ETA TBD

It's Wednesday morning where you are. It's Monday morning where I am. And it's Palm Springs, where I am standing firm against the searing 105 degree heat. 

Standing could be a misnomer, as I am often laying down in the chaise chair by the pool, attempting to stem the heat with cold libations in anticipation of my gardener showing up to discuss the leaky irrigation system which seems to have my neighbors in a bit of a tiff.

Oh my, a hazard. From a broken sprinkler head. And a precious waste of water. Mind you some of these neighbors sport sprawling lawns of grass that consume more water than a lying politician giving a deposition.

To be fair, it's more than one sprinkler head, it's the corroded irrigation lines that were jerry-rigged by my crazy uncle when he owned this place and fancied himself some kind of Bob the Builder.

But I digress. 

Let's talk about neighbors who are infinitely more charming. And less hyperbolic.

Several months ago, the house next door to me was sold. This was after the previous owners had been there for more than 30 years. All of them unpleasant. I don't need to go into detail about their bloodthirsty pit bulls. The monster trucks. And the commandeering of parking spots anywhere within a 50 foot radius of their house, which I had never been inside prior the young couple with kids moved in next door and invited me in for a tour.

What a breath of fresh air. 

But it gets better. 

When they moved in I left a basket with cheese bread and salt. My late wife Deb had schooled me on this Jewish welcoming tradition. And I finally had an opportunity to participate. So I did. A week later, while cleaning the never-ending accumulation of stuff on the driveway, I found a paper airplane.

I hadn't seen a paper airplane in ages. And have always been a fan of them ever since we used to launch them from our 22nd floor apartment in Flushing, Queens. I looked at the raggedly paper plane and noticed there was a hand-scrawled message...

"Thank you for the cheese bread. It was delishes (misspelling intentional.)"

It had been written by their 5 year son R. 

Wow, I thought, that is so cool. And so I did what any still-a-boy-at-heart grown ass old man would do and got out a sheet a paper and sent him a return plane...

"I hope you shared it with your sister."

Days later I got another plane. This one with kid stickers on it. So I returned the favor in kind with stickers I have had since my Chiat/Day days.

I shared the tale of the burgeoning Carlson Park Airport with my daughters, who suggested I save all the planes in hopes of having enough for a Children's Book.

I like that idea.

I look forward to driving home today (Wednesday) and finding a new plane from R. in my driveway.

Life, liberty and the judicious pursuit of pedophiles

Today's post comes to you at the behest of Ms. Muse. In case you haven't guessed, she takes her part time R17 job quite seriously. And after reading last week's post about the failure and humiliation of CNN, which is now distinctively right wing media, she urged me to to do a follow up -- a scathing piece regarding the Media (with a Capital M) writ large.

I pushed back and said I don't have the journalistic wherewithal to tackle a story that is much bigger than myself. Hell, I don't even know if I used the phrase "writ large" in the previous paragraph, the correct way.

As I have admitted quite freely and numerously, I'm an intellectual midget. 

Is that word even acceptable?

Sometimes I actually crush Jeopardy and can keep up with the Tournament of Champion contestants. And other times I'm so far in the imaginary red, I need to be escorted from the stage before they commence with Final Jeopardy.

In short, I know what I don't know.

But all that was before the South Park airing of the season premiere in which Donald Trump's micro-penis played an unusually (and ironic) large part and was referenced many, many, many times. 

And that came in light of the huge merger between SkyPrance, owned by David Ellison (son of TechoTool Billionaire Larry Ellison and Paramount+, owned by Shari Redstone, billionaire daughter of Sumner Redstone. Somehow having billions of dollars is just not enough.

It was also before Paramount cancelled my beloved Stephen Colbert and the Late Show. All in deference to the Mad King/Pedophile who sits behind the Resolute Desk. 

OK, I do know a little about all this. For instance I know that CBS paid the backstage pageant peeper $16 million and extorted another $20 million worth of free airtime on the former Tiffany Network, so he and the GOP could push their bullshittery on unsuspecting and terminally uninformed MAGATS.

It's nothing short of EXTORTION -- if he can use unnecessary All Caps, so can I -- but it's not criminal because, as Speaker of the House Mike "Kneepads" Johnson puts it, "It's all being done out in the open."

Not dissimilar to, "Come on guys, just find me 11,780 votes."

As I said last week, we are not only losing our Democracy, we are losing our grasp on anything that resembles Truth.

But it's not all doom and gloom and fascist state media. Last week I had predicted this whole Epstein affair would be gathering dust, supplanted by some new White House douchebaggery. I was wrong. This story has legs, all of them attached to underage girls who were raped by unapologetic pedophiles.

There can be no doubt that the "fat orange jobby" is in the files. Along with other high profile names. Our taxpayer dollars were used to investigate the sordidness and our taxpayer dollars should be used to prosecute all the Pigs that were named. 

All of them. 

  

On Friends and Foes

Two Jews and a Muslim from Bangladesh walk into a bar. An Irish bar, aptly named Jamieson's. And that's where the stereotypes end. And so there really is no punchline. Or even a joke.

But there were lots of laughs.

Meet Jeff Gelberg, author and proprietor of the wildly popular blog rotationandbalance.blogspot.com. And Mahmud Hussain, art director extraordinaire who often goes by the name Moody. Not all my friends come from the world of advertising. But many do. 

Which seems very natural to me because we'd all spend so much time bullshitting, thinking, more bullshitting, and occasionally coming up with ideas that could change the trajectory of a Fortune 500 company. Perhaps turning them into a Fortune 100 company.

My friend Matty often refers to this as 'false camaraderie.' But I disagree. In retrospect there's nothing false about it. The colleagues I had/have from the ad world are some of the brightest, creative and empathetic people I've ever met in my life. And that even includes Neal -- a little inside joke among my Team One buds.

It was only natural that the laughter and joy we all shared within the cubicle farms, and sometimes the Long Tables of Mediocrity™, would spill out into after-hours socializing. 

And so it was great to sit down, break bread and enjoy a noontime beer with Jeff and Moody. When we weren't kibbutzing or leering at the women passing by on Culver Blvd or badmouthing past shitty, self aggrandizing bosses who never met a vodka bottle that didn't need emptying, we turned our attention to the current situation 'Murica finds itself in.

I hate to to turn the tone of this post dark, but I must. 

Moody had been traveling abroad to visit his mother in Hong Kong. On his return to our once-great nation, he told us how his blood pressure began to rise as he approached the US Custom's Gate at Tom Bradley Terminal. He had wisely turned off his Face ID on his phone. And deleted any apps that would leave a trace of any anti-Trump sentiment. 

If the Feds knew he was friends with yours truly, he could've found himself on a plane to El Salvador. Or worse.

I almost choked on my once-a-month cheeseburger knowing we have reached an unprecedented level of such UnAmerican neo-fascism. Now I can feel my chest throbbing and my elevated blood pressure. If my MethHead neighbor's dog starts barking anytime soon, I could be needing an ambulance.

Do not be fooled by the smiles in the photo above. We, all of us including the naive, uninformed caucasian crowd who say they love America, are on a rapidly increasing Death Spiral. Foisted upon us by a senile, bigoted, silver spoon convicted felon with a vomit-inducing appetite for underage women.

Release the Epstein Files.

"Check, please." 

The Wednesday Photo Funnies

It's been a while since I've done a Photo Funnies post, so I thought I'd start off with one of my faves. 

This little plant -- if I were resourceful as I think I am I would've used my Plantnet app to identify the little bugger -- was seen growing out of a sewer drain in the driveway of Ms. Muse's house in bucolic Sierra Madre.

Not to get all woo-woo with you, but I do think it's a hopeful metaphor for the dire situation our country finds itself in. That is, a green sprout of growth and potential, rising from a cesspool of corruption, greed, hate and pedophilia. 

Come on, release the Epstein Files. 

Because there's a lot to get to, let's not waste any more time.

Spotted this little gem, which manages to take potshots at 

two Trump calamities at once with just four well chosen words.

Here's another 4 -word gem that might be short on wit, 

but makes its point extremely well.

And finally, in compliance with the Comedy Rule of Threes,

here's another, directed at Red Hats.

Two weeks ago I was at the Sierra Madre July 4th parade

and spotted this 1966 Dodge Coronet. 

I drove a bright red one in college, 

the second car I owned that had major brake failure.

After the parade I spotted this odd sign for the Dye Pretty Hair Studio.

A clever play on words? 

Maybe, but it's adjacent to and part of the Kensington Nursing Home. Doh!

For no particular reason I'm including this photo,

screengrabbed from the Palm Springs Facebook Marketplace.

The searing heat does something weird to these people.

I probably shouldn't be letting everyone in on the secret, but if you're on the way

to Central California, the Cold Spring Tavern is a must stop destination.

Have the Tri-Tip sandwich.

While there, check out the graffiti in the outhouse.

This was the only printable one for my family friendly blog.

OK, maybe not so family-friendly.

Also, Fuck Trump.

 

The Medium is the Message

Dear CNN,

We're done. This may come as news to you, which wouldn't be a surprise since you left the official business of News a long, long time ago. Fact is, I haven't been watching your network since the fiasco of last November. 

When I wanted to catch up with the rapidly deteriorating world, I would occasionally turn to your website. But I'll no longer be doing that and have no intention of paying for what was once free -- i.e. your particular brand of journalism.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not falling prey to the "president's" branding of your network as a purveyor of Fake News. 

With the exception of the the whole snotty brat kid, Nick Sandman, who was taunting a native American and the completely unwatchable saccharine-sickly handoffs between lughead Chris Cuomo and his bro Don Lemon, I found you to be a reliable source of news. 

Albeit way too heavy on punditry and useless round table discussions.

I find it funny that those who disparage your network have no issue with Right Wing Media and their unabashed bias. The folks calling you Fake News are the same ones watching state-mandated propaganda and paying $ billion settlements, I'm looking at you Fox News, for willingly distributing disinformation.

I'm often amused when after presenting verifiable facts, Trumpsters will reflexively ask, "Oh why don't you stop watching CNN?" Thank you, I will. And when I stoop to their level and query where they get their news, they often stumble for an answer.

I already know what media they consume. 

Because they don't read, it comes from TV like NewsMax or OAN. BTW, they're also facing penalties for peddling the Dominion Hoax. Or it comes from Steroid Joe Rogan, a man with the IQ of a 10 lbs. steel dumbbell. Or even better they tune in to Alex Jones, the guy who lost a billion dollar settlement for spewing some bullshit about Sandy Hook and the murder of 20+ children being a False Flag. 

Alex is not only a purveyor of Fake News, I contend he is a Fake Human Being.

The irony is that just as Centrists and Critical thinking people like myself are abandoning CNN, Uninformed and obscenely gullible Red Hats will soon be be leaving Fox as they are being sued by Trump for publishing the Epstein Letter. Not that I ever expect to see this reach an actual trial where Trump would have be deposed and further documents have to be entered into discovery.

This will be mediated out of court by high priced lawyers. Are there any other kind?  This promises to be a battle of the deep pockets. Rupert's billions vs Precedent Shitgibbon and the money he raises by selling off his compression socks and used diapers to his kultists who are now preparing to be extras for the filming of Idiocracy 2, the Remayke.

In the end, when this nightmare is finally over, Americans will find themselves starving for democracy. 

And even something more important, Truth.  

 

The legacy of LinkedIn

We're starting a new week. 

And it remains to be seen if the Epstein File Bukake of News will finally fade out. As in all past Trump transgressions, ethical, criminal and moral missteps that would have sunk the career of any other politician, I believe this will fade from our collective memory. And be relegated to one of those corrugated cardboard boxes gathering dust in a chandeliered bathroom at Mara Lago.

But today's post concerns, I thinks concerns is probably not the right word choice here, is the disappearance of the LinkedIn Ladies of Personal Brand Building.

They were popular about 10 years ago. The same time Gary Vaynerchuck was crushing the Crush Rush and Grant Cardone, the gazillionaire real estate huckster was promising to 10X your income, your protein consumption, and your penile tumescence.

Thankfully, I don't see their posts anymore. 

I suspect that's because I whipped out the "R" word -- retired -- and let the LinkedIn algorithms that I was no longer looking for copywriting opportunities. Hence my brand was already built. If you can call it that. And was now entering a slow steady state of decay.

And with that I was no longer being shown the Limber Ladies of LinkedIn who danced profusely while spewing personal nuggets of career wisdom that only a 25 year old Kappa Kappa Gamma could dish on their iPhone videos.

"You have to believe in yourself. If you don't, who will?"

"Discover what makes you, you. And let the world in on you."

"Kale."

Similarly, Gary V. no longer pops up in my feed. I don't miss his online videos either. Particularly when he'd get overly excited and spittle would fly from his mouth while urging viewers to crush this, crush that, and go all Godzilla-style and crush small towns and hamlets. 

It might be the timber of his voice, in addition to his vapid platitudes, but this is the only crushing I'm interested in:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7k6XTvlGc_s

Finally there's Mr. Cardone. Happy not to see him pimping his school of "real estate secrets." Geez, who else do we know that made billions in real estate by siphoning federal subsidies, stiffing contractors and sharing his proprietary methods and sources...

But I still doom scroll at LinkedIn. After all, if my close to 10,000 followers, and again, I don't know how that happened...

...were to purchase a T-shirt or a hat or a coffee mug from my new online store, I'd safely be able to avoid ending up in a dirty nursing home. Or at least I'd have one of those rooms with a panoramic view of the parking lot.

Stay Clear of Old Hateful

As I write this on July 15th, 2025, the current farce de jour is MAGA world's disappointment on the Epstein Files cover up. They were foaming at the mouth with the prospect of owning several major high profile libs, but were told, "There's nothing to see here folks, move along."

They have been lied to for years, but didn't care. But this violation of their trust has them fuming.

So much so that they've paid little attention to the fact that Trump was completely bamboozled by Vladimir Putin. Or the fact that thousands of people were dying in Ukraine, but at least "they're not Americans."

But the real story here is the real stories that are seemingly not here anymore.

Because while we're talking about Epstein Island and who was schtupping (raping) underage women, we're not talking about the 27 children who passed away in the Texas Floods because of GOP malfeasance.

And when we were talking about Republican bloody hands we were no longer discussing the botched Iran bombing. 

When we were talking about the Middle East fiasco we weren't talking about the illegal and immoral ICE raids.

When we were talking about our own domestic Gaspacho Police, we weren't talking about his stupid $45 million military parade.

When we were talking about his sad birthday party, we were no longer talking about Alligator Alcatraz.

When we were talking about unchecked American bloodlust, we were no longer talking about the abolishing of the 14th Amendment.

When we were talking about losing birthright citizenship (including my own tentative status) we were no longer talking about Pete Hegseth and his incompetent command.

When we were talking about our alcoholic and leaky Secretary of Defense Kegsbreath, we were no longer talking about Secretary of Health RFK Jr. wading in sewage filled waters.

When we were talking about about Trump's brain deficient cabinet of losers and cosplayers, we weren't talking about the President of the United States doubting whether he had to uphold the US Constitution, the same Constitution he took an oath to defend while being sworn into office.

If my brain were at full capacity and I hadn't taken an edible to lower my blood pressure, this list could go on and on and on. I see it. You see it. Red Hats don't see it. I doubt they ever will.

Let's check back a week from now. I guarantee we will not be talking about Epstein and the nation's zeitgeist will again be hijacked by some new jawdropping demonstration of his monstrous UnAmerican narcissism.

GUARANTEE!

Sales Rise When You Proselytize

I am such an idiot. A stubborn, never-listen-to anyone, bonafide idiot. A living, breathing, walking talking example that NOT all Jews are good with money. Had I known the design your own T-shirts and coffee mugs retail business was so lucrative, I would have thrown my anti-Trump memes in the ring a long, long time ago. And easily surpassed the meager returns on my sagging 401K.

"Just back the Brink's truck into the driveway boys, and put those bales of cash on the shelves in the garage, right above the box marked Belding Bowls. Can I get you some coffee? It's from Costa Rica."

As many of you know, and are probably making space in your chest of drawers and kitchen cabinets for all the Siegel merch on hand, I reluctantly took the sage advice of Ms. Muse and put together a collection of custom made wearables and drinkables on Bonfire. 

For the 8 people on the planet who haven't bookmarked the site, you can find the viral sensation here.

If that fails, you can always query one of the thousands of people you will no doubt spot on the street bearing the trademarked™ the signature Siegel sentiment. Which, I can only assume will be growing exponentially as the orange buffoon continues to self destruct by sending Gestapo goons to our streets. And hides his mushroom pecker behind the dated, unflattering skirts of his clueless Attorney General, Pam Bondi.

And yes, if you haven't guessed, this too will appear on a T-shirt. 

Sales have been so astronomical I am having difficulty fitting my already-oversized head into my car and passing through the doorways of my house which was built in the late 40's and not very accommodating to a  nouveau-wealthy and self satisfied Custom Swag Tycoon.  

Moreover I've had to take some crash courses in Excel in order to keep up with the flood of incoming orders and the bookkeeping, which is all Greek to me, despite coming from a family of CPAs.

And now, the obligatory (though hardly necessary) call to action. 

If I can decipher Bonfire's complimentary Promo Code widget, I will add it to the end of this post. But since many of you are employed (or were employed) in the creative arts, I will give the next 5 buyers and exclusive opportunity to write and/or design their own T-shirt to be added to The Trash Trump Treasure Chest.

Not to get too far out ovcer my stips, but this is nothing less than your chance for immortality!

What are you waiting for? 

----------------------------------------------

The code for you frugal buyers is Unleash25. Have at it.

 

Bowling for Joy

 

This is Morton Gould. I'm going to go out on a limb and suggest that 99% of you don't know about this Austrian American musician, who as a young little Jewish boy from Flushing, Queens, where I spent my childhood, composed his first piece at only 6 years old.

How did I come across Mr. Gould, one might ask. Oddly enough at the July 4th Earth Wind & Fire concert at the Hollywood Bowl.

I love going to the Bowl and I hate going to the Bowl. As anyone who knows the crowded contours of Los Angeles knows, getting there and leaving there is akin to the Bataan Death March. Only more stressful. And while nothing competes with sitting in this incredible amphitheater with 15,000 of your fellow Angelenos, I always want to be sure, as my old boss at Dollar Shave Club would say, "the juice has to be worth the squeeze."

On this night it was. Because this was no normal concert.

To begin with, the warm up band for Earth, Wind & Fire was the LA Philharmonic. You read that right. About as congruent as Hellman's Mayonnaise on 50/50 pastrami from Katz's delicatessen. 

The soft-spoken conductor took the stage, and though it was well rehearsed, he proceeded to give a little lecture to the excited audience of Boomers and older than Boomers.

He introduced a piece written by Mort Gould, who he clearly admired, for his ability to combine music from all different cultures. A thoughtful theme, considering the dangerous and divisive times we live in. They played some distinctive American music and urged the crowd to join in a touching singalong of America the Beautiful.  

Even an old curmudgeon like myself was moved. Though I'm not sure the Almighty "crowned thy good with brotherhood." That seems a little hollow these days. 

After 30 minutes he brought out EWF. And while some of the Phil left the stage, many stayed. And yes, they backed up the band. And what a funky combination that made. It was incredible to see, and feel, such amazing musicianship, from everyone on that stage.

15,000 people (don't quote me on that number, but it was packed) were smiling from earlobe to earlobe and singing along to every song. The bowl was brimming with joy. Some leaked over and spilt onto Barham Blvd. And possibly North Hollywood. And there were hundreds dancing, arthritic creaky joints be damned, almost the entire time.

YEOW!!!

It's safe to say that Mort Gould, you know you want to find out more about him, would have been quite happy with what was once of the best concerts either I or Ms. Muse had ever been to.

Put another way, "The juice was well worth the squeeze."

He Hates All of Us

Last week, the Commander in Chief, The President of these UniRED States, the man who took an oath to uphold the Constitution for all Americans said, and I quote, "I HATE Democrats. I hate all of them."

That's shocking, but hardly surprising. He derides and denigrates anyone who doesn't agree with him. And, more importantly, demonstrates fealty to his self-delusional monarchy. 

It's only noteworthy because he said it out loud. But here's a newsflash for the folks on the other side of the wide aisle that separates us: He hates you too. He may not say it, but his virulent behavior has provided ample evidence.

Take the tragic floods last week that took the lives of more than 100 people, 30 of them children, in deep red Texas. Did he fire up Air Force One and make an immediate trip to the devastated area? Did he comfort grieving families? Did he hug the parents, whose lives have been inextricably altered for the worse?

I'll save you the trouble of Googling the answer or searching for the compassionate photos, he did not. 

He, again the President of the UniRed States dug into one of his treasured boxes, you know the ones that boxes that store Classified Documents and his favorite golf shirt with Expandex 3000 --"for the man who's never met a Happy Meal that didn't make him happy." As well as some his self-branded golf socks. His name is embroidered on all the socks, in case he suffers a bout of dementia on the back nine and forgets he's the hugest asshole on Planet Earth.

And then he hit the links. 

Give the guy a break, right? Who wouldn't be out there for a wonderful walk in the woods when the TV, even Fox News, is blaring such sad news. And not only counting the mangled corpses -- he doesn't care about that -- but also pointing fingers in the direction of Governor Abbott, Senator Cruz, DOGE, Elon Musk and ultimately the orange hellbeast himself.

It might be understandable, in the most despicable way, if he were shunning Californians or New Yorkers coping with such a tragedy, but these were his cultists...er, people. 

To sum up his cavalier attitude which also included a political potshot at President Biden, it's was and I'm paraphrasing here, "I don't care." 

Or with more emphasis, "I don't fucking care."

In the same way he didn't fucking care about honoring the four fallen soldiers who were arriving in DC.

The same way he skipped a Veterans Day ceremony to commemorate the "Suckers" and "Losers"...er, soldiers who died on the beaches of northwest France in 1944.

He is contemptible in every sense of the word.

And it's time you Red Hats, even you gun loving, Bible-thumping,  nice white "Christians", read the writing on the wall. He's happy to take your political contributions, sell you shabby Chinese-made sneakers and diapers and Trump-branded petroleum based fragrances, and just recently all manner of macabre merch for Alligator Alcatrez. But he disdains you, your gullibility, and your far-from-billionaire status.

If your last name isn't Trump, he hates you. Maybe just a shade less than he hates me. 

 

In further praise of Costco

The following is a scientific research study. 

Make no mistake, it is not backed by any data. Even fake data. It is purely anecdotal. And has less validation than the recently debunked Lancet, New England Journal of Medicine and even the AMA, which Robert F. Kennedy said was driven by propaganda and political agendas. The fact that he and his grandchildren swim in sewage waters should not diminish his credibility one bit. 

Particularly when it comes to health related issues.

Less than two weeks ago, Ms. Muse and I visited the Costco in Alhambra. I know I shouldn't be treading on my friend Jeff Gelberg's esteemed blog rotationandbalance.blogspot.com, where he has written no less than 4 posts about Costco. Nevertheless that's where I'm treading. 

For purely journalistic purposes and so there is no reader confusion, let's refer to the Alhambra Costco as Tower of Babel II. If you were to stroll in there on a Sunday afternoon, assuming you were able to find a parking a spot within a 1/2 mile to the entrance, you would be treated to a cultural experience unlike any other. 

For starters you would find yourself in close contact with about 2.7 million Angelenos all stuffed into a warehouse size store roughly the same size as the former TBWA Chiat/Day headquarters in Playa Vista. Second you will hear no less than 18 different languages. Maybe 17 now that Gestapo-like ICE agents have begun sweeping up anyone who even looks Hispanic. And with my darkening swarthy olive skin and excessive exposure to the sun, that might even include me. 

Finally, every ten yards or so you'll come across someone peddling free samples. With the intention of getting their product into your shopping cart. And they're very persuasive. Mostly it seems they're pimping something kombucha-related: kombucha tea, kombucha soup, kombucha floor wax, even kombucha shaving cream. 

I pride myself on my adventurous palate and steel lined stomach. But I have had an aversion to anything kombucha adjacent since 1983, when my partner and I discovered a bottle of something kombucha, deep in the shelving units of the old Needham Harper & Steers mailroom. We opened the bottle which looked like decades old sewer water and dared to sniff it. Like so many things I don't get, my daughters love the stuff.

This past weekend, the long one, we found ourselves at the Costco in Palm Springs. More accurately in Palm Desert. And just so I offend everyone equal-handedly, let's refer to it as Rainbow Costco. 

It might have something to do with the 113 degree heat, but it was practically empty in there. And the sparse crowds made it seem like the warehouse was twice as big. Maybe thrice. This, not surprisingly, made it more conducive to traversing every aisle and spending ungodly amounts of money. 

I bought enough Colgate toothpaste to last me til I'm 93 or I'm put in the ground, whichever comes first.

Similarly, I snagged a deal on Pepcid AC in the Mega Pack 3000. If you're a certain age, like me, you know you can never go anywhere without the Pepcid AC. I've come to carry them around in my personal pillbox (along with edibles) and will often offer them to friends as a post meal treat. Like a prepper getting ready for the Apocalypse, I have enough of the chalky stuff to get me through nuclear meltdowns.

Perhaps because I have a marketing background, I couldn't help notice that the Health and Beauty section at Rainbow Costco dwarfed the same department at Tower of Babel II Costco. I also took note that none of the clientele braving the searing desert heat had mondo packages of diapers, potato chips or children's sneakers. Or all three.

It was a fascinating contrast in retail. OK, maybe just fascinating to Ms. Muse and I.

We did sample the $1.50 Hot Dog and soda at both stores. And they were both amazing. Dear Dodger Stadium brass, get your act together and stop charging $7.99 for a limp frankfurter that can't hold a candle, or a bun, up to the Costco Variety Mystery Meat Meal. 

Nooooooo

I did something over the weekend that I never, or at least rarely, do. I punted. I got halfway through a blog piece about prostate exams, a spike in my PSA and a possible need to visit a Urologist. If you can't make with the funny when writing about a Urologist, a man or woman who specializes in penii, then maybe writing should take a back seat to something more productive, like HVAC repair.

Wait, what?

That subject matter warranted the use of the photo above. But the discussion is not to be had. Mostly because  you don't need to know. Moreover, it's boring. It's like people who insist on telling you their airport nightmare stories. When and if I get to that, I certainly would appreciate someone getting on the blower (Thank you fellow altacaca, George Tannenbaum) and saying, "Time to put away the keyboard and sip on your pureed lasagna."

The other reason for delving no further -- pardon the imagery -- is because topics and conversation like these are all too frequent indications of age. And not in a good way.

Go to a dinner party attended by 60+ year olds and it will take roughly 35-37 minutes before the talk turns to:

"I can't sleep anymore."

"My toe, the second from the small end, is giving me problems."

"I had this awful constipation and then, I didn't. And still don't. Excuse me..."

It's a lot different than the conversations we all had in our 20's and 30's, which were more like...actually, I can't remember what those were like, but I know none of them included lines like, 

"I have a guy at Cedars Sinai, a great Proctologist, that you should call."

In the end -- again I apologize for the involuntary imagery and my 14 year old juvenile nature -- the last thing you needed from me on a Monday morning is a detailed description of my prostate gland and its behemoth proportions. So, you're welcome.

I didn't go there. And because of the positive results of my recent blood tests, I also don't have to go to the Urologist. Which is good news for me. And even better news for my 9 loyal readers. I haven't forgotten you T3.

Sign the Bill

Prepare to experience some cognitive dissonance.

It might come as a surprise to you that someone like me, who has been vociferously opposed to Captain Ouchie Foot aka Precedent Shitgibbon aka Colonel Fuckknuckle, aka a hundred other nicknames I've coined over the last tragic 11 years of his ubiquitous and noxious presence, that I support the Big Beautiful Bill.

But I do. 

You might think it has to do with my finances. I certainly stand to gain from some of the new proposals. Including the elimination of federal and state taxes taken on my monthly Social Security checks. Have I not paid Uncle Sam enough money over these lo 50+ years of steady employment? 

From the time I delivered newspapers via Rockland County's legendary Journal News to the time I delivered annoying, nonstop emails via PayPal's How Can We Abuse and Badger Our Customers CRM Program.

I haven't read the bill, but I'm assuming tax cuts for billionaires will also have a little something for me in the way of a reduction of Capital Gains taxes. Plus a bevy of other white guy goodies by a bill and revised tax code written by white guys exclusively for other white guys.

Just not all of them. Like the ones on the lower rung of the American Caste System.

And here's the real reason why I'm all in on The Big Beautiful Bill. It's not so much of who it will help, but who it will hurt. 

There I said it!

I'm looking at you, pardoned January 6th Insurrectionists. And you, Significantly Uninformed Auto Workers. And you, Sad Trad Wives. And you, Dumb Double Widers. All the folks who ignored this bullying conman who purchased his Get Out of Jail Free Card from his store-bought Supreme Court. And then bought into his republic-busting plan that will drag America back to the 19th century.

You voted against your own interests -- a brighter more enlightened future for you and your kids -- in favor of his interests: unfettered power, obscene wealth-hoarding and the incineration of the Rule of Law.

You did this and should this BBB pass, which it eventually will because you've given Trump the mandate to weaponize every democratic institution in the Grand American Experiment, you will suffer. 

Bigly.

And my Schadenfreude will never soar higher. 

What a Long Strange and Wonderful Trip It's Been

In case you haven't guessed, this is Ms. Muse, aka Sheryl Mee MacPhee. 

Seen here on a remote inlet off the coast of the Guanacoste Peninsula. Had you told me in 1988 that she and I, two very young and platonic colleagues at Bozell Advertising in Santa Monica, would be paddling a double kayak deep in a Costa Rican jungle some 40 years later, I would have said you had just taken some ayahuasca.

But life moves in mysterious ways. As the old Yiddish saying goes, "Man has plans, God laughs."

Of course if you had also said this theological bon mot to me, a confirmed atheist, I would have also said you had just taken some industrial strength ayahuasca.

I'll spare you the mushy details, suffice to say that at the suggestion of a fellow Team One copywriter brimming with Irish wisdom, I ventured onto the dating apps after a deep debilitating dive into grief and depression. To be honest, I didn't know what to expect. In fact I encountered the unexpected. Including seeing an ex wife of a close friend and a former boss, who had a fiery marriage with her husband, also an ex boss.

Word to the wise, married couples, particularly in the stressful restaurant industry, have no business being in business together. 

Then I came across the profile of Ms. Muse. 

It had been 35 plus years and I wasn't exactly sure it was the same young woman from Bozell. Brutal confession, I didn't even remember her name. But she responded the next day. She remembered mine. And my job. And my former hairline.  

Like other digital meetings she started asking the usual "interviewing" questions. If you've been on these dating apps you are familiar with this. As well as photo's of bare-chested men holding up fish they caught at Lake Cachuma. 

I didn't see a need for all that since Sheryl and I knew each other in a previous life and suggested we meet in person for a drink and possibly dinner. 

That dinner, at Foothill Restaurant, in Pasadena happened 3 years ago today. The smiling, the laughing, the cajoling happened instantly. Aided in no small part by our waitress Connie, who was given the skinny by Ms. Muse the minute we got there. Their conspiratorial joshing and teasing actually put me at ease and made the night special. Not to mention memorable. And did wonders to cover up the fact that my clothes were all 2 sizes too big.

That was 3 years ago. Since then, we have been to Antigua, Alaska and Costa Rica. And the laughing, smiling, cajoling and the loving has only grown and gotten better. 

That is until she sees this post and a photo that I did not grant her first right of refusal. 

Open For Business

It's here. Finally the news you've all been waiting for. 

OK, some of you have been waiting for. Let's be honest, no one has been waiting for this, but I did it anyway. And like the publishing of my own books, 4 at last count, which nobody bothered to purchase, I don't expect this venture to make any money. Or defer my eventual trip to a dirty nursing home.

But hey, let's concentrate on the good stuff.

If you'll recall my post last Thursday was about my staggering inability to put together an online store in order to sell my fabulously popular anti-Trump T-shirts. The folks at CafePress made it easy to put together the Chinese-made sartorial splendor. But their American cohorts in the UX and UI departments made it impossible to figure out the mechanics of merchandising. 

And so I delayed. And bitched. And moaned.

Then last Friday, ex-Chiat legend Rick Boyko posted on Facebook that he had made his anti-Trump T-shirts available through a different platform -- Bonfire. I'll provide his link on this post later. 

It was as if Yahweh, the Almighty Lord himself, the Host of Hosts, were sending me divine assistance. And so I fired up a pot of my new Costa Rican coffee, logged into my new account at Bonfire and started plugging away. I had to retool some of my old designs since I was using an image of Captain Ouchie Foot's hair deck that I had Shanghaied from Shutterstock. 

So I created my own. And started building.

The process was simple, intuitive and, if I may, inspiring. So much so that I popped a couple of edibles and cranked out some new lines and designs. It wasn't until I put up the third T-shirt design that I realized I could forward the profit(s) --if there are any -- to the charity of my choice. 

I didn't have to think long and hard about that at all. When I do my walks in Culver City I always pass by the Village Well Bookstore at the corner of Culver & Duquesne. Without fail there are a bunch of crunchy kids there, fundraising for their crunchy causes: Amnesty International, Sierra Club, the ACLU and such. Because these kids can see and read my snarky, and sometimes vitriolic, T-shirts, they always think I'm going to be easy prey for the pitch. 

That, and they want to pet my dog Lucy. 

Truth is, I prefer to make my monetary donations to St. Jude's Children Hospital, which is not political in nature, and in my mind does more important work. 

Nevertheless, I decided on the ACLU, which I believe was founded by a bunch New Yorkers with distinctive Hebraic Seasonings, and does their diligence in the objective furtherance of justice. For both the left and the right. That's also important.

I hope you'll visit the site and have your credit card or PayPal (sing it Will Ferrell) ready and unleash your rage on the Worst. President. Ever. And more accurately, the Worst. "Human". Ever.

Visit Rick Boyko's store at: https://www.bonfire.com/no-dick-tators/

And head to the Trash Trump Treasure Chest at: https://www.bonfire.com/store/the-trash-trump-treasure-chest/

Where you'll find these new additions among others...

T-Shirt Derangement Syndrome

As my five or ten thousand friends and/or followers on Facebook know, there are days when I can go off on a tear of anti-Trump memes. Some have accused me of having the notorious TDS. 

That is ironic because if anything is deranged it would be supporting a man who declares war on another country based on gut feelings. Or claims to be a Dictator on Day One of his presidency. Or tells weird, winding stories about electric boats, man eating sharks and Hannibal Lecter. The list of his derangements could fill this page and a thousand others, but yeah, "They're eating the dogs, They're eating the cats, they're eating the pets of the people who live there."

Spare me the accusations of being deranged.

The other misconception is that I sit behind my computer and create these memes, and nothing but these memes, all day long. Nothing could be further from the truth. 

The reality is my prolific meme-making is a remnant of my former career as an advertising copywriter. Some might even say a good one. 

The process is strikingly similar. I'm presented with a brief, in this case, it doesn't come from some pretentious British blowhard, but from the News, CNN/MSNBC/NY Times, or closer to the truth, from videos of Captain Ouchie Foot speaking directly into a camera. 

He loves TV cameras. And those all-important ratings.

I stew on the situation. Let it rattle around in my oversized noggin which reduces the neck collar on every one of my T-shirts to a limp strip of bacon. And then, throughout the course of the day, lightning (OK, that may be hyperbolic) strikes and make with the funny. And sometimes not so funny. I rarely have control of the situation, It just happens and as long as my axons and dendrites are still functional, I will nurture the process.

Yesterday it manifested itself into a spoof of President George Bush -- another stable genius -- similarly prematurely claiming Mission Accomplished back in the halcyon days of 2003. Hence, I turned it into a T-shirt, which I will soon be wearing while taking my afternoon constitutional around Culver City.

I say this with as much modesty as I can muster, but people love these T-shirts. Whether I'm in CC or walking around Sierra Madre. Or attending the latest anti-Trump protest, including the last one that brought out 12 million equally "deranged" Americans. Folks stop me. They want pictures. They want to know where they can buy one.

I'd like to help them, but I can't. 

I make these shirts (for myself) on CafePress. There's a way to set up my own store on CafePress and even create a widget that I could attach to this very blog. But to say the process is confusing is an understatement. I like to think of myself as tech savvy, ish, but can't get past their "cleugy" interface. Even Ms. Muse, who is much more skilled with the 0's and 1's, couldn't make it work.

Who wants to come to my humble home and help? There's a bunch of free T-shirts in it for you. Including this new design...

The War on Melanin

Right now, as you are reading this, there is a 50+ year old man, let's call him Gabriel from Guatemala, who is hard at work refinishing my butcher block island counter in the kitchen. In hindsight, the counter should have been quartz or soapstone, but we ran out of money while doing the remodel close to 30 years ago.

Gabriel is one of the hardest working men I have ever met. The other day we had a complete conversation. He in his Half Spanish/Half English dialect and me in my Half English/Half Spanish intonations. 

The online Spanish classes I have been taking are already paying benefits. Though last week while at a local Peruvian restaurant I errantly ordered a shoe with red sauce and cheese.

He told me of his trek the USA, his father's drinking issues, his continual need to renew his working visa and most of all the travails involved in obtaining citizenship. Now, with Trump and his Red Hat brigade of Gazpacho Police it is impossible for him to travel to Guatemala to see his family of origin.

I'm no stranger to the citizenship bureaucracy as I am currently seeking dual legal status in the UK. It is a Gordian Knot of processes, paperwork, extraneous fees and waiting and waiting and waiting. 

If it's confusing for me, who is admittedly not the "smartest bulb in the package" (if I may borrow a phrase coined by our stable genius bomb dropping MFOTUS), imagine how difficult it must be for Gabriel, who often works two gigs in a day.

Gabriel mentioned how careful he must be as of late, with masked unidentified Proud Boys literally roaming the streets of Los Angeles and hauling off men bearing a trace of melanin. This potentially includes my nephew, who was adopted by my sister-in-law and her husband, while he was an infant. This young man is one of the brightest, kindest teenagers you will ever meet and has more humanity and potential than any of the lily white trash canvassing our city and playing GI Joe Douchebag. 

If my blood was boiling before it's now at temperatures only available on the surface of the sun or deep in the lava pools of a volcano ready to erupt. 

It bubbles up higher when chatting -- arguing -- with a know-nothing Red Hat who claims they can come to our country if they do it legally. Oh, like the caucasian crybabies from South Africa who got the red carpet treatment from President Fuckknuckle?

Also, I love the term "our country." 

Do these clueless 2nd Amendment Fetishists need to be reminded, it wasn't our country until some white privileged disgruntled 17th century seafarers stepped ashore, planted a flag and announced, "This is Mine Now!"

Followed by a wave of European immigrants (again very white and including my own) who, in order to become an American, had to take a shower to be de-liced, recite the Pledge of Allegiance, sign an X on a piece of paper and were handed a citizenship card which decades later turned into a MAGA hat.

We are no longer the "Bright Shining City on a Hill." 

We have become a "Shabby Strip Mall of Ignorant Conspicuous Consumers Ready to Clobber or Deport Any Person of Color Who Threatens to Take The Last 75 Inch Flat Screen TV On the Shelf."

We should all be ashamed.

  

Costcoooooooo

If you've never been to a CostCo, you don't know what you're missing. If you've never been to the Costco in Alhambra, you haven't been to a real CostCo.

Imagine stepping into the Tower of Babel and hearing 98% of all the languages spoken on Planet Earth. Then imagine you are surrounded by miles of aisles stocked with the usual 5 gallon bottle of Kirkland Vodka (which surprisingly tastes no different than Ketel One), 25 lbs. jugs of mayonnaise and two separate aisles devoted to Kombucha and Kombucha-adjacent beverages and hair care products.

Yesterday I spoke of my father's day gifts and how it was difficult to buy me a present because of my fortunate position to get what I want when I see it. I could have that 3 foot diameter wheel of Sharp Cheddar, another fine Kirkland product, but something else caught my eye.

Standing in the middle of all this conspicuous consumption was a guy named Sam who pitching something that looked like a cross between a Sleep Number Bed and a a pod that Sigourney Weaver strapped herself into to escape the Alien. I'm referring to the first Alien movie, not the 23 sequels and Alien Breakfast Cereal that followed.

While Sam was delivering his pitch to a young Hispanic man, I stealthily crawled into one of the open pods.

For your amusement, Ms. Muse snapped a shot of me while I was entering deep tissue massage nirvana. To wit...

 In hindsight we should have also captured a wider shot to show off the shiny chocolate brown shell, made of the unrecyclable fiberglass....well, whatever they make fiberglass from.

As Sam finished up his well-rehearsed pitch to the young man whose wife was pulling him away so they could score a deal on a bale of disposable diapers, he turned to me. And my hard-to-disguise O-face as the compression sleeves redistributed the blood in my veins and the swirly nubs made tsunami waves up and down my spine.

Make no mistake a 10 minute massage in the PodMaster 9000 is nothing like laying on a table in Antigua or Costa Rica and having an attractive young woman running her silky smooth, generously oiled hands over all my nooks and crannies. But damn that machine was to die for.

And when Sam showed me the 5 digit price tag for this puppy, I almost did. 

Happy Daddy

I am a hard person to buy gifts for. I've heard this for years. And apparently many other dads have heard the same thing. 

It's not that I don't have my interests: cycling, swimming, weightlifting, gardening, bourbon and barking dog silencing gadgets. It's just that I am of a certain age of non-delayed satisfaction. That is, if I want something I usually go out and buy it for myself with little or no hesitation. 

Going out is a misnomer. Why go out when I can, like some sort of King, order it from my desktop and have it brought to my doorstep by Amazon Prime.

This What-Should-We-Get-Dad for his Birthday or Father's Day or Hanukkah has plagued my daughters for years.  And quite possibly your children as well. 

But this year they outdid themselves. 

Having returned from a magical vacation with Ms. Muse and bludgeoning my daughter's ears with stories about the magnificence of Costa Rican coffee, you can imagine how happy I was to get this...

Four pounds of primo beans from the land greedy developers and over-builders forgot. If you haven't tasted coffee harvested from the "region of high, sharp peaked mountains where crops ripen evenly and produce a clean acidity and rich full bodied coffee", well then you just haven't had a great cup of Jose yet.

The astute among you may have also noticed the hand painted coffee mug, featuring Abby's rendition my dog Lucy. It's pretty damn close, but truth be told one of her ears is always standing up.

But wait there's more.

Since shedding a ton of weight -- I use that phrase figuratively -- my wearable wardrobe has significantly decreased. My closet is sparser than the bookshelves at Mara Lago, assuming they have any. 

When my uncle passed away in 2020, he left behind a bunch of clothes that were way too small for me. I disposed of most of them but held on to his very comfortable Eddie Bauer flannel shirts. In fact, one of them -- a Medium, no less -- has become my official MOSL (Man of Semi Leisure Everyday Shirt.)

You can imagine how delighted I was when, after a thorough search of Ebay and Etsy or both, I was gifted a second, identical shirt by my thoughtful kids.

A man can have everything, but never enough Eddie Bauer soft flannel long sleeve shirts.

I'm wearing it right now as I type this. 

But to be honest, I don't know which one!

Wednesday Walkabout Photos

As some of you might know, I have reduced my semi-prodigious output on this blog -- now in its 16th inglorious year of daily postings -- from 4 days a week to a manageable 3. This in accordance with my newfound status as an MOSL, a Man Of Semi Leisure.

Sadly, that meant excising the very popular Thursday Photo Funnies. Replaced by, well you know from the title of today's post. 

With my new Titanium hip in place and functioning at 98% levels (I'm choosing to ignore the creaking noise) I have been happily out and about. Last weekend for example, I managed an easy 10,000 steps. Fueled  in part by adrenaline and my searing hatred for our Merkin-Sporting Dictator. 

OK, preamble over, let's get to the photos and the pithy explanatory captions. 

Including the shot above of Habanero Salsa (I love spicy foods) and the refried black beans. Both purchased at La Flama, after a night of dining on Himalayan Food with my friends Paul and Deanna. 

"Best Black Beans you've ever tasted," says Paul. 

And I agree.

One of my favorite signs seen at the No Kings Protest.

Damn, it was good to be in the company of critical thinkers.

Here's Ms. Muse and friends sticking it to the man 

on the wild streets of downtown Pasadena.

The final repairs have been made to this (???). 

It fronts an apartment building on Culver Blvd.

With water spouting from the marlin's mouth, 

it is the height of 1960's Kitsch.

The recently bombed fertility clinic in Palm Springs.

Compliments of another Right Wing loony, 

who roam too many of our streets.

And what's a night out in PS 

without a visit to Showtunes Night at Quadz. 

A new cultural experience for me and Ms. Muse and her cousins.

Way, way east of PS, we biked by this new

development -- a massive 600 acre community, 

compliments of Mickey.

Is that the Pope?

Right here in Ventura?

No, but awfully close.

This was captured

on my home security camera about midnight.

My snarling (sound on) Trumpster neighbor and his gnarly barking dog, 

taking issue with the upside down flag hanging off

my front porch. What did I say

about Right Wing Loonies?