So here we are, celebrating our seventh birthday. My campaign manager took off with my bribe money, so it doesn’t look like I can buy enough votes to get elected. The new restaurant page is getting some action; let me know what you think about it. Better yet, let the restaurants know. I’m done.

Happy Birthday to Foolish Times! As you know, we celebrate our birthday three or four times a year, and August is one of the months we celebrate. The cover is proof that even dogs celebrate our birthday. people tell us they “train” their dogs using our paper. If that isn’t a compliment, I don’t know what is. Anyway, peruse this issue, and you’ll notice that we’ve changed our look somewhat, so feel free to send us feedback about fonts, leading, dot leaders, hanging indents, and other such matters. But only if the feedback’s positive. We’re only seven years old and may throw a tantrum if you’re mean. Just kidding, of course. Jokes – it’s what we do.

So I turn on the television the other night, hoping to catch an A’s or Giants game, and what do I see instead? Football.

I checked my calendar. Yep. It’s only August.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. When I went to the drugstore to buy my hearing aid batteries, I noticed they had their Thanksgiving decorations out. I mean, hey. I guess autumn IS on the horizon, right?

And so is Christmas. And the Fourth of July. And the tricentennial. Read the rest of this article »

I had just logged onto AOL this morning to check my email when I saw it! There, in the headlines of their eye-catching, rotating parade of news bits: “Willie Nelson Cut His Hair.” A bob cut, no less. To make matters worse, the bob is red. Oh, say it ain’t so, Willie!

I met Willie nineteen years ago when my good friend, Carolyn, and I set up a stake-out at the Circle Star Theater in San Carlos, California. Carolyn was a songwriter and had made a tape of some of her best songs which she wanted to give him, you know, in case he was in need of a new hit and wanted to make Carolyn rich beyond her wildest dreams. Read the rest of this article »

We’ve all heard the phrase, “No man is an island.”

Well, baby, I’m an island.

I’m the closest thing to it.

I’m a rock.

And a rock feels no pain. And an island never cries.

Shielded in my armor. I’ve got my poetry to protect me.

I touch no one and no one touches me! Read the rest of this article »

I saw what appeared to be a small, tapered canine appendage sticking out from behind the couch.

“Little Rexie, little Rexie, little Rexie, oh where could he be?”

The appendage, that being the tail of a small black dachshund, began to whip back and forth: evidently he was hiding from me and had been discovered.

To myself, I loudly queried, “Oh, my. I need someone to help me clean out the garage. Someone to drag that old rag on the garage floor out into the backyard and pretend it’s a poisonous python and shake the living daylights out of it to save my life. Of course, then, that someone and I could have a big bowl of ICE CREAM to celebrate.” The small black tail beat furiously back and forth at the mention of ice cream. Read the rest of this article »

Economics 101, Or When Currency Isn’t Current Anymore

Once upon a time, many, many years ago, necessary goods and services were exchanged, necessary being the operative word. If someone was hungry, he offered a service or something to the person who was providing food. If someone needed shoes, they offered the shoemaker something that he needed. That is, until there was a thing called money (or magic paper).

Trees were cut and this printed magic paper was mass-produced, and someone with superpowers decided that it was worth something. And currency (or money) was born. Read the rest of this article »

I see a therapist for angoraphobia. That’s right, with an “n.” Defined as the irrational fear of fluffy, rabbit hair sweaters. It can be triggered by allergies, a renewal notice from PETA, or by hot weather. I mean, for crumsakes, who the hell wears angora in August?!?

Further, angoraphobia can cause injury, death, or a chipped glass eye. I’ve personally had some close calls while wearing rabbit-hair garments. Whooooie! Catch a long ear in the door while bolting from a cab, and your day will get ugly fast. Read the rest of this article »

I’m a geek. I freely admit it, mainly because I can’t freely deny it. Everyone has an inner geek; the problem with me is it’s also my outer geek.

And I’m not talking about the geeks no one makes fun of, like Thomas Edison or Albert Einstein. They were total geeks. But these guys transcended geekdom by inventing the motion picture and having a really crazy mustache. Making fun of these guys would be like making fun of Stephen Hawking’s chair. Not cool. Read the rest of this article »

I overheard my wife having a strange conversation on the phone the other day. She was talking with her longtime friend Amy about how she thought purchasing the specially designed doggie couch might be a bit extreme.

“But it’s so cute, Shannon,” Amy said, trying to sway my wife into agreeing it would be a good purchase. Read the rest of this article »

My wrists and hands had seized up, I couldn’t type, and I had to meet an article deadline.

Time to see my caring MD.

Doc Jones whacked my wrists with a reflex hammer. The sensation approximated that of Godzilla bashing them with the trunk of a Giant Sequoia, and my scream rattled the doctor’s coffee cup in its saucer. “Hmm, tiny bit sensitive, eh? You need WHA––Wrist Hand Action. They’re capsules.”

My hands dangled like pieces of raw codfish. If they stayed that way, the only jobs open to me would be treading grapes, Irish dancing, or kicking drunks from bars.

Trembling, I asked, “Any bad side effects from WHA, doc?” Read the rest of this article »

I consider myself a safe driver. I’m sober. I’m courteous. I stay within the lines. I yield to pedestrians. I “watch out for the other guy.” I don’t run red lights or stop signs, not intentionally anyway. I’m not what you’d call an angry driver. Unlike some hotheads out there, I keep my horn silent and my comments, and fingers, to myself.

I do have one weakness, though. I drive the way I eat: aggressively, voraciously, and with a lot of gas and gusto. Thankfully, I’m not as messy behind the wheel as I am at the dinner table; otherwise we’d all be in serious trouble. Read the rest of this article »

Although he was a large young man, he wasn’t what you’d call an alpha male. He wasn’t even a beta male. He was an omega male, which in a pirate shop seems like a bad choice of places to be in case the alpha and his sidekick beta decide someone needs to walk the plank.

Fortunately for him, there was only the young woman at the counter, dressed like a pirate. And he was chatting her up, in his omega-male way, by telling her how lame he was at making sales calls. It was sweet, really, because she didn’t mind his ineptitude. Read the rest of this article »

Being the vice chairman of the Procrastinators Anonymous group of the greater Monterey area (if I ever fill out the paperwork) poses a huge problem for a publisher. To write the 150 words or so for this note takes me a month. You see, I’m also a writer with lifelong writer’s block. So that, combined with procrastination, at least allows my masochistic side to get pleasure. I’m heading out the door, going to the Blues Festival and two-finger typing some sort of gibberish on the keyboard, constantly checking the word count to see if I’m close enough to stop. Check out the new restaurant page in this issue. Oh yeah, and a special note to that twenty-something who held the door for me the other day and said, “After you, sir.” May you break a nail!

This month we feature a page of “Foolish Musings” by longtime Foolish Times fan and noted local author, the mysterious A.L. (Only the Unknown Cartoonist is in deeper cover.) We welcome new author Bowen Lee, who discusses the “wild kingdom” she has observed inside every housecat. Be sure to check out our new “Eat It Up!” restaurant feature on page 13. Thanks to Joan, Chris and family for helping us out, not to mention the wonderful Maha, Souhail, Sanaa, and Samar for providing such a fantastic meal and for generally putting up with us. (Not many people do.) And last but not least, Happy 90th Birthday to Antoinette, and many, many more!

One of my fellow writers recently told me that I should write about happy relationships, the hits instead of the misses (or in my case, the misters). If I had a healthy and awesomely rewarding relationship and wrote about it, would I be able to write a column about dating? No.

And by the way, I did write a piece about Jerry and Addie a while back, that proverbial Hallmark couple who met online, got married, and are living happily ever after. It wasn’t MY relationship, but it’s a happy one. Does that count?

Do people really want to know that someone else is blessed and blissful, or does misery really love company? And how would I keep my edge on? Are happy relationships even funny?

What gets the most air play and arouses the most curiosity and interest? Be honest now.

“Do you KNOW what my boyfriend did, that cheatin’, lyin’ bastard?” or “Wasn’t my honey so sweet to bring me roses the other day?”

I walked by a gal sitting on a bench downtown recently. She was talking on the phone, and she asked the person on the other end the proverbial, rhetorical question, “They can’t ALL be &^%$^*$, can they?”

And I have to admit, I wanted to say, “Scoonch over. I want to know more!”

We just seem to enjoy reading and hearing about the misery and heartbreak of others. We just want to know.

And if we can laugh at someone else’s misfortune, it’s all the better. Maybe someone else has worse problems than we do. We try not to pick up the tabloid at the checkstand, but our idle little paws have to grab it up. We know it probably isn’t true, but we want to know the details anyway. And sometimes it IS true and Jesse James really is a jerk who cheated on Sandra Bullock, which brings me to my next point of rumination. Might we EXPECT misery and bad endings? Were we waiting for Jesse to screw up?

I remember having a friend who would be there for me when I was crying over a guy. She would bring me a drink and sit there and listen to me whine for hours, but when things were going well, she didn’t want to hear it because HER man wasn’t treating her right or maybe she didn’t have one at the time. Or maybe my stories were more interesting when I was dating bozos. But, as no-luck would have it, my foul-weather buddy soon had the opportunity to wipe my tears and bandage my bruised little ego again, which seemed to give her life meaning and pleasure.

Not all of my relationships have been horrid and heartbreaking. But in retrospect, those are the ones that are now the most humorous and memorable to me. Admitting my mistakes and missteps is like miraculously healing from a life-threatening illness and it has to be a lot more entertaining for my readers, plus they get to call me a ditz or better yet, see themselves in me. And our commonality brings us a little closer and reminds us that we really are just one big, silly, misery-lovin’ tribe.

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Robyn Justo is a freelance writer who is experienced, but by no means an expert, on the frustrations, triumphs, and general hysteria of single life. “The Expiration Date” addresses the lighter side of living, dating, and just getting through the day. The names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). Please feel free to contact her directly at: robynjusto@aol.com.

Along with millions of other workers, I’m flailing through a life change known as the “Campbell Syndrome.”

I was canned.

Initially, my family and friends gushed sympathy and clamored for the gory details. But after my third recitation of events, some checked their watches and hurried off. A few more rehashings, and they glanced at bare wrists and mumbled about taking the noontime slaughterhouse tour. Yesterday the mailman saw me coming and faked a seizure.

But, here YOU are, eager for a fascinating, unbiased account of my Campbellation, and how damn sorry those bastards will . . . What? This is a NO WHINING zone?!? Aw, man. Okay, relax, keep reading, and I promise you won’t need a barf bag. Such a crude term. How ’bout a “courtesy gastric offloading pouch”?

I found oodles of interviewing tips online. WHO WRITES THIS CRAP??? For example, at lunch interviews, we should avoid messy or “suggestive” foods. Wrong! It’s critical to show we can “think outside the box”!! My advice? If you grew up watching “Bonanza,” eat what you want, because your “suggestive” capabilities are toast. But if you’re young, hip, and sexy, use a water glass to smash those BBQ ribs to an orange paste. And then, I say liiiiiick the goop off that glass, babycakes, and more power to ye!

Yes, some foods ARE suggestive. That’s the friggin’ point! Only an unpatriotic socialist (gasp!) would disdain “real” American food, such as popsicles, corn dogs, and spray cheese.

No rice cakes. They’re dessicated, socialist gruel that disintegrates upon contact and will cling like crunchy maggots to a power-colored suit. And what gets into your mouth will sit there like styrofoam. Thank God, social anxiety makes me drool like a Saint Bernard.

Be prepared. When asked why you’re the best candidate, say, “I’m a hopeless workaholic with an insatiable need for approval.” If they offer to spring for rehab, insist that good pay and vacations are but the wily snares of Satan.

To demonstrate flexibility, pepper your remarks with “whatever.” Employers also value initiative and persistence, so pester the waiter for crayons, and don’t leave the restaurant until you finish coloring the Shrek placemat.

If your current workplace gets dicey and a meeting is held to “hear your side,” remember the importance of chair height. In my case, the boss quickly ascended the lifeguard throne while the human resources guy fiddled with the tension on the rack. Normally I prefer the dunking chair, but hell, I was basking in a rare “good hair” day! So I wriggled into the iron maiden—hey, is that my lost earring in here?? The door shut upon my screams. Not from the spikes impaling me, but . . . yuck! All those gum wads inside!! Housekeeping should really be notified.

While packing up your stuff, sing your loopy lungs out! I launched into “Climb Every Mountain” as I gathered my rubber insects, Lone Ranger lunchbox, cobra doorstop, and “eyeball” hard candies. Then I belted out “Chain of Fools” while deflating the look-alike dummy that sat in for me at staff meetings. And as the HR dude carried out my set of Dilbert Guides to Workplace Etiquette, I threw sanity to the wind and ripped into Clapton’s “Cocaine.”

But be careful. Our subconscious will punk on us, just for grins. I once had a boss (call her Alpha Bitch) who abhorred my countenance, and I hers. But we agreed to keep me chained to the oar until I could properly jump ship. A unit manager (call him Beta Boy) shared her opinions and . . . eeeeeuuuw . . . her bed. One day when my brain had already left the building, I held up a length of pipe and (true story) called out, “Hey, where do you want me to stick this?!?”

A final caveat: Employment upheaval may elicit a strong urge to change something, anything, just to feel in control. Like, for instance, grabbing the hedge trimmer this morning and chopping on my hair. Not that I did . . . just saying . . . jeez, where’s a hat when you need one?

Copyright 2010 by Mary Tompsett

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Mary Tompsett is a self-syndicated humorist who lives with her dog and cats on the far east side of Santa Cruz (okay, Racine, Wisconsin). Her horse left the family for a more stable environment. Read more at www.marytompsett.com.