Friday, November 15, 2013

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 3rd 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 3rd 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.

Friday, November 1, 2013

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.