The Old Coot is an eavesdropper. (Published in NY on 3/5/25)

 The Old Coot is an eavesdropper.

By Merlin Lessler.

 I was in a donut shop the other morning. It's a great place to observe human nature in action. I'm there every Sunday, to sip coffee and consume the one jelly donut I limit myself to each week. I sit there and read the book review section in the weekend edition of the Wall Street Journal. I'm often distracted by interplay between customers and employees. This particular one has well trained, friendly servers, in sharp contrast to the attitudes of some of the customers, who come in, in a sleepy, grouchy mood. By the time they leave, they are usually in good spirits.  From the intake of sugar, the stimulus of caffeine and also because of the cheery atmosphere created by the staff and especially the “hands-on” manager.

 She can fix any problem. For instance, I'd placed my order in my car, on my phone, for indoor pick-up. That way, it's sitting there waiting for me when I walk in. I grabbed the bag with my donuts inside, the container of coffee and sat down at my favorite table. I sipped; I read; I eavesdropped. I sipped; I read; I eavesdropped, with my eyes focused on a book review. I reached into the bag, pulled out my donut and took a bite. It wasn't the jelly donut I'd craved. It was a glazed donut. A good donut, but not jelly. I went to the counter and explained my misfortune. The manager didn't blink an eye. She reached into the donut rack and handed me a jelly. She said she was sorry. I said I was sorry that I'd taken a bite without looking. She laughed, and told me to enjoy them both.

 Here's where I step into it! Commenting on the difference between men and women. On scant, unscientific evidence I learned from observing people ordering a dozen donuts. I didn’t set out to do this, but I overheard a man order a dozen donuts in a rapid fire manner. “I’ll have two glazed, two jelly, four chocolate frosted, two Boston cream, and two old fashion.” Bing, bang, boom, done! A few minutes later, an adult woman stepped to the counter, also to order a dozen donuts. “Let me have a jelly one.” Then, after a pause. “No, forget the jelly. Let me see. How about Boston cream? I love them; what’s your favorite?” Then, another pause. “I’ll have a glazed. How many do I have left?” Then she ordered a jelly. Well, you see how it went, and that’s before she fumbled around in her purse for her wallet.

 It's not the first time I’ve witnessed this scene. It’s an example of the “Men are from Mars; Women are from Venus phenomenon. My data sample is not statistically valid, but it’s what I observe, again and again. Enough times to produce an opinion and brace myself to be called a male chauvinist pig. That’s what happens when you’re an old coot.

 Comments? Be nice! Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot won't take the pill. Published in local New York papers on February 26, 2025

 The Old Coot took the Camel Cigarette, 30 day test.

By Merlin Lessler

 Take this pill! Sue the dirty bums! This is what our society has come down to. If you judge it by the ads on TV. No matter what’s wrong with you, there is a pill to fix it. No matter what happens to you, there is someone to blame, and someone to sue. This is a gripe I’m compelled to air every few years (11 in this case).

 Let’s start with the pills. “Don’t pay any attention to this list of side effects; the FDA made us reveal them.” That’s what the pharmaceutical companies would say at the beginning of their spiel if they were truly honest and forthright. Instead, they create an image so appealing as to obscure any negative input. One “pill” ad shows an attractive, middle-aged woman, now freed of her arthritic pain, leisurely swimming in warm tropical waters. She’s accompanied by a collection of happy friends and beautiful golden retriever that gently paddles in and out of the group. The waves gently lap the shore while the announcer’s melodious voice, quietly suggests that taking the medicine may increase your chances of a heart attack or a stroke and lead to death, or stomach and other intestinal problems, such as bleeding ulcers, which may appear without warning and also lead to death.”

  What the FDA should do, is make them show images of people experiencing the side effects instead of swimming around in paradise. Maybe then, we’d pay attention to just how risky these miracle cures are. But we don’t pay attention to the side effects. They hardly register. And, that’s OK, because the law firms that feed on our missteps, the ones who dominate our TV screens, are there to make sure we get retribution. They’re on our side! 

 And to think I thought the Camel Cigarette ads I grew up with in the 1950’s were unscrupulous, the ones in which they invited smokers to take a “30 day Camel” test. “Smoke camels for 30 days and discover for yourself what throat specialists discovered; not one single case of throat irritation in a coast-to-coast test of hundreds of people.” I accepted their invitation; I bought a pack of Camels. And, even though I was only ten years old, I was smart enough to quit after one day. Besides, if I got caught my mother would have killed me. There’s no pill for that!

 Complaints? Comments? Leave at mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot saved Old Blue! - Published 02/19/25 Tioga Co. Courier, Owego Pennysaver and elsewhere

 The Old Coot saved “Old Blue.”

By Merlin Lessler

 My favorite shirt is 38 years old. A blue, oxford cloth, button down collar specimen. It’s an old timer, like me. In fact, we’re the same age if you reverse the numbers. The main issue with it is a frayed collar; it’s officially not allowed out in public. I’ve tried, but didn’t get away with it. Even when I used some blue painter’s tape to cover the fray. The problem is, my wife has an eagle eye. So, Old Blue is under house arrest and in “work shirt” status. If I’m not careful, that will be my status as well. The shirt and I have history. It went to work with me, on vacation, to parties and once to an opera, which neither of us got much out of.

,It was a Tommy Hilfiger creation; I purchased it in his outlet store run by his sister in Elmira, New York. As far as I know, it was the only outlet that sold his high end clothes at bargain basement prices. Probably, because Elmira was his home town and he wanted to share his fashions with the local people. He put Elmira on the map as did Mark Twain, who wrote Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn and other books in a cabin on his wife’s sister’s farm where he summered for many years. The cabin now resides on the campus at Elmira College; he resides nearby, with his wife, in Woodlawn Cemetery.

 All of us old coots have some favorite old clothes, hidden in the back of our closets. The ones we’ve saved from donations to thrift stores or town dumps. I miss those clothes that were sacrificed in that manner, but having Old Blue still with me makes up for it. Thanks Tommy, for 38 great years.   

 Comments? Complaints? Send to the paper or to  mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot reads and dozes. Published - 02/i2/2025

 The Old Coot is a “read-dozer.”

By Merlin Lessler

I have acquired a new pastime. I call it “read-dozing.” I’m a reader, primarily books and newspapers. I’m also a napper. When I first started working, and getting paid for it, I found myself a little sleepy between 2 and 3 in the afternoon. I worked for Compton Industries, an electronic firm whose primary business was calibrating oscilloscopes for IBM corporation. After we finished adjusting the devices, we set them up in a test room to “age” the calibration since some adjustments would wander out of spec after initial use. The room was warm, from the heat generated by a sea of oscilloscopes. They also emitted a gentle hum, produced by their internal fans.

I had to go into the “aging” room to check and readjust the calibration every afternoon. Between the warm temperature and the hum of the fans, it was difficult to stay awake. So, I didn’t. I napped, just like I did in high school study halls, with my forehead nestled in my hand and my elbow on the desk. I figured the teacher thought I was concentrating on reading information in a text book on the desk. Once in a while, my arm would buckle, and my head would come crashing down on the desk, waking me up and scaring the kids around me.

Anyhow, my naps in the “aging room” started a lifelong habit of dozing in the afternoon for 10 minutes or so to snap me out of the doldrums and let me be more productive than I otherwise would have. Now that I’m unemployed (retired) and out of high school, there are no impediments to my napping routine. I read a few pages; then doze off for a few minutes. I often dream about the story I’m reading and move the plot along. When I wake up and start reading again, I discover that my dream version was way off. I read; I doze; I dream - I read and doze again. It’s a great pastime! Try it; you’ll like it.

Old Coot gives public speakers advise.- published 02/05/2025

 The Old Coot pans public speakers

By Merlin Lessler

 Public speakers need public speaking lessons. It’s embarrassing to watch.  Take a politician (they do most of the blah, blah, yacking) standing at a podium to talk about a new bill he or she is introducing. Something they claim to be passionate about. They constantly look down at their speech notes, saying something like. “I am so (looks down) pleased to introduce Bill number (looks down) S-527, which will (looks down) once and for all, revitalize our small businesses.

 It's especially annoying when they are expressing sympathy for the victims of a mass shooting. You have to read notes, to say how sad you feel for the victims and their families? Really? (You can’t just speak from the heart?)

 It’s not just politicians – It’s police chiefs, CEO’s, school superintendents and many other public spokespersons. Put a podium in front of them, and their head starts bobbing. Speakers who use tele-prompters are just as annoying, staring off into space as they speak.

 Football coaches don’t use notes when interviewed at half time and are asked, “What does your team need to do to get back in the game?” Then comes the typical response. “We have to move the ball down the field and put some points on the board.” DUH! Maybe THEY should have notes to come up with more relevant responses. Those reporters need lessons too, so they can ask questions that don’t evoke stupid answers.

 Anyhow, public speaking and public questioning need a revamp. It’s a social skill that was taught in grade school in my day. We were made to stand and answer a question or go to the front of the class and give an oral report on a book we read. Or, in my case, to explain to the class why it wasn’t acceptable to send spit balls through a straw to the girls side of the room. I learned to speak in front of an audience, but not to stop sending spit balls.   

The Old Coot is arm crossed! (Published 1/29/25)

 The Old Coot’s arms are crossed.

By Merlin Lessler

At coffee the other morning, one of the “klatsch” boys asked me why I had my arms folded. Was I cold? I didn’t know I had folded my arms. I guess I did it without knowing. I wasn’t cold. It’s just another trait that emerges when you are an old coot. Changes like this happen and we don’t notice. We walk funny, groan when we get up from a chair; when we glance in a mirror, we see a memory of what we used to look like, not an old man’s face. It’s a long list of oddities that we are blessed with. Cheapness is a big one. It’s a perspective thing. We remember when a BabyRuth candy bar cost a nickel, a pizza was a dollar, and a Pepsi was ten cents. When we look at a restaurant bill, it’s a shock, especially when we calculate a 20% tip that amounts to what we once paid for the entire meal.  

 So, I now cross my arms all the time. Sitting at a red light, I look down and my arms are crossed. In the bleachers at one of my grandkid’s soccer, lacrosse or football games, I sit with my arms crossed. Watching TV, sitting by the pool. You name it, any idle time, I’m arm crossed.

 I wasn’t always this way. I only crossed my arms when I was cold. Brrr! Or, when I was looking down at one of my daughters watching TV instead of picking up her toys. It’s a bad habit; it makes you come across as a rude, angry person. I remember how I felt when the teacher in our elementary school looked down at me with her arms crossed. I knew I was in trouble and was going to be sent to the cloak room or the principal’s office. Now, I project that same image as I sit or stand, unaware that my arms are crossed. In Finland, it’s seen as a sign of arrogance. I’m going to start keeping my hands in my pockets. It won’t be easy.  My mother would yell at me when I was a kid, “Get your hands out of your pockets.” It’s one of those things you never forget, even decades later when you’re an old coot.  

The Old Coot doesn't like being nagged. Published Tioga County Courier and others on 01/22/25

 The Old Coot shrugged off a nag.

By Merlin Lessler

 First we stuck in a toe, then two and now our whole foot is into the use of an electronic nag. It started innocently enough, with Fitbit, which came out in 2009. It counted steps, distance and calories burned. It nudged us to get moving, something our obese, out of shape society needed. Then, it became a competition. “I did 5,000 steps today!” – “I did 10,000.” “Oh yea, I did 20,000!” Now, those enjoyable walks through neighborhoods, towns and parks became something the “step counting” devices nagged us about.   

 They evolved to measure everything. And, Nag! Nag! Nag! “You only got 5 hours of “good” sleep last night,” the App might scold. “And, you’re way under your goal of 10,000 steps a day this week. Your heart rate never made it to the recommended exercise level; so, you didn’t achieve the full benefit of your effort.”

 It’s not just steps and sleep. The nanny Apps scold us on much more; swimming, biking, running and sleeping to name a few. Studies of these electronic monitoring devices conclude that they are counterproductive. “Your goal to maintain an average speed of 20 Mph on your bike ride ended in failure! You only hit 18 MPH!” How does a message like that make you feel? Not good. It puts you into a funk and raises anxiety when you ride, trying to achieve a pre-set goal. The focus is on hitting the target, instead of enjoying a pleasant, relaxing journey on your feet, in a pool, or on a bike. Even a trip into dreamland..

 The fun is gone. I have to stop this discourse and attend to a nag. My $35, knock-off, fitness watch is reminding me that I have not hit my 5,000 step goal. I don’t mock the people who use electronic nags; I’m a victim myself. But, I’m working to stop. That’s why I dropped my 10,000 step goal to 5,000. I now can ride my bike and swim without tracking. I once weaned myself out of an Oreo cookie addiction and I can do this too. If I can do it, so can you. Start slowly; lower your goals. Eventually, you can go back to a watch that just tells the time. That’s enough anxiety to live with.