Wednesday, January 30, 2013

January 30, 2013 article


The Old Coot gets “short” changed.
By Merlin Lessler

 

It’s been going on for a while, several years or more. I was even a part of it, in a way. Back when I tried to outlast Lew Sauerbrey in an annual competition to see who could stay in summer shorts the longest. He always beat me, even if I pushed him well into the cold weather of late October. But, even he was beat out by the young guys. The most notorious member of this short pants, polar bear club was Barry Manville. He made it all the way through winter, year after year. Lew and I were a couple of pikers in comparison.

 

Even with that as a background, I’m still surprised when I see a young guy trotting into a gas station or a grocery store on a bitter cold morning in a pair of shorts. Onlookers exchange puzzled glances. Glances that say, “What? Is he nuts?” I’m among them. But, my reaction also includes a good helping of jealousy; I want to be in shorts too! But, old men can’t do it. Not without being stopped by a cop, made to walk a white line, stand on one foot and touch their nose, to prove they’re sober. Or even worse, to be reported to Social Services and taken before a judge to have their mental competency evaluated. Cargo shorts on old coots in the winter are taboo. All we can do, is go south and join the legion of knobby kneed, chicken-legged old guys wandering the shopping malls, killing time before restaurants unlock their doors for the early bird special.

 

The whole thing is kind of crazy when you really think about it. Sexist, too. Women wear skirts all winter, always have. Nobody gives it a second thought. No one looks at them as though to say, “What? Are you nuts?” No calls to 911 or Social Services. Women get a pass. Young guys get a pass. Old coots don’t. And now there is a new trend developing. Men in skirts. There was one at a holiday party I attended last Christmas. I couldn’t say anything, or even look around to exchange “what is he nuts” glances with the other guests. Not while I was wearing a pair of red, high-top sneakers with a three-piece business suit. So, I just said, “Hi Keith. What’s new with you?” – “Nothing much,” he replied, “Nice sneakers!” Then walked off to the hors d’oeuvres table at the back of the restaurant. I stood there thinking, “Maybe I’ll try a skirt next year? And, beat the pants off Lew.

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

January 23, 2013 article


The Old Coot can’t get the hang of it!
By Merlin Lessler

I’ve got a problem. A coat hanger problem. I went to a luncheon at a nearby hotel the other afternoon. It was a cold, blustery day so I was wearing a jacket. I walked over to the coat rack in the hall, slipped out of my jacket and reached for a hanger. I couldn’t get it. It was firmly attached to the rod on the coat rack. It had a metal top, shaped like a tee that fit into a small slot on a movable ring that slid along the bar. When I jiggled it, to free it from its partner on the bar, it refused to oblige. I put my coat back on so I could deal with the monstrosity with two hands, one on the elusive metal slip ring, one on the hanger.

After a few twists and tugs, and some muttered old coot exclamations I got the hanger to come out. I held it between my knees while I removed my jacket, then slipped my coat onto the hanger and tried to insert the tee back into the slot. Not so easy to do on a coat rack that is overloaded with winter outerwear. I got it in, sort of, and went into the dining room. When I came out an hour later, my coat was on the floor.

It’s time for a change. We need to reassert our right to a full coat hanger! It’s guaranteed by the constitution, the 2nd amendment, to be specific. “The right to bare arms.”  (though James Madison incorrectly spelled bare, as bear, when he transcribed his notes). We can’t exercise that right if we can’t take off our coats and hang them up. Two-part coat hangers have to go. It’s time for us to demand our rights.

We don’t need to stage a protest at the courthouse or start petitions or send letters to our congressmen. All we have to do is pick our coat up off the floor, take the t-top hanger to the front desk or hand it to the maitre d' and say, “Here. I couldn’t get this back on the rack!” Smile, and leave. Eventually they will get the message. You can also do what I’m doing, carry a plastic (user friendly) coat hanger with you. I wear mine; I leave it in the coat when I put it on. Sure, it sometimes scratches the back of my head and my neck, but it’s worth it. At least my coat doesn’t end up on the floor.

January 16, 2013 article


The Old Coot writes home.
By Merlin Lessler

So, here I am in Wegman’s cafeteria, perched at a table that affords me a panoramic view. It’s three thirty in the afternoon; the place is a ghost town. A few old guys are sprinkled here and there, sipping coffee and sneaking a pastry they are not allowed to have at home, loaded with cholesterol and calories, staring at newspapers or off into space. One old guy (me) is gawking around the room, jotting stuff down on scraps of paper and napkins in hopes of finding something to write home about. The lights are dim; there’s a hum from nearby kitchen fans. It’s a mesmerizing kind of drone and it’s making me sleepy. I notice two guys at two separate tables have succumbed to it, but not snoring. Not yet!

Two middle school students are off to my right doing homework. Supposedly. Their mother is grocery shopping. All they do is send text messages, watch videos and multi task to beat the band. I’m jealous; it’s taking all my concentration to jot a few notes without spilling coffee down the front of my shirt. A curious blend of aromas is wafting in from the food court: fresh pizza, roasting chickens and stir-fried oriental delights. The smells dance through the room and make my stomach growl.

A senior couple comes in; it’s dinnertime for them, 4 pm. Their plates are neatly decorated with “home” cooked food from the buffet. A worker is meandering through the room, filling napkin holders, wiping tables and mopping dried spills in preparation for the dinner crowd. Tables are realigned and chairs shoved underneath, returning a sense of order to the space.

The only highlight comes when two boys in their early teens bolt past my table with trays overloaded with pizza slices and submarine sandwiches. It seems their eyes are bigger than their stomachs, an illness that afflicts me too. Their mother looks frazzled as she pays the cashier and shakes her head in disbelief at the size of the tab. The food nearly topples from their trays as they slam them down on a table off to my right and then race to the soda dispenser to fill super size beverage containers. Ten minutes later, they’ve wolfed it all down and stand next to “mom” with their hand out as she fishes in her purse for cash so they can get more pizza, disproving my assumption about the relative size of their eyes and their stomachs.

It’s a good show, but still, I was hoping for a star performance. If only one of the old coots would do something stupid. Like, stand up so I can see that his pants are on backwards. Or, push his hat into the trash barrel when he cleans off his tray. Or, fumble in his pockets for his glasses, give up and walk out, not knowing they are pushed up on his head. Or, lean back so I can see that his shirt buttons are in the wrong holes, leaving a bunched up wad of cloth under his chin. Or, put on his wife’s coat when he gets up to leave and wonder why the sleeves don’t make it down to his wrists. Then it dawns on me, I’m the one who does those things. And those old guys scattered around the room are waiting for me to get up and put on the show. I check my socks; they match. As do my shoes. My glasses are in my pocket. My shirt seems right. Still, I don’t dare leave. I decide to outwait them. It’s no fun being an old coot stuck in a “time out” at Wegman’s.

January 9, 2013 article


The Old Coot is a football fan?
By Merlin Lessler

Tis the season, the football season. You can’t avoid it; it dominates the TV schedule. If you’re a serious fan, or even a casual one like me, you surely have noticed how much the game has changed. I don’t mean all the rule changes, or the size and speed of these modern day gladiators. The change I’m talking about is all the movement that goes on just prior to the ball being hiked.

Back in the old days, the quarterback lined up behind the center, went “Hut, hut hut,” called out a few numbers and the ball was shoved backwards between the center’s legs into his hands. Not anymore. The quarterback backs up from the center, runs to the right, runs to the left, shouts orders to the ends and the other backs, points here and there and yells at the defense, then goes into a crouch, picks up his right leg two or three times, like a horse pawing at the grass. Then, and only then, does the center hike the ball back to him. The first time I saw this, I thought the quarterback had turrets syndrome.

I’m not sure what he’s saying. It’s pretty garbled when it gets to my TV set. I’m sure some of the words he’s shouting, especially to the defense, are on the FCC’s taboo list. If he took his mouthpiece out and yelled so we could understand what he was saying the game would be blacked out. A Janet Jackson moment.

If today’s quarterbacks don’t have turrets syndrome then they at least have a severe case of the “old coot” syndrome. We (old coots) blurt out inappropriate stuff all the time. We do it because we’re old and don’t care. What’s the guy going to do, beat us up? And, be ridiculed by his friends for picking on an old man. It’s better than mace, this old coot stuff. The only way I’d feel safer is if I had on a pro football helmet. The players need to give them up anyhow. They use them as weapons on the field, lunging head first into each other and running up the NFL hospital bill. The injury problem would be eliminated if they went back to the soft leather helmets that players wore in the fifties. You can’t hurt anyone with those things. And, without a deadly weapon attached to their head, they would be forced to tackle runners with their arms and shoulders like they are supposed to. The helmets could be distributed to us old guys, then we’ll be safe when we shoot off our mouths. Wouldn’t that be a wonderful world! 

January 16, 2013 article


The Old Coot has a PHD.
By Merlin Lessler

Pay attention! Class is in session at “Old Man” School. I first noticed it when I was a kid, at the YMCA: old guys limping around, leaning against the wall to pull on their socks, sitting down to slip into their pants, grabbing the handrail to pull themselves up the stairs. I thought it was funny. Then, thirty years later, when I was in my forties and rejoined the Y, the same old guys were still there, still bending, stooping and shuffling around. This time I paid attention. I realized the techniques on how to dress, and how to get around in an old body, would come in handy.

My back was out of whack at the time, from showing the neighborhood kids how to do a running flip in the back yard. It was caused by a condition that affects men when they hit mid life and try to prove the aging process hasn’t affected them. They do stupid things. Stuff, like my flip in the back yard. I joined in with the old guys; I enrolled in Old Man School. I leaned against the wall with the best of them, to get into my socks. I sat down to get a foot into a pant leg and I used the handrail to climb the stairs. I was an old coot in training.

My back healed and I got better. And smarter. I started paying more attention to the techniques used by old guys. I earned my Bachelors Degree, my Masters and now have a PHD and a full professorship at Old Man University. Our classes are free; all you have to do is pay attention as we move around in your world. We’ll show you how to get in and out of a car by pushing on the roof with your hand, crouching down, backing in, using the steering wheel as a fulcrum. Getting out is easier; we drop to the pavement and pull ourselves up using the door handle and the mirror. 

We’ll teach you how to turn a slight hearing deficiency into a valuable asset. (“Sorry honey, I didn’t hear you ask me to save that last piece of apple pie.”) The same thing with memory lapses, (“Sorry dear, I forgot to bring in the groceries from the car.”) The memory thing can pay big dividends. So can the art of asking for senior discounts. For anything! Just ask; you never know? Better get started; it took me 30 years of study to get where I am. 

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

December 2012 old coot articles


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 pliĆ© (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!