The Mooch

I'll just say it. I love the Mooch. But that wasn't always the case.

At first glance, Anthony Scaramucci would seem to be the perfect swamp creature, cut of the same $1000-a-yard cloth as the rest of the scumsuckers who were employed in Cadet Bone Spurs administration. He got his bona fides working for years at Goldman Sachs, who coincidentally issued my Apple credit card. I get 2-3% cash back on every purchase so I have mixed feelings. Plus I grew up with a kid named Steve Goldman. No relation.

I may be getting off track here.

Anyway, Anthony was, as the kids say, money. Just the kind of person the daughter-lovin' traitor-in-chief likes to surround himself with. So for eleven days, Scaramucci was breathing rarified government air at taxpayer's expense as White House Director of Communications.

For all eleven days, I pretty much hated him like I hated anyone who'd support and associate themselves with the unstable genius and his unhinged, self-serving, racist democracy-destroying policies. But the tide started to turn for me on his last day, when he was fired for leveling some choice, well-deserved obscenities at Trump's live-in Secretary of Nazi and human fleshlump Steve Bannon.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Like everyone who's made a quick departure, the Mooch started hitting the talk/news show circuit. Big ships turn slowly, but with each appearance, over time, I began to see his changing opinion about his former boss. It was like watching a flower bloom. It was just that beautiful.

At first, he left the White House but still supported the president.

Then he supported the president, but wished he'd listen to his more experienced advisors.

Let's just skip ahead: now he thinks Trump is a scum-sucking, insane, sex-offending, enemy of all that's good in the world, a gigantic loser and festering piece of shit that needs to go to a Shawshank-like hole cell as soon as humanly possible.

That's an opinion I can get behind. The Mooch has come around, and it's not because it's in vogue. You can tell by watching and listening to him he's seen the light and means what he says. I always try to catch him on Bill Maher or Stephen Colbert. I listen to his podcast. And I imagine with each appearance how pissed his old boss must be.

Plus the man's name is now a universal unit of measure, as in "I have to be out of this apartment in three Scaramucci's!"

So yes, despite the fact he was briefly employed by the worst president in history, his casual dress is Armani and his hair is slicker than an Exxon oil spill, I like the Mooch.

In fact, there's really only one thing that bothers me. Does anyone else see it, or is it just me?

The deep end

It’s always worse when it happens to someone you know.

As if 70 million fellow Americans who still think a nazi-lovin’, race-baitin’, woman-hatin’, name-callin’, orange face-paintin’, con-runnin’, daughter-lustin’, rumor-spreadin', handicapped-mockin’, TV-watchin’, conspiracy theory-spoutin’, covid-ignorin’, dictator-lovin’, baby-handed traitor should be the leader of the free world weren’t enough, come to find out one of them happens to be a friend of mine.

Someone I’ve worked with.

Someone I’ve worked for.

Someone I respect. Strike that. Respected.

I’ve known him almost nine years and in that time we’ve had meals together, fought for great work together and had My Dinner With Andre-esque conversations about things that matter. Although we didn’t get together often, when we did we’d enjoy each other’s company immensely.

One of the things I always liked about him was he never took anything at face value. He always made it a point to take the deep dive, looking into the rest of the story to find out where the truth lived. But going by his Facebook feed the last few months, the truth is just a distant memory. And his deep-diving, fact-finding days are long gone.

The only diving he’s doing now is off the deep end into the cold, cruel, dirty water on the edge of town in Trumpland. I don’t’ even recognize him.

His FB feed is filled with conspiracy theories about the virus (It’s a hoax! The death rate is less than the flu!) and memes about how awful Democrats are, that of course are blatant projections of all the corruption and criminal activity going on in the GOP from the top down. There's no shortage of ramblings about how they're taking away our freedom asking us to wear masks, and a lot of "Mommy I don't wanna! I don't wanna!". And of course, the obligatory "alternative facts" charts showing the crisis isn't as bad as it's being made out to be.

Most surprising are the undisguised racial slur memes against the Vice-President elect. It would all be worth serious discussion if the posts, as crass and ugly as some of them are, were from reliable sources. The ones I've seen are from Breibart, Fox state news, OAN and other extreme right outlets. Apparently serious discussion isn't what he's looking for.

I'll be the first to admit I post quotes, memes and articles that are anti-Trump and anti-Republican. But they're based in fact, sourced reliably, factually accurate and often quite hystically funny, even when they're snarky—which they often are. You're welcome.

He's also posted responses to the many comments he gets about how off base and crazy he is, and his replies usually boil down to "..if we're really friends we can disagree like adults." Well, maybe on some subjects, but not when things like racism and cruelty aren't dealbreakers for him.

So I'm grieving. I'm sad for who he's become, and the friend I've lost. I've never engaged with him on Facebook because he's clearly too far dug in. And by dug in I mean gone. Besides, I've never liked FB fights.

I'll always be a friend to the person he was. I just can't be one to the person he is.

Post haste

Because I yam who I yam (Popeye joke and Thanksgiving joke in the same line - BAM!), I spent more than a little time playing around with—I mean thoughtfully crafting—different catchy names for this post: Stamp Of Approval. Pushing The Envelope. Going Postal. The Postman Cometh. Special Delivery. But then I decided that, like so many things, I should just trust my Jedi instincts and probably go with the first one I thought of. You're welcome.

We're all aware that one of the ways Cadet Bone Spurs tried to rig the election in his orange-faced favor—along with his billionaire friend and hired thug Postmaster General Louis DeJoy (who will soon be DeGone)—was to cripple the capacity of the postal service to deliver mail-in ballots on time by removing mailboxes and letter-sorting machines.

Like everything else he comes up with in that puny brain and touches with those tiny hands, it failed miserably.

But damage has been done. Morale is lower than ever. Postal employees, already overworked and risking their lives during a pandemic, are working even harder and later. The USPS is now over 9 billion dollars in debt and rising fast. Besides thanking our mailman/woman everyday, there isn't much I can do about the first two. But I am doing something about the third.

I went online last week and decided to buy a bazillion sheets of Forever stamps. There's a much bigger selection on the site than at the post office, so I stocked up: plenty of jolly old St. Nick stamps for the mountain of Christmas cards we'll hopefully be sending out. Some smaller denominations to make up the difference between former postage rates and current ones. And a whole lot just for the fun of it.

All to the tune of about $400.

If you know anything about me, and if you don't by now I don't know what else I can do except bring you to my therapy sessions with me, you know I'm a dog person.

Especially if the dog is a German Shepherd.

So it comes as no surprise to anyone that when I saw the sheet of dog stamps that included my favorite breed, I had to fetch them (sorry). What I meant to say was pony up for them. Does that make these stamps a dog and pony show? Discuss.

Of course, I alway like to go for the funny. So any chance I get I try to add a little humor to my envelopes and bring some well-needed joy (what can I say, I'm a giver) whenever possible. I don't waste them paying bills or answering mail surveys or any mailing I'm sure will be opened by machine. But on those occasions when I know my correspondence will be opened and read by a friend or at least delivered by a human, the Sesame Street stamps above and these wascally wabbit Bugs Bunny stamps fit the bill.

The Count is my favorite character on the Street, but sadly there isn't even vone! sheet of stamps dedicated solely to him. So I got the ones with all the characters. I figured what the hell, at least I don't have to hear Elmo laugh.

And since I grew up on Warner Bros. cartoons—my favorites were the Rabbitt season!/Duck season! battles between Bugs and Daffy Duck, I'd have to be looney tunes not to have bought them. See what I did there?

For my more serious scribblings, and because I love almost everything having to do with space travel, I also ordered the insipiring First Moon Landing stamps. And when serious words cross over to somber, the envelopes get the JFK-in-thoughtful-repose treatment.

I don't collect stamps, but I do enjoy them. Always have. In fact I've written about them on here before.

Anyway, I'd like to encourage you, all nine readers, to remember the joy and surprise of getting a letter from a friend or loved one. A postcard from a foreign land (for the last eight months that'd be anyplace outside your house). Put yourself on an email diet, and start writing actual letters again. They'll be more meaningful, plus you'll have time to think about what you're writing before you hit send. And by hitting send I mean dropping it in the mailbox. If your mailbox wasn't removed by DeJoy.

While you're at it be sure to buy lots of stamps at USPS.com to support the postal service. After all, they're the fine people (not on both sides) who played a huge, instrumental part in saving democracy and delivering the millions of ballots that made sure the Traitor-In-Chief didn't get a second term.

And in my book, that alone makes them a first-class operation.

Elephant in the room

This will come as a shock, but even in the halcyon days before Covid, going to the dentist was never on my short list of favorite things. It ranked slightly above getting a colonoscopy and just below hearing the Facts Of Life theme song.

But ask anyone who knows me, and right after they stop laughing they’ll tell you I’m nothing if not an overachiever. And because I am, unlike mere mortals I need to have my teeth cleaned three times a year instead of the usual two.

One of those appointments came up back in May. My dentist’s office called to ask if I was going to be comfortable coming in, and I assumed she was asking because of Covid and not my usual bad attitude towards having a strangers hands messing around in my mouth.

I told her, for both reasons, I was not.

So we postponed the appointment a few months, even though I knew full well because I was missing it the next cleaning was going to involve x-rays, extra scraping, maybe a transfusion and definitely smelling salts.

When it came time to face the music last month, I was still apprehensive because of Covid, but I also didn’t want my teeth to wind up looking like Austin Powers’.

As I arrived I was relieved to see my dentist was following strict Covid protocols. I couldn’t just walk in, I had to call from outside and let him know I was there.

Once inside, I had to answer a short questionnaire, using a clean pen, and then had my temperature taken. I was walked back to the hygienist’s area and directed to the chair. That’s when I saw it: the elephant in the room.

The rather unattractive piece of technology you see up top here is referred to as The Elephant. It’s an industrial grade air filter that sucks the air down the tube before any particles of anything have a chance to go anywhere—like into your nose or mouth.

They placed it literally a quarter inch from my mouth. It was extremely loud but strangely reassuring (just like my high school girlfriend).

My hygienist was wearing two masks, gloves and a face shield. She also pointed out that of the two of us, she was the one more in danger of being exposed to something since my yap was wide open the whole time.

Anyway, the Elephant did a swell job, and I left the office without catching anything except a case of pearly whites. My next daring deed will be masking up and returning to my acupuncturist.

For a long list of reasons, I’m hoping there are no needles called The Elephant in his office.

He has my vote

Like many of you, and by many I mean the nine people that read this blog on a semi-regular basis, and by semi-regular basis I mean you forgot to empty the cache and it came up again accidentally, I thought this day would never get here.

Election day. It's the one we've been waiting four extremely unpleasant years for.

But it's here now, and it's our last chance to replace the racist, lying, misogynistic, name-calling, Big Mac-grazing, nazi-loving, pussy-grabbing, Covid-spreading, division-stoking, dictator-fawning, deficit-raising, veteran-hating, democracy-killing, adderall-fueled, festering piece of shit occupying the White House with someone who deserves to be there.

Someone with a moral compass and an innate sense of right and wrong.

Someone with intelligence that rises to the job and being leader of the free world.

Someone who in times of severe hardship and sacrifice—say a war or a pandemic—we can trust will have our best interests at heart and will act accordingly.

Someone who won't be laughed at every time they're on the world stage.

Someone who will surround themself with a cabinet of intelligent, non-yes men and women (no-men?) instead of swamp-residing, just-crawled-out-from-under-a-rock grifters looking to line their pockets on the taxpayer's dime.

Someone whose kids don't kill wild, endangered species for sport and aren't second-generation festering pieces of shit.

Someone we can respect.

That's why I'd like more than anything to cast my vote for Josiah Bartlet. I'd like to, but I can't.

On the off chance you don't know, Barlet is the fictional president played by Martin Sheen on The West Wing, which it so happens the wife and I have been bingeing for a while now (we're on season 4, episode 17). He possesses all the above mentioned positive qualities, as well as a wicked sense of humor, laser-focus and a keen analytical mind. It sounds great, amIrite?

And while I'm sad I can't vote for Josiah Bartlet, I'm happy I've already cast my vote for Joe Biden and Kamala Harris.

During primary season, Biden wasn't my first choice, he was my fifth. I imagine that's true for a lot of people. My dream ticket was Harris/Buttigieg. Or Warren/Buttigieg. Or Sanders/Buttigieg. Or Buttigieg/Yang. But Biden brings with him the experience, the leadership, the compassion and the decency we've lost as a country. It will take decades to undo the damage the unstable genius has done, but Biden has a roadmap to get there.

Plus instead of a simpering suck-up who looks at him with moony-moon eyes and a schoolgirl crush, in Kamala Harris Biden has a Vice President more than qualified for the job, a trusted advisor and someone who won't be afraid to speak up when she disagrees with policy.

So today I'm going to try as hard as I can to stay away from all the election news—it'll go on for days and months, I'm sure I'll hear about it. Instead I'll be spending my spare time watching more episodes of The West Wing. Because while Aaron Sorkin's stellar, rapid-fire dialogue and precision writing gives me a benchmark to aspire to (you know I can hear you laughing, right?), in each and every episode, and on this day especially, it also gives me something else I've missed terribly and need desperately.

Hope.

Well well it's Adele

Some days, this whole "work from home" thang is extremely productive for me. From the minute I hit the keyboard in the morning until I close up shop at night, my fingers are flying fast and furious writing spellbinding, innovative, entertaining and motivating copy that sells the spectacular printers, scanners and projectors made by the global technology company I work for.

Afterwards, at the end of the day as the sun takes its bow and gives way to the coming night, a feeling of great satisfaction and accomplishment washes over me, and a smile slowly dials its way up to full brightness as I bask in the glow of a job very well done.

That's some days. Today wasn't one of them.

Instead, today was the other kind—the one where, despite my best efforts, my mind has a mind of its own and decides to be a few miles south of focused as we spiral down a YouTube rabbit hole for hours on end and see where it takes us.

Those days hit every creative person I know. And I think I speak for all of us when I say that when it happens, the best thing to do is just buckle up and go along for the ride.

For some reason, probably because she hosted Saturday Night Live last week, Adele was on my mind. There was a sketch on the show spoofing The Bachelor, and at the end of it Adele starts singing while she walks off the stage and into the audience. It was a great, unexpected moment—especially for the audience.

I'd never describe myself as an Adele fan, but every time I hear her sing I'm dumbstruck at how stunningly beautiful her voice is. And even moreso by how effortless she is in her performance. She doesn't need to go through wild gyrations, have two dozen backup dancers, recorded backup vocals or a blinding laser light show. All she needs to do is stand there, share her gift and belt out her songs in that voice I can't seem to get enough of.

Okay, so maybe I am an Adele fan.

The song in the video up top, When We Were Young, is one of my favorites and a great example of the kind of performance I'm talking about.

I'd also forgotten about it, but today in my YouTube travels I was reminded Adele is also a bawdy Englishwoman with a cheeky sense of humor. I rediscovered a video I'd seen a few years ago of her auditioning at an Adele impersonator contest in disguise. It's funny, poignant and generous of her as the women she's auditioning with are obviously die-hard fans and slowly realize who one of their competitors is.

But then again, once you hear that voice—Hello—it's hard not to.

Encore post: This is what advertising is like

A lot of people have asked me what advertising is like. And it's hard to put into words, especially when you're trying to explain it to working professionals who have to dress like adults, keep regular hours and actually show something for their efforts at the end of the day.

I wrote this little gem almost eight years ago as a way to try to explain what working in the ad biz is like. It captures it fairly well.

So keep your hands and arms inside the basket, buckle your seat belt and enjoy the ride.

So many metaphors, so little time.

Not too long ago, 20 people boarded the Windseeker ride at California's other amusement park, Knott's Berry Farm. It takes riders up 300 feet, spins them around, takes their breath away and then lowers them safely back to the ground. All in about three minutes start to finish.

I have a big appreciation for things that take 3 minutes start to finish.

Anyway, that particular day was a little different than every other day because the riders got stuck at the top for over three hours until ride mechanics rescued them.

This is exactly what advertising is like.

At first you're whisked away to dizzying heights, and what with big production budgets, location shoots, vendor lunches, comp subscriptions and days at a time out of the office, the view is spectacular. In fact, you can't see another job you'd want for miles and miles.

You start to think it'll be like that every time, but then one day you get stuck. Fighting for the work. Fighting for the budgets to execute the work you've been fighting for. Fighting the client to get them down to one thought instead of ten in a :30 second spot.

The bad news is no one's coming to rescue you. You have to do that yourself.

It often involves getting off one ride and hopping on another. And another. And another.

It's an odd way to manage a career (pause for laughs for using the word "career"), yet it's just standard operating procedure.

Besides, when it comes to amusement, you can't beat it.