Hair today, gone tomorrow

We've (or should that be weave) all seen it by now. The video of the shithole president's hair trying to make its getaway as he boards Air Farce One (spelling intentional).

First the Emperor has no clothes. Now he has no hair.

Naturally, because the fake president is the festering pile of shit he is, we're not laughing with him. We're laughing at him. No one is uttering the phrase "That's unfortunate." or "I feel bad for him." The most telling thing about the video is how after his combover turns into a flyaway, he stops and waves at the top of the stairs as if nothing has happened.

Which is exactly the way he approaches his presidency (throwing up a little just typing "his presidency").

Here's a partial, very partial, list of the things he's done so far:

Stolen a Supreme Court seat.

Robbed the middle class with a tax reform scam.

Cost millions of voters their healthcare.

Obliterated environmental regulations.

Appointed the "best" most unqualified people he can find to his cabinet.

Got rid of net neutrality.

Reversed a rule oil companies had to report payments to foreign governments.

Cancelled a rule saying financial advisors had to act in the best interest of their clients.

Ended a rule allowing consumers to file class-action lawsuits against banks.

Repealed a rule mandating employers keep records of workplace injuries.

Repealed a ban on lead bullets.

Reduced the size of national monuments and parks.

Repealed documents defining rights of students with disabilities.

Canceled public reporting of visitors to the White House.

So much winning.

And after each deplorable act, he smiles and waves as if nothing happened. As if he had a mandate. Like he won the popular vote. After all, that's what stable genius' do.

The good news is by all indications the midterms will be the day of reckoning for this racist, traitorous idiot. And the decades long list of social and global progress he's decimating will be the same list Democrats use as a checklist to restore them one by one.

So there's reason to be slightly optimistic. Because it's my belief that with a Democrat controlled congress in November, if he isn't already removed from office or locked up by then, at least the idea of Trump finishing out his only term will be a lot less hair raising for the rest of us.

Rain on his parade

It's hard to get out of bed every day, knowing there's not a chance you'll escape the ginormous amount of monumental stupidity and ineptness being inflicted daily on our once great nation from the shithole president. Here's the latest: he wants a military parade.

Apparently Toys R Us didn't have life-size toy soldiers, so the fake president has decided to play with the real ones. Allegedly, his reason is so the American people can have the opportunity to show their appreciation for our men and women in the armed services. But back on earth, Mr. Liar Liar Pants On Fire isn't fooling anyone. We all know the real reason is so the military can show him their appreciation, salute Cadet Bone Spurs, and demonstrate their allegiance.

Maybe if just one Democrat had clapped at his state of the union address, even by mistake, we wouldn't be talking about this.

It's hard to imagine another reality-show-star-turned-politician whose ego is so big, and dick is so small, that he feels the only way to make himself feel better is by having tanks and missiles parading down Pennsylvania Avenue.

Of course, knowing what the liar-in-chief's definition of "very fine people" is, I'm sure he feels like he'd be in "good company" if he gets his way and squanders millions of taxpayer (which doesn't include him) dollars and resources on his parade. After all, it's not like that money could be used for anything else like, say, helping homeless veterans get off the streets.

His portrait, once color corrected for his skin tone which is not found in nature, would be perfectly at home in a rogues gallery of leaders who've had military parades. Besides the Charlie Chaplin impersonator at the top, look who else insisted (and in one case still insists) on having them:

In the unfortunate event this exercise in ego inflation comes to pass, which like all sane Americans I'm hoping it doesn't, I'm sure the real warriors, the brave men and women of our armed services, will approach it as professionally and effectively as they approach every mission. Which means as they march past the presidential viewing stand, they'll raise their right hands and salute the orange carpetbagger using all five fingers.

Though my guess is they'll be wanting to use just one.

Hedging my bet

Bruce Springsteen, this up and coming singer I listen to occasionally, put it best: There are nice guys and assholes on every block in America.

Let me put it this way, my neighbors are not the nice guys. I'm not talking about every neighbor on the block, many of whom we have varying degrees of friendly relationships with. I'm talking about my immediate neighbors who live next to us in the very same direction the Wicked Witch was from.

Coincidence? I think not.

There's a long list of intrusions and offenses we've been the recipients of ever since they bought the house next door. Things like them building their deck onto the side of our garage facing their yard. And without asking or mentioning it, painting said garage wall to match the color of their house.

Permission? That's just crazy talk.

I won't bother you with the details of how we found out about it all, but suffice it to say that since we did, lawyers, phone calls, texts and fragile agreements have all been called, made and followed so far.

After two property surveys showing the property lines along our garage were right where we said they were, we've settled for a long term truce and absolutely no relationship with them.

Which is fine by me. Because they're assh...not nice guys.

What makes it so very frustrating, besides the obvious, is before they bought the place we had the best neighbor ever. We loved him, my kids loved him, the American people loved him. Sebastian, if you're reading this, seriously, it's time to buy the house back. Don't make me beg, it's so undignified. But I'll do it if that's what it takes.

I only wish the layout of my house were such that I could trim hedges on my property (if I had them) the way it is in the picture.

It may be a character flaw, but I tend to hold on to things like this. I'm not forgiving when it comes to my garage wall. Ask anyone who knows me.

I'll never understand the point of deliberately doing something you know will result in eliminating any chance of having a neighborly relationship. After all, the only thing separating our house from theirs is a driveway. If they ever needed something done like picking up newspapers or packages while they were away from home, or just wanted someone to keep an eye on the place, we'd be the natural choice as well the closest people to lend a hand.

But after their transgressions and aggression towards us, I can't put into words how badly I'm waiting for the day they come knocking at my door asking for help. Because, you know, being the forgiving, benefit-of-the-doubt-giving, understanding, sensitive to other people's dilemas individual anyone who knows me will tell you I am, I'll be ready with the most charitable answer I can muster in their time of need.

Kiss my hedge.

Burden of proofing

Let's start hear: the word "proofreading" is pretty odd looking isn't itt? In fact if yew didn't know better, you mite say it was misspelled.

One of the occupashunal hazards of posting on a daley blog is that okayshunally a word will be spelled incorrektly.

In the passed two posts I've done, fortunately some of my friends, who I've known since hi skool, have bin kind enough to point this out. And I appreshyate it. After all, who wouldn't like there misteaks annownced on soshall media for the entire wurld too sea?

I know what yoar thinking: with all the detale and akurasee, thiese posts read as if hours of intricate planning and metikulouse reeserch go into them. Well, this might surprize you, but their actually slapped together quite fast most of the tyme. And when I'm wurking that fast to get something posted, even though I do read them seferal times, there'z bound to be an error or two.

I'll keep trying to do my best. What can I say? I'm not purfeckt. But I'm wurking on it.

What game?

I hear there's a game on today. Nah, I'm just messing with ya. I know today is the Super Bowl. Here's the thing: I don't care.

In fact, on of my list of five things I couldn't care less about, four of them are the Super Bowl.

It won't come as a surprise to anyone who knows me, despite my rigorous workout routine of Double-Double's and Neapolitan shakes, that I'm not the sports guy. I'm the movie guy. The theatre guy. The concert guy. The comedy club guy. The TV bingeing guy. The horse racing guy. The car racing guy. The "let's drop everything and go to Vegas" guy.

The football guy? Not so much.

My feeling is every year, Super Bowl Sunday is the best day to do anything else. Between 3:30pm and 7pm, you'll never have a better day to go shopping at the mall. See a movie. Go to Disneyland. Try that restaurant you can never get reservations at. Traffic is non-existent. Crowds disappear. And parking is plentiful.

Of course, because I'm in advertising, there's pressure and a certain amount of obligation to watch the Super Bowl commercials. Every year, ever since the brilliant, industry-changing, Ridley Scott directed Apple 1984 spot, clients blow a shit-ton (technical term) of cash on their Super Bowl spots.

There's a lot of creativity on display. But that's also a lot of cash that could've been better spent much more effectively in any number of different ways. Or maybe not as effectively. As one of my creative colleagues at the agency told me, "Do you have any idea how many banner ads no one looks at that kind of money could buy?"

As I write this, it's about an hour and a half into the game. Here's my take so far:

The Doritos/Mountain Dew spot with Peter Dinklage and Morgan Freeman in a lip-synced rap battle is pretty fun.

The Tide series of spots, with Stranger Things David Harbour show a surprising amount of creativity for a brand not known for it with the premise every ad is a Tide ad.

The Pringles spot with Bill Hader tries way too hard to recreate the success of "Wasssupp!" from a few years ago, only now the word is "Wow!" I think the word is "Yawn."

The Australian Tourism spot with Danny McBride and Chris Hemsworth was going along nicely, until the shot of original Crockadile Dundee star Paul Hogan, who's 78-years old and looks every second of it 'mate.

I'm not offended easily, but in what I believe will be a monumental backfire I'm fairly certain Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. never intended his voice and words to be used selling Dodge RAM trucks.

Obviously I haven't seen them all yet, but I can already tell you my favorite, whether I like it or not, will be the one my agency did (Team player, hello?)

Super Bowl is also where the studios break out trailer premieres for their most anxiously awaited films. It's a testimony to the enormously talented Ron Howard—who was brought in after original directors Phil Lord and Chris Miller were fired with only weeks to go in production—that the Stars Wars movie Solo looks unbelievably awesome.

Who couldn't use a movie where dinosaurs are running amok—again. Thankfully, Juraissic World Fallen Kingdom looks like it's going to fill that vacuum just swell.

Towering Inferno pedigreed Skyscraper with Dwayne Johnson looks like a few hours of mindless fun (just like my high school girlfriend).

That's all I have for now. I'm going to get back to not watching the game and thinking of unencumbered places I can go for the next two hours while it's on.

Right after I don't watch the Justin Timberlake halftime show.

Tony Shalhoub. What do you need, a roadmap?

In the brilliant Coen Bros. film Barton Fink, Barton (John Turturro) asks producer Ben Geisler (Tony Shalhoub) for advice on getting started on the script he's been hired to write. Geisler takes a beat, then says, "Wallace Beery. Wrestling picture. What do you need, a roadmap?"

With apologies to the Coens, I'd paraphrase it to "Tony Shalhoub. Great in everything. What do you need, a roadmap?"

I've been a fan of Shalhoub from the first time I saw him as cab driver Antonio Scarpacci on the sitcom Wings. Like some of the actors I enjoy and admire most—Gene Hackman, Will Patton, J.K. Simmons, Richard Jenkins, Chris Cooper, Tracy Letts, the late great J.T. Walsh and the late great Jon Polito to name a few—Shalhoub is just money in the bank. Regardless of the quality of the material, Shalhoub elevates it.

From Galaxy Quest to The Man Who Wasn't There. Spy Kids to Monk. Men In Black to Nurse Jackie. Big Night to Primary Colors. The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel to Luigi in Cars, he's simply scene-stealing in every project he's in.

What's so impressive is his range of characters, and level of commitment to them. Nuanced, organic, complete, they're at once interesting, compelling and intelligent—even on rare occasions when they're not written that way.

I suppose with a Masters in Fine Arts from Yale, his intelligence has always been on display. Look at the brain on Tony.

Shalhoub also proved he doesn't need words written by a screenwriter to be funny. He had one of the funniest real-life lines ever when he won one of his Emmys for playing Monk, a detective with an obsessive-compulsive disorder.

"To my fellow nominees, whoever they are - I'm not that familiar with their work - I just want to say, there's always next year - except, you know, for Ray Romano."

As the flashy, expensive litigator Reidenschneider in The Man Who Wasn't There, during the trial of Ed Crane (Billy Bob Thornton), Shalhoub is talking to the jury. At one point he says, "He is your reflection."

The same might be said of Tony Shalhoub.

His not so secret identity

He wasn't fooling anyone.

Only someone as quintessentially evil and stupid as Trump would think donning (see what I did there?) a disguise as preposterous as orange skin, yellow hair, fat face and baby hands could hide his true self.

I know I have friends who don't believe in the ongoing battle between good and evil. And if you're one of them, may I direct your attention to the state of the union speech last night.

It was a bunch of cliches that said nothing. A carefully scripted propaganda storm, directed at his base by stoking the fires of racism under the guise of patriotism.

Families who had their children murdered were paraded and exploited to make a false correlation about why the nation is safer without immigrants—by which he meant people of color—from other countries.

A confession of being a man of the people, all people, despite the fact his words and actions for the last year betray that thought, and have sewn nothing but division and invited hate.

Trump, his enabler wife, his idiot children and his oxygen-starved supporters are the embodiment of pure evil.

In this disguise, instead of waving a wand to do his deeds, his tool of choice is a pen to undo all the good his predecessor did. At least for now.

Let's hope Mueller can remove him from office before it's replaced by a button.