God Bless America

It's October 20, 2025 as you read this. But it's October 17, 2025 as I write this. One day before the next No Kings/No Fuhrers protest, which promises to be bigger, louder and more vociferous than the previous two. Pardon me for breaking out the 4 syllable words, but I like to keep the Red Hats who might read this on their toes. 

As you are reading this digital missive, I could very well be sitting in a cage. In El Salvador. Or Burundi. Or even Pico Rivera, as the government is low on funds right now and can't fly ne'erdowells like myself to faraway continents.

Maybe I'm being hyperbolic. Maybe our Constitution -- what's left of it -- will hold, and my vigorous exercise of the 1st Amendment will go unpunished. Who knows? I do know that for the first time in my life, I find myself checking in with the more mature parts of my brain and asking, "do I really want to say that?"

If only I had done that while I was a working copywriter.

But just as my Dad was a convicted felon for rocking the boat while in the US Army, I'm not given to restraint. 

To wit, Ms.Muse and I and Foothill friends will be on the rugged streets of Pasadena bearing signs of our boiling political discontent...

To be clear, I never mentioned any names here, 

I only offered to defray the cost. 

So spare me the sanctimony.

OK, here I did employ a telling graphic,

but please note the understatement.

This sign may be a little obscure, but not to

fans of Mel Brooks who are familiar with the 

Franz Liebkind character played by Kenneth Mars.

For your frame of reference, here's a video clip from the original 1967 movie that left an indelible impression on a young Jewish man who had just begun learning of the atrocities of World War II https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eJce5gnCx_k

The irony here is that the seeds of fascism that were planted in Deutschland in the 1930's have begun sprouting here in the land of the free and not so brave. 

Where are the ammo-sexuals who so vehemently cling to the 2nd Amendment as a deterrence to tyranny and executive overreach? Why aren't they up in arms about a government that is rounding up citizens on the street, attacking the press and demanding fealty to a pedophile who also happens to be a convicted felon?

Oh yeah, they're enjoying their melanin-free privilege, sitting at a Cracker Barrel and stuffing Double Chicken Fried Steak down their gullets.

Dead Ad Society

As you might have guessed I have been cleaning out my garage again. In yesterday's post I stumbled across a collection of cartoons my friend Jim and I had authored in the early 80's. Today I unearthed some dead Jaguar ads from the early 2000 oughts. 

These were done early in my very short tenure at Young & Rubicam in Irvine, where I had the unique opportunity to work with legendary art director, John Doyle, who, if he isn't in the Advertising Hall of Fame, surely needs to be.

In case you had ever doubted Jaguar's lack of marketing acumen, they had given us no money for any new photo shoots and we had to work with the stock photos they already had in their possession. They had no limitations on copy however, so I wrote copy for all these ads (and many more) hoping they'd see the value in running a campaign that exalted engineering achievements from a car company that had long rested on their fashion laurels.

As my friend and fellow blogger George Tannenbaum often points out, you need to give people, even very affluent people, a reason to buy an automobile especially when they're shelling out 6 digits for the key fob.  The folks at Porsche, Mercedes and BMW understand this. 

The genii at Jaguar did not.

As noted previously, these are dead ads. 

I read recently there was some kind of contest, where nostalgic ad veterans got to air their dead ads in the hopes of winning another trophy or trinket. BTW, all my old ad awards went in the trash bin yesterday along with some shrunken moth-eaten sweaters, house remodeling photo's and some old 2X4's that never got fashioned into anything useful.

Maybe it's just me, but dead ads are boring. How they died makes for a better story.

We had assembled in a conference room at PAG, the Premier Auto Group, that owned Ford, Mazda and Jaguar/Land Rover. These ads, and many more were pinned up on 6 foot high foam core boards. Very old school. Not more than 10 minutes into the presentation, I unveiled the first board and started reading the copy for one of the spreads seen above.

HEADLINE: The Courageous Floor Mat

BODY COPY: It is possible you've never pondered the brave existence of the floor mat. Precious few have. The exceptions are those who drive the all-new Jaguar XJ, featuring an innovative Self-Leveling Air Suspension. Designed to reduce wind drag at high speeds, the suspension actually lowers the body of the car, like an animal crouching closer to the ground, for maximum performance. Which makes the confident quiet ease of the floor mat, as it hurtles through space, only inches from the asphalt, that much more impressive.

Before I could finish reading the last line, I heard a booming voice from the front row. It was the CMO.

"Next."

I mistakenly thought he wanted me to read the next ad in the campaign.

"No, next campaign."

And that's how these ads and hundreds more like it, died.

What a glamorous business.

HAIL AI

About a million and a half years ago, my friend Jim and I started scratching the itch that would somehow get us out of the mailroom at Needless Hardons & Tears. We both had dreams of becoming writers but had no idea how to go about doing it. 

Oddly enough, we both found employment at an ad agency, a business built on the crafting of ideas. I mentioned this was a million and a half years ago, didn't I?

Except NH&T didn't want any of our ideas. We thought the New Yorker magazine, one of the few still in business, would. So we started making cartoons. As I had no artistic leanings whatsoever, Jim was tasked with putting charcoal to paper. Though many of our joint efforts were juvenile and prurient, many reflected the politics and zeitgeist of the day. 

As I was rolling through the Rolodex of stale ideas in my head for the next R17 post, I thought it would be interesting to give Jim a well deserved rest and see what AI would do with our never-published cartoons.

Unlike others -- I won't mention names -- I find AI to be a fascinating tool. 

Perhaps that's because I cannot draw. Never have and never will. And my photoshopping skills are even worse than my handheld skills. In fact, I've never learned Photoshop. And what I have conjured up on the computer is via Apple's Preview, where there is no erasing tool. And layering images requires some ingenuity.

At this writing Jim is fishing out some of our old work. And I eagerly look forward to seeing how they can be reproduced with stolen pixels and anodyne styles that will still not produce a check from the fabled New Yorker magazine.

For the time being, there's this...

I may be a little biased and Jim may be a lot biased, but in my mind the 1983 original is far better than the 2025 version, which if you ask me lacks the humanity and the vocational suffering of two mailroom clerks trying to get by on $9,800 a year.

To be continued....

Same Old Same Old

Yesterday, I witnessed the abhorrent behavior of our esteemed Attorney General Pam Bondi, a sleazy, unaccomplished personal injury lawyer posing as the nation's highest officer of the law. Her smugness™ is a trademark of the Trump cabinet. And can be seen employed by Kash Patel™, Pete Kegsbreath™, JD Vance™ and the whole cast of misfit characters who enjoy cosplay.

"Look at me, I'm governmenting."

I have said, and still maintain, that Americans have no idea what kind of damage these corrupt, halfwit clowns have done to our constitutional republic. Nor will the price tag be calculable until generations pass. 

Because here's the thing, one day Democrats will have the White House. And the Senate. And the House. And the Supreme Court. When that happens, there will be nothing to stop them from wetting their beak in the government trough. Or throwing on the tempting robe of authoritarianism.

Moreover, once caught or even investigated, they will have the playbook -- written in its embarrassing entirety -- by the current regime. And when the citizenry gets upset, or dare protest, those future Democrats, or Greens, or Whigs, will not hesitate to summon the 82nd Airborne. 

And you know who will have given them permission for all that? The Red Hats of 2025. Who were more concerned about owning the libs and protecting their children from 'Mean Jokes' by Stephen Colbert and Jimmy Kimmel.

To  illustrate my point, I thought it would be interesting to alter some iconic images of Trump, like the one above of him ogling his daughter Ivanka as if she were some beauty pageant contestant or Girl #73 on Epstein Island. It's more than revolting since he has openly said that he'd be dating her if she wasn't his daughter.

I've been a father for close to 30 years and have NEVER heard another father speak of his daughter in those terms. 

That's when I thought it'd be interesting to replace Trump in the picture with President Obama. And then pose the question to a Kool Aid-guzzling Trumpster which photo is more disturbing. Given the original photo, and many others like it, have never raised an eyebrow amongst his highly moral Christian fanbase, I'd be willing to bet my entire net worth on the Obama photo. That's how twisted Red Hat Logic is.

Sadly, we'll never know. Because the AI bots, won't oblige me with that command.

Ok, I guess. But then it occurred to me that I was being denied the same AI tools that have been used by the Fourth Reich.

 

And then our new AI overlords came across with some unexpected candidness that lead me to my summary.

Like the laws of this land, the tax code, the regulations, the rules of AI are all being shaped and written by excessively rich white men for excessively disgusting rich white men. Leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves.

"I can make my own food."

 

Malum Lepus

For as long as I can remember, which is considerably longer than most of you (sadly), I have never given a rat's tushy about the halftime show at the Super Bowl. In 1967 when they played the first Super Bowl -- Green Bay vs. Kansas City -- they didn't even have a halftime show.

Maybe they did.

It was probably the Ashwaubenon High School Marching Band doing their salute to mayonnaise. That's right I looked it up because "specificity equals humor."

But as of late, the powers at be at the NFL have been booking bigger and bigger celebrities to amuse half-soused football fans between the halves. But let's be honest, it's really to keep viewers glued to their flat screens for the folks who pay for the extravaganza -- the advertisers. Who now shell out close to $10 million for the privilege of showing off their "creativity." 

More often than not, that "creativity" is also showcasing other celebrities in a contrived, overly produced bit of celluloid that will quickly be forgotten. And ridiculed online, ad infinitum. 

This celebrity driven nonsense is akin to Trump's tariffs. In that the only being money actually changing hands is from your bank account to the obscenely wealthy people who are calling the shots. 

Last week the shot they called was for Bad Bunny. I have no affinity for the BunnyMan. I've never heard his music. And until his appearance on Saturday Night Live, have never seen him. 

Gauging from his "acting" abilities, it's probably best that Mr. Bunny stay in his own musical lane. However it's not his lack of comedic timing that has melanin-free America up in arms. It's the fact that he sings/raps/performs his music in Espanol, which happens to be one of the Romance Languages, see Italian, see French, see Portugese. Whereas English is part of the Germanic languages. 

If you see shades of white supremacy here, you are not being overly dramatic. Many of the uber aryan forces in Trumpworld -- Megyn Kelly, Tomi Lahren and others -- are having a hissy fit about this lupetian selection. Claiming of all things, that the NFL should have picked a real American. 

I'm not sure where these cretins draw their base of knowledge regarding American history or what constitutes an American. Perhaps they, like our paper-towel tossing president, don't know Puerto Rico is a US territory, though it's an island and separated from the mainland.  By lots of water. Wet water, in terms of wetness.

Similarly, I'm equally sure that they don't realize that Spanish was spoken on American land before much of it became American land.

At this point in our collective disastrous timeline, why even bother with facts? Or the Constitution? Or even the Bible, which once was the handbook for Christianity but has now been co-opted by conmen, pedophiles and xenophobes?

The only thing that would make them happy would be to replace Bad Bunny with a has-been of never was, like creepy Ted Nugent. Or talentless Kid Rock.

Cayete tu boca, ustedes tienes un pinche cabeza de merde.  
 

Rest in Peace Dave. And thank you once again.

Last week I read the heartbreaking news of the passing of Dave Butler. 

There's been a lot of heartbreak lately in the Chiat family. This includes the recently deceased Kathy Hepinstall as well as Steve Hayden. I feel like I'm forgetting someone else, but then I'm forgetting quite a bit more these days. Oh, I left my coffee cup in the kitchen.

I had a personal connection with Dave, who literally helped me forge my junior copywriter book about 193 years ago. I wanted to write a tribute to Dave Butler. And then I remembered I'd already done that about 13 years ago. Suffice it to say, he was a very special man who schooled me in copywriting. But also taught me the value of helping others get into and succeed in this crazy business of advertising. 

My deepest condolences go out to his daughter Molly, who also worked at Chiat, and his friends and his family and the many, many people touched by the generosity of Dave.

Here then is my original thank you to Dave, from almost 13 years ago to the date:

https://roundseventeen.blogspot.com/2012/10/do-not-enter.html
 

Not Fasting

Tonight begins the yearly Day of the Dread, otherwise known as Yom Kippur. The fasting officially begins at 6:37 PM. And the atoning shortly thereafter.

Though never a practicing Jew, I and my family, always swore off food and drink for the mandatory 23, sometimes 24 hours. If you'll forgive the turn of phrase, 'I was religious about being at least a little religious.' 

This year, not so much.

I don't mind a little introspection. I think it's actually good for the soul (whatever, that is.) Nor do I mind asking forgiveness for my transgressions, limited as they may be. But if anyone is going to absolve of my sins and my guilt it's going to be me. And my therapist, who also happens to be a tribe member. I know I'm paying her to say it, but it's nice that someone does, "You need to stop being so hard on yourself."

I also need to be true to myself. And if I'm going to proselytize the atheist gospel of Christopher Hitchens, which I did not long ago, I have to be willing to go all in on being all out of the religion scene.

Not to get all existential, but I'm no fan of the personified god of Christianity and Islam -- Jesus and Mohammed. Nor am I an adherent of the all encompassing ethereal omnipresent god of my people. As Hitchens so aptly put it, "there is evidence of neither." 

So who or what will do this forgiving, in response to my tortuous temporary abstinence from substance? Or even a stiff drink? 

If I may paraphrase Carl Sagan, I have seen the magnitude and incomprehensible scope of our universe, and the universes that are beyond our own, and find it hard to fathom a being or force caring whether I have a big salad, a nice filet of salmon and a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon while 16 million of my brethren choose not to? 

OK, I can see getting dinged for the wine pairing, but so what.

If anything, god should be asking us for forgiveness -- for the absolute horrors he has made us capable of. And his unwillingness to step in and do something about it. I guess he used up all his miracles and interventions from 3000 BC -- 1200 AD, and then had somewhere else to be. Because from what I can tell, he hasn't been back since.

Funny how it has only taken me 67 years to shed these medieval rituals that arose from a very dark age of almost complete ignorance. When men were men and sheep were always on high alert.

Perhaps it's a powerful indicator of how a narrative, told over and over again, across generations or across the Internet, can result in the mass abandonment of critical thinking.  

That's not my bag. Forgive me.

 

A different lens

Last weekend, Ms. Muse and I traveled north. To visit her daughter who is getting married in a month. And to attend a gala for Sunflower Hill, an assisted living facility founded by her sister Susan, for adults with I/DD, Intellectual and Developmental Disabilities.

Since my previously-noted wardrobe has been depleted by my new salmon and fruits and vegetable diet, this also required me to purchase some new fancy duds. As a shorts and flip flop guy, this required me to step out of my all-too-comfortable denim and khaki zone and purchase some slacks. I like saying that word. I also like being the owner of two new well creased pair of slacks.

You can barely see the slacks here, but I like to think to my attire cut the mustard. Ms. Muse never fails to look to look stylish. And "tidy." 

Prior to the evening, which was a huge success, Susan gave us a tour of the Sunflower Hill facility. Which was stunning in its own right. Each resident has their own little apartment. Think of your college dormitory. Only much nicer. 

And without any beer can pyramids. 

Additionally there are group activity rooms. A full garden. Fitness Center. Even a small pool. And you know how I love pools. 

In short, it's everything an assisted living facility should be. And I know because, in the last few years of his life, my uncle left his home in Palm Springs and lived in a couple of outrageously expensive assisted living facilities in West LA, that were 180 degrees in the other direction of Sunflower Hill.

I also know the plight of adults with I/DD, as my other uncle Jackie was fully dependent on the lifetime care of my grandparents, then my parents, and then on myself and my brother and sister. I suspect there all many people in this, the richest nation on Earth, in similar situations. 

And it begs the question, "why can't we do more?" 

Can we get by with a thousand fewer tanks and invisible fighter jets and re-direct our wealth to a better, healthier standard of living? Contrary to Secretary of War Pete Hegseth and his demand for a Warrior Ethos, why can't we develop an ethos of compassion and caring, you know the material that fills every page in our precious bibles? 

I'll step down from my soapbox now and unclench my teeth. And leave you with the website address where you can add an insignificant drop to the significant bucket, https://sunflowerhill.org/get-involved/donate/

Thank you.

Confessions of a 175 lbs. Atheist.

I don't know how it happened but there was an alleged Rapture last week and I knew nothing about it. I pride myself of knowing about Raptures. When they're coming. Who's going? Who's staying? Who's left the keys in their Porches before they suddenly go. 

If you haven't guessed, I'm fascinated by them. Raptures are my cat nip. How could they not be?

I'll admit I have a limited scope of knowledge when it comes to Christianity. What I've learned came from my Presbyterian/Episcopalian mother, who was admittedly very secular. So secular that she switched teams in order to gain my grandmother's approval and marry my Hebraic father.

I also caught a little while attending Hebrew School. The staff went out of their way to teach us all about Jesus the rabbi. They told us how kind and loving and giving he was, even if he was suffering from a Messiah Complex. That Jesus doesn't resemble anything I see in the news or in the Prophets for Profits pastors who dominate the airwaves and the Oval Office.

And finally, I absorbed some knowledge while my two daughters were attending Catholic High School. Not sure Rapture is a papal thing, I can't keep all the denominations straight in my head. 

What I do know is that on a certain day, Rapture Day, the good god loving, god obeying people will ascend to the white terry cloth robe place and listen to classical string music and live for eternity. While the rest us will remain earthbound, left to deal with deadly Tylenol, sabotaged escalators and mini AR-15 rifles packed in the lunchboxes of every American student..

Years ago, I purchased a Rapture Hatch on the off-chance I made it on the good list and didn't want my steep ridge vent roof from trapping me on terra firma. Similarly, I entertained some hope that my monthly donations to Wounded Warriors and St. Jude's Hospital for Children would somehow earn me my set of wings.

But that was not to be. 

Perhaps it is slowly dawning on me, during the Jewish High Holy Days no less, that one cannot espouse militant non-belief and simultaneously expect to enter the kingdom of heaven at the footstep of the Lord  at the same time. 

Nevertheless, I'm keeping my fingers crossed for the next Rapture. BTW, my robe size is a Large.

An atheist can dream can't he?

I give up

In case you're reading this on your smart phone and can't enlarge the photo, allow me to point out that my Apple mailbox is telling me I have close to 10,000 unread emails. My Gmail box has more than 1000. 

Those numbers are likely to increase. In direct proportion to my indifference towards marketers, politicians (of all stripes) and funeral homes who would like me to sign up for advanced "caretaking."

There was a time when I'd wake up in the morning, brew my 8 cups of coffee (it's never really 8), sit down at my computer and manually eliminate and unsubscribe to certain addresses. But like the mint that has commandeered my raised bed garden, they keep coming back. Note to self: start drinking more Mojitos and using all this fresh mint.

As some of you, assumed members of the Apple ecosphere, know, our overlords in Cupertino have tried to step in and help. They updated their mail function to sort out the incoming mail -- sometimes 150 a day. Your mail may vary.

This was a brilliant idea as separated the me from the chaff. And dumped all those worthless ads in the promotions box which I never, and never will, open. 

A little ironic since the last few years of my less-than-illustrious career were spent writing email blasts for Dollar Shave Club and PayPal. Not sure the goal was to ever sell something. It seemed every discussion revolved around reducing the numbers of people who would Unsubscribe every week. The folks who monitor and slice and dice these numbers were absolutely obsessed with their Unsubscribe rate. 

Sales and moving the merch be damned.

But I digress.

As you can imagine I was thrilled with this new caste system and gaining back the time I had lost DELETING all the crap. But never underestimate the craftiness (bribery) and resourcefullness (more bribery) of America's dollar making oligarchs. Somehow (bribery) many of the aforementioned emailers who were destined for my Promotions box have now slipped into my Primary mailbox.

Rendering the whole upgrade a downgrade as I now have two mailboxes to empty every day.

Two can play that game. And as of a couple of months ago, I just stopped looking at all my email.

So all you digital marketing genii, in addition to never getting my money, you will also not be getting my eyeballs.

Nor will anyone else unless they send me a text that they emailed me something.

 

My gag reflex

Ever since I can remember I have enjoyed and exercised my First Amendment, my freedom of speech. Which often, and still does, manifest itself with the written word. 

As a second grader I wrote a short story from the POV of a raindrop, falling from the sky and going on a magnificent journey on terra firma before returning to the sky. And through the magic of evaporation, reconnecting with his/her/their water molecule family. In hindsight, I probably lifted the premise from a kid's book, nevertheless my teacher was quite impressed.

In high school, where the dream of writing for Mad Magazine or National Lampoon was born, I peppered my essays and tests with wise-ass remarks that shaded a few points from my scores. I was happy to take a B+, if I knew it would cement a laugh or two from the grown ups.

This mischievous streak with a pen, or a typewriter, followed me to college. In my freshman creative writing class, I would often wait until the night before an assignment was due, smoke a bunch of weed and write the first misspelled and haphazard words that fell out of my pizza-craving dry mouth. 

Instead of being punished for my sloppiness and clear procrastination, I was always encouraged and rewarded. So much so, that I fashioned it all into a vocation. Or as one of my mentors, the late great Steve Hayden put it, "Wait, I can get paid for sloganeering?"

For 66 of my 67 years on Earth, I took the privilege of saying what I wanted, when I wanted, where ever I wanted, for granted. And apart from the occasional unpleasant visit to the HR office, there were never any consequences. 

What little I know from history, that and maybe even that alone, was the definition of American Exceptionalism. And it rendered me a Free Speech absolutist. 

In 57 countries, you are not permitted to draw a cartoon of the prophet Mohammed. If the rulers of those countries had their way, it be illegal everywhere and worthy of a beheading. Or the separation of the cartoonist's hand from the cartoonist's wrist. That's bullshit.

Similarly, in Europe, the cradle of Enlightenment and Western Civilization, one cannot make any statements that may be deemed Pro-Nazi or Pro-Holocaust. While I am naturally neither, I don't like the idea of the state regulating, or judging, the thoughts of its citizens. Even the anti-semitic Neanderthal ones.

But look where we are at today!

The government -- yours, not mine -- has its ears and eyes wide open for malcontents, boat rockers, wise ass click clackers, who still believe sunshine is the best disinfectant.

Am I concerned? Yes.

Am I going to stop? No. Even if I could, I couldn't.

My saving grace is that nobody reads this blog or pays attention to my social media posts or my juvenile AI memes. 

So Fuck Trump.

And Release the Epstein Files. 

Dear GOP, spare me.

You've got to hand it to Republicans. They're not very good at governing. Or pursuing equality. Or keeping us safe. Or making sure all Americans get the healthcare they need. 

But when it comes to hijacking a narrative and breaking out the bully pulpit to score political points and whip the low-information masses up into a frenzy, these guys, generally white guys in khaki pants, they are unmatched in their "skill."

Take last week for example. Following the Charlie Kirk shooting, the GOP Propaganda Machine slipped into high gear before anyone could lay a cover over the warm corpse. In mere minutes they had the motive and the scapegoat for their rage...

"This was left wing radical, kale-eating commies trying to take down America."

Moreover, before the laser jet ink on the paper was dry, they had their talking points distributed to all their acolytes and the full weight of right wing media, from Fox News down to the Internet influencers who peddle their unmistakable horsecrockery.

And it called for a full scale war on Political Violence*.

* Well, not all political violence.

They seem to have forgotten they are the OG's of hate speech as well as the bloody consequences. Shall we revisit the Unite the Right in Charlottesville. That's where James Alex Fields, no doubt a follower of Mr. Kirk, mowed down Heather Heyer in his 2010 Dodge Challenger (vroom, vroom). 

Oh and look, here's a picture of the Very Fine People who all just happen to support Trump and the GOP.

And who can forget the death threats leveled at Georgia election workers in the not-rigged 2000 election? 

Why were they threatened? Because Rudy Giuliani, America's Mayor and Donald Trump's hairless henchman, singled out Ruby Freeman and Shay Moss and accused them of doing drugs and changing votes. They did neither, but will eventually enjoy millions of Rudy dollars they won in a civil suit against the now-disbarred lawyer.

In case you haven't inscribed ALL the disastrous actions of Trump's two stints behind the Resolute Desk, as I have, let me draw your attention to the morning of January 6, 2021, when Ghouliani stood on the lawn of the White House in front of thousands of Red Hats suffering from Voter Rage and told them they had been robbed -- they hadn't -- and that it was time for "Trial By Combat."

And of course these deplorable thugs (Oh I'm sorry is that word offensive?), spoon-fed by the likes of Neanderthals at Fox News, Newsmax and OANN, and unwilling to share the bounty of this great nation with anyone who didn't look like the melanin-free people sitting next to them at their church, were happy to oblige. 

They walked down Pennsylvania Ave, at the behest of their trench-coated savior, and stormed the capitol. Once there, but without pitchforks and torches, they unleashed their rage on the Capitol building and put 535 Congressional lives at risk. Not to mention the Vice President and his family.

To put it in the clearest and most demonstrable way, the folks, who 5 years ago were shouting, "Hang Mike Pence" are the same ones who are now  "sick and tired of left wing political violence."

Do these people not own mirrors?

Yeah, no

I turned down a gig last week. Not just any gig mind you, this was a lucrative long term job that was willing to pay my full boat day rate. And it was for a very high profile client with an even higher profile visibility factor.

Discretion prevents me from revealing any further details about the assignment. So I can only answer the obvious question of why I chose to say, "No thank you."

To be sure the money would've been nice. 

I don't know if you know this but the price of salmon, even the lower grade Atlantic farm-raised variety pumped full of artificial food coloring for that important salmony-hue, has gotten outrageously expensive these days. I've reluctantly resorted to purchasing my piscean provisions at Costco. Yet despite the claims by our president that "groceries" -- the food stuff that goes in the bag -- have not come down in price. Not 50 or 60 or 600% percent, depending on which spittle-heavy rant you listen to.

And there is something disconcerting about withdrawing money from a portfolio I have dutifully been building and contributing to during my 50 years of labor.

But the truth is, and with my 68th birthday quickly approaching, my time is worth more to me than my nest egg. 

You may be under the impression that once you start working you can start playing. And to some extent that's true. But it doesn't happen overnight. In fact many nights are plagued by "work dreams" where I am haunted by account people and Chief Creative Officers for the next big idea. Consequently many mornings I have awakened in pool of sweat that even disgusts my dog Lucy.

Ms. Muse suggests I expand my yoga sessions and begin meditating. But I am to meditating as I am to broccoli.

Perhaps those of you nearing retirement don't want to hear this, but it has taken me more than 2 years to shake off the need, and sometimes even the desire, to work, and settle into a routine where the hours of the day belong to me. Not just 16 hours of the day, but all of them.

Just as the transition from steady ad agency full time employment to freelance fractional employment required me to get my sea legs, the transition to retirement takes getting my sea chaise lounge and dissuading myself of the need for clothing while in my backyard.

In fact, I'm gonna pop the cover off the hot tub, grab my coffee and enjoy today's sunrise.

Where did I put the Bailey's cream?

In remembrance of Charlie Dick

Just when I thought I had a bead on how hateful, ignorant and racist Americans can be, it has become clear I got it wrong. I had severely underestimated the festering ugliness that has engulfed this nation. This was ironically revealed by the murder -- I won't say it's an assassination -- of the right wingnut pictured above.

His sudden demise has certainly captured a lion's share of the digital ink across all social media platforms. Much more so than the assassination of Democratic Minnesota lawmaker Melissa Hortman, who was slain in her home with her husband and her dog. Even if the dog did nothing more than deposit poops to fertilize midwestern lawns, he/she contributed more to life on Earth than the hate monger who is being honored with flags at half staff.

As I write this, Trump and his taintlicking GOP lawmakers are pushing for his body to lie in state at the Capitol building rotunda. I'm shocked they haven't called the Pope calling for beatification with full sainthood.

I may make crude jokes or enjoy undue schadenfreude, though fruitless, when the president found himself in trouble with the law, but I stand firmly against political violence. And know from my limited knowledge of history, that no good ever springs from it. 

Red Hats on the other side of the aisle seem a bit more mercurial on the matter. 

So much so that when the Senate and the House were attacked on January 6th, 2021, many of the cowering congressional GOP representatives have now whitewashed the tragedy and repainted the greatest example of partisan political violence as nothing more than a "Tourist Visit." 

And since his disastrous election in 2024, the president has gone on to pardon the same people who trespassed, broke through police barricades, smeared their post-corndog feces all over the building and injured 140 Metro Police Officers, protecting the aforementioned representatives, with fire extinguishes, bear spray and flagpoles.

Trump is even encouraging the "violent political criminals" to file suit against the US government, seeking reparations for their hardship. Reminder, Crazy Trashli Babbitt's family got $5 million for her treasonous mischief.

I had, and still have, no love for Charlie Cuck. 

His death, at the hands of a young man raised in the bowels of the very gun culture Charlie celebrated, might not have happened if we had sensible gun laws and stopped glorifying the 2nd amendment. But that's not going to happen, especially during this, the Fourth Reich. The best we can offer his friends, family and fellow members of the Red Hat brigade is the same we offer grieving parents of schoolkids who are gunned down every damn year -- Thoughts and Prayers.

Before you or corporate America, bullied by the buffoon behind the Bully Pulpit, deify Charlie, I suggest you read some of his prior comments/tweets/positions. 

I'd also suggest you acquaint yourself with the likes of Nick Fuentes, Pepe the Frog, The Oathkeepers, Groypers, Three Percenters, Proud Boys, and the entire cast of the racist and misogynistic Right Wing World that are determined to divide whatever it is that still manages to unite us because as of today we are hanging on by the barest of threads.

 

 
 

"This may sting a little. Or a lot."

For only the second time in my life, I visited a dermatologist. I know I'm an idiot for waiting 60+ years, but if memory serves me correct (oftentimes it doesn't) Dermatology didn't even exist when I was growing up.

They certainly didn't set up shop in the Bronx. Or in Flushing. Or even in the suburbs of Suffern, NY. When we got rashes or cuts our mothers would rub some ice on it. If we didn't have that, it was hair conditioner or shaving cream. 

Then she'd kick us out of the house and tell us to be back by 7 for dinner. It was Free Range Parenting before that term came into view.

My first Dermatologist visit lasted all of 10 minutes. I had to drive all the way down to Torrance for a UCLA-approved doctor. That's about 15 miles, as the crow flies, from the UCLA campus. Crows rarely take the 405, so it's an easy hour drive.

The doctor was distinctly analog. He told me to get undressed. Took no notice of my dramatic weight loss. Had me do a naked 360 degree turn and said, "You're good." Adding, "see you in a year."That was smoother than the skin on my hairless ass (sorry for that imagery.)

Last week's visit was digital and high tech. And not in a good way. I should have known something was wrong while sitting in the Century City, Beverly Hills-adjacent waiting room. I spotted two characters actors. And a steady stream of well-heeled 60 year old women trying desperately to look 50 years old. And one plastic-y regular who had spent a shit ton of money, to look 40. 

She knew every staffer. 

"Hey Tina."

"Hi Crystal."

"Hey Chloe."

It reminded of the sitcom Cheers and Norm's daily boisterous entrance.

This visit also lasted ten minutes. 7 of which were spent as target practice for his mini Cryo Gun, pictured above. Blasting several dry patches on my cheeks with air chilled to 170 below zero. I guess they ran out of Lidocaine or assumed I was some kind of tough guy who could withstand the pain and didn't need a topical. 

OK, I thought, let's commence the disrobing and give me the full body scan. But again I was wrong. The remaining three minutes constituted a sales pitch for the super duper Mega Scan 9000, an iron lung looking device that used high tech lasers to throughly find and map any and all possible sarcomas. Even in those hard to spot 'nooks and crannies.'

"The nurse at the front desk will schedule an appointment. Have a nice day."

Tina, who noticed me still grimacing from the Mr. Freeze Death Zapper, said the earliest she could get me in was October. Of 2026. My first visit to the Dermatologist Of The Stars, would be my last.

Looks like I'm back on the 405, for a return trip to Torrance.

Photo Funnies

Pictured above is the Maxiponic Hydraulator 9000, but I'm sure you already knew that. 

It was spotted right outside Culver City's own Erewhon Organic Emporium, home of the $9 tomato. I can't be sure, but I believe the Hydraulator 9000 meticulously separates hydrogen from oxygen on the incoming tap water and artisinaly re-assembles them create a drinking or flushing experience unlike any other.

OK, that's a crock of shit. I spotted it while on one of my late afternoon Culver City constitutionals. Which can only mean it's time for the Thursday Photo Funnies, which because of my abbreviated schedule now appears on Wednesdays -- for those of you keeping score.

I don't remember where I spotted this while exiting Men's Room,

I only knew that it had to be captured for my 9 loyal readers.

This was seen near the grounds of the Ballona Creek Festival.

I never much cared for the annual late summer event until

they instituted a Beer Garden. I love Beer Gardens.

Love to see the spirit of resistance to the ugly regime that has Shanghaied America.

Fuck ICE and fuck anyone who supports this UnAmerican behavior.

You don't always see 10 live sized wood carved elephants on

the back of an 18-wheel flatbed truck.

When you do, you get out your camera. Well, I do.

You can take the man to beautiful Sonoma Plaza in the heart of 

wine country, but you can't leave behind the 14 year old boy.

I didn't do this, I just took the picture.

See caption above.

See caption above the last caption.

Everyone in LA is a walking billboard. The dog's name is Mozzerella. 

You can find out more here: https://mysteriousstars.wixstudio.com/mozzarella

And finally, many readers have asked about the recovery from hip surgery.

OK, no one has asked but my 4 digit fitness level demands sharing and humblebragging.

A hitch in time.

So as not to bury the lede, let me start by saying God is Dead. 

If one were to look at the current situation in America, and around the world, one could safely make that argument. It certainly stands to reason, even to the most myopic of viewers, that god did not bless America. To the contrary and simply observing the cruel, sadistic, racist and misogynistic behavior of our elected leaders, he or she or the Flying Spaghetti Monster itself, cursed America.

But allow me to return to the man pictured above. If you're a non-believer, like me, you certainly recognize Christopher Hitchens. An incredibly thoughtful and articulate man who I discovered some thirty years ago. Now I see him everyday on my social media feed. Such is the nature of clicking one video snippet, whether it be Christopher Hitchens, a woman in a bikini or a cat on a robototic vacuum.

I'm going to assume you are not the target of his enthusiastic and brilliant views on the Lord/organized religion and most importantly, logic. 

So I'd like to offer a primer on Mr. Hitchens, keeping in mind that I have neither the eloquence or the brilliance to do posthumously do him any justice. But that kind of modesty has never stopped me before and it won't stop me now.

To begin with, there is an accepted principle "one cannot prove a negative." The infallible Google AI machine insists that it is possible to prove a negative, though inordinately difficult. 

To that, Hitchens delighted in telling audiences that it is not the responsibility of the Atheist (with a capital A) to prove god does not exist. It is up to the theist to offer evidence that he/she/Spaghetti Monster does exist. And to date, in the thousands of years mankind/womenkind/theirkind -- I still support DEI -- has  never produced one scrap of evidence for the existence of any deity. Personally speaking, that lack of evidence in theism only reinforces my atheism.

Theists will squirm and offer up the "something can't come from nothing" logic pretzel. "How did we all get here?" "How did life begin?" "Something must've created it?" To which Hitchens, as well as many other philosophers retort, "suppose I buy into your creator theory, then who or what created a god?" Which undoubtedly brings about a weak sauce response of, "Well, god has always been here."

Not only does this disprove the original assumption of origination, it begs the question what was god doing before exhaling through his/her/divinepastalike nostrils to put the forth the time/space/matter/energy continuum? The boredom, not to mention the Nothingness, is incalculable, even to the wisest clergy among us.

Hitchens advances the ball even further, stipulating that all of us are atheists. How you may ask? 

To date, there have been more than 3500 gods that have captured the unfailing adoration of billions of human beings. This includes the Abrahamic gods we know, Jesus, Mohammed, and Yahweh, plus the 3000+ that have fallen out of favor, or in Trumpian terms, "got terrible ratings" like Thor, Odin, Ra and so many more.

That you choose to believe in one, means, by definition, you don't believe in the 3499 other gods. 

While on the lecture circuit, Hitchens obliterates the folklore that defines many religions. In the interest of not offending friends, family and colleagues who subscribe, I won't pursue this line of attack, though the fruit is incredibly low and deliciously fantastical, including flying horses, burning bushes, and virgin births.

My favorite Hitchens argument is more holistic and overarching.

Are we to believe that god created the universe, which science tells us spans more than 93 billion light years across (a concept our minds are not equipped to comprehend) and is more than 14 billion years old, then waited until about 6000 years ago, singled out an illiterate sheep herder in the desert landscape of Canaan, on a planet among trillions of other planets, and whispered in his ear...

"Hey Abe, I need you to do me a favor and kill your son. Can you do that for me Abe?"

I'm sorry, count me out.

Pull up a spindly chair

I know it's late in the game to do a blog post about this logo redesign. The truth is it's not about this Appalachian marketing misstep, it's about the worst new business pitch I ever had the agony of participating in. 

I won't use names with the exception of one, to come later. Mostly because there was career humiliation involved. Moreover, some may not have advanced or evolved as far as I have and come to look at these disastrous events as humorous grist for the mill. As the Stoics have pointed out, it's all so meaningless. 

And funny with the benefit of hindsight.

The pitch took place in Nashville. It was the first and probably only time I've ever set foot in the Volunteer state. I'm convinced the baggage claim people slipped a homing device in my luggage and activated the state's Jew Tracking Alert System -- JTAS, for lack of a better or more creative name that would require me to drink more coffee.

We stayed at the Grand Ole Opry house, which is not a house at all, but a mega complex that housed a hotel, an amusement park, a NASCAR race track and a Buccee's Service Station all under one domed roof.

For three days (it could have been one very long day that felt like 72 hours) we never left the building. We didn't have to. 

We even did the pitch at a business center that was next door to the Grand Ole Opry Orthodontry Center, "Fill that mouth gap while you wait."

There are a thousand ways that pitch could've gone better. And no way it could have gone worse. At one point one our creative leaders stood in front of a horseshoe shaped arrangement of client executives and regional franchise owners. And froze. 

Hint for you kids that are still in this rapidly decaying business, avoid presenting creative work to franchise owners, of any type. 

He had a Mitch McConnell moment where the cerebellum temporarily disconnected from the cerebrum and the medula. If discomfort were a lumpy foul tasting gravy, there was enough in that room to supply the Top Ten Cracker Barrel restaurants in the state.

I know you were wondering how this would get back to CB so I employed what President Trump calls The Weave.

As we departed the abruptly shortened pitch, and stepped outside for some not-so-stale Opry air, our boss Lee Clow, spotted a Cracker Barrel across the street and offered to buy lunch for the team. There, we enjoyed some country fried steak and some far-from-home false camaraderie. 

I have never been back to Tennessee since then. My friend and native son Greg Collins will often share colorful local news that could make Florida gasp. That's all the Tennessee I need.

Similarly, I've never stepped foot in a Cracker Barrel again. And probably won't. 

Brand refresh or not.

In appreciation of Steve

As documented on these very pages, I have been doing some Dostadning, the art of Swedish Death Cleaning. As I was going through my garage I discovered the laminated remnants of my checkered past in journeyman copywriting. 

Some good. Most bad. And some even endowed with the power to trigger PTSD. 

A week after discovering these gems in my garage, I heard of the passing of Steve Hayden. I had the rarefied privilege to work for Steve as well as for Lee Clow.  Something I never could've imagined while chugging beer with friends 10 years earlier and watching Apple's 1984 spot take America's breath away.

Like many, I'd like to take this opportunity to tell one of my Hayden stories. I have a few. You can read the tale of Baikalskaya Vodka and our intrepid dealings with Russian Mafia, at least that's what Steve told me that when we worked on the pitch.

But this is more indicative of Steve's generosity and paternal leanings.

I had arrived at BBDO West in 1993. Apple had just switched their brand new microprocessing chip and wanted to do 10 consecutive days of full page ads (long copy) to herald what they saw as a turning point in their downward spiral. Naturally, They assigned me, the new guy, who knew nothing about computers to write the sleepy opus of their RISC chip -- the equivalent of showing how the digital sausage was made.

While Jobs was no longer at the helm, the leadership at Apple was non-existent. It was run by competing committees all vying for more power in Cupertino. In short, it was a clusterfuck. Or, as Chris Wall once famously put it in an internal memo the Creative Department treasured: "Their thinking was as clear as mud."

For my first month at BBDO, I was there until midnight, almost every night. If you know me at all, you know that would cut into my Jeopardy time.

Steve saw me floundering (sinking) and like a true, but very WASPy looking, mensch, stepped into the breach. He didn't write the ads for me. He did something better. He sat me down, eyeballed the brief and gave me a detailed explanation of the technical aspects that went into those early days of computing. 

He insisted I write the ads and together, we went over them, often as the janitorial crew was finishing up their duties at 10960 Wilshire Blvd. And often, with lots of red pen changes which kept me from watching David Letterman. 

He didn't save my ass. He showed me how to save my own ass. And in the process put me on a career trajectory that was guided by my father's sage advice decades earlier: "If you're gonna do a job, do it right." 

It was heartwarming to read the impact Steve had on the lives of colleagues, copywriters and art directors, throughout the years. I've had lots of bosses over the years. Steve was one I actually wanted to spend time with. For his wit, his wisdom and his surprisingly juvenile sense of humor. He leaves a legacy all of us can only dream of.

And now for some schadenfreude and some self-deprecation (which Steve had in spades) I give you one of those Wall Street Journal ads. (Click the photo to enlarge, if you're so inclined to read the sleep-inducing copy.)

"Hey Dennis (my art director partner at the time), if you make the pictures bigger I won't have to write so much copy."

Being Gavin Newsom

The country is going to hell in a hand basket. A hand basket that was made in China, by low wage workers and scooped up by quality-indifferent Walmart shoppers who cannot name the three branches of our government unless it came up on that night's Wheel of Fortune Lightening Round.

Even more distressing, the feckless Democrats are doing nothing to stop the Fascist runaway freight train.

One is. And I'm happy to say it's our own California governor, who is more than familiar with the fat Furher currently rolling out tanks the same way his son Baron played with toy limousines. 

In a brilliant ju-jitsu move by the governor's social media team, The Gavinator has assumed the role of Dark Gavin, mocking Trump's tweets/truths/news conference gaffes or any of the nonsense that comes out the president's mouth like so much corn-speckled diarrhea. 

He mimics the tone. He reproduces The Weave. And he brilliantly crafts comedic gold out of the unimaginable bullshittery that poses as leadership from our stable genius president. And given the prodigious insanity that comes from the White House, there is never a shortage of grist for the digital mill.

To their credit Carmen Zapata (I love that it's a Latina woman helming the effort, I also hope that she's gay and has some MOT Ladina heritage as well) and her team have hit paydirt. With followers of the Governor Newsom Press Office now approaching 1 gazillion -- if Captain Ouchie Foot can play loose with numbers why can't we?

Naturally, since this involves trolling Trump, I want to get in on the action. And one of my many well connected readers has put me in touch with high level staffers at Newsom's office, who said, "Love it! I saw he reached out to LinkedIn and I meant to respond! Not my lane in our office but I’m sure someone from our comms shop would be interested in chatting w him!"

I'm waiting.

But I'm also writing. 

And couldn't resist trying my idle hands at this real-fake-tweeting thing. You may have seen these on my social media pages, but I've gone ahead and compiled them all, which will in effect demonstrate the unreal cumulative cretinous crap that spews from behind the Resolute Desk in just two days

.