I owe, I owe, it's off to work I go

Last week, you might remember, the president was crowing about the unemployment numbers and the historic drop to only 13.3%. He also disingenuously suggested that the uprisings across the country would result in monumental progress in race relations, days after he sicked the US Military on American citizens.

He even went so far as to say that George Floyd, an African American man brutally and mercilessly murdered by an arm of the government, his government, was looking down from heaven and smiling upon yet another monumental achievement of Captain Ouchie Foot, God's unique gift to America.

Only neither case was true.

Let's not forget this is the same schmuck, who told law enforcement officers, on many occasions, to "rough up" suspects. And stop "being so nice."

Furthermore, it turns out the BLS, Bureau of Labor and Statistics, made a mistake, and is now in the process of issuing a correction. The cynic in me could argue that this entire fiasco was manufactured in advance. That the president was willing to take a little public egg on his face on this matter in order to distract from another economic disaster that will stain his historic CV.

You see, on Friday the total US debt reached an all time high. It surpassed $25.9 trillion. And there's no indication it's slowing down.

This earmark is of consequence.

Because when this beslubbering, idle-headed maggot pie took office on January 20, 2017, the debt was $19.9 trillion. And if you'll recall, we never heard the end of it from the Tea Party, The GOP and the ruttish, rump-fed skainsmate, who promised to set the country on a different fiscal course and right the wrongs of feckless Democrats.

HA!!!

In less than one full term, because of misguided tax cuts for the wealthy, obscene militarization and the failure to recognize and manage a pandemic that has taken the lives of 110,000 Americans, this lying, clapper-clawed fustilarian has added $6 TRILLION to our collective promissory note.

Moreover, he did this while we were allegedly enjoying the BESTEST, BOOMINGEST ECONOMY
ever in America. It wasn't. It wasn't even close. And I beg one of my GOP compatriots to challenge me on this.

Please.

I also beg you to take a look at usdebtclock.org

The spinning of the red numbers is a constant reminder of this regime's failure to live up to its promises.   It's also mesmerizing. I'm willing to bet that by the election, the total debt will exceed 26.9 trillion and we will find ourselves drowning in Grandpa Ramblemouth's $7 trillion of red ink.

I wonder what George Floyd would think of that.

The Pale Green Dot (apologies Carl Sagan)

Two months ago, I didn't know their names.

Two months, ago, I didn't know what they looked like, how they dressed or how they liked to furnish their homes. (lava lamps, really?)

Two months ago, they were perfect and total strangers.

Now I am in their house. I am at their kitchen table. I am in their bedroom. Sometimes for 4 or 5 hours a day!

Of course I'm referring to the phenomena of video conferencing, be it Zoom™, Meetings™ or Teams™.  Can behemoths like Google and MicroSoft really trademark those words? I think under the current regime and free-floating corruption, corporations with enough money and morally ambiguous congresspeople like Susan Collins or Lisa Murkowski or Tom Cotton, can do just about anything they want.

But I digress.

I'm new to the little green light that sits atop my computer like a well armed sniper/guard sits in a prison tower. And I must say it's a little disconcerting. Don't get me wrong, I love working from home, free from the noisy distraction found at The Long Table of Mediocrity™.

But I don't love being tethered to the computer. Good writing requires focus. And unfocus. I know I'm at my best when I can walk, exercise, read a newspaper, and let my mind flitter about.

I also don't love being on camera. As Seth Myers so aptly put it, the camera not only adds 10 lbs. it adds 10 years. And believe me, no one is going to want to hire a 54 year old copywriter.

Even worse, now I have to listen to my wife who insists I replace all my favorite old T-shirts, with the worn out collars and the holes in the underarms, and replace them with something respectable.

Damnit, I hate when she's right.

Breaking the silence

I'm being harassed.

I'm being harassed by a 23 year old white woman.

I'm being harassed by a young lady, who terrorizes me daily, and is relentless in her zealous pursuit.

Occasionally, she also has difficulty making her money stretch as far as it should and hits me up on Venmo.

I'm talking about my daughter. And she is responsible for this post.

You see, the crabapple has not fallen far from the crabapple tree. And like many young people across this country she has been moved by the events of the last two weeks. She has attended protests. She's speaking out online. And she's donating profits from her silk screened T-shirts (featuring the design above) to BLM.

Am I proud? Yes.
But, as she pointed out I should also be ashamed. Because while I'm often quite vocal on other issues, I've been relatively silent on this. Here's how our phone call went...

"Dad, you have a platform. People think you're smart. They want your opinion, your take on this. It's important that you use your blog to address the matter."

Ok, she's wrong on all counts. Nevertheless, I'll chime in knowing full well that anything I say has the potential of being criticized. You know because it comes from an old white man.

Actually, that's only partially true.

If you listen to or read the ramblings of the Klan or Neo-Nazis or even those ultra right folks on the not-so-far-end of the spectrum, I am NOT a white man. In fact, my Hebraic ancestry puts me among the "Mud People", their phraseology, not mine.

And I'm fine with that. I don't want to be associated with white supremacy. I don't want to be in the vicinity of white supremacy. These days, I don't want to be on the same planet as white supremacy.

I cherish being "the outsider." Mostly because it affords me a different perspective. Not a perfect one by any means, but different. One rooted in empathy. A great deal of that credit goes to my parents.

To my mother, who grew up poor and on the wrong side of the tracks in Glasgow. I'm not sure there is a right side of the tracks in Glasgow. And to my father, who grew up on the hardscrabble streets of the Bronx and spent a year of his youth in an Army brig (for smoking pot) and was one of a handful of white boys in a Southern prison dominated by African Americans.

Both grew up in the shadow of the Holocaust. And drilled into me an understanding of the unspeakable atrocites visited upon my people. With the warning that is familiar to every Jew in America, "Never forget, it can happen again." Adding, and keeping in mind this was during the tumultuous 60's, "If it does happen again, it will probably start with the Negroes (the vernacular at the time). But it won't end there."

In short, I was taught my heritage. And as someone whose people have been persecuted, and I am obliged to understand people who are currently being persecuted. If it can happen to them it can happen to us.

All well intentioned, but there's a serious, if not tribalistic fault in that logic.

And it was made clear to me by a touchy discussion on race that I had with an African American friend and colleague. He pointed out, and this was years ago so it has clearly made an imprint, I'm paraphrasing and shortening the story, "Rich, you don't get it. There is no Them and there is no Us, there is only We." 

Racism, anti-semitism, homophobia, misogyny are problems that belong to all of us.

Put another way, if Black Lives Don't Matter, and we don't take concrete steps to address racial injustice and racial inequality, then No Lives Matter.

Lost in America, the book, not the movie

I never liked giving book reports in high school. Or even in college. Mostly because there's the likelihood I never read the assigned book.

Truth is I wasn't much of a reader.
Until I became a writer.

My perspective on the written word has come full circle. And now I no longer read because I have to, but because I want to.

And I'm not talking about reading the newspaper, either the NY Times, IRL. The Washington Post online. And even the Wall Street Journal when I find a way past their paywall. With the help of my friend George Tannenbaum, I have been getting my hands inky with books. I'm halfway through the book pictured above.

It's written by Dr. Sherwin Nuland, a man with whom I have much in common.

Turns out when his family traversed the Atlantic to escape the pogroms of Eastern Europe they arrived on Ellis Island, whereupon the admittance clerk translated his father's occupation, a tailor, and wrote down Nudelman, Yiddish for Needle Man. Get it?

Well thanks to the 23andme folks, and correspondence with cousins I didn't know I had, I found out my great grandfather was also a tailor. Similarly, he hightailed it to America to escape drunken
Kossacks.

The book recounts the doctor's youth, first in the pastoral grounds of the East Bronx. And later to apartment living in the West Bronx, near Jerome Ave (where many of the scenes from JOKER were filmed.) In the vicinity of the Grand Concourse, which at the time was known as the Champs D'elysee of the Jews. Who knew?

It certainly didn't seem like that when we visited there.

The doctor grew up poor. As did my family.

My father was determined not to stay that way and worked as waiter by day and went to college (CUNY) by night. He didn't become a CPA until he was 38 years old. And only by sheer persistence and dogged determination did he succeed.

Sherwin had a troubled up and down relationship with his father. As did I. The book, his memoir, is an examination of that dynamic and his growing understanding of a father who he was often at odds with. He comes to this understanding via empathy. And the burgeoning ability to place himself in his father's shoes.

It is thought provoking and haunting at the same time. It resonates because in all those battles and screaming matches and sometimes even physical blows with my father, not once, never, did I look at the situation from his POV.

How could I? I was a kid. A stupid, myopic, selfish kid.

As the past week in America has demonstrated, we could all learn to put ourselves in other people's shoes. Because not only are we $26 trillion in debt, when it comes to Empathy, with a capital E, we are even deeper in the hole.

Letters, we write letters, lots and lots of letters...

Despite the protestations of colleagues, on the other side of the political aisle, who have suggested I write better headlines than I do of any substantive forms of persuasion, essays, blog postings and short stories, etc., I like to think I write a pretty damn good letter.

I like writing letters. Old girlfriends and HR professionals will tell I can be quite charming in the letter format. An attribute that quickly vanishes with an in person appearance.

I like writing letters because it's a lot like a personal conversation. Only better, because it's one way and I don't have to listen to someone else's drivel. I told you the charm wears off quickly.

People don't write letters any more.

I do.

Back in the day, I had 50+ or so Letters to the Editor, published in the LA Times, NY Times and other rags throughout the country.

When the occasion demanded it, I've written to banks, airlines, and Senators. And more often than not been compensated in response.

I'm a letter-writing Karen. And proud of it. When not one of the 53 GOP Senators met my satisfaction or returned the effort in the form of correspondence, I turned my letter writing into a book, still available on Amazon despite the publisher's mad scramble to keep up with demand.

Last week, some neighbors and friends of mine, who also happen to be colleagues in advertising, made it known they were being shortchanged by a major auto manufacturer. So I did what I thought anyone in my shoes with a penchant for bitching out Fortune 100 companies would do, I offered to step in and write a letter for them.

Not just any letter. I wrote one to the CEO.

I like writing letters to CEOs.

Why? Because I've sat in a room and dealt with so many of them. They don't intimidate me. Oh sure most CEOs are obscenely wealthy and wield their power as if they were potential customers of former AG Mathew Whitaker (seller of the Big Dick toilet), but by and large, not always, I've been unimpressed.

I've also found it unproductive to deal with middle managers, who often can say "No" but are not empowered to say "Yes."

And so I go to the top. Years ago, when the folks at Freddie Mac/Fannie Mae would not let me purchase a condo from my sister-in-law in order to keep her from losing her home, I Fedexed a 2 page letter to the CEO. I also included a DVD of "It's a Wonderful Life" and signed off with the question, "Do you want to be remembered as a modern day Mr. Potter?"

Within a day, the purchase went thru.

I hope the missive I penned for my friends yields the same results. If it doesn't, I'm happy to keep click clacking on my keyboard.

Because as I have mentioned, I like writing letters.

I'm down with PPP

Did you get money? I got money.

Not a lot of money like Ruth Chris Steakhouse or Shake Shack. But when the government rolled out the PPP and $350 billion in aid to small businesses hurt by the mismanaged response to Covid 19, I thought, "I'm a small business." Actually, I'm the smallest of businesses, a one person self employed, underemployed, small business.

So I got off my digital ass and got in digital line.

Why not, particularly since February and March were the most barren months of my 16 year freelance copywriting career.

Do I feel guilty about this? Particularly since I have savings in the bank as well as other investments that guarantee there will always be a roof over my head and the occasional Tomahawk steak on my plate. Not in the least.

In fact, as our stable genius businessman/president would put it, "that makes me smart."

The stipend I was given was small. A shade over 4 digits small. A grain of sand on a wide stretch of beach dominated by large greedy corporations that fatten themselves on government subsides. You know, the usual suspects: Big Pharma, Big Oil, Big Agriculture and of course, Big Defense. The same motherfuckers who decry socialism on one hand and pickpocket Uncle Sam with the other.

Here are some other reasons why my conscience is not troubled.

I live in Culver City, with, allegedly some of the best schools in LA County. But even though I pay hefty property taxes, my girls went to private school. In effect I was paying -- through the roof, I might add -- for the education of four kids, not two.

When my oldest turned 14, we enrolled her at Culver City High School. Big mistake. After 6 months in an advanced Math class, the teacher didn't even know her name. And so we shipped her and her sister off to St. Monica's Catholic High School. In light of my militant atheism, you can imagine how that sat in my less-than-spiritual Hitchian stomach.

It didn't end there.

When college rolled around, we tried, and to no avail, to gain admittance into the UC (University of California) system. I'm convinced there's an unspoken and unholy agreement among governors and the regents to reject in-state applicants disproportionately. Forcing parents all across the country to pay the higher non-resident tuition.

Looking for Deep State conspiracy, there it is.

That's just the tip of the financial Shitberg. I'm sure I can dredge up plenty of instances where more of my money went to pay for pothole repairs and gold plated Pentagon toilets than the contributions of Jeff Bezos, The Koch Brothers or Captain Ouchie Foot.

As it turns out the government will have the last laugh.

The SBA recently put out the PPP forgiveness application, wherein recipients can apply for loan forgiveness. There's little, I should say no chance, I will be absolved.

The application is a Joseph Heller nightmare and might as well have been written in Cyrillic.

How bad is it? I've seen 159 page briefing decks that make more sense.

And justice for all.

This is the museum at the Manzanar Internment camp.

Years ago, we, three families and children, visited this stark patch of land at the base of the Eastern Sierras. We were there for our annual camping trip and the best campground I've ever laid my overfed, dirty, sweaty body on.

Interestingly enough, I've worked with people of Japanese descent who either have parents who were once interned at Manzanar or have actually spent time in this, another one of America's shameful aberrations.

Having been familiar with camps of a different sort in a different country but at the same time, 1940's, I didn't know what to expect. Particularly since many of the townspeople in the surrounding are of the Fox News watching variety. I suspect the area boasts one of the highest red golf cap owning population per square mile than anywhere else in the country.

Thankfully, the experience was informative and respectful. There was an acknowledgment of the misjudgment, bigotry and the outright violation of Constitutional rights.

In other words, it was 180 degrees from what we experienced when we took another cultural excursion years later.

This time in Louisiana. We were visiting potential colleges for my oldest daughter who had taken a liking towards Tulane. I think my daughter also took a liking to Bourbon Street and the French Quarter.

On our third day, a sober day, in New Orleans, my wife thought it would be a good idea to see one of the locally advertised plantations, where slavery and racial hatred were rooted and still raise their head like a nasty persistent bulb.

It was anodyne in the worst possible way.

The slave quarters, situated near the parking lot, had been gussied up made to look as habitable as a glamping site. Each one, the size of a tool shed, had a table, a chair, and beds. I'm sure if the revisionists had their way they would have hooked up the wifi and the cable TV.

After the cursory 10 minute tour of the slave quarters, "guests" at the plantation are led to Big House and expected to marvel and drool over the stolen majesty of the place, the plush carpets, the European artwork, the floor to ceiling shutter windows and the ornate furniture once occupied by hateful murderous men and the dainty Southern belles that loved them.

We were even treated to a complimentary Virgin Mint Julep. That legendary Southern Hospitality.

As we passed through the gift shop on the way out we were also shown the Plantation Banquet Room, where for a modest fee, local Louisianans could stage a wedding, birthday or Bar Mitzvah celebration. Though I'm sure there were no takers from my tribe.

In short, it was appalling. The contrast couldn't be clearer.

And in light of the crisis that has gripped this nation last week, it amply demonstrates that what troubles America most can be summed up in one word: Melanin.

Because it is painfully obvious that we are failing to live up to the principle that this nation was built on: All men (and women) are created equal.

Not now, not ever.

The Pandemic Silver Lining

Way back in 2015, I announced, on this very blog, how I was going to try to find the positive things in life. I vowed to complain less and stay positive. I even started compiling a gratitude list. Because as many of my more spiritual friends have told me, it's important for your aura.

Well, that didn't work out.

In 2016, this country put the most ill-qualified man in the White House. Ad agencies started flooding the freelance market by firing off any senior staffer over the age of 30, and my gratitude list was used to wipe up some spilt soup when we ran out of paper towels.

Today, in the summer of 2020, we find ourselves in the most dire of straits I can recall in all my 44 years.

However, despite the greater degree of difficulty, I'm trying to look on the bright side of life. And I seem to have found it in the stack of mail that regularly piles up on the kitchen counter near the ubiquitous junk drawer.

Not only are all my credit card bills, and I've lost count how many there are including ones carried by my wife as well as the ones carried by my daughters in case of emergency, all been paid off, the incoming balances during the past 10 weeks of hibernation are down.

Way down.

We haven't been to a restaurant since March. And sadly the last one we went to was All Vegan. Which wasn't altogether bad, but it's all overshadowed by the awful taste of Cauliflower Chicken Wings. Sorry Paul and Deanna, that's just not right.

Nor have we been to a movie, a mall or even a supermarket. Meaning there's no charges on my card for $6 lattes, $10 iced teas, or $17 buckets of popcorn.

In other words, we're spending less, saving more and discovering a life of inconspicuous consumption. An anathema to the American way of life. As a result, distancing ourselves from the possibility of ending up in a dirty nursing home (my worst nightmare).

It's the silver lining in all this.

And while we don't miss the things money can buy, we do miss the company of friends and family that money can't buy.

#1, with a bullet

As the 8 regular readers of this blog know I have been working a steady, long term freelance assignment for the past month. I'm already up to my oversized aquiline nose in projects. Some incredibly large. Some minuscule by comparison.

I'm just happy to be working. As any 44 year old still in advertising would be.

The guy who I call my boss is Australian. I hate to break out the big broom of generalization, but I must say, I have always enjoyed working with folks from down under. And I'm not saying that to polish apples. Or kiwis. As anyone who knows me IRL, I'm not that type of fella.

I just like the hearty sense of humor that seems to go with that always-charming accent. Perhaps I'm drawn to Australians because way back when, my adventurous 17 year old mother left the isle of Great Britain to go have some mischief in a foreign land.

In any case, I took the opportunity to share this outdoor billboard (see above) from my days at Team One. As you might imagine he had a good laugh over it.

What I didn't tell him but what I have shared on occasion on these very digital pages, is the incredible rapid fire birth of the campaign for Castlemaine XXXX. I'll retell the story only because it merits mentions in these days of advertising gloom and doom.

Three days into my burgeoning career at Team One in El Segundo, where the sea meets the smell of oil fineries, I was asked to jump in on an outdoor assignment for a small beer account the agency had just landed. The copywriter working on the assignment had to fly out of town and my number was up.

I gladly hopped on board and within hours, my partner and I had magically opened up a treasure chest of funny lines. By the end of the day, (Wednesday) we had papered a wall with dozens of pithy statements that celebrated and made fun of the Outback lifestyle.

On Thursday we showed it to our creative director.

By Friday, he showed it to the CCO.

On Monday, they carted the work out to the client.

And by Tuesday, we had a signed estimate and a green light to go into production.

That's exactly how it happened. And if I'm lying, I'm dying.

It was the first and only time I had ever seen ad people resist the urge to overthink, over analyze and over research any creative endeavor. In stark contrast to the way work winds its way through the halls of many of today's ad agencies, where it is comma-fucked and pixel-pricked by un-creative committees.

Of course my perspective on the Castlemaine XXXX miracle has changed over the years. Particularly since I became an advertising mercenary. Because had I been a freelancer at the time, my assignment would have been done by the end of the second day.

"Thanks Rich, we love the work. We're gonna cut you loose. Stay in touch."

 And then I would have had to wait another 73 days to get paid.

High Times at the DMV

This post will not garner a great deal of web traffic.

I have seen other blog postings, social media rants and even essays by well respected writers, delving into personal accounts of hell from the DMV, the airlines, Amazon, and even shabby service at even shabbier restaurants. The details become boring and hackneyed even before the 100 word marker.

Nevertheless, I'm going to persist.

Because if you stay to the end you will understand why I, and probably you, and probably 7.9 billion people on this planet are cursing the moment we collectively entered the 21st century's version of the Not-So-Roaring 20's. And why, when it appears a dark cloud seems to stalking us, it always seems to open up and dump sloppy diarrhea on our unprotected heads. Particularly on the days when I forget to wear my mask.

here goes:

Way back in the halcyon days of 2019, my uncle moved from his house in Palm Springs to an assisted living facility here in LA. Unfortunately he had also just leased a Nissan Kicks and turning it in early would have cost him dearly. Fortunately, my youngest daughter had just totaled her car in Denver (no injuries), so as they did in 2019 and no longer do in 2020, the stars aligned. A little.

Oh sure, we still had a shit for brains president whose incompetence will be marked for the ages, but at least in 2019, his inadequacies left no mark on my family's life. Again, unlike 2020.

I will spare you all the dreadful DMV details, suffice to say I made the arrangements with Nissan to take over the lease of my uncle's car. Saving him money and putting my daughter back on the smooth, well paved roads of 2019.

As it turned out the DMV required me to make a personal appearance to complete the registration.

After 2 &1/2 painful hours I was finally called to Window 8, where the DMV jezebel told me the forms were incomplete. She printed out an instruction sheet with a detailed account of how I could rectify the situation. I did so the next day and sent the packet of documents to DMV headquarters in Sacramento.

That happened in January 2020. And the descent into Dante's bureaucratic hell had begun.

Two weeks later I called the DMV office. As you might well imagine, trying to reach a live thinking person in Sacramento is difficult enough, trying to reach a live thinking person at the DMV in Sacramento is like trying to wrest the twitter machine away from Captain Ouchie Foot.

As there was little to no work in February and March, I had plenty of time to spend on the DMV phone trees. And acquainting myself with all manner of unbearable On Hold music. Did you know there are many sub genres of this unique category? In addition to smooth jazz, there's soft Euro-house, crappy classic rock cover songs, and the ever popular get-me-out-of-this-elevator-or-I'll-murder-someone melodies.

Eventually, I was told to cool my jets, because any mail sent to the Sacramento headquarters can take up to 8 weeks to process.

8 weeks to open a damn envelope?

I mailed the documents in Mid-January. By mid March I had heard nothing and we were well into 2020's next shitstorm. The one that shut down all DMV offices and made the hope of getting a valid registration in my hand as distant as the last library ever visited by the clueless cockwomble who has made us all tired of So. Much. Winning.

My daughter has now been driving the registration-less vehicle for more than 7 months. I have no idea how this thing will resolve itself. I don't even know the whereabouts of all the documents I had faithfully mailed to the dullards in Northern California.

Or at least I didn't until I put on some latex gloves and reached in the mailbox for my daily of deluge of direct mail, savings-draining bills and solicitations from wealthy Chinese investors who will pay cash money for my house.

Because there, amongst the printed detritus of the average 44 year old American male mail, were the original documents I sent off to Sacramento so many months ago.

They came wrapped in this...

Holy Shit 2020.

And it's only May.

"We're taking on water."

It was another tough week in the ad agency world.

I hear there were massive layoffs at formerly massive advertising agencies. I also read that in April, 36,400 of my colleagues found themselves pink-slipped, furloughed or in the vernacular of the real world, "shit out of luck."

Because not only did they lose their jobs, in a very short while, they will also lose their healthcare benefits. Isn't capitalism so much better than socialism?

So. Much. Winning.

Knowing what I know about these big agencies and their publicly traded holding companies --where one industrious writer can scour publicly displayed financial reports and find the outrageous salaries and Sorrel-like compensation packages for the upper brass that will never be held accountable or get pink slipped, or furloughed or "shit out of luck" -- I can safely say it's nothing short of a Trumpian clusterfuck.

Now, my friend and fellow blogger George Tannenbaum (adaged.blogspot.com) is quite a bit more artful about stating the above.

And his scathing editorials and even scathingier videos have been nothing short of brilliant.

I simply find myself seething. And asking the same question I'd ask Boeing, or Wells Fargo, or AT&T. Don't any Fortune 500 companies, who pay no corporate taxes and reap millions and billions for their shareholders, ever put some cash away for a rainy day?

Particularly during the last three years when they enjoyed generous tax cuts as well as...wait, let me phrase this the way their rainmaker, Captain Ouchie Foot would...the biggest, BOOMINGEST ECONOMY EVER!

This reckless lack of foresight is only compounded by the devil-may-care spending habits of ad agency C-Suiters who insist on flying first class, staying at 5 star hotels and ordering from restaurant menus that refuse to list the market prices for any of their overrated entrees.

Not to mention the car services, the second homes, the pay inequality, the staff salary freezes, and the almost monthly awards bacchanalia, including the one in Cannes where the average agency executive will rack up $20,000/each in expenses.

I'm reminded of the famous quote from Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart who could not define obscenity, but added, "I know when I see it."

Suffice to say, these are obscene times.

Time will tell

When it comes to computers, it turns out I am a real Luddite. 

This comes as a surprise. Especially to me, as I have always considered myself to be kind of tech savvy. Particularly after I spent a year writing ads for Apple during the Steve Jobs-less clusterfuck era.

 I'm old enough to remember a time before computers, clicking and clacking that old IBM Selectric 2.

And I've literally worked on every generation of computers. Starting with a Leading Edge MS/DOS beauty to my current 27 inch iMac 5K Retina Cinema Screen.

Recently, with my recent vocational migration to a Google eco-system, I've become painfully aware of my digital shortcomings. Oh sure I taught myself how to do screen grabs and cheesy photo manipulation using some rudimentary techniques on Apple Preview, but handcrafting razor sharp witty Trump memes is a little different than pulling up a Google Slide and trying to figure out where the god damn Save button is.

Holy shit, I'm an idiot.

The point was made even clearer when my daughter interrupted me because she needed me to email a certain photo from my home screen. She marveled at all the unnecessary steps I took to hit COMMAND + SHIFT +4 to move a photo. 

She almost choked from laughing so hard. 

The mockery continued when I admitted I did not know how to use Apple's convenient AirDrop.

She showed me how to do it and then insisted on filming me using both techniques. No doubt to put it on SnapChat or InstaSomething, to embarrass the hell out of me. 

Considering how I've spent the last 24 years trying to embarrass (and succeeding) my daughters in public, I suppose the payback was to be expected.

"How the hell do you live in the year 2020 and not know this stuff?" she posed, condescendingly.

The answer, it seems, is as old as time itself.

This generation is focused on how and where a message gets communicated.  My generation, the over 44 gang, is more focused on what gets communicated. 

Youth will not be denied

Today there is some lingering bittersweetness from yesterday's post.

After sheltering in place with us for the last two months, my daughter Abby returned to Denver, back to her apartment and back to the job she loves at 11dollarbill. I will always be grateful to my friends Lisa and Tim for giving her an opportunity and teaching her the ropes. But now I'm jealous, because they have Abby and we don't.

Before she left, she nosed herself into my recently re-organized and reasonably cleaned garage and found a bin of undigitized photos. She yanked this from the bunch and reveled in my hirsuteness and my apparent youth. I think I was 43 in this picture.

Though I have mentioned (and offered free copies to any takers) MADWEEK before, I will permit myself to retell the story of how we, myself, Tom Parker and Jim Jennewein, three struggling writers, collaborated, conspired and constructed a full size 16 page brick and mortar parody magazine of the industry's own ADWEEK.

It took us more than a year to write, collate, print and distribute. If memory serves, it also cost us $5000 of our money. That was in 1989. The equivalent today be $5039 dollars, because let's face it, nobody does print anymore. Money well spent, as I got interviewed by and quoted in the NY Times. Naturally they spelled my name wrong.

It was our first collaboration as a trio, but it was not our last. We had taught ourselves a lot about project management, collaboration, compromise and excessive alcohol consumption. So we smashed our heads together again and decided to write a screenplay. About 8 months into the project, my father passed away and I could not muster the energy to continue past the story development phase.

Jim and Tom did and wrote a fantastic screenplay that, for a hot summer week in 1992, generated a supernova's worth of heat. Major studios were bidding on it like a frenzied scene from Shark Week. I'll never forget coming home from dinner with my wife, turning on the answering machine to the giddy and already sodden voices...

"Rich, Rich, we did it...(giggling and laughing)...We did it.....Ahhhhhhhhhh!!!!!....we sold the screenplay....Ahhhhhhh!!!!....we sold the screenplay...where are you? ....you have to get over here....Now!...we sold the screenplay...and bring more champagne."

And that's exactly what Deb and I did. We hopped in a cab and headed to Jim's place in Marina Del Rey. We drank that night until the sun came peeking through the curtains.

Two years later, we gathered in Westwood at the Bruin Theater for the world premiere of the movie, which many now regard as the launch of Peter Hyam's incredible foray into comedy movie making.

Maybe this will jog your memory...

Bonus material which I had never seen until this moment, movie posters from the international markets.  The B&W one from Germany is my favorite. 

Not Available

If you're a regular reader of this blog, you know, just by the sheer number of rants and fiery hot diatribes about our president, our industry and even our current pandemic, that I don't spend a lot of digital ink talking about the great things that have happened to me.

Mainly because they don't.

But also because I haven't spent enough time and energy to appreciate how lucky and blessed I, and my family, have been.

Recently I told readers here at R17 how I've been working on a long term freelance project, which couldn't have come at a better time. And now, like a lightning bolt from a blue desert sky comes even more good news.

My uncle's house in Palm Springs, which he recently vacated to move into an assisted living home (his second in the span of 6 months) has been rented. Scooped up in a fast and furious deal that literally took shape over the course of 4 days.

This may seem inconsequential to you, but the house has been a bit of an albatross to us, requiring weekly schlepps, cleaning, cleaning and more cleaning, and the crazy disposal of my uncle's vast collection of measuring cups, extension chords and enough unopened packages of drill bits to last the crew of Maine Cabin Masters a lifetime or two.

It also necessitated a fair amount of remodeling, which was conducted via FaceTime and video clips.

As house fixer uppers know, re-doing an entire house is stressful. Compound that with the 120 mile geographical divide. Not to mention a very tight budget. And you've got a stroke laying in wait.

BTW, here's a huge Fuck You to Wells Fargo Bank for denying us a tiny cash out refinance to purchase toilets, countertops and cabinetry. My next project will be to migrate all my Wells Fargo business (33 years worth) to a smaller, more caring bank. Like Murray's House of Bucks or Eddie's Greenback Emporium.

Is this sudden leap in landlording cause for celebration?
Yes, yes it is.

But it's also bittersweet. When my daughters were toddlers we'd often go to visit my uncle and stay for the weekend. They'd put on their bathing suits before we even left Culver City so that when they arrived they could jump out of the minivan and right into the 87 degree bathwater warm pool.

And more recently, we've been escaping LA and the relentless cabin fever, by jetting out to the house early in the morning to enjoy blissful, warm afternoons in the desert sun.

It was peaceful, serene and nourishment for the soul.

Even with the inescapable yappy barking of one of the neighbor's toy dogs.

Smile

I've been officially baptized into the Zoom culture.

For weeks, I must admit, I had been fascinated by this phenomena, which promises to undo the evils of the open floor plan (and good riddance it.) But as an under-employed freelance copywriter I had never had the actual opportunity to participate in it.

That is until I took on this new freelance gig.

Now I'm chrome-dome deep in it. Which must be hard on my new coworkers as I have often said in the past, "I have a face for radio."

Moreover, they have to listen to my nasal-heavy, distant NY accent. I have also always said, "I have a voice for newspaper."

And while I may have harbored reservations about video teleconferencing in the recent past, I must say I rather enjoy working this way.

For one thing, while I am not clicking and clacking at my desk without pants, I am quite comfortable wearing my shorts and flip flops. And even if it's a laundry day I can still slip into my rattiest torn up pair of shorts and still pull off the veneer of a seasoned successful ad executive.

Over and above that, I am at my desk.

I love my desk. And my Herman Miller Chair. And the inch and half thick wooden door on my office that was put there in 1947 when they built the first floor of my house. It's a thick, sturdy, old timey quality 3 panel wooden door.

The kind they just don't make anymore. Replaced, more often than not, by cheap, shabby particle board that cannot stand up to an overly dramatic door slam or the errant angry throwing of a shoe.

And finally, though I haven't worked out the kinks yet, there's the Snap Camera add on feature. This unique extension ties into your web camera and allows you to project your face through certain filters.

By hook or by crook, I'm going to figure out how to make this thing work.

No doubt, many of new co-workers will say it's a marked improvement.

It's 4:20 Somewhere

I think it's fair to say we are living through stressful times.

I thought they were stressful prior to the Covid 19 Pandemic. Three years of watching a fishbrained fifth grade drop out storm into the White House and proceed to pound at the pillars of our democracy with a rusty pick axe had raised my blood pressure into 4 digit territory.

And now we've been cooped up in our homes for more than two months, while he continues to push our world to the very precipice of extinction.

Of course, I did hear the Los Angeles Trump National Golf Course just opened, so there is some good news. You'd think Captain Ouchie Foot would have thanked the 80,000+ corpses who sacrificed their lives for his grand re-opening, but that's so off brand for our fat Himmler.

Like I said, the stress has been enormous.

It's even taken its toll on my weightlifting routine, which is now down to 4 days a week. And as any bro will tell you, "if you're not making progress, you're going backwards." And I have the sore triceps to prove it.

Fortunately, my daughters, who both went to college in cannabis legal states (Washington/Colorado) and are knowledgeable in the Way of the Weed, had the cure for what was ailing me.

Petra Medical Mints.

These are micro-dosed at 2.5 mgs per mint. Meaning when you take one you not only get a hint of much needed breath freshener, you don't get that awful overpowering mind melting high nor the Shutter Island schizophrenia that comes with too much THC.

It's a much more controlled, calming feeling.

I liken it to the afterglow of a nice 30 minute yoga session.

You might have a hard time picturing this fat, barrel chested 44 year old man doing Crescent 2 or Warrior 3, but I'll have you know my Standing Tree is pretty impressive. And while nearing the end of my P90X program years ago, I was able to nail the Crow position and hold it for 12 seconds.

This is not a paid endorsement for Petra mints, though I suspect if I wrote the company a letter I might be able to swing a deal. This is just me saying these things have been an herbal-enhanced  Lifesaver. And so I keep two tins handy by my desk.

Next to my coffee.

And next to my copy of Viktor Frankl's Man's Search For Meaning, which is by no means the 'feel-good' book of the year.

Don't hate me cause I'm working

Week One is in the books.

Recently I got booked on a freelance gig. Not with an ad agency. But with an in house creative department. Discretion and caution prevent me from disclosing the name of the client.

So I won't.

Nor do I intend to inflict any pain on my many fellow colleagues in the creative field who now find themselves unemployed and with few, and fewer by the day, prospects. I feel your pain. There is no worse feeling than wanting to work but not being able to find people to work for.

I know from the boredom, the hopelessness and the endless dialing and smiling.

In short, I'm very lucky.

Which is ironic, because like most native New Yorkers, I never felt much like a lucky person.

We, meaning Big Apple natives, have a natural tendency to view the world pitting itself against our fate. When you grow up in NYC everything is a fight: getting crosstown, getting a table in a restaurant, getting a seat on the subway, even getting across the street. See Dustin Hoffman. See Yellow Cab. See "I'm walking here."

But getting booked on a job only covers half my luck. It goes beyond that.

The people I'm working with, everyone of them is younger than my 44 years of age, couldn't be nicer. Or more receptive. Or more helpful. Perhaps because none of them have met me in person. Or perhaps it's all being done through the magic of teleconferencing.

And yet still, I have not conveyed the complete fullness of my good fortune.

Because here's the best part. The unnamed company I am working for places a high premium on creativity. And an even higher premium on funny. So instead of dialing back on what I love to do best, I was told to "push it further. Find the edge of the envelope and go there."

Damn.

Maybe this is the just job honeymoon speaking, I'm hoping it's not.

But I'll share with you what I shared with the last big group on a teleconference call, "I've had more fun and more laughs in the last week than I've had in the past 3 years in the ad business."

Business 101

My daughter has turned our warm home into a warehouse.

Allow me to explain.

Abby came home from Denver to shelter in place with us. She was working remotely from Denver and figured she could just as easily shelter in place from LA. And get to see the empty 405 Freeway, in a way few people ever have.

When her work day concluded her second work day began. She decided to teach herself how to silkscreen T-shirts and such and started making her own designs that reflected the surreal times we are all enduring.

There's the crying heart design (seen above.) The Cry Together design. The Fallen Ice Cream Cone design. And the very popular Be Sad design. Her mother and I thought no one is going to want to wear one of those. Her mother and I were wrong.

And for the past two weeks Abby has been traumatized (perhaps too strong a word) about issues of under supply, demand and distribution.

In other words, she got a first class Masters Class in how business is done.

It's a shame our shit-for-brains president never learned the same lessons. After witnessing the current Covid Clusterfuck, is it any wonder he single-handedly bankrupted 6, maybe 7, maybe 23 -- who knows how many -- companies he ever laid one of his tiny vulgar fingers on?

Last week for instance, he agreed to do an interview with ABC's David Muir. I can't and won't sit down and watch this clueless flap dragon flap his lips with all the articulation of a sugar powdered second grader. The ten second highlight clips are enough to make my heart race as if I had spent an hour on the stair machine.

DAVID: Is it fair to say we got caught under-prepared, with not enough supplies and PPE to properly deal with the coronavirus?

SHIT-FOR-BRAINS: No, that's not fair. When I took over, the shelves were bare. There was nothing. The shelves were bare. Even military. Those shelves were bare. The generals would come up to me and say, "Sir, we have no ammunition."

DAVID: That was three and a half years ago. Why didn't you re-stock the shelves you say were empty?

SHIT-FOR-BRAINS: Well...I had a lot going. A lot.

Cut to Rich picking jaw up off ground.

The suggestion that the CDC and the Health Department were left with empty shelves when Obama exited the White House is preposterous. Did he and Michelle load up all the inventory and sell it on the black market all in an effort to make the new schmuck look bad? Ask a Qanon freak or someone from the Red Hat Brigade and I'm sure you'd find some believers.

Even more outrageous is the contention that the world's greatest superpower, a nation that spends more money on military hardware, jets, tanks, and a panoply of other killing machines, was left on January 21, 2017 with no bullets, no missiles, no bombs, no way to defend the free world because the "shelves were empty" is just fucking insulting.

Moreover, if you buy this horsecockery, I suggest you pour yourself a strong Clorox cocktail. You know, to clean out the cobwebs in your brain.

Team Appreciation

If you work in advertising I don't have to tell you, times are tough.

How tough? As one of my East Coast freelance colleagues put it so succinctly, "I'd give anything to be sitting in another useless meeting right now."

It hasn't been any better out here in Sunny California either. So to keep my mind occupied and my keyboard clacking, I have been doing some pro bono work.

One of my newer pro bono clients is Team Prime Time. They're a local organization dedicated to helping high at-risk kids become low-risk productive adults. And though their name would indicate a focus on sports, their expertise also covers arts, academics and vocational training.

In terms of great causes, I can't think of any better.

In terms of working relationships, this is true as well.

After a few introductory phone calls, I took a crack at writing a new mission statement for TPT. I shared it right away with the executive team, knowing full well I'd be writing other versions that might get closer to the mark.

But they would have none of that.

They snatched up the first anthem I wrote and said put your pencil down. I'm not saying this as any kind of humblebrag. I'm really not. To be honest, I've written better anthems/manifesto/mission statements in the past.

The point I'm trying to make is that they were so hungry for a clear concise articulation of their purpose they seized on the first thing they saw. Moreover, and this is what is sadly missing from our industry, they were appreciative and grateful. Not only because the work they were getting was free, but because they recognize the time and effort that someone put into doing something of value.

I don't know why clients need to be reminded of that, but they do.

The ideas, the words, the visuals, the communication tools we serve up on a daily basis, have the power to change the course of an organization.

Ask Apple.
Ask Nike.
Ask Geico.

No real point to this post other than to say that it's been refreshing and invigorating to work with professionals who haven't forgotten how to say, "Thank you."

And mean it.

It's not delivery but it's halfway decent.

I'm not too proud to say that I'm a pizza snob. Always have been. Always will be.

However I think most native New Yorkers can make that claim. And rightfully so.

I was born in the Bronx, near Jerome Ave. My parent's apartment, which was also my grandparent's apartment, was directly over a candy store. Next door to the candy store, which are now called bodegas, was a pizza joint.

It might have been Ray's. Or Tony's. Or Mario's. Or even Paulie's. If you're familiar with Goodfellas, you know from Ray Liotta's play by play narration, almost everyone of Italian lineage is named Paulie.

When we moved to Jackson Heights in bucolic Queens -- anything compared to the Bronx is bucolic -- there were pizza joints on every corner. I dare say they were more prevalent that today's Starbucks.

And equally so when we shuffled further east to live in upscale Flushing -- anything compared to Jackson Heights is upscale. There, too, were more pizza parlors than you could shake a jar of crushed of hot red peppers at.

But that was long ago, when you could snag a slice for 50 cents and a Coke for another quarter.

Now, we are living through Trump's Pandemic. That's right I'm giving him exclusive ownership of this fucking debacle. And if you'd like to argue the point we can start with his stepping up to the podium and claiming, "I take no responsibility at all." 

W R O N G .

You are wholly responsible.

So where does DiGiorno pizza come into all this? The same way any food stuff comes into our house. Very carefully.

We're not big on take out lately. The waits are too long. And there's always the nagging suspicion that the restaurant folks preparing the food are not as rigorous in their cleaning, swiping and mask wearing as we are.

So last week, we stocked the freezer with a few DiGiorno pizzas. My expectations were Gotham low. But as the crust began to rise, as promised, so did my appetite.

I'm not going to sit here and rave about DiGiorno pizza. Suffice to say, it wasn't half bad. The cheese was good. The pepperoni with thick. And the crust, not crisp and thin so one could do the Brooklyn fold, was tasty. All in all. It was better than expected.

And during these dark days, when expectations are at once in a lifetime lows, that says a lot.