Meet Moris

I know this is completely off-brand for an old, curmudgeonly veteran of the ad industry, who has spent more years arguing and bickering with planners, strategists (sometimes to the point of tears, theirs not mine) and even agency CEOs, but I have a soft spot for kids (anyone under the age of 50) who are trying to make it in business.

Or even get into this crazy business of communications, be it advertising, public relations, content creation, or whatever AI has in store for all of us. 

Sadly, my two daughters followed in my size 11 EEE footsteps and are now successfully plying their trade at MAL (Media Arts Lab) and at Cartel Editing in NYC. Both girls adamantly refused any help from me. Leaving me high and dry with my 10,000 LinkedIn connections, in my desire to help some up-and-comer.

That is until Ms. Muse told me the story of Moris Joaquin Hernandez, her Student Communications Assistant for the past 11 months, at the Pullias Center at USC. 

In May, Moris will graduate from USC with a BA in Communications and a minor in Marketing. Unlike my daughters, and indeed unlike many of you, he doesn't have any familial contacts in the business who can steer him one way or another. 

He is the child of immigrants and the first in his family to even contemplate the notion of college. Much less graduating from one of the finest and most expensive private universities in the country. 

I mention the monetary aspect only because I have an even softer heart for kids, who like myself, scrimped, saved, worked, and worked some more, just enough to keep the college bursar's office at bay. 

Here's the difference. 

I did it because my father, who could've footed the bill and made it easier for me, chose not to. Moris did it because he had no choice. Just a trunkful of grit. Determination. And ambition. 

That's a story that flies in the ugly face of the xenophobic narratives pushed by many these days. And it's a story that is waiting for the next chapter to be written.

About a year ago, I was booted off LinkedIn for some poorly worded political punditry. I wrote a letter to the CEO and persuaded them to let me back on the platform. Explaining that since I am longer needed, nor wanted, in the once-hallowed halls of advertising, I make myself useful by helping others by putting them together with opportunities. 

That was not an empty claim. 

This is something I do in order to pay forward the generosity of those who helped me when, not only was I completely clueless, I was shopping around a portfolio that is, was, embarrassing, at best. that includes Dave Butler, Mel Newhoff, Hy Yablonka and Bob Kuperman, who steered me into the Nissan Regional Group and a rare shot at the big leagues.

I've exchanged some back and forth emails with Moris. He's a smart young man willing to work hard at whatever entry-level job he's offered. Having got my humble start in the mailroom, I've walked in his shoes. And now I'd like to help him get one of those shoes in the door. 

I'm convinced Moris, a sports enthusaist and his talents with Adobe Suite and his digital prowess, will be a great asset to anyone willing to give him a shot. Why? Because he wants it more.

Perhaps that anyone is you. Or someone you know. Let's put this LinkedIn thing to work. And get Moris employed. Ideally in Los Angeles. Or in Texas, where his family resides.

I'm attaching his resume for your perusal. Ms. Muse and I thank you in advance. 

We know you'll be thanking us later.

We the jury...

Maybe you suffer from the same affliction, but I have an inability to detect history in the making when history is actually being made.

For instance, on September 11, 2001, I was scheduled to get on a plane to Phoenix to pitch the crown jewel account in advertising: Red Roof Inn. Even after watching those 767's fly into the World Trade Center I called my art director John Shirley and said, "Do you think this is going to delay our flight?"

The magnitude had simply not hit me.

Similarly, on January 6th, 2021, my late wife's birthday, I saw the carnage unfold at our nation's capitol and still concerned myself whether I bought the right flavored cupcakes for that night's celebration.

Today, I find myself, and maybe you do too, underestimating the significance of the trial going on in New York City, a fitting locale considering the lying, merkin-sporting, pussy-grabbing abomination grew up and bilked the city for all it was worth with federal housing development subsidies.

This is a former President of the United States of America, the highest and formerly, most prestigious office in the land. On the planet. In the known universe. And he is on trial, not for shaboinking a leading actress in the shaboinking film business, but for buying her silence about said shaboinking, and falsifying the hush money as some type of legitimate "legal expense." 

As one of the many TV pundits pointed out, "If it was all so legal, why did they go to the extent of creating shell LLCs",  lying about it to the press (aboard Air Force One), and get out in front of all this when Michael Avenetti was on TV every night, shouting with a bullhorn, about the alleged shaboinking, my new favorite word.

It is all so SORDID.

And LOW RENT.

And SINGULAR in its TRUMPIAN fashion.

Sadly, however, I fear the result is also so predictable. 

Not because he is innocent, we all know he shaboinked her. We all know she slapped him on the butt with a Forbes magazine. And told her how much she reminded him of his daughter -- disgusting pedophile. 

And not because he has a crack legal team, the best that his dwindling money can buy.

He's going to get off scott-free and take a thousand victory laps and gloat until he can gloat no more because it only takes one juror to acquit. 

Just one. 

I've been Jury Foreman twice in my life, once on a criminal case and once for civil. I have sat with 24 perfect strangers for longer than I care to recall. And I can tell you first hand, the reality you and I see on a minute to minute to basis is not the reality experienced by some folks, who need an owner's manual to remember to breathe in and breathe out.

There are some extremely dumb ass people out there. And all it takes is one man or woman, pining for a lifetime membership at Mara Lago and unlimited flying time aboard Trump Force One, to let this NYC Pizza Rat of a Man return to his scurrilous ways.

Mark my word.

Prettay, prettay rich

Americans love their vacations. They work 50 weeks a year, just for the opportunity to NOT work 2 weeks a year. 

Who am I kidding? How many of us actually take two week vacations? 

Two weeks with my family in a cramped hotel room, living out of a suitcase, and paying $14 for a beer poolside would always drive me bonkers and yearning to be stateside and seated at the Long Table of Mediocrity™, writing B2B copy about bidirectional flanges.

Still, I managed to enjoy myself on the many vacations we took to Hawaii, Mexico, even Europe, though I probably wouldn't go back to Europe during the winter months when the cold stinging wind from the Firth of Forth has the power to stop an invading Saxon army in its track.

Know who hates vacations? Jerry Seinfeld. He said so in an interview that was floating around social media last week.

Poor Jerry.

Poor, Very Rich Jerry.

I started thinking about what a cursed life this man must lead. Cursed, not just because he can't go anywhere he pleases without untoward attention at every turn. That's the cost of fame. 

But truly cursed because he has enough money for a lifetime, even if he were to live the life of Methusalah (932 years.) 

He has so much money that it means nothing, now. That's the cost of wealth.

This is a phenomena very few of us will know. Or understand. In fact, if you're reading THIS blog and find yourself in the same...going to the Google...obscenely priced Allen Edmonds Park Ave shoes, you have my deepest sympathies.

Imagine walking down Rodeo Drive and knowing that everything you see, is everything you can own. With a simple nod to your personal valet and a knowing wink, it, or everything, is stuffed into your Black Onyx Bugatti.

There's no coveting. No pangs of desire. No drifting off into an imaginary world to ponder, "If I buy this how will it improve my life? And is a double breasted blue blazer from Milan worth all that money to make me look 64 years old as opposed to 66?"

And what about houses? How sad it must be to walk into any Open House in America, or on the planet, and know that with a flick of a pen and a few quick signatures, within a week your movers could start laying out your socks in the top cedar-lined drawer of a hand crafted chest in your new Master Bedroom overlooking Martha's Vineyard or the private beaches of Molokai?

When everything is affordable, nothing is special. 

And when nothing is special, well, I might just consider tossing all that money out of a low flying C-130 and returning to my prior life as a line cook at Denny's, driving a 1966 Dodge Coronet and sleeping under 5 blankets to avoid paying the skyrocketing gas bills.

Or, on second thought, I'd hire a guy to write a screenplay and make that movie so I could see how it turns out.

Must Chew Better

Yup, Roundseventeen, and my concerns about ending up in a dirty nursing home, almost came to an abrupt and unexpected end.

Allow me to back the ambulance up a bit.

Ms. Muse and I had been invited to dinner, and a show (Funny Girl), at the Ahmanson Theater. Complements of my generous friend and under-appreciated Blogger Jeff Gelberg and his wife Vicki. In all honesty, Jeff is a much better writer than me. In even more honesty, let's be frank, that bar is not very high.

During the pre-show convivialities, we shared stories of previous theater outings, stories of outrageously obnoxious neighbors, and, I don't know how this came up, our collective appreciation for stand up Comedian and quite possibly the tallest Jew on the planet, Gary Gulman.

When it came time to order, I heard how delicious the salmon was at Kendall's Brasserie. But, having eaten salmon every night for the previous 6 nights, I decided to re-acquaint my taste buds with the charbroiled taste of red flesh and ordered the Steak Frites -- Medium Rare.

Big mistake.

The rib eye came out about three shades of red shy of Medium Rare. It was just past Steak Tartare. I should have sent it back, but it was our waiter's first night on the job and he was not the most attentive fellow on the planet. I didn't want to risk missing the opening number, so I decided to soldier on.

Also, at the risk of TMI, I was sporting a sore tooth (that was pulled last Friday). So I wasn't exactly bringing my A-level chewing game.

Do the math. 

At first I thought I could power through the errant pre-digested piece of meat now lodging comfortably in my esophagus, or whatever pipe it should not have gone down. I gave it several good attempts not wanting to disrupt the jovial storytelling at the table.

Then it became apparent to me, as I was flashing back to the mistakes I made at my Bar Mitzvah, the ferocious fights I had with father, the long-labored birth of my children (where I was not offered an epidural), the atrocious haircut of 1983, etc, etc, that I was in trouble. 

Big Oxygen-Deficient trouble.

I pushed back in my seat and could hear the chair screach across the tile floor. I gave myself some room. And instinctively coughed. Next thing I know the Gary Gulman joke stopped mid-punchline...

"Oh my god."

"Are you Ok?"

"Rich, do you mind if I steal one of your french fries?" (that was Jeff)

Within seconds, the flow of oxygen returned. I don't know where the chunk of Angus Beef went, nor did I care. I do know that I was rattled. Still rattled, thinking about the inglorious exit I might have made that night. 

Instead of Funny Girl it could have been, Funny Guy Dead.

Good to be back.

Shari, Shari baby

 

We ended yesterday's post with a picture of a stuffed squirrel mounted on a tiny red Barnstormer biplane. It was all part of a online dialogue I had been having with "Shari Goscinak", one of a thousand, or a million, Internet scammers who seem to contact me every hour on the hour.

You know it's a scam when you receive an unsolicited LinkedIn email that reads like this:

"I was viewing your profile and found you have led a fascinating life. And have acquired a wealth of wisdom. If it is no bother I like to chat further. And make great lifetime friends with you."

If I were really fascinating, and full of wisdom, would I be wasting my time clapping back at Internet scammers and digging around for photos of dead stuffed squirrels on the internet?

Without further ado, let's pick with Shari where we left off yesterday...

Turns out Shari is really into taxidermy. And knows just the right words to keep my interest.

Isn't that nice, Shari is into animal husbandry and wants to touch the dead squirrel. However, Shari is also batshit crazy. Please note how many unanswered emails she sent me.

That was just Saturday. Here's Sunday. Easy, girl, there's only so much of Richie to go around.

What's wrong with me? I'm not sure I can answer that,

Seems that in addition to Internet scamming, Shari has a yearning desire to learn taxidermy.

The correspondence never stopped. And so I decided to send Shari on her merry scamming way. 

And what better way to stop beating a dead horse than with a dead owl.

Meet Shari Goscinak

 

I was introduced to Shari", via LinkedIn on Friday 4/12.24.

But "Shari", an odd name for an Asian woman (maybe she hails from very North and Western parts) is not a career woman who takes No for an answer.

I was re-introduced to her on 4/13/24.

Oh Shari, I definitely want to keep chatting. 

No bother, Shari, no bother whatsoever. In fact, I was wondering how to fill my Roundseventeen blog today and thought about writing a lengthy piece about the situation in Gaza, or the Trump drama in NYC, but this is infinitely more fun.

Bringing Shari honor, can anything be more rewarding?

Moments later, I sent a picture. Hopefully it will win Shari's cold scamming heart.

....To be continued

Hot Wheels

I am an unlikely Car Guy.

Most car guys are car guys at a very young age. Most start in high school. They would drive up in their Camaros. Or Firebirds. Or Chevelle SSs (how do you pluralize that?) My first car in high school was a 1966 Plymouth Valiant. With all the chest-bumping horsepower of a riding lawn mower.

A real babe catcher.

My little 4 door sedan with the vinyl top was not very kind too me. In fact, it scarred me in a way that might have permanently put me off cars. A harrowing experience that I can still retell minute by minute. 

I will spare you the details other than to say, I was driving with 4 guys in the car. We were no strangers to fast food, illicit weed and late night diners.  So we had some big boy heft in the Valiant.

As we were descending a steep hill on Route 59 in Spring Valley, NY, I decided to slow down and pumped gently on the brakes. The pedal did NOT pump back. As the hill got steeper, the car got faster. And my brake pedal pumping got more futile.

"Pull the emergency brake," said Bob.

"Throw the transmission into park," said Jim.

"Eject, eject," said Jamie.

Because I'm retelling the story, you already know we all survived. 

I managed, skillfully, to steer through some traffic (horn blaring) and start the ascent of an even steeper hill. We pushed the car to a nearby gas station where a surly mechanic (redundant) popped the hood, removed the clamp on the Master Cylinder (which pumps fluid to all 4 wheels to activate the brake shoes) wiped the bottom of the cylinder with his greasy finger and uttered...

"Bone, fucking dry."

Those words still ring through my head.

Unlike my high school brethren, I came to cars, women, and having a little money in my pocket, later in life.

To wit, see my new Mustang Mach E, pictured above. This is the first time I'm driving an actual Ford. As you may or may not know, old Henry Ford, was a virulent anti-semite. I don't think my father would be happy. Then again I wasn't too happy with the brake-challenged 66 Plymouth Valiant, so I guess we've evened up that score.

Besides, I crossed the Don't-Buy-Cars-From-Jew-Haters Rubicon years ago, when I parked my fat ass in the very Teutonic Audi S5, which I still love. 

And even before that when I pimped Jaguars, an unlikely division of the Premium Auto Group, a wholly owned subsidiary of the Ford Motor Company. 

You can see some of my Ford handiwork here: https://roundseventeen.blogspot.com/2010/06/1000000-boo-boo.html

As you might have guessed, I love my new Mustang. It's fast. It's fit. And it sits higher above the ground, so I don't emit old man sounds when getting in and out of it.

I also love that it's an EV (also a first for me), so I get to drive in the fast left lane reserved for HOV and Clean Vehicles. This will come in handy when traveling out to Palm Springs to manage the Mojo Dojo Desert Casa House, city ID #5634.

I still have to figure out the whole charging thing. 

If the car is plugged into my house, the toaster oven won't go on.

There's always something.

Mmmm, lox

Good Monday morning. 

Well, good is relative. You probably had a better Sunday morning. Particularly if that included a meaty Sunday newspaper, a cup of fresh Joe and a toasted Everything Bagel with schmear, sliced red onion, some capers and a healthy helping of beautiful lox.

Years ago, probably on my birthday or perhaps Father's Day, I took advantage of my daughter's new driver's license and sent her to pick bagels and lox at our favorite Jewery (sp). She came back with a dozen assorted bagels. And instead of a 1/4 pound of lox, she had a huge plastic tub of a 4 lbs. of Morty's finest. 4 people /4 pounds, it made sense to a teenager who had never had a class in home economics but could go on at length about the oppressive patriarchy.

A pound of lox can you set you back a bit. This stuff is not inexpensive.

But like the price of DJT stock, it's coming down. Way down. And you will thank me for it later.

Recently I was in Sierra Madre, hardly the heartland of Southern California's Hebraic Community. The place is teeming with inordinately attractive, and polite, white people. There's not an aquiline nose in sight. I think you get the Wistaria-adorned picture. 

You can then imagine my surprise when a local coffee shop (Syndicate) served me up their signature Oslo sandwich ...

It was, and I apologize for getting all dramatic, as if I had died and went to heaven. You know, if Jews believed in that kind of stuff. 

Frankly I have no interest in spending eternity wearing a robe, listening to violins and rubbing elbows with perpetually cheerful folks who don't know how to kvetch once in a while.

From what I understand, there's no kvetching in heaven. There's not even kvelling, because what's the point of kvelling if you can't rub your good fortune in someone else's face. They frown on that in heaven. Or so I'm told.

I seem to have got distracted. Anyway, the Oslo Sandwich was so good I asked the manager where he got his lox.

"CostCo. Seriously. We buy a good filet of Atlantic Salmon, bring it back to Syndicate and cure it and hand slice it ourself."

Adding, "It's really easy to do."

My frugal-conscious Jewish/Scottish mind was blown. 

The very next day, I had a consult with Chef Internet and found several methods of home curing your own lox. And guess what, it worked. Moreover, it was delicious. My father, a DIY'er who made his own furniture, built his own a sauna, and had plans to assemble his own Chris Craft sailboat, would have been beaming with pride.

"Your son is a doctor, pfffft, mine makes his own lox."

It's been 72 hours of curing and salting and more curing, and my second attempt is even better than the first. 

I read an article today about a 60 year old man who got laid off from his job and dove into his passion for chocolatiering. He and his partner, packed up their bags, moved to Spain and are now very successful ex-pats, peddling a panoply of chocolate varieties to the Spaniards. 

If this next election doesn't return this country to sanity, perhaps I'll take my newfound fondness for salmon curing to the Iberian Peninsula. 

Buenos Diaz, señores y señoritas, quieres un Lox y Bagel?

Thanks, but no thanks

I live all by myself. In a house that has 4 bedrooms, 2 of which have been turned into storage rooms. 

The only sounds I hear are the barking of my dysfunctional neighbor's dog and the endless hammering and nailing of another neighbor who is putting up an ADU. 

There are days when I have not spoken to another human being and only opened my mouth in order to stuff it with an adequate daily supply of salmon and bourbon.

I'm not complaining. Simply giving you some context (my lack of human contact) for my proclivity to clap back at scammers on social media ("I hate to interrupt you and please excuse my manners, but you seem fascinating, can you kindly send me a friend request?") 

And to follow up on job leads I have zero interest in (see yesterday's post).

Zero.

Lately, I've been getting a slew of offers from complete strangers on LinkedIn. Offers to the effect of, "Want to increase your cold calling success rate. And double, maybe triple, your revenue as a freelance copywriter?"

What? And spoil my life as an MOSL -- A Man of Semi Leisure?

Besides 2 X 0 = 0.

And 3 X 0 = 0.

Also, and I hope the first kid -- followed by a couple more -- who sent me this odd inquiry will take no offense, but I don't need any help in the Cold Calling area. 

I wrote crappy PayPal emails for two years and know a little something about pestering people.

I also wrote 56 letters to GOP Senators and though I only got one response from Senator Tom Cotton, I was able to turn the endeavor in to a book. Still available on Amazon.  

I had running correspondence with Willy Ruiz, the Director of Club Membership at Mara Lago who tried to bilk me for $50,000.

And finally, though not finally finally, I have strung along more Illuminati scammers than I or any readers of R17 care to count.

In short, I know how to provoke a response. Additionally, I believe the need for Cold Calling assistance to any and all copywriters is non-existent. It is a self evident. Or at least it should be.

If you're a copywriter, aspiring or retiring, and you can't pen a good opening, either in the form of an email, a phone call, or a handwritten letter, you might want to rethink your choices and look into the lucrative field of HVAC repair.

That's all I'm saying.

Spilt Milk

As my friend and fellow blogger George Tannenbaum will attest, you don't compile thousands and thousands of daily entries and millions of words written in digital ink without indulging a sense of curiosity. 

Stories just don't pop out of the blue with the regularity of a Trump farcical "truth."

You gotta do a little digging. Turn over a stone or two. And sniff out opportunity. A longwinded way of saying I like to indulge in some casual non-committed job seeking. That is, when I get an alert from LinkedIn that so and so is on the hunt for a Copywriter, I like to bait the field with some premium doe urine, just to see if they'll pick up the scent.

BTW, back in the early hurly burly days of my copywriting career I actually wrote ads for doe urine as well as other accoutrements of today's modern hunter. It was quite an eye, and nostril, opening experience.

Recently I saw a job alert from the good people at Oatly. 

I'm an old school guy and like my milk straight from the teat of a Heffer or a Guernsey or a Dairy Shorthorn. But I appreciate the Oatly folks and their often humorous brand tone. And I thought, why not, I'll throw my artificial farmer's hat in the ring.

Moments after hitting the send button, I got a response. I've carefully cropped the email so as not to include the sender's name.

In an age of rampant ghosting, I was taken aback. And responded in kind.

Days later I received another missive. This one let me know just how dreadful and desperate the copywriting employment situation had become.

Close to one thousand applicants!

That's when it also dawned on me that I hadn't been corresponding with a live person (Sophie) but an AI generated bot, who despite her best efforts, could never brighten the day of a real copywriter seeking real copywriting employment.

1000 Applicants!

Looks like there'll be no company car for Richie.

I need to know

 

I have questions.

We all have questions. But these are questions that need to be answered. And quickly. Because there is an important election -- OK, they're all important -- coming this November. And unlike previous elections, where federal governance rarely touches the lives of the electorate, this one most certainly does.

1. Question for African American and Hispanic people who plan to vote for Trump: Are you outta your fucking minds? 

Are you not aware that he actively discriminated against potential black renters at many of his fleabag apartment holdings in NYC? That he was flagged by the Justice Department (you know, the pre-weaponized DOJ) and brought to court to answer for these charges? Are you aware that he spent his own money begging for the execution of the Central Park Five, five black teenagers absolved by DNA evidence. Have you not heard him say, "Where's my African American?" Who talks like that? 

And what about the Very Fine People who stormed Charlottesville years ago, protesting the removal of statues glorifying Civil War Generals and the cause of Slavery? These are outright Klansmen and Nazis. Albeit, very fine ones.

Same question goes to Hispanic Americans. Six Pothole Workers repairing a bridge in the wee hours of the evening fell into the icy waters in Baltimore recently. These were not drug dealers, rapists and criminals. They were not "vermin". They were not sent here to "poison the blood of this country" -- which I could argue has been sufficiently poisoned by narrow-minded asshats. 

These were six men who came to America for the same reasons millions of of immigrants have done -- to seek a better life in a land that provided that opportunity. I'd rather live next to 20 million of those "illegal" kind of people than 75 million "legal" xenophobic racists who vociferously aspire to Fascism.

Also, doesn't anybody find it interesting that God (of Middle Eastern descent) Blessed America only after Europeans left their homes, came here, and forcefully stole land that belonged to darker skinned people who were also God's children? 

2. Question for Women who plan to vote for Trump: Are you outta your fucking minds? 

Are you willing to forfeit the sovereignty of your body to a political party that openly seeks to take away your rights? Are you seriously considering supporting a "man" who proudly declares he is responsible for reversing Roe V. Wade while simultaneously suggesting he had nothing to do with it? How are medical and personal issues facing you, the business of old white men cutting back room political deals? Not to mention the fact that his mushroom sized porksword has probably yielded a dozen or so abortions by women who were tossed to the curb like so many of his failed companies.

As if all that were not enough, how can you vote for a man who has cheated on all three of his wives? Are you going to pull the lever for a shitbag who banged a porn star while his third wife was nursing his newborn son (who he refers to as Melania's son)? Are you seriously throwing your support to a decrepit monster who has openly talked about "dating" his own daughter? If I hadn't just cleaned my keyboard I'd be vomiting all over it.

3. Question for people my age who plan to vote for Trump: Are you outta your fucking minds?  

The last paycheck I got was for a project I did for the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia. It wasn't a big check. And I'm not allowed to elaborate on it. Suffice it to say, there's no cash coming in. And there won't be until I apply for my Social Security benefits in October. The same SS benefits that our most famous billionaire and Speaker of the House/Weirdo TheoNazi Mike Johnson want to cut. 

And they don't want to stop there. They also want to slash the "entitlements" (money you and I have been funding all our working lives) so they can spread it around to their wealthy friends/sponsors looking to buy a third yacht. 

Moreover, they want to raise the retirement age, so that by the time you do get your benefits you'll be too busy sucking pureed food through a straw and shitting the bed you won't even notice it. 

I purposely saved this question for last. Why? Because the vast majority of Trumpsters are older white men who frankly don't give a shit about the first two groups I singled out. Or anyone else for that matter. But the minute someone starts taking money out of their pocket, all the alarm bells start going off. 

I guess that leaves one final question.  Are the bells going off or are the brains associated with them, sufficiently submerged in Kool Aid?

I gotta know. 

STFU

People with car alarms should be given the De*th Penalty.

I know you think I am being facetious. Or hyperbolic. Or slyly Swiftian. I am not. It's far too early in the morning, a cold rainy morning when I should be snuggled up under my blanket enjoying deep REM sleep, for me to muster up that kind of clever wordplay.

Furthermore, I haven't had the benefit of coffee. As I took my red hot anger straight to the keyboard before making my routine stop in the kitchen to fire up the Cuisinart and brew my necessary 8 cups of Joe.

In fact, without being too graphic, I didn't even take the time to slip into some tighty whitey's, shorts, T-shirt and flip flops, my standard California attire. I simply grabbed my new robe that my daughters got me for my birthday and made a beeline out to my front yard hoping to catch the aural offender and let my uncontrolled rage take over from there.

Sadly, by the time I had bolted from my bed, the 127 decibel ear piecing alarm...

BWAAAAH

BWAAAAH

BWAAAAH

BWAAAAH

BWAAAAH

BWAAAAH

... had stopped.

Like most people my age sleep comes easy. But because I'm often answering nature's frequent call, but it doesn't stay easy. I'd also like to point out that at this ungodly pre-sunrise hour, I was also enjoying a rare erotic dream. 

Unlike most mornings when I, and no doubt countless other veterans of the merciless ad industry, are caught in the PTSD nightmares of endless pitch meetings, pointless deadlines, and Lee Clow wondering why I haven't come up with any good ideas lately. 

"Lee, we didn't win the Wall St. Journal pitch. It's over."

Mind you, again at the risk of getting too graphic here, this one particular erotic dream involved Scarlett Johannson AND Charlize Theron. Two beautiful Hollywood starlets that don't get nearly enough callbacks from my subconscious and mysteriously-operating mind. 

Alas, if you're sensing my oversized anger, believe me when I tell you these written words can only convey a mere 37% of my current fury. If only I knew who to direct its searing laser focus at.

I had given serious thought to walking up and down the street and placing a hand on each parked vehicle just to set off the offending alarm again in order to confront the inconsiderate, ignorant, inhuman human who believes his or her precious minivan is worthy of such undue "protection". 

Did I mention Charlize Theron?

Finally, as a point of order. What good does a car alarm do if after 6:29 seconds of nonstop... 

BWAAAAH

BWAAAAH

BWAAAAH

BWAAAAH

BWAAAAH

... you haven't come of out your house to stop the supposed theft? It simply defies logic. 

It's probably a good thing that California has a mandatory 10 day waiting period before purchasing any firearm..

Probably, a very good thing.

 

Thursday Photo Funnies

Between illness (Covid), more illness (Covid Rebound) and even more illness (food poisoning and all its unpleasant excretions), my routine has been anything but lately. 

Wedged between all that is my burgeoning career as an amateur hotelier (renting out my Palm Springs property) and attempting to clear up the mess I made with the IRA rollover of my late wife's account.

I could end up footing a huge bill while our former president, who is seemingly above the law (not just a law but all of them), will walk away scott free. 

Nice country we got here huh?

Nevertheless, I have been faithful in my late afternoon walks. And in doing so, collecting a bevy of odd photos, including the dry fish display at Brothers Sushi in Culver City see above.) Mmmmm, unprocessed sushi.

Here are some more...

I had no idea that the new Culver City Platform sits on 

what used to be the historic Hal Roach Studios.

Ahhh, the Little Rascals and my own dysfunctional childhood.

Speaking of the cinematic arts, why was the Ghostbusters

Van parked next to my house? 

Unemployed philosophers? 

Isn't that a tad redundant?

Apparently the one sane critical thinking person

from Mississippi. WTF, indeed.

I don't know why I stopped to photograph a discarded sneaker by a curb.

On the other hand, or foot, why not?

Not only am I fascinated by odd rubbish,

I also have a thing for transformer boxes.

This reads: Lose Your Mind, Find Your Soul.

Another unemployed philosopher?

Found one of Abby's first paintings.

A tree, a house, blue sky, I'll take it.

The manager at the local Goodwill Store

would not sell me this half mannequin.

Maybe that's for the better.

I'm betting students from the ABC Bartending School

have the best graduation parties.

I say this with the greatest respect, "Crazy gentiles."

Same here.

This sauce is Bitchin'.

I've never tasted it, but Ms. Muse confirms,

"It's bitchin'."

Today on Justice Richie

 I'm going to say it. I know many are feeling it, but I'm going to say it.

"I've lost faith in this fellow Jack Smith."

If our democracy rests on the wide and well read shoulders of this jurisprudent lion, then I fear we should be getting our passports ready. Because despite all their hype -- the same kind of hype that preceded Robert Mueller -- I'm not seeing the killer instinct. The unshakable strategy. The necessary fight-fire-with-fire cunning necessary to take down Bloaty McBloatyface.

In Florida, in the open and shut case of STOLLEN (sp) top secret documents, Trump has Judge Cannon wrapped around his tiny grubby fingers. She is an as-of-yet unpaid member of his defense team. And should he prevail in the 2024 election, this mental midget of a judge could very well be donning the robes of a Supreme Court justice.

That's how the game is played: Quid Pro Judge.

In DC, the Insurrection case that is equally a no brainer, the proceedings have ground to a halt because our ex-weasel of a president has managed to have the highest court on Planet Earth hear his claim of Total Immunity. The irony here is that if he succeeds, our current real president will have license (I would argue a duty) to go all Navalny on the twisted Bible salesman.

I'm sorry Jack, but you have come craps so far.

Given my druthers -- which rarely happens -- I would have Fani Willis working both cases. 

She brushed off the BS about her affair with the lead prosecutor, as if we all haven't engaged in some kind of work hanky panky. And, as a result, is even more determined than ever to press her case, complete with smoking gun audio ("I just need you to find me 11,780 votes") onto the docket.

Moreover, she took a different tact. One I wish Jack Smith had employed.

Instead of focusing her sole attention on our esteemed ex-pres/douchebag, she rounded up everyone in his cabal of Russian-fueled traitors. She drew up a massive RICO case. Knowing for one thing that she had the evidence. And for another that there is no honor among thieves or treason weasels.

Sure enough, not long after the indictments were handed out against 19 Co-Conspirators, they started yapping. And folding. And pleading not to be sent to big house and take the fall (like the hillbillies who stormed the Capitol) for the glory of a demented ketchup-thrower.

This was a brilliant move given that 18 of those conspirators didn't have the funds or the legal team to keep kicking the judicial can down then road.

If you ask me, and keep in mind I'm no criminal prosecutor I only play one in my mind and my hastily typo-riddled blog, Jack Smith should start naming names. Unseal those documents and charge:

Rudy Giuliani ("Trial By Combat")

John Eastman

Mark Meadows

Roger Stone

Marjorie Taylor Greene

Lauren Boebert

Lara Trump

Mo Brooks ("Kicking Ass and Taking Names")

...and many many more.

Personally, I don't care if I have to eat kale the rest of my life and cram 5 hours of cardio exercise into everyday of my obsessive existence, I am intent on living long enough to see some fucking accountability here!

Aloha

Like so many things in life, I'm a latecomer to the party. When my kids found out I listen to Pandora Radio there were aghast with Gen X shame. Or Gen Z. Or Gen Y, as is why do we apply these meaningless labels to generations. 

I'm old, so anyone not as old as me is Gen Younger than Shit.

"Dad, you can subscribe to music for $12 bucks a month and get all the music you want."

"Or I can get all the music I want with Pandora and sink those monthly payments into a nice T-bill account with an ROI of over 7%."

Alas, I don't really know what a T bill account is, nor anything about a 7% ROI. Despite my Hebraic Seasonings and our semi-mythical ability to turn a dime into a dollar. Maybe I should start attending the Tuesday Night World Domination meetings again.

We've discussed what I don't know, here's what I do know -- advertising.

And if you listen to Pandora Radio, the free version, you hear a lot of radio ads. 

My friend Claudia will back me on this but radio used to be where copywriters could play. I'll spare you the war/glory stories. But let's just say that today's radio spots -- and it might be because I hear the Tide Lady and that "intercom thingie" spot ALL THE TIME -- really do suck.

But not Hawaiian Airlines!

They catch me every time. And I'll tell you why. 

When I put on Pandora I select Shuffle Stations. There was a time I would listen to Mark Knopfler or Genesis or even Max Richter (even if you ever find yourself in need of sad but beautiful music, Max is your guy) all day. But now I prefer a more eclectic mix before I go all nihilist on myself.

So what did the genii at Hawaiian Airlines do? 

They start every one of their spots with music. It takes me 13-17 seconds before I even realize that I've been listening to a commercial. That's how you blur the lines between "content" and "paid content."

I know I'm a little biased because I happen to love Hawaii. When the kids were young we went almost every year. Maui, the Big Isle and of course, Kauai. They were the perfect place to decompress from the hectic and nonstop hair-on-fire world of Chiat/Day.

And a major part of that Hawaii zeitgeist is the music. The slow, lazy guitars. The unmistakable twang. The easy going nature of melody. These folks had invented soft yacht rock long before Señor Buffet.

As the music comes to the end in the commercial a VoiceOver comes on and with a brevity that speaks of confidence, "Hawaiian Airlines, Hawaii flies with us."

Again, genius. 

This is the equivalent of Adidas' "Impossible is Nothing."

99.9% of the marketing middle managers I have come across, and there were so many at PayPal, would have Tweaked the line to : "Fly with us to Hawaii." 

Or, as one of my former PP bosses, a woman with the creativity of a worn out doorstop, would say to me, "we want to make things clear to our customers. We don't want to confuse them. Let's be straightforward with all our email blasts, banners and referral cards."

Cut to Me, looking over my paycheck stub deposited in my account every two weeks...

"You got it DB."

This is the same woman who raked me over the coals during Covid Times for submitting an email Subject Line that read: 

This sale is even bigger that Nicki Minaj's cousin's swollen testicles.

Come on, who wouldn't open an email with that kind of tease?

Alas, genius is in the details. By transposing the object/subject, the line conveys so much more. It tells the traveler, eager to get off the mainland and breathe in the tropical air warmed by southern hemispheric trade winds, that the Hawaii experience starts long before the wheels go up.

That's marketing. That's knowing what the customer is feeling and acting accordingly.

You got that DB?

He is Rizzing

I'm betting this has happened to all of us. 

You're sitting in a car dealership. Or maybe at Best Buy. Or maybe even stopping in to see an open house in the neighborhood. You meet the salesman/saleswoman/salesperson (this bit of wokeness costs me all of .1 tenth of a second, grow up snowflakes) who has all the right answers. Delivered in all manner of appropriateness.

And then a split second later, you say to your person, or your person, says to you let's get out of here. 

Why, you wonder?

"Why are we leaving?" you say.

"Just because."

"Because, why?" you further.

"I was just getting a bad vibe from this salesperson."

And with that the transaction, or potential transaction is over. And probably rightly so. We all have this innate sense that tells us something just isn't right. And it can be triggered by the most nuanced thing or body cue. It's been my observation that women are much better at picking this up than men, who can still be fascinated by a plastic singing bass. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fkYZ4wTBd8g

For all that keen awareness however, there are still millions of women, and men, and people, who, come this November are willing to pull the lever for the most dangerous, power hungry conman to ever grace (disgrace) the American political stage. And the evidence couldn't be clearer.

But I'm not going to rehash his panoply of prosecutorial missteps. I've done that. pundits have done that. Even President Biden is starting to broadcast the list. 

None of it seems to sway his followers.

Instead I'd like to draw your attention to a recent response he gave regarding Easter, which 1/4 of the world's population celebrated yesterday. As I've made clear in the past, religion means very little to me. I see it for what is was and still is. A tool to wield power over those unwilling to do the critical thinking for themselves.

Nevertheless, if I'm going to be 'woke' with regards to gender fluidity, it's incumbent upon me to be equally respectful of people want to pray to Sky Daddy. Sorry. 

Here, in graphic form is what I'm talking about...

This is coming from the same man who could not/would not, quote a line of scripture from what he calls his FAVORITE book in the world. 

A man who referred to Two Corinthians. 

A man who eschews church going in order to pray at the First Teebox every Sunday. 

A man who paid $130,000 for sex with a pornstar while his wife was nursing his newborn spawn. 

A man who has embraced all 7 of the Deadly sins. And violated, multiple times, many of the Ten Commandments, including the very self-evidentiary "Thou shall not bear False Witness."

The same trading card/sneaker/cologne salesman who is now pimping $60 Bibles. You'd think a Bible Salesman would know what Easter is about. You'd think.

What about it? 

Are you getting that bullshit vibe yet?