A lot of our ideas we make up from our own heads. A lot come from stuff that happens to us or our families. And a further source of ideas is having our friends engage and suggest new ones. Not all of them are good, but sometimes, something somebody (that’s three “some” words in a row, if you’re counting) says leads in another direction and then becomes a comic. Last week, a buddy of John’s responded to a comic we wrote about a 5-pound jug of paprika. He shared how he would always drink the extra large soda at movies, with predictable results. BAM! We had a comic figured out in the next 5 minutes. My step mother shared an idea about an older man who had a hot car. A young woman commented on IT, but not about him. Bingo, the next day we had our character Craig thinking a young woman was interested in him, when she was really interested in fixing him up with her mom.

About a year ago, a friend of a friend went into a restaurant to get a table from a hostess he thought he had charmed, until he read her (less than flattering) description of him. Now THAT, we thought, has to be a comic. A two-part comic no less.

A fantastic source of comedy is 60-something guys feeling, hey, we’ve still got it. Because in our heads, we still do. But then every once in a while, reality sinks in. Like last week, when I walked across a street with a don’t walk sign, a portly driver in a mini honked at me and shouted out, “Hey watch the light old man!” Being the mature older gentleman I am, I responded, “Eat another donut, fatso.” But the knife was in. Old man. Who was she talking about? Surely not me.

Which brings me to the NY Giants. They are the living, breathing proof that I’m not an old man. An old man wouldn’t care about a stupid football team so much, he’d consider spending a sunny day indoors, right Michael Grieco? An old guy would never even think about passing up a trip to South America because it was during the playoffs, would he? No. And if by chance I was describing myself, my utter immaturity would prove I’m not an old man, get it? Okay, it didn’t make that much sense to me either. I still go to the games and yell and scream as if I were much younger. And I still care wayyyy too much whether they win or lose. But even in the escapist world of sports, as the song goes, there’s always something there to remind you. Case in point: I grew up watching Archie Manning play for the New Orleans Saints. Years after his retirement, I watched his sons Peyton and Eli, play professional football, Eli with my beloved Giants. And now he’s getting old. The talk is about his retirement. Yikes.

At least we can always feel young in our hearts and heads, or as Bob Dylan sang, Forever Young. But man oh man, is HE getting old. Enough from me. I’m gonna work on turning back the clock.