The midnight hour

It sounds like something out of science fiction, but sadly it's not. The Doomsday Clock.

The DC is a symbolic clock face kept by the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists that has the joyful job of counting down the minutes to a worldwide catastrophe. Events like that can be caused by more things than anyone's comfortable with.

At the top of the list is global nuclear war, but ever since 2007, climate change is also up there.

Currently, the clock is set at three minutes to midnight, where it's been for the last couple years. That's alarmingly close, considering way back in 1991 it was set at seventeen minutes to midnight, the furthest it's ever been since its inception. That was because the US and USSR had signed the Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty (START), and in December of that year the Soviet Union was dissolved along with much of the threat.

But as Bob Dylan said, the times they are a changin'.

Nowadays (I'm bringing that word back), seems like every country regardless of size either has or is working on developing a device. The world's an increasingly dangerous place. Sure, you could get hit by a car crossing the street, but at least you wouldn't take the other three billion people with you.

But just for fun, let's say, hypothetically, between the Science and Security Board's last meeting to set the clock and their next one, we elected a temper-mentally, judgmentally, thin-skinned, ignorant, vindictive, arrogant, stupid, childish, unqualified individual for President. Someone who has no control over what comes out of his mouth, and complete control of the nuclear arsenal.

It's a scary thought, right?

In a scenario like that, it's fair to assume the scientists might tick the clock forward a minute or two, since a President like that would definitely be, without putting too much hyperbole on it, a threat to our very existence.

For all our sakes, let's hope the big hand on the clock stays where it is, or even pray for some development that allows it to move backwards a few minutes.

Because while the clock itself is metaphorical, the danger is very real.

The race is on

As of noon today, Donald Trump joined the President's Club. I know, I've been nauseous all day too. And as if that weren't enough to make you throw up like Mr. Creosote, this ignorant, unqualified, cesspool of a human being holds the fate of the entire world population in his tiny little baby hands.

Of course I speak of the nuclear codes. Boom.

This means that if someone tweets something he doesn't like, looks at him the wrong way, insults him somehow, his tiny little fuse (which came as a set with his hands) might go off. Then, with absolutely no checks or balances, he could launch a nuclear strike against them.

As if that weren't scary enough, Trump decided to raise the stakes by saying more countries should go nuclear. The more the better. With complete ignorance of policy, protocol, precedent, strategy or capability, Trump encouraged a nuclear arms race with the same tone you'd use to get people to join in a game of tag—except in this game you don't want to be it. This casual, uninformed attitude can't help but beg the question Tom Lehrer is asking in the above video.

Anyway, it's a done deal now. As I write this, Trump is at one of three inaugural balls he's attending tonight with his mail-order bride Melania, enjoying their first dance to the tune of Sinatra's "My Way."

While the rest of us are left with "Gimme Shelter."

Annie was wrong

I don't know if you've heard, but tomorrow is the inauguration of the 45th President of the United States.

Unfortunately, much to the dismay of most of the civilized world, and over half and rising of voters here in America, it seems that in this election cycle, in what can only be described as a freak accident, Donald Trump will be sworn in to the highest, most powerful office in the world.

Let that sink in for a minute.

Tomorrow. That's when it all happens. I'm sorry, I want so much to share her optimism and believe Annie when she says the sun'll come out tomorrow. But I just can't find any reason to. In my heart I believe, as I imagine does every person burdened with conscious and a sense of right and wrong, that the sun won't come out tomorrow.

In fact, just the opposite.

I believe we're going to be plunged into an era of political and dictatorial darkness, where all the progress made over the last fifty or so years—certainly the last eight—will be reversed by the most mentally, intellectually, experientially, temperamentally, judgmentally and morally unqualified person to ever hold the office, along with his band of equally corrupt billionaire friends.

It's a con inside a sham inside a fraud.

The idea by his supporters that this narcissistic, money-grubbing, self-centered, thin-skinned, selfish, crass, tasteless, indecent, disgusting, offensive billionaire has any concern for them is the greatest trick of all time. But then you know what they say:

So while the sun may not come out tomorrow, protesters around the world will. I plan to join them, to be part of the resistance to the ugliness that already is the Trump administration.

With any luck, the next four years that start tomorrow will only seem like a couple months at best. And if we're really lucky, and congress and reasonable Republicans come to their senses, maybe that's all it will be.

That's when the sun'll come out again.

Bombs away

It doesn't take much to figure out what the incoming administration's foreign policy will be.

Speak loudly, in incomplete sentences that make no sense, repeat words like "tremendously" and "bigly" several times, make it sound like total gibberish and carry a big stick.

If you can lift it with those tiny baby hands.

It's clear that with this dipshit elect we're stuck with, whoever looks at us the wrong way, or tweets something he doesn't like is going to get what's coming to them. There's nothing subtle about it. It's right there in the open, almost mob-like in its approach.

"Hey Angela Merkel, noticed you didn't agree with me on Paris climate change agreement. You know, Germany's a nice country. Be a shame somethin' happened to it."

He's a humorless, thin-skinned bully and a thug. And his sons Uday and Qusay are no better.

What I find interesting is way back in 1972, whether it was a premonition, prediction or some other word that starts with a "P", Randy Newman called it. Forty-five years ago he basically laid out in song what the dipshit elect's foreign policy is going to look like.

Back then it was a funny, harmless, politically astute song with a catchy melody that had anyone who heard it singing along on the first listen.

I've seen Randy Newman many times over the years, everywhere from the Troubadour to Royce Hall at UCLA. I've always loved him, and it's still a great song.

It's just not so funny anymore.

Enjoy the ride

If you only had seven days to live, what would you be doing right now? No really, I'm asking.

We're one week away from having the most mentally, intellectually, temperamentally, morally and experientially unqualified person inaugurated as President of the United States.

As you know, besides the big plane, freeway closings, a 24/7 kitchen and great seats at the Kennedy Center (well, maybe not this time), one of the perks of the job is he's the keeper of the nuclear codes, and can launch those suckers anytime he wants at anyone he wants completely unchecked.

He doesn't need congressional approval.

Doesn't have to consult with anyone.

He doesn't even need a witness in the room when he turns the key, or presses the button, or puts his hand on the scanner, or pulls the string or whatever the fuck he does to make it happen.

What could possibly go wrong?

Put the codes together with a thin-skinned, temperamental, vengeful, eighth-grade bully like the one we somehow find ourselves with, and soon every day is going to feel like the fourth of July. Or at least the last one will.

Just want to remind everyone, especially the people who voted for him, that your candidate is someone who's asked several times why, if we have nuclear weapons, can't we use them. It was explained to him each time he asked, but he still kept asking.

I'm not a scientist, but I know for a fact all the people who put on their "I'm with stupid" t-shirts, shitkicker shoes and hopped in their pickups to drive to the polling place and vote for him will vaporize just as quickly as the rest of us.

Maybe faster if you take the moonshine into consideration.

But don't let any of that worry you. In fact, let me give you the same advice about the incoming administration I'd give you about the Matterhorn at Disneyland.

Enjoy the ride. It won't last long.

Soir Bleu

I've written here before about my love for Edward Hopper-esque paintings. But as Marvin Gaye would be the first to tell you, there ain't nothin' like the real thing.

There are so many Hopper portraits of lonely, isolated people unable to connect with themselves or anyone else, staring out windows or alone in a crowd at diners, it's hard to zone in on any one in particular (although for me, Nighthawks will always be the benchmark).

I'm not sure why I'm so drawn (SWIDT?) to these pictures, but I am.

Years ago the wife and I saw a Hopper exhibit at the Whitney in New York. It's one of the best exhibitions I've ever been to, and definitely my favorite (yes I look at other things besides comic book art).

Anyway, for some reason I was in a Hopper mood today, started going through his paintings and came across this one I'd forgotten about: Soir Bleu. Or as we say in English, Blue Night.

I don't know what to love about it first. The devastatingly sad and defeated clown (worked with him), as far from comical and funny as he could be. The far eastern lamps, swaying ever so slightly in the breeze. The eclectic cast of characters dining with and around the clown, including the man behind the post who looks suspiciously like Vincent Van Gogh.

Here is one of my favorite descriptions of what Hopper is trying to convey:

Soir Bleu is a vivid and monumental work painted in 1914, almost four years after Hopper's last sojourn in Paris. Its grand scale is an indication of how strong an impression Parisian life had made on the young Hopper.

At home in his New York studio, he created this melancholy allegory from reminiscences partly literary, partly art historical, and certainly personal. The artificiality of Soir Bleu is inevitable and intentional.

Hopper, as dramatist, has assembled a cast of characters and traditional types that play out timeless roles of courtship, solicitation, and tragic self-isolation. One of these characters is described in a preliminary drawing with a note, the shadowy isolated figure of the procurer seated alone at left. Hopper has also included a classically attired clown in white, a military officer in formal uniform, a bearded intellectual in a beret, perhaps an artist, and a well-dressed bourgeois couple. Standing beyond the balustrade, as though presiding over this mixed company, is a haughty beauty in gaudy maquillage, her painted face demanding attention in the brilliant glow of oriental lanterns in the cool blue night.

In Soir Bleu, we witness Hopper's early attempt to create, rather than merely record, a sophisticated, anti-sentimental allegory of adult city life. Back in America many years later, he would stage the masterpiece Nighthawks (1942) with all the worldly reality he sought in Soir Bleu but was too young to make emotionally convincing. However, this major early painting gives a clear indication of Hopper's enormous ambition for his art.

Now I realize no one comes to this blog for a discussion about the meaning of art, its nuances or relevance to the current culture. In fact I'm not sure why anyone comes to this blog at all. My guess is it's a combination of typing errors and glitchy routers.

Nonetheless, occasionally I like to take a break from writing snarky posts, agency bashing and random rambling and appreciate the inspiring, creative genius of true masters like Hopper.

You might be concerned about the fact I'm attracted to paintings that leave me feeling melancholy, depressed and isolated. Don't be.

I work in advertising. I'm used to it.

850

Break out the champagne, drop the balloons and cue the DJ. This post right here you're feasting your eyes on is my 850th blogpost. Well, 850th published one.

Like all bloggers, I have a whole slew of drafts and false starts—over 70 of 'em—that, for one reason or another I didn't deem particularly post worthy. They have titles like "The creepy clown" "Jasper is enough" and "I'll have what he's having."

Maybe they were too long. Too short. Too bad. Too late. Too serious. Too light. Too revealing. Too sexy (always a problem). Too similar. Too repetitive. Too likely to get me sued. Too poorly written. I know what you're thinking: "I've been following you for a while. Since when is 'poorly written' a criteria?"

OK smartass. Let's talk about it after I see your 850 posts.

The point is at least I have some kind of filter. Occasionally though, shields are down, my judgement is off and something gets put up here that shouldn't be. But thankfully I have a support system of several other exceptional writer friends that let me know immediately when they think I've crossed a line and should take a post down. Sometimes they're gone before you even know they've been there.

The posts, not the writers.

The other thing is 850 may not be a big number to other, more prolific writers (which would be about all of them). But it's my number and I'm happy about it.

Any writer will tell you filling the page can be challenging. But I have a feeling I'm going to have plenty of things to write about for the next four years. Or with any luck, the next two.

In the meantime, stay tuned for 851. I don't know when it'll be here, but I hear it's going to be worth the wait.