The Old Coot is unplugged.
Published January 4, 2012
I have one of those “Shoot your eye out” night lights – a woman’s leg in a fishnet stocking, a replica of the one in “The Christmas Story” that Ralphie’s father won in a contest and displayed in the front window, much to the dismay of his wife. I tried to plug it into a wall socket but the only way it would go in was upside down. Like all plugs these days, it had a skinny prong and a fat one. You can only plug it in one way, in my case, upside down.
I did what I always do when this happens, I filed the fat end down and plugged in the night light the way I wanted, not the way some bureaucrat in Washington wanted. These fat prongs have been showing up on plugs for quite a few years, frustrating the general public to no end. Every time you plug something in, you have a fifty percent chance it won’t go into the socket and you have to turn it around and try again.
I think it’s the real cause of global warming. You try to plug something in, lean down and stretch out as far as you can, barely reaching the socket and hit a snag; the plug won’t go in. You feel the heat as the anger rises up the back of your neck. You go through the process again, this time twisting your sore knee. Finally, you get the “stupid” thing plugged in. The heat exits through the top of your head and goes up into the atmosphere, raising the global temperature. 365 million Americans go through this earth warming routine several times a month. We’re lucky the planet hasn’t ignited. All because a bunch of bureaucrats in Washington decided that we needed plugs with polarity. For our own good! For our safety!
I’m tired of being protected by “experts” in Washington. I want my old plugs back. I want my old lawnmower back, so I don’t have to squeeze the handle to keep it running. And, the old gas can too, the one without the springs and plastic clips that force me to align a gizmo on the spout with the edge of the fuel tank, and push to get the gas to come out. Usually, with it slipping off and gas going all over the place. I only have one simple request for the Washington crowd: please don’t save me anymore. You’re killing me!
The Old Coot’s New Year’s Eve was different this year.
Published January 11, 2012
My wife and I had an “old coot” New Year’s Eve. It was a gathering of neighbors. I’m always the oldest guy there and in the minority (old coot-wise). It was a pretty tame event compared with the all out, all night New Year’s Eve bashes that once were a part of our world. Now, it’s a glass of wine, forbidden foods loaded with cholesterol and calories and Dick Clark counting down the ball drop (for the 40th year in a row).
We used to have interesting conversations at these gatherings, unlike most of the events I attend where us old guys compare surgical experiences, joint replacements and memory lapses. No, we used to have a lot of topics to banter around at previous New Year’s Eve gatherings: electric bills, village politics, taxes, kids, grandkids, cars, cell phones, world events. But, not this year. All we talked about was the flood. And, how high the water was for this time of year. It didn’t help that we were on an enclosed back porch looking down at the river and dishing up food in a makeshift kitchen because the flood damaged one was still under construction.
It’s what we do! The water has gone away but we’re still awash in the memory. And, we’re the lucky ones – back in our houses, damaged sure, but getting there. So, on and on the conversation progressed: Where were you when the water came across the street? - How did you get word to move your car to higher ground? – Who did your furnace? - Are your floors dried out yet? – Are you still running a dehumidifier? Then we got to the things we could laugh about - like when Cuomo’s helicopter hovered over our backyard while we all stood there waving, until the blast from the rotors splashed water out of the pool, drenching us, blowing down the fence, bending trees over so their tops touched the ground. - The café up the street where dry and generous neighbors fed us three squares a day for weeks on end – And, the endless stream of volunteers that came by and did the heavy lifting.
The one topic we avoided, was “the next flood.” It’s like, if we say it or think it, it will happen. Anytime anyone skated near the subject a pall fell over the room. Each of us pulled back into our own safe cocoon, took a long sip of wine and gazed out at the river. Did I mention that it’s pretty high for this time of year?
The Old Coot dreads the number three!
Published January 18, 2012
Things come in threes! So goes the old superstition. Good things. Bad things. Things in between. I learned this from my mother when I was 14. My uncle died. “Oh, Oh!” my mother said. “Bad things come in threes.” Sure enough, my grandfather died the following year, my grandmother the year after that. “We’re safe now,” she declared.
Of course things come in threes. If you wait long enough! It’s a real threat if you’re an old coot. It starts when you first join the club. Your back goes out. You deal with it – wait it out or go to the doctor. It goes away. “That’s one!” Then your knee acts up. For no reason! “What did you do?” someone will ask. “Nothing!” you reply. “That’s two!” Even though you don’t buy the “things come in threes” philosophy, you start looking over your shoulder, wondering what’s coming your way. It comes. Your elbow (also for no reason) starts killing you. “That’s three!”
You get a breather. Then, a new batch starts. You wonder, “Can this ‘threes thing’ be real?” The farther into old coot-hood you get, the faster the “threes” come for a visit. Hip-knee-elbow. Neck-foot-broken tooth. Dizzy spell – earache –finger joint. You handle them. One at a time. Then you get a batch where number one is still with you when number two comes along. This is harder. Kind of like trying to walk on crutches with a broken arm. Two things at once push your ability to cope to the limit.
Then it happens. You get three things at once. It doesn’t matter how minor they are, you’re out of commission. “How you doing, old-timer?” someone will ask when they see you limping along with a grimace on your face. “Not good,” you reply. “I’ve got the three’s.” It can be as minor as the combination of a paper cut, a canker sore and a hangnail. Three things easily dealt with, one at a time, have you signing up for disability benefits when they all hit you at the same time.
I live in fear of where this is going. The next phase is probably to get two at a time, three times in a row. And, then the finishing blow, three things at once, three times in a row. My obit will say, “He died of the threes!
The Old Coot takes his medicine.
Published January 25, 2012
Have you noticed? Everything on grocery store shelves is good for you. The packages scream out as you walk down the aisle: - I’m low in salt – I’m low in fat - I have zero calories – I’m light – No trans fats in me – I have natural flavors – I’m gluten free – Buy me, I’m whole grain – No, me; I grew up free range – I’m organic – I’m locally grown – I’m low in carbs. Each one is “special,” or so the food companies would have you believe. They pick a negative ingredient that isn’t in their product and make that the focus of their shameless promotion. It’s ironic; the more of this “good stuff” we eat, the less healthy we become.
Not to worry! The drug dealers are right there to save you. Snake oil salesmen are what we used to call these peddlers. You see them in the old westerns, standing in front of their wagons in three-piece suits, extolling the miracle properties of their specially formulated elixirs. It cures everything, from a boil to pneumonia. Today’s pitchman is suited up in a lab coat; a stethoscope dangles from his neck. He tells you to ask your doctor for a prescription. His modern day “elixir” will cure you of your affliction. You thought it was a sore elbow, but he tells you it’s “micro-neuro-elbowitis.” It’s too hard to resist a miracle cure when you have a serious sounding ailment like microneuroelbowitis.
You don’t even hear the list of side effects that spew out of his mouth at the end of his pitch. You’ve been lulled by the promise of a cure and mesmerized by his glib tones. The American flag waves in the background, the clouds part in the sky and the sun peeks through while the dulcimer tones of “God Bless America” add to the ambiance. So what if your hair will fall out, a tooth will grow out of your ear and you’ll wake up to find your feet on backwards. Not scary enough? How about your heart, liver or kidney failing. All you hear is the promise of a cure and the necessity to insist your doctor give you a prescription. Only then will the agony (and heartache) of micro-neuro-elbowitis go away.
We’ve all done it, been taken in. We have medicine cabinets full of pills to prove it. I’m convinced it’s a conspiracy (old coots always think there is a conspiracy); we’re made to believe there is a pill for anything that comes our way. We laugh at the gullibility of the townsfolk that get taken in by snake-oil salesmen in the old westerns, but swallow the same spiel from modern day shills in lab coats. I should know. I go to the dentist twice a year to have the tooth growing out my right ear cleaned!
