Facebook COVID-19 - We're Never Lost If We Can Find Each Other

Red State Blue State: State of the Pandemic

There seems to be a trend emerging out there. Republicans are feeling negative about the sustainability of social distancing. Democrats are advocates. My modest proposal is this:
Red States should throw caution to the wind, let the weak perish (and the strong who can't get care), then let the virus take its course, hoping that those who survive will have immunity, or at least lower susceptibility. On the other hand, Blue states should follow the extreme social distancing advice of health experts and try to flatten the curve, giving more time to build healthcare resources, and develop new treatments and vaccines.
Will the Red states be right?
Or will nobody be left?

Will there be a Pandemic of Guilt among our leaders?

     My father died at the age of 59, during the Hong Kong influenza pandemic of 1968-69.
He wasn't the only one who died of the flu that year. Though it wasn't a particularly virulent strain, it was strong enough to kill my father and millions (yes, millions) of others.

     I didn't forgive myself for many years, because I believed he caught it from me.

     Right before Christmas of '68,  I was hitchhiking from my college in Massachusetts to my home in Connecticut. That's what college kids did back then. It was my first year away from home, and I wasn't feeling well. I was anxious to get back for a little rest, relaxation and home cooking.

     My first ride took me as far as Hartford, about halfway home. As luck would have it,  I spent an hour thumbing for a second ride, to no avail. I was feeling cold, tired and sick. I found a phone booth and gave my parents a call.  They quickly agreed to drive up to get me on that gray December afternoon.
   
     In the days following my return home, I slowly began to feel better. However, st the same time my father caught a nasty cold that he couldn't seem to shake. After a few days he refused to eat or drink anything. His thinking was confused at times. But my father, who suffered from dangerously high blood pressure and other heart issues from childhood scarlet fever,  begged us not to send him to the ER. My mother decided to give it another day. Late that same afternoon my father fell into a deep sleep.  I was reading in my bed when I heard a terrible bang come form my parents' bedroom, followed by my father moaning in pain. I rushed in to find him on the floor, bleeding. He had, in his delirium, fallen out of bed and hit his head on the wall. We called an ambulance. My father was rushed off to the hospital.

     He improved a bit after IV fluid therapy, but his fever was still there. Reluctantly, I returned to college. My father remained in the hospital. After two months of ups and downs,  rounds of antibiotics, false hopes and false alarms,  I got "the call."  My mother told me my father was barely conscious and that he had been given the last rites of the Catholic Church. I rushed home, thinking over and over again on the bus ride, he got this damn flu from me.

    My father died on March 1, 1969.  "Complications of the flu" was listed on his death certificate. For 50 years, my guilt gnawed  at me.  Strangely,  the current Covid-19 pandemic has helped me come to terms with this guilt.
 
      l had never before realized there was a flu pandemic going on until I recently read about the four great pandemics of the 20th century.  I now know that the virus was all around my family. Some people got it, others did not.  My mother never got sick. I became mildly ill. But along with millions of others, my poor father died.

     Back then there was no large scale testing, no stockpiling of equipment or drugs in preparation for a pandemic.  No call for social distancing.  It was a different time and place than today. So after all those years I've finally forgiven myself.

     But today, as we face the coronavirus, we DO have the testing, but not enough. We DO have the experts, whose warnings were ignored. We DO have the social distancing rules, which are often not heeded by those who feel invulnerable. Will our leaders be able to forgive themselves for doing so little so late?  Will our people be able to forgive themselves if they ignore social distancing and someone they love dies?  Only time will tell if there will be a Pandemic of Guilt.


   

Coronavirus

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Religious_views_of_Charles_Darwin#/media/File:Charles_Darwin_by_Julia_Margaret_Cameron_3.jpg
We need to rebuild our public health system, so this doesn't happen again. Watch for op ed from Senator Chris Murphy, (D-CT) for brilliant assessment of the problem. Blue states should secede.  Idiotic Trump-following autocrats should be encouraged to keep ignoring science, so they can all win Darwin awards, Very very prestigious!

"Panic" early can actually slow down pandemic

https://youtu.be/e2Kga5HeAqk

An open letter to President Obama

Dear President Obama,
I ask you, where is our Roosevelt? Our Churchill? We need inspiring leadership in this crisis. Inspiration is what we need to quell the tide of fear. Where is our Gettysburg Address. Our Ask Not speech. Our nothing to fear but fear itself speech. Our I have seen the mountaintop speech?  Our Yes we can? President Obama, you were born (in America) to greatness. Please come forward and inspire us today. We can't wait for November.  We don't need you to be our president.  But we do need you to be our leader.

The New American Preamble

𝓜𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓹𝓮𝓸𝓹𝓵𝓮 

𝓸𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓤𝓷𝓲𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓢𝓽𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓼 

𝓲𝓷 𝓞𝓻𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓽𝓸 𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓶 𝓪 𝓤𝓷𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓪𝓽 𝓯𝓮𝓮𝓭𝓼 𝓶𝔂 𝓮𝓰𝓸 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓯𝓲𝓷𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓲𝓪𝓵 𝓰𝓪𝓲𝓷, 𝓸𝓫𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓾𝓬𝓽 𝓙𝓾𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓬𝓮, 𝓲𝓷𝓼𝓾𝓻𝓮 𝓭𝓸𝓶𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓬 𝓓𝓲𝓼𝓬𝓸𝓻𝓭, 𝓹𝓻𝓸𝓿𝓲𝓭𝓮 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓪 𝓬𝓸𝓶𝓶𝓸𝓷 𝓕𝓮𝓷𝓬𝓮, 𝓭𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓻𝓸𝔂 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓦𝓮𝓵𝓯𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓽𝓮, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓼𝓮𝓬𝓾𝓻𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓑𝓪𝓷𝓲𝓼𝓱𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓸𝓯 𝓛𝓲𝓫𝓮𝓻𝓽𝔂 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓶𝔂𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓶𝔂 𝓟𝓸𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓸𝓻, 𝓭𝓸 𝓸𝓻𝓭𝓪𝓲𝓷 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓪𝓫𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓱 𝓽𝓱𝓲𝓼 𝓝𝓮𝔀 𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓽𝓾𝓽𝓲𝓸𝓷 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓤𝓷𝓲𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓢𝓽𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓼 𝓸𝓯 𝓣𝓻𝓾𝓶𝓹.

Eve of Destruction

For all you animal lovers, this is the loveliest video in years...
Posted by Dawn Whitehouse on Sunday, February 17, 2013

Happy St Patty's Day

Why traditional brainstorming doesn't work

http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2012/01/30/120130fa_fact_lehrer?currentPage=all

2 questions about the Govt Shutdown

 1. Will we still be able to fire missiles?  2. If so, can we strap members of the tea party to them?

This guy saved me the trouble of trying to write a Raven parody of my own

'The Ravens' (with apologies to Edgar Allan Poe)

Cat on a hot tin heat register

Bruce Springsteen: THIS LAND IS YOUR LAND

Hallelujah best version eva

Low T?

Remember when you’d start a fight with someone for absolutely no reason at all?

Have sex with anything that moved?

Remember those wonderful days when you’d use an assault weapon to cut down small trees in your yard?

Get into a screaming match with your best friend over a baseball stat.

And regularly drive at speeds over 100 miles an hour.  Drunk.  

Remember when you loved blood, guts and gore in movies? And in real life.

And you supported any American war for any reason.

Well, if you’re starting to notice you’re engaging in hostile, high-risk behaviors less and less these days, don’t worry. 

It may not be because you’re getting older, or starting to grow a brain.

You could be suffering from an easy-to-treat syndrome  - Low T!

Low T affects millions of American men over the age of 40.  
So why not get it checked out? 

After all, you’ve got a neighbor who always parks way too close to your driveway who's just waiting to be hit with a ball peen hammer!

Harry Reid Says ‘Childish’ Eric Cantor Shouldn’t Be At The Negotiating Table

Harry Reid Says ‘Childish’ Eric Cantor Shouldn’t Be At The Negotiating Table: ABC News' Sunlen Miller (@SunlenMiller) reports: And the budget battle continues on the Hill today. Following a testy exchange at the White House last night between House Majority Leader Eric Cantor, R-Va.,  and President Obama, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid, D-Nev., said today that Cantor...

God bless our second amendment right to drive a tank!

The analogy goes something like this: Cars are dangerous. But if we license them and test our drivers, we'll be safe. Guns are dangerous. But if we license them and test our shooters, we'll be safe.  Yeah, but look at all the military grade guns that are available for licensing! We don't let people drive tanks on the streets. I want a tank, so when some drunk swerves into my lane, I can just blow him away! Please contact your elected rep to lobby for your second amendment right to drive a tank on the street!

Sympathy for the devil. None for us.

The Stones hit it on the head.  "I shouted out who killed the Kennedys when after all it was you and me." And it was us in every mass shooting in America, because we haven't taken action on gun control.  Sure the gun control issue is "complex." Lucifer is a complex guy.  But I have no sympathy for him, nor anyone who sits back on this issue. Please keep up the pressure on your elected officials to stop the madness.

Ban Republiguns

Well here they go again. Let's not tax the rich. Let's let ordinary people "pack heat."  My father was an elected Republican alderman and HR director for the legendary Winchester rifle company. I spent some time as  kid around their shooting range - and worked summers in their shipping department. I know he would never ever have supported the right of ordinary citizens to carry assault weapons, nor do I. But so many of today's Republicans just don't seem to get it.  They don't understand that the overwhelming majority of Americans want to tax the wealthy more, and take away these deadly assault weapons.  That's why I'm not just in favor of banning guns. I'm actually in favor of banning Republicans. Or maybe they should just call themselves what they really are - Ridiclicans -  or Stupidlicans.  Oh, well, it's only a matter of time before they implode from the massive force of the public will and common sense.

Sir John Hegarty at the BBH Seminar at Cannes Lions 2011

Haggis

A Martha’s Vineyard Night of Single Malt Whiskey, Robert Burns’ Poetry, Fine
Cigars, and an Oozing Mass of Sheep Entrails Called Haggis.



Anybody can learn how the Scots developed Scotch whiskey.  I now know why
they invented it.  This I learned while vacationing with friends on Martha’s
Vineyard.
It all began when we visited the Scottish Bakery on that lovely isle that
must have so reminded its Scottish settlers of their homeland.  Upon
entering the charming little cottage bakeshop, my friend Sherwood, his funny
bone honed on classic ‘70’s Saturday Night Live, couldn’t resist asking the
question of the matronly woman behind the counter:
Got any haggis?
For those of you unfamiliar with Dan Aykroyd’s Scottish restaurant routine,
haggis is the Scottish national dish.  The culinary equivalent of the
bagpipe.  A bloated sheep gut, stuffed with the innards of said beast.
Haggis. Living proof that the Scots make better chieftains than chefs. And a
very a good reason why there are no Scottish restaurants dotting America’s
highways.  (No, MacDonalds’s does NOT qualify as a Scottish restaurant.)
There was nothing in that lovely bakeshop filled with butter-engorged
pastries and cookies that could have prepared us for that gray-haired
shopkeeper’s answer.  Certainly the scone-laden glass cases before us only
served to bolster my friend’s smug expectation of a resounding “nay” to his
haggis question.  But the woman paused, then looked up at him, beaming with
Scottish pride. “Oh yes, we just got in some freshly-made haggis this
morning!  Would you like a large or a small?”

My friend hesitated for a moment, first looking at me, then at his younger
brother.
At this point, there was no backing down.
“Uh, there are a lot of us. I think we probably need a large,” his brother
volunteered.
And so the woman scurried into the back room, emerging moments later with a
basketball-sized lump the grim color of uncooked dough.  Sutures snaked
around it, giving it a Frankenstein-like appearance.  Was that blood I
detected oozing from the stitches?  Mmmmmm.  Haggis.
On the ride back to our beach house in Tisbury, I mentioned that, of
course, the haggis would make a great joke.  We would carry it home,
frighten the bejesus out of the womenfolk and the wee ones, then deposit
this gigantic Scottish meatball where it would do no harm.  In the trash.
OK, people are starving all over the world.  But surely even they would
readily reject this nightmare dish from the Scottish highlands.  Give us the
Yankee bean soup, but please, no haggis!
My friend seemed hurt by my attitude.  He indicated that not only was he
fully prepared to cook the thing, he also planned to partake of it.  In
fact, he officially proclaimed Thursday night would be “Scottish Night” at
our previously idyllic summer compound.  After all, hadn’t we done a Mexican
Night.  An Italian Night.  Why not a Scottish Night?
Fine.  But I’ll have no part of it laddie, I swore.
However, as the day of the proposed haggis feast approached, I found myself
slipping into the spirit of the adventure.  What the hell, we’re on
vacation.  Live dangerously.  How bad can it be?  You were afraid to try
sushi, and look how much you like that.  You eat Italian sausage.  For god’s
sake, you eat hot dogs!!  Surely they’ve got worse stuff in them than
haggis.
These rationalizations were working well. Then I opened the refrigerator
and saw the haggis lying there under the harsh refrigerator light.  Tiny
beads of condensation had formed on it, due to the high humidity and nonstop
door opening by the kids.  My background in food photography taught me that
condensation can make food look fresh and appetizing.  This was not the case
with the haggis.  The droplets made it look...slimy.  No doubt about it, the
haggis was sweating.  I closed the refrigerator door quickly.
Can’t you put that thing someplace else, I asked my friend.  Like in the
freezer. Or at least cover it with tin foil. He looked at me incredulously.
Why would I freeze it now?  We’re going to eat it tomorrow.  Besides, it has
to properly congeal.
Enough is enough.  This had been  a perfectly wonderful vacation.  Now
thoughts of the impending haggis were beginning to invade my day.  Well, I
simply won’t be part of this, I reaffirmed.  You can eat haggis to your
heart, liver and kidneys’ content.  I for one will keep my contribution to
Scottish Night on a much more civilized level -- with a single malt Scotch,
some good cigars, and a little Robbie Burns poetry.
The morning of our Scottish Night feast the men all began to talk like
groundskeeper Willie, “Excuse me, lassie, but co’ ya please pass the Froot
Loops?  The wee one wants mair.”  “Wud ya lak me to go to the store now,
bonnie belle, ‘cause we ha’ run out of malk.”’
Understandably, our wives soon forced us to leave the house. We then went
out in search of the Scotch and cigars.  At the liquor store we were faced
with so many choices you would begin to wonder if the Scots spent all their
waking hours making Scotch and not much else.  No wonder there are no
Scottish cars.  No Scottish jeans.  No Scottish computers.  They’re just too
damn busy making Scotch.  Now, do we want a ten year old single malt, or a
twelve year old blend.  Let’s see.  Whoa!  Look at the price on that one.
Finally we made the only intelligent choice.  We bought The Glenlivet,
because anything that says “The” must be pretty darn good.
The cigar department was no less confusing.  So we just made our decision
based on price.  We bought the most expensive cigars in the store.  After
all...this is Scottish Night!
As we sat down to dinner that night, one of the older children asked the
impertinent question.  What is a haggis?  This question sent us scurrying to
Wikipedia, which said:
“Haggis, from the Scottish word hag, meaning to chop.  A Scottish dish,
commonly made of the heart, lungs and liver of a sheep, minced with suet,
onions, oatmeal, salt and pepper.  (Salt and pepper, there’s something in
there I can actually eat!) and boiled in a bag-like object - usually the
stomach of the sheep.”
Of course.  What else would you put heart, lungs and liver into but a nice,
juicy gut?  You’re not going to stick something that good into an ordinary
pie crust.  No, that’s gotta go right into the old sheep belly.  I poured
myself a stiff dram of The Glenlivet.
Next came the Robby Burns poem we found at the Vineyard Haven Library.  Can
you believe the luck: it was titled “Address to a Haggis”  We took turns
reading stanzas in our best Highland accents.  Here it is in its entirety.

“ADDRESS TO A HAGGIS”
by Robert Burns
(with humble annotations by me)


“Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,         (I assume sonsie means slimy)
Great chieftain o’ the puddin-race.        (entrails are not pudding!)
Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe or thairm.                           (I assume he’s favorably
comparing
                                                              it to other
delicacies like tripe)
Weel are ye wordy of a grace                 (Praying before eating haggis
makes As lang’s my arm.     sense.)


The groaning trencher there ye fill           (Must have been one big
haggis)
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill             (how its sewn up?
In time o’ need.
While thro’ your pores the dews distil       (That ooze I was talking about)
Like amber bead.


His knife see rustic Labour dight,                 (They’re gonna cut it!)
An’ cut ye up wi’ ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,                        (Yum!)
Like onie ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!
(Double Yum!)

Then, horn for horn, they stretch and strive                  (Eager diners)
Devil tak the hindmost, on they drive
Till a’ their well-swall’d kytes belyve                          (Piggies!)
Are bent like drums.
Than auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
“Bethankit!”

Is there that owre his French ragout,
Or olio that wad staw a sow                                         (They’re
making fun of Or fricasse wad mak her spew French food.  Yeah, right!
We’ perfect sconner,
Looks down wi’sneering, scornfu’ view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! I see him owre his trash,
As feckless as a wither’d rash,                                    (French
food makes
His spindle shanka gui whip-lash                                   you
weak!)
His nieve a nit;
Thro’ bluidy flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis fed,                                  (But
haggis is the...
The trembling earth resounds his tread,                       breakfast of
champs.)
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He’ll make it whissle;
An’ legs, an’ arms, an’ head will sned    (Don’t mess with  Like taps o’
thrissle. anybody who eats it.)


Ye Pow’rs, wha make mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o’ fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae stinking ware,                (We don’t want any of
the That jaups in luggies;                                             wussy
stuff - Lord, give us But if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,
this day our daily haggis!)
Gie her a Haggis!


I poured myself a double single malt.
Finally the time was at hand.  The haggis was done, as best we could
figure.  We had followed the cooking directions perfectly.  At last we
pulled the beastly ball from the oven.  Its skin had turned from a sickly
dough color to a golden brown.  Even the sutures looked more benign in this
darker shade, looking more like shoelaces.  Nonetheless, the definition
still lay in the pit of my stomach.
I was selected to do the honors, to hack open this Scottish Piñata of
dyspepsia.  I held a sharp knife poised above it.  As I slashed, I turned my
head away, expecting a sheep aorta to spring from the gash like some bizarre
ovine jack-in-the-box.
Nothing erupted.  No gruesome gelatinous mass.  Instead, a very tame
mixture looking much like ground beef came forth.  Of course we all knew it
wasn’t ground beef.  Suddenly it hit me.   Haggis is why the Scots invented
Scotch whiskey.  Strong drink is the only way they could get up the nerve to
eat something like this  Later I would also learn why the Scots invented
kilts: after eating  haggis you don’t want clothing to slow you from
connecting with the nearest commode.
I bolstered up my courage, all eyes in the room on me.  I took a bite.
Hey, not bad.  It has a nice flavor.  It tastes like...chicken. Just
kidding.  It tastes like sausage.  Except for the dull crunch of the
oatmeal.  (Was it really the oatmeal that made the crunch?)  I could only
hope so.
And so, the haggis was eaten on Martha’s Vineyard.
Afterwards we repaired to the porch to enjoy the beautifully bug-less
Vineyard night, and to smoke our stogies.  That haggis wasn’t so bad, was
it?  No.  Not bad at all.  Maybe we’ll do it again next year.  Aye. To  next
year!

1984 all over again

Apple advertising, RIP

Died of a severe case of advertisingitis, and a massive loss of Jobsian aesthetics. Survived by a room full of celebrity mongering Hollywood hucksters who think stand up comics are "cool."  And so, the slice of death returns.  Oh gosh, can I write this blog on my macbook before the plane lands? I don't know - please - somebody help me.  Help me, Mr. Mac Brain.  Can they bring back the magic of Steve before Apple crash lands?  If this crap is any indication, I doubt it.

1980's advertising - BK

Who knows. Maybe there's hope for a bunch of old guys.  Maybe McGarry Bowen can bring back 1985 style advertising. Maybe that stuff actually works.  Naaaaah.  Just run an FSI.

The (Burger) King is Dead

So I just saw the new Burger King 2 minute (seems like 10) summer anthem commercial. I guess that's what passes for an idea these days. Get a Dire Straits song, throw in some pictures of the target, have a tagline that's pretty much what we used to call "the strategy on wheels." Taste is King.  Why?  Because we said so!  Burger King is the BBQ you can have when you can't have a BBQ. Yeah, right. I do love Dire Straits, though.  Gonna download some of their music so I can listen when I have a real BBQ.

The single best thing you can do for your health

Woody really knew how to sum it all up.

Just thinking about this quote from Annie Hall recently.

Uncover The Un-Agency

A great alternative to the traditional structured ad agency

The importance of writing ideas write

Great ideas can come from anywhere. I'll even go as far as saying great Ideas are a dime a dozen.  Great articulations of ideas, however, are not. They're best left to those who know how to write. Next time one of your ideas gets blank or confused looks, ask yourself "Was this written in a clear, concise, compelling way?" or more bluntly, "Was this written by a writer?"

Today's Times gives Mad Man Ed McCabe his due

As a baby copywriter, I would often sneak across 3rd Ave from my office at Grey to have lunch with a good friend who worked at Ed McCabe's agency, Scali McCabe Sloves.  There I would hear tales of the man who could bring seasoned writers to tears. He was a master of "go for the juglar" advertising. The article in today's Times Automotive Section gives Ed McCabe his due as a matchless idea guy and copywriting legend. He wrote headlines that made you feel dumb if you didn't follow their logic. He made statements that could always be followed by the parenthetical  phrase (you shmuck). e.g. "It shouldn't take an act of Congress to make cars safe (you schmuck). " Contrary to the philosophy of H.L. Mencken, Ed's a guy who got rich by never underestimating the intelligence of the American public.  I particularly love his comment the end of the article about social media.

http://www.nytimes.com/2012/03/25/automobiles/real-mad-men-pitched-safety-to-sell-volvos.html

KONY 2012