Ice ice baby

 

When you sail to Alaska, you expect to see ice. Particularly when you ease your way into places called Glacier Bay. What you see above is the leading edge of a glacier that spans thousands and thousands of acres. 

I can't remember whether this was a protruding or a receding glacier. In either case, when it moves, inward or outward, large pieces of it fall off into the water. I was so taken by the mesmerizing blueness as well as the size that I couldn't focus on what the tour guide was saying. And sadly, the picture does it no justice because there is nothing to indicate scale.

However we were lucky enough to be there when it started calving, that is shedding off large chunks, many bigger than an a 1967 Buick Electra 225. It was amazing to see in person. But I had made the mistake of researching the phenomena before we went and was sure something like this would happen...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ApbHyYbc7S0

It didn't, but a large chunk of the shorter tower (about 500 feet in height) did fall off, pleasing our gaggle of tourists to no end.

Alas, this was not the only stunning display of ice we witnessed in the 49th state. 

Our 8 day cruise included three ports: Juneau (source of many Jew Know jokes), Skagway and Ketchikan. In each bustling tourist trap, we saw something we never expected to see: Jewelry stores. Often lined up back to back to back.

I didn't snap any photos but fortunately the stock photographers who fill the Google library did. Take a look...

Zoom in tight and you'll see see the owners of Princess Jewelry share an adjoining wall with the owners of Regal Jewelry who are wedged on the other side by an unnamed jewelry shop that have cornered the market on soapstone. 

What bars are to Bourbon St., jewelry stores are to the port towns of southeast Alaska.

You may be curious as to the glut of schlocky jewelry shops that line these ice-battered streets. I know I was. Of even greater interest, the purveyors of these stores seemed to hail from India. What Hasids are to 47th street in NYC, guys named Deepak and Rahul are to Skagway, Ketchikan and Juneau. 

Jew know?

My inner journalist kicked in. I had to have an explanation. Turns out it wasn't very complicated.

As one enterprising jeweler explained to me, "People on cruises are having a great time. Gorging on food. Drinking boatloads of alcohol. They have money. And they want to spend it. Lots of it. We came here to oblige."

With that he smiled. "Want to see my soapstone?"

  

Sea Legs

 

As mentioned yesterday, until recently I had never been on a cruise before. Perhaps the biggest obstacle standing between me and a ship gangway was the idea of waiting in line.

Lines are to me what books are to Trump. 

And I was certain I'd be waiting in many, many lines. For a bagel, for a beer, for customs, for embarking, for disembarking, for this, that and the other 1001 things. But the good folks at Holland America seemed to anticipate that and have taken steps, large and small, to eliminate the lines.

Perhaps it was because the Zaandam only sets sail with 1400 or so people and not the thousands that can often exceed the number of people who live in the port towns. Like this little bit of hell on earth, or water...

More likely, it's because they (Holland America and I suspect the other lines as well) have this whole cruising thing down to a science. 

Surprisingly, Ms. Muse and I did very little waiting in line. There was that time when the bartender ran out of bacon strips for the Bloody Marys, but that was about it. In fact, life aboard ship takes on a whole new rhythm. It slows down. It's more relaxed. Almost as if the motion of the ocean lowers the heart rate. 

Or maybe it was the aforementioned Bloody Marys. 

Speaking of motion, I heeded the good advice to get some scopolamine before the first unmooring. These magical patches which negate the effect of acetycholine -- if I may get all medical -- on the central nervous system. 

My apprehension about chumming the black water of the North Pacific was quickly assuaged. I should also add that our time we were buffeted by raw open sea was quite limited (see red line):

And again the pros at Holland America fortuitously scheduled that passage when we were fast asleep in our quite comfortable king size bed. Again aided by the Have-It-All Drink Package and my good friend and bartender, Asruhl.

BTW, as if the scenery, the accommodations, and the excursions (more on that tomorrow) weren't enough a word or two must be written about the staff. There were close to 600 staffers aboard the Zaandam. Doing the math, that's 1 staffer for every 2 &1/3 guests.

Almost all of them were from Indonesia. Their names maybe hard to spell but they were some of the most pleasant, easy going, attentive people I have ever met. When we disembarked after 8 days at sea, they stayed aboard. Cleaned. Prepped. And got ready to do it all over again. With 1400 new people.

Perhaps what's most amazing is how many of them addressed us by name. 

"Good morning Rich."

"Good morning, Ms. Muse." 

To which we replied, "Good morning, Uhtung."

In short, the people were just as beautiful as Alaska.

  

A Siegel Goes to Sea

 

Hello fellow landlubbers, I have returned from the sea. 

Twelve days ago, I left the dry familiar safety of terra firma, for the aqua firma unknown of the icy North Pacific. 

This was not my first nautical rodeo. In what seems another lifetime ago, I left the shores of Seattle for an adventure in the San Juan Islands. OK, it was a ferry boat to Orcas Island. And it wasn't really an adventure, one of my college roommates was getting married there. To be honest, between the ample cabernet and craft beers, and my decreasing ability to conjure up the past, I don't remember much of the affair, only that it was cold. 

And wet. 

And cold.

This was different. This was an 8 day journey from Vancouver, BC, north to Skagway (is there an Alaska town with a more Alaska-sounding name?) in the belly of the Tracy Arm Inlet. 

And though I'd like to be recounting swashbuckling tales on the high seas --like my father's 1984 outing in Nova Scotia on a 10 Day Survival Course with Outward Bound -- this was considerably tamer. 

Considerably.

The boat we were on was not a 93 foot long schooner, complete with barnacles and hammock-style sleeping quarters. Ours was less Robinson Crusoe and more F. Scott Fitzgerald, who would have felt completely at home aboard the SS Zaandam (is there a Dutch luxury liner with a more Dutch sounding name?) 

I went on a cruise.

In all my 66 years, I thought I'd go to my grave having never set foot aboard a cruise ship. And not just because I'm prone to sea sickness and had been traumatized by the Poseiden Adventure. 

Which is all the more ironic, given that my mother, at the tender age of 17, set sail on the Queen Elizabeth , with her 19 year old sister Mary. They left Glasgow for the teeming shores of America. Of course they were in steerage with none of the creature comforts found in the Zaandam's luxurious Veranda Suite.

I also had, what some might say, predisposed, "Westside elitist" notions, of what life aboard a luxury liner was like. But as I grow older and making a conscious effort to try new things (before I no longer can), I'm learning new things.

For example, I've learned there's nothing worse than being predisposed.

And I learned, hitting on 17 in Black Jack is never a good idea. 

Tomorrow: I get me Sea Legs. 

Get me outta here

I'm going to Canada.

No, seriously. And it's not because this country is turning into a theocratic, authoritarian shit show -- which it is -- it's mostly because I need a break. And so Ms. Muse and I are hopping on a plane to go to Vancouver, a city of unimaginable beauty and cleanliness. And from there we are hopping on a boat, a very big boat, and cruising north towards the famed Inside Passage.

There, despite my weekly routine of massive salmon consumption, I will attempt to stuff even more rich fatty salmon into my shrinking body. 

"A Bloody Mary? Yes, I would like a Bloody Mary, can you add a skewer of raw salmon to that, thank you."

I've never done a cruise and have always been quite hesitant about boarding a ship the size of a Hyatt Regency hotel and leaving the comfort and safety of dry land. But there's only so much sand in my dial and figured now's the time to try new things. 

But not anything that contains broccoli. Or even its poor stepchild, broccolini.

This will be a different type of vacation for me. Foregoing the shorts and flip flops normally associated with a week in Hawaii or the Caribbean, in favor of sweaters, parkas and wool hats, which harken back to my very frigid days in Syracuse, NY. 

There's also some serendipity at play here.

We booked this cruise months ago. Since then I have been contacted by a client who does advertising for a major cruise line. And since I have never been on a cruise before, I can safely posit that this trip was simply research and preparation for an upcoming assignment as freelance writer extolling the wondrous adventures of cruising.

Shit, if Trump can claim billion dollars in losses on his wildly mendacious tax returns, I can certainly play the same card, and write this trip off as research and tell the IRS to kick rocks.

"Bartender, make that a double and do you have any sushi-grade salmon?"

Editorial note: Because I'll be on vacation I may or may not be posting on R17. Time, consumption of alcohol and the effectiveness of my prescription behind-the-ear sea sickness patches, will tell.

Until then, I leave you with this...

Thursday Photo Funnies

 

The last time I did a Thursday Photo Funnies -- about a month ago -- one faithful reader commented that he rather enjoyed the series. Which is odd because I only run these when I have run out of ideas or get tired of listening to myself drone on about the same thing, the demise of our democracy.

I'll come clean here and admit I'm feeling quite anxious about America. 

Made even more so after I watched a documentary, Bad Faith, about the ascent of Christian Nationalism. Yesterday, Josh Hawley, a sitting US Senator proclaimed himself a Christian Nationalist. Aren't these the same folks who rail against minorities being led by identity politics?

One of the Christian preachers said, on camera, in front of a church of his followers...

"LGBT...to me that means Let's Go Burn Them," to the cheers and laughter of his congregation. Adding, "Oh I'm sorry, LGBTQ...Let's Go Burn Them Quickly."

Isn't that nice?

I've digressed. Let's get to the photos, found randomly on my iPhone, and a little levity. 

Hopefully.

Seen at the local Culver City Goodwill store. 

A box full of Three Stooges dolls.

They didn't offer a volume discount, so I demured. 

A rare day in the hammock at my Palm Springs airbnb. 

I know I have really ugly toes, but I also have a hammock.

An entire building dedicated to bringing home the Israeli hostages,

kidnapped on October 7th. Of last year!

In addition to the hammock, I also have a new

LG 22 cubic foot refrigerator. The fixing up of my 

uncle's old house never ends. Never.

Most locales have one sister city. Culver City has 4. 

If I had to visit one, it would be in Italy. I haven't eaten pasta or pizza since

Clinton was in office.

Wasn't sure what to make of this until I read the other

bumper stickers. #Irony, well executed.

The latest in the I Wish He Were Dead Collection.

Rubber snakes, purchased online to ward off

the squirrels, rats and critters, trying to steal my garden produce.

Not sure it's working. This is all have to show for my efforts.

Barely enough for a thimble full of salsa.

I may not have been blessed with a Green Thumb,

but I have been blessed with Ms. Muse.

The Wedding Scammers

Say hello to Lance and Barrett. And Kingston, the rat in a dog suit. 

If this piece is successful you will end up hating these two, as I do, and wish great physical, emotional and financial harm upon their sorry souls.

Let me back the car up a bit to Morro Bay, where Ms. Muse and I spent a few days over the 4th of July. On the long scenic drive back through Central California's beautiful rolling hills and intermittent peeks at the Pacific, she suggested we listen to a podcast. 

Unlike many of you I'm not a podcast guy. I don't spend a great deal of time in the car. And because I've spent a lifetime working in advertising, I have the attention span of a caffeinated 5 year old at a state fair. 

But this was different, because it was about scammers. And if you've followed this blog for any amount of time you know I'm fascinated by scumbags who pull the wool over the eyes of unsuspecting victims. I'm looking at you, Red Hats. 

More specifically, I'm interested in the psychological interplay between the predator and the prey. And how, with cunning and bald faced lies, the scammer is able to manipulate and fleece the scammee.

As I've done in the past with book reviews, I will not give out too many details. And this podcast has a shit ton of details. Including the many aliases, used by the man on the left, let's call him Lance. Or Michael. Or Lawrence. 

After a failed attempt to put together an online newspaper, Newsaratti (better than the Huffington Post) he and his partner, Barrett, set out to scam newlyweds. 

If you know anything about putting a wedding together you know it's an endeavor with many moving parts: catering, music, invites, decorations, photography, chocolate waterfalls, etc. 

Some of you will notice I wrote about chocolate waterfalls yesterday. Not only do I have a weakness for chocolate, I am simply amused how Americans can be so easily hypnotized by a mechanism that simply melts chocolate and pours it off a decorative ledge. 

It's confectionary fireworks.

In short, weddings are a big deal. They're also inordinately expensive. Newlyweds invest a great deal of money into these once-in-a-lifetime extravaganzas. Not just money, but emotion. All of which makes them vulnerable. Especially to heartless vultures who would take their money (in advance) and then partially or entirely not deliver.

At one of these weddings where envelopes of money were given in lieu of gifts, Lance and Barrett literally absconded with a satchel full of cash. 

Think about it, while a bride and groom were crushed on their special day, Kingston, their dog was chewing on filet mignon.

While a couple of young entrepreneurs saw their nest egg disappear, Kingston was sporting a bedazzled sweater and booties.

While an enterprising young pastry chef was wondering where all her money went, Kingston was riding shotgun in a brand new BMW 626 Series.

By the time we came over the hill on the 405 freeway, I was seething and wanted to see these two fuckwads, torn limb from fatty, never-worked-an-honest-day-in-their-life limb.

I won't tell you how the story ends, suffice to say my oversized need for justice has been piqued. And I'm not done with these two. 

Look for The Wedding Scammers on Spotify. You're welcome.

Fore!!!!

I'm a self-admitted pot stirrer. Not just here at home as I've done hurling daily poo-poo at our wannabe Dictator and the witless fascists who support and enable him, but also on the world stage. 

That's delusions of grandeur and three cups of coffee talking.

Years before the Fourth Reich began arising in America, I had another dictator in my cross hairs -- Kim Jong Un. Many of you may remember my site: KimJungFun.tumblr.com. Tumblr is gone, whatever that means in computer lingo, but my many years of poking fun at the world's greatest golfer remain.

If you have 97 hours or so, I suggest you dig in for much hilarity, like this:

I bring this up, not only for my own self aggrandizement, but also because I recently received an invitation via LinkedIn, to visit the Korean Peninsula for a first hand look at the world's most demented, yet fascinating country. I can't imagine why Chad sent me this invite other than the algorithm, which also insultingly sends me many links to weight loss products.

Here's Chad's missive:

Holy crap, a personal invitation from the Ministry of Disinformation. 

That was as good as a love letter from the Little Fat Man himself. Soon I could be whisked away to the Pyongyang Palace and dining on pickled sea cucumbers and briny barnacles hand plucked off sunken warships of the mighty North Korean Navy.

How lucky was I?

Then I read a little further and discovered the entire tour was not actually IN North Korea. It was what Chad, my soon-to-be tour guide, called a Near Distance Tour.

Wait, what? 

If I were to strap myself in to a Happy Mood Airways (serving North Korea for 52 years) and fly 8000 miles aboard a decrepit 707 and engage my fascination for failed communist infrastructure and hyperbolic bureaucratic bloviation I'd damn well want to set foot on the actual golf course where Dear Leader shot a 38. In fact I'd insist on having a go off one of the 11 tees (all Par 3's I'm assuming) where he notched a hole in one!

Sadly, this is not that vacation. 

Nor will it be my opportunity to dip strawberries (with Kim) from his majestic 10 foot high chocolate waterfall. The only working machinery within 200 miles of Pyongyang.

This is North Korea from afar, which if common sense and my safety dictate, must remain that way -- afar.

Mmmm, Niman Ranch Bacon Ends (whatever that means)

How was your Independence Day celebration? I hope it was good because it may be your last, thanks to circumstances that are beyond anyone's control, hence beyond belief. 

With the rising demagoguery of a presidential candidate vying for the office of Dictator and the continuing dissolution of laws that once set America on a path of its own, we and generations to follow, are most certainly doomed.

So I'm showing you a picture of my breakfast over this festive long weekend.

I'm not much of an Instagram kind of guy, so you'll have to excuse my ineptitude in the arena. 

This feast pictured above is the San Luis Sunrise. It was concocted at the Hidden Kitchen restaurant in Cayucos, CA, a sleepy beach town, in the iconic fashion of sleepy California beach towns of a bygone era. Hippies, dippies, tattoos, surfboards and women with so many piercings they have been put on No Fly Lists.

According to the no nonsense menu, the Sunrise (as locals call it) consists of free range eggs, Niman Ranch Bacon Ends, avocado and HK sauce. What they don't mention is that it sits on a Blue Corn Tortilla waffle. Which precludes any need for breakfast breads. 

Not just for this meal but for all to follow.

Astute readers will note that I wrote about the Hidden Kitchen in October 2022. 

Even more astute readers will note that Foothillian former LA Times columnist Chris Erskine, the poet laureate of Pasadena, as it were, also wrote lovingly about the Hidden Kitchen in July of 2023. 

In the newspaper vernacular of Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen, you could say I scooped Chris. 

But that would be unfair as Yelp readers have been glowing about this place for ages, as it amassed 4.7 out of 5 stars. I must assume the one naysayer must have had a local seagull poop on his or her waffle in the outdoor patio that looks out over the foggy coast of Central California.

If you do decide to go to the Hidden Kitchen, and I wish you wouldn't because the line to get in is already way too long, here's what to look for...

But you have to look hard because in addition to serving incredibly imaginative and word-worthy food the place lives up to its name.

Trump fought the law and Trump won

It has been a banner week here in the Un-United States of America. Not even 7 days after our incumbent and decent human being of a president took the stage to debate a known fraud, sexual abusing felon and fell apart like a poorly timed souffle, we had our Supreme Court put an end to the standing maxim that, "No man is above the law."

Because apparently one is. 

One obscenely grotesque man with more money than brain cells has purchased himself a Presidential Get Out of Jail Free Card. 

Unironically, this is the same Supreme Court that cleared the way for justices in the highest court on the planet to accept bribes...er, tips. You know for superior service and beyond the call of duty sycophancy.

I have often said that Americans have yet to tally the untold damage Herr Trump has inflicted on our nation, now a nation that belongs to 74 million witless cultists. 

Not only has he sullied the office of the Presidency, with two impeachments, a call to Insurrection, and the less than peaceful transition of power, now he has shit all over the judicial branch. Figuratively and semi-literally.

I don't know about you but I have always respected our Supreme Court. Averse to the political machinations of Congress and the Executive wing, the court has (mostly) done what it could to put the country on the right path. Not always, but these esteemed judges gave us Roe v. Wade, they reversed Plessy v. Ferguson, and in Obergefell v Hodges, they granted gay people the right to marry.

Why the fuck would gay people need anyone's permission in the first place?

It's funny how the party of small government and individual liberties goes out of their way to stick their noses into people's business. I never got a law degree, though now I wish had just to raise bloody hell in a courtroom (as opposed to shouting uselessly at my keyboard. 

The rulings coming from this iteration of the Supreme Court are the worst in our nation's history. I feel sorry for Kagan, Sotomayer and Jackson, who have penned quality dissents in defense of freedom in America. And will forever be stained by their association with...I don't even want to type their names and give them that much dignity.

But consider this, of the nine sitting judges, one was seen flying political flags in support of Trump's election denial. And the other, was and still is, in the pocket of billionaires who can apparently buy a decision in exchange for an RV and some fishing lures. I'm looking at you, "Clearance" Thomas.

As a result, belief in the law and reverence for the law have fallen. And they can't get up.

Unless something drastic happens, like 74 million Americans waking up.  

Happy Independence Day

You may begin...

Last week I thought I had two suckers...er, buyers for my 2009 Acura MDX. If the sale was to go through I would need the pink slip for the car, stating that I owned it. And I owned it outright.

That meant a journey through my crack filing system. Libraries have the Dewey Decimal system. When it comes to organization and keeping track of all my vitals, I have Doodie Decimated System of Entropy. 

If I ever get nailed with an IRS audit, I will seriously consider the "Dog ate my tax returns" excuse. The good news, as I understand it, is they can only audit the past 3 years of income, which for me has been abysmal, at best. 

While sifting through the detritus of my misspent life, I came across a college exam from 1978. Apart from the sheepskin I "earned", I don't think I have anything from my days at Syracuse University. But I did manage to sock away this exam from Calculus 4 (Math 398). 

I know why I saved it. 

Math 398 was the only class I ever failed. Technically, I also failed Journalism 101, but that was only because I couldn't type the mandatory 25 wpm. Today, with my hybrid hunt and peck and full right hand use, I can type 65-70 wpm. 

Some of them might even be spelled correctly.

Back to Calculus 4 and the nightmares it gave me. For those who don't know, and that might include me, Calculus is the summation of everything a student learns in Algebra, Geometry and Trigonometry. Frankly, other than engineers and scientitians, these mathy courses are quite useless. I wish my daughters had been taught the essentials of finance, the intricacies of investing and the importance of good record keeping -- then I could farm out my mess to them.

I look at the photo above and can't believe it made sense to me one day. Though from my failing score that's highly debatable.

Here's the amazing thing. The test was a two hour ordeal. And consisted of 5 questions. The funny scribbles and poorly drawn pictures (seen above in Problem #3) were close to perfect. I lost three points from a possible 20, because of my sloppy math and some poorly executed additions and subtractions. 

I'm guessing it's because I was stoned when I took the exam. I was under the ridiculous, but funny notion, that I could do this kind of higher brain wave stuff better while high as a kite.

I did mention misspent life, right?

Not only did I save the "completed" test in the form of a little blue booklet which were the vernacular of the day, I also saved the test itself. Which was printed on mimeograph paper. And yes, it did smell great.

The type is faded, after close to 50 years that's understandable, otherwise I'd reproduce the questions in clean, easy to read digital format. But here's the deal, many of the symbols, graphics and nomenclature of Math 398 are not available on a 2024 keyboard.

They, like the synapses in my brain that could make sense of it (some of it),  are gone.

Like my hairline.

 

Yeah, #3 was the easy one.

The Gretch who stole the White House from Donald Trump

You're reading this on Monday. But I'm writing this on the previous Friday. The morning after the President Debate, "The Thriller of Old Vanilla."

I don't believe that readers who come to R17, willingly come for sugarcoating. In fact, my tagline for oh so many years has been: RoundSeventeen, no sugar added. So let's get out the coarse sea salt and rub it generously in the wound that was opened last Thursday Night.

Joe Biden lost. 

The debate and presidency.

I know Red Hats are not fond of brutal honesty. If their guy had a poor, career-ending performance, they would gloss it over and claim he was a victim of Fake News -- perhaps the stupidest and deadliest and most antisemitic expression to come from our cultish friends on the right.

They have no ability for introspection, otherwise they would have long abandoned their felon/adulterer/tax cheater/purveyor of perfidy. 

We, the critical thinkers on the other side of the aisle are not like that. Or at least we shouldn't be. We should have the fortitude and integrity of looking at the current situation. And making vital, existential, course correction. 

And boy do we have some correcting to do. 

Last night Uncle Joe dutifully delivered the facts and nothing but the facts. Through the stops and starts, fumbles and mumbles, he made the case for another term. But the manner in which he delivered it was a deal breaker. 

In my younger days, about 100 years ago, I did tray pass at the Good Samaritan Hospital in Suffern, NY. I walked all 6 floors delivering meals to the infirm. There, I saw the same look Joe had. Mouth agape. 1000 yard stare. A certain stiffness in the neck, pre-rigormortis, perhaps. 

And while that look is infinitely more preferable to the sweaty orange, caked-on-foundation look of his opponent, it is not the look one wants to see on the President of the United States of America.

If the race was tight before the debate, I shudder to think what the next swing state polling will reveal. 

This is particularly frightening in light of our frustrating penchant for style over substance. Seven out ten American's believe Angels (with wings) look out for us. They're not interested in facts or data or even morals. Hence, the polling power of a blustery, blowhard fake strongman, who apparently can grab women by the pussy with no consequence.

Ms. Muse, who suggested today's piece, is a big fan of Michigan governor Gretchen Whitmer and believes she is the right candidate to fill Joe's soon-to-be-vacated shoes. All I know of Ms. Whitmer is that she bravely stood up to violent sorelosing Red Hats who had plotted to kidnap her in 2020.

I also know she polls well, not only in Michigan but in neighboring Wisconsin and Ohio, The Rust Wall, as it were.

There are still 5 months to go before the election. Many other countries conduct presidential campaigns and elections in less time that that. Moreover, her sheer youth and vitality could be just the tonic Americans need before tossing in the towel on democracy...er, our Constitutional Republic.

Swift, decisive action is needed. Now more than ever.  

"When they go low we can't go to sleep."

What's it gonna take to get you in this car?

 I'm back to doing car advertising again. It's like a scene from the ill-fated Godfather III. 

"I tried to get out, but they keep pulling me back in."

Obligatory gesture of me clenching two fists and drawing them to my torso from the Al Pacino School of Overacting Body Movements.

Now, unlike my early days, I'm just trying to sell one car. My late wife's 2009 Acura MDX with the Technology Package. I could run down all the features and cockamamie benefits of driving this state of the art (circa 2009) vehicle. But then I'd be mirroring the idiocy of so many past clients. 

I will not insult you with such pedantry (checking the online Webster's dictionary for proper use of that word.)

For instance, I could tell you the MDX has close to 128,000 miles on it. More interestingly however is the fact that many of those miles involved extensive camping trips up stunningly scenic Route 395 (my favorite road in America) to Upper Gray's Meadow, near Independence, California. 

At about Mile #59,327 the trusty MDX literally saved our lives. 

An early summer thunderstorm sent bolts of lighting into the Eastern Sierras and set off raging fires. Thanks to the MDX's cavernous cargo area we were able to quickly disassemble our campsite, fold down the rear 3rd row of seats, toss our sooty, smelly gear in the back and make like the roadrunner escaping Wily E. Coyote down the 7000 foot mountain. 

Oh, did you want to see a picture?

Did I mention the leather? I don't think I did.

This is real leather -- not the vegan leather, Ford has put in my new Mustang -- lovingly given to us by 5-6 Angus Cows whose sacrifice has not gone unnoticed. This is smooth and luxurious to the touch. And not just because I wiped it down some premium car care products from Maguiar's, that was given to me during a pitch many years ago. 

If you're looking for fancy, check this out. 

Common today, but in 2009 if you had seats that heated up like a toaster oven, well that was something the Jones's with their bony, frozen tushies simply could not keep up with. 

All kidding aside there's one more thing worth considering. 

Though it has some wear and tear (dings, scratches, etc) this vehicle was maintained meticulously, from a mechanical and safety point of view. Because it carried the most important cargo -- my family.

Let me know if you or someone you know might be interested.

Also, here's an MDX commercial I fished out from the library that I wrote a little more than a dozen years ago.

https://youtu.be/DBSSfMG3zwc?si=B6Zsg3yPoH6cfR8C

 

Express Yourself

 I know I shouldn't be doing this.On the other I can't not do it. Back to back to back posts about the short-fingered Vulgarian (Thank you Spy magazine, circa 1992)

My hate level for the Worst Human Being of the 21st Century is at an all time high. And that's saying something given his non-stop spewing of irrational, misogynistic, racist, ignorant, mendacious UnAmerican bullshit since he foisted his fat ass on the political stage.

Evidence of my volcanic hot rage can be seen in the T-shirt seen above.

As well as the T-shirt seen here...

And again here...

The fact is my closet is beginning to fill up with T-shirts (ones that actually fit me) emblazoned with Trump-directed vitriol.

The T-shirts have not only captured the attention of Culver Citians, Citizens, Culverites, Culverians...

"Oh look, there's the crazy old man with a T-shirt again"

...but also the attention of friends and colleagues who'd like to sport the same sharp-tongued attire. I suppose I could go on CafePress and spend long, long hours assembling a merchandising store so that the critical thinking public could walk as proudly as I do. But the truth is whatever skills I might have rearranging the 26 letters of the alphabet are far outweighed by my massive technology deficiency.

The other truth is, I could probably make some money selling said T-shirts and donate the proceeds to the Biden campaign.

I'm going to do none of that because though I am enjoying my semi-retirement, I have exercise to do and I need to stem the pointed teasing coming from Ms. Muse and my inability to finish reading what I started. Maggie Haberman's 600 page + Confidence Man has sat untouched on my nightstand/coffee table and I am committed to reaching page 601.

To that end, I invite you (should you be inclined) to custom design your own T-shirt about our spleeny, hedge-pig ex-president. 

It's very easy to do here.

Play around the typeface. Add your own visual. But above all, shoot for brevity. 

You can write your own lines or feel free to duplicate any of mine. I'm not interested in making money, I'm only interested in saving our democracy...sorry, as some schmuck in Idaho pointed out...our Constitutional Republic!

Here's some more lines jut to get you started:

He exists. 

Proof, God does not.

Future Me wants to piss 

on the grave of Ex Him.

Impeachment?

I want Embalmment.

No 4th Reich.

These will work with the blond hair graphic element:

Feed the maggots.

Rest in Pee 

I'm praying for the shark. 

5 Reasons Not to Vote for Grandpa Shitforbrains

I'm going to harken back to my clickbait-y days at PayPal, where knowledgable, best practices data miners taught me everything I need to know about professional copywriting. You know, in lieu of my  40+ years worth of in-the-trenches experience.

To that end and in praise of the audience-attracting Listicle, I give you 5 Reasons Not to Vote for Grandpa Shitforbrains:

1. Supreme Court -- We have not yet begun to tally the damage this Turd Monster has done to this country. Including the disastrous Roe v. Wade rollback. And the impending decision from Heritage Foundation appointed Supreme Court justices with regards to the ridiculous claim of Total Presidential Immunity. 

Should he win another 4 years, he could get 1-2 more lifetime appointed judges who will do the bidding of this 21st century Neo Nazi. 

I don't know about you, but when I bring my car in for service, I like to think the mechanic knows a thing or two about flick-flacks, carbonators, and oil viscosity. Similarly, I like my orthopedic surgeon, who has begun replacing vital joints in my body, to know a thing or two about sockets and balls and hip flexors.

Is there any doubt in your mind that the imbecile spouting off about sharks, batteries and just recently, guillotines, can't name 3 seminal Supreme Court cases in the 246 year history of the United States of America? 

I would bet every last dollar of the Siegel Empire that he can't name one. 

2. History -- Speaking of history, which is an important thing to be acquainted with if you're going to accept the mantle of Leader of the Free World, how do you suppose this flea-bitten gudgeon would fare on a simple 11th grade high school history exam? Suppose there were a question about Gettysburg. 

Suppose...

We're only at #2 and I'm already shaking from adrenal overload!

3. Honor -- Last week my daughter asked if I could've been drafted for the Viet Nam War. I told her I was 2 years too young, thankfully. Donald Trump however was a ripe age of 22 in 1968, the height of the war. Like many Americans he couldn't tell you why were were fighting (See #1 and #2) there. Nor was it important (as nothing but his hide has any import), because he had his family physician (Dr. Vinny Boombatz) write a fake letter about fake bone spurs, so that he wouldn't have to join the "suckers" and "losers" in the real jungles of southeast Asia.

Also, did you know that Trump's disdain for Senator John McCain did not arise from any political or philosophical issue? 

In 1996, the short-fingered vulgarian applied for a federal $350 million loan intended to subsidize low and moderate income housing but was essentially a cash grab. 

The project was turned down by Senator McCain who said, "I have nothing against very successful project developers...I do however object to asking the taxpayer to bear the risk of development for one of the wealthiest  entrepreneurs in the country to help finance a project that will predominantly benefit upper-income Americans."  (from Confidence Man by Maggie Haberman)

4. WTF? -- I have always contended that the best way to campaign against Donald Trump is to quote Donald Trump. I am not a religious man. I am of the firm belief that when we pass, we return to the state of consciousness we had before we were born. That is not the prevailing zeitgeist in this country, where many will vote with their bibles (and their pocketbooks). Are these same zealots in line with this:

“Religion is such a great thing. It keeps you, you know, there’s something to be good about. You want to be good; you want to…It’s so important. And I don’t know if it’s explained. Right. I don’t know if I’m explaining it right now, but when you have something like that, you want to be good. You want to go to heaven, okay? You want to go to heaven. If you don’t have heaven, you almost say, ‘Oh, what’s what’s the reason? Why do I have to be good? Let’s not be good. What difference does it make?”

Jesus H Christ!

5. What difference does it make? -- If by now, close to 10 years after he descended that golden escalator, followed by his reluctant Slovic Trumpette, it should be abundantly clear you've been hoodwinked, by a schmuck who promised Mexico would pay for wall, they didn't. 

He promised 6% GDP growth, never happened. 

He promised a new GOP healthcare plans, coming in two weeks, it's been 14 years. 

He promised Infrastructure, ehhhh, thank you for playing.

He promised immigration reform, nope.

He promised coal mining revival, go talk to a coal miner.

He promised to balance the budget, but added $8 trillion of debt.

He promised to beat China in a Trade War, how's that going?

He promised peace in the Middle East, uhhhh, Gaza.

He promised to produce evidence that the 2020 election was stolen, where are the bamboo fibers?

He promised so much winning, and won nothing.

He's hopeless. 

And if you plan to vote for him, I'm afraid you are too.

I'm so tired of being tired of him. 

Where's that damn Shark?

Are they really commandments?

Separation of church and state? My ass, in two parts.

If this nation of ours -- borne from the pursuit of religious freedom as well as the freedom from religion -- truly lived up to the ideals of our American forefathers, we wouldn't have "In God we trust" printed on our currency. We wouldn't have Blue laws on the book, prohibiting any commerce on Sunday, even though Jesus observed Shabbat on Saturday.  And we wouldn't have religious fanatics pulling and pushing the levers of this power.

Last week the irrational fascination with Imaginary Sky Daddy or The Flying Spaghetti Monster, seen here...

...took a delta-elbow turn for even greater irrationality. The state of Louisiana has mandated The Ten Commandments (brought to you by your elder brothers of Hebraic seasonings, you're welcome) be posted in all public schools including those of higher dis-education. 

The joke floating around the interwebs, almost faster than the Huak Tuah Girl, is that it would be nice if Louisiana children could actually read the Ten Commandments. I could do jokes about poor bayou kids with no foot coverin's and even less teeth, until the social media police come and rescind all my digital bloviation privileges.

But there are even greater stakes at hand that must be addressed.

Following the order of in-god-trination (SWIDT) Donald Trump made a beeline for the nearest microphone in order to weaponize the move. And to align himself with the good bible-thumpiung, god-fearing people in Louisiana,  the Bacardi State. 

He also posted, in his signature all cap motif, “I LOVE THE TEN COMMANDMENTS IN PUBLIC SCHOOLS, PRIVATE SCHOOLS, AND MANY OTHER PLACES, FOR THAT MATTER. READ IT — HOW CAN WE, AS A NATION, GO WRONG???”

But he didn't stop there. 

In a move not noticed by mainstream media, he also had private talks with his team of crack legal eagles who currently have a monumental power-of-the-presidency case sitting before the Supreme Court. The highest court in the land.

That, it seems, s just a small stepping stone. 

Our Two Corinthians-loving ex-president has also called for a ecumenical conclave of Christians of almost every nomination. As well as a few imams and rabbis, for the optics of equal Abrahamic participation. And plans to present his arguments before the council, that while Ten Commandments should be mandatory for all schoolchildren and abided by by all 8 billion residents of Planet Earth, he should be afforded Total Immunity. 

Because Jesus and Jerry Falwell Jr. said he deserved it.

"I SHOULD HAVE TOTAL IMMUNITY. I NEED TOTAL IMMUNITY. MAYBE JUST FOR DAY ONE OF MY ADMINISTRATION -- BUT PROBABLY MORE. 

SOME OF THESE COMMANDMENTS JUST DON'T MAKE SENSE. IF I COVET A BIRDIE ON THE TOUGH 14TH HOLE AT DORAL COUNTRY CLUB, I SHOULD HAVE IT. EVEN IT MEANS USING MY LEG IRON. OR TAKING A GIMME. I MEAN COME ON!!! I'M THE RULER...PRESIDENT." 

Pastries, Pastrami and Picasso

"It's taken me 66 years to learn that."

That's not just my cold opener this morning, that's a phrase that been leaving my mouth with more frequency. And more resonance.

I'll give you an example. I woke up this morning with a dream, a vivid dream playing in my head like one of those Facebook reels on autoplay. Hint: if you watch one bikini-clad woman doing jumping jacks, you will be met with an onslaught of bikini-clad women, doing a variety of high cardio exercise. 

In this dream, I owned a beautiful downtown apartment in an undetermined city with a sprawling view of a bay (undetermined) that reached out to the ocean (also undetermined.) I could, with the help of a sketch artist, show you the exact layout of the 2000 square foot apartment. I told you it was vivid.

At some point in the dream, my old boss from Chiat/Day, who I recently ran into at a small reunion party, was scoping out the view of my luxury pad and said, 

"This is really nice Rich, I'm so happy for you. You deserve this."

"Thanks," I replied, "it's taken me 66 years to learn that."

I've given this quite a bit of thought. And realized the converse is also true: It's taken me 66 years to unlearn the notion that I don't deserve that.

And that's completely understandable. My parents were working class poor. And they were raised in the post depression era, where the next meal was never guaranteed. And where every penny, every accumulation of anything in value, even string and coffee grinds, had to be saved. And locked away for further enjoyment or utilization. 

This may or may not be true, but I seem to remember my mother blowing up balloons for my brother's birthday party on November 6th. Then carefully untying the knot in the balloons so they could be inflated a week later for my sister's (two years younger) birthday party a week later on November 14.

Unlike the unwanted hair that started growing out my ears in my senior years, this annoying parsimonious mindset has been with me my entire life.

And now I'm doing my best to excise it. Because, and I find myself saying this as well, 'pleasure delayed is pleasure denied.' 

Last week, Ms. Muse and I found ourselves at LACMA. We had intended on seeing the new Motion Picture Museum, but there was a private event. So we pivoted. Here's the obligatory lamppost shot...

Following the Picassos, Monets and the interesting Simone Leighs, we were feeling a bit peckish. Having scaled back on red meat, I had a particular hankering for cured meats, seasoned Hebraically. And so in an unlikely and impromptu move, we made our way over to Canter's Deli for an unplanned and exorbitantly expensive pastrami sandwich.

On our egress, Ms. Muse treated herself to some of Canter's finest cookies. 

Money can't buy happiness, but not spending money can't either. 

"It's taken me 66 years to learn that."

Great Again?

They say they want to make America Great Again. I'm hardly the first to ask this, but when was it great?

Most Red Hats won't answer the question. I will. Not because I know, but simply because it bolsters my theory. Of which I am about to lay out. 

I know that yesterday I claimed I was not a very good persuader but I'm also not a very good quitter. So I'm going to throw on my Math Teacher tweed sport coat and take on the persona I would have inhabited had I not slipped into the glorious and glamorous world of advertising, home of the ubiquitous SKIP AD button.

I'm going to suggest that when MAGA speak of a different time when America was great, they are referring to 1954. 

In this post World War era, America was prospering. But that's not what really tickles this white dream...er, wet dream. Seventy years ago, gay meant being happy, black lives didn't matter, women were in the kitchen and Jews were not allowed on many of the country's finest golf courses. 

(Pssssst, while you guys were hitting little white balls into a cup, we were forming cabals and taking over the world's banking, media and mustard making institutions.)

But let's be honest, Americans don't choose their presidents based on social or moral progress. That's far too nuanced. And we're not the most politically astute people. Our idea of patriotism is shouting USA, USA, USA in the streets and adorning our bridges with 500 foot flags. Truth is, most Americans can't tell you the difference between a communist and a fascist. Or a socialist and a socialite.

In fact that woman from Georgia, uses the terms interchangeably. Often in conjunction with the Gazpacho Police. 

What will decide the next election, and many thereafter, are Kitchen Table Issues.

There can be no doubt that in the post-Covid era, we faced inflation. I know this will come as a shock to Red Hats, but so did the rest of the world. Not that it matters. USA, USA, USA!!!

Let's clear the kitchen table and break out the Texas Instrument calculator. 

Mind you, the following numbers are anecdotal and may or may not resemble actual facts. But when one presidential candidate lies about every number he has ever quoted and then goes on to talking about batteries, sharks and choosing electrocution, does it really matter? 

In 1954, a housewife (sorry ladies) might have purchased a dozen eggs for $1.29 in 1954. Adjusted for time and cost of living, let's say that would be the equivalent of $4.29 in 2020. Then came Biden's God Awful Crushing Commie/Fascist Inflationary Times in 2023 and the price went up to $5.29 !!!!!!

That's an extra dollar for a dozen eggs!!! And he had the gall to eat ice cream on the television.

If that housewife were to buy a dozen eggs twice a month, that's two extra dollars. Over the course of a year, she would have shelled out $24 dollars just for the privilege of keeping her family fed with Western omeletes.

Which came first, the increase in the price of eggs or the chickenshit bump in gas prices? 

If we were to extrapolate a bit (and we will) the average household, at the height of Sleepy Joe's  Soul Crushing Inflation, might have been spending an additional $547.93 a year to buy eggs, gas and Slim Jims, etc. just to be an American and live in the greatest country on earth™.

That's mind blowing. 

MAGA people will tell you "Freedom isn't Free." But apparently $547.93 is a cost they're just not willing to bear. Nor are they willing to concede that during that time, wages have increased an average 4.92%, their 401K plans increased 13.7% and that the economy of the US outpaced the economies of the developed world.

None of that matters. 

Because come November, they're sticking with the shark-fearing, twice-impeached convicted felon who loves the uneducated, calls our soldiers Suckers and Losers, doesn't take responsibility for the death of more than a million Americans, retribution-promising, ignorant wannabe dictator who just last week said, "haul out the guillotines." 

USA, USA, USA!!!