentence.)

Do you feel like you've walked through three gates of Hell?

There's six more to go.

I like babies. I like smiling at babies. I like making faces at babies. I like making babies laugh.
I did not however like the baby seated in 24F. He had a unibrow. He cried like a wounded duck. And he looked like he had been constipated for all of his 14 months on this earth.

I would have gladly left that wanker, in his squirrel pajamas, sitting on the tarmac on runway 24Right.

Finally, there was Dirty Geppetto, the man seated next to me and my personal docent into Dante's Inferno. I'm not sure his name was Geppetto, but he bore an uncanny resemblance to the puppeteer who, you might remember, hand crafted Pinochio.

Try not to pay too much attention to the cheerful craftsman in this picture. Dirty Gepetto was less pleasing to the eye. And considerably less pleasing to the nose. In fact, we, my entire family, could smell D.G. from 10 rows away.

It was as if prior to boarding the plane, and knowing he would not catch a whiff of nicotine until he had transversed half the globe, he had smoked an entire carton of Marlboro Reds. Then, in an unusual act of common courtesy to his fellow passengers (me), he stopped in at the duty free shop and picked up the Costco sized jug of Drakkar Noir, you know, to kindly mask the odor.

To make matters worse, he was cloaked head to toe in heavy denim, the kind of denim that retains every fume it has ever come in contact with, dating back to 1975.

All of which began to trigger my dormant bronchitis.

A tickle over the Rockies had escalated to a hack as we crossed over the Canadian border. By the time we had reached Greenland, I was coughing non-stop. Iceland saw the first smattering of blood. And by the time we were over Dublin, I was bringing up tissue matter that was as thick as peat bog.

Heathrow Airport, Terminal 3.
(Terminal is the right word as I surely felt I were going to to die.)

My bag is literally the last to come off the conveyor belt. I rip it open, tear through my suitcase and make a mad grab for my toiletry bag. There, I find my purple relief, a half a bottle of Promethazine Cough Syrup fortified with hydrocodeine.

The proper dosage for Promethazine is one tablespoon every six hours. I didn't have a tablespoon. Nor did I want one. I wasted no time with the childproof cap and quickly chugged 1/4 of the bottle. As the fast acting opiates started to take effect, I gathered my clean clothes off the baggage claim floor and noticed Dirty Gepetto high stepping his malodorous body to the nearest designated smoking area.

So far, Great Britain isn't seeming so great.

Next up: High fever, low oxygen and a trip to the St. Thomas Hospital.

It was a good year.

Hard to believe another year is in the books.
But it is.
And this will be the last posting.
That is until January 7th, 2013.

Soon, and I won't say when, we, the Siegel Clan, will be off for holiday across the pond. After many years of promising my daughters, I finally bit the bullet and planned a European vacation. OK, that's a bit of a misnomer.

My wife planned the trip. I simply wrote the check.

We will fly into London, spend a week doing touristy crap, then board a train north. To the high country. To Glasgow, where my mother was born and where we still have family. With any luck I'll convince them to speak American, because I can't understand a damn word they say.

There will be a lot of nodding and grinning.

Then we'll cross the island and visit Edinburgh. I might even try to sneak in a round of winter golf there. I know we'll be visiting the castle (pictured above).

From there we'll hop on a plane and spend the remainder of our time with French people.

My wife and daughters are looking forward to the restaurants, museums and architecture in Paris.

I'm looking forward to the many expected confrontations with apathetic waiters, rude chain smokers, and arrogant cheese eaters of many stripes. This will provide me with many stories and future blog entries upon my return.

Until then I wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Bon Ani.

Cheers.

Popoff, Please.

My posts about the Peter Popoff Ministries are never the most popular, however I never purported to pander to the populist preferences of the people. Besides, I find this crap amusing even if you don't.

The first item (pictured above) came in the latest mailing and an accompanying letter from the good-hearted reverend stating:

I prayed over and over asking God how I could fulfill Mark 16:18, "They shall lay hands on the sick and they shall recover."

Then God opened my spirit, know I could not come to your home, God instructed me to rush you this Secret Healing Touch Glove.

I don't know if you can tell from the picture, but God's Secret Healing Touch Glove is the cheap angstrom-thick latex glove you'd see on a worker manning the mashed potato station at the high school cafeteria. I'm sure the gloves cost thousandths of a penny and are stamped out in a sweatshop in Laos. By godless heathens, no less.

Rev. Popoff further instructs:

Tonight only, you must put on the Secret Healing Touch Glove and touch your body any place you want God to heal. Then, (and apparently this is very important) you must return the glove to me and I will give you God's prophetic word about your healing.

I knew the Lord worked in mysterious ways but this seems very complicated. Couldn't he just prescribe an antibiotic for this urinary tract infection?

The next item is equally fascinating.

You may be wondering what this is, I know I was.

This is Jesus' Blood Red Miracle Apron. No joke. I'm assuming it's a replica, because I hate to think the Reverend Popoff would entrust an infidel like myself with such an important religious artifact.

Also because it's so damn small (as you can see from the referential quarter). You couldn't tie this apron around a mouse, no less a grown hopeless adult desperately seeking the blessings of the Almighty.

I had never heard of the apron until the Reverend conveniently laid out the scripture:

God, you have used aprons from the hands of Paul in Acts 19. As I lay this apron on my boy, heal him, raise him up and use him for your glory.

Finally, I'd like to show you this:

This needs no explanation. It's the Baruch wallet. It's so nice that the Reverend has appropriated some Hebrew and incorporated it into his scam religion. It gives it that nice old timey, Old Testament sheen of credibility.

I think I can speak on behalf of all Jews when I say, if you crazy goyim want to start up new religions and bilk fellow gentiles out of their rent and food money we'd prefer you left us, our literature and our sacraments out of it. We won't feel slighted. Promise.

What I've shared with you is simply the tip of the iceberg. The thick envelopes stuffed with the Popoff crap continues to flood my mailbox. And I've had to find a separate storage place to keep it all. Of course that's a burden I've taken on myself.

But thanks to our 18th century tax codes and the ridiculous breaks afforded organized religion you have been complicit in the charade.

His mailings to me and my mailings back to him are completely subsidized by the US taxpayer.

If we're going to solve our fiscal woes and walk away from this cliff, we ought to make billionaires pay their fair share. But we also ought to make God cough up his.

Calculus 101

When I tell people I used to work at Chiat/Day they always want to know what it was like to present work to Lee Clow. They presume the experience to be intimidating and nerve-wracking. And to some extent, it was.

But I always found that was more self-induced.

When it came to judging work and whether that work had any merit to move forward, Lee was always surprisingly brief. "Yes." "No." "No." "Yes." "No.""No." "Definitely No."(OK, I'm being generous, there was one Yes for every 20 No's.)

The work that passed the yes/no test was always followed with, "That could be funny", "That could be cool", "That could be interesting." Meaning, this has promise, but a lot more work had to be done.

What I find interesting is how the judging criteria has changed over the years.

You see, I rarely hear those type of phrases anymore.
Today, work gets held up to a different measuring stick: the check list.

"This spot has plenty of innovation, but not enough humanity."

"This talks about our features, but not enough about the benefits."

"This speaks about our heritage, but not enough about our future."

If you work in the Creative Department of an ad agency you know exactly what I'm talking about. A brief may have one single communications message, but a good planner knows how to utilize every inch of white space on a page. So that one overriding message will be buttressed with further requests.

These are cleverly disguised as Tone, Copy Support, or the very threatening, Mandatories.

And just because they're at the bottom of the page doesn't make them any less important.
They're all important.

In the end, a spot that was designed to convey X, must also include mentions of Y and Z, while at the same time implying leadership, innovation, customer service and dependability. The spot may be humorous, but not funny.

When it's all said and done, the brief looks less like a strategy for success and more like a recipe for something you'd never want to eat.

Please bake a cake with following ingredients:

2 lbs. white flour
1/2 lbs. ground beef
4 ounces of milk chocolate
3 tablespoons of cayenne pepper
3 ounces 10W-40 motor oil
8 stalks of celery
A dash of curry
A sprinkling of saffron
A smidgeon of Kosher Salt
A pinch of Plutonium

And we need it by 4 PM.

Let's get the Ban together

Like you, I find myself still reeling from the tragic events of last Friday.

I don't even know where to begin.
The tears come easier than the words.

If you don't have children you can never understand what it's like when you do. And if you do have children you can never understand what it's like when suddenly you don't have them.

Nobody should have to cross that threshold.

Sadly, there are many of those shattered parents grieving in Newtown, Connecticut.

Even sadder, there are empathetic folks walking around today, going about their business, sending their kids to school, who will be in that same exact boat, weeks or maybe months from now, when another miscreant straps on the cammo vest and gets all locked and loaded.

I often look at the dysfunctional Middle East and the constant turmoil in Egypt, Syria, Libya, Afghanistan, Pakistan and Yemen and think to myself, "What the fuck is wrong with these people? Why can't they learn to govern themselves and get their culture moving in the right direction?"

Today, I'm sure many in first world countries like Japan, England, and Sweden, are looking at us and asking the same questions.

I'm no political activist. And haven't a clue about being a community organizer. But I do have a tool, this blog. And a demonstrated willingness to take pen to paper. So I'm going to do what I do best and start prodding our public servants to start serving the public.

This was a missive I dashed off Friday night to several prominent politicians who are in a position to make some change:

I want to know what you are doing?

I want to know what you have done to amend this country's gun laws?

I want to know what you have done since the mass shootings in Aurora, CO?

In Wisconsin?

In Oregon?

And what you plan to do after today's senseless killings in Connecticut?

You are my employee.

You work for me.

If I were running a business and an employee of mine had ignored a customer or failed to come through on an assignment, multiple times, I would fire that employee.

Twenty innocent children have died today and some of that blood is on your hands.

And the hands of your colleagues in the Senate and the House.

How hard can your job be?

If it is too difficult or there are too many other priorities, perhaps you are not best suited for this kind of work.

I'm not interested in a form letter from your office.

Or any mealy-mouthed response.

I'm interested in action.

On this.

On the fiscal cliff.

On the very fate of our nation.

Get to work or we will find someone else to do the job you clearly are not doing.

How warped is the situation we find ourselves in today?

Consider this. In 1963, following the assassination of President Kennedy, Congress was debating the legality of rifles like the single-shot, bolt action Carcano M91/38. 

"We do not think any sane American, who calls himself an American, can object to placing in this bill the instrument which killed the President of the United States." 

That came from Franklin Orth, Executive Vice President of the NRA.

A December to Remember

There is the long-held view that the best time to purchase a new car is at the end of the month.

Even better to purchase a new car at the end of the month, at the end of the year. This is the time when dealers need to clear out their inventory and are most likely to cut the best deal to make their numbers.

We are getting near that magical buyer's hour.

But if you choose to walk into Santa Monica Lexus on December 15th, 2 weeks before the optimal buying period, just so you can get a dried-up cold waffle and have your picture taken with old St. Nick, then I am going to assume you are not a fan of the Jeopardy game show.

And that you prefer Wheel of Fortune.

Moreover, the dealer at Santa Monica Lexus is going to assume that as a child, you went to school on the short bus.

The Spruce Douche

I often make fun of ad agency/marketing bullshit.

More specifically, the jargon that is spouted off in meetings in order to produce the veneer of intelligence.

I am not alone in this endeavor.

My buddy Jeff Gelberg writes about on his blog, Rotation and Balance. My east coast doppleganger, George Tannenbaum waxes eloquently on the matter in his blog, Adaged. And CEO/Curmudgeon Bob Hoffman is no less perturbed on the topic in his blog, AdContrarian.

In fact, that is where I found the following video gem which I have embedded here because it needs to be seen, and heard, to be believed.

If you have suffered through the entire 4:08 seconds of that interview, I don't know if you can withstand a play by play dissection. Particularly since most of you actually work in an ad agency or on the client side and will be subjected to more of the same in a meeting scheduled for later this afternoon.

So, if I'm not going to break down the enlightening discussion and I'm not offering up any satirical commentary, why you may ask have I brought it to your attention? To be perfectly honest, I just needed an excuse to play with with my new toy: the Einstein Blackboard Generator.

Keep it Simple, Stupid

Last week a bomb went off in Santa Monica.

The Honda Motor Company announced they were putting their $700 million account up for review. And in doing so, possibly ending a 26-year relationship with their ad agency Rubin Postaer and Partners.

The relationship is actually longer. Since Honda had been with Gerry Rubin and Larry Postaer while they were steering the ship at Needham Harper & Steers.

I know this (and this dangerously dates me in this business) because I was a mailroom clerk at NH&S. It's where I got my start. The Honda/NH&S/RPA relationship has been the only constant I have known  in the last three decades of advertising.

I hate to use the word inspired, but watching the way the creative people on the 7th floor went about the business of doing great work for Honda lead me to a career in copywriting.

Bob Coburn was the senior writer on Honda. He might have been a Creative Director or Group Head or any such nonsense. But Bob never struck me as a guy who cared about titles. However, his senior status at the agency never stopped him from palling around with the mailroom clerks.

He'd come into our windowless stockroom, where my partner Jim and I were often opening and reading confidential memos. It could be argued that we knew more about the agency than anybody in  the walled off departments.

Bob would get a kick from our Wall of Shame, sophomoric shit we had written or clipped from magazines and pinned on a wall to amuse ourselves. This was way before the Internet and youtube videos.

One time he spotted a box of empty mailing tubes. He asked if he could have them as well as a ball of heavy string. A week later Bob came to the mailroom to show us his newest invention. He escorted us down to the parking garage and demonstrated how, when draped over a car, his portable contraption of mailing tubes and string could prevent dings or scratches from the careless swinging of a car door.

It was brilliant. And it was simple.
Like everything Bob, and the agency, did for Honda.

I also remember him telling me how they had just sold a double-page long copy ad for the Civic. He told me the 1500 words worth of copy were due in a month. A month! These days the copywriter would be given a day, two tops.

Bob would stew on it. Write down errant phrases. Maybe draw up an outline. But he would take his time. Because it would take time. And when the deadline arrived, Bob would have the copy written and the client wouldn't change a thing, mostly because there was nothing to change.

Am I guilty of nostalgia and painting an overly rosy picture?

Probably.

But that kind of craftsmanship is rarely seen these days. And now, it appears, it is being joined by its close cousin, loyalty.

Put a fork in it

If you're a regular reader of this blog, and apparently many of you are as last month's web traffic hit an astounding high of 7499 hits, you know that I cover a broad range of topics.

Everything from the insane, increasingly meaningless world of advertising to the insane, increasingly meaningless world of Judaism.

And anything that happens to fall in between: corrupt politicians, glamping, people who need to be thinned from the herd, resume title inflation, odd winter solstice celebrations, the dynamics of parenting two teenage daughters, etc.

If it's one thing this blog has going for it, it's diversity.
Which is simply a nice way of saying, I lack focus.

Not unlike the folks at Dixie Smart Stock, proud purveyors of plastic cutlery.

I'm sure there were screaming matches going in the hallways before this brainchild was launched on the public. Pitched battles between the Teaspoon Brand Management Team and the Tablespoon Brand Management Team. Both of whom have it in for the Soupspoon Brand management Team.

In the end, as it often does, it came down to the consumer.

And the upper brass at Dixie made their final decision based on the comments of one Kathy Livingston, a data entry analyst and part-time quilter from Teanack, NJ, who said in a focus group, "I wish someone would come up with a multi-purpose spoon that I could use for my tea and my soup, but yet at the same time was good for everyday use at the table."

The odd thing is, Ms. Livingston was in a focus group to judge commercials for the new Nissan minivan.

ǝɯoɥ ʎɯ oʇ ǝɯoɔlǝʍ

Yesterday, I made mention of the African-American women, usually wielding a sun umbrella and a copy of The Tower, who show up regularly at my doorstep to pitch me their version of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, or Lord of Lords. You take your pick.

I also referenced the mezuzah that, for no good reason, hangs on my doorframe in the correct 38 degree angle. This article purports to explain why it is hung at an angle, but like a lot of scripture, I was more confused after the explanation than I was before I had wasted three minutes of my life.

Several months ago, we were having a problem with the circuit breaker box and so we called out an electrician. An olive-skinned man and a thick middle eastern accent showed up at my house. He was very gruff so you can imagine how the many hairs on my back stood up at attention when he turned to me and said,

"You, Jew?"

Uh, yes, I replied, already indexing everything I knew about the Balfour Declaration, The UN Partition of 1947 and Abdel Nasser, in preparation for a spirited verbal combat.

"Me too" he said, sensing my apprehension.

And with that he explained how he and his family had moved here from Israel.

He also pointed out that the mezuzah I had carefully hung on the front doorpost, was upside down. And he was right. I had never noticed it before. But reading the Hebrew letters, and it's amazing that I still can, I saw that it says ya-rush-a-lay-em, or Jerusalem, upside down.

Before the electrician left, he handed me an invoice for the work and scolded me. He said I should yank the mezuzah out and hang it right side up. I didn't tell him, but me, hammers and nails make for an awful combination. That's why we keep an ample supply of Spackle around the house.

As soon as Rabbi Edison left the house, I dashed to the back to check the orientation on the mezuzah on the door to the patio.

Hebrew, as many of you know, is read right to left. But if you're trying to read this, which says sha-lom, Shalom, you will once again have to read it from the bottom up.

Oy.

No, thank you

There must be some kind of zeitgeist bug going around.

Because every agency I walk into these days is not only interested in hawking their cars/soda pop/video game/dishwashing detergent/marital lubricant, they want to start a "movement."

They want to take all the media choices at their disposal, particularly the free ones like youtube, twitter and Facebook, and create a groundswell of evangelical exuberance. They believe that with the right manifesto in hand, the right viral film in place, and the right hipsters in their pocket, they can have the whole country buzzing about their cars/soda pop/video game/dishwashing detergent/marital lubricant.

I make no secret about my skepticism. Some have even made a malapropism of my name and called me Rich Cynical. But seriously, what god-forsaken Faris Jacobian planet are these people living on?

A movement?

The Jehovah Witnesses have a movement.

They show up at my front door every three months or so. Two older African-American women, about as sweet as people are allowed to be, will ring my bell and ask if they can share some of the wisdom they have in their hand. I politely point to the mezuzzah on my door frame (assuming they know what that's for) and tell them, "I'm all good in the faith department."

But if the situation were different and I were at a dinner party and one of the guests tried to corner me to tell how excited he was about a certain car/soda pop/video game/dishwashing detergent/marital lubricant, I would quickly dispense with the niceties and tell him or her to, "Eat me."

I don't know where all this "movement" mumbo jumbo started. Nor do I understand why the notion of it has any credibility.

Other than colleagues in the business who create this nonsense, I don't know anybody who spends time online putting decals on cars or following the tweets of Flo from Progressive Insurance. There's a thing called Life out there and it's best experienced without any so-called "branding."

I look forward to the day when ad agencies put down the Kool Aid and resume drinking whiskey at their desks. Then we can abandon these "movements" and get back to the business of selling cars/soda pop/video game/dishwashing detergent/marital lubricant.

The Blogging Will Commence Immediately

Clean up your room or you will be blogged.

Yesterday, I wrote about the strange Christmas customs that take place in Europe. Including the appearance of Farmhand Rupert who shames little German children into good behavior by threatening to hit them with a bag of ash.

Germans may not be the warmest people, nor the funniest, but one can hardly argue with their success in the area of discipline. And if humiliation is a proven method of success, who am I, a hapless discipliner, to shy away from its effectiveness.

So today I'm hauling out an old picture of my youngest daughter, Abby, who can't manage to get her dirty clothes into the dirty clothes hamper. I suspect other parents of teenagers have the same issue going on at their house. But I have what they don't: a blog.

I also have at my disposal, thousands and thousands of photos. Photos, which I'm sure, my daughters do not want floating around the world wide web of WTF.

Furthermore, I have stories.
And I'm not afraid to use them.

For instance, last week Abby had a huge final in Biology. She's been struggling with this course so we brought in a tutor from her school. An upperclassman with stellar grades and an incredible ability to coach younger students to success.

This tutor, let's call him Blake, which isn't his real name but will suffice for these purposes, looks like a younger Keanu Reeves.

Unlike Keanu, he is incredibly bright. He's right out of Glee. He plays football. Sings in the choir. And has almost perfect grades. Next year, he will be attending some Ivy league college. And when I drove him home, he told me of his aspirations to join the FBI or CIA. Not only because he wants to serve his country but also because likes the sound of "Officer Blake."

As if that weren't enough, he calls me Mr. Siegel.

Long story short, but no less humiliating for my daughter, the results of the Biology test just came back. And Abby aced it.

Needless to say my fondness for Officer Blake, which was already in the stratosphere, has soared even higher. I now have a huge man-crush on him. And wish he would marry my daughter.

If the times were different and the old customs prevailed, I'd have already pick out the goats and cattle for his dowry.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

If white people in blackface doesn't get your attention, I don't know what will.

It's about the most politically incorrect imagery I am prepared to go near. Of course, I wouldn't go near it if I didn't have a good reason. And that good reason is Christmas. Strange, right? Well, not to the people in the Netherlands, where every year young, liberal, multicultural Dutch people take to the streets dressed as Zwarte Piet.

That's Black Pete for those of you who don't speak Netherlandese.

Apparently, in addition to Will Ferrell, Santa has many helpers including Pete. According to legend, his job is to entertain the children with singing and dancing while Santa goes about the business of gift-giving.

Legend also has it that like the elves, there were many, many Black Petes. And that they would travel by boat. And they would "serve" jolly old Saint Nick. I can't imagine why this fun holiday custom never caught on in America.

But if you'll pardon the pun, this quaint ritual of the Dutch pales in comparison to the Austrians -- the folks that gave us Hitler, World War 1, and state-of-the-art Anti-Semitism -- who celebrate the birth of Jesus every year by carting out Krampus, pictured below. Krampus is the tall one.

These folks know a little about discouraging misbehavior. Unlike Americans, who sing a little jingle about being naughty or nice, The Austrians know if you really want your kids to tow the line, nothing works better than an oversized, cloven-hoofed Satanic man/beast with a tongue the size of a garden snake.

Not to be outdone by their Bavarian brothers, the Germans, also known to know a little something about discipline, have Knecht Rupert or Farmhand Rupert.

He travels the countryside with a handful of switches which he will gladly thrash against the tender asses of ill-behaved Aryan kinder folk. If that doesn't straighten these miscreants out, Farmhand Rupert will hit them with his bag of ash. And no proper German child wants that.

Of course not all European Winter Solstice celebrations are as odd and dark as these. The Spanish, more specifically the Catalonians, have a charming tradition, El Caganer. I've written about The Caganer (The Shitter)  before, and I'll probably write about him again.

He made his first appearance in early recreations of the nativity scene. While the wise men and Mary and Joseph heralded the arrival of the son of God, the Caganer took this divine moment as the perfect time to drop a lincoln log. As seen here...

El Caganer shows up at the end of December as a way to remind farmers to fertilize the land. Or so the reasoning goes. Over the years, the legend of the Caganer has grown. And so has his popularity.

Now, he not only shows up at Nativity Scenes throughout the Iberian Peninsula, there are shopping malls in Spain that boast Caganers standing twenty feet in height.

Though local ordinances say, and common sense dictates, he must be kept at least 100 yards away from the food court.