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!