Nostalgia. 09/05/25

There is no better way to sound like an old fart than starting a sentence with “In my day…”) We always think things were better back then. My parents told me to, “turn that crap down,” when I was listening to one of those newfangled bands like the Beatles or the Stones. “They might be popular, but in my day, Frank Sinatra…”. Sure, it might be harder these days to turn the station on your car radio. One push button for each station was as easy as pie. That was in my day. But you only had so many stations. Now we’ve got AM, FM, Sirius and streaming. So, as we dive into nostalgia this week, nostalgia for things like farm stands, drive-in movies, and even nostalgia for this past summer came to the forefront of our minds. John told me about a farm stand with a lock box near him. Near me, where we spent our summer, was an egg farm with a lockbox. I kid you not. You drive up, park in the dirt, walk over to a refrigerated container of egg cartons, a dozen each, just like in the supermarket. Except. Except for the fact that there is no cash register and in fact no people to accept your money. You just take a carton of eggs and place your money in a wooden lock box with a slot on top. I thought, “You’ve got to be kidding me! You know what would happen if you tried this in New York City (where I grew up)?” It’s like those people at Halloween who don’t want to get bothered by the doorbell every five minutes. They just put out a giant bowl of candy with a sign saying “Take one for each person.” We know what happens. The first group that comes to the door picks up the whole bowl and dumps it into their trick or treat bags. Hate to be cynical, but…I don’t really hate to be cynical, I kinda like it.

Which brings us around to our other comic, another piece of nostalgia that’s fading from our landscape. The drive-in movie. The location for all those 1950’s and 60’s make out scenes in other movies. There are still a few left, sprinkled in rural communities, because paying the mortgage on a 20 acre piece of land by selling $15.00 movie tickets isn’t the world’s best business proposition. Though I bet they had a fantastic resurgence during Covid. But what happens when you have a partner and a home where you can sleep together without sneaking? Suddenly a drive-in movie seems less romantic. And besides, I have bucket seats in the front.

So that’s it for this first unofficial week of fall (I know, don’t rush it). And have a wonderful weekend,

Andy and John

New Beginnings. 08/29/25

Labor Day. A time for new beginnings. At least it is for me. It used to mean the beginning of a new school year. Later it was back to work. And now, it’s another summer gone by. In addition to making a meaningless New Year’s resolution, you also make a meaningless Labor Day resolution. Like Craig did in finally attempting to write his first novel. Distractions, distractions, distractions. My mother-in-law had a saying, “Don’t let your possessions possess you.” Pretty good, right? To that I add, “Don’t let distractions distract you.” More than a few friends have suggested that yours truly write a novel, but…here come the (mostly self-imposed) distractions: What’s it going to be about? My life and upbringing, which was indeed novel-worthy? A murder mystery? A funny drama or, as they say, “dramedy?” Do I have to do research? That seems like hard work, heaven forbid. So how about that online course about writing your first novel? Oh, it’s Monday nights from 7-9 pm? But what if the Giants are playing Monday Night Football one of those weeks? Haven’t you ever heard of DVR? Watch it after class. But what about if my friends text me live and they give the game away. There’s always next Labor Day. For Craig it’s about the jet skiers, for me, like the old Brooklyn Dodgers, it’s wait’ll next year.

Our other comic is about Labor Day, because this coming Monday is Labor Day. John and I, perhaps a bit uncharacteristically, ended the comic on a positive note. Comedy usually features things going drastically wrong, but when we thought about it, we figured we have it pretty good. When your major decision is, “Should we go to the movies tonight and have our granddaughter sleepover tomorrow or the other way around?” chances are you have it pretty good. The fact that my wife’s bicycle needs a new tire or the Mets lost a close one…well worrying about that is a luxury. So, this Labor Day, let’s count our blessings and get ready for the fall, when we will feature, among other topics, a series on “How to Make a Marriage Last.” Here’s some unasked for advice: Ignore Al and Marv’s advice and you’ll live happily ever after.

Have a great Labor Day weekend and, as always, we really appreciate your support and readership,

Andy and John

Cold Comfort. 08/22/25

Well the fall is coming like an express train. 61 degrees in late August? NFL preseason games?? You’ve got to make the most of summer while you can. So, I suggested to my family, let’s all go to the beach! Except it’s 61 degrees outside, dark, windy (sand in your face windy) and the ocean temperature is also in the 60’s. As George Costanza once famously exclaimed, “Shrinkage!” I’m actually less worried about shrinkage than I am about getting a heart attack from the shock of cold water. Oh, and did I mention that 20-foot waves are expected today? Something to do with a hurricane way out in the Atlantic. Think I’ll stay in and write a blog. And maybe go to the beach in sweats later to look at the waves. All along the Long Island beaches they have warning signs about what to do if you get caught in a “riptide.” In event of a riptide, swim away from the shore and then turn right or left until you get out of the grip of the riptide, at which point you are now safe to swim back to shore. Yeah right. I’m not going further out to sea when the shore is right there. My brother, who doesn’t get to go in the ocean much since he lives in Minneapolis, visited us here at the beach and almost drowned not 3 yards from the shore after being caught in a riptide last week. So while Al and Joanne don’t go into the ocean because it’s too cold, I blame the riptide, and if truth be known, I’m a wimp around cold water.

Our next comic dealt with the joys of back to school days. I used to dread them both as a high school student and then later as a parent. When it came to college, I couldn’t wait to go back, but that’s a different story. As an ad guy it meant the end of summer Friday hours which officially meant working until 1 pm but in reality meant not coming in on Fridays, period. As a parent it meant buying new clothes, new school supplies (sorry high school kids, weed gummies do not count as school supplies) and these days, possibly a new iPad and a bullet-proof backpack. That was quite an expense and now that we don’t have to pay it anymore, yippee! We can afford Marcona almonds. I just picked some up near my house for the low, low price of $27.00 per pound. There’s even enough money left over to buy those weed gummies you refused to buy for the kids. Which in turn lead you to overeat the aforementioned Marcona almonds.

So I guess there’s no real bargain out there. Despite the hurricane conditions, as long as there’s a next week, we’ll be back with two new comics. One last week of summer and then back to school…err; back to work…err…we mean back to retirement. Have a great weekend,

Andy and John

Overload. 08/13/25

I’ve heard people say that the best part of being a grandparent is you get to give the kids back at the end of the day. I think the best part is getting a chance to be with your kids’ kids and to watch them grow and hopefully not make the same mistakes you did when you were raising your own. THEN comes the “giving them back at the end of the day” part. I recall coming home from work, worn out, and then muttering to myself when I had to pick up all the toy soldiers and Lego pieces. Pro tip: resist the urge to walk barefoot when picking up Legos. In contrast, my wife and I came home last week, hot and sweaty from a round of golf. All I could think of was jumping into the shower. I walked into the bathroom to find the floor covered in Banana Gram tiles (which are just like Scrabble tiles except they come in a yellow curved pouch). This time, having the perspective of having been a parent, all I could do was laugh. But then there was that time, four years ago, with my daughter’s first child. I was a rookie grandpa, and she, at four months old, was a rookie human. My wife had a business call, my daughter had a business call, and all they said was, “Grandpa, can you look out for her for a half-hour while we make our calls?” I nodded like it was no problem, but inside I felt like I was going to jump out off a plane for the first time (except for the fact that I’ll never jump out of a plane). I tentatively approached the little seat she was strapped into. Almost immediately her smile turned into a frown followed by tears. No problem I thought, you’ve got this. Yeah, I was talking to myself (which is good because we never disagree). I took too much time trying to unbuckle her three-way buckle as her crying intensified, which only made my manual dexterity worse. Finally I got her out. I checked the clock. Two minutes had passed, only 28 more to go. I rocked her, she cried. I walked around the living room making cooing noises, she cried. Down to 25 minutes. I went outside and shook the branches of a tree. I told her this is a leaf, and this is a pine needle. Want to hold it? The cries turned into screams. I walked back into the house. Ten minutes down, 20 to go. Finally at the 14 minute mark (almost halfway through but who’s counting?) my wife and daughter both walked out of their separate conference calls and asked, “What is going on here???” Like maybe they thought I was letting her play with a pickaxe. I wasn't, I promise. Only the aforementioned pine needle. Anyway, my wife picked her up, and the baby instantly calmed down. Have I got the magic touch or what?

Our second overload comic is about getting a hydroponic garden. A lot of us have moved from the houses where we raised our kids into apartments or condos, which leave no space to plant an outdoor garden. Enter the hydroponic garden. The first time I ever heard the word hydroponic was from some friends who grew their own marijuana plants indoors. Apparently it makes lots of pot. Turns out the same is true with whatever you decide to grow hydroponically (is that even a word?). Tomatoes, basil, even kale. Although why somebody would want a bounty of kale is beyond me. The stuff is good for you because you expend so much energy trying to chew the damn stuff, that you actually lose weight eating it. At least that’s my theory. But back to basil. In fact no. Let’s not go back. John and I feel exactly the same as Al and Joanne do about basil. Enough is enough.

See you next week and have a great weekend filled with pesto,

Andy and John

Life at Home 08/07/25

People who are still working think that people who are retired have it easy. But certain things like negotiating with a toddler or making coffee are not as easy as they seem. Trust me. But before we go another step, we’d like to give a shout out to John’s oldest granddaughter, for coming up with the idea for this week’s comic. She was visiting John, climbed up on his couch and they had the conversation that became this comic. It’s a kick watching little kids grow up. And when you’re a grandparent you let stuff slide more easily than you did when you were parenting your own kids. When your own kids put their shoes on the couch, you might say something like, “We don’t do that here.” If they came back with a smart response like the “sandals” argument, you might say, “Nevertheless, we take our shoes and sandals off.” As a grandparent, it’s “Duly noted.” And you can’t help being impressed when you see the wheels turning in their heads. At least I can’t. Case in point: I came home last week and my oldest granddaughter was squiggling into the right arm of her bathing suit with the help of her babysitter. When I walked in the door she said, “Grandpa, will you help me put the other arm in?” “Of course,” I replied, “just let me put down the grocery bags.” Upon returning I started to pull the strap over her left arm and she stopped me by saying she wanted the babysitter to do it. I said, “But you just said grandpa, will you put the other arm in?” And she replied, “No, I didn’t say grandpa, I said wampah.” You can’t argue with logic. Especially four-year old logic.

Our second comic deals with coffee making. I don’t know about you, dear readers, but the older I get, the more difficult it is to keep multiple numbers in my head at the same time. Don’t ask me a question involving numbers when I’m busy counting or your coffee is going to end up tasting like mud. And don’t give me more numbers than are necessary at any given point in the day. Don’t tell me to take the 8:42 that gets in at 9:13. I might end up taking the 9:13 when there is no 9:13. Just tell me, “Take the 8:42.” It’s not just older people who have this problem. The problem exists for younger people too. It’s due to cell phones and calculators. We had to learn to calculate by rote. But for them, why on earth would you try to learn addition, subtraction, multiplication and division since you can just type in a numerical calculation and get the answer back immediately? It’s right there on your screen.

In a previous comic we tackled this problem. If something costs $9.25 and you hand a young cashier $10.25, they have no idea what to do. And this doesn’t just apply to math. I used to have an almost photographic memory for phone numbers. Dial a number once or twice and it was locked into my memory forever. I must call or text John at least 5 times a week, and I still have no idea what his number is. His number is: “Hey Siri, call John Colquhoun,” and Siri calls. She even says his last name with the proper Scottish pronunciation, which is not “Cal-hoon,” But more like “Ca-hoon.”

Now, what was I saying? I forget. Meanwhile I have to catch the 11:42 that gets in at 12:13. Or is it the 12:13? Have a great weekend and please keep your shoes AND sandals off the couch, okay?

Andy and John

Cranky Repair Guys 08/01/25

There are a lot of negative adjectives to describe people. Entitled, spoiled, stuck up, self-absorbed, etc. But when you are trying to describe a repairman who is less than happy at his or her job, there’s only one descriptive word that will do. “Cranky.” You’ve seen them. Usually, a guy who works alone in a ridiculously small, crowded room, covered with old appliances that he specializes in repairing. There’s one near me whose specialty is vacuum cleaners. Admittedly not as exciting as the espresso maker repairman we feature in our comics, but a good example nonetheless. This guy has a place cleverly called Suburban Vacuum Company, Inc. Yep, that’s where he is, the suburbs. And yeah, that’s what he repairs, vacuums. So, around a year or two ago, my wife and I had a malfunctioning Dyson vacuum cleaner. I called the guy up at Suburban and he told me to come on in. I parked on Main Street, grabbed the Dyson out of the trunk, and walked into an extremely narrow, poorly lit room and nobody was at the front desk. I shouted out, “Hellooooo” into the void and here came a pale, tall, thin man, limping on crutches from the back of his office. He said, “Hello,” and I said, “What happened? Did you have an accident?” And he replied, “Lemme see the vacuum cleaner.”

That’s pretty cranky but wait, there’s more (I just can’t get advertising out of my system)! The guy looks at the Dyson, doesn’t say anything to me for a few minutes and after he has made his diagnosis, tells me, “I’m gonna have to send out for a new motor-driven fan and I can’t do anything until it gets here.” I say, “So, are we talking about a week, a month, a…”. He responded, “When it gets here.” Okay then. At this point you are probably dying to know how long it took to fix the damn Dyson. Well, I ain’t gonna tell you because I’m a cranky copywriter, so there!@*. Okay, I’ll tell you. I’m not that cranky, although my wife would strongly disagree. It took 3 months. No joke.

John, having no idea about my vacuum cleaner experience, just came out of the blue one day and said, “Let’s come up with a new character. How about a cranky repairman?” Vacuum Cleaner guy immediately popped into my head. Though the above experience was unpleasant it didn't cause me to lose my cool (what cool?). Not so when it came to the Optimum TV guy on the phone last week. The remote wasn’t working even after putting in two new batteries. The Optimum tech kept making suggestions, “Can you simultaneously press the mute button and the control button and hold them down for 3 seconds? Okay, are you getting a signal?” I said, “Nope, still a blank screen.” He replied, “No problem, try to go to the streaming box behind the tv and point the remote directly at the box.” I replied, “Which box is the streaming box?” Followed by, “Okay I see it, but still no picture.” And again he responded with, “No problem, try this….” After the third or fourth “no problem,” I said, “THERE IS A PROBLEM! THE DAMN TV ISN’T RESPONDING TO THE REMOTE!!!” And somehow, I was greeted by a dial tone. Sigh.

So that’s it for this week. Thank goodness neither John nor I am cranky. I can hear you snickering in the background, so please cut it out. And may you have a repair free weekend,

Andy and John

Still Talking??? 07/23/25

Last week I wrote that John had the idea to make our comic about a person who can’t get off the phone into a two part series. Then we made it a three-parter. We could go on (as these incessant talkers do) but I’d run out of things to blog about so we kept it to three comics. This tendency to not shut up is even more annoying when you speak to one of these people in person, because of two things: 1) they can’t “read the room” and tell by your facial expression that you are cosmically bored, and 2) you can’t hang up on them. But having said that, these constant talkers do have an amazing ability to not come up for air. I think these people might be fantastic underwater swimmers. You can be on the other end of the phone just waiting for a pause that enables you to interrupt so you can make one of your 10,000 clues that you’ve got to go, but the chance never comes. My other technique for how to cope with this onslaught of verbal diarrhea is to put the person on speaker phone and carry them around while you’re doing what you hoped you would be doing when they interrupted you in the first place. This technique requires a subtle skill. The ability to time out your, “Uh huhs, you don’t says, reallys and wows at two to three minute intervals so the person thinks you’re actually listening. The other phrase to watch out for is, “..which reminds me.” Which reminds me is a lame excuse for, “I better not stop talking because then they’re going to want to get off the phone.” Here’s an example: “Oh we had the most spectacular dinner last night at that new place, which reminds me, did I tell you about the time we went to a restaurant and saw Nathan Lane?? He looked right at me and waved hello. To me! He ordered chicken parm by the way which I thought was too dry, but you can never account for taste, right?”

Enough!!! Unless you’d like me to keep going.

Our other effort this week is about hydroponic gardening, but is really about counter space. I don't know how many friends have raved to me about the wonders of an air fryer, a frozen drink maker (Ninja Slushie, which you have to admit is a very cool name), espresso maker, ice cream maker, pasta extruder, panini press, etc. They all sound wonderful and I can envision a use for all of them. But where the hell do you put them??? Who has the counter space?? Especially when you move from a house into an apartment. You have to ask important questions of yourself. Is it worth moving the Nespresso coffee maker every time you want to refill a seltzer bottle with a SodaStream? How often do you use each? If you’re retired, you have more time to devote to making coffee that doesn’t come from a pod, so maybe the espresso maker takes a back seat to the seltzer maker. All of which makes me think I spend way too much time thinking about trivial stuff compared to when I was working where I thought about important matters like how many rooms can you clean with one Swiffer Sweeper pad.

That’s it for this week. We wish you all a wonderful weekend and…uh oh, I’m getting a phone call…

Andy and John

Hung Up About Hanging Up 07/18/25

I put people into two camps. Nope, not men and women. Not old and young. Not in shape or out of shape. Not Democrat or Republican (okay, that’s a lie). Nope. I divide the world into texters and talkers. If you’re a texter (like I am) you find phone calls to be disruptive, intrusive, distracting, and time consuming. For example, if I get a text while writing this blog, I can wait to respond until later, or text back something like, “Writing the blog, I’ll text you later.” But say you’re a talker. Chances are you consider texts to be impersonal, terse, and a poor excuse for good old-fashioned communication. If you’re in the middle of doing something else and a phone call occurs, you can also choose not to answer it, just like not responding to a text. But to me, not answering the phone seems like more of a slight than not responding to a text.

Don’t get me wrong. I get the opposite point of view. Many years ago, when cell phones were first becoming ubiquitous, I was at a conference, saw a friend from my softball team, and made plans to meet later. I was in my early 50’s, he was in his mid-30’s. I showed up, he wasn’t there. When I saw him the next morning I said, “What happened, you didn’t show up. No phone call, no nothing.” He replied, “I texted you.” I replied, “Huh?” But I learned and quickly became a convert to texting. Preferring to talk on the phone is one thing. It’s a personal choice. The inability to get off the phone is something else indeed.

You can give somebody all the cues in the world, including such classics as: okay then, gotta run, great talking to you, in the middle of cooking dinner, company is coming over, water’s boiling, baby’s crying, it’s the bottom of the ninth, the Giants are on the 2-yard line, my wife just came home, etc. If that somebody is a CGOTP’er (Can’t Get Off The Phone’er) it doesn’t matter. They won’t hang up. It’s the auditory version of not being able to read the room. John and I had a good time with this one coming up with clue after clue to end the conversation. It was John’s brilliant suggestion to turn this into a three-part comic.

So have a great weekend. we’ve gotta run,

Andy and John

Call Me By Your Name. 07/10/25

Sigh. Chances are, if you’re old enough to be a reader of this blog, you’re old enough to have grandchildren. But there’s another generation who reads the blog. My children, John’s children and some of their closest friends. They’re the ones having the children who become our grandchildren. And one of them suggested I should get my grandchildren to call me Grandy, a portmanteau of Grandpa and Randy. By the way, portmanteau is two words squished together to make one word, like how “web log” became “blog”. Grandy is rather clever, I must admit. Way back in the early days of the internet, I did something similar. When I first got an AOL account (remember them?), my email address was Andylandy@aol.com. Andylandy being a portmanteau of my entire name, Andy Landorf. So why was I okay with Andylandy but not with Grandy? Because one was my choice and the other (at least in my head) was my grandchildren’s choice. I have a buddy whose grandchildren call him Granga, because that’s how they learned to say grandpa, and the name still sticks, even though one grandchild is in high school and the other is off to college. I remember every New Year’s Day my mom would call me (way too early in the morning) to wish me: “Hockey New New,” which is apparently the way I used to say Happy New Year when I was learning to speak. I wanted to see what version of “hockey new new” came out of my grandkids’ mouths when they learned to speak. For my eldest granddaughter it’s Gwampa, and for my youngest it’s ga ga goo goo (she’s only 7 months old). John’s oldest is obviously a savant. She calls him grandpa. There is a tendency these days to come up with clever, grandparent-inspired ways for grandchildren to address their grandparents. Some memorable ones are Popeye instead of grandpop, Lala instead of grandma, Gigi (which I’ve heard for both grandma and great grandma). Come to think of it, I may go back on everything I just wrote and try to get them to call me Superman, even though I’m unable to leap even a tall curb in a single bound. If you have another grandparent nickname you like, write us back and share it.

For our second comic, we were inspired by July 1st which is also called “Bobby Bonilla Day.” Bobby Bonilla ended his career with the Mets. He was so bad, they cut him from the team despite still owing him $5.9 million. The year was 2000. Instead of taking the money in a lump sum he and his agent elected to have it deferred until 2011, earning a guaranteed 8% interest every year. It amounts to an astonishing $1.2 million per year from 2011 until 2035 every single July 1st. Every one. The Mets owners at the time agreed to it because they were sure they could earn more than 8% every year. Their financial advisor guaranteed them a 10% return every year. You might remember him. He was a fellow named Bernie Madoff. The hapless owners ended up selling the team.

We’re working on a deferred payment plan for the New 60. We’ll let you know when we’ve figured it out. Until then, hockey new new or at least happy July 10th…

Andy and John

Independence Day 07/04/25

Thank goodness Al got to finally make his speech. We ran out of ways to say, “What can I say about…” And now we’re onto Independence Day. It used to celebrate our independence from Britain, independence from a mad king, but now it’s more about independence from dietary rules. For one day we eat hot dogs and cheeseburgers and their (heaven-forbid) carb-laden cohorts buns, bread, chips, apple pie and ice cream. Sure we throw in a little skinless, boneless marinated chicken breast in here, the random Impossible Burger there, possibly someone insists on salmon (and make sure it doesn’t touch the meat on the grill), and possibly even a salad, but check it out when you clean up the dishes. There’s a lot more salad left than cheeseburgers.

When Joey Chestnut stuffed 76 Nathan’s hot dogs and buns down his gullet in ten minutes, we had a new Independence Day record. I wonder if he stopped at 76 to celebrate 1776. Or if he stopped at 76 because he was about to throw up. Just watching him makes us want to lose it. But he’s got a secret. He dips his buns (hot dog buns, not his ass) into water before eating it. This way he is freed from the annoying act of chewing. Let’s get this out of the way quickly. I hate Joey Chestnut. How anyone can stuff 76 hot dogs down their throat without gaining an ounce is beyond me. I look at a hot dog and gain weight. Of course I eat it after I look at it and that might have something to do with the weight gain part. Maybe. I wonder what Joey Chestnut’s cardiologist thinks about his yearly participation. Last year he was banned by Nathan’s because, get this, he had signed a contract with the company that makes the Impossible Burger because they had introduced an Impossible Hot Dog. This year he’s back in, because—can you name a competitive eater other than Joey Chestnut? And is his name really Chestnut? I’ve tried both Impossible dogs and burgers, and let me tell you, the word “impossible” is a bit ironic. Because trying to create a hot dog or burger out of soy protein and sunflower oil that tastes like an actual hot dog or hamburger is, well, impossible. A very good friend of mine once wrote the following tag line for Pepperidge Farm cookies: “If you’re gonna eat a cookie, eat a cookie.” Same holds true for hot dogs and burgers, at least for today. And, take it from a New York City kid, when you’re biting into your 4th of July dog, skinless hot dogs are a no-no and yellow mustard does not count as mustard. The dogs gotta have snap and the mustard has to be Gulden’s spicy brown, just saying. If you’re hosting a crowd, it’s harder than ever to remember who is lactose intolerant, who can’t eat gluten, who is vegetarian, who is pescatarian and who is Lutheran (sorry, just threw that one in). I, in fact, am just generally intolerant. We featured a large counterman in a comic we ran a couple years ago. A woman orders a veggie dog and asks the guy what toppings go best with it. He looks upon her with disdain and says, “What do I think goes best with it? Meat.”

In closing, we feel the same about beer. When walking down the beer aisle I prefer beer to, for instance, Double D Brewing Company’s Watermelon Lager. I like to drink the beer with the meat and save the watermelon for dessert. At any rate have a great 4th and if you insist on yellow mustard, just don’t tell us about it, okay?

Have a great weekend,

Andy and John

eulogies. 06/27/25

Being funny is a burden. Not the part about coming up with comics (or ads). John and I have spent all of our adult lives doing that. And that’s our choice. I’m referring to situations like the ones at work where I was constantly asked stuff like: “Hi, we’re doing a retirement card for Alice, think of something funny to write.” This holds true for family functions, speeches, congratulations wishes, etc. One time in college a girl invited me to some dorm party and actually said, “Be funny, okay?” In my early years I was the best man at a wedding of two close friends and to say it lightly, my speech missed the mark. By a lot. I told a a story of how we all shared a living space and how we were only separated by a thin wall. A very thin wall. A very, very thin wall. Stone-faced silence in the room. Turns out this mid-1970’s generation of parents were not so into the thought of pre-marital sex. I failed to read the room. I know, quit bitching and get to the point. The point is that we are sometimes asked to write something funny about someone we don’t even know. We ask for information about the person’s life, but you don’t get funny information, or information you could have fun with. You get, “He likes golf and reading,” or “She loves walks in the woods and romantic comedies.” Good info for a dating site, not so much for being funny.

A few years back, my wife and I went for a long weekend to Portland, Maine. It had just been named something grand like, “Best Foodie city in America.” And it didn’t disappoint. But the waiters and waitresses acted like they had earned the reward. At the conclusion of one meal in particular, the waitress went to give us a check and instead of asking how I liked my meal she said, “How were your flavors?” Instantaneously I conjured up a wise-ass response. I wanted to offer her a finger and say, “How were my flavors? I don’t know, eat me.” But my wife was sitting at the other end of the table and so I just said, “Very good, thank you.”

So please, don’t ask us to write a speech for a bar mitzvah, wedding, office holiday party, confirmation, funeral or sweet 16 unless we know you well. Very well. Very, very well.

See you next week and let’s go official summertime,

Andy and John

Speechless. 06/20/25

I am a big baby. I won’t grow up, won’t grow up, never grow up, not me, And perhaps the least attractive element of my perpetual childishness (according to my wife) is my insane following of sports. In defense, I exclaim, “But it’s a playoff game!!!”). To which she adds (properly so),”It’s always a playoff game.” Example, we went to a play last night, came home around 11 pm and then I watched the Mets game. After that was finished, I saw the NBA Finals because, hey, it’s a playoff game (and because I’m retired and can sleep until 10). And this babyishness spills over to vacations. Last year we visited Greece with another couple while the Knicks were in the NBA playoffs. I downloaded NBA League Pass (free for a week) and watched 3 games on three different nights (the game was at night in the USA, but I woke up 2 hours before we would meet for breakfast) and watched on my iPad. This resulted in conversations like: THEM: “Oh look at the Parthenon.” ME: “Nice, but did you see that reverse layup by Brunson last night? Unreal!” Then there was that time about 20 years ago or more when I first had an iPhone but didn’t really understand the difference between streaming and talking and looking at Facebook. So here I was, at a focus group in Toronto, with people talking about their cleaning habits. I was bored out of my mind so I surreptitiously pulled out my phone and watched a baseball game. Not only a game, a playoff game. It went into extra innings. Later that month, I received my monthly phone bill for $4,100, when it was always around $60. I called AT&T and they let me slide, “this one time only” and I never did it again. So, while I do empathize with Al’s plight in the comic, John and I think he should get over it. After all, it wasn't even a playoff game.

Our other comic is the first part of a four part series about Al delivering a eulogy regarding someone he barely knows. People are always asking us to “write something funny about…”. Here’s a hint, it’s not going to be funny if you don’t know who or what you’re talking about. So we put Al in a situation where he’s going to have to figure out what to say about whatshisname. More on this topic next week. As for now, I gotta run. I’ve got a playoff game to watch.

Andy and John

It's in the Bag. 06/13/25

You know those community cleanups? The kind where you see your neighbors picking up trash and placing them into big bags with pointy sticks? The kind where you see your neighbors participating and then suggest to your spouse, “We should go down there and do that.” Of course, we participate in community cleanups all the time. Okay, at least some of the time. Well for sure next time. Anyway, these ventures are filled with well-meaning citizens and some court-ordered felons who are doing this as part of serving out their sentences. Slightly different motivations. And never the twain shall meet. Until John and I put them in the same scene.

And then there was the bag man. Your grocery bag habit really depends upon where you live. If it’s in a suburb, you drive to the grocery store and therefore the trunk of your car is filled with bags. If you’re in the city, you likely store them in the hall closet or laundry room. Or if you’re like my wife and I, you store them in the trunks of both cars, and in the laundry room. Damn, do we have a lot of grocery bags. How many times have you walked into a grocery store with one or two bags and then you buy so many groceries you don’t have enough room? Then you are faced with a moral dilemma. Do I run back to my car to fetch another bag, while holding up the entire line and making everyone hate me, or do I sheepishly buy another bag at the register? By my personal estimation, we have so many bags we’ve saved over 3,000,000 plastic bottles from polluting our waterways in just our house alone. That’s why I don’t feel so bad about skipping the last community cleanup. But we’ll partake in the next one for sure though.

See you next week and don’t forget your reusable bags,

Andy and John

Aging and Insuring. 06/06/25

Wow, do they look old! About eleven years ago, at age 61, my wife and I moved into a 55+ type “community” of apartments and townhomes. That’s what they call them. Town Homes. It must be because you can charge more for a townhome than for a townhouse. At any rate, they had a welcome to the community event and as we approached the venue we were shocked at how old everyone looked, not pausing to think how old we looked to them. Of course, neither of us look a day over 40, but that’s totally beside the point. The point is (is there a point? I can’t remember) that we don’t see ourselves the way others see us. We (if you’re anything like me) still think the same thoughts we did when we were younger, we’re just smart enough to keep them to ourselves. We develop a “filter,” so we say things like, “You look great,” when we’re really thinking, “Boy did you get old.” And it’s even worse when you look at someone you’ve never met. About that filter? I never developed much of one at all, which is the reason I never learned how to play poker. “Oh look, four aces!!!” I’d have an ear to ear grin. Except for this one time in real life. It was during my honeymoon. I went to a casino in Italy, and I didn’t recognize any game there. Chemin de fer, baccarat, you name it, they had it, but I didn’t know how to play it. Except for roulette. I knew how to play that. I put my money down on 17 for one spin. Everyone was dressed up and it reminded me of a James Bond movie. So, in advance I thought, if the ball drops into the 17 slot, I will just raise one eyebrow, just like Sean Connery. Sure enough, it hit and I did. Walked out of there with enough to almost pay for the entire trip. That’s the last time I didn’t wear my heart on my sleeve. Not literally of course. I’m sure my cardiologist is relieved to hear that.

Our other comic is about dental insurance. Somehow, the actuaries that figure this stuff out, figured that once people hit age 65 or older, they no longer need dental insurance. I’ve walked into a hospital for a procedure and walked out paying nothing to repair my broken ankle or to get an angiogram. Nothing. But to get my teeth cleaned? To get a dental bridge repaired? No coverage whatsoever. Nada. Zilch. But there’s a way around anything. So next time you need a dental procedure, take it from us. Have your dentist punch you right in the chops. Pro tip: It works just as well with prosthodontists and even hygienists. My hygienist has a lethal right hook, by the way.

So that’s it for this week. See you next week with two new ones,

Andy and John

Evolution. 05/30/25

Darwin had it right about this survival of the fittest stuff. As time and tech march forward relentlessly there are somethings (okay a lot of things) that get progressively more difficult. Turning on a television, tuning a car radio (mine no longer offers AM but satellite radio…no problemo), operating a soap dispenser or faucet in a public restroom…the list goes on and on (as do I). In fact, our soap dispenser at home stopped working so I bought one on the internet, and we still can’t figure it out. But there is nothing more confounding than the car seat. When we were kids we used to ride in the back seat or even shotgun without even a seat belt. Then when we became parents, we had to adapt to car seats. Incredibly bulky. Incredibly heavy. But easy to figure out. Take the seat belt, run it through the bottom of the car seat and click. Something like that, because memory…oh that’s right, that was last week’s blog. But 2 weeks before this was written, my wife and I had one of our granddaughters (the 4-year old) sleep over for the weekend. When we picked her up, her mom (otherwise known as our daughter) put in the car seat. There were two plastic prongs on the bottom that someway magically clicked into two slots in the back seat that I never even knew existed. Then the bit with the seatbelt, coupled with a shoulder harness that…as they say in Brooklyn, fuhgeddaboutit. When we dropped her at home after the weekend, I applied my new knowledge for how to seamlessly remove the car seat. I called my daughter and she came outside and did it for me.

Our other comic is about the evolution of(or de-evolution if there is such a word, and by the way, it’s how the band Devo got its name) of man and womankind. Every day for more decades than we’d like to count, John and I came to work in NY City everyday on a a commuter train). Depending on which track it let you off, you were confronted with your choice of a staircase or an escalator. I spoke to John about this and we each had similar memories. As new dads we would work in some exercise by climbing those stairs, sometimes two at a time if I was late, which I often was. Then, as we hit our late 40’s/early fifties, we started walking up the escalator. I figured, hey I’m still walking, right? Then in our 50’s and into our 60’s we started riding the escalator. Now if nobody was in front of me, I might climb the last few steps, but in essence, we were riding. Finally, and thankfully neither of us got to this point, there was the option of pushing the elevator button and waiting. There is a commuter train less than 10 minutes from my front door and when we take it into the city, I refuse to take the elevator. There is a staircase approximately like climbing two or three flights of stairs. I still climb it, but I’m breathing a lot harder. John lives farther from a train station so all he has to do is climb into his pickup truck. On the other hand, he chops his own firewood.

That is that for this week. We wish you a beautiful official second weekend of summer (but who’s kidding who about that, it’s windy and 58 here),

Andy and John

What Was I Just Saying? 05/23/25

For those of you old enough to remember (almost every reader of the New 60 except for my kids and John’s) the rock band Chicago had a hit song long ago where they sang, “Does anybody really know what time it is/Does anybody really care/About time/oh no…”. So here’s the unfortunate fact: we often don’t know what time or day it is, but we still care. If you’re like me, the worst way to try to remember something is by trying too hard. Once you stop thinking about it, you remember what you were forgetting. According to my extensive research (okay, it wasn’t extensive, it was just Reddit) the act of thinking about it in the first place, fires up receptors in your brain. And when you stop thinking about it consciously, your unconscious brain is still hard at work. Glad we cleared that up. I think John has a pretty good memory, but he’s five years younger. I think his name is John. But here’s an examine of my memory, and this happened a year ago. Or maybe it was two. At any rate, I bought tickets to a Joan Osborne concert in our local theater. My wife wasn’t feeling well on this particular Friday night, so I went alone. I showed my ticket at the door, they scanned it, and I plopped down in my seat. In fact, there was somebody else sitting in it, which should have been my first clue, but the very next seat was open so I just sat there. A comedian came on as an opening act and I thought, “That’s weird, you don’t usually see comedians opening for blues/rock performers. It’s usually another band.” And then the performer kept going and going. Past a half-hour, towards an hour, and, since the gummy had already kicked in, I’m thinking, “So when does Joan Osborne come on already?” Finally, after 90 minutes, the comedian said, “I’m Paula Poundstone. Good night and get home safely.” I looked at my ticket stub and found out that the Joan Osborne concert was not until the following Friday night.

Onto our second comic, in which, at the mention of parasailing, Al imagines himself in a full body cast. Full admission: I’m a scaredy cat. Scared of getting hit by an inside fastball, scared of skiing down a slope that’s more than a beginners slope, and yeah, scared of water skiing. Water skiing with a parachute on your back??? And no skis? Are you kidding me? Not on my back. I mean think of flying 20 feet above the water. When the boat eventually slows down, is there any way you come down with your feet parallel to the water? And what happens if you hit at an awkward angle? You could break your ankle in several places. That happened to me while riding a bicycle and being hit by a car. Believe me, you don’t want to break an ankle. You’re not allowed to put weight on it for months. Imagine trying to go to the bathroom and lowering yourself to the toilet without putting weight on one of your ankles. That’s a short way of declaring, “No, I will not go water skiing or parasailing even if you beg me.” I’ll stick to walking, swimming and golf, though sometimes those 8-foot downhill putts are scary as hell.

That is it for this week. We’ll be back with two new ones next Friday, same Bat Time, same Bat Channel. Or is it Thursday? Enjoy your weekend,

Andy and John

Young at Heart 05/16/25

One member of the New 60 duo (not John) hit 72 yesterday. Is that too old to be writing about 60 somethings? Hell no. I still remember what people feel in their 60’s. Sort of. One of the big things I’m grappling with is do I tee off from the white tees (which I’ve been doing as long as I’ve been playing golf), or is it time to move up to the old man tees (the gold ones)? If it’s a matter of ability, I should have gone to the gold ones years ago. But no, this is a matter of pride. Just to make sure us senior men don’t get our little egos crushed, golf courses always place the gold tees just a teeny, tiny distance in back of the red women’s tees. The fact that many women golfers could crush me in a tournament is not the point. The point is, or rather the question is, how do we adjust to getting older? The first comic has happened to John and me countless times. Usually in a Walgreens or CVS. But also in a grocery store, movie theater, you name it. There is a certain age of people who didn’t grow up with credit cards. They don’t trust or understand an ATM. And they use what they’ve used all their lives. Cash. They count out their dollars and cents, and spill out their change purses (remember them? I used to have a change compartment in my wallet) and count out loud. I’m sure we’re all going to reach the stage where we don’t understand the quickest way to pay for things. Bitcoin anyone? But for now, we can remain superior to the ECC’s (Exact Change Counters). Al has managed to contain his legendary impatience (I wonder who was the role model for that) because the woman called him “young man.” Please give him a break. He’s so easily manipulated.

Which brings us around to adventure travel. This is definitely for the young at heart. And I maintain, the young at body. I have a nephew who has an adventure travel business. It features hiking, biking, horseback riding and it welcomes people of all ages. It is wildly popular among retired seniors. Maybe because they have the money and the time. For example, a typical morning might feature a choice of a 12-mile hike up steep, rocky terrain, a 5-mile trek up hills or a 1 1/2 mile “excursion” over flat surfaces. I think as time goes on he’s either going to need more guides for more options or, what I really think is that the choices are going to become a 1 1/2 mile hike over flat terrain, a 3/4 mile e-bike ride on pavement or a 2-hour mah jong lesson. In Patagonia. Al got tired just hearing about an adventure trip. Me, I’ve always wanted to learn mahjong. Not really. It got me thinking, how would you challenge a person who loves the challenge of adventure travel? I would stand before the group and say, “This morning we have a choice of watching all 6 seasons of Breaking Bad, Godfather 1, 2 and 3 or, for those of you seeking a more physical challenge, a class on how to read a paperback novel in a heated swimming pool on a raft without getting the pages wet. Now that’s an accomplishment.

Have a great weekend and we will see you again next Friday with two new comics,

Andy and John

Big Plans. 05/09/25

I graduated from high school, college and grad school. But figuring out what pills to take when I go away — well that’s too much for me to figure out. Maybe you need a Ph.D. A Doctorate of Packing. Let me step back for a minute. When I used to visit my in-laws (may they rest in peace) I noticed my father-in-law had a bunch of amber pill bottles set up by his breakfast plate. I silently thought, “That’ll never be me.” Ha. You know the saying, “Man plans, God laughs”? God is having quite a chuckle now. I recently came back from a wonderful trip to Sicily and packed every pill I needed for every day of the trip. Doesn't sound so complicated, right? But the morning pill for my underactive thyroid states that it must be taken a half-hour before eating, on an empty stomach. Done. Then comes another pill with the same caveat. Which means I have to wait 30 minutes before taking it. So that means I have to wait an hour before I can eat breakfast. We went with friends and agreed the night before to meet for breakfast at 9:00. It means I have to get up at 8 for pill #1 and then make sure pill #2 goes down the hatch at 8:30. But wait, there’s more. I have two pills that cannot interact with the morning pills so I must save them for the night. But what happens if you lose the plastic pouch containing the night pills while reaching into a pocket for your wallet? Huh? We came home last Sunday night, so I borrowed the night pills for Sunday that Tuesday because I knew I could get the Sunday night pills when I got back. S0 while the others on the trip were marveling at the ionic pillars of an ancient Greek temple, I’m thinking, “Did I wait long enough between pills 1 and 2?” And oh yeah, Sicily was great. And so were those ionic columns.

Which brings us around to Pizza-on-a Stick. This blog is titled, “Big Plans.” Not only planning for the trip but Al was planning for a new national promo at his franchise restaurant. Meaning, as part of the national chain, he had to promo whatever “corporate” tells him to promo that week. You’ve all heard the ads, “For a limited time, get the bacon cheese double stack hamburger with tater tots and a small coke for only $2.99!! Good while supplies last.” In other words, Al has no choice but to display the honey-sriracha special meal deal. One of the things I love about thinking up these comics with John is we spend an inordinate amount of time arguing the most minute details. In this case it was what is the best way to describe the sound of a foot stepping in sticky sauce. Is it squish, squish, squish? Or sqoosh, sqoosh, sqoosh? Or is it squeesh, squeesh squeesh? It was almost as hard to figure out as what pills to take on vacation.

That’s it for this week. We’ll be back next week with two new ones. And don’t forget to take your statins and not mix them with grapefruit juice!

Andy and John

What's in a Name? 05/02/25

Have you ever spoken to someone about, let’s say, a frying pan and then, as if by magic, you are served multiple ads for frying pans? Of course you have. And that’s because Siri and her evil twin Alexa are listening. I was discussing this with John one day and said out loud, “Hey Siri, are you listening to me? And Siri responded, “No, not at this time.” This time??? I think Apple got the message because now when you ask the same question you get, “I respect your privacy and can only listen when you are talking to me.” Uh huh, I bet. Next Siri will be trying to sell us pristine mountain view property in Florida. And to this we add the Mets newest centerfielder, Jose, you guessed it, Siri. I started telling John about this guy and Siri (the Apple version, not Jose) chimed in on both our phones. And we had a comic. For the rest of our working session we referred to the outfielder as “Smith,” so as not to engage Siri. And now the baseball gods have paid us back for making fun of his name. He fractured his left tibia, fouling a ball off his leg and is on the Injured Reserve list. Sorry Jose.

Our other comic comes right from John’s backyard. He noticed a weed-like substance taking over his property. Something he’d never seen before. Something not endemic to his neck of the woods. It was something called knotweed. Well, we are both fans of Abbott and Costello and this seemed to neatly fit into the “Who’s on First” scenario. If only they had a guy named Buttercup playing second and Clover at third. The comic could have never come from my backyard since we moved to an apartment and don’t have a backyard. However, we also are not overrun with knotweed, so there’s that.

We apologize for the brevity of this blog because we’re both traveling to different locales. But not to worry. We’ll be back in the saddle next week.

Have a great weekend,

Andy and John (and not Siri)

Streaming and Streamlining 04/25/25

What channel is the Mets game on tonight? I find myself asking my son this question frequently. Just to get this straight, I pay for a premium cable package which includes the Mets on their own special network SNY (Sports New York). But this particular game is on Apple TV +. I’m not sure what the plus stands for but an educated guess is it stands for We Want you to Pay for Apple TV PLUS content you can’t get on Apple TV. I like to record games in advance and watch them later so I can fast forward through commercials (yeah, I know it’s kinda hypocritical after spending 40 years writing commercials, but hey, John does it too.) I also fast forward through inning breaks, pitching changes, replay reviews, etc. But on this particular Friday night (it was only the second game of the season for crying out loud) I came home, went through two remotes to get to my menu of streaming services and yes, indeed, there were the Mets on Apple TV+, but they had the final score of the game posted. I started to watch anyway and part of the way through I hit the wrong button on the remote (the streaming remote, not the regular remote) and when I got Apple + back, the game was no longer available. Hey Tim Cook, I’ve got a rebranding idea for you. How about calling it Apple TV - ? What’s that, too negative? It isn’t negative enough. But that is what television watching has become. Paying extra for everything you want to see. Is Netflix + and Hulu+ and Amazon + far behind? I think in the future, we’ll pay ala carte for every show. Wanna watch the news? That’ll be $1.50. Tonight’s baseball game? $2.00. Breaking Bad? you can have the whole 6 seasons for the low, low price of $55.99. Plus tax.

Our other comic deals with streamlining your possessions. As Eminem once famously put it, “I’m cleanin’ out my closet.” Both John and I do this from time to time and we got to thinking, have you ever owned something so hideous that nobody else would possibly wear it? I’m thinking about the African dashiki I wore in college circa 1971. If Jimi Hendrix could do it, why not me? Forget I asked that question, but I figured whoever picked that dashiki out of a Goodwill bin would be thinking, “What on earth was that guy (me) thinking? I wouldn’t be caught dead in that.” Same with my Keens rubber toed sandals. I wore them to work one time and this woman I worked with said, “You know what I call those sandals?” “No,” I replied. “Deal Breakers,” she responded. I was laughing too hard to be offended. And she later left advertising to write for Jimmy Kimmel.

So that’s it for today. John is out this week and I’m out next week so we hope the New 60 finds you each and every Friday. But I wouldn’t hold my breath. It’ll be there. And two weeks is too long to hold your breath anyway.

Have a great weekend,

Andy and John