It looked like an old-style bank run this week when people stormed donut shops and bakeries. “What are you going to do? You just can’t starve,” a man, with a ring of sugar around his lips, said to me. He held his bag of donuts and muffins open, offering me whatever caloric time bomb I wanted. “One of them is banana. Bananas are good for you. Here, take one, have something good.”

“It’s like a diet dispensation,” a woman chimed in. “If the CDC (Centers for Disease Control) tells you not to eat something, it’s only fair you look for alternatives.” She held up a bran muffin and basically sneered at me, “Fiber.” I didn’t mean to look at the other items that filled her see-through bag but the blueberry muffins, the size of pillows, were hard to

My wife asked me what I wanted for dinner and then told me I was wrong.

Kidding, honey, kidding! I may have just broken the number one rule in the house.  You can’t say you were joking if it’s not funny. That’s a kid’s trick. They say stupid crap and then when you’re about to rip their heads off, they say they were joking. They are then reminded of rule Number One.

Actually, most challenges in the land of marital bliss are a little more subtle than that crack about dinner.

Now, I’m no Henny

I spend my life wishing I’d said that. Somebody says something funny and I don’t have time to laugh —I’m too busy turning green with envy.

I don’t wish I had invented the walkie-talkie but I do wish I were  the person who wondered aloud:  what if the person who named the walkie-talkie named other things, like stamps. A stamp would be called licky-sticky.

Licky-sticky! Ingenious. And ridiculous sounding. But on the scale of the absurd, I’d say no worse than walkie-talkie —a name we all say

I forget that I won an all-expense paid trip to the Great Barrier Reef in Australia. The tourism board of Australia ran a contest about why you were the best person for “the Best Job In the World.” 

It was a sixth month gig, the pay was a 100 grand, and the job involved lying around in the sun (missing the Rockaway winter), snorkeling, and writing a weekly blog about life in paradise Down Under. The official title was Island Caretaker. The workplace was an idyllic island off the Aussie

I know I sound like a broken record on any number of topics and that reminds me… Does the term, broken record, mean anything to anybody under 40?  I’m guessing most of those whippersnappers know what a record is because vinyl is vintage and vintage is hip. But do they know why a broken record means repeat?

I meander down memory lane because so many things yank me right back there. I heard a guy say “terlit” the other day which, if you’re a certain age, you know he meant toilet. His Brooklynese

You always hear how people are so friendly in the south. That’s because they’re surrounded by comfort food. Comfort food, for you hardcore vegans and micro and nano dieters, is defined as food that provides consolation or a feeling of well-being. Generally, such food is packed with sugar and carbs and you never, ever, count the calories. If you did, that would make you uncomfortable. And besides, you can tell yourself, I’m burning most of the calories with all this chewing.

Some say comfort

A perfectly good cocktail hour was almost ruined for me by a banana.

I was at a couple of dress-up affairs recently and like any experienced, self-respecting degenerate looking to get his money’s worth, I attacked the cocktail hour as if that were the main event. If I were the President of the United States, I’d have pigs in a blanket at State Dinners. Talk about diplomacy — who doesn’t like pigs?  (Don’t go all poly-sci on me and tell me that pigs in a blanket would be an insult to some. I’m

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