Old Coot articles published in February, 2012

Old Coots are brutal.

Published February 1, 2012

If you’ve ever been around a bunch of old coots (like me) for any length of time, you’ve probably discovered that we’re not nice to each other. Especially, when it comes to pointing out the slightest memory lapse. That’s our battleground. We show our prowess, that our facilities are intact, by pouncing on any misstep made by a fellow old coot. A special section of our brain begins to develop when we sign up for social security. It engages when it hears, “What was that guy’s name?” – or – “You know the place I mean,” or a similar memory lapse. It sets into motion a “pounce” mechanism, just like that of a lion hiding in the bushes waiting for a gazelle to stumble past. We charge in, take no prisoners, go for the kill.

“What’s the matter old man?” we ask. “Senility got the better of you today? Ha, Ha, Ha!” Of course, we can’t remember the name he’s searching for either. But, we don’t let on. We say, “Go through the alphabet; you’ll get it.” And, then in our own head, do just that, “A – Alan, Albert, Abraham. B – Bob, Bill, Buddy…” We’re in a desperate race to get the name first so we can lord it over “Mister Senility.”

It’s like we’re seven years old and out on the playground in grade school. Except now, the bully isn’t the big kid with a baseball bat; it’s the old guy with a memory. And, we desperately want to be that guy. We don’t stop when we have the advantage. We push our victim further into the weeds. We ask him about another guy whose name we’re sure he won’t be able to come up with. We’re like a boxer in the ring when his opponent starts to stagger. We pummel him with memory blows until he goes down for the count.

When that happens, the “pack” sizes up the old coots still standing, searching for a weakness to pounce on. We desperately don’t want to be the next one sent to the slaughterhouse. We are careful to avoid subjects where we aren’t sure of a name. It’s why we talk about our infirmities so much. It’s safe ground, a topic we’re experts on. Unless we are trapped into coughing up a doctor’s name, the specialist we saw two years ago for a knee problem. Then, it’s our turn. The pack is all over us. Even the previous victim comes back to life and pounces. It’s a brutal game. The only good thing about it is our memories are so shot we forget what happened the minute the pack breaks up. And, go through it all over again the next day. It’s why old coots are now on the endangered species list. We’re hunting each other into extinction.

The Old Coot doesn’t have a sec.

Published February 8, 2012

“When you get a second.” Anytime you hear this, especially if it’s preceded by Honey, as in, “Honey, when you get a second.” Run! Flee! Hide! Get out of Dodge! Because, the chore that awaits you won’t take a second; it will encompass a miserable couple of hours. The speaker of “Honey, when you get a second,” is usually female and the victim is usually male, but it does work both ways.

It applies to men more often because we are sight challenged. We go through life looking at things through a filter. We don’t see wallpaper that’s peeling, paint that’s scaly and crumbling, the hole in the living room rug. Not until it’s brought to our attention with, “Honey, when you get a second.” Or, one of the variations: Honey, would you take a peak at… - Honey, the furnace (washing machine, sink, etc.) is making a funny noise.

This brings male stupidity to the forefront. We think the excuses we used when we were kids will work as adults. The dog ate my homework kind of thing. We have a whole file of lame excuses in our heads. They take up most of the useable space. The minute we hear a sentence starting with “Honey” the file opens and takes control: I was planning on doing that tomorrow – I don’t have the right tool – There’s asbestos in it - It can’t be fixed. And, if all else fail, we respond with a loud, “HUH?” It works until we say it three times in a row. Then, a slap up-side the head corrects the hearing deficiency.

The other tactic we use to get out of chores around the house is to trot out an ailment; it’s a prevent defense, to use football lingo. We put it on the table at breakfast. “Boy, my back is killing me today!” – “I don’t know what I did but my knee hurts like the devil.” – “Wow, am I dizzy today.” It helps to limp around and wince a bit. It’s like money in the bank. We draw it out later in the day when asked to take down the curtains. “Sorry Honey, I’d like to, but my back won’t let me. I can hold the ladder for you though.” Of course, this can backfire. And, at a most inappropriate time. Like when you’re chocking on a piece of meat, your HONEY just might just say, “I’d do the Heimlich maneuver, but my arm is sore and I’m a little dizzy!

The Old Coot will tell your mother.

Published February 15, 2012

“I’m going to tell your mother!” That’s what a neighbor said when she caught me cutting through her backyard garden. I was five years old and on my way to a friend’s house to play Cowboys and Indians. Like all kids, I took short cuts, going through yards, over fences, along the top of walls, under hedges, and yes, between the rows of tomato plants in backyard gardens. It was the law of the jungle in my world; we had to take the shortest route. Unless, someone threatened to tell our mother. Then, we went the long way. We knew we’d get it when we got home if we didn’t. Usually, with a switch to the backs of our legs. Sometimes my mother used a yardstick, the cord to the coffee pot or anything handy if I’d made her mad enough. I’ll never forget the day she grabbed a hairbrush and broke it when she missed my backside and hit the doorframe. Then I really got it!

Some kids had it worse, the ones whose mothers didn’t handle discipline. They made an “arrest” and held the “criminal” in captivity for the “executioner,” by saying, “Wait until your father gets home!” Not only would the kid get spanked liked we did, but he also had to suffer for hours on death row, knowing when his father came through the door after a long day at work, he’d really get it. My mother spared me that ordeal; she dealt with my misdeeds on the spot. I learned the immediate connection between bad behavior and consequences. I was lucky. (So was my father.) 

Now kids get the “one – two – three” business. “Stop doing that! I’m going to count to three!” I’m not sure what that means. Usually, the kid keeps right on doing what he was doing, until phase two kicks in and mom or dad says, “I mean it; I’m starting to count. Right now!” After about five courses of this meal the punishment is served up, a “timeout” in a room loaded with toys, video games, computers and cell phones.

Our deal was better. It was over and done with. We shaped up. The threat to tell our mother was powerful. It has no legs anymore. If you threaten a misbehaving kid with a threat to tell his mother, you’re apt to get a call from the police for harassment, or a lawyer informing you that you are being sued. And, the kid gets off scot-free. It’s a huge loss to society. It’s harder for teachers to teach and for the village to raise the children. We’ve been disarmed. If I could find out who to blame, I’d go tell his mother!

The Old Coot has a new video game.

Published February 22, 2012

It’s called a floater. A little black speck that glides through your field of vision like a black bird flying across the sky. When you first see it, you rub your eye, thinking you can make it go away. But, there it is, following the movement of your vision, lagging slightly behind like it’s slogging through Jell-O. I panicked when I got my first one. I ran to the eye doctor; I thought I had a detached retina or was going blind. Gary took a look and then gave me the thumbs up. Nothing serious. Nothing to worry about, but it was good I checked. And, then I heard those words I hear every time I seek medical treatment, no matter what the ailment. “You have to expect it at your age. It’s something you’ll get used to.”

He was right; I not only got used to it, I learned to love it. It evolved into an old coot video game. “The Great Alien Space War!” The blob appears and floats across the horizon whenever the background I’m looking at is light colored. I pretend Earth is under attack from a Martian space ship. When I tilt my head it dips and dives. If I align it with something dark - a tree, a rain cloud, a black building, it disappears as though blown to smithereens by a ray gun. Yea! Another victory for the good U. S. A! 

It’s a lot better, this floater of mine, than the video games the kids carry around. Mine doesn’t need batteries, nor does bright sunlight wash out the image. I’m well entertained, thanks to that clump of gel that pulled away from the back of my eye and swam into the vitreous fluid inside my eyeball. It casts a shadow on my retina and fools me into thinking it’s riding across the sky. The technical name for a floater is Myodesopsia. All old coot ailments have a name that nobody can remember: myocardial infarction (heart attack), torn meniscus (sore knee), carpel tunnel syndrome (sore wrist), acid reflux (stomach ache). Us old coots hear them all the time from our medical caregivers and promptly revert back to the real names.

 But, few of these ailments are as entertaining as a floater. No matter where I go, it goes with me. Sometimes the space battle gets so exciting I forget where I am and what I’m doing. If you ever find yourself with an old coot who is staring off into space and not paying any attention to what you’re saying, don’t be offended. He’s saving the world from the Martians.

The Old Coot knows how to start the day.

Published February 29, 2012

I had my favorite breakfast the other day. I have it every Monday – warmed up pizza from Mario’s, apple pie and a glass of milk. Then, I headed down to the Goat Boy Coffee Bar. It’s a nice walk. Especially, when Lew Sauerbrey and Dave Radigan are commiserating over the WEBO airwaves. I stopped to chat with Thelma; she was rooting through a trash barrel to find food for the birds. She’s out there in all kinds of weather. She reminds me of my mother, who was also out in the weather, crossing the kids at McArthur School in Binghamton on bitter cold winter mornings. She did it well into her seventies and was as dedicated to those kids as Thelma is to her birds (and cats, and squirrels). Old ladies are tough, a lot tougher than old men. Now that I’m an old man myself, I know how true it is.  

One might think pizza and apple pie isn’t a nutritious way to start the day, but it is. I learned breakfast nutrition from Mister Wizard on his weekly TV show. The chant he made us recite at the end of the program still runs through my head - F, C, M, B, & B (Fruit, Cereal, Milk, Bread & Butter). He usually had a nerdy kid from down the block help him with his science experiments. A new kid showed up every few weeks. I’m glad I didn’t live in that neighborhood; I felt stupid enough growing up with normal kids.  “

What’s the most important meal of the day, Bobby?” Mister Wizard would ask.

“Breakfast, Mister Wizard,” Bobby would reply, like a trained parrot.

“And what makes a good breakfast, Bobby?” Mister Wizard would continue.

“F C M B & B,” Bobby would chant.

That earned him a pat on the head as Mister Wizard turned to the camera and made the point again, “Fruit, Cereal, Milk, Bread and Butter. That’s how you should start the day, kids. Remember it every time you sit down to breakfast, F C M B & B.”

Mister Wizard would pat me on the head too, most mornings. I almost always hit all five letters (F C M B & B). Even on pizza Monday, if you think about it. Fruit – apples in the pie. Cereal – the grain in the piecrust. Milk – in the glass of milk. Bread – the pizza crust. Butter – it’s in there someplace. I’m off the hook. “Pizza Monday” hits all the letters in F C M B & B. 

Of course, an F C M B & B breakfast is now out of date, politically incorrect. At least, if you heed the nutrition nazi’s that blanket the airwaves with food sermons. Milk is no good, too much butterfat. Cereal is taboo, unless it’s oatmeal that’s steel cut. Fruit is sprayed with chemicals. Bread is made with processed white flour. Butter will clog your arteries. Poor Mister Wizard. The ending to his show would take ten full minutes. Every item would have an asterisk next to it. F* (fruit – only organic, locally grown, preferably blue berries for the antioxidants). C * (Cereal - whole grains, not sugar coated, etc.)  M* B* & B*. Each item would involve an extensive dialog between Bobby and Mister Wizard. Such a simple thing as sitting down to breakfast is now complicated. But, only if you pay attention to the experts on TV. If you stick with Mister Wizard, you can join an old coot and have pizza every Monday.