The Old Coot gets the picture.
Published
December 5, 2012
There is a new worship ritual sweeping across the planet. I
first noticed it on the Athenian Acropolis in Athens while gawking at the
Parthenon (yes, I’m still shamelessly bragging about my surprise birthday trip
to the Mediterranean). The place was swarming with tourists, marveling at the
2,450 year-old structure. They had their arms raised, holding up a flat,
one-foot square object. They moved the object up and down and from side to
side, staring into it and emitting a series of oohs and aahs that I took to be
a chant or a form of prayer. After a minute or two they would scurry to a
person who didn’t have a worship square and the two of them would stare at it
and in unison, emit another series of oohs and aahs. Others, of a lesser faith
(I presume) held up a similar, but much smaller flat object, and they too went
through the ooh and aah ritual.
Of course, they were just taking pictures or recording
videos with tablet computers and cell phones. But, if you just woke from a 26
year Rip Van Winkle snooze or you were a space alien making an exploratory
visit to the planet, you would have sworn this was some form of worship. And,
it is a religion in a way, this passion to capture everything on film (sorry,
there is no film involved anymore, just electronic photodetectors; I just can’t
bring myself to say, “Captured on electronic photodetectors.”) Once captured,
the images are shared via Facebook or some other social network, attached to a
text messages and e-mails or shown in person, by flipping through a stream of
pictures while a friend (I say, victim) looks on over their shoulder.
We’ve evolved into a species that strives to capture every
moment of the day. It has developed into a new disorder, “photoholism.” We go
about our day, holding up a flat object, in a worshipful gesture. Even old
coots like me have become members of the new “capture life on film” religion,
though our instruments of faith are not state of the art and our pixels are of
lesser quantities, being the cheapskates that we are. (Another, but much older
and more primitive belief system). I think we’ve doomed our species. We’ll
slowly die off, bored to death from being forced to view (and comment on) a
mountain of digital images.
The Old Coot has a nose for news.
Published
December 12, 2012
I’m a news hound. Most people I know are. We want to be
first with the scoop. Any scoop. “Did you see the Brady’s house is for sale?”
My wife says to me when she comes in the door from grocery shopping. “Yes,” I
lie, not wanting her to out-scoop me. Then, I compound the lie by adding,
“They’re asking $195,000.” I not only want to nullify her scoop, I want to slam
dunk it! So what, if later on she learns that the asking price is $135,000. I
can use my faulty memory as an alibi.
It’s like this every day, in every household. “Guess what
happened at work today.” (Work, school, the mall, downtown; you fill in the
blank) We can’t wait to get home and blurt out the scoop. Even a
three-year-old, stuck at home all day with Big Bird and Ernie, will greet her
working mother or father with, “Guess what the cat did.” Everyone has something
to report. Except for male teenagers, whose scoop function turns off when they
come in the door and mom or dad asks, “How was your day?” They get their thrill
by never reporting anything. To their parents, that is!
You see this human condition, this quest to be first with
the scoop, at its worst in the actual news business. How many times have you
heard a newscaster introduce an item with, “We have the exclusive story on the
…….” Or, how many stations describe themselves as “news first” or “first with
the news?” They are so driven by the desire to be first they often fail to see
if the scoop is real. Being first is more important than being factual.
It’s a human trait. It makes me wonder where it came from,
what drove it into our genetic makeup? These things don’t just pop into a
species overnight; they evolve over hundreds of thousands of years. Did it
start when we lived in caves? When the rustle of a saber tooth tiger triggered
our fight or flight mechanism and made us run to tell the rest of the tribe?
Maybe. Now, it’s ingrained; we fly home (or to a microphone) to give the scoop.
It’s more intense when you’re an old coot. Not just because you want to be
first, but because you want to give the scoop before you forget. Ask the “boys”
down at the Goat Boy Coffee bar how many times I’ve rushed in out of breath and
yelled, “Guess what I just saw? And then slink off to the back table mumbling,
“Never mind; I forgot.” (Darn, if only I was a little faster; I could have
given them the scoop!)
The Old Coot enjoys the ballet.
Published
December 19, 2012
I was doing one of those old coot things the other morning –
watching old guys do the barbershop ballet, from a warm cozy spot with my hands
hugging a steaming cup of coffee. It was 7:30 in the morning; the barbershop
doesn’t open until eight (more or less). But, old guys are early birds so I
knew the show was about to start.
The first ballet dancer drove up at 7:35, parked his car in
front of the barbershop and draped the morning paper over his steering wheel.
There was a smug look on his face, as though he was saying, “ Yippee! I’m
first!” A few minutes later the second dancer entered the stage on foot. He
lined himself up in front of the door, did a plié (I guess to get a
cramp out of his leg). Now, he was first! I saw the jaw drop on the guy in the
car. It looked for a minute like he was going to get out. He leaned forward and
glanced down the street to see if the barber was in sight, turned off his
engine, but stayed put, “Why get out? I’ve already lost my place? At least
I’m second in line.”
Just then, another old coot came peddling down the street on
a 3 speed English bike that some kid probably got as a Christmas present back
when Eisenhower was president. He hopped off his bike, nearly falling over, set
the kickstand in adagio fashion and joined the guy standing in front of
the door. They both looked down the street, hoping to spot the barber. Steam
rose from the top of the head of the guy in the car. Now he was third!
A few minutes later a boat sized station wagon pulled up
behind “Mister First One There” – he also stayed in his car. I guess he figured
it was too chilly to wait outside. And, why bother; two guys were already ahead
of him at the door. Then, another car pulled up. This guy looked around,
spotted the two guys out front, the two guys sitting in their cars and rushed
out his door and made an allegro dash to the line in front of the door,
preempting the two guys still sitting in their cars. He forgot to turn off his
headlights. Nobody said a word. If it turned out he needed a jump when he came
back out you can be sure the two guys in their cars weren’t going to give him
one.
Finally the barber came down the street, carrying a
newspaper under his arm and holding a cup of coffee. Two old guys were walking
with him. They had waited for him in their cars three blocks from the shop
where he parks. The first guy there, the one sitting in his car in front of the
shop, saw this and realized he was now number 5 in line, assuming he could beat
the “jerk” behind him out of his car. I took a long sip on my coffee; the show
was about to reach a bravura moment. He started his car and pulled into
traffic without looking, leaving a black rubber streak on the pavement and
nearly hitting a pedestrian crossing at the corner. A loud horselaugh escaped
me. Dennis looked up from behind the counter and said, “What’s so funny?” –
“Nothing,” I replied. If I told him about the barbershop ballet he’d charge me
extra for the entertainment.
The Old Coot keeps zapping along
Published
December 30, 2012
This article first ran in December 2003, nine years ago.
Cell phone usage was just starting to take off and our public space was under
attack by LOUD TALKERS. The annoyance has abated somewhat, due to people
switching to text messages, but there are still a ton of load talkers out
there. This article is being run as a public service, aimed at the people with
poor cell phone manners. You know who you are. If you don’t quiet down, be
prepared to be zapped!
December, 2003
I peeked under the tree on Christmas morning and spotted a
dozen gifts with my name in various form on the tags: To Dad, To Hubby, To The
Old Coot. I decided to open the one the
one with the “From Santa” tag. I hoped it was a toy. When I picked it up to see
if it rattled the wrapping came undone, as though the thing inside, couldn’t
wait to get out.
A small cardboard box emerged. It had a fluorescent label on
it that said, “Cell Phone Zapper - (batteries included).” A black object was
inside, about the size of a pack of cigarettes. The instructions claimed it
would block cell phone signals within 40 feet, “Just push the red button.” I
was excited! I couldn’t wait to try it but my conscience forced me to put it
aside. It was Christmas after all, and for at least one day, I should try to be
civil. But, first thing the next morning, I put on my coat, slipped the Zapper
into my pocket and headed into town. I was on a mission. It was time to even
the score with loud talkers.
The Goat Boy Coffee Bar was my first stop. Someone is always
rushing in to get a latte-to-go, while yakking on a cell phone. It doesn’t
bother me, except when the person is yelling. or if I’m sitting, quietly
relaxing in an old coot stupor and a voice out of the blue shouts, “Hi!” I turn
toward the sound and say, “Hi,” back, only to discover the person isn’t talking
to me, but into their phone. The Goat Boy was crowded with shoppers. I ordered
my usual black & tan, took a seat by the window and pushed the red Zapper
button. A woman across the room, another at the table next to me and a guy
standing at the counter, all reacted in unison; they pulled their cell phones
from their ears and looked around the room in puzzlement. The woman next to me
shouted, “Darn,” and turned to her friends to tell them her phone went dead. I
was impressed! I sat back and soaked up the quiet with a sly grin on my face
and nursed my coffee in peace.
My next stop was at the super market. I was in the “12 items
or less” line, right behind a rude, burly guy pushing a full cart of groceries.
As he unloaded his purchases I hit the button on the zapper by accident. The
conveyor belt that was pulling his stuff toward the check out clerk, sputtered
and reversed direction, shoving all his groceries off the counter and knocking
over a rack of magazines. When he stooped to pick up the mess I cut ahead and
checked out. Wow, I was even more impressed with the Zapper!
My last stop was at the pharmacy. I picked up a pack of gum
and went to the counter to pay for it.
The store has four checkout stations, but as is usually the case, the
only clerk in sight was behind the photo counter pretending to be busy. He
didn’t look up, even when I shoved the gum and a dollar bill right under his
nose. He acted put out and continued to fumble with the keyboard on his phone.
Finally, he turned and said, “What’s up Pop?” I noticed his tongue was pierced
and sported a silver stud, as were both eyebrows and his left nostril. His cell
phone rang and he turned to the side to answer it. I reached into my pocket and
hit the button on my new Zapper. A strange look came over his face and he
started to shake.
“What’s the matter,” I asked?
“I don’t know. All my piercings are vibrating and tingling.
They’re driving me crazy!” Then he fled to the back of the store while
unfastening and casting aside an assortment of silver ornaments. I left the
dollar on the counter, put the gum in my pocket and headed for the door. I
walked home a happy old coot, full of Christmas spirit. I put the Zapper under
the tree and plopped down in my recliner. I was off in dreamland in seconds.
The next thing I knew I was being shaken by the shoulder.
“Wake up! Wake up, my son Zachary shouted. You’re having a
bad dream! You keep yelling ZAP and then laughing.”
I came out of my stupor and rushed over to the Christmas
tree. The Zapper was still there. It wasn’t a dream! There really is a Santa
Claus!
