Greetings, Infernal Revenue Service

If you're like me you found yourself writing out a check to our federal government today. It was the last day of the coronavirus inspired IRS extension.

If you're like me -- and god help you if you are -- you also appended the payment with some kind of appropriate commentary.

Made even more appropriate because we owe money to a government that turns around and hands that money out to megachurches, Fortune 5 00 companies and assnuggets like Kanye West, all of whom took advantage of Uncle Sam's PPP Feeding Trough for the Rich.

But what stings the most is that I owe Donnie's House of Whoring and Backscratching, more money than I've ever owed in my life. Because, and here's the kicker, 2019 was also the year I made the least amount of money I've made in the last 27 years in advertising. Ever since I was a young, up and coming 1993 copywriter, working for two of the industry's legends. Steve Hayden and David Lubars.

Steve liked me. Lubars, not so much.

Consequently, last year, I had to dip into my IRA savings. Thus, running up a substantial tax bill.

I don't like dipping into my savings. I like to log in to my Charles Schwab account and watch those numbers increase. I like to pull up the full screen chart and gaze at the line, climbing at a sharper and sharper angle.

You know like the number of Coronavirus cases. And now, the coronavirus deaths. There's nothing pleasing about those charts. Except the hope that #Maskholes throughout the country might finally realize the cesspool this regime has plunged us into.

But I'm not hopeful.
Or naive.

So now, what was mine, no longer is. That money is in the capable, tiny, vulgarian hands of Captain Fucknuckle, who will no doubt use it to buy new umbrellas, to replace the ones he failed to close.

Or pay for golf carts needed by Secret Service agents trailing him on one of his 8,974 golf outings.

Or, to reimburse DJT Jr. for expenses he incurred while scouring the Serenegetti and shooting groundhogs, or gerbils, or some other herbivorous wild game that poses no threat to the life and limb of that worthless silver spoon scumbag.

It makes my blood boil.

It also explains the purchase of my new mask.

Oh, oh, oh, it's magic

My wife and I are now both at that same delicate age, 44, when we are subjected to a ton of pharmaceutical advertising. Ads that once pimped Michelob Ultra, the beer for athletes, or Tinder, or even the Gap, have been replaced by commercials for Keytruda, Trylesta and Ozempic.

Ozempic is our favorite, because it features a song that mimics that old 70's pop hit Magic by Pilot.

Oh you know the spot:



Catchy, no?

If I'm not mistaken I think the fine makers of Ozempic, doctor's recommended choice for diabetes, obesity, arthritis, heart disease, cancer and dismemberment, dipped deep into their pool of Big Pharma money and actually got the band Pilot to come out of retirement and croon the new lyrics.

Listen again. The melodic harmonizing. The unmistakable hooks. Even the guitar riffs are the same as Pilot's signature 1974 sound. The sound that went on to launch such magical hits as....OK, so the negotiations with the band manager probably didn't last longer than 2 minutes.

OZEMPIC: "We'd like to use your band's song, MAGIC, in our next commercial."

PILOT: "Done."

OZEMPIC: "Any chance you guys could sing it for us?"

PILOT: "How about next Tuesday?"

It's been said that pharmaceutical advertising is where old copywriters go to finish out their careers. And while I've dipped my toe in that field, I've been fortunate enough to avoid a steady Monday through Friday, nine to five, diet of this stuff.

For starters, I wouldn't have the faintest idea how to pitch a spot like the Ozempic one to clients.

"Close your eyes. Picture a diverse group of youngish, middle aged people, people, going about their lives free from the debilitating effects of diabetes. They're playing miniature golf, exercising, and putting new 393 cubic inch engines into classic cars like the 1967 Dodge Coronet. And throughout this incredible montage we hear...

SFX: PILOT SINGING OZEMPIC

Worse than that is what happens after the client signs the estimate and sends you on your way to produce this 90 seconds of diabetic bliss.

Because if you know anything about advertising, TV or film production, you know it is a long and laborious process that moves from focus groups (where the song is played 178 times) to the shoot (where the song is played another 427 times) to the edit bay, (where some poor editor has to frame fuck this thing and the song is played 2,936 times) before it reaches your tv screen.

Those are the kind of sacrifices we have to make for art.

I won't labor this any longer, suffice to say, this where my career is going.

I can feel it in my arthritis-free bones. And while I bemoan my fate, I'll leave you with this, so that the earworm I have placed in your head can find its way down to your alimentary canal and make a quick egress.

You're welcome.

I want to speak to the manager

Some of you may recall my tale of customer dissatisfaction with the Omaha Steak Company. To recap, my daughter, very thoughtfully, purchased 4 juicy Rib Eye steaks from their online sales department and gifted it to me for Father's Day.

The "steaks" were not exactly steaks.

And were more akin to the a bite sized treat you might give your dog for fetching a ball or for not shitting on the new expensive rug you just bought from Restoration Hardware.

As I explained in a flattering post, the folks from Nebraska couldn't have been more accommodating. They understood my disappointment and immediately refunded my daughter the $135 she spent for four of these morsels. I offered to send the still wrapped "steaks" back, but they would have none of that.

Good on them for living up to the promise printed on the box: "100% Satisfaction. Guaranteed."

The other half of my Father's Day extravaganza came from my wife. She never knows what to get me as a gift. Mostly because I'm never wanting for anything. So I decided to make it easy and pointed her in the direction of Flaviar. A new online company that sends whiskey right to your doorstep. Sort of like Harry and David's Fruit of the Month club, only with high octane pain-go-bye-bye juice.

That did not turn out well. The first bottle they sent (still unopened) was called PiggyBack. I suspect the folks at Flaviar have a warehouse full of this stuff. And need to unload it.

The first gift carton also included three sampler bottles, about a shot and a half, just enough bourbon to make me feel a little less stressed about these shitty surreal times we live in. Well, it would be if it was actually drinkable. In fact, I'm not sure I wasn't actually drinking paint thinner. I tossed that shit in the garbage disposal. Though I will say the sink is now draining faster.

Then I went online to see what my wife had actually purchased. Then the email exchange started.

I heard back from Jason, my Flavor Concierge. Ooooo, I have a flavor concierge.

I asked for a refund. But Jason, my flavor concierge was not so willing to concierge me.

OK, Jason. We can do this the easy way. Or the hard way, which will be a lot more fun..

Jason, chose the easy way. Which was smart of him. 

I don't want you coming away from this post thinking I'm some kind of schnorer -- those of you in the Tribe will recognize that term. But as my email explained, I do expect to be treated fairly. 

And speaking of fair, now that my daughter and my wife have been refunded all the money they spent on this past Father's Day I think it's only fair we do it over again.

Let's get hungry

Last week, in between the creation of new Trump memes and the hourly checking of our total us debt at usdebtclock.org, I found myself chatting with Claudia Caplan.

Claudia is an old old friend.
Not that she's old, just that we've known each other a very long time.

I knew Claudia before she knew me, in that I was a big fan of her work. Notably her incredible portfolio of radio commercials. You see she is a copywriter. And a Creative Director. She also went on to become a Chief Marketing Officer at Earthlink, where we met in person and she became a client.

And a friend.

It's safe to say she's one of the brightest women in advertising, though because of her disdain for gender acknowledgement she'd prefer I just describe as one of the brightest people in advertising. If an agency were looking for a new CCO they'd be wise to look Claudia's way.

In short, I trust her opinion. And when she says she finally saw a TV spot that caught her eye, that caught my ear.

"It's simple. It's forthright. And it cleverly hitches its pitch to the imagination of the senses and their ability to actually make a person hungry."

Interesting I thought.

Here it is for your inspection.

The way she described the spot was also suspiciously familiar. And upon viewing the spot, my suspicions were all confirmed.

You see, a little more than 15 years ago, we did the same thing for El Pollo Loco. We recognized that nothing makes people hungrier for barbecued chicken than the sight, sounds and imagined smell of barbecue chicken.

Add to that the restriction of a limited budget and the necessity to produce close to a 100 commercials in a year, and you can see why we landed, where we landed.

Here for your amusement, and comparison to the Kraft commercial, is a small sampling of the 92 commercials we made for El Pollo Loco.



The campaign was a huge success.
Except for the guy doing the voiceover.
He sucked.

The State of the State

Recently I received a private email, congratulating me on my relentless pursuit of imperfection, referring of course to my non stop assault on Precedent Shitgibbon and his non stop assault on democracy.

Conversely, I've also been accused of rehashing the same material and foisting "tired old rants" upon anyone willing to listen.

Guilty.
On both charges.

I may not be everyone's cup of tea. But the truth is, I don't want to be. As Winston Churchill, or maybe it was Frederick Douglass (he's just now getting the attention he deserves) once said, "If you're not making enemies, you're doing something wrong."

The next natural question is, why do I do it?

If I'm being honest with myself and with you, I can't NOT do it. You see, I have wanted to be a political satirist since I was 14 years old. I had dreams of being the next Art Buchwald (Google him) and joining the staff at National Lampoon. There aren't many 14 year olds who know exactly what they want to do in life. I was blessed and knew I wanted to be a writer.

I was also cursed, because shortly after I graduated college, National Lampoon went out of business. SPY magazine followed shortly thereafter. The market for political satire dried up. And I fell into advertising.

But now there is social media. And there is Captain Ouchie Foot. And Commander Fuckknuckle. And Grandpa Ramblemouth. And there is the daily, dare I say hourly, display of his incompetence, ignorance and incrementally increasing dementia.

And so I mock. Many times that mockery leads to arguments. Which again I relish, because in addition to my aspiration of being a political satirist I also entertained dreams of being a lawyer. And when it comes to arguing against the current fascist regime, the facts are so readily stacked in my favor.

Foreign Policy -- We are the laughingstock of the world. Russia is having their way with us. China is still stealing intellectual property building the new Silk Road, and still not paying the tariffs on imports,  you, we, are. Even North Korea played us for the fools we appear to be.

Healthcare -- The big, beautiful Repeal and Replace Plan never existed. For 10 years the GOP has had an opportunity to come up with a better idea. And for ten years those country club dipshits did nothing but play golf and raise money from their ignorant gullible supporters. As you read this, the DOJ is arguing in court, to have the Affordable Care Act nullified, throwing millions of people off healthcare. During a goddamned pandemic!!!

Infrastructure -- Pffffft

Immigration -- Mexico reneged on their promise to pay for the Wall and never sent a check. As if that weren't bad enough, our hogbellied flap dragon of a president stole money from the military and erected 3 miles of new wall. Some of it blew over because of strong winds. And some of it, built near the Rio Grande, is in danger of falling in the water. (Go to the Google)

The Economy -- This, by far, is my favorite arrow in the quill, because the economy sucks. It sucks now, because of Coronavirus. But more importantly, it sucked before Coronavirus. And don't let anybody tell you otherwise. Remember when Shitgibbon promised GDP growth rates of 3, 4, 5 and maybe even 6%? Eye this:

2017 GDP growth -- 2.4%
2018 GDP growth -- 2.9%
2019 GDP growth -- 2.3%
2020 GDP growth (Q1 only) -- (-4.7%)
2020 GDP growth (Q2 estimate) -- (-53%) Even a dopey foot doctor from North Bunion, Kansas, can tell that ain't good.

Not to mention consecutive years of trillion dollar deficits.

And finally, there's the debt. By the time this post reaches you it will be hovering near $26.5 trillion. Meaning, America's bestest, most stable genius businessman will have added close to $7 trillion worth of red ink. In one term as president!

Despite all this, on November 3rd, 60 million Americans will pull the lever for this lying, grifting, racist rapist. Proving that what America needs most is not a Wall, not new highways, bridges or airports, and not new tanks, or planes, or bombs. If this grand experiment is going to survive, America needs a total rehab of our Public Education.

Because we...are...so...fucking...dumb.

It's raining

Today I'd like to revisit an old Pet Peeve of mine. This is hardly new to readers of this blog. I often rehash old Pet Peeves. That's why they're Pet Peeves and not one time annoyances.

Readers will recall my many, many rants about Planners, FFDKK™-- Frivolous Fuckwadian digital Knick Knacks and The Long Table of Mediocrity™.

Today I bring up the notion of Time. And how we're paid for it. More accurately, how we are NOT paid it. My friend George Tannenbaum, recently released from the mental and physical bondage of big agency employment, has touched on this topic. As well as many others. And his torching of the bridge that connected him to the big holding companies is nothing, if not genius.

There's a certain liberation that takes place when you reach a certain age in your career. And have a sufficient financial cushion in your portfolio. It's not Fuck You money, by any means, but it is "You're-Not-Gonna-Fuck-Me-Anymore Money."

And make no mistake that what big agencies do.

They start with with some meaningless Title Seduction. You're a Creative Director now. Or you're a Group Creative Director now. Ore you're an Executive Creative Director, whoopee. They will literally say anything to get in your ego pants.

Mind you, that prestigious title entitles you to nothing.

You don't get an office. You don't get more money. And you don't even get the final say on what creative product goes out the door. What you do get is the expectation that you will be on call 24 hours a day, 366 days a year.

And this where the fucking you begins.

Because your previous 40 or 45 or, who are we kidding, it's advertising, 50 hour work weeks will be a thing of the past. Replaced by the standard 60, 70 and 80 hour work weeks.

Allow me to torch a bridge of my own. When I was freelancing at a certain agency in Santa Monica, an outpost of a once famous shop in Boulder, Colorado, an assistant used to come around every night about 6 PM. She had a stack of menus in one hand and a notepad in the other.

"We're taking dinner orders. Where do you want to eat tonight?"

"I want to eat at home. Good night"

This. Was. Everyday.

And while you're putting in that extra time, because you're a big bad executive with a fancy title, don't expect that lost labor to ever be recouped. It won't. There'll be no bumps. No raises. No compensation of any kind.

It is, like so much that is wrong with business and this country, mind numbingly Trumpian in its hypocrisy.

Why? Because agencies, once paid on retainer or the dreamy 15% commission, now bill the clients by Time. And you can be sure that if the agency works 50 hours or 5 hours or 5 minutes over scope, they, unlike you, are going to charge the client for every goddamned second of it.

Meaning you are not the Mr. or Ms. Senior Vice President Group Creative Director, North America, you are merely a profit center.

My shtetl ancestors, no strangers to getting screwed, had a colorful phrase for this:

"tsi nit pi aoyf meyn tsurik aun zogn mir az es regn"   

Translation: Don't pee on my back and tell me it's raining!

The Hip-ocratic Oath

As many readers of R17 know, I have been working quite regularly lately. I'm heading into the third month of a three month contract.

It might be the most intensive and lowest paying gig I've ever had in my illustrious 15 year career as a freelancer. But it might also be the one I love most. Because in addition to working from home, like everybody else, I'm also working with a great bunch of people who demand and appreciate funny writing, unlike everybody else.

If I play my cards right, and they play their cards right, this could actually turn into a full time job.

But it is not without one gnawing problem that has afflicted me since planting my considerable ass in my Herman Miller chair and clicking and clacking away at the funny. You see because of Slack and the fast pace with which the company moves, I have been tethered to my computer. For long stretches at a time. Consequently I have developed sharp, stabbing pains in my hip flexor muscles.

A $200 trip to the doctor yielded a diagnosis of Bursitis. Which I resisted, because young, healthy 44 year olds just don't get Bursitis. And the foul tasting steroids I was prescribed did little or nothing to relieve the pain. Not nearly as much as the Petra Cannabis-Infused Moroccan mints. (By the way I've been promised a truckload of free mints from the CMO at Kiva Confections, a reader of this blog, but to date they have not arrived.)

And so I took my aching legs into my own hands.

Did a little interweb research on hip flexor pain, which is quite common with many of us now parked on our derrieres, and discovered a series of stretches that can alleviate the pain. I've now turned my youngest daughter's vacant bedroom into Rich's Studio of Cannabis-Enhanced Yoga and Screaming.

I also purchased the Active Wrap Hip Heat & Ice Wrap. And have taken to strolling about the house wearing this neoprene looking diaper.

My other daughter finds it endlessly amusing. 

I'm sure she has snapped a few surreptitious photos of me and posted it online for her friends amusement.

But the good news, I am on the mend. The better news is that while nursing the lower half of my body back to 100%, the top half is functioning at super human levels.

Last week our friends Paul and Deanna came over for a social distanced dinner. After my 4th Mojito I invited Paul to take a look at my garage and my personal gym. One thing led to another and before long the testosterone kicked in and we were seeing who could bench press the most weight.

With a lot of grunting and groaning, I slowly hoisted 245 lbs. 

Imagine how much I would have been able to lift if I only had 3 Mojitos. 

Blintzes, Brisket and Bikes.

Like many of you in the advertising industry, I have been looking for an exit plan. My own, not one imposed on me.

After all, there are fewer and fewer places who are looking for the skills of a 44 year old freelance copywriter. Particularly one who looks, and now walks, significantly older than a person born in the halcyon days of 1976.

Naturally, because of my extensive background as a short order cook/sous chef/bartender/and hospital kitchen dishwasher, I considered a late career shift/return to the food business.

Now, I would never open a restaurant, because restaurants have a notorious 95% failure rate.

But I did consider opening a food related retail boutique. Thinking, perhaps naively, all I've got to do is hit upon a food no one ever thought of glamorizing.

And then it hit me -- blintzes.
What Starbucks had done for coffee, I would do to blintzes.

If you're not familiar with blintzes, you don't know what you're missing. Not only are they delicious and satisfying, they are incredibly versatile. You can have dessert blintzes, filled with sour cream, strawberries. Or chocolate and chocolate chip. Or you can shift the blintz paradigm and stuff them with meat -- like a tiny Omaha steak -- and potatoes, so they can be an entree. Blintzes are that versatile.

Not a bad idea, right?

Thanks to my friend Evan, I recently found out a guy in the DC area has already been there and done that.

And in a Twilight Zone twist of fate, that guy's name was Rich.

Tapping into my heritage, as well as my love for fire-cooked flesh, I also considered doing the same for brisket. This was inspired by a college touring trip to Austin, years ago. I'm not sure there's anything on the planet that compares to Texas style BBQ brisket. It's as good as sex. And afterwards you'll actually want to lick your fingers. Sorry.

In my imaginary incarnation of the store, Bubba and Bubbe's Brisket Emporium, I would offer brisket lovers two distinctively different flavors. One the aforementioned, slow cooked in an authentic hickory burning smoker. And the other, stewed in a pan, with carrots, onions and potatoes, shtetl style, just the way your Cossack-persecuted grandmother used to make.

When I began to crunch the numbers, this too became infeasible. Oh who are we kidding, I didn't crunch any numbers. Look, I'm not about to empty the Nest Egg to start some fakakta business.

Especially one in retail. Do you know how much money you need to ring up in sales, every damn day,  just to make the nut for rent? Too much.

That's why I tip my hat to Culver City's own Abba Padre Bikes and Books. (Libreria Cristiana, pictured above)

Why open one business, thought Señor Abba Padre, when you can open two? It's a bike repair shop AND it's a seller of fine Christian books?

"While Manuel is putting these new brake shoes on your Schwinn beach cruiser, why don't we open Deuteronomy and read the passage about Jacob and Esau?"

That's when it hit me. 

There is no exit plan. Not for this 44 year old.

I'm going to be writing banner ads and email blasts right up until the day some mortician tells my wife, "He's a big fellow, we're gonna need the EEE extra wide casket."

Home Sweet Home

Came across this stunning photo of Central Park the other day. I see pictures of NYC every other day on social media, but this one struck a nerve. More accurately, it triggered a pungent memory.

Memories are tricky because if you dwell on them too long people see you as living in the past. Washed up. Clutching at straws trying to reclaim long lost glory. Too bad, I'm of a certain age, where I really don't care what people think. Particularly younger people who grimace when I claim advertising and the advertising industry was better in the old days.

Because you know what, it was.

If you were to zoom in on the red arrow, you'd be staring at Essex House, at least that's what it was called in pre-pandemic days. And on the 23rd story of this storied building, you'd find an exquisite Indian restaurant, appointed with fine Persian rugs, exotic lamps imported from Italy, and waiters and waitresses in full tuxedos.

Ok, they may not have been wearing tuxedos, but for the purposes of this tale, they were.

Truth be told, I like my Indian food on the more authentic side. Served up in a dingy strip mall hole in the wall restaurant, with a check cashing store on one side and a purveyor of fine adult books on the other. But on this occasion I was more than willing to indulge in $25 dollar veggie samusas and $80 bowls of Curried Eel, caught fresh that day off the coast of Ceylon.

Not only was the food amazing, so were the views. Unparalleled. And until that night unseen, by anyone like me, a member of the decidedly lower castes.

We, meaning my partner John Shirley, several account execs, and perhaps even a client, to justify the mortgage-worthy bill, were brought there by my old boss Jerry Gentile. It was not the first, or last indulgent feast visited upon us on our almost monthly journeys to the NY office.

Whenever we went to the Big Apple, we went big. Often flying in Business Class. Often staying at outrageously expensive hotels. Often raiding the mini bars and the breakfast in bed room service at said outrageously expensive hotels ($18 for a bag of cashews? $48 for a pitcher of orange juice? Sure, why not?) And always dining at New York's finest restaurants.

We frequented cigar bars and gentlemen's clubs. We sampled rare scotches. On one excessively sodden night, John and I found ourselves at the St. Regis hotel bar, being hit upon by two rich socialite women, who were well into their 60's. It was the stuff of Penthouse letters.

By the time we were boarding the plane at JFK for the return flight to LA, our necks and cheeks would be hurting from laughing so hard.

However, it should be noted that all of our missions were driven by the singular goal of creating great creative advertising.

And, as it turns out, even more creative expense reports.

Face the music

Last week, the holding company that "holds" the company I am working for (still under an NDA) announced they would no longer advertise on Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.

It was a bold move backed by bold thinking and the belief that brands must do their part to right the ship that is currently taking on the dirty water of hatred, racial injustice, and foreign election interference.

I, for one, couldn't be happier.

Like many people, I have a love/hate/despise relationship with the Book of Face.

I love it because it gives me a platform to write and publish my own political opinions, jokes and memes. A platform I would never have had I further pursued my dreams in television or film. I've had literary agents. I've tried to navigate that closed world. I've played that game.

Truth is I had no stomach for "taking lunches", "nurturing relationships" or "managing my brand."

Fuck that.

With Facebook, if I get an idea, in between getting ideas for my job (for which I get paid), I simply comp it up or write it up, press post and watch the people in the Red Hats fume. Some even have the temerity to challenge me, publicly. And when it comes to Captain Ouchie Foot and the demise of the GOP, it is not a battle to which I come unprepared.

On the other hand, I hate Facebook.

In particular, their arbitrary rules governing free thought. I have seen Facebook pages espousing white supremacy, Islamic terrorism and the always popular, virulent antisemitism. These pages thrive and often feel like they are lighting the kindling for actual acts of violence. Yet, I have been cited, many times, by the Facebook police. Indeed, I've been banned on several occasions, and served two 30 day stints in Facebook jail -- once for using the phrase "white trash."

And yet look, here's a fan page for a movie (a must see movie) all about White Trash.

Awkward segue.

The move to abandon Facebook is a welcome one. And it was followed by several other large companies doing the same, including Honda, Birchbox (whatever that is) and Coca Cola.

With the death of George Floyd, the ongoing pandemic, the growing support for Black Lives Matter, the cratering of our economy, the Russian bounties on the heads of American soldiers and the upcoming election, it truly feels like our nation is experiencing an important inflection point.

With any luck, we will emerge on the other side of this, wean ourselves off this social media and no longer have to write banner ads and email blasts.

Let the Buyer Be Hungry

As you may recall, last week was Father's Day, my favorite holiday of the year.

My favorite holiday was Thanksgiving, but this year, there won't be much to be thankful for unless, by some miracle, we are able to kick this fat fascist monster out of the White House.

Besides, Thanksgiving has turned into so much work, what with the setting of the table, the preparation of two birds, the dirty dishes, and the always disappointing football games, including the obligatory loss by the Detroit Lions.

Plus, because my whiskey drinking usually starts at 11 AM, by the time the big meal is set out on the table, I'm too sloshed to be able to enjoy it. Or remember it.

No, Father's Day is my new favorite. On what other day of the year do my wife and daughters cater to my every need AND produce gifts with sentimental cards telling me how much they appreciate my over-providing for them?

Last week, my oldest provided me with the perfect gift, four Rib Eyes from Omaha Steaks. Due to a miscalculation with the US mail, it didn't arrive until Tuesday. The package came in a large styrofoam container that belied its size. You can imagine the drool dribbling down my chin as I eagerly opened the box.

Not to humblebrag, but I'm somewhat of a steak connoisseur. In fact, I owe my life in Southern California to my innate ability to grill the perfect steak, whether it's a New York Strip, a T-bone, the overrated Filet Mignon or the king of the butcher block, the Tomahawk. You see, for two wasted years of my life, I managed an incredibly popular steakhouse on Santa Monica Blvd. -- S.H. Kickers.

The restaurant was fashioned off a concept native to Texas. And my boss prided himself on serving the best quality meats in the largest quantity of styles. Our steaks started at 12 ounces and went all the way to 32. At one point, the owner wanted to mimic the Pecos Pete restaurant in San Antonio and sell a 72 ounce prime rib steak, with an added twist.

If a customer could clean his plate and demolish the steak within 30 minutes the bill would be a tin roof. What's a tin roof? It's on the house.

Anyway, back to my Omaha steaks.

Beautiful, aren't they?

Well, no they are not.

You see, just as I am no stranger to the carnivorous arts, I've also made a career in advertising, and am no stranger to the deceitful ways of the camera lens. You, like my daughter, have been duped. By an optical illusion.

Here's a better look at my inordinately expensive steaks from Nebraska.

Those are three US minted dimes laid across the top of the biggest filet.

That's not a steak, that's an hors d'ourves. That's an appetizer. I eat more beef than that as I'm carving up a tomahawk BEFORE I sit down to dinner.

Naturally, I got on the horn to the folks from Omaha. And unnaturally, they didn't argue the point or even ask any questions. They simply refunded my daughter's money immediately.

I thanked them and asked them to send me a return packing slip so I could Fedex the meat morsels back. They went one step better and said to keep the steaks.

They said, in essence, it was Tin Roof.

Cheers

I do my best not disparage other people's creative output. I understand the difficulties of guiding an idea through the corporate labyrinth of stupid, CYA careerism. It's easy to create a TV commercial, it's a lot harder to get one approved.

And so I'm not going to slam the new slew of spots for Miller High Life.

Nor am I holding back for some kind of hidden agenda or hope that I'll ever land a freelance gig at the Philadelphia agency that produced them. I looked at their website and they all seem be about 16 years old. And look far too cheery to have spent any considerable time in the business. Much less, feel inclined to ever reach out to an old-timer like me.

I'm restraining myself because I know how high the bar was for the team or teams who are following in the footsteps of perhaps the greatest TV campaign ever produced.

In my eyes, at least.

I have written glowingly about the early 90's work done by Jeff Kling, Errol Morris and gang. They produced more than 50 spots. And each is a study in wit, wisdom and craftsmanship.

It's a shame and a mystery why they ever stopped running this much-loved campaign. I suspect it has a lot to do with the fact that Miller High Life is not a much loved beer.

As someone who has consumed more than his fair share of beer, I can tell you that Miller High Life has the appearance, the smell and the drinkability of a freshly drawn urine sample.

But, as my buddy Matt puts it, particularly in advertising, "you play the hand you're dealt."

So kudos go out to the current marketing team at Miller who decided to breath new life into the Miller high Life man campaign. And kudos also belong to the creatives on the other side of the Jersey border. True to the spirit of the original work, they have mined the small moments of life. They celebrate the notion of simplicity. And they have made advertising that doesn't feel like advertising.

Are the new spots as good as the old ones? Uh, no. But as I noted earlier, that bar was impossibly high.

Are the new spots better than 99.99% of any crap commercials you're likely to see today, tomorrow or next week? Indubitably, yes.

Crack open a Heinekin, you kids from Philly. You deserve it.

A Tale of Two Coins

I'm going to be honest with you, and when am I not?

Two years ago, I contacted the White House Gift Shop and laid out 50 of my hard earned dollars for the commemorative Korean Peace Talks Summit Coin.

When it arrived, I was pleasantly surprised. Each coin came individually wrapped in thoughtful plastic cover, for keepsake purposes. Moreover, each coin was numbered and had included its own CERTIFICATE OF AUTHENTICITY OF ORIGIN -- which is kind of a word salad, but still.

A CERTIFICATE!!!

Some, namely my wife and daughters, scoffed at this impulsive and reckless purchase. I, on the other hand, was convinced I had gotten in on the ground floor of an investment that would pay huge dividends.

These coins would be the 2017 equivalent of purchasing 100 shares of Apple Computer while Steve Jobs was still assembling motherboards in the dirty garage of his parent's Cupertino house.

I was convinced that once President Trump had laid on the charm with Kim Jong Un, we would be ushering in a new round of American/Asian détente.

I thought the acrimony would be over, followed by rich cultural exchanges between our nations.

Furthermore, when I heard that Jared Kushner has pushed the idea of building luxury condos on the beautiful beaches of the northern Korean peninsula, I began entertaining the thought of a Pan Pacific vacation home. Right on the shores of luscious Hong Shwe.

I mean surely, when two leaders openly declare their love for each other and even exchange a flurry of flowery letters to that effect, there can only be brighter rosier days ahead.

Who knew?

Now Little Rocket Man wants nothing to do Captain Ouchie Foot. He's cut off the talks. Ratcheted up the rhetoric. And is now building more nukes than he had before these two beautiful, machine-stamped coins were minted in rare Pennsylvania-grade scrap iron.

Even Little Rocket Man's sister is getting in on the rancor. Threatening to blow some South Korean shit up, just because she can.

All of which means, the coins, Serial Numbers #29458 & #29459, intended to be a family heirloom for my daughters and one day, their offspring, are now worthless. And pushing back my early retirement day, til who knows when.

Looks like I'm going to writing banner ads and email blasts for a long, long time.

When you're doing #2 this should be #1

I am not in the habit of promoting other people's books. Particularly when those other books are written by freelance copywriters who are working hard every day to literally scoop up jobs and otherwise steal food off my family's table.

But as I mentioned yesterday, the pantry has been stocked and I'm feeling especially magnanimous.

My friend Mickey Taylor (Paul, for the purposes of his book) has released ADWEAK, Your Leading Source for Fake News. If you work in advertising you are no doubt aware of ADWEAK's twitter feed. It has amassed more than 17 billion followers.

That number may be off a little, but in the era of Grandpa Ramblemouth™, all numbers are subject to embellishment.

Mickey has been skewering the ad industry for more than decade. Often brutally, always incisively. That's my kind humor. With satire, if you're not leaving bloodied bodies in your wake, you're not doing it right.

When he started ADWEAK, back in the early 2000's, it was more as a goof than anything else. Mickey was gainfully employed and had to maintain anonymity. And so in a clever move, he created a fictitious Editor and portrayed him with a stock photo of a fat, bald guy who happened to be sporting swim goggles.

As a result, I had to fend off emails, phone calls and visits to HR, in my own defense, from people who swore I was behind the venture. I wasn't. Though years earlier, my buddies, also copywriters, put out MADWEEK.

It seems the urge to mock this industry is quite strong, as I, Mickey and Glenn, Bob Hoffman and George Tannenbaum, will attest.

When you sit in meetings for 3 hours discussing whether a V-neck sweater is brand appropriate or when a client's daughter kills a campaign after 6 months of development, redevelopment and re-redevelopment because, "I just don't like it", it's bound to result in some pent up anger.

In any case, while I made some paltry occasional contributions to ADWEAK, I am not the brains behind it. In fact, when I see their daily brilliance, I often stew in jealousy.

Even moreso, because I found out that despite the brutal take downs and razor sharp wit, some Fortune 500 companies have actually pinged Mickey for project work. One maker of inedible pizza even has them on their roster.

If clients were smart, and by and large they are not, they would hire more renegades and embrace a looser, more entertaining, more truthful approach to their advertising. Ryan Reynolds gets it.

But I digress.

The book will soon have its official release. I suggest you buy it and put it on the lid of the toilet for leisurely sporadic reading. I'd put it right on top this book that also deserves "shelf" space in your wet library.

My Happy Post Father's Day Post

Hope you had a special Father's Day.

I know I did. But not in the typical special Father's Day way. And here's why. On Friday, my daughter got word that one of her co-workers at the office (that's right she works for a company that requires employees to go into an office) called to say that her boyfriend tested positive for Coronavirus.

So, by the Transitive Law of Viral Transmission (a mystery to all in Oklahoma), my daughter's co-worker could be positive. And my daughter could be positive. And she could have brought that home and made myself and my immunocompromised wife, positive.

It's unlikely, but these days you can't be too careful. The notion of being holed up in a hospital room, with a plastic tube rammed down my gullet and no opportunity to lift weights and make Trump memes is too horrifying to consider.

And so, if there were to be any fatherly celebrations yesterday, I was going to be the one who would have to make the arrangements, pull out the credit card (duh) and craft my own special Father's Day.

Thus, a late Friday night trip to the grocery store was in order.

* Tomahawk Steak, check
* Bulleit Rye Whiskey, check
* A big bag of Tostitos Hint of Lime Chips (which should be illegal in all 50 states), check
* a jar of creamed herring, check

It should be noted that when my wife was doing the grocery shopping, she never brought home creamed herring. For some reason she finds the idea of smelly Canadian fish bits, stuffed in a jar with sour cream, garlic and sliced onions, rather unappetizing.

I've probably turned you into a convert, so here's what to look for:

Perhaps you think I've painted a bleak picture of an even bleaker day. And in 2020 it's fair to say we've had an unusually long streak of bleak days.

But you'd be wrong.

Because on Friday we also got some tremendous non-Covid related health news. I share a lot about my life on these digital pages but not everything, so I won't go into further detail, suffice to say, I've been on Cloud 9 since hearing the report.

And along those lines, yesterday, I took a moment of silence to myself. And realized that while this Father's Day may have been lacking in fanfare, gift wrapping, tchotchkes and Hallmark-manufactured emotion, it was not missed at all.

I have my family who I love more than words can tell, I have friends, I have a roof over my head, I have work and I have money in the bank for a rainy day, enough even for 40 rainy days, should we be met by some biblical catastrophe.

In short, today, and yesterday, I have everything I ever wanted or dreamt of, in the days before I became a Father.

Dayenu.

Meet the neighbors

The first neighbors I ever recall were from this apartment building at 92nd Street and Northern Blvd. In Jackson Heights, Queens. It's where I grew up as a little boy.

The neighborhood, once the home of working class Jews and Italians, is now incredibly diverse, with people from all over the world, crammed into what I remember as tiny, square foot-challenged shoeboxes. Perhaps that's why we, the kids and their mothers, spent so much time in the plaza/park in the center of the building, where it looks like they're doing some remodeling.

I have fond and funny memories of this place. Funny, because in retrospect, I realize how ominously close we were to mobsters and low rung mafioso, who not only lived in the building but who also used to join my father for weekly poker games in the living room.

It wasn't til later in life that I realized my father had a thorough understanding of The Family, not to mention quite bit of contact with the guys in the shiny suits. I suppose, at the time, there were many young scrappy Jewish CPA's, with an eye out for a side hustle, who did.

And fond because it was here that my family became good lifelong friends with the next door neighbors, the Silversteins (name changed because... well, because).

It was a friendship that lasted close to 40 years. In fact, when the Silversteins escaped the confines of The City and moved to Spring Valley, NY, they convinced my parents to follow suit and shortly thereafter moved to the adjoining and aptly named burg of Suffern.

We even sat shiva for my father at the Silverstein's house.

Sadly, we have lost touch. Separated by time, geography and the neverending need to write banner ads and email blasts to put food on my table.

Even sadder, perhaps, is that since that time I, and now we, have never enjoyed that type of neighborly fraternity.  Indeed it's been quite the opposite. A life living next to drunkards, drag queens, porn stars, defrocked rabbis, street bullies, meth head plumbers and many more.

My internal hard drive is near capacity with stories and recollections of these misfits. And so I'm going to do what any writer would do, I'm going to commit it all to, brutally honest and probably embellished, ink.

I'd like to have the book done by December.

But probably won't release it until 2021, just to avoid the curse of ©2020.

A breath of fresh air

I bought my daughter a present the other day.

It's not her birthday. And other than being recently promoted at her job, there's no particular achievement to be recognized. But I have a little extra money in my wallet, mostly because we're housebound and can find nothing else to buy but groceries, so I did the nice fatherly thing.

Behold the $49.99 Personal Mini Air Cooler.  I would tell you what brand it was, but from all appearances, Chinese manufacturers of cheap appliances don't believe in that sort of thing.

Like me, you've probably visited Amazon and purchased similarly made products from Wuhan-adjacent sweatshops. Unlike me, you probably haven't taken the time to savor the product packaging.

Upgraded wind speed with much joy.

Color.

Reducing Temperature.

Money Save/Energy Save.

Good to Health.

And my favorite, if you can enlarge the photo: KICTCHEN. By using IDI Mini cooler and enjoy cooking your delicacies.

You might be wondering why, after installing a $15,000 central air conditioning system in my 2 story house, my daughter's room doesn't get any cooling? 

I know my wife is wondering. And despite my many explanations including several viewings of the blueprints, she's still stumped. And still won't let it go.

Years ago, we added another floor to our ranch style California bungalow. Building three bedrooms and two bathrooms. It's all housed under -- I hope I get the architectural lingo correct -- a ridge vented roof. Meaning there is no attic, per se. 

The hallway upstairs has high vaulted ceilings, supported by steel beams. Additionally meaning, there was no way to install duct work to carry cool air from the condenser on one side of the house to reach the other side of the house, where my daughter's bedroom is situated.

If you're following along, that means the cool fresh air produced by the $15,000 a/c unit must travel, in a duct, two stories down the interior of our side of the house, transverse, in the crawl space, to the other side, and then rise back up the two stories to my daughter's southern exposed (hotter) bedroom. By the time it makes that journey it has lost all its palliative value.

I hope this unbranded Personal Mini Air Cooler will put an end to this ongoing discussion, with the unspoken, though clearly intentional, implication that I hired the wrong a/c guys and fucked up.

If it does, it could be the best $49.99 I have ever spent in my life.

June Glee

Following my precarious graduation (2.1 GPA) from Syracuse University, I moved back home to Suffern, NY, where I could suffer small town provinciality and family dysfunction for barely 3 weeks.

At the tender age of 22, I bought a $99 one way airline ticket to Los Angeles, where I knew no one, had no money, had no place to stay and no idea what would happen with my life.

This is not at all surprising, nor impressive, as I come from sojourners. Story has it that my mother, 17, and her older sister Mary, 19, boarded a ship in Glasgow, Scotland and migrated to America, with even less. Moreover, they did it for the strangest of purposes, to be as close as possible to jazz legend Stan Kenton.

I like jazz, but in a cruel twist of fate, find his music unlistenable.

When I arrived in LA, it was sunny and hot. Which was to be expected as it was the beginning of June. I stepped off the #83 brown bus from LAX to Westwood and began searching for cheap living quarters. I knew from experience that fraternity houses often rent out rooms to nomads like myself for the summer. Unfortunately, UCLA was on the quarter system and class was still in session. Meaning all the houses were full with fraternity brothers who doing asshole fraternity stuff.

At the end of a long, frustrating day of travel, that included lugging a 75 lbs. duffel bag up and down Gayley Ave. I struck pay dirt and found a frat that would sell me shelter.

Sort of.

"We have an old mattress up on the roof. You can sleep there and shit and shower in our bathrooms. 75 bucks for the first the month. Then we'll rent you a room for 100 bucks a month."

"Sold."

When I woke up on Day 2, of what would be my lifelong California adventure, I was sopping wet. I looked up and could not see the canopy of palms and eucalyptus trees. Replaced by a thick, gray, ugly and very wet layer of June Gloom.

It's one of those phenomena that doesn't get a lot of publicity. Nor do pop singers like BJ Thomas or John Denver write songs about it.

But it is real. And it's something that Southern Californians have grumbled about ever since the first settlers arrived here, booted the Indians and Mexicans off their land, and built mile upon mile of strip malls selling the essentials of life: donuts, liquor and Fatburger.

That is until this year.

I am writing this post on a Saturday morning, June 13th, on what would have been my mother's 87th  birthday. It is warm and sunny and the sky is clear blue. In fact, it's been no different than this for the last 6 weeks. Meaning we've also haven't experienced the legendary precursor to June Gloom, May Grey.

I don't know what accounts for this.

In 2020, a year ravaged by a pandemic, racial inequality, economic collapse, social upheaval and a feckless fascist regime that threatens the future of America and indeed the world, there are no clouds, but there is this much-needed silver lining.

Glutton for pun-ishment

I never bought into that old trope about how the fluttering of a butterfly wing in Malaysia can, through a series of contrived consequences, determine the price of tile grout in Des Moines.

Nevertheless, in writing this post, I'm about to set off a string of events that will result in my mailbox being stuffed as well as the possible crashing of my internet.

We need to hire a copywriter.

When I say we, I mean the company (still under an NDA) where I am currently employed. Perhaps 'employed' is a little misleading, I'm still a freelancer with a discussion about possible permanence to come. But that's another story, yet to be written.

What needs to be written right now are digital ads, emails, product packaging, social media, experiential activations and even the occasional TV spot. In other words, everything a copywriter does now at an ad agency.

Only it's not an ad agency.

It's better.

If you know me, and I have to assume if you're reading my blog, you do (I'm not internet-famous like my colleagues George Tannenbaum or Bob Hoffman), you also know I'm not big on apple polishing.

There's a lot to dislike and criticize about the ad industry, and much to my wife's dismay, I've committed plenty of digital ink to the topics, including The Long Table of Mediocrity™ and FFDKKs, Frivolous Fuckwadian Digital Knick Knacks™.

But I've been punching the clock at this job for more than 6 weeks now. No, literally punching a clock. The online timesheet system requires me to "Punch in" and "Punch out." It's charming in an analog way.

And while, like any job, there are things I don't enjoy, processes, apps and the whole Google eco-system, they are far outweighed by the things I love. The company, the brand, and the in house agency have put a premium on great creative and an even greater need for absurdist, unexpected, push-the- envelope humor.

And that is music to my 44 year old, increasingly hairy, ears.

So let's see the resumes/portfolios. Young or old, black or white, male or female, and everything in between. This is an opportunity to work for me without the bothersome annoyances that go hand in hand with being in the same room as me.

Flood the mailbox at: siegelrich@mac.com

At the corner of Raucus and Rowdy

It's been a heavy week here at R17. We've discussed racism. We've discussed Captain Ouchie Foot. And because the two are intertwined we've discussed racism and Captain Ouchie Foot.

Today's fare is considerably lighter.

As I was pulling out of the parking lot at Culver Center, I noticed construction and remodeling going on at Chez Lantana Jay.

Southern California property owners have this funny idea that they have to name their apartment buildings. I know that years ago I did a post about that and the many preposterous, pretentious names they have conjured up for their crappy cheese box apartments.

In any case, this one caught my eye and so I pulled the car over, whipped out my iPhone and snapped a few shots of this beauty near the corner of Overland and Venice Blvd.

Why? You may ask.

Because a long, long time ago, after I had been evicted from another apartment complex,  Les Champs de Palmes, I was close to signing a lease at 3820 Overland. Again, you may ask, why is that of any interest?

"You can't be serious," said my wife when I showed her my near calamitous mistake. 

"What? It was here on the Westside of LA and it was all I could afford at the time," I replied.

SFX: CACKLING LAUGHTER

I believe this explains everything.

And yet, despite my inability to locate appropriate living quarters, or my unwillingness to buy a bed frame for the mattress on the floor, or my inability to properly manscape the wild hairs on the back of my neck, she still went ahead and married me.

Only to discover there were 30 more years of incredulous faults waiting to be discovered.

Nevertheless, part of me wishes I had moved in to this noisy hellhole of an apartment where I would have been treated to late night night drunken brawls and an endless parade of tweakers loudly entering the Minimart for Ho-Hos and Dings Dongs.

You see, much to the dismay of my social media followers, who tolerate my shameless self promotion, I am working on a new book of short stories about the places I have lived and the unforgettable neighbors I have known.

And I can only imagine the colorful cast of characters who did sign a lease at 3820 Overland Ave. I'll bet there would have a been a few good chapters there.