The Old Coot woke up in a foreign land.
Published March 7, 2012
I’m writing this in Florida. It wasn’t my decision to come here; a migration gene kicked in when I signed up for Social Security. It draws me to the south with the rest of the flock when winter weather arrives. It’s not an easy migration. It takes a lot of preparation. I had to work through an extensive checklist. It was as though I was going to a foreign country. I was!
It took several weeks to round up things for the trip: plaid pants (check), white shoes with Velcro fasteners (check), Perry Como CD’s (check), black knee socks (check), metal detector (check), McDonald’s, Wendy’s, Subway and Burger King discount coupons (check), wide swim trunks that spread out so it looks like you are swimming with a sting ray (check), elastic pants that can be worn frontwards or backwards (check), neck strap for glasses (check), fanny pack (check), two-dollar gallon of wine (check).
The equipment is just the first step in getting ready for Florida. There’s more! I had to change my eating habits, adjust to having dinner at 3:30 in the afternoon. I also had to adopt Florida driving techniques: slink way down in the seat so the guy behind me thinks no one is driving the car, lock my turn signal in the “turning left” position, back up without looking and drive at 40 MPH for hours on end in the passing lane.
My perspective on age was another change I had to make. I had to get used to being the kid, instead of the old guy. A fellow migratory started the ball rolling when he said, “Son, you’re not old. Wait till you get to be my age.” – “And, how old is that?” I asked. “I’m twenty-one, but my birthday was on February 29th, you do the math!” I have to admit, it’s nice not to be the oldest guy in the room for a change. Or, to get those looks from young people that say, “You’re old!” – or - “How do you dare go out in public?”
I worked hard on my checklist. I didn’t want to forget anything. Last year I forgot my portable calculator with a paper tape. I had to check all the restaurant tabs in my head and guess at the tip. This year, I just hand the tape to the waitress when she adds up the bill incorrectly. But more important, I use it to calculate her tip down to the penny. I was a regular sugar daddy last year. Sometimes my tip shot up to 11%. Never again! The calculator was the first thing I loaded into the 1978 Buick station wagon with simulated wood-grain side panels that I rented for the trip. (It’s all about fitting in.) Now, where did I put that AARP discount card?
The Old Coot rides with the wind.
Published March 14, 2012
I’m still in Florida. With “my” people. It’s a little scary; I’m surrounded by old coots that think and act as though they are 13 years old. Just like me. (The age that causes parents and teachers to pull their hair out!) A lot of us travel on what we call, two-wheelers, a throw back to the term we adopted eons ago when we were little kids and made the big move up from three-wheelers. We don’t wear helmets. We can’t help it. It’s our last vestige of independence. We accepted the seatbelts. We accepted the pat downs at the airports, the childproof medicine bottles we can’t open, the safety stickers plastered on everything we buy. But, we drew the line at the edicts from the hysterical “societal nannies” that think it’s dangerous to ride without a helmet. They made it illegal for kids under fourteen to ride a bike without a helmet, but thankfully, exempted old coots that act that age.
So, off we go in packs, down the Florida coast with our hair (or bald scalp) blowing in the wind. There’s nothing like sailing through town with your head back and your feet on the handlebars without a care in the world. A helmet would ruin the experience.
We’re pretty safe, even though we won’t wear a helmet. We don’t go fast enough to get hurt for one thing. Our speed is about that of a fast walker. Except, when we get a good tail wind or fly down a steep hill. Then we get up to 10 miles per hour, our brakes screeching all the while as we pull on the levers in terror. Speed kills; we know that. But, going slow isn’t the only reason we’re safe without a helmet. We’re safe because we have a highly functioning head-protection reflex. We developed it when we were little kids. We slip; we fall; yet our heads never hit anything. It’s our elbows, shoulders or wrists that take the blow.
We were brought up learning to protect our noggins. When we left the house to play our mothers would yell, “Be careful; watch your head!” And, we did. If you don’t believe it, go by a group of old coots sometime and yell, “Watch out!” Every single one will duck down and throw his arms up around his head. It’s one of the few physical skills we still perform to perfection.
So, here I am, gathered in with a flock of old coots that come south for the winter, gliding around town bareheaded on two wheelers. But, we’re not the brave ones. That honor goes to the old guys passing us without helmets on Harleys. They’re a throwback to the days of Marlon Brando and James Dean when they rode across the silver screen on a motorcycle with the wind blowing through their hair. Back in the politically incorrect days on the 1950’s. Dean was a rebel without a cause, but if the politicians enact laws that require old coots to wear bike helmets, we’ll become rebels with a cause!
The Old Coot pegged his meter.
Published March 21, 2012
I was grousing around the other day. To anyone within earshot. Nothing special. Just a collection of little irritations. McDonalds got me started. I’d ordered a hamburger kid’s meal. They should change the name to “Kid’s & Old Coot’s” Meal. More old coots order it than kids. I bit into the burger and immediately realized my mistake. I’d forgotten to open it up and remove the pickles and scrape off the mustard. Mustard on a hamburger? Most people I know use ketchup. Mustard is for hot dogs! I think it’s a law or something. And, who wants warm pickles? I want mine on the side, and cold. So, I fixed the burger and finished my lunch in peace. Sort of. My grouse meter started to go up.
Then, Bill Gates got in my face. He may be a great humanitarian, but he creates more frustration than any other person on the planet. Every time I get a new computer it has one of his new “latest and greatest” operating systems. Everything is different! I have to relearn how to use it. And, like old dogs, old coots find it almost impossible to learn new tricks. I made the mistake of buying a PC with Windows 7, “Premium” Home Edition. In my world, “Premium” means the top of the line, the best there is. In Bill Gate’s world, it means the bare minimum, the cheap and dirty version. I couldn’t install any of my old (and cherished) software. Not unless I spent another $200 for Windows 7 - Professional. My grouse meter went up three degrees.
One by one, the irritations kept coming. My cell phone charger was next. We have three cell phones in our house; each has its own charger and a unique connector plug. The cords are always lying together in the drawer in a big snarl. I don’t know how it happens. We wind them up and carefully place them in separate parts of the drawer but the minute it closes, they weave themselves into a tangled ball. “Why can’t all cell phones use the same charger?” I groused to my wife, Marcia. “Take a walk, you old coot,” she responded. (My grouse meter rose, yet again.)
But, I didn’t take a walk. I drove the car to the gas station instead. To fill it up. I forgot what car I was in and pulled up to the wrong side of the pump. “Why don’t all cars have the gas cap on the same side?” I yelled to the ceiling of the car. (Up another degree) I got out to see if the hose would reach, but of course it wouldn’t. It’s about ten inches long. So, I got back in the car and pulled around the other way. Almost! A kid in an old beater cut me off and took the spot I was heading to. Another plea to the ceiling of the car (and another degree on the meter). Finally, I got to fill up the tank. I think it cost seventy dollars; I’m not sure; the pump failed to deliver a receipt and ordered me to see the clerk if I wanted one (Up! Up! Up!) There was a line of people cashing in lottery tickets so I said the heck with it and left (the needle kept rising).
My grouse meter was now in the red zone. If I was a car my “check engine” light would be glowing. I needed a relief valve. I went to the Goat Boy Coffeebar and sat with the boys. I made it just in time for the daily grouse meeting. We listen to each other. We have too. It’s a rule. You listen to me and I’ll listen to you. My meter went back into the safe zone. All Stephanie charges for is the coffee. The psychotherapy is free. I wonder how high her grouse meter is by the time we leave?
The Old Coot speaks a new language.
Published March 28, 2012
I’ve noticed a lot of British accents on TV lately. It’s an invasion of sorts, like when the Beetles came to America and pushed Elvis aside. More and more of the commentators on news shows have a British accent. You never hear them say, “Me saw a man get arrested in Cairo!” They speak the language at a high level. – “Good show, old chap.” – “That was a smashing street demonstration.” But, I think it’s the accent. It makes everything they say sound more credible. Even if they use the wrong pronoun or a forbidden contraction like ain’t, we don’t notice; the accent clouds our mind and makes whatever they say sound intelligent.
The people who run TV news programs know this and are hiring more and more people with British accents. They want us to think the newscasters are smarter than us. So, we’ll stay tuned. People with British accents help sustain that myth.
The accent not only makes reporters and commentators seem smart, it also makes them seem honest and frank, like Simon, when he was on American Idol. He told it like it was, reinforcing the myth, brutally so. Eventually, all plain speaking American reporters will be pushed aside and replaced with Brits. The Revolutionary War isn’t over. We haven’t won the final battle. It’s just getting underway.
I’ve been practicing my British accent, hoping to regain the respect that hasn’t come my way of late. It’s working pretty good. (Oops.) I mean, it’s working pretty well. I watch BBC a lot, to learn British sayings and pronunciations. Not all my attempts to speak British have turned out so hot. I asked the clerk in the gas station where the loo was the other day. She said, “Lou doesn’t work on Thursdays.”
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