Whose Line is it Anyway? 06/14/24

Ever been to Costa Rica? You can’t go there without experiencing a zip line and getting to rappel down a waterfall. Fun. Unless you’re terrified. One of us is that way. Here’s a hint: John once parachuted out of a plane. I still refuse to go off the high diving board at the local pool. As it happens, the both of us, at completely different times, went with our families to Costa Rica. You can have a beautiful vacation on the beach or you can have an eco-vacation in the rainforest. My family did a little of both. We actually had to rappel down a waterfall, each time you let go of the rope to descend you bounced your feet off the rock. And your feet got soaked because you were hitting the waterfall. Now I was wearing open-toed Keen’s sandals, a shoe that is so ugly, a female comedian friend of mine referred to them as “deal breakers.” But I digress. The point is, the looser you hold the rope, the more freely and effortlessly you descend. But if you are terrified you hold on to the rope tightly. Which results in you taking twice as long as it should and a pair of rope-burned hands. But that is nothing when compared to a zip line. For those of you who have never experienced one, you climb up a ladder perched against one tree. The trip organizers put a helmet on you, gloves to protect against those previously mentioned rope burns, and hook up your safety vest to a safety harness. In sum, you are pretty safe. The only thing you can’t do is panic and apply the brake too soon. If you do this, you won’t have enough momentum to reach the tree and platform on other side. Instead, you’ll just hang down from the middle of the rope while everyone laughs at you as you now have to propel yourself hand over hand to get to the other side. Exhausting and humiliating at the same time. Not that I’d know. So John and I thought it would be funny to have a terrified Marv have to take the zip line to get to the reception for Sid’s wedding. Our choice came to Marv and his bulk, tie flapping in the wind, vs. an older woman with a clutch and her pearls flapping in the wind. We looked at each other and decided nobody would know who that woman was (heck, we didn’t know who that woman was) and decided to have Marv go along for the ride.

Then there’s the other kind of line we like to avoid. The line at the prescription drug counter. There’s a couple of reasons we find ourselves on these lines more than we’d like. One reason is we ain’t exactly getting younger. And the other more sinister reason is we are being targeted by pharmaceutical ads. All the shows we watch, like nightly news, cable news, golf tournaments, TONY Awards, they see us coming. And every single ad is either an insurance ad or a pharmaceutical ad. And of all the pharmaceutical ads in all the world, the one that drives John, me and a host of other people crazy is the ad for Jardiance, the little pill with the big STOR-ee to tell. As far as I know, you emphasize the second syllable, sto-REE, not the other way around. In musical terms it’s a syncopation - “a disturbance or disruption of the regular flow of rhythm.” Another sterling example is the jingle for the charity Kars for Kids. They sing, “do-NATE your car today.” So one issue is how badly the songs are written and the other one is you can’t get the damn thing out of your mind. At least we can’t. So have a wonderful weekend and in an effort to get those songs out of your head, just remember, we all live in a yellow submarine.

Andy and John

First World Problems. 06/07/24

Of all the problems in the world, having too much money to spend doesn't seem like a biggie. But we’ve seen it before. Professional athletes, actors or app developers, hedge funders and corporate lawyers who earn untold riches before they’re old enough to understand it’s not going to last forever. I know of a certain actor who lives in a fancy building in Brooklyn. There’s a rooftop deck for the building. Said actor (trust me, you know him) bought 3/4 of the deck, the part with views of the Manhattan Skyline, the New York Harbor and the Statue of Liberty for himself, and let the other 29 tenants split the 1/4 of the roof that’s left. The part without the views. And this from a guy that probably spends no more than 4 weeks a year there. Yeah, that kind of money. Or there’s the recent example of a 22-year-old multimillionaire athlete who covered the floor of a strip club with $100 dollar bills so his friends could have unlimited fun.

We didn't give Sid that kind of money, but close. What would he do with it? What would we do with it? You’d like to think you’d be responsible, but hey, why settle for a mere car when you can just as easily afford a Maserati? Thank goodness the comic doesn’t make the kind of money. The kind that would give John or me the type of aforementioned trouble our young billionaires have to deal with. On the other hand, as The Beach Boys once sang, “Wouldn't it be Nice?” The point is that while we would be sorely tempted to do crazy things with unlimited money, we’re in our 60’s (okay, okay, one of us is in his very, very early 70’s) we at least have some perspective. For a young kid, it would be awfully tough or nearly impossible not to spend it recklessly. Like a private destination wedding in a foreign, far away land. A private plane that doesn't serve its passengers microwave trays of salisbury steak (whatever that is) and pop chips, but instead passes out elk-burger sliders and hand cut fries with a lemon aioli. Heck, it’s not John’s money or mine. So we can spend it as recklessly as we want. So there!

Have a nice weekend, and take it from us, chopped chuck and American cheese makes a better hamburger than ground sirloin and roquefort. Any time.

Andy and John

The Good and Bad of the Web 05/31/24

The internet can be bad. If you’ve ever ordered an article of clothing off the internet (and who hasn't?) you know the rule. It never fits. Ever. Take shoes for instance. I know I’m a size 8 1/2 here in the good old USA. But what size am I in Europe? I think I’m a 41. But it could easily be a 42. Shirts, fuhgeddaboutit. Small, medium large, that - I get. But collar size? Sleeve length? No shot. And our size changes as we get older so what you think you know may very well not be accurate. Which brings us around to Marv and his shirt. Maybe the sizes in China are different. Maybe Marv put on a little weight. But Rachel could have been a little nicer. She could have just gazed at his stomach and not said anything, but that doesn't make for a funny ending.

And then the internet can be extremely good. Like for Sid. Remember Sid? He is the son of Al and Joanne. Sid lived in their basement into his early 30’s working on an idea for a “killer app.” Sid was devastated when Al and Joanne took him off the family phone plan (my kids still haven’t forgiven me). And then one day, as if by miracle, Sid emerges from his room to announce he was a newly minted internet multi-millionaire. Funny how that works. So John and I asked ourselves, what would a guy with untold riches do for a wedding. And since we don’t have to pay for it, we had no problem spending Sid’s money. In this era of celebrity weddings, Peltz-Beckham, RFK Jr and Cheryl Hines, Ben Affleck and…wait a minute, that one just ended. Anyway, we wondered what a pair of healthy, wealthy 30-somethings would do if they could do anything they wanted. In the next couple weeks, you’ll find out.

What’s the most extravagant, over-the-top wedding you’ve ever attended? Write us and if we hear something really crazy, we’ll write about it in the blog. Have a great weekend and we’ll see you next week with two new installments of Sid’s big event.

Andy and John

Post Retirement Life. 05/24/24

Once you stop working your responsibilities at work obviously end, but your responsibilities at home exponentially increase. More time to prepare meals at home translates to more time at the grocery store. While I am the primary cook, my wife is the fancy cook. She is particularly amazing at the wok. So an innocent request from me like, “Can you make us that delicious beef and broccoli dish you cook and maybe some veggie fried rice?” Turns into my least favorite part of going to the grocery store: the “ethnic foods” aisle. Here you’ll find Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese items along with Jamaican, Middle Eastern, Mexican and African foods. Jerk chicken spice anyone? How about Peri Peri sauce? Anyone for tahini paste? I know where they all are. But when it comes to Chinese cooking, my wife will ask me to pick up stuff like hot sesame oil. I have looked at four, mind you, four grocery stores and asked probably ten different supermarket aisle checkers where to find the hot sesame oil and the conversation goes like this. Me: Where can I find hot sesame oil? Them: Sesame oil? Me: No, HOT sesame oil. Them: Here let’s look in the ethnic foods aisle. Me: I was already here but okay. Them: This? Me: No, that’s toasted sesame oil, I want hot.

And don’t even get me started on chili garlic paste. Apparently, such a thing exists. And as I’m checking out, in comes the request for baby bok choy. Anyhow, it was this phenomenon that led John and me to our grocery store comic. He thought water chestnuts were exotic enough. I wanted tahini paste. In the end, I folded like a moo shu pancake.

The other part of being retired is during the week you’re generally around other people who don’t work…kids and grandparents. Hence the chance to receive compliments you might receive at work (‘Oh, you look nice today,” “ Love those shoes,” “Where did you get that shirt?”) decreases. Instead you might get a compliment from your 87-year-old neighbor. But you know, I’ll take it. Something is better than nothing.

So that’s it. I’m flying home from the Greek Islands today and back on the job next week. Thank you John for an excellent job of holding down the fort. Have a wonderful weekend everyone,

Andy and John

SHRINKFLATION 5/17/24

Ever notice what’s written on the new 10 ounce Snapple bottles? “Same great taste, brand new bottle.” Or something to that affect. We don’t know about you dear readers, but John and I would rather have the same great taste in the old fashioned 12 ounce bottle. Just sayin’. You can’t really do that with clothing, otherwise a pair of pants would be a pair of shorts. But if it’s packaged goods, man have they figured this game out. Toothpaste, mouthwash, toilet paper, paper towels, Kleenex boxes, etc. Now it is true that there is a certain nostalgic magic to a glass 6 1/2 ounce bottle of Coke. And it is true that along the way, we’ve been supersized and supersized until we eat and drink more now than ever before. So I am all about going back to the 1960’s bottles, but I’d like them even better with 1960’s prices. Okay shrinkflation corporations, you can charge us 1960’s prices, adjusted for inflation. But maybe not. It might turn out costing us $250 a bottle. And they no longer put cocaine in it, like the old days…

But I digress. Both John and I would rather pay more for the same size. It just feels like they’re trying to put one over on you. But we spent a collective 75 years in advertising, and we know all about trying to fool consumers. You know when any kind of pain reliever, Advil, Tylenol, Motrin, etc says, “no other pain reliever works faster?” Well every one of them works just as fast, but none of them works faster.

Anyway, because I’m thousands of miles away now on a Greek island, I’m going to shrink this blog. But thankfully, we’re not charging a penny more! Same great blog, just less of it. Have a great weekend,

Andy and John

The Club 05/10/24

Let me start by saying that I do not like country clubs. I like golf. I like tennis. I like swimming pools. But I don’t like clubs. First of all, they tend to be exclusive. Which is another word for exclusionary. When L.A. country clubs wouldn't allow Jews in the 1920’s, Groucho Marx, Jack Benny and George Burns said “Screw it, we’ll open our own.” Which would have been great, except they didn’t let the people in who wouldn’t let them in. Full disclosure: my parents belonged to a country club when I was a kid. I used to call it, “The Not Allowed Club.” Somehow I did everything you were not allowed to do. Cut off jeans in 80 degree weather, not allowed. T-shirts without collars, not allowed. Cannon balls in the swimming pool, not allowed. And then there was the dining room. If you’ve never eaten in a country club dining room, you’re not missing out on much. First of all, everybody knows everybody because they all play golf and tennis together and they all invite each other to their parties. So the people from each table are always getting up to come over to say hello, and you are constantly expected to stand up when they come. My dad would say stuff like, “Andy, you remember Mr. and Mrs Rubin and their son Jeffrey.” And he would nod his head slightly upwards, and I would be required to stand and say, “Hello Mr. and Mrs. Rubin, then shake their hands, then sit back down again. Only to rise two minutes later when the Grossmans came by. Secret: I never remembered their names.

John, however, belonged to a tennis club. The all-whites policy was a term he knew as well as the term Jr. Club. When he mentioned it, I remembered that they also had an all-whites policy at the Not Allowed Club. Of course they did. They may have modified the policy over the last few years to allow pastels, but I’m not holding my breath. Although I must admit, I look pretty (damned good) in pink.

That’s it for this week. John will hold down the fort while I go on vacation for two weeks. And then I’ll hold the fort for him. What exactly does it mean to hold the fort? I hope the fort doesn't have an all-whites policy.

Andy and John

May Peace Be With You. 05/03/24

If you’ve ever been to the Hamptons, you’ve seen it. The coupling of a younger woman and a much older man. Good luck with that, because 70 can’t keep up with 40 no matter how hard 70 tries. So how do these seemingly incompatible couplings occur in the first place? Glad you asked. A leading social scientist (whose name escapes me) made a scale, assigning different values to different assets. Intelligence, attractiveness and money being among the highest scoring assets. To serve up a cliche, a 70-year-old male or female movie producer would score very high on the money, power and influence scales, while scoring lower on the attractiveness scale. While the 25-year-old arm candy would score high on the beauty scale, but not very high in the other categories. Does Robert DeNiro becoming a father at age 80 ring a bell? While there is no way these aforementioned pairs should fit together, when you add up the scores on this social scientist’s scale, the pairs make an even match. All of which has little to do with Sam and his much younger wife, Shellie. He liked Shellie and was amazed she went for him. But with age difference comes different responsibilities. Most guys in their mid 60’s aren’t first learning how to put on a diaper (unless it’s on themselves). The inspiration for this comic came from a recent experience I shared with John. My wife and I (we are only 3 weeks apart in age, I might add) took care of our granddaughter one weekend. On the list for that Saturday was taking our granddaughter Charlotte to a 3-year-old birthday party at the NY Aquarium in Coney Island. The party room consisted of a bunch of 3-year olds and their parents. A couple of the parents introduced themselves and said, “Oh, you must be Charlotte’s grandfather.” I told John this, and his response was, “Yeah, so?” And I countered, “You don’t think it’s funny everybody just assumed I was the grandpa? He didn’t think that was surprising in the least, so the hell with him (he’s 5-years-younger anyway, the whippersnapper). And that’s when he suggested the school play might be a better venue for our character Sam, who actually IS a 60-ish parent of a small child. Hilarity, well at least awkward hilarity, ensues. I hate it when he’s right.

The other comic this week was very close to an actual experience I had in Japan last year. My wife and I were part of a three-couple trip. We were being led by a guide to the Temple of Peace. To get there, you had to stand on a long line, and then walk, single file, over a narrow bridge to get to the beautiful orange temple which was in the middle of a lake. The line stretched backwards, up six flights of a huge staircase. When we saw the line I said to our crew, “Screw it, why don’t we just run up there to the side of the line and take a group picture with the Temple in the background. Some of the people on the line thought we were trying to cut to the front and I explained, “Oh no, we’re just taking one picture and then we’re leaving.” Trouble was, nobody spoke English except for one person who exclaimed, “No cutting.” When I shared this experience with John, he liked it, we turned it into a comic, and we allowed the idea to cut to the front of our comic line this week.

That’s it for now. Join us again next Friday. With summer just around the corner, we take a trip to the country club. Have a great weekend,

Andy and John

Maybe We're Not That Old, but We're Not That Young Either. 04/26/24

I’m one of those people who refuses to listen to Sirius XM channels like “Classic Vinyl.” I have friends that listen to that, but all they hear is Led Zeppelin, The Doors, Pink Floyd, etc. The consequence is they’re not exposed to new music. And listen, I love those bands (except for Zeppelin, so shoot me), but I also want to be consistently exposed to new music, so I listen to a station called The Spectrum. It plays “the whole spectrum” of music from oldies to newies (is that even a word?) to everything in between. So it was while listening to The Spectrum that I started to appreciate an artist, a country rocker and brilliant lyricist named Jason Isbell. And wouldn’t you know it, he started becoming popular out east, not exactly a country music stronghold. He wound up playing at this old music hall in my town, capacity 850 seats. We eagerly attended the concert and loved it. About a year later he had become so popular he filled Radio City Music Hall, capacity of 6,000. My wife and I eagerly attended, figuring we were in for a similar experience, except the tickets were suddenly way more expensive. He hits the stage with a rock ‘n roll crowd pleaser, “The Two of Us.” The audience leapt up, the music was so driving, you couldn’t sit. Dueling electric guitars, horn sections, drum solos, the whole nine yards. I turned to my wife and said “Wow, this is even better than I expected!” Then the next song starts and we sit down. But a funny thing happened. The people in front of us remained standing. The people behind us remained standing. The people to the side of us remained standing. And nobody sat, even during a slow, contemplative song about love and loss. We took a few songs off and sat. There were two huge monitors on either side of the stage showing the band, so if you sat down, you could see some part of the monitor if you craned you head to the right and looked in the space between this tall guy’s shoulder and his much shorter girl friend’s shoulder. I shared this experience with John and the result was our “Concert Standoff” comic. Gives a whole new meaning to “Standing Room Only.” I mean, even the front row was standing, and there was nobody in their way. So it was a great concert, but note to the other 5,998 people in the audience, “Sit the f*@k down!!!” Just sayin’.

Our second comic was a New 60 spin on a Passover Seder we had just this past Monday. We had our traditional Seder, with 14 people. The meal started around 7:30. So did Game 2 of the NBA playoffs featuring my beloved New York Knicks. That’s right, 7:30, during Passover, in New York City. But, I reasoned, that’s why the good Lord invented digital video recording. As we discussed current events, followed by the story of the Jews going through the desert with their unleavened bread (I happen to love matzoh, but prefer it lightly salted with a little butter), 7:30 became 8:30, became 9:30 as we’re singing Dayenu. And at 10, I went into my bedroom, changed clothing and exited still in my suit, only this time, it was a sweat suit. In a flattering shade of navy, I might add. In case the point wasn't made, I turned the game on at 10:30. John couldn’t believe I did that, but he thought we could mold it into a damned good comic.

If you think this behavior was a one time thing, I once attended a Rosh Hashanah dinner in my Eli Manning jersey. Which begs the question, why do my favorite teams always play at the most inappropriate times? Or, as my wife might put it, it’s not the games that are inappropriate.”

Th-th-that’s all folks for this week. We’ll see next Friday with two new ones hot off our MacBook’s,

Andy and John

We're Not THAT Old, Are We? 04/19/24

Ever been stopped for some kind of traffic violation? C’mon, admit it. Of course you have. When you’re young you can try to charm the police officer. When you’re older, you hope maybe they’ll take pity on you. Or like Al, you can be clueless. About a week ago, I practiced one of my go-to moves: the rolling stop. It’s an art form. You have to go slowly enough to give you plausible deniability (No officer, I came to a stop), but fast enough to not slow down your arrival time. I thought I had it down to a science, but was mistaken when the flashing lights of a police car appeared from behind me. I looked in the rearview, then I looked in front of me to ascertain just who was getting pulled over. And upon seeing no other vehicles, I concluded the officer must have been pulling over yours truly. I rolled down the window and a female officer approached the car. She said, “Do you know why I pulled you over?” I replied, “Uhh, I did a rolling stop? I thought I had stopped sufficiently.” She said, “License and registration please.” I proceeded to pull every card I had out of my wallet until I found the license, and then started rooting around my glove compartment for the registration, turning over papers until she stopped me and said, “That’s okay sir.” She saw that I lived in the same Westchester town where she pulled me over and said, “I’m going to let you go with just a warning this time, but be careful next time.” Wow. Talk about lucky. But then there was this other time about a year ago, when all the charm in the world did absolutely nothing for me. That time, I got pulled over by a much meaner policeman. He looked like he was in his early twenties and thought you had to be like Kojak to be a cop. What was my infraction? Yep, you guessed it. Another rolling stop. And Kojak appears from nowhere, lights flashing. After the license and registration bit, he walks back to his car. Aha, I think. This is where he sees I’m a local boy and lets me off. But no, he comes back and hands me a ticket. “Maybe he missed my address,” I think. So I remind him. “I live just a couple blocks from here,” And he replies, “Then I don’t have to tell you how dangerous this corner is.” I resisted the urge to reply, “There’s absolutely no other car coming or going here. It ain’t exactly 42nd Street and Times Square!”I resisted, but just barely. I told all this to John and we made a mash up of our respective traffic violations and nailed poor Marv with a ticket.

Our second comic comes from an observation I made to John about seeing the Miami Marlins pitching coach, Mel Stottlemyre Jr., walk out to the mound. To those of you who aren’t into baseball, he is the son of Mel Stottlemyre, a former Yankee, who was their star pitcher when I was growing up. Now here was his kid, Mel Jr., trotting out to the mound to talk to his pitcher. Peeking out from under Junior’s cap was a full head of white hair, and he had a white beard to boot. John countered with, “If you think that’s something, how about Mike Yastrzemski, the Giants outfielder?” Again, for those non fans, Carl Yastrzemski (pronounced ya-strem-ski or just “Yaz” for short) played on the Boston Red Sox during our misspent youths. I said, “Oh, Carl’s son?” And John replied, “No his GRANDson,” and another comic was born. By the way, Mike himself will be likely retiring in a couple years. The point is, there is a progression among young male sports fans. First we dream of being professional ballplayers. Then, in our twenties, we watch a game and think, “Damn, some of these guys are younger than me!” Then it’s, “Wow, he just retired and I’m older than he is!!” Followed by, “No, that’s his grandson.”

So that’s it for this week. A special shoutout to my wife Joanie, who is getting honored tonight for her years of service on the board of Girls Inc., and one final thought: The Mets third baseman just pulled his hamstring. If they need an emergency replacement, I’m still here. Have a great weekend,

Andy and John

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished. 04/12/24

A couple months ago, my son stayed over for the night. The next day we went for a hike. There are a few beautiful hikes where I live. One is along the Hudson River, so close that you can hear it lapping up against the shoreline. Another is along the Old Croton Aqueduct trail. A former aqueduct that used to carry water from the Croton Aqueduct to New York City is now a spectacular wooded path following the same 26.2 mile route. So we had a couple options for hikes that I knew well.

Did I choose one of those? Noooo. I had the bright idea of going somewhere where the two of us had never been. Near Bear Mountain. We got lost. Waze’s fault, not mine (of course). So we tried Plan B, but the road leading up to the trailhead was closed. By this time it was around 3 pm and the sun set about 5:45 or 6pm. On the way back towards home we spotted a trailhead and parking lot around a small lake. The time was now 3:30. “Ahh hah,” I said. We parked. We looked at the trail map. I said, “Got it. The red trail to the yellow trail and then we head back to the beginning along the blue trail. About 3 miles. Shouldn’t take more than an hour, so we should be back around 4:30, plenty of time before sundown.” Man plans, God laughs. We started off on the red trail, straight uphill. My son was bounding along the rocks hopping over the tree limbs and then would wait patiently for me to catch up. I would reach him trying hard to disguise how heavily I was panting, and then we’d continue. Next the yellow trail, exactly where we suspected it would be. So we continued along it until we found the blue trail. But we never found the blue trail, so we kept going certain it would be right around the next corner. 4 pm came and went. And then the yellow trail ended in a clearing and we had no idea where we were. Oh, and it was now 5pm. And getting darker. And colder. So I pulled out my phone and called 9-1-1. They in turn called the park rangers who told us in no uncertain terms to stand there and don’t move. They said they’d be sending a guy up in an all-terrain vehicle to pick us up and drive us back to the lot. That took until 6:15, in total darkness, and we were both freezing cold. I asked the park ranger what happened to the blue trail sign. He said, “Oh, that’s off to the left of the trail and downhill so a lot of people miss it.” I asked him how many stranded hikers he had to save each year and he said, “About 5 or 6 per week.” Now I’m thinking, “So why don’t you change the freakin’ sign????” But we needed his help to get down the trail so I wisely kept my mouth shut. And did I mention a monster snowstorm was headed to the east coast that night?

I told this story to John and we immediately got this week’s first comic out of it. And rest assured, Al and Joanne eventually make it back safely. We just ran out of frames.

The other comic is about a phrase a lot of young working people use now: Quiet Quitting. Nice alliteration, no? You don’t actually quit your job, you just come in late and leave early and do the least amount of work possible. John related that to a union work slowdown. I related it to the last 40 years of my career.

That’s it for this week. A huge shout out to all our faithful fans and readers. We surpassed 1.1 million viewers who interacted with us on Facebook last month and over 26,000 to our website. Keep spreading the word. Have a great weekend and know that we couldn't do this without you,

Andy and John.

High Finance 04/05/24

No, “high finance” is not some dumb pun about getting high while balancing your checkbook. It’s about how we’re not as smart about our finances as we think we are. At least some of us. At least me. Like when it comes to splitting the dinner check. John and I discussed the many different ways a dinner out can become awkward. You know the drill. Some people have a glass of wine and that’s it. Others start with a cocktail, maybe a second and then ask about splitting a bottle of wine that’s only $105.00. They want to split the check and you are confronted with the following dilemma: do I say something, like “I only had one glass of wine,” and sound like a cheap son-of-a-bitch? Or do I grin and bear it? I choose grin and bear it. I kid you not, I was once at an agency celebration for winning a new account. About 12 of us went to a pizzeria, we ordered a bunch of pies with various toppings and when the check came, somebody said, “I only ordered the plain pie, I don’t see why I have to split evenly with the people who ordered toppings.” This person was summarily shouted down. So that’s one side of the equation. The other side is the people who intentionally (even if it’s not intentionally, it still seems intentional) order the most expensive thing on the menu, knowing the couples will split the check. If you remember Father Guido Sarducci from Saturday Night Live (or SNL for anyone under the age of 50), he once did a hilarious skit about the Last Supper which featured an apostle suggesting that Jesus order the most expensive thing on the menu, a gigantic steak, because everyone is going to split the bill and wind up spending the same amount of shekels. And I’ve been on the other end of the equation where someone says, I only ordered two appetizers, and then want to itemize the entire bill so it comes out fairly. Yes they may end up saving themselves a few shekels, but they’ve lost me as a future dinner companion. Of course there are subtle variations on this theme. Like if you’re the person who ordered the most expensive thing, and then you offer to pay more or to leave the tip and then the other person agrees. Not okay. I mean, you’re just offering so you seem like a good person, but the other person is NEVER supposed to take you up on it.

Okay, I got carried away. The other came out from John’s head, but affects MY apartment, so I immediately related. John and his wife will do bulk shopping at Costco. My wife and I also have close friends who swear by everything Costco. We even have a Costco card because having one enabled my wife to get a big discount on her car lease, believe it or not. But Costco goers of the world, I have something to say to you. If you live in a house, go for it. If you live in an apartment, avoid it like the plague. For instance, we’ve got a refrigerator/freezer combo that divides vertically. Lots of room for the double door fridge, but not so much for the freezer part. It looks like a quarter of the total unit. When you go to Costco, you don’t just buy a package of turkey breasts, you buy the whole freakin’ turkey. What am I supposed to do with the hamburger buns? Chuck them? And paper towels? Costco sells them by the 12-pack. Toilet paper? Anyone for a Charmin Ultra-Soft, mega-roll 12-pack? So the question becomes, would you rather have room to live, or room to store the wonderful bargains you found at Costco? Even though Costco, according to Wirecutter, has the top rated vodka in a blind-taste test, I’m sticking with Tito’s. The liter size.

That’s it for this week. Enjoy the wonderful April weather complete with tornadoes, thunderstorms and tennis ball sized hail. Maybe enjoy the weekend inside. And don’t worry, you’ll have plenty to eat. If you shop at Costco.

Andy and John

Choices. 03/28/24

Do we eat in? Or go out? Do I exercise? Or take a nap? Should I call so and so who I haven’t spoken to in a long time? Or should I wait until tomorrow? Pay the bills? Write that speech? All choices, none of them life or death. And when you get to a certain age you make the choice, chill out at home with my zillions of cable channels and streaming platforms, or babysit for our granddaughter? Now I’ve heard of some people that won’t babysit, even when their kids ask them to. That’s a choice. For my wife and I, when our daughter calls and asks us to babysit our granddaughter, we jump at the chance. She’s very entertaining, and we get to give her back at the end of the day. I’m guessing John feels the same way since he’s jetting off to see his daughter and granddaughter more times than I can count. But what about when something really cool and unexpected befalls you at the last minute. Something you didn’t plan for but are dying to do. Then you’ve got a conundrum. Not really, because if you promised you’d be there, you have to be there. On the other hand, how many more times are you gonna get a chance to see Bruuuuce? A few months ago, my favorite all-time band, Steely Dan, was playing an hour away from me and I asked myself, how many more chances will I get to see them? Either they’ll stop touring or I’ll stop being able to stay up past 11 pm. Point is (is there a point?) if I bought the tickets first and then came the request to babysit, then I’d probably go to the concert or the play, or the game. But if we give our word we’ll be there, then we’ll end up singing “Ricky Don’t Lose That Number” to our grandchild. True story: a relative recently left me her guitar. No sooner did I receive it than I ordered a book of children’s songs. I haven’t played in more than 40 years, but what the hell, Steely Dan here I come. Or at least Peter, Paul and Mary.

Our other topic was again about a choice. Marv made a choice to cook dinner. He also made a choice to not realize he had to first remove the stickers off the onions and peppers before he sliced said onions and peppers. Alright, if you want to get technical about it, he didn’t actually make a choice, he just forgot. In every relationship, people assume certain responsibilities. You cook, I’ll do the dishes. You take out the recycling, I’ll make the bed. The trouble comes when one person tries to do the other person’s task. It inevitably ends up with a “You’re doing it wrong!” kind of reaction. It might be subtle, like when my wife loads the dishwasher and I move the plates and glasses so we can fit more in, or when I make the bed, and she remakes it so it actually looks like it’s made. Oh well, you’ve got to give Marv a hand for at least trying. Don’t you? One of these days John will write the blog and I’ll illustrate the comic. On the other hand, I wouldn't hold your collective breaths.

Have a good weekend and we’ll see you next week.

Andy and John

Deal With It. 03/22/24

Hey, we’re getting older. Things we used to love don’t interest us as much and things we used to not like suddenly become more interesting. Stuff changes. Also we tend to accept our strengths and our weaknesses. For instance, at age 70, I finally realized I’m not going to play shortstop for the Mets. Hell, I couldn't even make shortstop on my intramural softball team, and I was the captain! As for John, despite playing soccer for his college, chances are he’s not playing center-mid for Inter Miami, feeding Messi as he attacks the goal. Ain’t happening. I have friends who love tennis and begrudgingly, they’ve switched to pickle ball. Which gets us around to our Zoom Smile comic. For those of you who have followed the blog you know that both John and I became grandparents in the last couple years. For my wife and me, our granddaughter lights up our world. But we each have out strengths. I’m the funny one who makes her laugh. When it’s time for a hug or she gets a “boo boo,” she runs to grandma. I remember one time she came to visit us. We live in an apartment at the end of a long hallway, perfect for running. If you’re three years old. So our daughter and son-in-law buzz up from the lobby that they’re coming up. My wife and I come out to the hallway and squat down to our granddaughter’s level. She shrieks with joy when she sees us and comes running down the hall. I open my arms in expectation, and she runs right past me to my wife. That’s what happened in real life. In the comic, well, John and I think them up, so the kid smiles for the grandpa. You can’t make this stuff up. Oh wait a minute, we just did.

Our other effort is about March Madness. Both John and I know a lot about sports, different sports but we know about the ones we follow, and neither of us know one solitary thing about men’s college basketball. I used to love it, now, not so much. Alright, I know one thing. I went to grad school at Northwestern and they’re in the NCAA Tournament, otherwise known as March Madness. So when John brought up the fact that our Friday comic would intersect with the beginning of the tournament, I said, “I don’t know a thing about the tournament.” And he replied, “Neither do I.”Perfect. Listen, wherever I’ve worked, they’ve always had a pool in which you fill out the brackets and predict the outcomes of every game in a 64-team tournament about which you know nada (as in not a thing). The odds of getting the whole thing right are astronomical, like a billion to one, but don’t quote me on that. So we just looked for the colleges with the goofiest names to pick for the tourney. Our first idea was to pick Murray State, because we once knew a guy named Murray, but, too bad, they’re playing in a different tournament. We went for Auburn and Drake, because we grew up eating Drake’s Cakes. Now we realize this is only a northeastern thing, but if you never have tasted a Yodel, you’re really missing something. Pro tip: a Yodel must be dunked into a glass of milk. And we ain’t talking soy milk either. But I digress. Stetson University came in a close third, but neither of us looks good in a Stetson hat, so Drake it was. Anyway, enjoy the tournament and the comics and we will leave you with one piece of advice: bet the house on Purdue. No, just kidding. We know nothing about them.

Have a great weekend and we’ll see you next week,

John and Andy

Are We Really THAT Old? 03/15/25

Has it really come to this? Writing wills??? Some would say, “Oh, it can wait,” while others among us might say, “Are you crazy? You haven’t done it yet? What’re you waiting for?” If you’ve been with us this long you know our two main couples have remained married through the years. But in order to switch it up and more accurately reflect life, we also have a divorced guy who is a serial dater, Craig, as well as a guy the same age as the rest of them, Sam, who married someone many years his junior, Shellie. He met her on a beach so it’s sorta funny her name is Shellie, get it? But they had a kid, Sammy Jr., and now it’s time for them to write a will so Shellie and Sammy will be protected when the day comes that Sam is no longer with us. Or in legalese, when he predeceases her. What is it with legalese? I suppose it’s meant to be precise so you can’t possibly misinterpret it, but for many of us (at least for John and me) it seems indecipherable (see, lawyers aren’t the only ones who can come up with big words). For instance, let’s say you’re babysitting your granddaughter and she wants a third cookie, when her parents told you (and her) that she was only allowed to have two. The kid bargains for a third cookie, and I imagine I might say something like, “C’mon now, we agreed with mommy and daddy that you can have two. Time for bed.” Followed by a major pout. But if the grandkid wanted to become a lawyer, she might respond, “Grandma and Grandpa, since the size of the cookies were not specifically predetermined, you are not rigidly bound by the doctrine of stare decisis to follow that dictum and therefore departure from that decision is justified (kinda like the Supreme Court did with Roe vs Wade). It doesn’t have to be that complicated. *Thank you to a very talented lawyer, dear friend of too many years to count and faithful reader, Roberta Goodman, who helped make sure that sentence made sense.

Onto the second comic, the one where Al bursts out in song “I don’t care what they say, I won’t stay in a world without love.” This actually happened to John, when he worked in advertising, during a client meeting. And like Al, he got no response. But let John tell it:

Back in my Mad Men days (the advertising career, not the show) I was sitting in yet another boring client meeting. Everyone was discussing recent consumer research findings or the relative merits of end-aisle displays versus floor decals or some such nonsense. I wasn't really paying close attention as I was working on a rather unflattering (but painfully accurate) caricature of one of the more annoying clients. Someone in the room said something that started with "They say that..." and then some gibberish followed about market share, then another piled on with "Well, they say..." and then yet another started their sentence with "They say..." I didn't really care to find out who exactly "they" were but the repetition of the phrase struck me as funny and so I said, "I don't care what they say, I won't stay in a world without love." I expected a few chuckles, maybe a suppressed chortle or two. Possibly even an actual laugh. Instead, the response I got was more akin to the audience's response in Mel Brooks' film "The Producers" after viewing the lavish opening number in "Springtime for Hitler." I sheepishly explained myself by saying, "you know... the song." Then I attempted to sing a bar or two. Crickets. Then everyone went back to the research report and I continued finishing the caricature. A short time later I was moved off the account. Fun times.

I instantly loved his story because it also happens to be something I do all the time. And I mean all the time. Usually in my head, thank goodness. When I’m feeling lonely, Neil Diamond comes up, “I am I said, to no one there…” When someone I’m fond of pisses me off, I go to Hamilton, “I will kill your friends and family to remind you of my love." I’m watching the Knicks and it’s John Fogerty “Put me in coach, I’m ready to play.” I’m actually singing this, in my head, to the television. And it doesn’t have to even be a situation. It could just be someone introduces me to their friend Eleanor, and right away it’s off to Beatle land, “Eleanor Rigby,” I cannot help it. And now you know. Yeah, “I’m just a little bit crazy.” The question is: did John realize this quirk about me when he thought up this comic? Hell no. As it happens, he was actually talking about himself!

Have a great weekend and we’ll see you next week, but remember, “Every time you go away from me (us), you take a piece of me (us) with you…”

Andy and John

Our Memories Aren't Quite What They Used to...wait what was I saying? 03/08/24

Sometimes we get ideas out of thin air. Mostly from experience. And occasionally, from a reader’s experience. In this case a good buddy of mine, Peter Samberg, an excellent lawyer, has become an adjunct professor of Law at Mercy University, or more accurately, Legal Studies Program Coordinator, Mock Trial (in other words, adjunctpProfessor). He actually made a reference to everybody’s favorite lawyer, Joe Pesci in “My Cousin Vinny.” As it turns out, Pesci is everybody’s favorite lawyer who is older than 50. I mean c’mon now. who among us doesn’t remember “two yoots?” But in this case, when the good professor brought up a legal argument made in “My Cousin Vinny” he was met with a classroom full of blank stares. I’ve heard that from other adjunct professors I know. Any attempt at a cultural reference that has great meaning to us, has little or no meaning to them. Now to be fair, it works both ways. Case in point, I took my family to see “Hamilton” when it opened. When the epic duel happens, they sing a song “Ten Duel Commandments.” My son calmly turned to me and said, “Oh, he’s riffing off ‘The Ten Crack Commandment’ by the Notorious B.I.G.” Huh? Oh yeah. Of course. I knew that.

Our other effort this week happened when John and I asked each other how many telephone numbers we remember. Not many. And here’s the thing: I have an almost photographic memory for numbers. Before the cell phone became ubiquitous, I worked in a smallish (is that even a word?) ad agency of about 200 or so people. Everybody had a 4-digit extension attached to the agency’s main number. I still remember mine, X 5169. But here’s the thing. I knew almost everyone’s 4 digit extension. Seriously, people would come up to me and ask, “What’s Jessica’s extension?”And I knew. But now, no way. And it’s got nothing to do with aging. For example John and I call each other multiple times each week. Neither of us has any idea what the other guy’s number is. Why? Because of our damn cell phones. There’s no reason to remember anyone’s number. It’s just, “Hey Siri, call John.” But what happens if your cell phone dies? Those same phones give students no real reason to know their times tables in math. “Hey Siri, what’s 12 multiplied by 2?” These are all lost arts. But supposedly when your phone performs all these tasks, it frees your mind up for more conceptual thinking, like “I wonder what I’m gonna make for lunch?” Or “If I leave the house at 3:30 I’ll have plenty of time to get to the dentist’s office for my 4:15.”

Anyway, have a great weekend. I am off for a mid-week golf trip ‘cause that’s what you can do when you stop working a full-time job. I hope I remember my phone.

Andy and John

What to Do When You Have Nothing to Do. 03/01/24

When I was working, I always knew what day it was. I was aware of every upcoming vacation and long weekend because, why not? And because of the 5-day work week, which sometimes stretched into weekends, everything was done on a schedule. Saturday was grocery-day, and most every other errand-day. Which left Sundays for just chillin’. In fact, the first week I stopped working at the end of 2016, I was taking a hike with my wife in the woods on a Saturday and I stopped short and said, “Oh no, I forgot to go grocery shopping.” And she said, “Why not go on Monday?” My shoulders instantly relaxed and I started to enjoy my new reality, which is really nice, except for the lack of steady income part. Now, forget about it, Or as they say in New Yawk, fuhgeddaboudit. I do things like ride a bike on a bike path or play golf or go grocery shopping on a weekday because all those activities are much less crowded. So when John pointed out it was a leap year, we imagined what the guys would do with the extra day. The fact that it came up on a Thursday meant it was gonna be nothing out of the ordinary. I thought maybe read a book, John thought about buying socks, and a comic was born (although I had to point out that the best sock buying is done on the internet — Bombas, in case you had any doubt).

One thing we all do more of on a weeknight basis is go out to dinner. If you notice, every cool restaurant has hard surfaces. No carpeting on the floors, no sound-absorbing tiles on the ceilings, no curtains or drapes on the windows. Nothing. The reason is when you walk in, it sounds like a big party. You’re supposed to think, “Wow everyone is having a great time! What a cool place!” But after a certain age, you think, ”I can’t hear a damned thing!” If I’m being honest, I have to tell you that some places I loved in the past I like a little less now, because it’s so hard to hear and to be heard. We still go to them anyway, because we like the food and the atmosphere, it’s just…

But while we can tolerate the noise (somewhat), sometimes there’s that one table, or that one person at that one table, who crosses the line. Work parties are the worst. You can spot them a mile away. They’re on the 3rd round of drinks and they shout inside info kind of stuff that everyone at the table finds hysterically funny, then they throw their collective heads back and bray like donkeys. Seinfeld-level dialogue it’s not. Stuff like, “Remember when Chris showed up late to that strategy meeting and thought we were talking about finance instead??!!” Or, “Who can forget the time Kevin brought in bagels for a weekend meeting and forgot to bring a gluten-free bagel for Cynthia? I thought she was going to kill him!!!!” Funny stuff indeed. I don’t mind the lame attempts at humor as much as the loud laughter. But the thing that really gets both John and me is when someone at the next table has an incredibly loud, nails-on-the-blackboard laugh. It sneaks up on you. At first you’re thinking, “Geez, it’s loud in here,” and you look around. Then you spot the culprit, “It’s that table to my left.” And then you zero in and see it’s that guy (or in the case of our comic, that lady) at that table who just throws his/her head back and bellows in a completely unnecessarily loud voice. That’s bad enough when you notice it. But what’s worse is when you point it out to your dinner companion (“See that lady over there…?”) Yes, you’ve unburdened yourself, but now you’ve made the meal unbearable for your partner as well. Guilty as charged, by the way. But as Erich Segal said in the film “Love Story,” “Love means never having to say you’re sorry (although I must say, that never works on my wife).

Have a great weekend (see, we just leapt right over Leap Year) and we’ll see you next week with two new ones.

Andy and John

There's No Accounting for Some People

I’m sure we’ve all been through some form or other of changing the “experts” we’ve come to depend on in our lives. Many of us inherit a doctor, lawyer, dentist, real estate agent, insurance agent, stock broker, financial analyst, etc, because these were the same people that helped our parents. The thinking goes, “If they were good enough for mom and dad, well then they’re good enough for me.” Except when they’re not. Case in point, some 40 years ago I was helping an older relative move. When somehow the expected windfall from selling her apartment wasn’t nearly as large as she thought it would be, I asked her what happened? She replied that her accountant (also her parent’s old accountant, emphasis on the “old”) named Harry Hammer was no longer with us. Why I remember his name, I do not know. Anyway, Harry had died and so she had nobody to prepare her income taxes. I inquired if she knew how long ago he died, and she calmly told me, “I think it was about 10 years.” Turns out she was right. You ever hear that commercial where the announcer says, “Be afraid of the IRS. Be very afraid?” I think it’s for Optima Tax Relief. The point they were making was you needn't be afraid because you have Optima. Well my relative didn’t have Optima or Harry, so… Things worked out in the end, and now, 40 years later, we can laugh about it and so can you with our first comic.

The next one was also based on reality. How many of you were little kids and witnessed your mom and dad lying in order to get away with something? My dad said I was 5 when they let kids 5 and under go free to the movies. He also said I was 14 (I was 12) when he took me to a James Bond movie that said you had to be at least 13 (PG-13 ratings didn’t become official until the 1980’s when I was substantially older than 13). Morally I was bothered by him telling the usher I was 5 when I was almost 6 3/4, but when it came to being told I was older than I actually was, well, that was cool. On one hand you think, “What kind of message am I giving my kids?” when on the other it’s “Ooh, maybe I could save five bucks.” So I made a point never to do that with my kids (who by the way are a little closer now to a senior discount than they are to being 5). Should you cheat in order to gain an edge or should you always do the right thing? The answer seems obvious. But I remember having this exact moral dilemma on an almost daily basis back in 1974. I was a junior in college, taking a semester abroad in London. My routine was the same every weekday when class was in session. I would get up, have breakfast and run to the subway (tube) stop where I was invariably late. In the station was a newsstand from which I bought the International Herald Tribune every morning. Remember the Trib? Remember newspapers? Anyway, if I was late, I would sometimes leap the turnstiles in order to catch the train. But on my way to the turnstile was this newsstand and the guy who worked there was blind. I would never cheat him. Ever. Even if it meant missing the train. And then it occurred to me, why did I think it was okay to hop the turnstile but not to cheat a blind man? And I guess the answer is because the London Transit Authority, actually called TfL (Transit for London) was a faceless entity where the newsman had a face I could see every morning. By the way the TfL is currently on strike, inconveniencing millions of Londoners so screw ‘em. Not really.

My wife and I had an incident with our then 2 year old granddaughter last Memorial Day. We took her to the local amusement park, Playland. She had her heart set on riding the carousel, which she called, “The Up Down.” When we got to the ride, it turned out she didn’t reach the red line over her head and the ticket taker refused to let her on, which resulted in tears. You can’t lie about height. But maybe the next time we go, we’ll get her some high-heeled sneakers.

Our advice is: When you take a child or grandchild to the movies, pay up and tell the truth. Or better yet, stream the damn movie at home. Have an excellent weekend and we will be back next week with two new ones.

Andy and John

Cauliflower is Cauliflower. 02/16/24

There is cauliflower rice, cauliflower pizza crust and, I swear, I just saw this on the menu of an Italian restaurant we love: cauliflower pasta. The latter is not a dish of pasta with cauliflower on top, it’s pasta made out of cauliflower. Now I realize that this is a most versatile vegetable, but don’t try and fool me into thinking it tastes like rice. It doesn’t. Don’t try to tell me it tastes like a pizza crust. It doesn't. Although I must admit the pasta was the only CS (Cauliflower Substitute) that tasted remotely like pasta. The point is that, no surprise, any CS food tastes like C, so why bother adding another modifier? And if you really think about it (clearly I have been thinking about it wayyy too much), don’t you worry (even just a little bit) that you’re hurting cauliflower’s feelings? It’s like we’re saying to every head of cauliflower out there, you’re not good enough the way you are. You have to disguise yourself, because we don’t like you. But you know what? Cauliflower has the last laugh. ‘Cause no matter how you try to dress it up, it refuses to give up its real identity. In fact, I’m going to have a real piece of cauliflower right now…not really. True story: just days after John and I came up with this comic, my wife gave me a Valentine’s Day card in which the wife makes her husband a veggie sandwich and upon giving it to him she says, “I made this with an extra-special ingredient, love.” Then you open up the card and the husband has a thought bubble, “I was really hoping it was bacon.”

Our other comic deals with Oscar Streaming. That’s right. If you time it properly, you can stream every category in advance of the actual show. You can stream, “Oscar-nominated animated shorts” which is not a brand of wrinkle-free golf shorts but rather a compilation of every animated short film up for an Oscar. If you are an insomniac or find yourself addicted to ambien, this is a very safe, drug-free way to ensure a full night’s sleep. Maybe you want to catch up on “Best Adapted Screenplay,” or “Best Cinematography.” Who doesn't want to watch six or seven films celebrated for their lighting and camera angles?” C’mon, don’t be a philistine. The Oscars are one of the few shows, that aren’t NFL games, that get big ratings. 93 out of the top 100-rated TV shows last year were NFL games. Me? I prefer to read on the couch while my wife watches and then snap to attention when the big categories come up. Or when Will Smith decides to slap Chris Rock in the face. Why do I even bother watching? The same reason my wife sat dutifully through the first half of the Super Bowl with me and our son, up through the halftime show, and snapped to attention with every touchdown or spectacular play. Which means she thinks about football the way I think about watching the “Best Sound Editing” category, which is distinct from “Best Sound Mixing.” You wouldn’t want to miss that one. John and I figured, if you start now, you might get to see everything that’s nominated before the big show in March. If nothing else, it’s a great opportunity to catch up on your sleep.

See you next week,

Andy and John

You Can't Fool Me (or maybe you can) 02/09/24

“Mother, make it stop! He’s trying to kill me.” If you’re old enough to subscribe to this comic, you’re old enough to know where that quote came from, The Exorcist. I saw that as a college kid in St. Louis, Mo., and I’ve never been so scared in my life. But the same feeling can apply to the current political season and its unending stream of emails asking for donations. Today’s comic is the last in the three-part series about unsubscribing, but as you well know, once you’ve successfully unsubscribed from one email address, you get hit with another. And another. And still another. You also get hit with three comics on the same subject, but this is our last one on it. We promise. At least for now.

Our other comic is about how we use “company coming over” as a lever to get things done. Why is a loosely made bed okay most of the time but when company comes over, the sheets have to be tucked in, hospital corner style, and on top of the neatly stacked pillows…go throw pillows. I once was a creative director on Swiffer. And my favorite team came up with an online idea about how to clean up the house featuring a cranky old man (I hope they weren't using me or my partner as inspiration), but anyway the guy comes up to a couch covered in throw pillows and he says, “Ya know why they call them throw pillows? ‘Cause they’re meant to be thrown.” And with that he takes his arm and sweeps them all onto the ground.

It’s ridiculous but it’s true. We treat our company much better than we treat ourselves. We use the “good silverware,” and the “good china,” and put out the “good placemats,” and “good napkins,” with a pretty flower arrangement and a soundtrack of jazz or classical music playing softly in the background. And oh, don’t forget the candles or the wine we save for “special occasions.”

But there’s another, more subtle way we use an upcoming party to manipulate our significant others. It’s a great way to get stuff done. Remember those shelves you meant to put up in the bathroom? The walls you were going to paint? The leaves you were going to rake? That pile of bills stacked up on the kitchen counter? There’s nothing like the promise (or threat) of company coming over to get you to clean it the hell up. I feel compelled at this moment to point out that John is very handy and is constantly taking on projects while I, well, am Jewish. Which means I call the super.

That’s it for this week and for our Unsubscribe Series. We’ll see you next week with two new ones, hot off the press (does anybody say hot off the press anymore?).

Andy and John

We will never leave you alone, ever.

You’d think I’d learn by now. But nooooo. I get so many political emails each day, I get overwhelmed. They start by asking an innocuous question about where I stand on a particular issue. Then I naively answer. And up comes a donation box telling me that if I could just give as little as $5.00, I can both save the country AND my donation will be TRIPLED, but only if I act before midnight. So I leave the money, and the very next day I’m asked for more. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. But what happens if you try to fool me 13 times a week and twice on Sundays?

This is why God invented the “unsubscribe” button. You’d think it would be so easy to stop receiving these emails, but clearly it’s not. They ask you why. It’s like an ex-girlfriend or boyfriend you broke up with asking “But why?” Unfortunately the website unsubscribe choices don’t include any of the easy outs, like “It’s not you, it’s me,” or “I don’t deserve you,” or as an ex once said to me when I was trying to win my way back into her graces, “You wouldn't like me anymore.” No instead you are just faced with the brutal truth: “The ads are annoying,” “Too many ads,” “Subject matter not interesting,” etc. Think of saying that to an ex. “You’re annoying,” “You’re always bothering me,” “I am not interested in anything you have to say.” So I end up feeling sorry for the damn pollsters or whoever it is that keeps bothering me. When they ask, “Are you sure?” Or “Won’t you reconsider?” or, “What happened?” I often break down and stop going through with the unsubscribe. And is that even a word?

There’s also this: the more steps they make you go through in order to unsubscribe, the more likely you are to say, “The hell with it!” and stop answering their endless questions and, therefore, refrain from unsubscribing. I prefer the websites that go out with a touch of class. You know them. They’re the ones that just immediately answer you back with a “You have successfully unsubscribed. Sorry to see you go.”

Consider this classy way I once handled a rare New 60 unsubscribe. It was from a former fan who told me she could make the strip into an animated cartoon on tv. She tried but was not successful. A couple months later I saw she had unsubscribed. And I responded with class, the way I’d like to be treated when I unsubscribe. I simply, classily replied, “What the !*?!@.”

As we move into February it’s staying light outside a little longer and spring will get here one of these days. We will see you again next week with the final installment in the Unsub Series and a quick trip to the land of home improvement. Have a great weekend,

Andy and John