And Just Like That, It's Time to Come Home

It’s great going away for two whole weeks. In comic land two means four comics. In blog land it’s “I wrote about traveling last week, what the hell am I gonna write about this week?” Coming home. For some, that’s a tough transition. For me, it’ back to my tv remotes which only I can understand (sometimes), my chair, my food (I mean, how many nights in a row can you eat tapas?). But you also want to show your friends and family some cool stuff you can only buy over there. And maybe buy some cool stuff as presents to give out. So, imagine getting something over there that you could easily buy over here. That occurred to John as he was walking through a Spanish sardine store. You want sardines in oil, sardines in tomato sauce, sea bass and sea bream in olive oil you got it. He and his wife were in there trying to buy something exotic to bring home. So, when he asked the counter girl and got a response that they had an additional store in Times Square, he had a laugh and we had European Trip, part 3. Sometimes we make up stories (most of the time) and then sometimes they write themselves.

But speaking about exotic presents that aren’t in fact exotic, I remember a time when a friend of my mother’s, who fancied himself a bon vivant, came over to our apartment and brought over this amazing ice cream he brought back all the way from Denmark. It was called Haagen Dazs. Now this was the late 1960’s and we’d never heard of it before. It was also the best coffee ice cream I ever tasted in my then young life. The fact that he said he bought ice cream back all the way from Denmark should have been a clue that he was not who he seemed to be, but I was too busy eating that ice cream to care. It surely would have melted somewhere over the Atlantic. But the truth is Haagen Dazs was then and is still today made in Brooklyn.

The point is (is there a point?) that we all like stuff that’s different, that’s not from where we live. Levi jeans are cool in Europe, Armani jeans are cool over here. You just don’t have to go all the way to Italy to get them.

So have a great weekend and enjoy a plate of sardines. You can even eat the bones. They’re filled with calcium and are healthy for you. If you don’t know where to find them, have we got a store for you.

Andy and John

Time To GET Away

Hey, we’re getting up there in age, okay? Many of us are retired. And with all that time on our hands, what are we going to do? Let’s go on a vacation. Let me say that my wife and I have different ideas about what constitutes a vacation. I like the beach, golf, easy hikes, great food, maybe a game of pickleball. And while she likes those things, she is also a big fan of adventure travel. Call me crazy but my idea of a vacation does not include hiking down a steep path with wet rocks and loose gravel. In fact we did that once in Peru and I slipped and fell backwards three different times, only to be saved from hitting my head by the big, heavy backpack I was carrying. My wife’s point is a valid one: let’s take these trips while we are still physically able to. Don't want to try these in your 80’s. No, I certainly do not. But I ain’t so crazy about doing them at 72 either.

So Al and Joanne are taking the kind of trip John recently took and that I like to take. A little sightseeing in a country we’ve never been to before and great eating. A couple years ago, we went with another couple we’re very close to, and explored the Greek Islands. This past spring we went to Sicily with other close friends. Greek food, Italian food, beautiful natural settings, you can’t go wrong. We climbed a lot but they were streets and staircases, not mountains with wet rocks. Well there was a climb of Mt. Etna one day, an active volcano, but the only really challenging part was trying to get the black lava ash off my hiking shoes. A year later I’m still working on it. Part 1 is a riff John and I took on something that happened to me when I was a teen in Paris. I went into a patisserie and asked, “Combien coute…” before the woman behind the counter said impatiently (hey it’s France), “How much is what?” I replied, “the Napoleon.” To which she responded, “For a nice Jewish boy like you, one franc (this was before Euros, wayyy before). I said, “How did you know I was Jewish,” and she replied, “Your face looks like the map of Tel Aviv. No kidding. I hope the map of Tel Aviv is good looking, but I have no idea.

Al will keep trying to use his high school Spanish and French and we’ll keep trying to make you laugh. Have a great weekend, nous ami and amie (I have no idea if that is right). See you next week,

Andy and John

Wow Is That Funny!

“Oh, that’s a riot!” “LOL.” ROFL.” “That is soooo funny.” “Stop, you’re killing me.” These are all things people say when they are not actually laughing, but think what you said was funny or at least lightly amusing. If they really thought it was funny they’d laugh, right? It’s just one of the many verbal tics people have. We say stuff without thinking about it first. When I was working full-time and it was Friday, people would say, “If I don’t see you, have a great weekend.” I used to respond, “And what if you do see me?” The part I didn’t say was,” Should I have a terrible weekend if that happens? I think the older we get, the more we get stuck in what we say without realizing it. I once saw Jerry Seinfeld perform and he asked the audience, “Have you ever said, “Send them my best?” When you tell a friend that you’re visiting a mutual friend, the first friend usually says, “Be sure to send them my best,” to which Seinfeld replied, “Is that really your best? To ask me to tell them you send your best? Why don’t you pick up the phone and send them your regards, or better yet, why don’t you visit them? That would be your best.” At least these make sense grammatically, unlike the phrase, “I could care less.” Because if you could care less, then go ahead and care less. The point is, you couldn't care less.” If you said one of those things to me, I wouldn’t correct you out loud but I’d be thinking of correcting you out loud. And if you know me you’re likely thinking, “Oh, you’d say it out loud all right.”

Next up is another of our pieces of marriage advice. About using pet names. Okay, I admit my wife and I have a couple of pet names but we only speak them to each other. Not in public unless one of us slips, and forget it, I’m not slipping by revealing them here. When I proposed over 40 years ago, I visited a fortune cookie factory, where you could print your own fortune and they would slip it inside the cookie. The message had a pet name that only we knew, so she knew it was an actual proposal from me. Pet names. When used in public they often mask exasperation. Like a mother to a misbehaving child. “Okay sweetie pie, time to get off the swing and come home. Sugar pie, let’s get off now. SWEETHEART, I SAID NOW!” And why are they called “pet names” in the first place? Rover, Fido, Furball, Barker, those are pet names. I once had a wheaten terrier that my young daughter named Otis. I asked, “Why Otis,” and she replied, “He’s a wheaten terrier, wheat and oats, get it?” Otis it was.

Anyway, if we don’t see you, have a great weekend. And if we do see you, still have a great weekend,

Andy and John

Stuff That's Annoying

If you are like most of our readers, you remember a simpler time. A time when coffee was coffee (alright there was Sanka but that didn't count), chocolate was chocolate and milk was just milk. I mean we’re all for change but not when it comes to waiting on a concession line for a movie. Not waiting for a movie online, but actually waiting on a line in a real live theater. Nobody cares about missing the commercials, even though John and I spent over a combined 70 years writing them. But imagine you’re standing on the concession line and instead of popcorn, candy and Coke, there’s a seeming million variations on the theme. Plus new stuff like beer, non-alcoholic beer, wine, wine coolers, fruit and cheese plates, etc. But let’s just stick to the basics. My wife and I were waiting on a concession line this summer before a movie. This place offered iced coffee, which sounded good. But the person in front of me thought so too. She asked for an iced coffee and the conversation (to the best of my ability to memorize) went something like this: Woman: “I’d like an iced coffee.” “Would you like nitro or cold brew?” replied the teenager behind the counter.” This went back and forth for what seemed like ten minutes. “Do you have decaf nitro?" “We do. What size?” “I’ll take the large with milk.” “Would that be regular cow’s milk, soy, almond or oat? Sweetener?” I’m thinking “you have got to be f’ing kidding me,” when the woman now starts inquiring about chocolate bars. I will spare you the details of the 85% dark cocoa with red chili, but as John and I always say to one another, when something annoying happens, it’s still annoying but at least it makes a good comic,

Our other one is about cell phones. I take you back to the summer when my wife and I rented a beach house. Nothing bugs me like sharp, tinny noises coming out of a cell phone. Instagram posts and comedy routines I understand. I just don’t like hearing them on tinny speakers. But there are two CPI’s (Cell Phone Interruptions) that drive me especially crazy. The first is you talking on speaker phone when you’re in my house. “Hello Margie? Yes I can’t speak now because we’re at someone’s house. What’s that? You did??? Get outta here. Oh, I have to tell you the funniest thing…” And the other is the “bing” reminder that some people insist on activating. Every time these people receive a message, their phone emanates a high-pitched ding that gets right through my ear canals (do ears even have canals?). We’re driving in a car showing guests the sites, when every five seconds or so there’s another ding. “See here, that’s where Paul McCartney (ding!) has a summer house. What was I (ding!) saying? Oh yeah, and this is where they (ding!) filmed the HBO hit, (ding!), uhh could you please turn that off? (ding! ding! ding!) You know you can still look at your messages without the freaking ding.” And there goes 1) our friendship and 2) their invitation for next year. But, like all things annoying, it makes for a good comic.

Okay, we won’t annoy you further with what annoys us, but do us a favor and turn off the ding!. Have a great weekend,

Andy and John (ding!)

Good Advice. 09/26/25

“It’s good advice, that you just don’t take.” That’s a line from Alanis Morissette’s album, “Ironic,” in which none of the stanzas are actually ironic. It’s also good advice about any advice I am about to part. That said, I have some advice. Don’t blame people for stuff you did. My brother visited a house that my wife and I rented this past summer. We try to keep the place neat. I looked at a cabinet drawer that had jelly smeared on the handle. When I called my brother out and told him to be more careful, he said, “I didn't have any jelly for breakfast.” Turns out I had a piece of French bread with cream cheese and jelly on it. The culprit was me. After I apologized profusely, I thought every time John or I screw up, at least there’s usually a comic in it. And of course I will try to be much neater the next time. Try being the operative word.

Our other comic deals with marriage advice, which I am equally unqualified to give. So thank goodness for John. I have read “how to” articles about the secrets to a successful marriage and have followed none of them, but my wife and I have been married for 41 years, so there’s that. I mean a little hidden love note would be sweet, but as one of our readers,Wayne Reising said, asking for cottage cheese actually should count as a love note since lasagna made with 2% milk fat cottage cheese tastes just as good as ricotta without all the fat. He’s got a good point, but personally I’d rather get a note saying “C’mon home right now, you burning hunk of love,” though nobody I know would ever speak like that. It’s just my imagination that one feels better than being asked to pick up 2% cottage cheese. Although that beats a note I once got asking for white miso paste which took me 25 extra minutes of searching, asking two different employees where to find it, and being looked at by those employees as if I had two heads, only to be told, “We don’t carry that.” So let’s review the rules: Worst request - white miso paste, better request - 2% cottage cheese, best request - burning hunk of love.

That’s it for this week, I’m on my way to pick up some avocado oil.

Have a great weekend,

Andy and John

Accomplishments. 09/19/25

Okay, we realize that the Gary, Keith and Ron comic may have sailed over the heads for our fans that don’t watch baseball, but here’s the thing. When watching a Mets game a couple weeks ago, the announcers (Gary Cohen, Ron Darling and Keith Hernandez) started talking about their love of comics. The game was one-sided and they had to fill the airtime. John and I thought, “Hmmm (actually I thought hmmm, with three m’s but John thought “hmm”with two m’s, but I digress), we wondered if we could get them to notice us with a comic made especially for them. Then they’d mention us on the air and we’d get a million new followers. This, at least, is the attempt to use social media from one guy in his late 60’s and another in his early 70’s. The tough part is we have no clue about how to actually get the comic to Gary, Keith and Ron. Any suggestions from our more media-savvy fans? We’d love to hear from you. But this comic reminded yours truly about a real-life experience from 50 years ago. I had just gotten out of college and wanted to be a sports announcer or sportswriter. I interviewed with a local radio station and they gave me a test assignment to cover a college game between two historically black colleges, Marshall vs. Grambling. I was so excited. The game was on a Sunday afternoon. And my radio report was then next morning. The problem was that I had tickets to a Rolling Stones concert Sunday night and wasn’t about to give them up. So I went to the game, wrote my script and went to the concert. The I showed up bright and early the next morning prepared for my big moment. I told my friends and family in advance and they all tuned in to hear. Everything I had written, the host of the show said before handing the mic to me. She said something like, “Marshall University beat Grambling 28-23 yesterday behind a 4 touchdown performance from quarterback Rip Johnson (made that name up). I wasn’t able to be there, but sports reporter Andy Landorf was. Andy? So I said something along the lines of, “Thank you Liz. As you said, Marshall beat Grambling 28-23. And like you said, Rip Johnson was amazing. he threw 4 touchdown passes, as you mentioned. Back to you Liz.” Shockingly, I didn’t get the job.

Our next comic dealt with bucket lists. Well, if you are in our “target audience” (see how media-savvy we are?) you are likely thinking it’s about time to start crossing things off said list. John visited his ancestral country in Scotland, I am going next year to the Galápagos Islands. Bucket list stuff. Of course there are things I have on the list that will likely never come to pass, like running the NY Marathon in my 70’s. Does a leisurely four-mile hike in the woods count as sort of the same thing? Maybe that’s the way to do the list. Do stuff that comes close to what’s on the list and cross them off anyway. One of my brother-in-laws had a bucket list wish of visiting Bhutan. So my wife’s family arranged a trip. The thing is, Bhutan is a vegetarian country which automatically excluded it from my bucket list. Nonetheless, I sucked it up and prepared to go. I was sneezing all the way to the airport and before we checked in, my wife gave me one of those portable Covid tests, just to make sure. Wouldn't you know it, I had Covid. I had to turn around and go back home so as not to infect everyone on the airplane. I put on my saddest, most apologetic face and went down the escalator to the Uber stand to drive back home. Once I was out of sight, I had one of the biggest ear-to-ear grins you’ll ever see. I masked myself, rode home, and drowned my sorrows by watching my beloved Giants take on the Kansas City Chiefs on Thursday Night Football. Somehow, I survvied.

This week’s bucket list included finishing this week’s blog, so while I cross that off my list, we hope you get to cross something off of yours, like reading this book-length blog. Have a great weekend,

Andy and John

Keep on Tryin' 09/12/25

It’s not easy. Being a good husband or wife, being a good dad or mom, being a good grandparent. Things change. Pronouns change, expressions change, and while I consider myself open minded, I have trouble referring to women as “people with uteruses.” John and I discuss the grandpa stuff and the marriage stuff. We both happen to be proud grandpas each with two granddaughters, both from our daughters who are the same age and have the same name, Ali. (my grandchildren are 4 years old and 9 months old, John’s are 3 years and 6 months). This gives us a lot of common insights. My four-year old granddaughter plays games with me, goes swimming in the pool with me, watches Frozen with me, etc. And then along comes this interloper, the new kid on the block. I figure I have to give her some quality time as well, but when I’m playing with her and the older one comes along, well, I feel almost like a husband who got caught cheating. “It’s not what it looks like!!!” And then I remember I’m addressing a 4-year old. Put it this way: when I’m playing Hungry Hippos with my 4-year old (Hungry Hippos being a great suggestion from John), the little one looks on with great fascination. When I’m playing with the baby, my older granddaughter looks on with a “What the hell?” kind of look. At least that’s my interpretation.

Our next comic is our attempt at giving tips on how to make a marriage last. We’ve both been married over 40 years so either a) we must be doing something right or b) our wives have unbelievable patience. As for our advice, as the saying goes, take what you need and leave the rest. My theory is that the people who write those advice columns must be single themselves because their advice is based on theory as opposed to reality. For instance, the columnists tell you to find common interests, but my wife is no more interested in a crucial Mets game than I am in a new season of Downton Abbey. (“At this late point of the season, this game is as important as a playoff game!”) I exclaim. To which she replies, “According to you EVERY game is like a playoff game.” She’ll say to me, “I think the butler is having an affair with the Princess, to which I reply, “In these shows everybody is having an affair with somebody.” In theory, these are great suggestions, in reality, ehhhh. My wife and I find something we love to watch together and then, like boxers at the end of a round, retreat to our separate corners. It might not be for everybody but it works for us. At least it works better than being forced to watch an entire season of something you don’t like or, horrors, having to sit through a doubleheader.

That’s it for this week. Have a great weekend and we’ll be back in the coming weeks with some more invaluable marriage tips. We know you can’t wait to hear them,

Andy and John

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