December 18, 2013 Article

The Old Coot holds up the line at the post office.

“I’ve got an article for you,” a woman who works in the County Office yelled to me in line at Dunkin Donuts the other day. “You should write about the retired people who clog the aisles at the post office and the bank on our lunch hour.” I shouldn’t mention her name because the people I’m going to rile up with this article might want to retaliate. It’s Cindy! So, if you must protest, talk to her, not me. I won’t be home anyhow; I’ll be in line at the post office. (If it’s the noon hour.)  

 She’s right. Us retired folks have all day to go to the bank or the post office. But there’s a good reason why we turn up just as workers dash there on their lunch hour. Actually, there are two reasons: Some days, it’s because we are experiencing the “early bird” syndrome. On other days, it’s because we are overcome with the “can’t make a decision” syndrome. When it’s an “early bird” day we’re out of bed at five, raring to go. We get dressed, eat breakfast and are out the door by six. Off to the diner, the coffee house or the gas station. We’re looking for human contact. By seven we’ve solved all the world’s problems and move on to our inspection duties: Where are the DOT crews setting up; is it a job that’s worth going back later to watch? - Do any of the houses on the market have sold signs on them? - Did anyone pick up the tree limb on Parker Lane? It’s quite a responsibility, but we are up to the task.

 By ten-thirty, we’re exhausted; it’s time for a nap, the first of the day. We wake [with a start] at eleven forty-five and rush to the post office to buy a stamp (we never buy more than one at a time). Then, it’s over to the bank to get change for a twenty. We don’t like paying for things with a “big” bill. Too many places run a counterfeit checking pen over them. What would we do if it turned out to be fake? Grab it and run? We’re certainly not going to surrender it and take the loss! So, we go to the bank and get it broken into smaller bills.

Then, there are the days we’re stricken with the “can’t make a decision” syndrome. We still get up early, but we don’t rush out the door. Too many decisions have to be made first. Should I get dressed and then have breakfast, or have breakfast and then get dressed? Should I have cereal or eggs? Are eggs still bad for you or is it OK to eat them again?  What’s the temperature outside? Do I need a coat” An umbrella? The list of decisions is endless. Heaven help us if we make a mistake. It takes three hours to resolve all the issues and head out the door to the post office. 

 So, there you find us, on “your” lunch hour, clogging up the line. It gets worse. “What stamp would you like,” the postal clerk asks? We don’t know; we can’t make a decision. “What are our choices,” we ask? And, look back to the crowd for their opinion when the choices are announced, like a contestant on Let’s Make a Deal. The people in line shift from one foot to the other in unison and glare at the back of our heads. But, it’s not over. The clerk has more questions: Do you need boxes? - Do you need envelopes? - Do you want insurance? - More stamps? We stumble under the barrage like a prizefighter getting pelted in the ring. Then it’s time to pay. More decisions: Give up a five-dollar bill? - Hand over a twenty and be looked at suspiciously? - Charge it? There you are in line behind us, wondering why on earth we are there on your lunch hour. Well, now you know!

December 11, 2013 Article

The Old Coot doesn’t know what century it is.

“You can’t afford that sir! It’s old, from the 18^th century.” He’s right! Not only can I not afford it, I can’t even figure out how old it is. I’m “century” challenged. When someone pulls out the “century” card, I drop out of the game. Oh sure, I can eventually figure it out, but I hate to do the math. Let’s see, in the first century the years don’t have a “hundreds” digit. The fifty-third year of the first century is just 53. The second century adds a “hundreds” digit, but it’s a 1, not a 2.The numerical year is out of sync with the century. 1805, the year our house was built, is the 5^th year of the 19^th century. I have to subtract to get the date. Century minus 100 years = the actual date. Ok, now I’m ready to go; “SUBTRACT 100,” I plant in my mind. Ten minutes later I ask myself, “Do I add 100 or subtract 100?”

Most of us in the great-unwashed crowd avoid using the “century” term. It’s not a four-letter word but it’s a bad word. Besides, it sounds snooty. Like the speaker is saying, “I’m smart, educated, sophisticated and you’re a dope.” Take the experts on the Antique Road Show. They never say something comes from the mid 1800’s, a date we could comprehend. They say it comes from the mid 19^th century, causing us to be confused. And to do the math. But we stumble with it. “Do I add or subtract a hundred years?” And back we go to the first century to figure it out.

I don’t do the math anymore; I just stand there blissfully ignorant, looking like an idiot. Which in my case, is a true reflection of my mental abilities. I cannot translate from century to years. It’s a foreign language; I need an interpreter at my side when I’m in the company of highbrows. If you speak in the “century” language, please give the rest of us a break and switch to the date. And, the same thing with you people who refer to time in military terms. Switch back to AM and PM when you talk to the rest of us. I can never figure out what you mean when you say it’s 17:45. Just tell me to be there at 5:45 in the afternoon, or 5:45 PM if you want to be more precise. But, not 17:45.

I don’t think this is an old coot affliction. The conversion problem with military time and century terminology affect people of all ages. As does the metric system. Another language that’s foreign to me. I can’t find a good app for my smart phone to resolve these issues. It’s as dumb as I am. So, I’ll continue to smile and look stupid when the high brows regale me with stories from the 15^th century, thankful that I at least know what this year is, though I’m not too sure of the month. Thankful, that I know the correct time, for half the day anyhow, and that a one-liter bottle is just a little bigger than the quart bottle I grew up with. It’s all part of a conspiracy to push us old coots out to pasture. I’m sorry. Wrong terminology. Let me restate it - it’s all part of a conspiracy to transform us into “free-range” old coots.

December 4, 2013 Article

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. 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. Celebrex, for example, 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 really 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, if you can believe the Syracuse lawyer whose face graces my TV more than any other, he will “leave no stone unturned” to get you money. He doesn’t mention the side effects of this service. A fee that will probably net him more money than you. 

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 nine 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

November 27, 2013 Article

The Old Coot knows his colors.

By Merlin Lessler

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but red is the new green. People don’t stop for red lights anymore. In fact, they do just the opposite; they speed up. And, those of us who are waiting at the intersection for our light to turn green are now forced to look both ways before moving ahead. If we don’t, we’ll get broadsided. I admit, I’ve done it myself, stepped on the gas as a light started to turn red, but today’s drivers act as though they have a ten second grace period. The red light doesn’t mean red until ten seconds after it comes on. 

I’ve also noticed that one or two cars will often follow the first car through the light. It reminds me of when I was a kid and we fastened our sleds together by hooking our feet onto the sled behind us to form a train; we came down the hill as a single unit. That’s how cars now run through red lights, as a train. It’s a good strategy. Safety in numbers. Who’s the cop going to ticket? The odds are good that it won’t be you.  

I started a campaign in 2007, one of those foolish old coot things, to see if the DOT would allow drivers to treat red lights as stop signs. I was tired of sitting in my car at intersections when no cars were coming, wasting time and gas. If I was allowed to go right on red, why not straight or left? Drivers do it all the time at stop signs, what’s so different when it’s a red light? I sent letters to our elected state officials, as did a modest number of like-minded old guys with too much time on their hands. I received a polite reply from our state senator. He didn’t let on how crazy he thought my suggestion was. He just said he’d refer it to the DOT for consideration. Eventually, the answer came, on official DOT stationary, a big fat, “NO”! Little did I know I should have been asking to go left and straight on a green light, not a red one.

I still think we should be allowed to treat a red light as a stop sign. I do it all the time when I’m walking, and it takes me a lot longer to scamper across the intersection to safety than when I’m in a car. If you wait for permission from a mindless traffic signal you are going to get hit by a red-light runner. But, not if you remember, “Red is the new green!”

November 20, 2013 Article

The Old Coot takes a walk.

By Merlin Lessler

What could be more simple than taking a stroll down the sidewalk? You put on your shoes, tie them tight (good luck with that; modern shoelaces won’t stay tied), step out the door and start walking. Everything is fine: fresh air, stuff to look at and no one in sight. You slip into a walk coma, like the one you experience in a car when you get to your destination and have no memory of the trip. 

Then you spot someone off in the distance coming your way. It’s amazing how quickly the human brain can determine if a moving creature is coming toward you or going away. It must come from a primitive part of the brain, from a time when it was critical to your survival. It got you prepared to make a “fight or flight” decision. It’s not a survival skill we use much anymore but it still stirs up a considerable degree of anxiety, at least for an old coot like me. I have to break out of my coma and point myself in a straight line, so I won’t stumble into the intruder’s space.

I embrace the unwritten sidewalk walking rules, I move to the right (like in a car on a two lane road) and keep my eyes focused on oncoming traffic, which in this case is a guy walking toward me. The hard part for me, is to stay in a straight line. I tend to meander from side to side. Even when I concentrate.

So, off I go, hoping to pass by the oncoming walker without incident. That’s when I notice my shoelace has come untied. I go down on one knee and retie it. I get back up, a little light headed from rising too fast, take a few steps and find myself in the left hand lane. The guy coming my way shifts to his left too. Now, we’re both in the wrong lane but at least we won’t crash into each other. .

The gap narrows to fifty feet. I switch lanes; I go right, to obey the rules. He goes right to avoid a crash. I can read the look on his face, “Stop messing with me you old coot!” But, he’s over it by the time we pass each other. He nods; I nod, and the crisis comes to an end. I go back into my walk coma, but I’m exhausted from the stress of the encounter. I turn around and head home to take a nap. I guess there is no such thing as taking a simple stroll down the sidewalk!

 

November 13, 2013 Article

The Old Coot rides the fast lane.

By Merlin Lessler

“ Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.” So says my car’s passenger sideview mirror. It bugs me! I want things in the mirror to appear exactly as they are, not some distorted facsimile. . Every time I look in it to see if it’s OK to pull back into the travel lane it haunts me. “How close is that car I’m pulling in front of?” I have to swivel in the seat, crane my neck and look out the back window to find out. No easy feat for an old coot with a trick neck. It’s just another cruel joke played on us by the geniuses that design our cars. The same ones that thought we’d like car keys to be the size of a bar of soap and cost hundreds of dollars to replace. You can’t put a spare key in a “Hide-a-Key” box to bail yourself out anymore. You lose your key, you ain’t getting back home anytime soon. (Or, with any money in your wallet.)

The mirror thing has been going on for some time. I should be used to it by now, but I’m not. I’m forever pulling in too close after passing a car and then being treated to the image in my rearview mirror (which doesn’t distort the image) of an irate driver shaking his fist and mouthing, “You stupid old coot!” All because of a trick mirror. I was on the receiving end the other day; a vehicle pulled right in front of me, a big construction truck. It nearly blew me off the road. He obviously didn’t heed the warning in his mirror either.

When I recovered, I noticed a sign on the back of the truck. It said, “STAY BACK 300 FEET.” It was only the size of a license plate and spattered with mud, but at that short distance I could read it clearly. “What was I supposed to do? Pull off onto the shoulder until he moved the length of a football field ahead? Get off at the next exit?” I was perplexed. The message is unreadable at more than a few yards. Unless, you have a passenger riding shotgun, scouting the road ahead through a pair of binoculars. Otherwise, you won’t know you are inching into the forbidden zone. 

It makes me wonder about the motivation of a company whose trucks sport such a message. It certainly isn’t meant to save us from a stone or other construction debris flying into our windshield. If it were, the sign would be four feet by eight feet, not one foot by six inches. No, what the sign really means is, “If something flies off and wrecks your car, you can’t sue us; you were warned to stay back!” The only solution I can come up with to solve both the distorted mirror and the “stay back 300 feet” problems is to speed along at 80 miles per hour in the passing lane and never pull back into the travel lane. It’s called, defensive driving. (“That’s my story officer, and I’m sticking to it!”)

November 6, 2013 Article

The Old Coot says men don’t remember.

By Merlin Lessler

Men don’t remember. And, not just old coots like me. All men. Just ask their wives: birthdays, anniversaries or what she said ten seconds earlier. It’s a serious malady. It’s inborn and appears to intensify when a wedding ring is slipped over the 3^rd finger of the left hand. Apparently, that little gold ring causes the memory cells that store relationship information to shrink and expands the cells that retain sports statistics. 

A man can tell you exactly how many passes Phil Simms completed (22) in Superbowl XXI and that the Giants beat the Broncos 39 to 20 – how many points Wilt-the-stilt made when he set the all time scoring record in 1962 (100) - and the number of times Mickey Mantle won the batting championship (four, 1555, 1956, 1958, 1960). But, ask him the date of his wedding anniversary and all you’ll get is a blank stare. Even if his wife agreed to get married on the Fourth of July, so he’d never forget the date.

“Oh yea, that’s right, “ he says when she reminds him for the fifteenth time in fifteen years of marriage. He says it again when she asks him to get the grill ready for the picnic. “What picnic?” he asks. And then is reminded for the sixth time in six days, “For our Fourth-of-July picnic. Your parents, my parents and our wedding party are coming over to celebrate our anniversary!” And again, he says, “Oh yea, that’s right.”

Oh yea, that’s right,” is his most frequently spoken sentence. It pops out every time his shrunken memory cells fail him. Anniversaries, birthdays, children’s ages, year in school, teacher’s name, all are lost to the average male. There is no room to store that kind of information. His head is filled with sports statistics.

Smart phones are offering a glimmer of hope. But only if a man’s wife programs the calendar function on the device. “Today is Bobby’s birthday,” his smart phone might announce. “He’s in 3^rd grade, turning 6; his teacher’s name is Mrs. Badger.” And in extreme cases, for men who overdo their sports focus (those enrolled in more than three fantasy football leagues) the phone also has to add, “Bobby is your son.”

No one is sure if the new technology will solve the problem completely. It is true that men are now better informed about marriage and family matters due to smart phones, but they still need to be taught that things like birthdays and anniversaries are important to other people. “Really, the fact that it was on this date, fifteen years ago we got married is significant?” a memory cell deprived male will ask. Demonstrating just how far society has to go to make men socially viable. As for old coots like me, well, it’s too late. We’ve evolved into another species entirely.

October 30, 2013 Article

The Old Coot can’t see clearly now.

By Merlin Lessler

I have four pair of glasses. Can’t find any of them! They’re just cheap reading glasses, but when I need to see something up close, they are nowhere to be found. I didn’t have this problem when I had just one pair. I always knew where they were. The problem started when I bought a second pair. I eased up on my vigilance to put them in their place when I wasn’t using them. I started spending more time looking for the glasses than I did looking through them.

So, I bought two more. That’s the problem with cheap glasses; they cost so little, even an old coot like me can afford to buy them by the bunch. But, now I have none. Not that I can put my hands on anyhow. They’re scattered about the house, hiding from me. Either that, or some crazed lunatic keeps breaking in and shoving them down between the sofa cushions, sliding them under tables, sticking them in coat pockets and worse yet, slipping them on top of my head where I can’t see them unless I happen to look up when I pass by a mirror.

I’m getting desperate! Not desperate enough to use eyeglass cords or chains, the kind you see on a lot of old coots. Their glasses hang down under their chins, like cowboy guns in holsters, ready for any visual challenge that comes their way. But not me; I have my principles. I may be an old coot, but I draw the line: no eyeglass chains, no belt and suspender combinations, no Velcro shoe fasteners (not yet), no slacks with an elastic waistband and most of all, no spandex bicycle pants.

The four pair of glasses dilemma stopped me from buying an extra set of keys for my car. They would just disappear like the glasses. It happened when I bought a second tape measure. When I had one, I could always find it in my toolbox. After I got a spare, both tapes disappeared. I’ll stick with the single set of car keys. If I lose them, I can do what I did with the first car I owned, a well used, 1953 Ford convertible. I paid $60.00. Cash! It didn’t have keys. I had to hot-wire it to go anyplace and take out the back seat to open the trunk.

I should have known right then I was headed for a rocky future. But what 19 year-old looks that far ahead. We think we’ll be young forever. Take warning you young people. You have a future with four pair of glasses in it. I hope you keep better track of yours than I do mine.

October 23, 2013 Article

The Old Coot is an early bird

By Merlin Lessler

Old coots are time challenged. They think 10 o’clock means 10 o’clock. A younger person, anyone between the age of 18 and 50, will say, “I’ll pick you up at 10 o’clock. The old coot writes it on the calendar and on a piece of sticky paper on the fridge. He’s ready to go at 9:45, doesn’t want to be late. He starts peeking out the window at 9:50, just in case the “young” person comes early. At 9:55 he steps out the door, thinking they will be there soon. He starts to get edgy at 9:58. “Where is he?” he says out loud, starting the “talking out loud to nobody” process.

At 10 on the dot he becomes exasperated. He stands there muttering for the next several minutes. Then he begins to wonder, “Did I get the time wrong? Do I have the wrong day?” He amps up his self doubt for 5 minutes and then dashes inside to check the note on the fridge. Sure enough, he got the time right; he got the day right. He hustles back outside in case Mr. Late showed up while he was in the house and claim that he is the one who is late. But, not a problem; Mr. Late is nowhere to be seen.

Eventually he shows up, close to 10:30. An emotionally exhausted old coot hops into the car and responds to, “Were you waiting long?” with, “No, I just came out a few minutes ago.” (Making a mental note to get even somehow.) He doesn’t want to let on that he’s time challenged. It’s a hidden affliction, but it steps to center stage every so often. Like, when he shows up at 7 o’clock, for a 7 o’clock cocktail party. The flabbergasted host answers the door wrapped in a towel and stares at the “early” arriver, then awkwardly sees him in and excuses himself to go back and finish his shower. He sticks his head in the bedroom door and says to his wife, “Guess what? That old coot is here already!”

Meanwhile, the old coot (not me, some other guy) is snooping around downstairs, checking the food spread on the table and the reserve supply in the fridge, thumbing through the books on the shelves, the magazines on the coffee table, the stuff in the front closet and the supplies in the pantry. Later in the evening he’ll check out the contents of the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. It’s yet another old coot affliction, the “snoop” syndrome. So, if you are one of those unfortunate people that have an old coot or two in your life, beware! If you’re late, you’ll pay a price.

Article published October 16, 2013 (#-523)

Don’t call the Old Coot!

By Merlin Lessler

I love wrong numbers. I had one the other night, "Hello,” I said, wondering why I’d bothered to answer, thinking it was probably a telemarketer. I expected to hear,  “It’s your last chance to protect your credit rating; you must act today to take advantage of our one time offer!” – or- “We need your help. Won’t you please make a donation to the Clam and Oyster Foundation?” But, it wasn’t. All I heard was a muffled, “Grmph-butch-is-at ooh?” I was relieved. I told the mumbler he had the wrong number. “I’m tho thorry,” he replied. He didn’t need to apologize; I was thrilled; I love it when it’s a wrong number. I can get off the phone in a flash. With a right number, I have to listen, and sometimes even talk, turn down a request to do something or worse, agree to it. Even with a telemarketer, I have to listen long enough to figure out if I should hang up, make a wisecrack or lie - “Sorry! My wife just set her hair on fire taking the roast out of the oven!” And, hang up chuckling to myself. It makes me wonder why Alexander Graham Bell worked so tirelessly to invent such an inconvenient device. One that has been rudely intruding into people’s lives for over a century. (He took credit for it anyhow; it was really invented by a little-known Italian mechanical genius, Antonio Meucci, 16 years before Bell patented it in the US.).

 But, I answered the phone the other night. I’m like one of Pavlov’s dogs; I hear the bell and my arm shoots out and picks up the receiver even though my mind says, “NO!” So there I am, more often than not, saying hello with dread and trepidation. I hate talking on the phone, even in the best of circumstances. Most old coots do. We have a hard time conversing when we can’t look someone in the eye.  Too much missing information, we can’t see the caller, and even worse, the caller can’t see us roll our eyes as they go on and on. They don’t get the message to SHUT UP!  

It’s why old coots have shifted to text messaging, those of us who have learned to use a miniature keyboard that is. It’s true, we don’t get to read the body language that we’d get in a person-to-person exchange, but even so, texting has a critical advantage over live phone conversations. You can delay your response and be less likely to: #1 - prove how stupid you are, #2 - avoid agreeing to something you will come to dread or, #3 - be required to put on an Oscar winning performance and respond to the caller with, “I-a donna speak-a da-Anglish,” which works Ok with a telemarketer, but not very well with a relative asking to borrow the ladder.

Wrong numbers are truly underrated. They’re just the thing for me. Call and ask for someone who doesn’t live here and I’ll give you a listen. (I’ve got nothing to lose.) Call and ask for me and you’ll get the “hair on fire” routine. Have a problem with that? Don’t call; send your complaint to mlessler7@gmail.com. I’ll add it to the pile.

Article published October 9, 2013 (#-522)

The old Coot can’t get to sleep.

By Merlin Lessler

I was watching TV the other night. Technically, it was the middle of the night, three o’clock in the morning. It was one of those wake-ups where you can’t get back to sleep, too much on your mind. In my case, it was something stupid, “Remember to put new wiper blades on the car.” Even so, it kept me awake. I flipped on the TV. Couldn’t find anything. Hundreds of channels and nothing worth watching. I couldn’t read a book because I forgot where I put my glasses, all four pair that I scatter about the house, but seem incapable of locating when I need them.

I liked it better when there was nothing on TV in the middle of the night, back when they ran the 11 o’clock news – 15 minutes in total, including the weather report. Now, the weather report itself takes 15 minutes. Two minutes of useful information and thirteen minutes of what you should do, or wear, to endure it. I guess we’re too stupid to figure that out on our own. At the end of the news, the announcer said, “Good night,” the scene shifted to a waving American flag and he (it was always a he) dropped a phonograph needle onto a scratchy 33 1/3 vinyl record and the National Anthem blasted out through the speaker. (It was designed to wake the old coots who fell asleep on the couch, and get them to go to bed.) Then, a test pattern appeared. I guess it was so the engineer could adjust equipment at the station. They never said what it was for. But, there it sat, covering the entire screen, a big circle surrounded by smaller circles and lines and other odd geometrics. No sound. Just the test pattern.  

Sometimes we sat and starred at it, puzzling over its purpose. But usually we got up and walked over to the TV and turned it off. That’s right! Got up and walked over to the TV. No remotes back then. We would have thought them magic, witchcraft.

If I had a choice, I’d opt for the test pattern today. It would be better than the hundreds of channels running shows, none worth watching. Maybe someone will record an old test pattern and market it as a DVD. You could pop it into a DVD player, and wa-la, it’s 1954 all over again. I forgot where I was going with this. It happens a lot when you’re an old coot. Ready, Aim, Fire turns into Ready, Aim, ??? Anyhow, I never got back to sleep the other night. I got up and changed the wiper blades and went out for coffee. The diner was loaded with old coots like me, who also couldn’t get back to sleep. I’ve got to get a “test pattern” DVD. I know it would solve my middle of the night wake up problem. Anything is better than sitting around a diner at four o’clock in the morning with what looks like the cast from that old zombie movie, “Night of the Living Dead.” 

 

 

Article published October 2, 2013 (#-521)

The Old Coot solves a “big” problem.

By Merlin Lessler

I’ve given this a lot of thought – this national obesity epidemic we are grappling with. I’ve seen the ads on TV: for diet pills, meal plans, exercise plans, tonics and any number of miracle cures. I watched Oprah lose (and regain) fifty pounds at least a half a dozen times. She couldn’t do it and she had a personal trainer, a dietician, a chef and a billon dollar bankroll. Even lap band and stomach stapling surgeries don’t necessarily have a long-term effect.

But the answer, the solution, is as plain as the nose on your face; in fact, it is the nose on your face. Shut it down and you are on a path to a smaller you. We learned this as kids and then forgot it. We held our nose when we were made to eat something we didn’t like: spinach, asparagus, liver, lima beans. (Sorry, I got carried away with my own list.) Anyhow, we held our nose and hardly tasted it.

It works for food you don’t like; it works for food you do like: Snicker’s bars, Oreos, Whitman samplers, strawberry shortcake. (Sorry, I got carried away with my own list again.) Hold your nose; lose weight! It’s that simple. Try it! Get something you really like, hold your nose and eat it. Not quite as good is it? It’s because 75% of taste comes from your sense of smell, your nose. The tongue can only distinguish between sweet, salty, sour, bitter and something called umami. 

Now, on to my old coot diet. I call it the clothespin diet. Use a clothespin to lose weight! No painful exercise routines, no harmful pills, no will power, no counting calories. Just a cheap bag of plastic clothes pins, preferably in assorted designer colors that match the clothes in your closet. Clip one on before a meal or wear it all day long. Nothing will taste quite so good. Pretty soon you will eat because you’re hungry, not because it tastes good. The pounds will simply slide off your frame. Having a bad day? Unpin your nose and go on a taste binge. Then, put the clothespin back into service and you’re back on track again. What could be simpler?

Article published September 25, 2013 (#-520)

The Old Coot takes a gamble.

By Merlin Lessler

The Old Boy’s Club, that meets every weekday morning at the GoatBoy CoffeeBar, bought a $100 Rotary raffle ticket. We expect to win one of the top three prizes, $10,000 - $2,000 - $1,000. There are only 250 tickets sold, so our odds are good. We’re too cheap to buy a whole ticket on our own so we pooled our money to help support the local Rotary Club in their efforts to make our community a better place to live.

That’s what I hope anyway, that it’s a “we” thing, because so far I’m the only one who’s put up any cash. “I’ll catch up with you later,” is the standard response when one of the “boys” is asked for their ten-dollar share. I think I’m in for it; just ask Dennis how many times we’ve stiffed him when he let us have a coffee without paying. (One of those “I forgot my wallet” things.) Except for Rick, who does just the opposite. He doesn’t forget his wallet; he forgets to pick up his change. Maybe it evens out? All I know is that I’ve got until October 29 to break even myself. The best offer I’ve had so far is, “I’ll pay you out of my winnings.”

Now these guys aren’t old, even though they’re in the Old Boys Club. I’m the old guy. I’m the cheapskate. I’m the guy who keeps reminding everyone that a pizza only cost a dollar when I was growing up. That gasoline was twenty-six cents a gallon. But, I get no respect; I’m forced to thank them for the money taken out of their paycheck that funds my monthly Social Security stipend and pays for my medical bills, which aren’t that much, because guys from my generation don’t go to the doctor unless the bone in their arm penetrates the skin or they can’t get the stick out of their eye. Still, I’m forced to give thanks every month for what they call their welfare payment to me. And then listen to them complain that there won’t be any money left when they become an old coot like me. 

I’m in a dilemma. I fronted the money for the $100 ticket; now I have to collect ten dollars from each of them. And, not be too pushy about it, since I’m the Rotarian and it’s my club that’s selling the raffle tickets. Even when I tell them how many thousands of dollars we donated to make sure a community swimming pool was built at the high school, or about the annual donations we make to the Boy Scouts, the Girl Scouts, the Waterman Conservation Center, the Boys and Girls Club and many other local organizations. Even when I point to the basketball hoops we installed at Marvin Park, the gardens we planted and now maintain at the “Welcome to Owego” signs and our worldwide effort to wipe out polio. They still give me a hard time. None of it will make a difference in my collection effort; they are going to make me work for it. Payback for having to listen to my old coot rantings every morning.

So, if you see me standing in front of the GoatBoy CoffeeBar holding a tin cup, begging for coffee money, you’ll know the Old Boys Club stiffed me. Maybe you can help ease my pain by getting your own gang together and buy a ticket. It’s easy; just stop in at the Riverow Bookshop (Owego) and ask for John or Laura or contact me via e-mail below. But hurry! You only have until October 29^th.

Article Published September 18, 2013 (#518)

The Old Coot never gets the whole story.

Here I go again! Another foolish attempt to explain the difference between men and women, naively thinking it will help in the battle of the sexes, bringing Mars and Venus into compatible orbits. This time it’s the “men never get the whole story” phenomenon.

A husband will come home and say to his wife, “I ran into Bill today; his son got married in the Bahamas last month.” He (the husband) thinks he did a good job, got the scoop and remembered to report it. He couldn’t be more wrong!

The grilling begins! “Which son? Who did he marry? Did Bill and his wife attend or did the couple elope? Where are they going to live? Where did they meet? How long had they dated?” Each question is answered exactly the same, “I don’t know.” Men never get the whole story!

They actually do get more facts than they report. But, not facts relevant to the “relationship” story. For example, the husband with the scoop on Bill’s son getting married did learn that the son drives a 2010 Mini Cooper with 8,000 miles on the odometer, that Bill shot a 97 on the golf course in spite of getting a 10 on the 16^th hole. But facts about the marriage? Absolutely none! He didn’t think to ask.

It’s not his fault; it’s the way a man’s brain works. Next time, if he’s like most men, he won’t mention Bill’s son getting married. Mars will keep his orbit away from Venus.

I don’t know why men are like this. It might be a memory problem; we forget we’ll face a cross-examination when we come home with a story like this. We eventually learn to cope, when we become old coots. But we don’t fix our problem; we simply resort to fiction. We make up the answers. Our fingers are crossed when we step to the witness stand and swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth. 

An old coot will respond to a “who-did-he-marry” question with made-up facts,  “A girl from California; they met in college.” – “Did Bill and Mary go to the wedding?” - “No the couple eloped.” On and on an old coot will go, perjuring himself to the nth degree, to avoid having his “men don’t get the whole story” syndrome exposed. Eventually, it will come out, but he’ll cover his tracks with, “I guess I heard it wrong,” revealing yet another male dysfunction, the “men don’t listen” syndrome, an aliment I explained a few years ago in my unending quest to quiet the battlefront in the war of the sexes. If you missed it, you can scan down the page where it is posted for your review. Unless you’re a man. Then, don’t bother; men never get the whole story.

Men Don't Listen (originally published in 2006)

Men don’t listen. And worse, we don’t know it. We think we’re good listeners. Our wives know we’re not. They have to deal with it all the time. “Why are you getting all dolled up?” we innocently ask. “Because we’re going to the play tonight with Nick and Nancy. I told you about it last week and reminded you again at dinner, just 20 minutes ago.” This is when the wisest among us shut our mouths and start to get ready to go out. Many of us aren’t that smart. We whine, “You never mentioned it to me!” That’s when we get the short version of the lecture on how we never listen. We’ll get the long version when we get back home after the play.

It’s not our fault. We try to listen. We’re positive we hear everything our wives tell us, but we don’t. I think it’s a right brain, left brain thing. When somebody talks to us we are all ears, for about ten seconds. Then our brain switches into a sports mode. It drags up images of scoring the winning basket as the clock winds down to zero. Actually, it doesn’t drag up the image; it makes it up. There never was a moment like that. The male brain can’t distinguish between fact and fiction.       

It’s not just our wives we don’t listen to; it’s everybody. It’s why we get in so much trouble. We’re in a conversation; the other person talks and talks and then stops and looks at us and says, “So, do you think it’s a good idea?” We have no idea what they are talking about, but we never admit it. “Sure,” we respond. “That’s a great idea.” Then we discover that we just loaned our car to our neighbor’s teenage son for the prom. “How could you do that?” our wife asks. “It sounded like a good idea at the time,” we lamely respond. “You had to be there.”

I’m so glad that women are getting into leadership positions in business and politics. It was a tough road without them. If a woman had been in charge of Ford Motor Company in the 50’s when the design team made the pitch to introduce the Edsel, she might have listened to the engineers who warned that it was too soon, that the bugs hadn’t been worked out. As it was, Henry Ford the 2nd, who is a man, may I point out, was daydreaming about the Detroit Tigers when the discussion took place. When asked if they should move ahead and introduce the car in the 1958 model year, he said, “Sounds like a good idea.”

It’s just the opposite with women. They hear everything, even the stuff that you never say. If the words make it into the little waiting room in your brain, the place you put stuff for a few seconds before you let it go public, women hear it. They also have long-term memories. We say stuff that gets them so mad they can’t see straight. But they don’t say anything at the time. We hear about it two months later - “On December 2nd at two in the afternoon you said I looked a little chunky in my new coat.” Here’s where tact has such great value, if only we were smart enough to use it. We have no idea what she is talking about. We don’t even know she has a new coat. We can relate to December 2nd; the Giants were playing the Eagles that day. The stupid among us, blurt that information out, ala, “Didn’t know about the coat, the Giants were playing, etc.” Those of us who hope to live to a ripe old age take a breath and fake it. “I remember saying that. It’s bothered me every single day since then. I almost cried; I felt so bad. It wasn’t true anyhow; you looked great. I was mad because the Giants were losing and I took it out on you. How can I ever make it up to you?” Of course it’s all fiction. No man would ever say those things. How could he? He never heard what she was complaining about to begin with. Remember, men don’t listen.

September 11, 2013 Article

The Old Coot hits it right on the button!

By Merlin Lessler

We’re a “button-fussy” society. If you don’t button your shirt correctly, you’re in trouble! It’s a misdemeanor, maybe a felony, to walk around in a misbuttoned shirt. Alignment is important! “Oh my gosh! Your buttons are one off! Your shirt is on a slant!” It freaks people out. Personally, I love seeing someone in a misbuttoned shirt. It makes them more human. It brings a smile to my face. I never bring it to their attention.

I’m not sure what sets people off when they spot a misbuttoned shirt, the lack of symmetry maybe? We like things to be symmetrical, like our faces - 2 ears, 2 eyes, nose in the middle, mouth directly below. It sets the standard for how we view the world. Put an extra eye in the middle of the forehead and we go nuts. The Tucker Automobile Company made this mistake back in the 1940’s; they put a third headlight in the middle of the front hood. Even though their car was more advanced than any automobile on the market, the company went defunct in a few short years. Mismanagement? Or, was it that third “eye” in the middle of the hood? The Tucker was a misbuttoned shirt.

It’s also not acceptable to skip a button. You’ll hear about it as you go through the day. “You missed a button there,” someone (many someones) will say, and then point to the place of the infraction. It makes us uncomfortable. As do shirt collars. Have one pointing up and one pointing down and you’ll get scolded. Sometimes people can’t help themselves, they reach over and fold down the offending appendage. “There you go. Your collar was up on this side!” You can have two up or two down but not one of each.

Small boys and old coots are exempt from the “button-fussy” rules. (We’re one in the same if you really think about it). Neither of us cares if our shirt is misbuttoned. Or, if we’re wearing two different socks, two different shoes or even if our pants are on backwards.

 The next time you see someone with a misaligned, misbuttoned shirt or with a button or two that is not fastened, use your willpower; try not to give into the temptation to point out the mistake. Just hand them a dollar bill and say, “Thanks! You made my day!” You’ll spend the rest of your day with a big smile on your face.

September 4, 2013 Article

The Old Coot is an at the finish.

By Merlin Lessler

Emma Sedore suggested I write an Old Coot article about people who finish your sentences. (As a public service!) I have to agree; it is irritating when someone does _______(1). Especially, when the finisher is correct 80% of the _______(2). It means the speaker is so obvious in where the sentence is going that anyone can see through it, cut to the chase and finish it  _______(3), while we like to think of ourselves as so clever and insightful, that the listener is hanging onto our every _________(4).

When my crowd (old coots) get together, we all are guilty of this sentence finishing social faux pas. We have to be! The speaker often forgets where he is going with his sentence and starts groping for the end point in a desperate effort to pull it from the cobwebs in his mind. We give him a chance, but eventually take pity and supply the ending. In this situation, finishing someone’s sentence is a kindness.

The rest of the time though, it’s just plain rude! It shows a lack of patience and tolerance for those of us on the lower end of the humanoid species, just because we struggle a little to make a succinct point. It’s showing off, when a sentence finisher does this, a lame attempt to prove they are smarter than we are. If they really were smarter, they would avoid us altogether. But, they don’t; they swoop in and finish our sentences. We are tired of it!

So, if you are a sentence finisher, you have been warned. Proceed at your own risk! Those of us whose sentences you are finishing, are not going to put up with it any ___. (If you thought you could end that sentence with “longer” you are wrong. The ending is “more.”) We’re going to change the ending to every sentence to prove you _______. (If you tried to finish the sentence with “wrong,” you are in error. The ending is “have no manners.”) You can try to finish our sentences all you want. We’ll prove you wrong every time. End of _______(5)!

Footnotes: 1 = this, 2 = time, 3 = off, 4 = word, 5 = story.  

Score your sentence finishing ability: 1 or 2 right, welcome to old coot world. - 3 right, big deal you’re only slightly better than an old coot. - 4 or more right; go to a Mensa meeting and see how you do, but leave our sentences alone! 

August 28, 2013 Article

The Old Coot can’t keep still.

By Merlin Lessler

I went to the Dick’s Senior Open Golf Tournament a week or so ago. I didn’t know it, but when I purchased my ticket I entered into a contract that suspended my first amendment rights. The “quiet” police were in charge: on the greens, on the tees and scattered along the fairways. When a golfer stood over his ball to take a shot the militia took over, raising their arms, waving a “Quiet” sign and giving the gallery a dirty look to make sure it got the message. Apparently, the people who play golf have attention deficit disorders. They can’t pay attention to what they are doing unless all outside stimuli is eliminated. (I know, it should be are eliminated but it just doesn’t sound right.)

When I play golf, which is a much different game than the one the pros play, the quiet police are out on the course as well, but not in an official capacity. They are more like a vigilante group, supervising the quiet zone in the vicinity of their own foursome. The foursome I play with doesn’t have a quiet zone; we’re there to have fun! We have no delusions about our game. As we reach the apex of our back swing on the tee we can expect to hear, “Try to get it past the ladies tee!” Stand over a putt that might give us our first and only birdie of the day, and a stray golf ball will cross our line of vision, followed by a chorus of belly laughs. We’re not afflicted with golfer’s attention deficit disorder.

Golf is the only sport where “quiet” rules are in play. And, strictly enforced. Go to a basketball game and see how noisy the arena gets when a player stands at the line to shoot a foul shot that might win the game. It’s as pressure filled a situation as a tournament winning putt. The place is a noise factory. Cat calls, boos and yelps emanate from the stands. Arms wave, feet pound, yet no quiet signs go up. No shushes ripple through the crowd. The player dribbles the ball, stares at the rim and shoots.

Golfers could do this too, but they’ve been spoiled. All is quiet when Tiger gets ready to smash the ball off the tee. Then, a tree limb twitches in the breeze sending a bird into flight or an old coot sneezes (not me) and his shoot sails off course, into a clump of trees. He turns to the gallery, emits a dirty stare and mumbles through gritted teeth, something like, “Thanks a lot you old coot (not me)!” The quiet police swarm in and warn the lawbreaker (not me), threatening to have him removed from the course. 

But, if there were chatter, laughter, cheering and movement all the time, the golfers would be better off. They would get used to the din and not be startled by a minor distraction. It’s the quiet rule and the quiet police that are causing the problem, not us irreverent old guys standing in the crowd who can’t stop ourselves from creating a ripple on the calm ocean of silence. It’s our attempt to help golfers overcome their self-inflicted, attention deficit disorders. Won’t you join me in this humanitarian effort and help us keep intact our 1^st amendment rights? All it takes is a little snicker here and there. 

 

August 21, 2013 Article

The Old Coot is paying more, getting less!

By Merlin Lessler

My world is shrinking! I’ve watched it diminish over the last several decades. And, it’s not just my muscle tone, agility and recollection abilities that are shrinking. It’s the things I buy as well. Especially in the grocery store. Bread, for example. I plopped a piece of baloney on a slice of bread the other day; it hung over the edge. The baloney was bigger than the bread! “Did baloney get bigger,” I wondered? When I took a close look at the bread, I got my answer; it was smaller than it used to be. Something I wouldn’t have noticed if I’d opted for a healthier lunch, like peanut butter and jelly. But, I had been in a gourmet mood; baloney was the obvious choice.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. All food products are getting smaller – the cereal boxes look the same as they always did, but they’re thinner and have less cereal inside. The food processors didn’t think we would notice. Canned vegetables too. The standard can was 16 ounces. Now, it’s 14 or 15 depending on who’s doing the canning. The six-ounce can of tuna fish went on a diet: it’s down to 5-ounces now. 

It’s nibbling away our grocery money, this shrinking thing. And, most of us haven’t noticed, at least unobservant shoppers like me. I sense it; the can or box feels different, but I don’t have a reference point to compare it to. Until the baloney hung over the edge of my bread. Then I started checking. The one item I was sure I knew the size of was a five-pound bag of sugar. I was shocked! Sugar is now sold in four-pound bags. That really got me. It messes up my weight reference point. For years I’ve judged the weight of things by comparing them to a bag of sugar. “How much does that puppy weigh?” I’d pick it up; compare it to my memory of a bag of sugar and conclude, “It feels about seven pounds.” Now I’m off by 20%. 

It’s rampant, this downsizing of food packages. If the container isn’t smaller, then it’s modified so it holds less of the product. Saltine crackers for instance. Today’s box contains 15 % fewer crackers! (And 30% more wax paper.) They place the crackers in multiple sleeves, add more packing material and run an ad campaign that emphasizes the freshness. The same thing has happened to graham crackers. Same box, less stuff. 

Some food processors have jumped on the “green” bandwagon. They use slogans and ads to claim their package is environmentally friendly. (Instead of just saying the container is smaller.) Milk is one of the few products they haven’t messed with. But just down the cooler a few feet are cartons of orange juice that have. They look the same. But, if you check the label you’ll discover they’ve been downsized. From 64 ounces to 59 ounces! It’s a magic show! The magicians (food processors) distract us with pretty colors, statements of freshness and overstated “new and improved” claims. But, instead of pulling a quarter out of our ear, they’re pulling the food out of our grocery carts. It’s kind of ironic when you think about it. Food containers are getting smaller, but we’re getting bigger! 

August 14, 2013 Article

The Old Coot is lost in time.

By Merlin Lessler

This “time” thing we live with is perplexing. The older you get, the faster it passes by. You begin to notice it when you hit your thirties; by the time you hit your fifties it’s really out of hand. Every reference you make to time is off! “We bought the dog three years ago,” you might say – and then figure out it was nearly five. That haircut you swear you got last week was really three weeks ago. No, your fingernails aren’t growing faster; you didn’t just clip them a few days ago, it was two weeks ago. This is how the time thing ramps up. And, makes you acutely aware that your perception of how fast it passes is out of kilter.

High school reunions emphasize the point. Almost everyone seems the same at your tenth reunion. Except they now have enough money to put more than a gallon of gas in their gas tanks and the urge to peal out has vanished (since they are the ones paying for the tires). All is well; ten years went fast but not enough to scare you.

Then it’s time for the 25^th reunion. It’s a shocker! Twenty-five years? The gathering has an edge to it now. There is a poster at the sign-in table, listing the classmates that have passed on. It’s brought up again when the class president addresses the group. You notice that he isn’t as suave as he used to be. And, bald too! “What’s happening, you wonder?” Some of these people have really aged. You skip the 30^th. “I just went to my 25^th,” you explain to your spouse as you toss the invitation into the trashcan. Nobody bothers to set up a 40^th. It’s just an awkward number of years to celebrate.

But, then it comes. Your 50^th! Now, you’re in a dilemma. “Do I want to hang out for an evening with old people I won’t even recognize?” But, you go; you have to. This may be the last time you ever see them. (Or, they ever see you.) And, you were right; when you walk in, it’s to a roomful of strange faces.

The speed of how fast time flies hits home hard when you are with little kids. They’re all excited at Thanksgiving because Christmas is next. “It will be here in four weeks!” you tell them. “Four weeks grandpa, that’s forever!” To you, it’s too fast to get ready for it. For them, it’s an eternity. Why the difference, you wonder? Then, you do the math. For a 5-year old, 4 weeks is 1/60th of their life, but for an old coot like me, it’s a mere fraction of that, more like 1/1327 of a lifetime. Their four-week “eternity” is hardly more than a day to an old coos. It all depends on your reference point.

But knowing why time seems to fly doesn’t help. Not when your only interest is to get it to slow down. There’s only one way to do that. Don’t get old!

August 7, 2013 Article

The Old Coot has it both ways.

By Merlin Lessler

“Your idea, my fellow senator, is well thought out and breaks new ground. That being said. Are you nuts?” You hear arguments that include that being said (or the alternate version – having said that) all the time. Especially from politicians, media pundits, college professors and pseudo intellectuals. It’s the go-to conversational crutch.

When you hear it, you should understand that the speaker doesn’t believe what he just said. It’s a smoke screen (a lie) and after he says, that being said, he reveals what he really believes. It’s a mechanism used by people who want it both ways. They want to be seen in a positive light; they don’t want to be seen as closed-minded. (Which they are.)

Old coots, after they finally wise up, use this technique. It keeps us out of trouble. “Maam, your child is perky and beautiful, that being said, would you get the little brat to sit still and shut up! – or – “The chef did a wonderful job putting my hamburger on the bun and he topped it with lettuce, tomato and onion like I requested, that being said, take it back and have the idiot cook the other side.”

“That being said,” makes us seem like intellectuals instead of grouchy old coots. I could get into a squabble if I confronted a negligent dog walker, complaining about the decoration his dog left on my front lawn. But, not if I use the, that being said, technique. I compliment him on having a dog with a well functioning digestive system, throw in a, that being said, phrase and lodge my complaint. He doesn’t know how to react, “Did that old guy just compliment my dog or did he insult me?” Leave em wondering; that’s my motto.

I’ve joined the ranks of the high brows at the universities, the pundits who argue about public policy on TV, the politicians who try to please everyone (but are really just interested in their reelection). And, the corporate spokespeople who feed us pabulum, like when the CBS network trots out a “victim of the week” and says, “CBS cares!” They care all right; they care about their ratings and their ad revenue. That being said. I love their Sunday morning show!

July 24, 2013 Article

The Old Coot lives in the fast lane.

By Merlin Lessler

I went through the express line in the supermarket the other day. Old coots always go through the express line. We buy one or two things and get out the door as fast as we can. We are grocery store challenged. Because of old memories; memories of standing in a long line behind overloaded shopping carts, holding a carton of milk and a loaf of bread, the only two items we were capable of purchasing without messing up. Bread and milk were easy in those days; there were two choices for milk (quart size or ½ gallon) and three for bread (sliced sandwich bread, hot dog rolls, hamburger buns). Hard to mess up!

We stood there holding our bread and milk, watching the shoppers in front of us as the clerk searched each item for a price sticker and entered it into an enormous mechanical cash register. It was a long slow process and the clerk was nervous because the customers watched every move like a hawk, poised to pounce if she made a mistake. 

Agony is what it was, standing there at the end of the line. Then, the express lane was invented. One of the top 10 innovations of the 20^th century, right up there with the Chia Pet. If you had five items or less, you could skip past the aisles of agony. You didn’t dare make eye contact with people in the slow lines, but you could feel their resentment; it made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. So, you kept your eyes down and hopped into the lifeboat, ignoring the principle of, “Women and children first!”

The number of items allowed in the express lane has grown over the years. It started with 5 and gradually expanded to 12. At that level you could still check the other shoppers to make sure they weren't cheating. But, the express line I was in the other day allowed 20 items. It was too hard to see if the other customers counted correctly, though I tried. And, the line didn’t move nearly as fast as it used to.

Pretty soon, one of the supermarket chains will wise up and start an “express-express” line. The old one will remain, the 20 or less one. The new, “double express” line, will be restricted to 5 items. I’ll use it with my loaf of bread and carton of milk and smile to myself as I beat the 20 or less customers out the door. 

It still won’t compare to the system at John’s Fine Food, The Community Shop or Thompson’s Grocery Store where they ring a buzzer or yell to the back for help the second things start to back up. A swarm of workers put aside what they are doing and rush to the front to help get customers bagged up and out the door. No, there is nothing like a small town, locally owned grocery store. Every line is an express line!

July 17, 2013 Article

The Old Coot salutes the Village People.

By Merlin Lessler

There is a bunch of people who walk Owego. There are the noon walkers, taking a break from work and stretching their legs. There are the after-dinner walkers, taking a stroll to burn off that extra piece of pie. There are the mothers and fathers (mostly mothers) pushing strollers, sometimes at a walk pace, sometimes at a full jog. There are dog walkers, sightseers from out of town, historic tour walkers and then there is my crowd, the morning walkers, taking in the sights while the village sleeps.

We’re a nosey bunch, us morning walkers; we’re like news reporters working a beat. “Did you see that the Hennessey house is for sale?” – we’ll report to anyone we meet. “Did you see the color the Smith’s are painting their house?” We’re walking but mostly we’re gawking. And why not? A walk through the village is like a walk through a Norman Rockwell painting.

We nod to each other as we pass. Sometimes, we know who we are nodding to, sometimes we don’t.  We exchange weather comments or give a heads up on a sight not to be missed on the next block. My favorite walkers are Sue Johnson and Jane Murphy. They both winter in Florida, but from May to October you will find them on the sidewalk most every morning.

Sue is the one in the lead; she’s five feet ahead of Jane, turning her head back to carry on a running conversation. Jane claims it’s because Sue has longer legs and walks faster, but I don’t buy it! They both walk at the same pace; it’s just that they do it five feet apart. Sue is the scout! Jane guards the rear!

But these two morning walkers don’t just walk, talk and check out the sights; they stop and interview whoever crosses their path. “What are you up to these days?” – “Did you go south this winter?” – “Did you sell your cottage at the lake?” Running into them is like being interrogated by Mike Wallace on Sixty Minutes, just more enjoyable because after they finish your debriefing, they get you up to date on what’s going on around town.

I miss them in the winter when they are in Florida, these two friends who have pounded the pavement together (five feet apart) for several decades. But every spring they come back, about a month after the robins, and join the morning crowd:  Eddy, scouting for recyclables - Thelma, checking trash cans for scraps to feed the birds -  David, keeping track of police and fire calls on his portable scanner - Nancy, down from the mountain to put in her laps. And, me! (among others) We’re the village people. We walk the beat.

July 10, 2013 Article

The Old Coot misses straight-A students.

By Merlin Lessler

“She’s a straight A student!” That’s how a kid (not me) who excelled in school was referred to. It definitely was a coveted description. An A in every subject! I got my meager supply of A’s one at a time. I rotated them through the subjects, most coming in secondary courses like gym and wood shop. But, if they gave a grade for it, I would have gotten a load of A’s for the essays I was forced to write explaining why I would never throw spitballs in class again or stick “Kick me!” signs on classmate’s backs. 

Straight A’s! That said it all. It cut right to the heart of the matter. Now, I guess the best we can say about a kid in elementary school is they get all S’s. They are satisfactory and at grade level in all subjects. In high school it’s expressed even more mundanely, using percentile terms. “He’s an excellent student; he carries a 96% average.”

Back when A’s and B’s and C’s ruled the stage, an A meant a kid had a test average of 94 to 100 for the semester. He or she could have a misstep or two and still wear a “Straight A” crown of distinction. We are left with a mediocre marking system that has no impact, no pizzazz. “How’s your kid doing in school?” – “Oh, she maintains an average across her subjects that exceeds 94%.” What an unwieldy response! As opposed to saying, “She’s a Straight A student!”

And, what about the kids that weren’t Straight A students but got all A’s and B’s. Another highly noteworthy accomplishment with a powerhouse description, “She gets all A’s and B’s!”  Now, it’s reduced to a meek, “She maintains an average that ranges above 87%.” The poor kid, like Rodney Dangerfield, “Gets no respect!”

You would think an education system so focused on testing would include a grading system that gives students something to strive for, like the “all- star” designation in sports. You can tell the politicians and the Regents, who continuously treat our education system as a laboratory experiment, were not straight A students when they were in school. It’s more likely they were the kids who wildly waved their hand to get the teacher’s attention so they could tell her, “Bobby has a Superman comic hidden inside his history book!”

 
No, I wasn’t a straight A student. I had a different goal each year, to get the word “promoted” circled at the bottom of my report card. As for my Straight A friends, some did well in life and some didn’t. It isn’t just what you learn in the classroom that prepares you for life. The lessons learned on the playground are just as important.  

July 3, 2013 Article

The Old Coot finds a bargain?

By Merlin Lessler

“Welcome to my spider web!” That’s what we should hear when we’re exposed to an ad for something with an introductory price or a trial offer. But instead, we blissfully sign up for the NY Times at a special rate, or Time Warner, or Direct TV or any of the multitudes of offerings from “spiders” who spin an “introductory price” web across our path. Can you tell from my tone that I’ve fallen prey to one of these schemes?

Actually, more than one has tempted me to put aside my, “there is no free lunch,” skepticism and sign on the dotted line. It starts out great. You get the NY Sunday Times delivered to your front door for $4 a week, not the $6 you’ve been paying at the store. Every four weeks your credit card gets zinged for $16. You hardly notice it on the monthly statement. Then, the spider climbs into the web and feasts on your altered decision making capability. The $16 debit every four weeks changes to $28.

When you finally get around to noticing it, three or four months later, you realize you’ve been had. You go to their web site with the mistaken idea that you will cancel your subscription. You soon discover that you have to call them if you want to opt out. So, you grab your phone, a book to read, a snack and dial the 800 number. Eventually, you weave your way through the queue and hear, “Your call is important to us; a representative will be with you shortly.” You hear it 1,500 times before a person comes on the line. By then, you’ve finished the book and polished off the snack; you’re tired, hungry and a little numb. In this weakened state, you fight your way through a gauntlet of new offers hurled at you to get you to change your mind.

Finally, the rep realizes that nothing will work; you are going to cancel the service. “OK sir, (you tell by her tone that she really means, old coot, not sir) I will process your request; it will go into effect on September 1^st.”  - “September?” you reply. “Why can’t you make it effective right away, like you did when I signed up?” You then get a series of scripted, mumble jumble, policy and process reasons, but you sense that none of this is factual. You insist on immediate termination and you get it. (Well, almost. Two more weeks of the Times is better than waiting until September). You pound your chest in victory like Tarzan and hang up.

But, you did it! Sure, you got hosed for a few months. Several months. Ok, for a year and a half. But you’re out, and except for a promo in the mail every other week and a sales call now and then it’s behind you. “That will never happen again,” you tell yourself, while reading through an ad from Direct TV with a special introductory price of $24.50 a month for 9,000 channels. And then, reach for the phone.

June 26, 2013 Article

The Old Coot is in a fix.

By Merlin Lessler

Do you remember being a kid, peddling along on a bike, minding your own business and your pant leg got caught in the chain? You couldn’t peddle! You couldn’t put on the brake, at least not in my day when the brake was engaged by peddling backwards. All you could do was keep going forward, knowing when the bike slowed down it was going to tip over and you would skin your elbow or knee. Probably both! 

My worst  “pants-caught-in-a-bike-chain” experience took place when I was coming down a steep hill, headed for a busy street at the bottom. I had one chance to save my life, if I could somehow turn off onto a gravel construction road that jutted to the side just above the busy street. I knew I would fall when I made the turn, and most certainly would get banged up, but it was my only hope! Faster and faster I sped down the hill, flying by the Daley’s house, then the Almy’s house and finally past my friend Woody’s house, who was gawking at me out his bedroom window with a look of horror on his face. I steered toward the construction road and closed my eyes. That’s all I remember. Then, a neighborhood woman yelled out her kitchen window, asking me if I was OK. I looked down at the blood and cinder mosaic on the side of my leg, the skinless elbow on my arm and noticed that my torn pant leg was free of the chain. “I’m OK,” I shouted, got to my feet, picked up my bike, straightened the handlebars and peddled home. It was my third session that week with our bottle of iodine. I can still feel the sting.      

Now, I find myself back on a bicycle, rolling down a hill out of control with my pant leg caught in the chain. Except, this time the bicycle is metaphysical, and the hill is life, rapidly spinning by. That’s what it feels like to be old, any kind of old: 30 old, 40 old, 50, 60, 70 or 80 old. No matter what part of the hill you are on, the scenery is flying by way to fast. And, worse yet, there is no side street to pull off into. 

So, what’s my point? I don’t know. Someone asked me if I remembered getting my pants caught in a bicycle chain when I was a kid. And, like a typical old coot, turned it into a philosophical treatise on the meaning of life. How’s your bike ride going? Are your pant legs inching closer to the chain?

June 19, 2013 Article

The old coot can’t have any fun.

By Merlin Lessler

“You never let me have any fun!” What kid didn’t say that to his mother while growing up? It’s not mothers saying no these days; it’s the government. All levels of government. They won’t let us have any fun!

I’m not sure when this so called nanny state started, but it sure has blossomed over the past few decades. I think we brought it on ourselves. Any time anyone had a problem, they went to an elected official for resolution: local, state and federal. Elected officials used to send us back to solve our own problems. Not anymore, they enact a law and the bureaucrats issue a new set of rules.

It’s OK for some things, like making it illegal to pass a stopped school bus, or to drive the wrong way down a four-lane highway. But, now we are subject to laws that cover every trivial social misfortune. And, the number of new “you can’t do that’s” are growing at an ever quickening pace. We’re overrun with rules, and we’ve lost our sense of humor in the process. 

It starts right out with our kids; they are as regulated as we are. When kids from my generation ran home and told their mother that Bobby called them fatso or string bean or four eyes or any of the 1,435 insults in circulation at the time, she didn’t call the kid’s mother, or the police, or the school principal. She sat them down and taught them a chant, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me!” We believed it and repeated it whenever some “bully” called us a name. The school system wasn’t bogged down with identifying and preventing such “outlandish” behavior. (We played dodge ball too.)

When we called a random phone number and asked the person who answered the phone if their refrigerator was running, and when they said yes, replied, “Well, you better hang up and go catch it!” The police didn’t show up ten minutes later and tell our parents to make us cut it out or we’d be arrested and charged with harassment like they did when my son made his first crank call. Both parties got a kick out of it in my day, but not anymore. Not in our no fun society; it’s against the law.  

If you get busy and forget to have your car inspected and park it on the street overnight, guess what? You’ll find a ticket on the windshield under the wiper blade. And no, they won’t void it if you rush right out and get it inspected that day. Not anymore. Even if you were in the hospital for the past two weeks. This is serious business! 

Let your dog off the leash in an empty park so he can run free for a few minutes, like his great, great grandfather did – you get a ticket. Tell a co-worker she looks great today – you get sent to HR for a lecture on sexual harassment. Drink soda out of a container larger than 16 ounces in the Big Apple – you get a scolding from Mayor Bloomberg. Jokingly say that the fathers at Notre Dame are holy on Sunday but you can’t trust them on Thursday or Friday like the president of Ohio State did – you get a visit from the politically correct police and retire a few years earlier than you planned. We can’t laugh at others, and we can’t laugh at ourselves.

 
We’re left with one choice, us old coots living here in what once was the land of the free. Break the rules, and when you get caught, just say, “You never let me have any fun!”

June 12, 2013 Article

The Old Coot has an exit strategy.

By Merlin Lessler

 There is a lot of pressure on us old guys, to make some end of life decisions. “End of life decisions?” we respond, “I’m not planning on an end of life. It’s too soon!” You see, in our heads, we’re still seventeen, in spite of the evidence in our mirrors, in spite of our inability to hop off a curb without wincing.

So, when our doctor sits us down, after telling us the thing we came to see him about is just something we have to get used to, something to expect at our age, and starts an “end of life decisions” conversation, we get irked (to say it politely).  Our idea of end of life decisions is a lot different from what the medical community has in mind. We’re focused on how many Clydesdale horses will pull our funeral carriage. Whether there will be a 21 or 121 gun salute. What kind of jet planes will fly by in formation? Whether the baseball stadium will be big enough for a public viewing. Certainly not the decisions being forced on us by a well meaning, but presumptuous medical establishment, insurance companies and Medicare bureaucrats. All focused on the bottom line.   

So, we’re pestered into making choices. “So you won’t be sorry later,” they lament. “If you are brain dead do you want to be kept alive on life support?” Brain dead. I’ve been brain dead for years; it’s not so bad. I’ll stick with it. Next question? “If you stop breathing, do you want to be resuscitated?” Ok that’s probably a valid one. But, then it gets a little strange. “If you stub your toe? Get a bad haircut? Lose your car keys? Do you really want to go on living? Wouldn’t you like us to put you out of your misery?

At least that’s how I hear it. My response to the doctor is always the same. Forget about the standard protocols. Forget about the insurance company policies, the Medicare rules. Just fall back on the Hippocratic oath. Which, in old coot terms boils down to, “Do me no harm!”

I finally did give in and discuss end of life decisions with my doctor. When it’s a cold and snowy winter evening and I sneak out of the house or the nursing home and feebly limp down the sidewalk and stumble over onto a snow bank so that I’m lying on my back with a fantastic view of a starlit sky, “LEAVE ME ALONE!” I’ll doze off with a smile on my face and the cold night will do its job. A pleasant exit. The Eskimos figured it out a thousand years ago. Slip the old coot onto a pile of furs on an ice floe and let him drift off into the night. A kindness for a life well lived.

“All nice and good,” my doctor responded. “But, what we had in mind was more like you stumbling out to the curb on garbage night with just enough energy to climb into a 30 gallon leaf bag and reach up and pull the drawstrings before you collapse inside. He’s ready to fill out the death certificate; he just needs to select the cause: bad haircut, stubbed toe or one of the other terminal conditions on the list he got from Medicare.

 

June 5, 2013 Article

The Old Coot is up in smoke.

By Merlin Lessler

It’s worse than the squawk that screeches from your TV every time a thunderstorm rolls through town. I didn’t think it possible! But, then the CDC (Centers for Disease Control and Prevention) launched their latest round of anti smoking ads, a $54 million campaign to get smokers to quit. Now, I pray for the Weather Service squawk. To blast out the anti-smoking ads.

Every day, day after day, we’re treated to the images of “Terrie” putting in her teeth, donning a wig, tying a scarf to cover the hole in her throat and listening to her lecture us on the evils of smoking, in a raspy, artificial voice. And then there’s the guy who cough so hard he throws up. It’s unwatchable, not to mention: in poor taste, gross and disgusting.

Lectures don’t make smokers quit. Even a bunch of horrific and tasteless TV spots have little effect. All the ads accomplish, is to make us scramble for our remotes. It’s especially hard on us old coots. We get hurt, tripping and falling, trying to get to the mute button. To shut up Terrie and her smoking friends.

It’s the same technique the teachers in my elementary school used when some kid (not me) drew a picture of a witch on the board and wrote teacher under it. We were forced to sit at attention with our hands folded on our desks until the guilty party confessed. We all got punished because one kid (not me) pulled a fast one. I’m not sitting at attention at my desk but it sure feels like it when I’m forced to see and hear the graphic images that the CDC thinks will get smokers to quit.

45 million people in this country smoke. 254 million don’t, yet 254 million of us get punished for something we didn’t do. Smokers never see the ads anyhow; they’re out on the back porch having a cigarette! Even the CDC knows they have only a minor effect. “We think (hope) it might get 50,000 people to quit (1/10^th of one percent of the smokers), says Doctor Tim McAffee, Director of the CDC’s, Office on Smoking Health. 

So, here I am, back in Miss McCormick’s 5^th grade class, sitting at attention at my desk, waiting for the dismissal bell to ring, all because some kid (not me) won’t confess to putting a frog in the right hand top door of her desk. Only now, instead of sitting at my desk, I’m in a chair without a remote, forced to watch Terrie get ready for her day. Toothless, voiceless, frail, bald and with a hole in her neck. It almost makes me want to have a cigarette!

May 29, 2013 Article

The Old Coot explains why he’s a grump.

By Merlin Lessler

Old Coots have a chronic memory problem. “Oh sure,” people say, “We know all about it; you can’t remember names; you can’t remember what you went into the living room to get, stuff like that.” That’s all true, and a frustration for sure. But, that’s not the memory problem I’m talking about. The real problem is that we remember too much.

A young guy (in his twenties) will say to an old coot, “Boy the village looks great!” The old coot will respond, “Oh yea? You should have seen it when I was a kid. It was a commercial beehive. We had a lot more commerce: shoe stores, department stores, music stores, restaurants. The sidewalks were packed with shoppers and diners.”

Or, the young guy might say, “I just got a new Chevy; it’s super; it reminds me to change the oil, has built in GPS, 4 speaker stereo; it even lets me know if one of the tires is a little low on air. To which the old coot will respond, “Oh yea! Well, in my day we could fix every thing on a car. Now, a guy can’t fix anything; it’s all controlled by the computer. You’re not in charge of the car; the car is in charge of you.”

You name a topic; we can tell you how much better it was “back then” in the good old days. Especially, when it comes to the cost of things. Mention how much you just paid for gas and you get an old coot eruption. “$3.65 for a gallon of gas! In my day it was twenty-six cents a gallon; pizza was a buck; candy bars were a nickel; movies were a quarter; bla bla bla.” We fail to mention that the minimum wage was eighty cents an hour.

Of course, we heard the same type of gripes from old guys when we were the young guys. Those guys groused about all the changes too. How everything had gone down hill; how stupid the government was. We thought they were sour old crows. “Look around,” we’d say. “Things are great; we’ve got TV, private phone lines, four-lane highways, pizza, cinematic movies, 33 1/3 records, automatic transmissions.” And, they would come back with, “Well, we hardly paid any federal income tax and Social Security was secure. And besides, everything you have you owe to us; we won the wars, the big ones, WWI and WWII.”

It’s the long-term memory that makes old coots into old grumps. We live in two worlds: today’s world and the “back then” one. So, be nice to us; we have a double problem; a long-term memory that is too good, and a short-term memory that is….., oh what’s the word I’m looking for? Oh yea, unreliable.

May 22, 2013 Article

The Old Coot is overloaded!

By Merlin Lessler

So here I am at a (wedding, opera, cocktail party, christening – you fill in the blank) standing around with the other men in attendance, looking lumpy. Our pockets are bulging with lipsticks, compacts, credit cards, store cards, wads of wallet photos, car keys, discount coupons, perfume samples and heavily highlighted copies of Men Are from Mars; Women Are from Venus. And why? Because clothing designers won’t put pockets in women’s clothes.

Oh sure, there are some things with pockets, but only as an artistic element, not as a fully functioning compartment. The fashion people aren’t interested in functionality. So, men get all the stuff and jam it in their pockets. We can’t get out of it. We’ve got pockets galore. Four in a suit coat, four in a pair of pants. It’s why we don’t like to dance at weddings. And, if we do, it’s why we dance funny. The weight in our pockets shifts with every dance step and makes us lurch and stagger around and lose the beat. It’s the old two-step. One step is our dance move; the next is the stumble we take to recover our balance.

I first became aware of this pocket deficiency in women’s clothes back when I was a kid, proudly strutting around in a coveted pair of Levi’s. We didn’t call them jeans back then; we called them dungarees. Jeans were what our sisters wore, denim pants with an elastic top, a zipper up the side and NO POCKETS! There I was in dungarees, with enough pockets to handle a jack knife, a yoyo, a five pack of baseball cards, a derringer cap pistol and a frog or two. My sister didn’t even have a place to put a skate key. She had to string it on a shoelace and tie it around her neck. Jeans have changed since then; women’s jeans now have pockets, but still, they don’t function very well. The jeans are too tight to accommodate anything bigger than a credit card.

It’s why men have started using “man purses” disguised as masculine looking brief cases or camera bags. If you peek inside you’ll find lipsticks, compacts and other items we’re lugging around for our wives!