Saturday, March 31, 2012

Old Coot articles published in March, 2012

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.”


That’s OK; I’m in no hurry. I can take my bloody time making the transition. I’m going to try it out at the Harris Diner. I’m sure Sam will be impressed, especially when I order eggs and bangers with a spot of tea, instead of my usual, #3. I’m sure the Franz brothers and the rest of the boys at the back table will start to show me some respect, especially when I get up to leave and turn to them and say, “Cheerio! It’s been jolly good to see you again!” I’ll be the only British old coot in town. Finally, a place of distinction!

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

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.