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)