A lot of people ask me what an editor does. If you find out, let me know. One thing I seem to do quite a bit of is welcome new columnists, and this month is no exception. Giosue’ Santarelli and Jason Offutt have agreed to join our staff, and we couldn’t be happier. Giosue’ is a prolific political columnist, humor columnist, and feature writer who has been scribbling for nearly 40 years. His story “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” was our cover story for November 2007. Jason has graced us with his humor pieces at various times over the last two years, always to positive reviews from our readers. It’s a pleasure to be able to feature such talented writers on a monthly basis. It certainly makes my job as editor much easier. Speaking of which, I’d better get back to work. Now where’d I put that trombone?

I no longer hate elevators. As a kid growing up in New York it was torturous having to ride 30, 40 or more floors to the sound of Muzak (pumped in, easy listening, brainless, no attention required noise) played on elevators. We used to laugh at the sterile non-offensive soft sounds that would accompany every ride. I can remember joking, “You’ll never hear the Stones or Pink Floyd here.” Was I ever wrong. I don’t quite know when it happened but it did. Last time I was in New York I had to take the elevator to the 39th floor of 500 Fifth Avenue. I was dreading the ride. I was pleased to hear a cut from Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” album. That is, happy till I heard this twelve- or thirteen-year-old brat—er, child—behind me turn to her friend, laughing, and pointing up to the speaker and saying “I hate elevators!” At least my grandsons think I’m KEWL!

Enjoy!

Due to technical difficulty, I scheduled with Dr. Klope a sperm count. Talk about tedious jobs. Can you see that poor guy over the microscope?
“1,634… 1,635… wait, did I count that one?”

Dr. Klope had one opening, eight a.m., which is way too early for sperm. A man might wake up with driftwood on his beach, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to make a fire. It’s usually noon before I can swing a French kiss. Read the rest of this article »

Tubby flew into our lives six weeks ago after my sweetheart, Steve, hung up the hummingbird feeder I’d purchased in 1990 but never bothered to put up on the deck.
Within an hour three hummers arrived: Tubby, Susie, and Kevin. Tubby earned his politically incorrect name because of his huge potbelly and because he easily dwarfed the others.

“Good Lord,” I said, when I first spotted him. “How can he fly when he’s so fat? He needs to go to Weight Watchers.” Read the rest of this article »

My daughter and I have your average father-teenage daughter relationship.

She has total disdain for me.

How did I manage to achieve this lofty distinction? I tried to be fair. That must be it. In other words, weak.

I let my daughter get away with exchanges I wouldn’t have dared say to my own father. So I can be proud of the fact that violence and threats and ugliness and hypocritical double standards are not part of our household, like it was in mine when I was a kid. Read the rest of this article »

What is the fascination of children toward pets?

GI Joe and Barbie are good enough to hold the average scurrying rug-rat, but only for a few years. Invariably the subject of having a pet arises. You can run but can’t hide! Having a pet is apparently a prerequisite to becoming an adolescent! It is accompanied by that whiney, grating, noisy, flopping up and down, thrashing on the ground, holding one’s breath until you get what you want scene, and that’s just me protesting! Read the rest of this article »

DATELINE—Monterey, CA
Editor’s note: We at Foolish Times were “fortunate” to have an interview with local mild-mannered gadfly Tom Burns. Previous interviews with Mr. Burns have been taxing to say the least. Once more, he did not let us down. This interview was held on the rocks at Lover’s Point in Pacific Grove. Mr. Burns was wearing a ground squirrel costume. Brace yourself.

FT: Mr. Burns, we understand you have come up with what you consider to be an end to the border problem. Read the rest of this article »

I brought home a half-gallon of ice cream from the grocery store. The list from my wife read, “four bananas.” Period. No milk, no eggs, no ice cream. Just bananas.
Normally, to me four bananas means four bananas, but I didn’t write the note. My wife wrote it and I was sure ice cream was hiding in there somewhere. Read the rest of this article »

Once again, procrastination had prevailed. The living room portion of the heater flex-duct under my house had probably collapsed, as I had no heat from the living room floor vent all winter. I hadn’t wanted to crawl under the house in the bitter cold weather, and now that Spring was ready to spring, it was warm enough to go under the house, but I didn’t need the heater anymore. Gee, that was a long sentence, but I wanted to get it all out. Read the rest of this article »

I don’t watch Oprah, but someone sent me a video clip from one of her shows. Every once in a while we get hit by a lightning bolt and I guess I got lucky that day.

Her guest (and I forgot his name) was talking about relationships and suggested that one of the reasons why we single folks don’t have a partner is perhaps because our reasons for staying single outweigh our need for being coupled. Read the rest of this article »

Quiz: Describe iPod, Blackberry, Napster, Blue Tooth, and ear buds.

Time’s up! Did you get three or more? Well, goodie gumdrops for you, Smarty Pants. But if you guessed fruit, sleep, stained dentures, or earlobe growths—gimmee five, dude! And in my world, an iPod is a clutch of self-absorbed whales. Read the rest of this article »

What if, along with your regular 11 issues of “Martha Stewart Living,” once a year the magazine sent you “The Mailman Issue” filled with pictures of dashing, shirtless postal workers ducking secretively into suburban homes? Then, my friends, women would finally be equal to men. Read the rest of this article »