February 12, 2014 Article

The Old Coot is younger than he thinks.

By Merlin Lessler

The older you are, the harder it is to get a good picture of yourself. I was panning through a stack of 100 photos the other day and could only find one that looked like me: “That’s no good; it makes my hairline appear to recede.” – “Nope, not that one; it makes my ears look big.” – “No way! Look how distorted the lens is; it makes me look like I’ve put on 20 pounds.” (My bathroom scale is off too. So is the one at the gym.) Nothing works right these days. Especially digital cameras. Sunspots mess with the pixels and distort the image. That’s what I think.

Friends are no help. They look through the same stack and say, “Wow; these are great pictures of you.” When you find the only one you like and show it to them, they look at each other and roll their eyes. Your wife is more to the point, “No wonder you like it; it doesn’t look anything like you.”  (They obviously don’t know what they are talking about!)

Even my old pictures aren’t very satisfying to paw through. I look at that guy, the one in his 40’s or 50’s and wonder why he didn’t appreciate how young he was when the photo was snapped. He was too focused on an even younger self. He had no idea that an older version awaited in his future. A jealous, older self, who scolds him for thinking he was old in his 40’s, calling him a jerk!

There is a lesson here. For me and for every one who hasn’t figured out how to appreciate the age they are, to not be envious of the age they were. It takes discipline. It takes developing the ability to go ahead in age, 5 years, 10 years or more, and look back on who you are right now. Do it and you’ll put a spring in your step. You’ll appreciate how young you are. Your older self will be pleased. And, it’s easy to do. If you can’t do it in your head, you can get a free App for your computer or smart phone that will age your picture 10 or 20 years. I tried it, and now have an older me staring back from my computer screen. A quick look at this old coot and I feel young. There is a spring in my step. I appreciate my “youth.” When I become that guy and look back, I’ll be proud of the “kid” I was. The one that appreciated his “youth.” That appreciated the “now,” and all because of a free App. Ain’t modern technology wonderful?

 

February 5, 2014 Article

The Old Coot’s car is bossy!

By Merlin Lessler

It was one of those real cold days, minus five degrees I think. The computer that bosses me around in my car put a message on the little screen under the speedometer where it usually tells me how far I can go before I run out of gas. Apparently, I’m too stupid to check the gage so it does it for me. But not today. Today it told me to check the tire pressure. Oh sure, the coldest day of the year and it wants me to get out of the car, unscrew the little frozen caps on the valve stems, slip four quarters in the unreliable, often not working, air pump at the combination grocery store, restaurant, lottery ticket dispensing center, gas station and check the tire pressure. I did. It was the passenger side rear tire that was low. The last one I checked.

My fingers were as cold as they could get by then, so I said, “What the heck,” and pulled over to the pump and filled the tank. When I got back in the car and steered out of the gas station with numb fingers, the “check tire pressure” message was gone. The “miles you have before you run out of gas” message was back. It promised me 220 blissful miles. But, the tank was full; it should have said 330 miles to go. I guess the sub-zero temperature messed it up.

I drove fifty miles; the car now said I had 240 miles in the tank. “Wow!” I said aloud, talking to myself again. (I’m a good listener.) “It’s producing gas as I drive, not consuming it.” The GPS said I had 270 miles before I reached my destination. I guessed I’d have to get gas at some point, and wondered which computer to believe. Another 20 miles and the gas left made it to 260; the destination distance dropped to 250. Things were looking up. I now had enough gas to make it. But I stopped anyhow and added ten gallons. Just in case the car was messing with me.

 
I don’t like this, the car bossing me around. “Check the tire pressure!” – “Change the oil!” – “Get gas!” Last summer it wouldn’t let me turn on the air conditioning. The temperature sensor that lets me know how cold it is outside had a bad day. It was stuck on fifty degrees, even though it was a muggy, 85-degree day. The car won’t let the air conditioner come on when the outside temperature is that low. So I broiled inside until I could get Joe and Marty to put in a new sensor. Last year it was in a bad mood, because I didn’t change the oil when it wanted me to. It only allowed heat to blow on the passenger side of the car. It’s not just bossy; it’s moody too. But I’ll have to live with it. I can only long for the cars of yesteryear, back when we were the boss, not the car.

 

January 29, 2014 Article

The Old Coot says, “Listen up!”
By Merlin Lessler

“Selfie” is the word of the year! According to the editors at The Oxford Dictionary who make the selection. It’s a word that’s been around for a decade or more, but they claim its use has increased by 17,000% this year. I don’t know how they know that, it sounds like a made up number to me. Or, maybe they got their information from the eavesdroppers over at the NSA. It doesn’t matter, they picked it as word of the year; it’s in the dictionary and it has gone “viral,” to use a word that went viral itself a few years back. In case you live in a pop culture cave, like a lot of my old coot crowd, a selfie is a picture you take of yourself, holding a smart phone at arms length in front of you. Though, you can do it with a dumb phone like mine, or a regular camera, if you twist your wrist to the breaking point and click the shutter. You won’t get a smiling face; you’ll get one with a grimace. From the sprained wrist holding the camera. A little cockeyed and off center too.

I’ve tried to figure this one out. This instant dislike I have for the word, selfie. At first I just chalked it up to the fact that I’m an old coot and reject pop culture fads. Then I thought it was because I don’t like shortcuts in the language. What’s wrong with saying, “I took a picture of my self?” But, I know I’m a dinosaur. I still use capital letters when I send a text message, words instead of “LOL” and other hip short cuts. It’s more than that. Maybe it’s because selfie sounds so much like selfish. Which is sort of what a selfie is, a “look at me” thing.

I talked to my therapist about this old coot bias of mine (Matt, down at the front table in the GoatBoy CoffeeBar).  He’s 25 years younger than me and can usually help me find a way to accept change. The trouble is, he’s brutally frank. He told me to get over it (like he often does). “You’re the master of selfie yourself,” he scolded. “What is your Old Coot column but a “writing” selfie? Instead of, “Look at me,” you’re guilty of something just as bad; you’re a “listen to me” guy. That’s the last time I’m going to him for advice.

I sulked all they way home. Mulling over my therapy session. Then, I sent a note off to the Oxford Dictionary people, to submit a word for consideration in 2014. Hark, as in “Quiet. I’ve got something to say!” I called to make sure they got it. Their operator connected me to the editor in charge of the word of the year selections. He came on the line and said, “Sup?” My “Hark” suggestion doesn’t stand a chance next to “Sup,” unless more people start using it. Can you help me out?  

January 22, 2014 Article

The Old Coot ain’t sitting pretty.
By Merlin Lessler

“Wanted! Pretty people! For TV news and weather reporting. Regular people need not apply.” At least that’s what I think is going on in media recruiting. Otherwise, how do you explain the parade of reporters sitting on the other side of your TV screen? Even Walter Cronkite wouldn’t make the hiring cut, not with today’s template. If you’re a “regular” person with broadcasting aspirations, think radio!

I don’t know how we got here. Studious people in my day weren’t the beauty kings and queens; they were like the rest of us, flawed. With a big nose, poor eyesight, a funny shaped ear, hair that refused to lie flat. Oh sure, there were smart people that looked good, but they didn’t join the history club, lug a French horn to school or stand with a phone in their hand for ten minutes before calling to ask someone for a date, and then hang up the second the “person to whom they wished to speak” said, “Hello.”

I also notice, with very few exceptions (the 60 Minutes staff, for one), that the old coot population is also excluded from the TV reporting desk. I guess it explains why Lew Sauerbrey is behind the mike at WEBO instead of in front of a camera at WBNG. It also explains why I’m allowed to sit with him and Dave every once in a while, with the “on air” sign glowing brightly.

Even the weather channel, staffed with meteorologists for goodness sake, looks more like a Miss America contest than a serious scientific endeavor. I don’t know about you, but I would like to see a mix of people allowed on the media stage. People who look like they handed in their homework on time, were picked on, even bullied, in their formative years, developing strength of character as a result. People with more substance, less ego. 

But, I guess it’s not to be. The rest of us are only allowed a cameo appearance on the TV screen. We’re the ones you see when the pretty people come to town and turn the camera in our direction to ask about the big snowstorm. And, hear us say, “I lived here my whole life and never saw anything like this!” Snowstorm, flood, whatever, we always respond with the “lived here my whole life” comment. Just once I’d like one of us to come up with a different answer. To make us look like we might be capable of handling a job in front of a camera. Instead, we provide job security for the pretty people. Our on air appearances are used to prove to network producers that regular people belong on the couch side of the TV screen. I’ve lived here my whole life (on my side of the TV screen) and never saw so many pretty people do the news and weather!

January 15, 2014 Article

The Old Coot prepares for a tuna free future.

By Merlin Lessler

I made myself a tuna fish sandwich the other day. The “Deluxe” version (That means I toasted the bread.) I have to be careful when I do this. Every once in a while I open a can of Fancy Feast cat food by mistake. I know cat food is in my future. All old coots get there eventually. But for now, I’m safe. Tuna for humans is about the same price as tuna for cats. I’m not too worried anyhow. Our friends down the block had a Halloween party a few years back. Nuts and chips and other munchies were scattered about the house. I stood by the window snacking on a bowl of treats that were put there for the cat. Dee Dee screamed, “You’re eating cat food!” I took a few more handfuls before she yanked the bowl off the windowsill and put it away. It was pretty good. Not much different than the snack mix on the coffee table.

But, back to the tuna I had for lunch the other day. It was cheap, $1.19 for a 5-ounce can. I read the label as I ate; a lot of people do that, not just old coots. Not much there though: an Omega 3 symbol, an American Heart Association certificate, a bee wearing a chef’s hat and some nutritional information. I prefer to read cereal boxes. They sit right in front of you at eye level. The boxes I read today aren’t as good as when I was a kid and a Wheaties box sat on the table. That box kept me occupied all the way through a whole bowl of the soggy mush. I didn’t like Wheaties any better than the lumpy oatmeal we often had, but what can you do when Mickey Mantle is staring you in the eye and the box claims to be the breakfast of champions. Today, I keep company with a box of Raisin Bran. It’s a lot better than Wheaties and the box has a “word-find” puzzle on it. Much better reading than the self-serving, nutritional bragging that covers most cereal boxes today. 

OK, OK, back to the tuna; I’m really wandering today. Trouble is brewing for tuna lovers. Cat food may enter our diet plans sooner than expected, at least for us old guys. The price is destined to go sky high. Last year a blue fin tuna sold for $1,760,000 in a Tokyo fish auction - $3,600 a pound compared to the $3.23 a pound I paid for the tuna that graced my lunch table the other day. That tuna, was only slightly more expensive than cat food. It’s just a matter of time before the sushi bidders in Japan drive up the worldwide price of all types of tuna. I should start mixing a little cat food in with mine when I have it for lunch, so it won’t be such a “taste” shock when I’m priced out of the market and forced to subsist on cat food alone. I just hope when that day comes, I don’t shed as much as our cat, Roosevelt.