December 10, 2014 article

The Old Coot runs a smart race?

By Merlin Lessler

I “participated” in the Franz Family, 5-K run last Saturday.  I arrived at the Little League field in the “Flats” at 9:30, signed in, picked up my T-shirt, made a donation (this year the money went to the Multiple Sclerosis Recourses of Central New York) and hung out in the middle of a pack of elite athletes, eavesdropping on their race strategy and coming up with my own. 

It was cold. Bitter cold. The young runners wore knit hats, thin gloves and lightweight nylon & polyester workout suits. My racing attire consisted of three layers of clothes, wool socks, insulated hunting boots, double thick gloves, ear muffs, a scarf and a hooded winter jacket. Five minutes after signing in, I was frozen, a human ice cycle. The elite runners were casually chatting back and forth, stretching to stay limber and jogging down to the corner and back. I spent my time looking through the crowd for a guy with a flask. To no avail!

Finally, it was time to race. We lined up at an imaginary tape and Tommy Franz, the Franz who came up with the idea as a memorial to his uncle, Ed Franz, gave a little speech thanking the crowd for participating, explaining the genesis of the event and the safety rules. Some rude, old guy in the back kept yelling, “Lets go! Lets go! It freezing out here!” Tommy’s mother, Pat, blew her car horn to help move things along too. Tommy looked my way and asked me to be patient; he’d get it started as soon as he finished. How do you say no to a bearded Franz wearing a fuzzy red, horned Viking helmet?  

Finally, we were off and running. I stayed in the back, in accordance with my “Tortoise and the Hare” strategy. (Let the other runners burn themselves out. I’ll catch up and win.)  Bill Franz, a guy of my old coot vintage and mind set, hung back too. He said his foot was acting up; I told him my knee was having a bad day. We looked at each other, and when the pack was out of sight, we hustled to our cars. He headed east; I went south, returning a while later with my wife, Marcia, to the taproom at the Farmhouse Brewery. Tommy said we would meet there after we finished. Marty and Natalie Mattrazzo, their son Alex and their two friendly dogs, Sal and Sofia warmly greeted us at the door. We were the first ones in. Marty started us off with a flight of beers, saying it must be five o’clock someplace, though in the “Flats” is was just barely 11 am.

After 10 minutes or, so the real runners started to wander in; before we knew it, the place was abuzz with Franz family members and friends. all eager to check out the plethora (sorry about that highbrow word: I just love the way it rolls off your tongue) of beers that Marty had crafted.  It was the best 5K race I ever “participated” in. Tommy thanked us again and announced that over $800 was raised for Multiple Sclerosis. The crowd then serenaded him with a Franz family tradition. I didn’t hear all the words, but the song ended with something about him being a horse’s rear end. I’ll be there again next year, the Saturday following Thanksgiving. I’ll stick with the same game plan. It worked out great! I was the first one to the tasting room!

December 3, 2014 Article

The Old Coot is a car snoop.

By Merlin Lessler

Old coots are snoops! Well, I am anyhow.  If I’m walking along the street passing by a line of parked cars, I can’t help myself; I glance in the window. It’s not that I’m looking for anything specific or casing the joint like a robber looking for something to steal; I’m just curious. So, I look. The inside of a car says a lot about the owner. If Human Resource people were smart, they’d check out the inside of a job candidate’s car instead of their Facebook page.

They’d find out if the applicant was a slob, with a dash buried under the remnants of take-out meals, a floor laden with empty coffee containers, Big Gulp cups, water bottles and the like. If the owner is especially neat and clean, it might be a sign of someone who is overly fastidious. Checking the inspection and registration stickers is worth a look too. You can find out if the owner is a slacker. A quick glance at a car yields a lot of useful data. It doesn’t matter if you’re a nosey old coot or an HR rep charged with hiring people.

Another interesting aspect of car snooping is that many car owners think their windows are made with one-way glass. They can see out, but you can’t see in. You see proof of this when you look in someone’s window and their lips are moving in sync with a song playing on the radio, or the driver is rehearsing the lecture they plan to give their teenage son when they get home for putting his dirty dishes in the dishwasher with the clean ones he was supposed to put away. (In spite of telling him to do it three times and leaving a note taped to the dishwasher door.) Speech “rehearsals” like this can get pretty entertaining, especially if you are in a car running parallel to the orator in slow traffic and they work themselves up so much they start to go ballistic.

But, that’s not the only proof that people think car windows are made with one-way glass. Moving lips are just the tip of the iceberg. Preening in the rearview mirror is another. Picking a piece of spinach out of one’s teeth, shaving with an electric razor and putting on lipstick are just a few of the personal appearance activities that take place. Food consumption is another common, in-car activity. There is nothing like pulling along side someone at a stop light and getting a grin from the driver with half a Big Mac and a handful of French fries sticking out of his mouth. The final proof is the people that do some serious mining in the nasal area while tooling along in traffic. If that doesn’t prove my one-way glass theory, I don’t know what does. 

November 26, 2014 Article

The Old Coot explains the face crumb syndrome.

By Merlin Lessler

"Go like this!" A perfect stranger will say to you, and then brush their index finger across their cheek. “You’ve got a crumb on your face." So, you brush your left cheek, mirroring their gesture, and a cornflake, a stale Cheerio or a chunk of blueberry muffin falls to the floor. "How long have I been walking around like that?" You ask yourself (somewhat ashamedly). Not long, is the answer, not if you were within sight of another human. Our species is obsessed with things out of place on each other’s face. An eyelash, a piece of confetti, a speck of sand. It doesn't matter. Our eye is drawn to it. We can't stop ourselves from saying, "Go like this," to eliminate the imperfection. Sometimes, taking matters into our own hands and brushing it off the "afflicted" face.

It's a face thing! Oh sure, we'll order a stranger to, "Zip it pal!" Or we'll giggle, as a macho stud struts across the room with a three-foot streamer of toilet paper attached to the heel of his shoe, but our real attention is focused on the face. I think this might come from our ancestors. If you’ve ever watched a pair of monkeys or a family of gorillas you get an idea of how far up the family tree this fetish goes. Apes spend most of their free time tidying up each other’s faces. Beneath our sophisticated trappings we're not a lot different than our evolutionary predecessors. 

Old coots experience “Go like this” statements more than regular people. If we didn’t, our faces would be covered with unwanted droppings, matching those on our clothes. We’d look like a Marine in full camouflage. But, it’s more than debris that we carry around; we have other “attractions” that result in unsolicited public commentary, such as: “Your pants are on backwards!” – “You’re wearing two different shoes.” – You missed all three belt loops on the back of your pants.” – “Your sweater is on inside out. Maybe backwards too.” So, the next time you feel a little embarrassed because someone points out a cornflake stuck to your cheek and says, “Go like this,” just think how you’ll feel when you get old enough to join the old coot association. That’s when you need all the courage you can muster to leave the house and venture into public. Your fellow old coots won’t help you. We never say,” Go like this to each other.” We want the old goat next to us to look worse than we do. It’s a jungle out there. 

November 19, 2014 Article

The Old Coot notices the THREES!

By Merlin Lessler

“Three” is a magic number. It dominates our culture, yet we hardly notice how far it pervades all aspects of our lives:  3 strikes and you’re out – “I’m going to count to 3 and you better get cracking by the time I’m done” – Our flag, and that of many countries, is tri-colored. We teach our kids to react to fire in three steps: stop, drop and roll. – The most popular sandwich is a BLT (bacon, lettuce and tomato).

Most jokes have three elements, “Three guys walk into a bar. An Irishman, a Scott and a Russian….” We decide things by threes  (rock, paper, scissors). Ever hear of a two-ring circus or a nursery rhyme with two blind mice? Of course not! Matter itself, exists in three states (solid, liquid and gas). We have three meals a day, live in a three-dimensional world, with tri-color traffic lights at intersections. If a cop catches you running one, he may give you a ticket for being “three” sheets to the wind. 

We refer to TV networks with three-letter notations: ABC, NBC, CBS, CNN. Most people have three names. Those with only two are considered odd. Workers in corporate offices are referred to by their initials, three letters. I was MWL for decades. I worked for several different bosses: IMS, JHR, DLG, to name three. They sometimes wore, 3 piece suits. Sports organizations follow suit, referring to themselves as the: NFL, NBA, AHL, PGA. (football, basketball, hockey, golf)

And, how about, the bad luck you can expect if you light 3 cigarettes on a match – or - the 3rd time is a charm – or - on your mark, get set, go – or - Neapolitan, one of the most popular ice-cream flavors (vanilla, chocolate, strawberry). Nor can we forget the 3 Stooges. And, how many speeches you’ve sat through where the speaker made 3 main points.

It never ends, this 3 thing. A genie gives you 3 wishes, 3 wise men brought gifts, cops give you the 3^rd degree, friends come to you with news and give you 3 guesses at what it is. Columbus discovered America with a convoy of 3 ships. Even something as fundamental as our education system is built upon a foundation of 3, the three R’s - reading, writing and arithmetic. (Oddly, only one starts with an R). Death comes in threes. Coffee is offered in 3 sizes (small, medium and large, unless you are at a Starbucks; their choices are Tall, Grande or Venti. I’ll give you three guesses to name which is the small size. Even reality comes in three versions: yours, mine, and the real truth. This is my version. How many “threes’ in yours?

November 12, 2014 Article

The Old Coot multiplies his answer by two.

By Merlin Lessler

The Old Coot is on a sabbatical few a few weeks; this “vintage” article was originally published in February 2003.

I can remember how long it took for a week to go by when I was a kid, waiting for Christmas. It took a year. Today, a year goes by in what seems like a week. It’s one of the things that comes with being an old coot, a distorted sense of judgment affecting everything you try to measure or estimate, not just time. I’ve learned to compensate for it by multiplying my answer by two.

We needed a new roof for the house. I figured it would be about $5,000 dollars. My wife reminded me I always lowball my estimates. She was right, so I put a figure of $10,000 in my head and called a roofing contractor. He came in with a figure of $9,300 and got the job. Had I not multiplied my answer by two, I probably would have thought the estimate outrageous and put off getting it done for a year or two.

“How old is the dog?” my son asks. “Just a pup, is my first inclination. Can’t be more than two or three,” I say to myself and then remember to multiply by two. “Six,” I reply. My answers to questions of this sort are delayed, not unlike those of reporters on the other side of the world when the question asked by the evening news anchor is transmitted via satellite. They stand there with a dumb look on their face waiting to hear the question. I stand there with a dumb look on my face, waiting for my brain to multiply my initial answer by two. That’s why old coots always look like their mind is someplace else.

I’ve found the rule keeps me looking pretty sharp with my younger friends; they haven’t figured out that their sense of time and their ability to estimate is out of adjustment.

“Remember that trip we took to Myrtle Beach to play golf three years ago?” my friend Don asks.

“I sure do, but it was six years ago,” I respond with precise accuracy.

“Really?” He comes back. “I would have sworn it was just a couple of years ago.”

“No, (I close the noose). It was the year you turned forty. You’re forty six now aren’t you?”

“You’re right! You’re right!”

 His multiplier isn’t 2; it’s about 1.6. It will grow to 2 in a few more years, and then I’ll let him in on the secret. My multiplier will probably be 3 by then.

The formula works with just about everything, not just how much things cost or how long ago something happened. It works when I try to figure out how long it will take to do something: paint the ceiling, run to the store to get a carton of milk, mow the lawn. It will always be twice what I think. Unfortunately, it applies to unpleasant things as well, making them twice as bad as I figured. Going to the dentist hurts twice as much as I expect. Sore muscles hurt worse, and take twice as long to get better than I expect. Sitting in the car waiting for a red light takes three times as long as I think it should. Maybe it is time to increase the multiplier.

November 5, 2014 Article

The Old Coot says “fast food” isn’t fast.

By Merlin Lessler

 The Old Coot is on a sabbatical few a few weeks; the “vintage” article that follows was originally published in December, 2002.

A Few weeks ago I took three of my grandchildren, Jake –5, Hannah- 3 and Abby – 2, to MacDonald’s for lunch. It was the day Jake and Hannah’s sister Callie was born; my part in the process was to watch the kids while my daughter, Wendy, was at the hospital. I sat at the table trying to entertain the antsy threesome while Abby’s mother, Kelly, waited in line for our “fast food” order. It was the longest thirty minutes of my life. I like going to MacDonald’s, Burger King, Wendy’s and all the other fast food restaurants, but I think it’s time that we admit the obvious and stop referring to them as “fast.” Fast applies to the service at Harris’s Diner; a small locally owned restaurant, housed in a Quonset hut like building next to the fire station in Owego, the village where I live. It doesn’t provide customer parking, special menu items for kids or an indoor playground, yet it beats the pants off the national fast food chains.

I’m not a regular at Sam Harris’s diner; I only stop by every once in a while for breakfast. Sometimes, I wander in at six am; it doesn’t open until seven. The lights are down low and Sam isn’t around, but customers are hanging out at the counter and at tables in the back, drinking coffee, shooting the breeze and reading the paper. They have keys to the place. The coffee urns are full. The “regulars” made it. At 6:45 Sam comes in, trades insults with a few of the rabble and goes in the back room to do some prep work. I sit at the counter with a choice seat near the grill, a cup of coffee before me, having been served by one of the gracious regulars. Sam flicks on the lights and fires up the grill. He starts things in motion by piling on a mountain of home fries and a dozen strips of bacon. He knows what the regulars want. Hazel, Sam’s faithful waitress, comes in at seven on the dot, ready to wait tables and bus the dirty dishes, a tough job for a gal well past retirement age, but one she does with class and a big smile.

I sit with my coffee and watch the show. I don’t think there is anything more entertaining than a good grill man, and Sam is one of the best. He’s cracking eggs with one hand, flipping pancakes with the other and discussing last night’s Yankee game with a customer across the room. Regulars stream in, trade insults back and forth, head for the rack of coffee pots behind the counter and help themselves, using their very own personalized cups stored on a shelf above the pots. Hazel glides around, exchanging pleasantries and taking orders, but Sam takes mine since I’m right behind him. The average time between giving your order and getting it is less than ten minutes. In my case, sitting at the counter, I get my two eggs over light, home fries, ham and toast in five. This, is fast food. Hazel drops off the check when the food is served. You never have to wait for her to get around to it, like in most restaurants. A pile of bills and change lie in a heap next to the cash register. Customers settle up themselves, making change and leaving the meal ticket as they pass the register on their way out. The “regulars” even go so far as to open Sam’s cash register when they can’t make correct change from the pile of cash on the counter. It sure beats watching fast food workers scan computerized cash registers for a picture of French fries so they can tally up your bill. 

October 29, 2014 Article

Old Coot is a TV preacher.

By Merlin Lessler

I read an editorial in a New York City paper the other day. It was a huge rant about the dwindling number of readers in this country. It was loaded with statistics to back up the premise, concluding that TV, radio, cell phones, video games and the like were the cause. If it was true, why did they bother running it in the paper? Nobody would read it; we’re all watching TV or playing video games. It’s the old “preaching to the choir” syndrome. It runs rampant across our society.

Go to just about any church and you will get a lecture telling you our society is awash in sin; that nobody goes to church anymore. You look around and wonder who the preacher is talking about, certainly not these good people who come here every single week. They should get a big thank-you, not a lecture about the people that are absent.  

The Mensa Club holds meetings where they debate current topics and otherwise run through a series of exercises to improve their mental agility. They chuckle at how dense the rest of us are and wonder why we don’t get things the way they do. But, they won’t let us come to their meetings.  At least they never let me attend.

Politicians rail to their followers about the number of people who don’t care enough to vote. Their rants never make it to the non-voting public. And, it’s a good thing. I don’t think politicians could handle the non-voter’s explanation for not voting (they don’t vote because they are against everything that both candidates stand for). 

Store owners park in front of their shops to avoid walking a few blocks and then complain to their customers (and the media) that business is bad because, “There is no place to park in this darn town!” Teachers lecture kids at after-school activities about how the participation in school clubs and other school endeavors has fallen off. Parents complain to the same kids, who come home on time, about the tardiness of their siblings.

Preaching to the choir is something we can’t control. We all do it. We get irritated and let it out on innocent bystanders. Old coots know how to handle the impulse, not because we have more wisdom or self-control, but because our potential audience has gotten wise and knows how to elude us when we start to preach. 

It doesn’t matter. We don’t preach to the choir. We preach to the TV, to the radio, to the dog. When we hear something we don’t like on TV, we just yell back at it. Tom Brokaw and Barbara Walters didn’t retire because they’d been at it for decades and needed a respite. They retired because they got a psychic flash of what was happening on the other side of the TV screen. They saw the legion of old coots out there wagging their fingers and yelling at their TV sets when they didn’t like the information that was being reported. It scared them and they quit. At least that’s my take. And, I should know; I’m an ordained TV preacher.

October 22, 2014 Article

The Old Coot takes a dive.

By Merlin Lessler

I took a swim in the river today (October 17). It was one of those old coot things. Something I hadn’t planned. I was shooting for a nice kayak ride to Hickories Park, paddling hard, against the current and then slowly drifting back to the village. So, off I went. It was a little tough in spots; the current held me to one foot of progress for each stroke, but for the most part, it was an easy chore to move upstream, in spite of the river being at its highest level this season.

The sky was a beautiful blue with puffy white clouds slipping by overhead. The wind was gusty, blowing leaves out of treetops and rattling the brush and tall grasses along the shore. The temperature was pushing seventy. A perfect environment for an old coot on an outdoor adventure in the final days of autumn.

I made it to Hickories in about an hour and pulled ashore for a respite, and an orange. The orange was an excuse; it was my sore arms that needed the break. Then I shoved off, to begin a long slow float back home. I let the current determine my course. It was a magnificent ride, better than anything in Disney World. And, in spite of dozing off a few times, it created a nice memory to think back on when winter weather moves into town.

Then my revere came to an end. I pulled to shore near the intersection of Front and Ross. The water was two feet deep on the left side of the kayak, five or six feet on the right. My landing point wasn’t the usual flat spot at the bottom of a steep bank. It had moved halfway up the bank, five feet from the top. I stuck my paddle into the mud to hold the kayak and proceeded to pull myself from a sitting position to a kneeling position. This is where the old coot affliction I’m saddled with kicked into high gear. My head thinks it still resides in a seventeen-year-old body, but the body knows my head has missed the mark by fifty plus years. This condition has gotten me into a lot of trouble over the years and today it got me dunked into a cold and muddy river. The mishap sent the kayak downstream, the paddle upstream and me into the drink between them.

I snagged the rope attached to the kayak and grabbed the paddle as it floated back toward me and tried to gain a hold in the mud covered bank. All I got was a handful of slime. It sent me into a panic. Not because of any physical danger. No, my panic was mental. I was afraid I’d have to ride the current to a point closer to downtown Owego, where the landing area is old-coot-friendly and be forced to walk home along the busiest street in town. A drowned rat, dragging a kayak behind him. I did that gig, about ten years ago, when I’d flipped a canoe, trying to ram it onto shore with force rather than with skill. It was just another conflict between my mental age and my physical age. I was desperate not to repeat it. And, luck was with me.

 I managed to dig a solid handhold in the mud. And then a foothold. I slowly clawed my way to the top, pulling the kayak behind me. I’d already tossed the paddle above to safety. Then the rope broke and kayak slipped into the water with me following close behind to retrieve it. Then, I repeated the whole process. I shook off the water like a dog coming in from the rain, emptied the water out of my farmer boots and headed for home. Only a few drivers witnessed my condition as I waited for them to pass so I could shuffle across the street to the safety of my driveway. For a day or so, I’ll accept the fact that I’m an old coot in an old man’s body. But soon enough, I’ll relapse, and my affliction will take over and I’ll face the world thinking I’m a seventeen-year-old. I can’t imagine what adventure that will bring my way. 

October 15, 2014 Article

The Old Coot waits it out.

By Merlin Lessler

I witnessed an encounter between a mother and her teenage son in the grocery store the other day. It was a chance meeting; she came from home; he came from school. Her greeting brought me back to my own teenage days, “Why are you wearing that shirt? I just ironed it!” His face turned red and his buddy didn’t help the situation when he said, “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” and chuckled out the side of his mouth. My mother said the exact same thing to me every time I tried to sneak out of the house wearing a freshly ironed shirt.

Ironed clothes had to go into a waiting period (limbo) before they could be worn. I never knew how long the resting period was. It depended on my mother’s memory. If she could remember ironing it, it had to go back on a hanger and into the closet. (If I got caught, that is.)

The same principle applied to new clothes. “You take off that shirt this minute young man. I just bought it!” Good pants and play pants were another issue, “Change your pants before you get them all grass stained. They’re your good pants.” We had good pants, play pants and best of all, Sunday Pants. It was an era when people dressed up to go to church or to someone’s house for a Sunday visit.

It went deeper than new clothes; all new things did time in limbo. When we got a new stove, the old one went into the basement. That’s where the heavy cooking took place. Better to lug stuff up and down stairs than to “wear out” the new stove. It also applied to baked goods. “Get your hand out of that cookie jar; I just baked those brownies!”

Ok, Ok; I get it. When I got old enough, my mother taught me to iron and turned the chore over to me. It’s a lot of work to iron things, but even when I did the ironing myself, she still made a stink if I slipped into something freshly ironed. I made a mistake a few years back, and told my wife about how I had to let freshly ironed clothes rest when I was a kid. Today’s dress code is pretty causal so we don’t do a lot of ironing; we fold things. If she sees me put on something that was freshly folded (folded by her because I’m folding challenged) she yells over to me, “Why are you wearing that shirt; I just folded it,” and then cracks up laughing at how I cringe. I can’t help it; it’s a guilt feeling that’s ingrained in my subconscious. But, I recently discovered she’s got the same defect. She bought a new car, and keeps asking me to drive my 15 year-old Miata everywhere we go, because her car is “too new” to drive. Apparently, the condition is contagious. 

October 8, 2014 Article

I Grew Up in a World Without Book bags!

By Merlin Lessler

School’s been back in session now for over a month. I still think, “Yippee,” even though my kids are well past school age. We lived in a small town north of New York City when they were little. On the first day of school, a small clutch of parents gathered at the bus stop. It was mostly mothers, but a few of us fathers went to work late so we could join in the celebration. We came equipped for the event, with pots, pans, metal soupspoons and noisemakers. Anything that would make a racket. The kids clustered together as far from us as they could, embarrassed that their parents were acting like crazy fools. We banged the pots with our spoons as soon as the bus pulled up. Whistles and party noisemakers rounded out the symphony. One by one the kids stepped onto the bus and slunk down the aisle to their seats. It was the best “first day of school” celebration I ever experienced. It was back in prehistoric times, when it was still politically correct to delight in the fact that the “little darlings” were out of your hair for a few hours a day. Freedom was at hand!

I’m sure my mother and father would have joined the parade had there been one when I went off to school, but they didn’t need a celebration in those days, parents ruled the roost, not the kids. Yet, in spite of being at the bottom of the pecking order, we had a better deal than the kids do today. We didn’t have homework! Not until Junior High (7^th grade). When the dismissal bell rang, we were free. Not today. Kids lug schoolwork home in their backpacks every day. Even toddlers in nursery school come and go with a book bag strapped to their back. We were spared the misery. We did our schoolwork in the classroom.

Book bags didn’t even exist back then. They hadn’t been invented. There was something similar, knapsacks. Brought home from the war, the big one, WWII, by our fathers, uncles and cousins, or purchased at one of the numerous Army and Navy surplus stores that dotted the countryside. We used them for hikes in the woods, to carry food, water and matches for a campfire. We weren’t smart enough to use them for hauling books back and forth to school when we reached the grade where homework was the order of the day. We didn’t give the knapsacks a thought. Instead, we stacked up our books and carried them under our arm, resting the bottom of the pile on our hip. Girls used a different technique. They used two hands to carry their books, clutching them to their chests as though holding a newborn baby. Every other day or so, somebody would come along and shove the stack of books out of your grasp, and then laugh and say, “Drop a few subjects, did you?”

A few brave souls totted their books and papers in a brief case. It was nerdish, but the term, “nerd” hadn’t been invented yet. We just called these guys, “The weird guys with briefcases.” Us “cool” guys wouldn’t’ think of toting a briefcase through the halls. We’d rather suffer with an eighteen-inch stack of books balanced awkwardly on our hip. It messed up our alignment, and is the reason old coots like me can’t walk in a straight line. We sidle down the sidewalk like drunken sailors. And, it explains why so many of us need hip replacement surgery as we get older. That’s what happens when you grow up in a world without book-bags!

October 1, 2014 Article

The Old Coot looks for a bargain.

By Merlin Lessler

“50% OFF!” That’s the sign that lures you in. If you’re like me, and don’t pay attention to the details, you don’t discover that it’s 50% off the 2^nd item, until the clerk at the register rings you up and you’ve scolded them for over charging you. “This leather jacket is on sale,” you say, with an indignant look on your face. “The sign says 50% off!” Then you learn the truth.

50% off the second item is a good deal if you’re buying bananas, Moose Tracks ice cream or Snicker’s bars. Something you can use more than one of. But those 50% off (the second item) sales are often things you don’t really want two of.

Then there’s the, “Huge Sale! Up to 70% Off!” sales. That “up to” gets me every time. I know the item I want, having learned the hard way, will never be 70% off. It’s not an item with the highly prized green sticker; it’s the one, the only one, with the yellow, 10% sticker.

How about, “50% Off the Manufacturer’s Suggested Retail Price!” If those signs were honest, they would continue on, and admit that nobody (not them anyhow) ever charged the manufacturer’s suggested retail price. The whole thing is a long running joke between the manufacturer and the retailer, “We’ll put a ridiculous price on the article and you can be the hero and slash the price.

They do that with automobiles too. I hear the reason GM came out of bankruptcy so quick, following the recession of 2008, wasn’t because of the government bail out; it was because some guy in Utah bought a Buick and paid the sticker price!

Besides, everybody knows, cars are cheaper when the sales lot is blanketed with balloons and flags. Or, the cars are moved to an off-site location, like the mall or the fair grounds. At least that’s what the dealers would have us believe. And we do!

We love a bargain. Especially us old coots. So, we fall for the “sales” pitch, no matter how far fetched: Going out of Business! – Inventory Reduction! - Moving Sale! (Even though the place going out of business does so three times a year, the inventory reduction is immediately replenished with the exact same inventory, and the business that runs the moving sale never moves. My favorite is a sale sign that says, “Open Under New Management!” That’s what they do to get back the customers they’ve been rude to, bilked or never returned their phone calls.) 

September 24, 2014 Article

The Old Coot doesn’t get the “credits”

By Merlin Lessler

I was watching a TV show the other night; as the final scene faded into the background the credits started to roll. A blur of lines! I could pick out a word here and there: Production Advisor, Assistant Production Advisor, Assistant to the assistant Production Advisor. What’s the point? You can’t read it; it goes by so fast. And, even if you can, so what? Are viewers anxious to know who the Assistant to the Assistant Production Advisor was? I doubt it. Unless it was their son or daughter.

But, the credits roll at the end of every movie and TV production. At a blazing speed! It’s as though the names aren’t there at all. It must be part of the financial structure of the industry. “We can’t pay you much if you’re not a star, but we’ll run your name in the credits. You’ll be famous!” Kind of like the banking industry a few decades back. They gave you a new title instead of a raise. With the exception of politicians, I don’t know of any other profession that “runs the credits.” And, politicians do it shamelessly, taking credit and bragging about funding a local project at news conferences, neglecting to mention it’s with your own money.

When the waitress takes away your empty plate and hands you the check, she doesn’t say, “Your meal was prepared by Chef Brian Lovesky with assistance from the sous chef, Barbara Downey. Bobby Anderson chopped your vegetables, defrosted the steaks and put together your salad. Tommy Conlon will be washing your dishes and Jimmy Wilson will be bussing your table and moping the floor. Although it wouldn’t surprise me if they went in that direction. The waiters (and waitresses) already tell you their name and that they’ll be your server the minute you sit down.  

The medical industry also has a foot in the door, in the “credits” game. You meet with your surgeon before you get your gall bladder taken out, so you know he’s on the list of performers. And then, over time, you’re introduced to the rest of the cast. A month later you get a bill from an anesthetist who claims to have knocked you out, then another from a Doctor you never met, who says she read your x-rays. The lab that did your blood work and a few other folks send you a bill and take credit for their role in your surgery. It makes you wonder how they all fit into that little operating room. But, the nurses and the rest of the people involved in the surgery get no credit. I guess they get a title. And the poor orderly who helped you into bed and the aide who made sure you were comfortable through the night, they don’t even get a title.

Anyhow, I think the whole concept of ending something by rolling credits is lame! And, by the way, This article was written with the assistance of copy editor, Marcia; distractions were provided by Roosevelt the cat, who made me forget the point I was trying to make here; wake up service was provided by the garbage truck that comes down Ross street with screeching brakes every Monday morning at five-thirty, getting me up and working on the week’s Old Coot article.  

September 17, 2014 Article

The Old Coot violates his own oath.

By Merlin Lessler

There oughta be a law! We say that a lot, us Americans. Every time an irritating social situation slaps us in the face. There oughta be a law was a popular comic strip written by Al Fagaly and Harry Shorten back in the 1950’s. They took suggestions from the public on what, “Oughta be a law.” Unfortunately, the concept of enacting laws to fix “everything” became a reality and now we are buried in rules, regulations, and worse of all, political correctness that stifles our human nature at every turn.

Smoking has been the focus of considerable regulation and social manipulation. But, one aspect has been omitted. Cigarette butts! “There oughta be a law,” that forces the tobacco companies to make biodegradable filters. Those butts lie strewn along our roads and public areas. You can’t avoid them. When our Rotary club cleans up the stretch of roadway along Route 434 near the Owego Bridge the butts (filters) make it impossible to do a good job. Old coots like me can bend over and snag an occasional empty beverage can, the wrappings from a MacDonald’s lunch, a plastic jug and other debris, but trying to gather up the cigarette butts is near impossible. That many “bend-overs” in a short period of time has serious physical consequences. We get the big mess and sigh about the butts we’re forced to leave behind.

So, in violation of the old coot oath, where I promised to urge the repealing of laws and regulations, not the enactment of new ones, I now do the opposite and ask you to write your congressmen and women and beg them to regulate cigarette filters, to make them biodegradable. So they’ll disappear on their own.  Besides, they don’t filter anything. Look what happened to the Marlboro Man. He smoked filtered Marlboros and died of lung cancer. (Actually, there were several Marlboro Men. They all died of lung cancer.)

And, while you’re at it (writing to your representatives in congress about the ill effects of cigarette butts on society) you might suggest they rein in the Center for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), whose repulsive anti-smoking ads on TV create worse pollution than the smoke they’re trying to eliminate. The ads don’t work anyway. I know, all us ex smokers know, that people lecturing you about the ill effects of smoking is like saying it’s cold in winter. “Duh,” they already know that. It’s just very, very, very hard to quit. The ads aren’t the most obnoxious anti-smoking thing going on; the places that have a sign at their entrance that says, “This is a smoke free campus,” and then treat all the passers-by to a view of smokers huddled in the cold, just off the so called campus. It’s a feel good policy that has no redeeming value. Create a place to smoke “on campus” out of the public view and help your employees to quit instead of treating them like 2^nd class citizens. There oughta be a law!

September 10, 2014 Article.

The Old Coot says football is out of fashion.

By Merlin Lessler

It wasn’t your typical, pencil thin, pouting, runway stomping fashion model. This one’s figure was somewhat fuller. Even so, it was a high profile fashion show. The model was, “Draped in a rich pewter jersey, juxtaposed with a bright shade of “Buccaneer Red” and “Bay Orange” trim, incorporating a reflective chrome border around oversized numerals on the front, back and shoulders. Matching headwear featured a red battle flag with a skull sitting over crossed swords and a football.” That last word cleared up the mystery for me. Football, that’s what this was all about.

As I read the Associated Press article, quoting a press release from the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, I was shocked. This wasn’t a fashion trend emerging on a Paris runway or between the covers of Vogue; this was the official team description of a redesigned football uniform that will be trotted onto the field when the Buccaneers play their first game of the 2014 season.

Rich pewter juxtaposed with a bright shade of Buccaneer Red? This is what professional football has evolved to? And, sent out in a press release? So out of character as to be unbelievable, but if you think this old coot exaggerates, then simply Google - Associated Press – Bucs unveil new uniforms - and see for yourself.

I wonder what the fans will do. Will they cough up $100 to $150 to coordinate their leisure wear to match the Buccaneer Red numbers on pewter jerseys when they go to a game or plop down on the couch? Probably, they will! 

Football has come a long ways since I first watched a game on a fuzzy, black & white, six inch TV screen. Players wore drab uniforms back then. Shoulder pads and helmets. The helmets were nothing more than padded leather hats. There were no facemasks. Even the face bar hadn’t made its’ way to the playing field. Now their helmets cost more than my first car. And uniforms are created by fashion designers that juxtapose team colors on jerseys. I should have seen it coming, when Joe Namath donned a pair of Beautymist pantyhose for a Hanes TV commercial back in the 1970’s. Still, it did take 40 years to get us to “rich pewter jerseys, juxtaposed with blah, blah, blah. I can say no more. The Buccaneer’s press release speaks for itself. And us old coots sit here shaking our heads and wondering just how out of touch we really are.

September 3, 2014 Article.

The Old Coot got “blocked” in the donut shop.

By Merlin Lessler

I’m sitting here in Dunkin Donuts looking out the window with a serious case of writer’s block. Vicky is over by the bridge walking her dachshund; the lot between here and there overflows with cars; a line of hungry customers inch forward, waiting for bagels and breakfast sandwiches to be handed to them over the counter. I watch all this, along with the traffic coming up to the stoplight before passing through the intersection and over the bridge and still, the dam blocking signals from my brain to the pen in my hand doesn’t even open a crack.

Nick comes in; chords from his ear buds decorate his neck and shoulders, a bag from John’s Fine Foods with today’s New York Times sticking out dangles from his hand. He sits with me, inhales a donut and then moves on. The line grows, but my block doesn’t move an inch. Someone waiting for a bagel asks Nancy when the place is scheduled to close for renovations. ”We don’t know. It was supposed to start tomorrow, but might be another week or so. Some problem with the permit,” is her reply.

What a change that will bring! Hundreds of “regulars” will be thrown off stride. “What to do? Skip coffee? No, that’s not an option. Coffee is our drug of choice. Perk it at home? Travel to the Dunkin Donut in Apalachin?” A mess of people will have to adapt. We are a species that is capable of adapting, but that doesn’t mean we like it. We’ll grumble while it’s closed and then grumble some more when it opens back up. The familiar surroundings will be gone. My favorite table with a perfect view of the river and the traffic light will be gone. The line scheme will change to adapt to a new flow pattern. A whole bunch of innovations from “corporate know-it-alls” will replace the familiar old layout with a highly engineered one.

The employees will grumble the most, “look at that set up! It’s stupid! Why are the pots way over there?” And, they’ll be right. They had this place humming, efficient and customer friendly. It will be destroyed until they can make it work again. Or, maybe not? It might work just fine. We’ll see. Something to watch when I get my next writer’s block in a few months and sit with a blank stare on my face in new surroundings.

But that’s then, and this is now, and all I can do is sit here with a blank piece of paper and wait for the dam in my head to break. An old coot taking up space.

August 27, 2014 Article

Too much “cute” for the Old Coot!

By Merlin Lessler

Is it just me or has “cute” taken over our society? Not a day goes by without getting a “cute” picture or video on e-mail, Facebook or some other social media. A “cute” little kid singing an opera. Off key! A “cute” little puppy, looking into the camera with a big grin on his puss. A “cute” tiny kitten, riding around on the back of a Great Dane. Cute, Cute, Cute! You can’t escape it.

It’s bad enough when you get a barrage of “cute” images on your private communication systems (phones or PC’s), but now they’ve taken over public media too. It started with “soft” news shows: The Today Show, Good Morning America, Entertainment Tonight and the like. Now it’s embedded in “serious” news shows. Tune in to CBS, NBC, ABC FOX, CNN to find out what’s going on in the world and interspersed between troubles in the mid-east and a hurricane gaining force in the Caribbean, you get a “cute” bull dog, skate boarding in LA, a “cute” little girl yodeling in church and a “cute” sad faced basset hound, gently holding a mouse in his paws. That is TV news today!

They’ve cut the reporting staff, writing staff and copy editors and replaced them with a handful of tech savvy computer geeks who scour social media and You Tube for “cute” stories. Most “cute” stories are just plain lame! Almost as bad as listening to old coots like me talk about the good old days.

But “cute” is here to stay. In fact, it’s unavoidable, with a populace that is equipped with high tech video and photography capabilities on their smart phones. Cute and weather, that’s eventually all we’ll get on the evening news. Weather is leading the charge right now, but “cute” is coming up fast. It’s like watching a tennis match. Look left and get scared to death by the dire prediction of heavy rain, local flooding, dangerous lightning, high winds, the possibility of large hailstones and tornados. Look right, and watch the “cute” video that’s gone viral today. What’s my beef? No “cute” old guy videos!

August 20, 2014 Article

The Old Coot goes the wrong way.

By Merlin Lessler

I’m a criminal! I’m socially incorrect! A criminal, because I ride my bike on the wrong side of the road. Socially incorrect, because I don’t wear a helmet. Half the pleasure of riding a bike is being outside with nature and moseying along at a pace slow enough to enjoy the scenery with the wind blowing through your hair, or what’s left of it. I grew up in a helmetless world – climbing trees, playing football, baseball and yes, riding bikes and soap box racers down hills and through sharp curves without head protection. All kids did. Our mothers said good-bye as we charged out the back door to play and then added, “Watch your head.” And, we did! We learned to duck; we learned to take the brunt of a fall on our shoulder, not our head. Besides, protecting one’s head is a survival instinct built into the human genetic code. It’s one of the reasons our species has survived for eons. 

I don’t, or quite often don’t, ride with traffic, as required by Section 1234 (A) of the NYS Vehicle and Traffic law. I ride facing traffic. It’s criminal behavior. But. I stand a chance of surviving, to jump to safety when a distracted driver wanders into the bike lane. I was taught, my whole generation was taught, to face traffic when walking or biking. And for good reason! You can see what’s coming at you and save your life. But bikers and in-line skaters are not allowed to do this in New York State. The authors of the vehicle and traffic law claim that bicycling and skating against traffic are the leading cause of crashes. Pure hogwash! Nearly all bicyclers and pedestrians hit by vehicles, get it from behind. These cockamamie laws and opinions come from state bureaucrats and legislators that haven’t ridden a bike along a public road in decades, if ever. Most of them grew up in New York City. Us outlaw bikers know better. Facing traffic saves lives. It’s the cyclists that follow the rules that get run down by errant drivers.

My crowd, of criminal and socially incorrect bicycle riders are easy to spot. We’re the people in street clothes, not spandex ballet outfits, bareheaded, making our way at a leisurely pace on inexpensive bikes, enjoying the fresh air, the scenery and low level exercise on a vehicle that weighs three times as much as true (law abiding) biking enthusiasts. We go through red lights. We ride on sidewalks when the road is too dangerous (carefully) and follow our survival instincts, rather than the vehicle and traffic laws. Join us in our civil disobedience. You’ll be a lot safer! And, have more fun! (You don’t even have to be an old coot.)

August 13, 2014 Article

The Old Coot reveals a secret.

By Merlin Lessler

One of the burning questions across the country is, “What do old coots talk about when no one else is around?” It’s a well-guarded secret, but in the spirit of Edward Snowden’s release of the secret files at the N.S.A. I’ve decided it’s time to let the world in on the “old coot conversations.”

Old coots don’t talk about religion or politics. They learned those subjects are taboo from years of experience and conversations that ended in arguments, fistfights and loss of friendships. Besides, people believe what they believe and trying to talk them out of it is futile. Eventually, you learn this and keep your mouth shut.

Old coots talk about four things: ailments - how old we are - who dies - and what was that guy’s name. Ailments are an everyday topic. “My neck hurts. I can’t turn it to the right today.” – “My knee has been sore for a week.” – “ I had a leg cramp in the middle of the night, jumped out of bed to kick it out, stepped on the cat and sprained my wrist when I fell.” These are conversations I call “ailments lite.” Nothing serious, just common, everyday things that happen to old coots. It’s a way of finding out how serious something might be. You throw it out there in hopes that one of the group will say, “I had that. It goes away after a week or so.” Or, it could go the other way, “Get to the doctor as soon as you can. Charlie had the same thing and let it go. “May he rest in peace.” Us old guys know. As a group we’ve had everything and are better equipped than an emergency room at figuring out what you have and how to proceed. It’s old coot triage.

How old we are - is one of our favorite topics. We can’t talk about it enough. We just can’t believe it! A couple of years ago we were complaining about turning thirty and now we’re sitting around in clothes older than that, not believing we’ve been retired for 10, 20, or 30 years. We also do it to fish for compliments. A guy will say, “I’m 68!” We’ll say, “Wow, you don’t look a day over fifty.” And, hope he’ll do the same when we tell him we’re seventy-one. We know it’s a lie, but it still feels good to hear it.

Who died - is always coming up. My crowd is in that phase of life. “John Doe died last week,” one of us will report. Then the discussion ensues to find a reason why he left the building so early and why we won’t do the same. “Did he still smoke?” – “He never did lose that beer gut like his doctor told him to.” – “I told him, and told him, he needed to get out and walk more, move around.” We loved John Doe, but still, we have to figure out that it’s his fault and we are exempt from his fate.

What’s his name -  doesn’t usually start out to be a topic in and of itself. It’s an offshoot from one of the three other topics. “Joe what’s his name had that sore neck thing you have. You know, the guy who used to live over by the guy from IBM next to the drug store. The conversation just skipped from one name to three. In trying to get it resolved, several more nameless people pop into the conversation. When it reaches a fever pitch we call it a day. Our brains over heat. We take our stiff necks, sore knees and sprained wrists and go home. The rest of the day is spent racking our brains to come up with one of the missing person’s names so we can call or text the other guys and let them know we’re not as senile as they are. If we could only remember where we put the phone!

August 6, 2014 Article

The Old Coot has a one-arm day.

By Merlin Lessler

I’ve thought about doing this for quite some time. To see if I could get through a day with one arm. My left one (I’m a righty). Too much time on my hands? Maybe? But, when you’re an old coot like me, you never know when you will have to adapt to yet another physical limitation. So many things can disable your good arm: a fall, a stroke, arthritis, or just numbing it out for the day by sleeping on it.

Last Tuesday, I decided, “Today is the day!” Getting dressed was a surprise, not as hard as I expected. My shirt was on and buttoned in less than a minute. Pants were another matter. I couldn’t get them on and buttoned until I lay down on the floor. I was off to a good start. Then, I cheated; I slipped into a pair of loafers instead of shoes that needed to be tied. I stuck my right hand in my pocket and set out to face the day with one arm. “Call me Lefty!”

I’ve done a few things left-handed over the years. The Saturday crossword puzzle for example. It takes longer, but I can eventually fill in the letters in readable fashion. Saturday’s puzzle is the hardest of the week so I have a lot fewer spaces to fill in than normal. But still, I do it. I also try to eat European style every once in a while, with a fork in my left hand, the knife in my right, and no switching back and forth. I usually make out all right, except when I stab my lip with the fork. I thought my experiment was going reasonably well until I nearly put my eye out brushing my teeth. I didn’t fare much better splashing water on my face and combing my hair, but that’s not a problem for an old coot. People don’t expect much when it comes to my appearance. Breakfast was a breeze; I didn’t end up with any more milk and cereal clinging to my shirt than normal. I did have a problem buttering a piece of toast; it kept skidding off the plate.

After breakfast, I left the house and headed for my car. I was positive I’d be able to drive with one arm. After all, I set the knee driving record in 1959, steering my father’s Edsel with my knees from Binghamton to Quaker Lake. But, I was wrong. I could barely start the engine. I had to slide over to the passenger seat to insert the key in the slot in the steering wheel. Now I know how lefties feel in a world designed for righties. I mowed the lawn, but it took some acrobatics to hold the “dead man’s” switch in place with my hip so I could get it started. Luckily, the mower had gas in the tank. I don’t believe a one-armed person can put gas in a mower using today’s gas cans with that complicated, spring-loaded doohickey at the end of the filler neck.

Then, I decided to take a bike ride.  I do that one-handed all the time. That’s when my one-armed day came to an end. I squeezed the left brake handle in a panic and nearly flew over the handlebars. The left hand brake lever connects to the front brake. You should never use just the front brake for a sudden stop. My one arm day had some successes, but over all it was a failure. I gained a new appreciation for the four limbs I have, even if they only function at an old coot level. I learned how lucky I am. You might want to try it sometime. (Just make sure your insurance is paid up.) 

July 30, 2014 Article

The Old Coot takes an English lesson.

By Merlin Lessler

A new term has entered our language, “Hash Tag.” It’s a “Twitter” thing. The # symbol is now called a hash tag. I grew up with it being the number sign. As in, “Sit up straight at your desk, open the Iowa Test folder, take out a #2 pencil and fill in the circles that you think are the correct answers to the questions.” That nomenclature stayed true for many, many decades. Then, along came automated phone answering systems at corporate call centers. “If you are calling about a problem with your bill, press one, followed by the pound key!”

“Pound key?” I didn’t know what it was and hung up. For a year or more I was closed off from the corporate world, not able to lodge a complaint. That pent up frustration resulted in my present condition: old-coot-itis, an incurable senior ailment. Finally, a teenage genius explained that # was the symbol for pound. If I pushed the phone key with that symbol on it I’d get through the queue. Of course he followed the explanation with an eye roll and a loud, “DUH!” I didn’t bother to explain that the phone I’d been calling on didn’t have any buttons; it was a dial phone with finger holes. Nor, did I mention that I used “lb” when I meant pound. I didn’t want to risk another eye roll. At least I was up to date. I knew that the # symbol had two meanings. Three, if I thought about the sheet music I’d read when playing my French horn in the junior high school band (now, middle school) and # meant the note to play was a sharp.

Of course it’s not that simple; it never is. If you are a miner or work in that industry, # means shaft. As in, we found a new vein in # (shaft) 4. Or, if you work in public relations, three #s in a row means, “End of press release.” Put it after a move in a chess by mail game and it means, “Checkmate!” Now it has a new name and a new meaning, Hash Tag! It’s used to mark key words or topics in a Tweet. Twitter users created it as a way to categorize and sort messages. People place a # symbol before a word or phrase in their Tweet, so it can be found when someone does a search for what people said on that topic.

That’s all I know about it. I’m not a Tweeter. I guess I need to find that teenager who explained the pound sign to me and have him explain why I might want to hop on the Twitter bandwagon. Why I might want to swamp my phone with messages from celebrities, politicians, businesses and other entities (with too much time on their hands). He’ll probably end his sales pitch with another eye roll, followed by a, “DUH!” But, this time I’ll be ready. I’ll just tell him to get his hash tag out of town.  

July 23, 2014 Article

The Old Coot explains the law of “leaving half.”

By Merlin Lessler

It was the law! Back in the 1950’s. In my house, anyway. We called it the “Law of one-half.” You went to the fridge (which wasn’t called that back then; icebox maybe, but never fridge; it was simply, the refrigerator!). Anyhow, using correct modern lingo, when you went to the fridge to get some milk, or on the rare occasion when a quart bottle (the week’s supply) of soft drink (now called soda) still resided there, you had to limit your consumption. The most you could take was half. “Leave some for the next person!” The law applied to all consumables: potato chips, cookies, everything! If the Charles Chips can or the Wise chip bag had six chips left; you could only take three, just in case someone came along with a strong lust for a greasy potato chip, at least they would find something, even if it was only a small something, to sate their desire. Sometimes it got pretty complicated. “What if the bag contained a single chip and a few crumbs? Do I break it in half, or eat it all and destroy the evidence?” Usually we followed the rule, left half a chip and some of the crumbs.

It was a bad rule! We ended up with a “fridge” loaded with nearly empty containers and a cupboard full of cereal boxes, potato chip bags and cracker tins containing nothing but crumbs. Mom was the official executioner; she threw out the tired packages when no one was looking. It was her “leave half” rule; she didn’t want any witnesses when she broke it. 

The rule didn’t apply to Kool-Aid. A different principal came into play there. When the jug got below half we added water to replace the amount we drank. The Kool-Aid got weaker and weaker, but as long as it had some color and a hint of flavor, we kept it going. We had too. We were only allowed two batches a week, unless a bad stretch of hot muggy weather came to town and running through the sprinkler in the backyard wasn’t enough to cool us off.

I recently found that the “leave-one-half rule” doesn’t apply to college students sharing quarters. Just the opposite. I stumbled on it when I visited my son’s apartment at SUNY Plattsburgh, an apartment he shared with four other students. Their rule was: “whatever you put in the fridge or the cupboard is fair game.” Eat or drink it now, or forever hold your peace! A secondary rule was also in play; if you left a small amount in a beverage container, you didn’t have to put it in the garbage. The “fridge” ended up crowded with juice, milk, soda and other bottles with a sixteenth of an inch of liquid in the bottom. Now he’s back home and I can’t figure out which rules apply. Until I do, I’m hiding my emergency Snicker’s bar. I can’t risk finding it half gone, or all gone, in the middle of the night when I’m hit with a Snicker’s attack. (The leave half-rule doesn’t apply to Snickers)

July 16, 2014 Article

The Old Coot drinks “old man” coffee.

By Merlin Lessler

“Old man” coffee! That’s what I order when I step to the counter at Dunkin Donuts and other places that offer a senior citizen discount. I don’t like the “senior citizen” term. It sounds contrived to me, something that social scientists came up with in a never-ending effort to classify us, to break us up into groups in order to explain our behavior. I resent the label. Call me anything, but don’t call me senior citizen. It’s a group I swore I’d never join, back when I was in my twenties and thirties and thought I’d never get old. Now that I’ve reached, heck, exceeded, the age at which the senior citizen label is assigned, I still don’t want that label. I’m an old man! Call me an old man. Or, if you want to be more accurate, call me an old coot.

I find I’m not alone in my opinion about the “senior citizen” term. A survey of Baby Boomers was aired on PBS the other day. Baby Boomers are the generation right behind mine. They don’t want to be referred to as senior citizens either. I don’t know what they would like to be called, the survey didn’t say. But, I bet they don’t want to be called anything. It’s bad enough that social scientists have labeled each generation with insulting and awkward terms: Silent (my crowd), Baby Boomer, Gen X, Millenial, and then add to the insult by labeling people “Senior Citizens” the day they turn 65. Sociologists and marketing specialists put us into groups and claim they can predict how we think, what we will buy and who we’ll vote for. It’s insulting. 

We think of ourselves as individuals. I’m comfortable with the old coot label. It fits, but it’s hard to assign a list of characteristics to it. We’re not a homogeneous group, except for the trait of being contrary. Otherwise, we’re a mixed bag. Some of us may seem almost youthful one minute, tottering and stodgy the next. We might be set in our ways on Monday and turn around and seem to be open minded and liberal on Tuesday. The key word is “seem”. Old coots are never exactly as they appear.  

So, I order old man coffee and get a discount. But, I’m ashamed of myself. For years I preached against the concept of a senior citizen discount. Why should someone get a break in price just because they are a certain age? It never made sense to me. It was one of those marketing ploys that big business came up with in the 1970’s; to make the public think they were compassionate and generous. Now, they are stuck with it. They can’t figure out how to end it without a big backlash. It didn’t cost them much when they started it. Seniors back then had more character than we do today. Those elders rarely accepted senior citizen discounts. They didn’t want charity or a handout.

But that changed over the years and now old coots like me, who go around thinking we have principles, look on it as an entitlement. I’ve been corrupted! If you see me step to the counter and order an old man coffee, wag your finger at me and say, “Shame on you.” Maybe I’ll wake up and realize what I’m doing. Maybe all of us old guys will. If we do, the price of coffee will go down for everyone else. 

July 9, 2014 Article

The Old Coot wonders when guns got so heavy.

By Merlin Lessler

I’ve got to get this out of my system. No, it’s not another rant about the Weather Service squawk blasting from my TV, usually at a critical juncture in a high drama, warning of a thunderstorm approaching Cortland County. No, this rant is much more lighthearted. It’s a poke at the gun toting federal agents on TV shows, CSI, NCIS, NCIS-LA and the like. What’s with their gun skills? You see the same thing on all those kind of shows; a team of agents kick open a door, leap into a room, jump left, jump right, sweep a nine millimeter Glock back and forth, held up in front of their face, with TWO hands, and yell, “Clear!” Then, they move to the next room, looking very much like an army of giant, leaping frogs. A bad guy emerges from the back, holds his gun in one hand, fires, misses and then goes down in a hail of bullets, fired from guns, firmly held in TWO hands. 

I grew up in the cowboy movie era. A rifle was the only gun anyone held with two hands. A bad guy would make a move, inch his hand closer and closer to the six-shooter sticking out of his holster that rode low on his hip and was tied to his leg with a strip of rawhide. The good guy’s gun would fly out his holster and blast the gun out of the bad guy’s hand. Then the movie hero, in my case, Hop-a-long Cassidy, would audition the bad guy for a part in “So you think you can dance” by firing random shots at his feet and yelling, “Dance cowboy, dance!” Then, he’d spin his gun backwards on his index finger, blow the smoke off the end of the barrel and slip it back into its holster. All this, using just ONE hand!

Gunslingers in the old west, at least in the movies, stood erect and shot from the hip. Their accuracy was on par with a modern day sniper using a rifle with a high-powered scope. Sometimes, a gunslinger would simply shoot the gun belt off a bad guy’s waist. But, not today’s two-handed gun graspers. They go into a crouch, hold their guns at eye level with two hands, squint and then pull the trigger. Today’s guns aren’t just heavier (requiring two hands to hold them up) they’re apparently harder to aim, too.

It’s comical to watch a modern day crime show with a memory bank loaded with old cowboy movies.  Every time I see a squad of federal agents doing the frog-hop-shuffle, an image of John Wayne flashes through my head. He’s standing behind the leapfrogging agents, chuckling, as he shoots the bad guys with a gun in each hand, shooting from the hip. It makes you wonder about modern day gunslingers. At least the ones on TV. 

July 2, 2014 Article

The Old Coot is book smart.

By Merlin Lessler

My neck is sore. Tilting to the right, too. It happens when you’ve been in the library, a bookstore or staring at used paperbacks and hard covers at a yard sale. Book publishers refuse to line up the letters on the spine in a vertical, top down alignment or in smaller horizontal letters. Instead, they make us crane our necks and lean to the right to read the book title and author’s name.

It’s not so bad for the top few rows on the book rack, but by the time you get to the bottom row you have to squat, then get down on your knees and finally, lay down on the floor and do a military crawl from one end of the rack to the other. When you walk in the door at home, listing to the right, your neck bent in the same direction, dust on your knees and the rest of your clothes soiled and rumpled, you get the look! The one that says, “Where have you been?” I always lie. I say I got in a tussle down at the senior center. I’ll never admit I got this way from a literary endeavor.

What is it about book publishers? Literate, educated to the point of being highbrow, with all the knowledge of the world passing over their desks, yet they haven’t figured out how to print titles on books so you can read them when they’re stacked on a bookshelf? It’s bad enough in a bookstore or a library; at least they line up the books in the same direction. But, when you rifle through stacks at a yard sale, where the books are usually scattered about in helter skelter fashion, you have to lean right, lean left, right again, left again. Ouch! 

And, what about the poor authors whose books end up on the bottom row. A modern day Shakespeare would go undiscovered. Readers just don’t have the physical fortitude to squat low and risk tipping over on the off chance a book title or an author’s name might catch their eye. The bottom shelves should be used to store stuff, not books. Cereal boxes for example. Food processors know the value of having the name of their products readable when stacked sideways on a shelf. It might improve the circulation at the library and sales figures at the bookstores if the publishers got their nose out of a manuscript, took a walk down the cereal aisle in a grocery store and looked at the top, bottom, sides, front and back of easily read cereal boxes!

The only good thing about this messed up book title thing, is that you can tell who in town is well read. It’s the people who list to the right, have a neck that’s off kilter and dusty knees on their pants. 

June 25, 2014 Article

The Old Coot had a burger for breakfast.

By Merlin Lessler

I had a hamburger for breakfast today, a “John Dillinger” from the Calaboose Restaurant in Owego. I couldn’t finish it at dinner; it was too big, so I brought the remains home in a Styrofoam container, like old coots often do. I knew I wouldn’t be home for lunch, I’d be at a committee meeting of the Senior Citizen Foundation, to participate in the “granting” of tens of thousands of dollars to organizations in Tioga county that provide valuable assistance to well deserving senior citizens. It’s something they do every year. I never knew the foundation existed and now I’m lending a hand in the good work they do.

Since I’m a newcomer to the board, I knew it would make a bad impression if I brought half a hamburger to the meeting and ate it for lunch. So, I popped it in the oven and had it for breakfast. I finished it off with a piece of Nancy Ruiz’s birthday cake, that also was transported home from the Calaboose in a Styrofoam container. She turned 60, and like many newcomers to senior citizenland, she didn’t want a big to-do to mark the occasion. A small group of us gathered on the front porch of the restaurant for dinner to help her adjust to the milestone in a low-key way.

It was my first breakfast burger. It made me wonder why I’d waited so long to break the breakfast rules: Thou shall only consume eggs, cereal, toast, bagels, pancakes, waffles, ham, sausage, bacon and no other food products when thou break-thy-fast after a night of slumber! It was such a relief to be freed of the shackles that held me back for seven decades. It’s also the kind of thing I get into when I’m left unsupervised in the morning, which is often the case since I’m the only early riser in our household. The floodgates are open now; I see a breakfast future of burgers, pizza and hot dogs. Oh what a world awaits those who break free of the breakfast rules.

I guess I should have seen it coming; it was only last week when I sent three of my grandchildren off to school after a scrumptious breakfast of applesauce, pistachios and ramen noodle soup, but that was an act of desperation; there was no milk in the fridge. They seemed happy enough and I did my job; sent them to school on a full stomach. My subconscious must have kicked into gear, bringing me to my hamburger breakfast today.  We are such creatures of habit, seldom questioning the everyday stuff we do. No more! Have a burger for breakfast and enter a new world of freedom. It’s nice here!

June 18, 12014 Article

The Old Coot fights back.

By Merlin Lessler

It’s been going on for fifty years! It’s time for a new game plan. We’ve all suffered with it. You rush into a big-chain grocery store for milk & bread on your way home from work.  Where’s the milk? The farthest corner of the store! Where’s the bread? As far from the milk as you can get! Some “brilliant” marketing genius (I need to tread lightly here – I was one of these guys once, but I got treatment) came up with this bread-milk placement plan. It forces shoppers through the aisles when they’re on a milk & bread run, to entice them to pick up other items on impulse. A money based strategy, not a customer service strategy.

And, it works, a little, but it also irritates us. It’s been going on so long we just take it for granted and put on our running shoes when we go on a milk & bread run. Is it merchant bullying? Feels that way to me! Big-chain grocery stores aren’t the only ones that do it; how about running into a big-chain pharmacy to pick up a prescription? You have to go to the very back of the pharmacy, past the chips, the cereal boxes, the ice-cream cooler, the office supplies, the garden shop to get your medicine. (And, then get in line behind the “fence” to comply with the privacy regulations.) Where are the cigarettes? Right up front! Ten feet from the door!

But it should be no surprise that grocery stores and pharmacies employ the same tactics. They are basically one entity. Eventually, they both will sell everything, bringing American merchandising full circle, back to the old general store. Except, for the warm glow of a pot bellied stove with a cluster of old coots like me sitting around it in winter or out in front sitting on empty crates in summer, next to the fruit and vegetable rack. Milk wasn’t in the back of the store in those days; it was waiting for you on your front porch when you came down for breakfast. (Placed there by the milkman.)

How do we stop this? It’s possible, if we pull together. The next time you go on a milk & bread run, go to the bread rack first and pick up an extra loaf. Put it next to the milk cooler. A customer going to the milk corner first, can avoid a trip to the opposite side of the store. It’s a form of “paying it forward.” Every other customer will benefit. Eventually, the marketing people will get the message and set up the store to serve the customers, not the stockholders.  

June 11, 2014 Article

An Old Coot wishes his pop a Happy Father’s day!

by Merlin Lessler

I stumbled on an old picture of my father the other day. It lay hidden for decades in a box of memorabilia. It was taken in 1970, a few months before he died. He was sixty-eight. Something about the picture struck a chord in me. It looked familiar in a new way. Then it dawned on me. I’ve been seeing a semblance of his face in my mirror for several years, when I really looked. Usually, I’m not paying close attention; I see myself in a memory haze. We all do. None of us can believe how old we really are. Even a thirty-year-old sees a younger face in the mirror. Every once in a while the haze clears and we’re startled. “Who the heck is that?” That’s the way it was for me when I looked at my father’s picture. He’d been appearing in my mirror of late and I didn’t know it.

I was in my twenties when he died. His face showing up in my mirror has been a long time coming. So long that I didn’t expect it. It’s why the long-lost snapshot gave me such a start. I came face to face with my mortality. I can remember being irked with him when he died. The national life expectancy for a male at the time was sixty-nine. He died short of the mark. I thought he should have stayed around longer. We’d just started to develop a nice friendship. The salad days of suffering through the “old man’s” unsolicited advice had finally worn away; we both had come to realize that each had a unique perspective on life, to value, to treasure. Then he was gone.

Now it’s my turn. The face in my mirror is looking very much like his. I’ve got to hang on longer than he did. My son is a few years from discovering that his “old man” is okay. I can’t rush the process. I couldn’t with his sisters and I can’t with him. He won’t grow up right unless he goes through the transition, rejects the nurturing and flies from the nest. It’s nature’s way and you can’t mess with Mother Nature.

My father would be 111 if he were still alive. I know he would get a real kick out of the technology we take for granted today. He was a technocrat himself, an inventor. His name is on dozens of the patents for Ansco cameras. He loved to tinker, especially with cars. His favorite vacation was driving us to the Jersey shore. We almost always ran into car trouble. He’d somehow patch things together so we could limp to the motel. While we enjoyed the beach he took on the car problem. He’d spend all day leaning in, or lying under, the vehicle. If you stood within hearing range you’d hear him yell, “Sucker,” every once in a while, when his hand slipped off the wrench and he skinned his knuckles. He never swore; he just yelled sucker.  The whole thing is easier to understand when you realize that our car was a Ford Edsel. He bought it brand new, the first year they made it. He liked being on the cutting edge. It was the lemon of the century. The repair bills added up. He didn’t care. He loved it. I did too. It was the car I got to drive when I turned sixteen.

It was one of the few things we agreed on during my teen years. When I bought my first car, a well used, 1953 Ford convertible, for sixty dollars, it made two things we agreed on. It made me a Ford man too. Cars had magic in those days. They brought fathers and sons together, under the hood, taking on the beast. It was a time when a regular Joe could fix a car - change the spark plugs, replace the generator, adjust the brakes. You could even pull the engine and overhaul it if you were especially handy. The automobile had a social context. That’s gone now. The manufacturers have put the backyard mechanics out of business. The secrets of today’s automobiles can’t be passed on from father to son. The secrets are locked up in computer chips and buried in a web of pollution control components. Even the design engineers aren’t sure how it all works.  It’s too bad. Cars helped fathers and sons stay in touch through the difficult teen years. Now that bridge is gone. Happy father’s day Pop! I hope the Edsel is hitting all eight cylinders.

June 4, 2014 Article

The Old Coot’s favorite four words: “slept through the night.”

By Merlin Lessler

There was a new mom with her baby at the Rotary meeting the other day. Couldn’t have been more than a month or two old. Never made a peep! On the way out the door I heard the mother (Donna Townsend’s daughter) say in a jubilant voice, “She slept through the night twice this week. Those are special words, slept through the night, when you have a new baby in the house. If you’re a parent, you never forget the magic of that moment in your child’s development.

I remember when our first-born made it through the night like it was yesterday. And I remember it for each successive child. I was born too late to duck out on middle of the night baby duties. The dads in the generation that came before me weren’t required to play a big role in childcare. It was a woman’s thing for the most part. Not so with my generation. We were expected to share in the duties that came with having babies. We thought of it as a 50-50 deal, us men, but if you actually run the numbers it was more like 20-80. But still and all, I did my part, taking turns getting up in the night to feed and change the baby. And, after that stage, to respond to their screams when they had a bad dream on an inflamed eardrum.  

Today, I have a different appreciation for those four beautiful words, “slept through the night.”  This time it isn’t the baby that gets high praise for pulling it off. It’s me. Old coots have a lot in common with newborns. Prime among them is our inability to sleep through the night. It doesn’t take much to make an old coot’s slumber a restless one. Our minds work overtime the minute our heads hit the pillow: Did I leave the window down in the car? – Did I forget to let the cat in? – Will I oversleep and be late for my doctor’s appointment? We drive ourselves nuts with useless fretting. Thankfully, we don’t need as much sleep as normal people and especially as much as teenagers, who think getting up before noon on a non-school day is considered cruel and unusual punishment, as embodied in the 8^th amendment of the U.S. constitution.

I did it, slept through the night, twice this year. It’s one of those things you remember when it happens so seldom: January 31^st and April 17^th. I could really relate to the thrill the new mom at the Rotary meeting felt when she bragged about her daughter sleeping through the night. Just thinking about it will probably wake me up several times tonight. But, that’s OK; I’m used to it. 

May 28, 2014 Article

The Old Coot ponders the meaning of significant other.

By Merlin Lessler

She came up to our group at the party, and said, “This is Tom; my significant other!” We looked at each other in puzzlement. A look that said, “Significant other what?” It’s a term that was coined in 1953 by Harry Sullivan, a psychiatrist. He should be ashamed of himself, especially considering his profession, for unleashing a term on society that’s been driving us nuts ever since, well, some of us anyhow, well, me. “What?” I ask myself, “Does she mean?” Is he her boyfriend, her husband, the guy who fixes her car or takes care of her dog when she goes on vacation? Her lawyer? Her psychiatrist?”

Before significant other was imposed on our culture, we knew who we were being introduced to: friend, boyfriend, girlfriend, neighbor, cousin, fiancée or fiancé. I don’t like fiancée or fiancé very much either. I can never remember which is which, or how it’s pronounced, or spelled. Still, it’s better than its predecessor, betrothed. Introduce your fiancée as your betrothed sometime. You’ll get to watch eyes roll on that one. Some of my old coot cronies introduce their wives as their better halves. Others, the dumb ones, say, “This is my old lady,” or, “This is the old ball and chain.” Those guys better check to make sure the white powder she sprinkles on their waffles in the morning is powdered sugar, not rat poison.

But even ball & chain is better than significant other. At least we know what the (dumb) guy means. Not so with the person using the significant other term. It stops us in our tracks: boyfriend? husband? exactly how significant? Or, is it some guy you’re ga-ga over but aren’t sure if he’s really divorced? Some guy you’re dating but not sure if he likes you? Some guy who thinks you’re going to marry him, but you’re dumping him as soon as he finishes fixing your car? Don’t leave us guessing. Inquiring minds want to know.

If you insist on using the significant other term, be warned. Many of us will interpret it as a negative, and conclude you mean the jerk who you’ve been dating for 10 years that won’t make a commitment; he’s not ready to get engaged, nonetheless get married. You introduced him as your boyfriend for several years, but it eventually became embarrassing, so you switched to calling him your significant other. If you’re smart, you’ll just introduce him as your cousin.

May 21, 2014 Article

The Old Coot rants at TV ads. Yet again!

By Merlin Lessler

I’m insulted! You should be too. At the pablum TV advertisers try to feed us. The pumped up, and screaming car dealer decked out in a $1,000 Armani suit, or the one taking the casual route in kakis and an Arnold Palmer golf shirt, promising to knock $7,000 off the price of a truck (down to $47,000) because he is over stocked and needs to cut down his overhead. It must be true! Look at all the balloons and waving flags blanketing the sales lot.

Then there’s the pest control, plumbing, or other “come to your home” repairmen, portrayed on TV in crisp, perfectly ironed, pristine, military styled outfits, shinned shoes and neatly trimmed hair, faces handsome enough to grace the silver screen, promising to arrive on time and quickly solve your problem. Good luck opening your door to anyone close to that image.

My favorite is the medical looking actor in a long white lab coat. Sometimes with a stethoscope hanging from his neck, promising a cure for a condition you didn’t even know existed:  neuro-lasitude, hippo-paino, or necka-achea. Just take his pill. Then, with a pristine mountain stream as a backdrop, a seductive comforting voice lists the potentially lethal side effects that he hopes will go in one of your ears and out the other. Most of these aliments go away on their own, but in our instant-gratification society, the pharmaceutical companies make a fortune because of our impatience. We buy the stuff. And, sometimes sue, at the urging of TV lawyers in three-piece suits, promising us millions.

How about the ads that beat back Mother Nature by using specially formulated creams and oils that remove wrinkles, tighten neck waddle and make age spots disappear? Or, the never-ending lineup of diet and fitness breakthroughs, that without any effort or willpower, will make us trim, fit and healthy in six short weeks.

Oh yes, they really shovel it on TV, these pablum pushers. The parade of con men and snake oil salesmen and women that stalk us from the other side of our TV screen is endless. And, we sit there in our adult high chairs while they feed us pablum and bang our spoons on the tray for more. 

May 14, 2014 Article

The Old Coot explains the modern version of musical chairs.

By Merlin Lessler

I call it musical checkout-counters. It’s like musical chairs, the game kids played at birthday parties back in my day, and sometimes these days, but musical checkout-counters is played in stores. It’s especially popular in pharmacies, the national chains anyhow. I don’t know why they still call themselves pharmacies. They do sell drugs, but that’s a back room operation. The real store is out front. I’m not sure what it is. A gift shop? A grocery store? A beverage center? A convenience store? All of the above? No matter, they install four or five check out stations and then don’t use them. The only clerk in sight is at the photo center wearing a white lab coat, looking professional, but busy. These employees are the store’s best workers, the ones out front dealing with customers, the ones who have to apologize for the empty check out stations.

The musical checkout-counter game begins when the clerk runs into the back to get something, leaving the check out area unmanned. You emerge from the aisles with your arms loaded with stuff, survey the line of empty check out stations, head for the one that is least cluttered with junk and hope for the best. You glance around for a clerk, but the store appears empty. You search the counter for a bell or a buzzer but find neither. You cough; you let out a loud yawn, you clear your throat. Nothing! That’s when you look around for a hidden camera, picturing a roomful of store employees watching your frustration and rolling on the floor laughing.

Finally, a clerk shows up. Slides behind a counter twenty feet to your left and announces, “I can help you over here.” They never pick the one where you’ve unloaded your items. You scramble as fast as you can to gather up your goods, but another customer comes out of the aisle and walks right up to the clerk. You lost this round of musical checkout-counters! Then, you lose again; two more customers make it to the line ahead of you. 

The game is a little different in grocery stores. They play two different games. The first one is played when you head for the express line. The clerk spots you coming, and when you almost make it, she yells to a customer passing by with a fully loaded cart, “I can take you here, maam.” The cart is maneuvered into the slot just as you arrive. It’s too late. You lost! The second game is what I call the “lights-out” game. It’s also played in K-Mart, Wal-Mart, Target and other big box stores. It starts when you get stuck in line behind a customer having an argument with the clerk (and the manager) about an outdated discount coupon. You see an opening a few rows away, gather your goods, push past and apologize to the six people behind you in line and rush to the “Promised Land.” Just as you get there, the clerk reaches up, turns off her light and walks away. You go back to where you were, but now you’re at the end of the line.

I’ve played this game for years and never won. It’s getting more vicious. Especially the version played in airports. They make you stand in line in stocking feet holding your shoes. Your valuables, car keys and pocket change lie exposed in a plastic bin as a gloved masochist paws through your carry on bag, searching for weapons of mass destruction: nail clippers, tooth paste and hand cream. You are in the worst musical chairs game of all, “musical screening.” One by one, the passengers in front of you pass through the metal detector. Now, it’s your turn; you hold your breath and step into the torture chamber. The buzzer sounds! It makes you feel like you’re seven years old all over again, when the music stopped and a bully pushed you aside and plopped down in the last available chair.