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.