Merry Christmas Captain Ouchie Foot

I have a strained relationship with Christmas. For years, it felt like it belonged to someone else. Not unusual for a man with Hebraic Seasonings. 

In Suffern, NY, where I grew up in the 70's, you'd be hard pressed to find the necessary Jews for a minion. And being an outsider at this the "most wonderful time of the year", was often demoralizing.

Fortunately we had neighbors who would have us over on Christmas Eve to take the sting out of the occasion. In retrospect I believe the parents gathered all the kids downstairs, and locked the doggie door, so they could enjoy rum-fueled eggnog, upstairs, in relative peace.

As a child, my mother, being of the Presbyterian or Episcopalian denomination -- I can never remember -- did celebrate Christmas. 

In Paisley, Scotland. 

Though I doubt it resembled any kind of yuletide celebration you might be familiar with. Her family was piss poor. Literally, as my grandfather, an abusive man given to too many drams of whiskey, was gainfully employed as "toilet cleaner." (This is from my cousin Robert, who lives in Wales.)

I suspect the only gift giving involved a large bottle of vinegar for the fish & chips. 

The festive meal was probably followed by the family, my mother was one of 7 kids, around the fireplace. And by fireplace, I mean that one heating vent that worked in her downscale row home.

Suffice to say, we were never regaled with stories of Christmases past. Or even the time my overserved grandfather mistook a living room chair for the loo. 

And because me mum converted, joining the tribe with the world's dreariest holidays, we never did Christmas.

This year is different. 

As you can see from the Santa that adorns my house, I have embraced the Christmas spirit. I am determined to bring some Joy To the World. And if you zoom in a little tighter you'll see Old Nick is wearing one of my custom made T-shirts, which BTW, make excellent gifts for friends and family. 

You can find them all at the appropriately named Trash Trump Treasure Chest.

Can I add that getting inflatable Temu Santa into the T-shirt and securing the fit was no small feat. Moreover I had to attach it the house by stepping out onto my patio roof, which always brings out the concerned neighbors across the street..."Rich, you shouldn't be out there, please don't fall, I'm bingeing Below Deck and don't want to have to call an ambulance."

I've already caught flack from my youngest eye-rolling daughter, who texted: "Did we have to do that?" 

"We?," I thought. She lives 3000 miles away in Brooklyn. 

Moreover, perhaps she didn't realize that as her father I was given the responsibility to embarrass her. And it's a lifetime assignment.

Additionally, you'd think after 28 years she'd know her father is legitimately crazy. And, be more sympathetic to his raging TDS.

"The Brown Bear has Escaped from the South Gate"

In the close to 17 years I have been writing, maybe 'posting' is a better word because one would be hard-pressed to find any legitimate "writing" on these digital pages, I have only established 1 tradition.

Oh there have been series: Thursday Photo Funnies, Illuminati reverse scamming, my ill-fated Drunken Haiku, People Who Need to Die, Four Days of Taco Hell, Adventures in Russian Online dating, my equally obnoxious correspondence with Asian mail order brides, Trump Takedowns, and so much more.

But never a legitimate tradition.

That is until I stumbled upon this holiday favorite -- The Caganer.

Since discovering this weird and wonderful Christmas tradition that puts a smile on residents of Catalan in northern Spain, I have committed one December post to this pooping phenomena every year. I'm sure Carl Jung or Dr. Freud would have something to say about that. 

But my blog, my log.

For those who are new to this, way back in 2012, I was freelancing and hired to do a Christmas Sales Event for Acura automobiles. Lexus had already tied up the red bow on a car schtick, so I was looking for something different. Something that would step over that very low creative bar.

So I rolled up my sleeves, put on my visor, and started sniffing around the internet. You can imagine my delight when I unearthed the legend of The Caganer, who makes an annual (word chosen intentionally) appearance wherever there is a display of the Nativity scene. 

The elders explain, "the Caganer (pooper) is usually a man, or woman, of no standing. And so he stands outside the manger. He proceeds to cop a squat, as it were, at the birthing scene of our Lord and Saviour, to fertilize the land and bring about a bountiful harvest for the coming spring."

You may think I made this up but, pardon the phrase, I shit you not. And I have the receipts.

A Caganer shop in Barcelona.

A 25 foot high Caganer at a local Spanish mall.

And of course a Donald Trump Caganer, 

though it's my understanding he doesn't need 

to pull down his pants and simply evacuates himself into a diaper.

Or a microphone.

The Trump Caganer is only about 5 inches tall. If it were larger and more visible I'd be tempted to whip out the checkbook. OK, my Venmo app.

You see, I have a neighbor two doors down who also has a tradition. In addition to flying his American flag on a pole that would be better suited for a post office or the Pentagon, he puts out a mammoth
Christmas display, including a 6 foot high faux Bible and a lifesize Nativity Scene.

Under the dark of night I could place the Trump Caganer among the other figurines and nobody would notice. Unless he has a Ring Camera, like so many of us do, in which case, I might get a knock on my door from Johnny Law.

"Sir, we'd like to speak to you about your neighbor's Nativity Scene. Do you have a 14 year old son or grandson?"

 

Grand Slams, Super Birds and Miami Moons

Last week, CNY, the official news source for all of Central New York, announced that Denny's, the ubiquitous "diner" and home of the 1750 calorie breakfast, was closing down. I use air-quotes around the word diner because they're really not in the same league as real diners, as seen every half mile on Route 17 in New Jersey.

The news hit hard for me. As I spent my late teens slinging hash -- literally -- in the tiny galley kitchen of the Carrier Circle Denny's in DeWitt, just east of downtown Syracuse. 

It was here that I learned how to break an egg with one hand, flip omelets, and acquire the delicate rhythm it took to run the wheel and excel as a short order cook. 

I can't dance, though Ms. Muse suggests otherwise, but I can throw down a mean breakfast(s) and still do.

The Carrier Circle Denny's was also where my college roommate Dave and I got acquainted with the local townfolk. And when I say townfolk, I mean waitresses. And when I say waitresses, I mean upstate women who were in no way like the ones downstate in NYC. And more importantly, nothing like the spoiled, entitled princesses that populated Syracuse University.

Perhaps I've smeared too much vaseline on the memory ball, but those were the halcyon days. 

Unscathed by roiling family dynamics 300 miles away. Unburdened by pressing deadlines for book reports or the solving of unintelligible word problems from the Calculus professor. And frankly, unconcerned about anything happening tomorrow in favor of celebrating the mischievous opportunities that presented themselves that day.  

The dimming of the lights at Denny's, where, make no mistake we worked our asses off, has made me melancholy.

Of course, I'd be remiss if I didn't share one war story of our time at the Dewitt Denny's just off the NY State Thruway, and often unrecognizable due to the 12 foot high drifts of lake effect snow.

Every week or so, the walk in refrigerators would be restocked with fresh produce and goods. With the quick turnaround and the truckload of hungry truckers making a pit stop there, the shelves would be emptied faster than an 18 wheeler jack-knifing on black ice. 

Not surprisingly, Dave and I were always on the lookout for the fresh cases of whip cream.

Some of you are jumping ahead. 

Dave and I didn't learn much at SU, but we did find out that the cans of whip cream were propelled by nitrous oxide, the same nitrous oxide that dentists colloquially refer to as laughing gas. When Mr. Z, the clueless assistant manager went out for a smoke break in the 13 degree weather, we would take our break in the cooler. And much the way Tom Brady would relieve his footballs of excess air, we would manipulate the nozzle of the whip creams cans and extract all the nitrous oxide our young lungs could handle.

Later, when Cletus, the long hauler from Tennessee would order his apple pie, the waitress would attempt to top it off with a dollop of Reddi Whip. More often than not, it came out more like Reddi Drip.

Ah, misspent youth.

RIP Dennys.

A shanda

I'm going to assume that if you're reading this blog you have some innate interest in the advertising world. The industry that put a roof over my head, fed my family and for a short while, enabled me to  own and drive a Jaguar, albeit their shittiest model which was nothing more than a glorified and fancied Ford Mundano, or some other fakakta name I could not forget fast enough.

Advertising also provided me with a lifesaving escape from the world of Chartered Accountancy (that's what the Brits call it) and begrudgingly following in the footsteps of the many CPAs in the Siegel family, including my father, my uncle and my brother.

Mind you there's nothing wrong with Accountancy, it just wasn't for me. 

A roundabout segue to the issue on the everyone's tongue: the mammoth merger between Omnicom and IPG. An amalgamation that has no one in the ad business buzzing, with the exception of the accountants and the shareholders.

The digital ink hadn't been been given time to dry before the bean counters took their well-honed machetes to the org charts of BBDO, Chiat/Day, Mullen, and so many more. It took them less than 48 hours to announce the termination of 4000 employees!

And they did it 3 weeks before Christmas. 

And less than 2 weeks before Chanukah, the Miracle of Lights when the oil that was only sufficient for two days lasted an entire eight. Now it will take a similar miracle to extend the family savings account.

Remember when Trump said because of the current belt tightening --for everyone else but the oligarchs -- "kids who would normally get 5 dolls would have to get by with 1 or 2." 

For the redundant ex Omnicomers, those numbers have been revised to NONE.

All this from a business that demands unprecedented and unpaid commitment. And expects employees to go the extra mile. Work around the clock, sacrifice vacations, miss birthdays and school plays, and do whatever it takes to get that 78 X 392 banner ad or that incredibly disposable email blast just right.

If that hypocrisy weren't enough, consider this...

I can't begin to tell you how many meetings I've sat through where planners, strategists, creative directors and most importantly, zealous CEO's would lecture clients about the Promise of the Brand. The Power of the Brand. And the Magic of the Brand.

Indeed, the "Brand" was the crowbar used to open the box of money that would support the best efforts of the ad agency, be it JWT, McCann Erikson, Ogilvy, ad infinitum. 

And now with one fell swoop of a Montblanc Pen, all those agencies, which for more than a century claimed to have built their own Brand, have been consigned to dustbin of history. A history that only seems to matter to handful of geezers -- like you and me.

Trumpism, with all its false, loud bravado, apathy and cavalier greed, has staked a shameful claim on Madison Ave.

Quiet Peggy.

Not all dumb people are Trumpsters, but all Trumpsters are dumb people. Indubitably. And it's not by chance. His entire administration is geared that way. In fact, I would argue it's carefully curated that way.

In other words, that's their communications strategy.

On the stump he famously said "he loves the uneducated." And one look at his rallies, his Red Golf Cap collectors. Or even a few episodes of The Daily Show where intrepid Jordan Klepper courageously goes out to interview the uninformed masses, it's not only clear that he loves them, they love him. To the point of embarrassing themselves in ways that defy disbelief.

And therein lies the magic of 77 million _________ (I'm running out of ways to describe them) Americans pulling the lever for him.

Allow me to back up a bit. 

I've been watching Season 3 of The Diplomat. And without giving away too many spoilers, it's a fascinating look at the transition from one presidential administration to the next. It has shades of the West Wing. And the peak behind the gold curtains at the Oval Office is fascinating. 

Particularly how images and communications are handled and overthought to the most minute detail.

I would posit that the folks pulling the strings behind our MFOTUS, Mother Fucker of the United States of America, are doing the same. They are manipulating us and playing upon our greatest weakness: the mass feeblemindedness that is 100 times more pervasive than Covid ever was.

Case in point: yesterday a US Appeals Court found that Trump's appointment of Alina Babba as a US attorney was invalid. This was the second time her appointment, which passed her interim status date, was upheld by courts.

Do Joe Sixpack and Betty Bag O' Groceries know the details of the Alina Babba issue. They do NOT. I'm willing to bet that 99.9% of Garden State residents who turned their back on left leaning hometown hero Bruce Springsteen, have never heard of Ms. Babba. 

What they will hear, from the bully pulpit, is how the Deep State is undermining the Trump Administration -- the 4th Reich -- and thus Trump is able to exploit this humiliating judicial loss in his favor.

"They haven't just ruled against us, they ruled against us", he will sneer.

And the Trump Machine will have once again turned defeat into an uninformed victory. 

It is a pattern that repeats itself over and over again. 

"He didn't say Quiet Piggy, he said Peggy."

"Grocery prices are lower than they've ever been."

"No one has been tougher on Putin than me."

None of it has to hold up to truth because Americans, some, don't care about truth. Hence the Big, Beautiful Wheel of Mendacity™ keeps rolling on.  

It doesn't take a genius. A Mensa. Or even someone who can ace the Montreal Cognitive Test to see what's happening. Clearly, the folks who are still eternally and dimwittingly loyal to this 79 year old bag of rotting flesh are none of the above.

Vista Chino and beyond

I know this is something I probably shouldn't do, but I will anyway. 

I'm pimping the new CV Link, the Coachella Valley Link Bike Path. And I shouldn't do it because it because the last thing I want to see on this amazing new bike path that winds its way through the Valley, is more bicycle riders.

Like my pools, I like my bike paths uncrowded. Quiet. And un-pestered by the new e-bikes which seem to be spawning like rats on steroids. If I see one more of these teenage boys trying to impress/intimidate me with their wheelies and reckless behavior, I'm going to start carrying a jousting pole on my next ride.

Back to being positive.

The newly paved bike path, far from the pothole-laden streets of gritty Palm Springs, is a ribbon of freshly laid concrete that winds its way from PS all the way to Indio. And if I'm reading the posted maps correctly, will eventually stretch further east into lands and soaring temperatures unknown.

It's rare that any of us, particularly these days, get to sing the praises of "out tax dollars at work" but this public project is proof positive government can occasionally do something good for the people. 

I'm all for helping those in need, though sometimes while passing yet another homeless encampment (in LA) and smelling weed, and tip toeing around the filth and feces, some, in need, could use a good swift kick in the ass. Like many, I've thought to myself, "this is why we can't have nice things." 

But the CV Link is proof we can.

It's still a work in progress. And the orange and blue-marked path has some gaps, but yesterday Ms. Muse and I covered 23 miles, working off some considerable tryptophan and pecan-peppered stuffing overload. 

After our mid day adventure, we hightailed it to a local dispensary. Not one of those fancy fern-adorned glass and concrete places that look like it belongs on Rodeo Drive, but a tiny bodega-turned-cannabis shop that felt like it belonged on 42nd street, circa 1979. 

I snapped a pic of one of their Point of Sale Table Toppers that made me giggle.

Did I mention I manage a short term rental in lovely Palme Springs? 

Contact me for details. You'll thank me later.

OK, here are some more carefully-curated photos from the aforementioned CV Link, including yours truly in lycra (my apologies)...

Thank you for attention to this matter.

 

Barrel scrapings

It's a short week here at RoundSeventeen Headquarters. With the Thanksgiving holiday approaching there's much to be done before that first cut into the roasted turkey is made down the bone that separates the two breasts from the sternum. 

Actually, I'm not sure of the proper nomenclature for poultry bones, however I do remember the proper way, not the Norman Rockwell method as seen in so many hack paintings, to disassemble a bird. I learned it while serving my short lived apprentice-ship as a Sous Chef at Charmer's Market, some 43 years ago. 

I'm thankful for that always useful bit of culinary knowledge that has served me well over the years.

I could launch into a sappy holiday monologue of all the things I'm also grateful for. But that would be off-brand for me. And for Roundseventeen. Instead I'll share with you some of the things I am most ungrateful for. 

And if you've been paying attention, you already know what what's coming...

Pam Bondi -- Bleach Blond Bondi, if you'll recollect, was selected for the cabinet only after the previous candidate, another of Florida's best and brightest, Matt Gaetz was forced to withdraw his nomination Attorney General. For pedophilia, of all things. What a coincidence, because our Dear Pammy is on the hot seat for trying to flush a truckload of Epstein Files down the golden Trump toilet. I don't know what it takes to pass the bar exam in Florida, but I suspect it's easier than those open book driver's license renewal tests given at The Villages Retirement Home north of Orlando.

Tulsi Gabbard -- Natasha Skunkhair has been sidelined by the Trump administration. And perhaps fittingly exiled off to the Siberian end of the cabinet table. She made the mistake of divulging some findings based on the results of gathered intelligence which contradicted the non-stop verbal diarrhea that spews from the President's mouth. Put another way, the current Director of National Intelligence has no active role in an administration that goes out of its way to be intelligence-free.

Pete Hegseth -- Our Secretary of War. We used to have a Secretary of Defense, but that title was deemed too passive. Only pussies play defense.  We're not pussies, and we have the massive budget-sucking weapons industries and track record of failed military adventurism to prove it, so says Pistol Pete. "USA, USA, USA!!!" 

Some lunkheads peak too early in life, often in high school where they throw their weight around and take command of a smelly locker room with wet towel snaps while roaring like underdeveloped apes. Pete beat those guys to the punch when at a tender age, he removed his own feces-filled diaper and stuck to it to his head like an Army helmet. GRRRRRR.

RFK Jr. -- What testosterone and Jack Daniels is to Pete Kegsbreath,  Heroin aka Smack, is to this addle-brained scion of the Kennedy Clan. I once noticed a dead flattened squirrel on the street in front of my house. It had begun to smell and attracting flies. Rather than wait for animal control to remove the carcass, I put on two pair of rubber gloves and grabbed a spade from my garage. The delicate removal took some considerable time. What I didn't do was put it in the trunk of my car, transport it to my fucked up neighbor's house and deposit it on his yard in retaliation for running his power tools at 3 in the morning. Bobby once came across a bear carcass and went the other direction. This unlistenable toxic schmuck is our Secretary of Health and Human Services.

Kash Patel -- There used to be a television show called The FBI. It aired on Sunday nights. While the rest of America was watching the Wonderful World of Disney, my hardboiled dad and my brother were glued to the adventures of Inspector Lewis played by Efram Zimbalist Jr. He and fellow thespians dutifully read and pretended to be agents of the FBI. There were only actors, role playing on a sound stage in Burbank, CA. But they knew more about the law, and enforcement of the law, than this crazy eyed taint-licking toadie.

You could say Trump did not hire the Best People as he so often claims. You could also say he scraped the bottom of the barrel. You'd be wrong. Trump flipped the aged barrel over, carefully curated the greenish-brownish mold on the bottom side of the mildewy floorboards, scooped it up and hand-molded it into figures that resemble sentient human beings and placed their unworthy asses in seats next to the once sacred levers of power of the United States of America.

Fuck Donald Trump. I would say, "and fuck anyone who voted for and still supports this UnAmerican Hellbeast."

But you might be sharing a turkey or seated across the table from him or her.

Good luck. Happy Thanksgiving America.

A fool for the pool

I did something last week that I had never done before. I swam. And I swam. And I continued to swim. When I had emerged from the pool at the Palm Springs Swim center, I had racked up 66 laps, or 132 twenty five meter lengths. 

I'll spare you a trip to the calculator, that's 3300 meters or 3390 yards. 

In layman's terms that 1.93 miles. 

Am I pissed I didn't do one more lap to cross over the two mile threshold? Damn right I am. My body said Yes, but my bladder said, "If you don't get me to a toilet now, there's a chance the 16 year old lifeguard here will ban you from the pool forever."

There's another reason why I'm pissed. As you can see from the picture, the PS Swim Center is one of the most beautiful municipal facilities in the country. It lies at the foot of San Jacinto, 10,834 feet above sea level. It can often reach three digit temperatures in the valley, where many men, and women, who should be wearing tops, choose not to. And there can be a more visually pleasing blanket of snow at the top. And here's why I'm mad...

For years, my family and I visited my Uncle Cranky Pants, and perhaps because he had a junior pool in his backyard, I never took time to drop in on the PS Swim Center.

Now that I'm in the tenants and toilets business and managing the property as a short term rental, I am out there often. And a regular patron of the pool, which is inordinately patronized by similar bald old men with white beards.

On this recent trip, sans Ms. Muse, where I tended to broken sprinkler heads, Ring cameras with dead batteries and an assortment of other T&T duties, I found myself with some free time. 

I usually commit myself to 1500 meters which runs me just over 31 minutes. But on this occasion, I decided to take advantage of the warm (81 degrees) water, the scarcity of other swimmers, and the dark rainy skies which did not necessitate any sunscreen. 

So I kept going. I gave in to the water. I reveled in the buoyancy. And let myself slip into the music, via my Shokz bone conducting headphones. As any athlete, professional or amateur wannabe, will tell you at some point you pass the point of pain. The dopamine kicks in and nothing else matters.

It was pure bliss.

Well, except for the part of having to piss.
 

And now for something different

Today's post was going to be another edition of my Thursday Photo Funnies, but I shelved that. Not because today isn't Thursday, even in my early stage senility I know that. But I went through my collection of odd photos and came up short.

Seems I've been walking, and snapping pics, less lately due to my nagging sore back which has resulted in mild sciatica. Hint: don't get sciatica.

As a result I've been swimming more. And swimming faster, thanks to some new swimming tips the algorithm has dished up: stretch the reach, rotate the shoulders, maintain a streamline position, glide more and use fewer strokes.

I won't bore you with that.

But in the interest of doing a visually oriented post today I give you: Kelly Eldridge Boesch. A musician, songwriter, and AI artist who manages to create some amazing short music videos that are, in my mind, watch and listen worthy.

The screen grab above reminded me of my friend and former boss John Doyle and his groundbreaking work the original EV. The screen grabs that follow are a mix of steampunk, Dali surrealism and a rare nod to folks in their 60's and 70's who don't look or behave like past generations of 60 and 70 year olds.

You may not like these, I know the AI attribution offends many. I'm not in that camp and have been playing with AI for my own adventures in political satire.

I hope you'll enjoy these:

But wait it gets better. 

Because if you visit her page on Facebook, you'll see each of these are taken from music videos she has assembled. You can see and hear them here: https://www.facebook.com/kelly.boesch/owner_reels

Enjoy.

Tech Dreck

I may be the last blogger/essayist/ bullshitter of all things inconsequential on earth to address, but address it I will: There's too much fucking technology in our life.

Way too much.

I'll also admit to being part of the problem, but not the solution. Let me explain this by example. 

As a self-admitted gadget hound, I was one of the first to jump on board the Nest products of home robotics. I purchased several Nest cameras to place inside and outside my home. As a father interested in protecting my family, I believe this was a responsible investment.

Also, I had hoped to snare my malicious neighbor -- he of the loser variety I mentioned yesterday -- vandalizing my property. That never happened but I did catch this little gem of him and his now dead dog, just weeks ago. You have to stick around past 15 seconds.

I never tire of watching this absurd loser in all his white trash glory. Thank you Technology for that. But for little else. You have no idea how hard it was to insert this video clip into this blog posting. I'm not even sure it will appear.

But I digress. 

Weeks ago, I was notified by Nest, now a Google company, that my very expensive Nest Thermostats, which I also purchased a long time ago, will no longer be reachable via the interwebs. I could however purchase the latest generation at a discounted price. It's a heaping helping of planned obsolescence with a dab of honey on top.

If I wasn't making money on my Google stock, I'd be clicking and clacking off a vitriolic letter to the Google Grand Puba.

I could regale you with the story of me installing the new 4th generation replacement unit. How I failed to throw the right circuit breaker. How two wires accidentally touched. How the low voltage spark made the one hair on my head stand at attention. And how I had to shell out $85 bucks to have my handyman, Super Dave from G'Town, come out and replace a fuse on the furnace. But I'll spare you all that.

Suffice to repeat my original premise, "there's too much technology."

To make that point abundantly clear, I give you Steven Colbert, a national treasure who will soon be canceled by our Fuckwadian Fourth Reich -- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gd9EcuS6GVY

Skip to the 1:30 mark. And, you'll thank me for this later, stay until the bit ends at 3:00. 

Dear gods of AI, make it stop.

Some peace and quiet

Regular readers of this blog know I have had issues with my neighbor's and their Belgian Malinois (Latin for bad noise) for the past ohhhh, 12-13 years.

My first encounter with these amateur pet owners did not go so well. When I politely approached the 70+ year old matron of the household, she brushed off the constant barking and told me, not in so many words, but in these exact words, "Just fuck off!"

That was followed by the slamming of the door, which because the house is in such disrepair, almost made it come off the hinges. Which would have been such a perfect nose-on metaphor.

That was in 2013. 

You could say since emerging from its puppy state, the dog had never stopped barking. Seriously. Ask any of the adjoining neighbors and they will tell you the same thing. I know because I took the time to knock on doors and suss out the situation.

The unhingedness doesn't stop there. The woman's son who is only a few years younger than me, let's call him Norman in order to conjur up images from a certain Hitchcock movie, is also a few bobs off plumb. In addition to running his power tools during Vampire's hours, he had been taking the dog to Obedience Classes. 

Not just your normal "Sit Spot, Sit" classes. No, these were classes conducted in German. And I would often hear him shouting at the dog in the native tongue of our Hebraic 20th century oppressors. 

"Nein."

"Achtung."

"Bell lauter, um Rich aufzuwecken."

The Obedience School, possibly named Adolf's K-9 Kamp, might have boasted a Teutonic 99% success rate. This dog, the one living less than 75 feet from my bedroom window, must have been the 1% exception. She simply did not listen. And noisily ignored her owners no matter how loud they yelled from the comfort of their barcaloungers and would not be drawn away from their Fox News round-the-clock broadcasts.

I can't begin to tell you how many phone calls I made to the local police and letters I've written to the Culver City Animal Control. At one point I thought about suing the neighbors through small claims court but backed away because I'd have to disclose the conflagration and thus reduce the value of my house for future resale.

I also spent a boatload of money on anti-barking devices and tried my Macguyver hand at building some home made devices with Piezo tweeters.

Nothing worked.

Until now.

One of the neighbors stopped by my house the other morning. She said the dog had died. I could tell from her face that she expected me to act sad. So I did. I know with all my heart this dog was not at fault. And had been dealt a crappy hand to be with such negligent people. And I am a serious dog lover. 

But I am happy. Nay, thrilled. And not going to apologize for it.

I've heard that dog bark for the VERY LAST TIME. Wouldn't you know I just ordered two airhorns from Amazon. 

 

Everything he touches dies.

If anyone has genuine TDS, that is Trump Derangement Syndrome, I guess I shamefully qualify.

In 2020 when our stable genius was tip toeing around the Korean Peninsula and indulging in his late stage bromance with Kim Jong Un, I purchased two ceremonial coins from the White House Gift Shop. Did I think we had actually achieved peace with a nuclear superpower who had and still has the wherewithal to wipe out the West Coast of America? No, I did not.

I bought it as a novelty, hoping to one day hand it down to my two daughters as a family heirloom and no doubt sparking the familiar refrain, "Dad was crazy."

Guilty and guilty. But I do still have the coins in my desk drawer and I got a blog piece out of the ridiculous purchase.

In the same way -- and possibly due to my admitted TDS -- I purchased one share of DJT Media, the holding company as it were behind Truth Social and other tools of the Fourth Reich. When my new financial advisor at Raymond James saw this amongst my holdings he was rightfully shocked. 

Before I signed on with him we had very long talks and my disinclination towards Captain Ouchie Foot was made abundantly clear. 

"So why," he said, "did you buy one share of his vanity stock?"

Like the purchase of the coins, I didn't really have an answer. It could be a TDS-variant of Stockholm Syndrome. Who knows?

I do know that as a shareholder I had plans of requesting a printed stock certificate, alas that was not going to happen. Aaron, my new finance guy, said companies don't do that anymore. 

But, it turns out, I can "purchase" a stock certificate of Trump Media and Technology, as if he knows anything about technology. Let's not forget this doofus was gobsmacked at the way his son Barron was able to turn the computer On and Off in less than 5 minutes.

Not only is the stock certificate available, it's also framed. And signed with the same distinctive John Sanscock that can also double as a woman's bush, as seen on the hand drawn personal birthday card to his best friend Jeffrey Epstein.

I kid you not.

Lastly, if it's any indication of how stupid one must be to invest in the financial acumen of a man who bankrupted 7 companies, and is currently bankrupting America with his fakakta tarriff based economy, the cost of the framed certificate sporting a silhouette of our esteemed shit dropping president, is 5 times the price of his worthless stock.

JFC!

Keep your eye on the ball.

I haven't lifted a golf club in a very long while. A blessing for any other golfer who may have ever been on the course with me. Not that I couldn't hit a ball, I could. I just had a difficult time making the ball go where I wanted it to go.

A shot off the second tee box would often land in the fairway. Of the 10th hole. Or the parking lot. Or in the yard of people who couldn't spring for a vacation home on the course but settled for one across the street.

In other words, I sucked at the game. And never got better. Ever. And so I learned my lesson and let my clubs gather dust in the garage.

But you know who does love golf, despite his disjointed Charles Barkley swing and his ample use of the leg iron to make up for his shitty game? Our President. Donald Von Shitzenpants.

This past weekend, which is no different than any other weekend, entailed a trip to Mara Hoggo. This, while millions sat on tarmacs due to the government shutdown, thousands of people were threatened with hunger and the loss of healthcare, and wars --supposedly solved wars -- raged on in Ukraine and Gaza.

Those that defend the indefensible will tell you every president deserves some down time. Which begs the question when does he have up time? And actually work.

They will often further note that Trump, unlike any other president has made huge sacrifices and doesn't even accept a presidential salary. A measly sum of $400K. Just for reference, guys like Mark Zuckerberg or Jeff Bezos, make $400,000 in the short interval of a sneeze, between the Ach and the Choo.

For even more clarity consider the fact that every time our 215 lbs. lump of Trump heads down to Florida, he has to take roughly 300 active Secret Service Agents with him. 

Where do you think they stay?

Many stay at Trump's fleabag hotel. And do you gullibly think they get the Friends & Family Rate (as if that existed)? No they do not. Have you been on a trip lately? A night at hotel room in NYC can easily top $1000. So imagine half of that 300 count roster stayed where Melania won't.

That's 150 SS agents X $1000 = $150,000.00

If they stay Friday Saturday and Sunday nights that $450,000.00 that goes into Trump's pocket. And that's just room. What about board?

They have to eat and you can safely assume they're eating the same ketchup slathered gruel that Captain Ouchie Foot is eating. But unlike him, they're paying the host of all this Griftopolluza. And when I say "they're paying" I'm saying you and I are paying.

This is just one weekend. At last count there were 52 in a year. So I've barely scratched the surface and haven't even mentioned the minibar booze, the South Florida hookers and the in-room Toblerone Bars.

It doesn't take a Physics Professor at MIT to do the math and see the $400,000 deferred payment is nothing more than a sound bite of propaganda. A smokescreen for the millions and billions he, and other oligarchs in his circle, are draining from our Treasury.

If I may paraphrase Winston Churchill, "It's a scam, wrapped in a bamboozle, inside a film flam." 

And 77 million idiots still don't see it.

God's Servant on Earth

A man collapses in the Oval Office during a Victory Lap Press Conference. 

Aides rush to his side. 

RFK Jr., our Secretary of Health and Human Services --clearly he knows about neither --makes a beeline towards the exit. 

And our President, the man who sells T-shirts claiming "Fight, Fight, Fight", the man anointed by Jesus himself as our modern day savior, stands at the podium like a deer who was already caught in the headlights and has now been hacked to pieces for some hillbilly roadkill stew.

It is a portrait in craven political power and psychotic narcissism. It is an obscene redeaux of this previous "let them eat cake" moment...

Have you already forgotten the disgusting exhibition of the 21st Century Christian American Hero? Apparently when Jesus said, "Give comfort to the weak" he also said, " and make sure you deliver untoeth them, Bounty Paper Towels, the Quickerhurricanepickerupper™."

Allow me to remind you it was only a month ago, that this brainless, worthless billionaire rapist/convicted felon posted an AI video of himself piloting a fighter jet and dumping tons of fecal matter on the heads of patriotic Americans peacefully exercising their first amendment rights.

Time and time again, he has demonstrated his contempt for people. Not just Democrats. or Independents. Or even Republicans. But all people, especially the ones who don't sport the Trump surname.

"My kids can have two dolls, yours can get by with just one."

We know who he is.

The better question is, who are the people who don't know who he is? How do they abide with his disgusting, immoral and monumentally UnChristlike behavior? These are the same people who are currently pulling their hair out over the last week's Blue Wave. And going apeshit about New Yorkers electing a Muslim mayor, as if he is going to ignore our Constitution and institute law according to his will and inclination. Sound familiar?

I don't know, if I were an Islamic terrorist seeking to infiltrate and destroy Judeo-Christian norms and  establish Sharia, I wouldn't choose New York City as my base of operations.

SFX: 8,000,000 Gothamites in unison, "Getthefuggouttahere!"

Also, where was the outrage when Trump's son in law got $2 billion in Saudi funding? Or Trump accepted a $400 million jet from a nation that sponsored state terrorism? Or when the Fuhrer agreed to build an Air Force base for Qatar on US soil.

We see the hypocrisy on an unprecedented cosmic level. They don't.

If last Tuesday, and the Blue Wave™ that made a hopeful appearance, is any indication, maybe some of them will open their eyes. Or at least their Bibles.

 

Bear with me

Every grade schooler knows that bears hibernate for the winter. Like squirrels, they spend their autumnal days stuffing their faces like Trump Director of Communications Steven Cheung let loose at an All You Can Eat Chinese Restaurant. 

And come winter time they hole up in a cave comforted by collected twigs, moss and fallen leaves.

Many years have passed since we were told of their unusual sleeping habits. But what exactly is hibernation? I have come to learn that bears don't actually sleep, they go into a state of torpor, which is something akin to an induced coma. Body temp and heartbeat are lowered significantly so the bear, bears, do not suffer through the brutal conditions of winter.

Despite nosing around the internet I could not find the answer to my most pressing question concerning hibernation. I know bears shit in the woods, duh, but do they poop and pee during their hibernation. And wouldn't that wet the bed, as it were? 

I'm going to leave that here, dear reader. And should you be inclined, you can join me down this little rabbit hole and find out for yourself. Because that is the point of this post -- curiosity.

I'm in the middle of reading a very interesting book that I spotted at a very crunchy bookstore in San Francisco titled Wisdom Takes Work. Granted this is the type of dime store wisdom made accessible to the Tik Tok generation, but it is fascinating nonetheless.

Apparently curiosity, whether it be from a 7 year old or 67 year old, is one of the pillars of personal wisdom. And I'm told, the key to longevity.

Asking leads to answers, answers lead to more questions. From not knowing, we get to knowing, and eventually to the truth. We must ask questions when we are young , and we must remain humble  enough to ask them when we are old, powerful and well informed. Marcus Aurelius noted the way his predecessor as emperor and mentor over twenty years, asked, searching questions at meetings. And was almost never content with first impressions." 

Interestingly enough, the chapter about nurturing one's curiosity is followed by another on something called commonplaces. This was, and is, the practice of keeping notes, of storing thoughts, of committing pieces of knowledge to paper or papyrus. All done for the unknown purpose that lies ahead. 

Not that my desktop calendar, made ugly by coffee cup stains and scribbles that are often illegible, can hold a candle to the greats who have adopted this behavior, but it is part of my daily routine. And often serves to ameliorate my synapse-challenged memory.

Here, as a reward for reading to the end, is the answer provided by AI. You can thank me later.

Bet you didn't have fecal plug on your Bingo card of things you'd learn today.

 

Take two and call me in the morning

You know you're getting old when you get excited the doctor upped your dosage of Gabapentin, a nerve relaxant for those under the spell of sciatica. You're also getting old when you can't remember the name of your new favorite medicine and just refer to it as Gabagool, an ode to Tony Soprano.

Years ago there was a stand up comedian, now billionaire, Jeff Foxworthy, who made a mint on the simple premise of, "You might be a redneck if __________." That was followed by a panoply of disparaging remarks about inbreeding, beers and guns, and the kind of soft racism that passes for acceptable in America. In other words the GOP platform. 

SFX: Rim Shot.

I suppose I could take to the road and workshop a whole routine based on, "You might be an old man (or woman,) if _________"

Fact is, I'm 67 years of age and that's officially old. 

The cognitive dissonance here is I don't feel old. And I have the Strava history of physical activities to prove it. Last week for instance, on an unusually warm and uncrowded day at the Culver City Plunge, I knocked out a mile in less than 31 minutes for an average pace of 1:53 per 100 yards.

Nevertheless I have the geriatric accoutrements that confirm my old man status. Knee braces. Heating pads. A freezer fill of Ice packs. And of course a growing collection of pills. As well as a growing concern that I may need one of those old lady pillboxes to assort my multitude of round white pills, oval sized pills and gel caps. It can be confusing.

"Did I take the Gabagool?"

"How many Baxoflen am I allowed"

"What about my..."

You didn't think I was going to go through my whole list of meds, did you? The point is, it's not easy keeping track of all this. Especially when I have to split each of medications into two and keep one vial downstairs and one upstairs. That tends to double the confusion factor. 

I never claimed to be a smart man.

I am however an impatient one. Despite living in Southern California for more than 40 years and working on my chill and zen attitude. Which is always put to the test on my increased visits to the pharmacy. 

Come on people, just walk up to the counter, spout your date of birth and your name, get your pills, potions and industrial strength suppositories and go. This isn't the place to ask questions. The nice lady at the counter may be wearing a white lab coat but she's just a glorified cashier. Chances are I have a better understanding of pharmaceuticals than she does. Read the damn pamphlet they stuff in the bag. Oh no...no...she's asking for a consult!!! 

"Pharmacist to the counter."

Here we go. I'm gonna be here forever.

I need an Atavan.

DDB RIP

This blog post started with me searching for the original Doyle Dane Bernbach logo. I had hoped to find a big bold sculpture of three gold letters emblazoned across an outrageously expensive mahogany door. Like a scene out of Mad Men, but to no avail.

Then I turned to Gemini to conduct my search. Truth be told I  find myself on Gemini quite a bit these days as it helps me craft images and answers questions that go beyond a one word search. Like the early days of the internet, AI search takes me down several rabbit holes and gives voice to my offbeat imagination.

Here for instance is an image of Bill Bernbach as a Hasidic rabbi riding on a unicycle with a toucan on his shoulder.

OK, this post has officially gone off the rails. 

Ostensibly, I wanted to write about the rumored passing of the DDB, the ad agency that gave birth and rise to the creative revolution of the 1960's. This is when admen and adwomen stopped pandering to people and began respecting their intelligence and their ability to make informed buying decisions. All with a healthy sense of humor on the side. This has been replaced with BOGO banners and bogus "brand journeys."

I never got to work at DDB. Though I did start at Needham Harper & Steers, which merged with DDB two years after I left. Maybe the merger talks were stalled until I left the building. 

Sadly, I'll never know the joy of having that esteemed name on my resume. 

Believe it or not, probably not if you're under 40 years of age and working in the biz, but there was a time when the name of a 5 star agency topped off your resume, you could write your own ticket. Headhunters came hunting for you. And aggressive creative directors would find ways to meet you for clandestine lunches and huge contracts just waiting for your John Hancock.

It was nice to be wanted. Much better than ghosted.

Soon, no doubt, the Chiat/Day name and even the BBDO name will all disappear, swallowed up by the omnivorous Omnicom name. And shortly after that, the two remaining holding companies will be completely sanitized to simply Holding Company #1 and Holding Company #2. 

I'm hesitant to say anything more or even slightly disparaging about the fall of our industry. Mostly because both my daughters are loyal, productive and successful employees of said Holding Companies and their affiliated vendors. Plus, being my progeny I think it's safe to say they've suffered enough. And they'll tell you that.

But I will leave you with this more contemporary image of Mr. Bernbach...

Why did  I conjure this up? I have no idea. As Ms. Muse is wont to tell me, "Siegel, your brain works in strange ways."

That used to be worth something.

Stacks on stacks

 

At this writing the government, our government is shut down. Not the first time, in Trump's first clusterfuck administration there was also a shutdown. That one lasted a little over a month. This one is different though because the Democrats are fighting to preserve healthcare subsidies for millions of people currently covered under the ObamaCare program.

We haven't seen the TrumpCare Health Plan™ that was promised in 2020, but it's my understanding it will be revealed in TWO WEEKS.

At the heart of the matter is funding and money. 

Naturally. Seems no one in DC can find the money to sustain the barebones healthcare offered by the government. I'm no accountant, though I came from a long line of accountants, but I have to wonder if anyone has checked the Tariff Shelf.

Oh yeah, that exists. I remember seeing a video, with tears in my eyes, of President Wallketchup explaining to reporters that there were billions of dollars on the aforementioned shelf, just waiting to be utilized. 

Here, see for yourself: https://www.facebook.com/watch/?v=2101493130622017

I understand the government can get spread thin, in terms of money, especially given the truckloads we give to manufacturers of tanks, armored vehicles and the other accoutrements of ground wars that will never be used. I can turn a light on in the upstairs bedroom using my iPhone. I have to believe our military genii can turns the internet, electricity and all manner of power off in every country across the globe.

Here's a thought: why not sell the huge jet the Qataris gifted to President Noncognitive and use the proceeds to benefit the citizens of America? $400 million dollars buys a lot of aspirin, x-rays and maternity care for people who can't afford it because they're still toiling for a minimum wage that hasn't changed since the 20th century.

Here's another thought: instead of tackifying the White House and erecting a ballroom on the former East Wing-- which nobody wanted or needed -- why not funnel the generous contributions from America's oligarchs into something more utilitarian for the people? Ask yourself this, how many everyday Americans will ever step foot in the new Marie Antoinette Wing of the White House, other than a momentary glimpse during a cheesy one hour tour?

"Mam, please remain behind the velvet rope, this area is for 1%ers only."

Then also ask yourself why isn't that money going to teachers, police, firefighters and former freelance copywriters now sustaining themselves on taxed Social Security checks? Didn't he promise to eliminate those taxes? Or are those monies needed to fund the maintenance and cleaning crew at Chez Mara Lago North?

Again, why are we not tapping into the Tariff Shelf? The money is there, right beside the dusty TrumpCare™ Plan.

Finally, I have to assume that an incredibly large amount of money was allocated for the purchase of Greenland, an incredibly large piece of land, as well as Panama and maybe even Azerbaijan. Since President Tigerelephantgiraffe is no longer having fever dreams about those Monopoly properties, why can't we repurpose those funds?

Being president is really not all that complicated. Any idiot could do this job.

Just not the one we have.