December 16, 2015 Article

The Old Coot names the problem.

By Merlin Lessler

He says, "I’m John." – I say, “Hi; I’m the Old Coot.” I stare at him for a minute and then ask, “What was your name again?” An invisible bubble appears over his head, like the ones you see in cartoons; it reads, “For less than two seconds, this old coot can’t recall my name, the most common name in the USA. How could he forget so fast?” We are always astounded when someone forgets our name, but not at all cognizant that we don’t remember their name.

 Why is it so hard to get someone’s name when we meet them for the first time? And then, so hard to understand why they don’t remember our name? Is it because we’re concentrating on not missing their hand when reaching out to shake? Is it because we’re distracted, wondering if that piece of spinach is still stuck in our teeth? Or, is it because we’re fixated on their hair, wondering if it’s a rug or a weave? There has to be something to explain our failure to accomplish so simple a task.

It’s incurable for me, this memory failure. Even though I’ve been to several seminars where the topic of how to remember someone’s name was painstakingly laid out for the attendees. I was taught to repeat the person’s name, to say it back to them (It’s so nice to meet you John.) to use it several times in small talk. (John, where are you from? Where do you work John? Are you from around here John?) People are flattered when they hear you say their name, but most of the time, we end up faking it. I myself, muffle something indistinguishable. Or, like a lot of my old coot friends, I promote the person to a distinguished position in the social order: Governor, General, Mayor, Professor or some such flattering title that I hope will mask my ignorance.

There has to be a reason why many of us can’t remember a person’s name five seconds after being introduced. It’s not an age thing or an old coot thing. Nor, is it a male thing, though most husbands turn to their wives immediately after being introduced to someone and whisper out of the side of their mouth, “What were their names?” And, then get irritated because the wife didn’t do any better than they did. Which is really baffling, since she’s the one who dragged them to the event in the first place. It’s just another mystery of the human condition I’ll never figure out. I expect to get creamed at the upcoming social affairs now that we are into the holiday season. I’ll tell myself, Listen! Focus! Say the person’s name! Repeat it! But in reality, I expect to elect a sea of Governors and Mayors, and promote a ton of Generals over the next several weeks. How will you do?

December 9, 2015 Article

The Old Coot rejects a Thanksgiving legend.

By Merlin Lessler

So there I was, making my annual Thanksgiving Day trek to Sleepy Hollow, New York (Formerly North Tarrytown) to my daughter Wendy’s house for a gathering of the clan. A chatterbox on the radio reported that more alcohol is consumed on the Thanksgiving Eve than any other day of the year. More than Saint Patrick’s Day. More than New Year’s Eve. More than Superbowl Sunday. Then, one of the other news reporters chimed in with, “Wow! I never would have thought that!” Chatterbox #3 added his two cents, “It makes perfect sense to me; people go back to their home towns and get together at bars and houses. It’s party time!”

I cringed a little as they bantered the subject back and forth. There always seems to be a gang on these radio and TV “soft” news shows. I guess the producers hope that in numbers, they might string together a coherent line of dialog. It seldom works. They all talk at once, and take a stupid idea and beat it to death. Their constant cross talk sounds like a symphony orchestra tuning up, every instrument playing at the same time, off key and out of tune.

I patiently listened to the Thanksgiving alcohol consumption discussion and finally erupted into one of my old coot explosions, and yelled, “BOGUS!! They made that up! That’s a total falsehood!” The “BOGUS” is something I picked up from listening to Car Talk on NPR. Tom yells, “Bogus!” whenever Ray starts in on a convoluted theory to explain why a caller’s car is acting funny.

The claim that Thanksgiving eve is the highest day of alcohol consumption is just plain bogus. But, it wasn’t just the chatterboxes on some lame New York City radio station perpetrating the assertion; TV, print media and social media ran with it too. One minute they tell us that the day before Thanksgiving is the busiest travel day of the year, and the next minute they tell us everyone is downing alcohol like it’s going out of style. So, how are all these travelers, weaving through long lines in airports and traffic nightmares on the highway, finding the opportunity to consume all that alcohol?

They’re not. The whole story line is a fabrication that stemmed from a west coast news feed, an interview with James Brown, owner of the San Pedro Brewing Co., a neighborhood brewpub outside Los Angeles. He said it’s so busy he has to bring in extra help to handle the crowd on Thanksgiving eve. And, thus was born, a new urban legend. To set the record straight, the top five drinking days in the U.S.A. are: New Year’s Eve, Christmas, Fourth of July, St. Patrick’s Day and lastly, Thanksgiving, the day, not the eve. This data is based on scientific study. I’m suspicious of that “science” too. Where is Superbowl Sunday in the line up? I’m starting to feel another urge to yell, “BOGUS!”  

December 2, 2015 Article

The Old Coot is partial to mushrooms.

By Merlin Lessler

I have an orange toenail. I don’t know why. I didn’t do anything to deserve it. When I asked my doctor about it he gave me his usual response, the one he gives me whenever I ask him what’s going on, "You’ve got to expect that at your age!” He sent me to a podiatrist. She took one look and said, “Fungus!” What a horrible word. I know the medical field is obsessed with the Latin language: I wish just once in a while they would the English word, which in this case is “mushroom.” If she told me a mushroom had invaded my toenail I would have felt a lot better. She gave me a prescription and sent me on my way. I hope the next time she orders a steak smothered in mushrooms the waiter corrects her and says, “You mean steak with fungus don’t you?”

The prescription did nothing for my orange toenail, but it did help my sore back by making me bend down to apply a dab of goop on it every day, stretching it and easing the soreness. I finally told myself I could live with an orange toenail. It’s moot in comparison to the destruction process my body has been undergoing since I became an old coot. An orange toenail is kind of a bright spot. A little anomaly that doesn’t affect me at all except when I’m at the beach and some kid points to it and yells to his mother, “Look at that guy; he’s got an orange toenail!”

That kid’s reaction got me to call one of those places that advertise on TV. The ones that claim a 30-minute laser treatment will eliminate toe “mushrooms” (Except, they use the Latin word.) “How much?” I asked. “We can’t tell you that over the phone; you have to come in and let us have a look.” Even when I asked for a range of cost, they declined to answer. Come in! Come In! It felt just like it does when I deal with automobile salesmen and try to find out how much I’ll get on a trade. They never answer on the showroom floor. They make you go into their office and try to soften you up with friendly chatter. “How’s the family?” – “How’s your golf game?” – “You liking this warm spell?” I had a feeling the laser place would be just like that so I said I’d call back later to make an appointment.

Then I got lucky. I dropped a hammer on my little toe. The nail turned black. Nobody got in my face at the beach. Just the opposite. I got pity. “Ouch! What did you do to your toe?” Pity felt a lot better than, “Yuck! Look at that guy’s toe! It’s orange!” I think I’ll get some black toenail polish and change my big toenail from orange to black. I asked my wife what she thought of my plan. She’s as curt as my doctor when she responds to one of my old coot complaints. “What are you obsessing about? An orange toenail? My gosh! You should focus on the coffee stains on your shirt, the mismatched socks on your feet, your sweater on inside out and your eyebrows that look like corkscrews!”

I’m getting the nail polish anyway. I can use the pity. And just the opposite of the popular Netflix series - “Orange is the new black.” – Black, will be my new orange.

November 25, 2015 Article

The Old Coot explains the aging process.

By Merlin Lessler

It was my birthday the other day. The third in my 8th decade. (That’s 73 if you do the math.) It’s like erecting a pyramid, this aging process. You build it one year at a time, one layer at a time. Each successive level is slightly smaller making it go by quicker. When you get to my age, old coot age, a year is super short, just the opposite of when you’re closer to the base of your age pyramid. A mother says to her five-year-old at Thanksgiving, “Christmas is coming; only four more weeks!” It seems like an eternity to the kid, but for the mother, it’s rushing toward her like a speeding bullet. It all depends on where you are on your pyramid. 

Now that I’m near the top of mine, a year zooms by so fast I hardly notice it. I just hope my pyramid has a pointy top like the ones in Egypt and not a flat top like a Mayan one, where the last level comes to you sooner than you anticipated.

When a young guy stumbles upon an old coot celebrating a birthday, he kind of snickers and wonders how the old guy can stand it, being so ancient. Like it’s our fault, like we have a choice. But, the joke’s on him; it’s great to be celebrating a birthday with a 5, 6, 7, 8 or 9 as the first number. Why? Because it truly does get better every year; it doesn’t matter how many candles are crowding the top of our birthday cake pyramid.

Oh sure, we’ve amassed a legion of afflictions and physical deficiencies. But, we’ve dealt with them and for the most part don’t feel any different than when we were young. (Most of us. Most of the time). Ask an old coot how it feels to be 60,70, 80 or whatever, and he’ll likely say, “I don’t really know. I don’t feel any different than I did when I was in my thirties.” (The human memory is kind to us as we age).

But it’s true. We have a whole pyramid of life experiences to reflect on, to bask in. And, not just the great moments, even the bad ones take on a positive note. We survived! We overcame! We learned to accept the hand dealt us. And, of course, the passage of time deadens the pain.

So, when you see an old coot ticking off a high numbered birthday, don’t feel sorry for him. He’s not wallowing in self-pity because he reached another milestone. He’s thrilled, and wouldn’t trade ages with you for anything. Don’t believe me? You will. It’s just a matter of time.

Comments, Complaints? - Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

November 18, 2015 Article

The Old Coot ignores the 11^th Commandment!

By Merlin Lessler

Things worked pretty well for thousands of years: civil societies were guided by moral principals, a code of right and wrong: the Ten Commandments – The Golden Rule – Hammurabi’s Code. Then the politicians added an 11^th commandment – “Thou shall not change thy mind!” Once a position is taken it can never be reversed. You won’t hear a senator say, “That’s a good point. I never looked at it from that angle; I’ll have to reconsider my position.” If a politician said that, the media would come down hard, “Senator Smith flip flops on the international trade bill!” The talking heads on the cable channels would be even harsher, “Spineless Smith caved! He broke with his party. The American people should be outraged!”

The 11^th commandment has Washington on its knees. Dysfunctional. We don’t elect individuals any more; we elect party members, who are expected to adhere to the party’s position or suffer the humiliation of a “flip-flopper” label. Republicans vs Democrats - Sunnis vs Shiites – southerners vs northerners – city folk vs fly over country folk, ours is a tribal species. We have an uncontrollable need to clump up with like people. It’s a family thing first - the clan. The next level is the neighborhood – “The west side is the best side!” kind of thing.  Out tribal allegiances are many. Some are tightly knit, others are loose, but tribes they are. And, most rigid of all, are the political parties, which unfortunately are totally dominated by, and adherent to, the 11^th commandment: Thou shall not change thy mind.

The only tribe exempt from the 11^th commandment is the Old Coot Society, of which I’m a member in good standing. In fact, last year I won the coveted Old Coot of the Year Award. Oh, we’re not going to change our minds either, but not because of the 11^th commandment. We’re governed by a totally different set of rules. 1^st and foremost, is the requirement to complain (loud and often) about how bad things are today compared to “back in the day.” 2^nd – Say what’s on thy mind with no filter (“Wow! You sure got fat!”) 3^rd – Ask for, no demand, a senior citizen discount. 4^th – Eat dinner between 3:30pm and 5:00pm. 5^th – Drive in the passing lane with thy left turn signal blinking. 6^th – Wait at a stoplight until the driver behind ye blows thy horn. 7^th – Move thy pants up, changing thy waistline so it falls just below thy rib cage.  8^th – Never tell a story without pauses to remember the name of a person or a place, even though it has no meaning to the listener. 9^th – Start, and maintain, a collection of sugar, ketchup and mustard packets stolen from fast food restaurants. And, lastly – #10 - Constantly complain about the high price of EVERYTHING. “Can you believe it? $7.00 for a hamburger. That’s outrageous!”  You notice no mention of an 11th Commandment. We change our mind at the drop of a hat. Especially if it means a lower price, a free sample, or some kind of handout. We have to or we’d violate our 3^rd commandment.

Comments, complaints – mlessler7@gmail.com

November 11, 2015 Article

The Old Coot eats in style, old coot style.

By Merlin Lessler

I was in a restaurant the other day. It wasn’t one of those silver diners I grew up with, the kind with a long row of stools on one side, a line of booths on the other and a tray of Rolaids, not mints, next to the toothpicks near the cash register. This one just had tables, no counter. A sign by the door said, “Please wait to be seated.” It might as well have said, “Stop right there; we’ll decide if, and where you’ll sit.” Of course, no one was in sight, so I stood there like a dope, doing as the stop sign instructed. Eventually, a sleepy, 20-something hostess staggered over with a pile of menus under her arm. It looked like she’d had a rough night. But, my analysis was off the mark, as it often is. She didn’t have a rough night; she looked a little ragged because she had to get up early. NOON! As she explained after telling me I could sit anywhere.

That got my “old-coot-tell-them-how-to-run-their-business mouth wagging. “Why don’t you write, seat yourself, on the other side of the sign and turn it around when people can pick their own seat?” She didn’t know. Or care. Why should she? Not working for ten dollars an hour on a job where she has to get up at the “crack of dawn”.

Things didn’t get any better when another, 20-something employee, came to my “self-selected” table to take the order. He looked a little sleepy too, but he was able to get the “piece-meal” ordering process going. Which is one of the reasons I don’t really like dining in a “table” restaurant. They make you order in stages, starting with a beverage. When the waiter brought my ice tea he pulled out his order pad and said, “What can I start you with? Appetizers? Soup? Salad?” Start? I don’t want to start. I want one stop shopping. “None of that start stuff,” I said, and got the first of several eye rolls. “I want it all at once: soup, salad, burger and desert. And don’t bother telling me what the special is, how it’s prepared and the ingredients in the special sauce the chef drizzles over it.” I don’t like to eat in sequence. I want the salad and appetizer right there next to the soup and entrée. A little salad, a sip of soup, a nibble of shrimp cocktail, a bite from the entrée plate. All four items, taking their turn, like wrestlers in a tag team match.

This is starting to sound a little too cranky. Even to me. I need to go on record; I’m not cranky in restaurants. Pretty pleasant, if I have to say so myself. It’s just my analysis of the restaurant process that makes me sound that way. If you like sitting at a table and going through the process, good for you. You’ll see me at the bar, like I do when I go to the Cellar Restaurant, a beverage, salad, appetizer and the entrée right there in front of me. No waitress has to suffer my presence. Just the bartender, but I’m a big tipper. I sometimes even leave a whole dollar (when I don’t have any change,). He’s got nothing to complain about. But, he never says, “Come again soon.” 

November 4, 2015 Article

Leave the Old Coot alone!

By Merlin Lessler

It starts when you’re a little kid. You head out the back door to play, to freedom. Your mom says,” Get back in here young man and put on a jacket. It’s freezing out there!” Her thermostat is different than yours. Freezing to moms is any temperature below 70 degrees. To kids, it’s 40 or less. “Oh ma,” we complain, but under our breath we say, “Leave me alone.” We slink back in the house, put on the coat she holds out to us, make our escape, turn the corner, take it off, tie it around our waist and join the gang in play. Everyone has their coat tied around their waist.

“It’s dinnertime; wash your hands!” – “It’s time for bed; brush your teeth and wash your face.” – “When you get to Bobby’s house call me so I’ll know you made it, and be polite; say thank you and please.” We resent it, but these admonishments are what make us civilized. When mom is done, she hands off the baton to our wives in a secret meeting in the hall at the wedding reception. She apologizes, “I did the best I could; the rest is up to you,” turns and walks back to the party, looking 20 years younger and smiling, really smiling for the first time in years.

We revert right back to our cave man state; it’s as though we were never taught manners, civility or common sense. Men aren’t from Mars; we actually are from Earth, but not of this modern era. We exist in a prehistoric time, just barely out of the cave. We walk upright, we have human features, but we haven’t finished evolving. 

So, it goes from mom, to wife, an unending struggle and full time supervision to make and keep us human. It works, for the most part, until we reach old coot age. Then, the suppressed LEAVE ME ALONE gene reemerges. It’s been dormant for a long time, but it takes hold in earnest. “Honey; you can’t wear that in public!” – “Honey; a dollar tip isn’t enough; the bill was over 100 dollars.” Honey! Honey! Honey! – Leave me alone!” – Leave me alone!” – Leave me alone!” Finally, our Honey gives up! Leaves us alone. That’s when you see us in public in pajama bottoms, a too tight letter sweater from high school, a washed out New York Yankees baseball cap with Mickey Mantle’s signature across the brow, yakking about the good old days and all the ills of today’s society. If not that, then we spend endless hours detailing the multitude of physical afflictions we are dealing with. But, we’re happy. We no longer have to say, “Leave me alone.” There is nobody around to say it to. I wonder why?    

October 28, 2105 Article

The Old Coot rides the rails.

By Merlin Lessler

I was sitting in the Amtrak train station in Sanford, Florida the other day, waiting for my car to be unloaded. A 30-something guy was on the bench next to me, talking about his experience on the auto-train. It left northern Virginia at 4 pm and arrived in central Florida at 9 am. It was his first time; I’m an old pro.

 I asked him how he’d slept. “Not well, not well at all,” he replied, and went on to describe just how bad his night was. He woke every hour; first it was his hip that got him up, sore from lying sideways on a reclining train seat, even though it was longer and wider that those in first class on an airplane. He’d turned to the other side, but an hour later, his shoulder started to ache and woke him up again. A little later, a cramp hit his calf, forcing him to leap over his wife, waking her in the process as he rushed to the aisle to shake it out. An hour later, the train stopped to change crews. The quiet roused him from slumber. He’d gotten used to the click, clack of the steel wheels on the metal track. Sore hip, sore shoulder, leg cramp, quiet and finally, a 2 am call from Mother Nature that sent him down a narrow, winding staircase to the rest rooms, just as the train hit a bad section of track, sending him reeling into the wall. “I got 8 hours of sleep, 1 hour at a time,” he said, in summary.

I chuckled, but only to myself. He’d just described a typical night’s sleep for an old coot. I didn’t want to depress him, so I refrained from telling him that he had many of those nights ahead, in his not too distant future. Thirty or forty years by the calendar that will seem like fifteen minutes when he gets there and looks back. It’s a speeding, rocking train, this thing we call old coot time.

Finally, our car came rolling out of the automobile container unit; I said goodbye to my 30-something friend. That was 30 seconds ago, by old coot time, 28 days by the calendar. Pretty soon, 10 days from now, I’ll have to face up to a train ride back home. I won’t be able to complain to my wife about the fractured sleep we will endure, the rocking motion of the passenger car, the long wait to get going, a longer wait for our car to be unloaded. I’ve shot my mouth off too many times about how fast time flies. If I start bellyaching, she’ll look me dead in the eye and say, “Why are you complaining; it will be over within 10 seconds?” She is right (as usual). I’ll be home before I know it and complaining about something new. The weather!

October 21, 2015 Article

The Old Coot isn’t saved by the bell.

By Merlin Lessler

There are two kinds of bike riders: athletic, physically fit, serious riders, who approach a ride as though it was an Olympic event, and then there are the fun peddlers. I’m a fun peddler; I ride without a helmet, in regular clothes, on a cheap, heavy bike. I face traffic when the road is narrow (in violation of NYS’s motor vehicle regulations). I even glide down the sidewalk when it’s the only safe way to go. My friend, Jeff Poulin, is an athletic biker. When I take a ride to Newark Valley and back you’ll hear me crow about it for weeks. When Jeff (who by the way is the race director for the Chris Thater Memorial races) completes a quick 50 to 75 mile run in less time than my Newark Valley ride, you have to pry out of him how far he rode. 

He’s definitely a different rider than I am; he cruises along on a bike that weighs less than my Medicare Card. He’s swathed in Spandex and a perfectly sized, aerodynamic helmet. Expensive bike shoes interlock with his pedals, pulling the pedal, as his foot comes up and achieving maximum energy efficiency. Water is supplied from a camel pack on his back through a tube that runs over his shoulder and lets him take a sip by simply turning his head whenever he feels the need. A safety light blinks on the back of his vehicle when it’s dark or foggy; a rear view mirror prevents him from “getting it” from behind. He obeys the NYS traffic laws; my crowd ignores stop signs, red lights, one-way street markers. But, we never ever exceed the speed limit, not that we don’t try. Sometimes I come close, like when I’m peddling through a school zone. But usually, I’m riding along the side of the road with a red face, embarrassed by the number of joggers and speed walkers who catch up to and pass me. 

Now comes my rant. It wouldn’t be an Old Coot column if it didn’t have one. I won’t criticize the Spandex, the cost of the bikes or any of the other differences between my crowd and Jeff’s. I’ve done all that and all it ever gets me is a protest poem from Bill Schweizer. No, my issue today concerns the lack of a bell on athletic bikers handlebars. I have a bell, I use it to say hello to friends as I “fly” by, to warn walkers that I’m coming up from behind them on the sidewalk (slowly and carefully) and to signal a biker on the road ahead of me that I’m about to pass. A rare event. Nevertheless, I’m prepared when it does.

And, that brings me to the genesis of my complaint. Those speeding, athletic bikers silently sneak up on us fun-peddlers and scare the heck out of us when they elbow past. No warning whatsoever. No jingle, jingle, to prepare for someone coming up on your shoulder. Just a swoosh, as they fly by, startling us and nearly sending us tumbling into a ditch. It’s bad enough when they do it to one of their own, or to a young and fit, fun-peddler. But, it’s a bigger issue when they pass an old coot. We don’t ride in a straight line; we weave and wander in a meandering route along the shoulder. Sometimes I’m listing left just as one of Jeff’s friends pulls along side. I haven’t ended up in the ditch yet, but I’ve had a legion of close calls. So, I say, “Please; buy a bell.’ I know you’re loath to add weight to your bike, but a bell won’t really add much, not enough to put you at the back of your pack. You’ll still be an Alpha biker. But now, a polite one. 

October 14, 2015 Article

The Old Coot gets a bargain?

By Merlin Lessler

So there you are. You walk into a small antique shop; the bell rings, announcing your presence and the nightmare begins. You look around and discover to your dismay you are the only customer in the store. You came in to kill time, not to buy anything, now you are in an awkward situation. The owner greets you, delighted that she has a customer, it’s been a long day and you’re the first human to cross her threshold. “What can I help you with?” she asks. You give her the standard “just looking” response and hope she’ll go back to her knitting or Candy Land game or whatever she was doing to stop the boredom from driving her insane. But, she doesn’t; she hovers. You pick up something to see how much it is, to get some sense of her pricing philosophy, hoping it’s low, bargain basement low. It’s a clock, a wind up Roy Rogers’s alarm clock from the 1950’s, something you desperately wanted as a kid, but never got.  It’s in mint condition; it works, and the price tag says $6.50. “Wow! That’s cheap,” you say to yourself. “I’ll get it.”

Before you can turn it back over to study the face, she says, “I can do better on the price.” Do better? Wow, it’s dirt-cheap and she can do better? I like this place. A minute ago I hated “this place.” Hated that I was the only customer and would feel uncomfortable looking around and leaving without making a purchase. Now, all the tension had dissipated. “How much better?” I asked. Out of curiosity more than anything. How much lower on $6.50 for an antique, tin, Roy Rogers’s alarm clock in mint condition can she go? “I’ll do 60,” she responds. Now, I’m confused. 60? Sixty cents less? Down to $5.90? “I’ll take it,” I announce. And, put it down, saying I want to look around some more. And I mean it; the pressure is off.

She takes the clock, telling me it will be at the register and I continue on my mission, to kill time while my wife is next door examining an endless selection of flip flops. That’s the trouble with small town shopping, there isn’t a Radio Shack or hardware store for a man to carouse in and avoid following his wife around like a five-year-old, and constantly asking, “Can we go now?” It’s what drew me into the antique shop, into the nightmare of being the only customer and determined not to buy anything.

But now I was safe. So, I moved through the aisles examining the goods: a Duncan yoyo marked $40, A Daisy BB gun marked $110 and a pack of unopened baseball cards with a $50 sticker on the back. Wow! I got the only bargain in the place! Then, doubt started to seep in. Did I misread the price tag on the Roy Rogers clock? The more I looked the more convinced I became. There was a toy clock waiting for me at the register that probably had a $65 price tag on it, which caused her to say, “I can do 60.” That’s the only thing that made sense. I had no intention of buying it. I needed a rush of customers to distract the owner and allow me to slip out the door. My worst nightmare came true; I was the only customer in a store with the owner waiting for me to pay for something I didn’t want. This is a perfect example of why old coots hate to go shopping. 

October 7, 2015 Article.

The Old Coot is unbendable.

By Merlin Lessler

Old Man School – Lesson #27 – ELASTICITY (How to cope when you’ve lost it.) It’s the latest in a series of lessons on how to survive as an old coot. It follows Lesson 23 – dealing with your first eye floater, Lesson 24 – going toothless, one broken tooth at a time, Lesson 25 - walking straight while listing left and Lesson 26  – “Ouch’ is a perfect word, get used to using it often.

The loss of elasticity is the one that sneaks up on you. You ignore the phenomena for years and all of a sudden, realize that your flexibility has taken a hike. You took it for granted for 40, 50 or more years, and then one morning, you find you can’t pick up your leg high enough to get your foot into your pant leg without falling over. You have to throw your pants on the floor, poke around with your foot and hope to maneuver it into a leg hole. The first time it happens, it’s like a slap in the face! You wonder, “What happened to the guy who could bend over and touch his toes, who could touch his feet to his forehead, who could do a split? (Well, almost).” As you go through life it doesn’t register that your bendability is slipping away. It’s a long, gradual process, and when it finally dawns on you, it’s too late to do anything about it. Bend over and touch your toes? Not ever again. 

The first time I threw my pants on the floor to get them on, I remembered how I snickered at the old guys in the YMCA who sat down on a bench in the locker room to get dressed. Now, I’m on the bench with them.  And worse, I know I’ll eventually join with my pants on the floor; it will be the only way I can get into them. I just hope I don’t end up spending the day with my pants on backwards. .

The lack of elasticity isn’t limited to the body parts that are bend challenged; it affects your entire physical structure. Skin, for example, that tight, smooth hide you paraded around in for years, sags and droops and you didn’t notice it sliding toward the floor. Why should that be a surprise? Your muscles and tendons did the same thing. Everything went down hill – you end up with waffle neck, old man sag gut, knee globules, ear lobes that brush your shoulders and more, so much more. It’s as though you were made of wax and wandered too close to the fire.

It’s a fright, when you see this inelastic, gone south, image of yourself in the mirror for the first time and not the fake “memory” image you’ve been pretending to see. If you have cataract surgery, you can’t avoid it. The lie becomes obvious the minute the bandages come off. My advice - if your world is cloudy and your eye doctor suggests cataract surgery, don’t do it! Unless the surgical procedure is followed up with grief counseling along with the surgery. You might fall over backwards the first time you pass by a mirror, and with your lack of flexibility, it could be the last thing you see. Ever!

September 30, 2015 Article

The Old Coot is not in control!

By Merlin Lessler

A few months ago I complained about my “bossy” car, how it took over and replaced me with an onboard computer and a series of sensors and interlocks. I’ve now come to realize that my lawn mower is just as bossy. This simple mechanical device has more say about how it will function than I do. I may be at the controls, but the lawn mower is in charge. 

It started years ago, when the National Safety Council mandated a grip-bar-handle, the proverbial dead man’s switch. If you loosen your grip, the mower shuts off. You can’t bend over to pick up a stick or a kid’s toy without being forced to restart your mower. When the “dead man” grips first appeared, I removed mine and went merrily on my way. The Feds found out and made the manufacturers re-design the grips so only a graduate engineer could disable them. I tie a small piece of rope around the mechanism to keep the dead man bar pressed against the handle; it works OK, but it’s a pain.  At least I don’t end up with cramps in my hands anymore. 

After they made us squeeze the handle, they moved on to other parts of the mower, adding rubber flaps to the back and side of the mowing chamber, so the clippings and other objects won’t shoot out. Good idea, but the flaps make your lawn look terrible; with rows of clippings so pronounced it resembles an old fashioned washboard. You have to bag or rake them to avoid the look. I did the bag thing for a while, but got tired of stopping every few rows to take it off and empty it. I removed the side flap and solved the problem, but the next mower I bought came with double flap and a spring-loaded mechanism that couldn’t be removed. I tried and gave up. I recently discovered I can prop up the top flap with a small board and the clippings spew out evenly across the lawn. Score one for me!  

The Mower Nazi’s kept at it. They made the handle so it won’t flip back to let you reverse direction when you come to the end of a row. The change forces you to drag the mower back down the row, or waste time turning it around. I always wondered why they didn’t want mowers to be capable of being pushed in two different directions. I never did find a fix for this one. I drag the mower back and have zigzag looking rows.  

Another “used to be able to do it” thing, before the mower got bossy, was to regulate the speed, to rev it up when the grass got real high. Not anymore. I’ve tried and failed; the mechanism is foolproof. A series of micro springs and swivels make it impossible to change the speed without breaking the setup. They’ve even “fixed” the gas can, those lawn mower safety zealots. It comes with a complicated nozzle that controls the rate of flow and sets the angle at which the gas goes into the mower. I guess it was to prevent accidental spills and to minimize vapors going into the atmosphere. I spill more gas with this system, and have a hard time getting the cap back on the nozzle because of some idiotic, plastic, twist and push mechanism. So much for protecting the environment. The last “improved” can I bought forced me to do the walk of shame. I had to go back to the hardware store and ask the clerk how to remove the cap. I walked out, red faced, my shoulders slumped in shame and noticed my car lights were on and the radio was playing. I’d made an unforgivable mistake when I parked; I had opened the door before I pushed the start/stop button. The car wants me to push the button first and then open the door; it turns the lights and radio on so the battery will run down and I’ll do what it wants. Bossy car, bossy lawnmower. Machines are getting closer and closer to taking over. We humans are the ones who should be placed on the endangered species list. 

September 23, 2015 Article

The Old Coot knows when to take off his hat.

By Merlin Lessler

“Take off that hat!” The first time I yelled it, I was watching a professional golf tournament on TV. Another tournament, and yet another winner, walking over to receive his trophy and a check for a million dollars or more after sinking his winning putt on the eighteenth hole with a bright white forehead sparkling in the dwindling sunlight, in stark contrast to the rest of his face, which was well tanned from the eyebrow line down.  I yelled at the TV, like old coots routinely do, “Take off that hat!” At least once in a while, as you’re strolling down the fairways, to tan up that forehead and avoid looking like a half-moon cookie.”

It wasn’t just inappropriate use of hats on the golf course that caught my attention; I began noticing them on guy’s heads in church, one or two at first and then more and more. “Take off that hat!” There they were in restaurants, movie theaters, business offices. Everyplace that admitted men. And oddest of all, hats with sunglasses parked above the brim. At first, I thought all these hats might be a “bald” cover up, but now that bald and shaved heads are in fashion, I realized it’s a hat thing, not a bald thing. 

Lois Bingley came up to me at a Rotary picnic and suggested I write an article about the rudeness of men wearing baseball caps in restaurants. “And, don’t use my name like you did in the article about old guys swinging wide when they drive around a corner.” I looked over at her husband, Al, in the process of climbing into a picnic table while at the same time removing his hat. Quite a feat for a guy of my vintage. If he can do it, why can’t young, non-bald guys do it when the waiter pulls out their chair to seat them at a table in a restaurant?

I checked with Emily Post, to make sure my hat rant wasn’t just some old coot thing. I’m on safe ground (for a change). Emily goes even further. She says, “Take off that hat!” - when in someone’s home, at the dinner table, in restaurants and coffee shops, while being introduced to someone, in public buildings and private offices, at the movies or any indoor performance, when the national anthem is played and when the US flag passes in a parade.

I take my hat off to Emily! Now, I hope the rest of you take yours off like she said. 

September 16, 2015 Article

The Old Coot is hearing things

By Merlin Lessler

Has this happened to you? You’re sitting on the sofa watching TV. Well, more likely you’re zoned out, waiting to watch TV while an endless series of commercials hog the cable feed. The phone rings. If you still have a landline, you get up and go to answer it, only to discover it wasn’t your phone ringing; it was a phone in the ad on TV. Even if you got rid of your landline years ago, you still get up, or start to; it’s an automatic response. The ad people are smart; they know we zone out after 10 seconds of advertising and since most commercial breaks go on for two minutes or more, they do something to get our attention. They know we come preprogrammed, just like Pavlov’s dogs. Ring a dinner bell and a dog salivates; ring a phone bell and we wake up. And, in my case, get up and answer it.

The ability of the ad people to snap us to attention is a real science. The first step in the process was to increase the volume of the commercials. Even though the FCC outlawed the practice more than 40 years ago, the networks still do it. They know the agency isn’t paying attention so why not make ads loud? We use our remotes to crank the volume down. That’s when the ringing phone comes in. Sometimes they switch to a ringing doorbell. I swear it’s an exact match to the bell at our house. It gets my attention every time. Another Pavlov’s dog deal, but I’ve trained myself to ignore it. Every so often it will be followed by a loud knock. Someone really is at the door. I say, “I’m sorry; I couldn’t hear the bell. My hearing isn’t what it used to be.” It’s a lie. But, when you’re an old coot, it’s a believable lie

And, it’s not just at home, this ringing that gets my attention. It happens in the car too. I’m tooling along in an old coot stupor with the radio playing and all of a sudden I’m startled into consciousness; a siren is sounding. I look around to get ready to pull over, and then figure out it’s just the radio. My blood pressure settles back down and I return to my zombie state. Then, a Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! brings me back to life. The radio again. This time it’s a car dealer’s ploy to get my attention. I make a mental note, “Never buy a car from that dealer!”

I settle down, but this time my blood pressure only makes it half way back to normal. Then, the phone rings. The ad people get me again. Intellectually, I know it’s the sound of a house phone and I’m in a car, but it doesn’t matter, I’m a Pavlov dog. I start to get up; thankfully the seat belt prevents me from doing so. I guess I deserve it, my excessive use of “back in my day” to start a conversation has a similar effect on people within earshot. It gets them up too. But, in their case, it’s for good reason; they need to get far away as fast as possible or subject themselves to a long-winded boring reminiscence.    

August 29, 2015 Article

The Old Coot is fully equipped?

By Merlin Lessler

We’re a sports and fitness country. Our obsession ranges from Ironman athletes who compete in a 2.4-mile swim, 112 mile bike ride and a 26.2 mile run triathlon on one end of the scale, to old coots like me, who take a walk around the block and brag about it all day. But, more than sports and fitness fanatics, we’re a country of equipment fanatics. No matter what the sport, no matter how slight the fitness routine, we load up on equipment!

Take golfers; I golf, but you can’t consider me a true golfer. My clubs are decades old. When I step to the tee with my ancient driver, a roar of laughter sweeps across the course, messing up golfers in their back swing five fairways away. And, that’s before anyone sees my swing. I don’t care. I still shoot my age, usually around the 15^th hole. But, real golfers are equipment buyers: new drivers with bigger heads and adjustment screws that are guaranteed to get rid of that awful slice and add twenty yards to your drives – exotic putters that will cut six strokes off your round – reengineered balls that go farther – special unbreakable tees that hold the ball at the perfect height and angle, not to mention the shirts, shorts, raingear and shoes that make you, not only look better, but play better.

All sports are like this. Running shoes, hiking shoes, walking shoes, cross training shoes. No single shoe will do. Take a bike ride? Sure, on a $5,000, zero weight velocipede wearing spandex bike shorts and shirt, shod in an expensive pair of interlocking bike shoes. Even Little League baseball players have better uniforms, batting gloves and other accessories than the major league New York Yankees did back when I was a kid.

The fitness world is just as bad. Every week there’s a new apparatus unveiled on TV that’s guaranteed to get rid of that tummy flab, thigh bulge and under arm droop. Skiers, hikers, swimmers – you name it and I’ll show you a list of “must have” gear. Swimming goggles and a suit? No, you need training fins, hand paddles, spandex suits and underwater watches. All sport and fitness activities require electronic devices to go with the activity. It’s not enough to take a jog; you have to know how many calories you burned, your rate of speed, your max heart rate, the number of steps you took and a graphic display of your training regimen that would befuddle a science professor of yesteryear. How else would you know you were having a good time? A sweaty shirt and the need to catch your breath just doesn’t cut it anymore.

The last time I was in Florida I got to see just how far this trend has gone. A group of seniors signed up for a walking program. I spotted them doing laps in the park. They all wore brand new “walking” shoes and held a walking stick in each hand. An instructor barked orders to them, “Step to the left, stick to the right. Step to the right, stick to the left.” Half the group did the opposite; they got pulled aside for one-on-one training. My favorite was the guy holding the sticks in the air, who shooed the instructor away, “Leave me alone! I know how to walk!” When I stopped laughing, I hopped on my crossover, hybrid, 21-speed bicycle and peddled home, but at least I wasn’t wearing Spandex (or a helmet).

August 19, 2015 Article

The Old Coot now has built in GPS.

By Merlin Lessler

I noticed that I’d acquired a new skill the other day. I’m not sure when it started, but its been a blessing. I walk into the kitchen to get something and this new skill, I guess you could call it Coot-GPS, guides me to a specific spot in the room. I still don’t know why I’m there, but at least I don’t have to scour the whole room for a clue. The GPS knows where I should be, it just can’t tell me why.

Like a lot of old coots, I’ve lost my mind, not all of it, just the part that used to remember what I went to get in another room and the part that contains the names of people, places and things. It’s not so bad that my conversation comes to a dead halt while I fish in the murky gray area of my skull to find a name like a lot of my cronies, but often enough so I rename people with “cute” names. If I see you and the street and I say, “Hi Governor,” you’ll know I couldn’t come up with your name. That’s better than when I Say, “Hi Bob,” and your name is Bill. But, it’s OK; nature doesn’t close one door without opening another. In this case, a new internal Ground Positioning System. It helps compensate for my memory’s lack of cooperation. 

True, it does nothing to help with the blanks I draw when I try to come up with a name, but it proves its worth when I go in the kitchen to get something. It’s never a direct route: which contributes to the problem. I stop along the way, several times, to perform some task or other. By the time I get there, I have no clue what I was after. Before the GPS function in my brain became activated, I had to go back to where I started and hope that might remind me what I’d gone to get. Now, I just stand where it takes me and look around. Nine times out of ten I’ll find the answer.

The only time my new positional skill causes problems is when I’m out in public, like at John’s Fine Food Market. You might see me in the aisle staring at a specific row of merchandise for so long you would think I was in a catatonic state, and be tempted to call 911. But don’t. I’ll eventually figure out why it took me to that specific spot. I’m a lucky guy. My built in GPS is better than the one in my car; it never yells at me to make a u-turn and go back the other way. It just quietly takes me to where I need to go and patiently waits. 

August 12, 2015 Article

The Old Coot says, “Old Guys Rule,” finally.

By Merlin Lessler

Once in a while, you’ll see one of us old coots parading around in a T-shirt that says, “Old Guys Rule!” I never really believed the statement, but still, I wore mine proudly. It was an ego thing. A way to strike back at a youth obsessed society. That was ten years or so ago, back when the Old Coot persona was taking over my mind and body. Old guys didn’t rule then, but they do now. All because of our phones.

We’re the last vestige of landline telephone users (our names are in the book too). Now we’ve taken control of the whole country. It’s all about polling. Pollsters don’t, for the most part, call people with cell phones; they call old guys (and gals) with landlines. Gallop, for example, conducts a running phone survey that measures what people think about where the country is headed. In the year, 2000, 37% of those polled said they were dissatisfied with the direction we were headed. Now, in 2015, the poll indicates that a whopping 69% are dissatisfied. Old guys rule! We’re the ones responding to the calls. Everyone else has discarded their land lines. Corporations, politicians, government bureaucrats, all use polls to run their affairs. And stupidly, are getting their input from “Old Guys.”

Sixty nine percent are dissatisfied with where the country is headed? That’s us! All we do is complain about the state of the world: - It’s not like in the old days when I was growing up. -  We had to do chores.  - We played outside, not in the house in front of a TV. - We were taught that children were to be seen, not heard. - A bottle of soda cost 10 cents. -  A pizza was a dollar. -  You could fix your own car. -  You controlled the speed of your lawn mower, not some engineer at the EPA. Gallop polls say that most Americans are dissatisfied, all because of old guys.

Look what we’ve done for Trump. Sent him to the head of the class. We see him shoot off his mouth; say what he thinks, not what some pollster tells him is politically correct. And the polls (our voices) put him in the lead.  He’s all over the place politically: liberal on some things, conservative on others, moderate, and yes nutty. Just like us. So when a pollster calls, we say we’re voting for Trump. It doesn’t mean we will. We just like having a loud mouth in the arena messing up the talking heads on TV and the other candidates. Candidates, who seldom dare to be candid.  And, it’s confounding to the “creeps” pulling the strings behind the scenes, the people who bankroll candidates out of the goodness of their hearts? Oh my! But, the strings they pull aren’t working. Old guys rule now. Don’t agree? Give me a call; I kept my land line and I’m in the book.   

August 5, 2015 Article

Old Coot Bingo

By Merlin Lessler

There’s a hip little game going on in secret, in corporate meeting rooms, according to Marilyn Katzman in a recent New York Times article. It doesn’t have an official name, but you could call it, “Corporate-talk” Bingo. Participants have a Bingo-like card hidden in the scramble of official looking paperwork in front of them at the conference table. The bingo cards contain buzzwords instead of numbers and overused acronyms and convoluted sayings, often heard in corporate environments. Stuff that often disguises the real meaning, like “downsizing” and “rightsizing” instead of layoffs and firings, or a “bilateral” meeting with the boss instead of a one-on-one.  And, well worn phrases: At the end of the day. – The bottom line. – Caught between a rock and a hard place and a new one on me, “bandwidth,” as in,  “Do you have enough bandwidth to help me?” Instead of, “Do you have time to give me a hand?”

When you are in a long boring meeting and hear one of these words or phrases, you mark off the appropriate square on your card. If you mark five squares in a row, side-to-side, up and down, or on a diagonal, you’re supposed to stand up and yell, “Bingo!” That’s what the rules call for, but smart workers, who don’t want to be “right-sized,” stay seated, cover their mouth and fake a cough that sounds like, “Bingo.” 

I noticed a similar thing the last time I was at the dinner table with some of my grandchildren. Every once in a while, one of them would pop up and yell Bingo. The rest of them would crack up and giggle. It wasn’t until I read Katzman’s article that I figured out what they were up to; they were playing another kind of bingo, Old Coot Bingo.

Whenever I said, “Back in the day,” or “When I was a kid,” their heads went down, a pen came out, and a box was marked on their game cards. Sometimes, I get on a roll and broadcast a slew of “What’s his names” – “Whatch-ya call its” – “Thing-a-ma-jigs” and other crutches, to cover a memory lapse. Old Coot Bingo cards have those words too.

But, Old Coot Bingo goes beyond memory loss and back in the day stuff. The cards also contain medical words frequently used by old coots: hip replacement, stent, foot neuropathy, leg cramps and the like. So much of our conversations are loaded with these words it makes us fair game at family gatherings. A Thanksgiving dinner looks like a table of jack-in-the-boxes, with a kid jumping up every few minutes to yell, “Bingo!” Next year, I’m going to Howard Johnson’s by myself. If I can find one. They used to be all over the place. “Back when I was a kid!” 

July 29, 2015 Article

The Old Coot visits a memory.

By Merlin Lessler

Five years ago (July 30, 2010) Bill’s Diner, at the corner of Central Ave. and Fox Street, was destroyed by fire. It was a popular hangout for a lot of local people. I first visited it in 2004 and wrote the following. I still love places where they call you honey.

The old coot loves places where they call you honey.

Published in December 2004.

I went to a local restaurant the other day. I had never been there before, but it felt “old coot” friendly the minute I walked through the door. I grabbed a stool at the counter where I could watch the short order cook. He (Bill) had the grill going full blast, a pile of home fries were heaped at one end, pan cakes bubbled at the other and in between, a dozen eggs cracked and sizzled. The morning paper was sprawled along the Formica at my elbow. A waitress came over with a menu under her arm and an ironstone coffee mug in her hand; strong black coffee was steaming and slopping over the side. "Do you want a menu, Honey? Or, do you know what you want?"

I love places where they call you "Honey." You know right away it's the real deal: good food, low cost, no frills. She wrote up my order and handed it to the cook. "This is for the old guy over there and he's in a hurry," she told him, though I'd never said anything of the kind. She gave me a wink and wove through the tables dangling a coffee pot, topping off patron’s cups throughout the diner. I reflected on what a nice atmosphere this was as I waited for my eggs. It was so much better than the restaurants with a name like La Trattoria or Lenny’s Bistro, where a red vested waiter stands in front of your table and announces, "I'm Phillip; I'll be your server,” and then goes through a litany of specials the chef has prepared, “especially for me,” not just naming the entrees, but listing the ingredients. When he's done, I usually order coffee and make plans to escape.

You know you're in a good place when the waitress uses restaurant codes: Adam & Eve on a raft, BLT - hold the mayo, cup of Joe and make those eggs do the tango. You know you're in a good place when the waitress complains about being on her feet all day, "My dogs are really barking." You know you are in a good place when the waitress insults you, "Do you want a regular spoon for your oatmeal or one as big as your mouth?"

The food critics never review these places. They don't know who makes the best hot roast beef sandwich, the tastiest meatloaf or where you can depend on a clam chowder special on Friday, a throw back to the era when meat was taboo for Catholics. The only places the food critics venture are those with white suited chefs, not T-shirted short order cooks – those with servers that have an attitude, not waitresses with “tired dogs”  - those with fancy gourmet names conjured up by ad writers, not namesakes of the owners, like Bill’s or Sam’s (as we locals call the Harris Diner). It’s still an American truism, eat where the trucks are parked out front; you’ll know the food is good and the waitresses will call you “Honey!”

July 22, 2015 Article

The Old Coot is all fired up.

By Merlin Lessler

I started a small bonfire the other day. I didn’t really need it; it’s not like I was cold and wanted to get warm or my stove wasn’t working and I needed to cook my dinner. No, I just did it to exercise my right to fire, before it’s taken away completely.

We, us humans, have been using fire for 300,000 years according to a consensus of anthropologists, longer if you include our ancestor, Homo Erectus. Our forefathers missed the boat when the Declaration of Independence was drafted. Oh sure, they did a good job asserting the rights of citizens in a properly governed society. But, they should have added “fire” to the list of unalienable rights, …..that among them are Life, Liberty, the Pursuit of Happiness and the use of fire. But, they didn’t, and now our right to fire is threatened by creeping regulation. “We’re not to be trusted with it,” so say our state and federal politicians and bureaucrats. 

It hurts, this loss of the right to use fire as we so choose. Fire is the primary reason for our long and successful evolutionary history. This love affair, this need for fire, has been with us so long it’s now hard wired into our genetic code (300,000 years of fire freedom). Even my own personal history with fire, though short compared to modern human history, has significance; it started when I was a little kid; its mystery was revealed when I threw a stick into the flames and it smoked, charred, and finally disappeared. Then came toasted marshmallows and roasted hot dogs. And finally, the aroma of leaves burning in my neighborhood every fall. Oh, I so miss that smell. But it’s not to be. It’s against the law!    

Sit around a campfire with a youngster and watch the genetic code kick in. We grownups say, “Don’t play with the fire!” Ten seconds later, the kid is standing just beyond the heat, holding a stick in the flames, gasping in awe as it combusts. It can’t be stiffled; the flames are a magnet. But no more. The state has compromised our unalienable right to fire. After 300,000 years of freedom, the bureaucrats in Albany and Washington have declared, “Enough is enough!” 

I know! I’m starting to sound like an anti-government nut. I probably am, to a degree, but I just thought we should pause and observe the intrusion as we head deep into summer, the season of bonfires. There are now 12 rules regulating a New Yorker’s use of fire (a few less if you live in a town that has a population under 20,000. Apparently, people living in small towns are better with fire than those in big towns). I’m not trying to get you all fired up over this, (excuse the pun). I’m just trying to suggest you enjoy a bonfire while you still can. Just make sure the flames don’t lick higher than 36 inches, spread wider than 4 feet or contain any leaves, or else you’ll violate the New York State fire rules and be in big trouble with the DEC. If you are going through town and smell smoke with a “leaf burning” tinge, come join me in fire freedom, and S’mores of course. 

July 15, 2015 Article

The Old Coot is singing the Blues.

By Merlin Lessler

I was at the Black Cat Gallery in Owego the other night, sipping free wine, munching on cheese and crackers, listening to folk music played by two talented women, one from Vestal, the other from candor, and gazing at the art and craft work. It was the first Friday of the month and that means “Art Walk” with stores staying open late and special arts and talent displayed throughout the Owego Marketplace. It’s a real treat, especially for an old coot like me. Did I mention free wine?

So there I was, freeloading yet again and getting in the way of legitimate shoppers. I gazed at a sepia picture of Robert Leroy Johnson, an itinerant blues singer and guitar player of the 1930’s whose records were reissued in the 1950’s, twenty some years after his death at age 27 in 1938. Those 78 RPM records, not only establish his credentials as an exceptional guitar player and song writer, they are also credited with the birth of rock and roll, from the days of Elvis right through to the Beatles and the Rolling Stones; they all took their cue from, and credit him, with greatly influencing their own works. 

This was all news to me. A Vestal schoolteacher standing next to me explained the history. I shouldn’t mention her name, but I will anyhow, as I always do; it was Karen Liberatore. It got me thinking about the hardship that drove people to create the blues: poverty, personal tragedy, bias, prejudice, and lack of educational and employment opportunities. What would drive the blues today if it were in the hands of middle class Americans?

“Cell phone blues,” might be one such dirge to come into creation, a lament from a teen whose parents limited his monthly data allocation to 3,000 mega bytes on a non-state of the art, 3-year-old Samsung cell phone. Or, “Stick shift blues,” from a girl whose father made her learn to drive on a standard transmission car with 150,000 mile on the odometer. “Latté blues,” would come from a teen whose mom limited her latté budget to two a week.

These modern blues wouldn’t be limited to teens, who are always an easy target for old coots like me; we constantly compare their life style to the hard times we grew up in. The “walk to school up hill, both ways” kind of thing. We’d create our blues music too. “Social Security Blues,” moaning about the Administration changing the date my monthly check from the seventeenth of the month to the third Wednesday, causing it to come as late as the 21^st in some months. Or, “The early-bird Special blues,” a lament about restaurants reducing the cut off from 5 PM to 4:30 PM. The same places that have wised up and removed the unlimited supply of Splenda and sugar packets from their tables, forcing us to buy our own instead of stocking up while we dined.

No, the blues wouldn’t have the same driving force that created them in the 20’s and 30’s. “My Roth IRA only earned 4% last year” just doesn’t have the same impact. Johnson would probably fall out of his chair laughing if he heard our laments. Especially those from my old coot crowd whose favorite hobby is to moan the blues and complain about virtually everything. Fortunately we can’t carry a tune; the blues genre is safe! 

July 8, 2015 Artcle

The Old Coot hogs both lanes turning a corner.

By Merlin lessler

Old Coots swing wide! I didn’t notice it until Lois Bingley pointed it out. She’s a skilled bird watcher and applied her observation skills to watching old birds, which is the polite term for old coots. She said, “Just watch one of your crowd take a corner in their car. They swing way into the other lane to maneuver through it. They swing so wide they must think they’re driving an eighteen-wheeler or something. 

It’s true, but it’s not our fault. We’re partial to big boats, cars like the ones we grew up with. Big enough to seat three people in the front, a back seat that looks like a living room couch and a hood so long it requires an ornament or a crimped line at the front to help you steer. You line up the ornament with the edge of the road and it places you in the center of your lane. It worked great when we were in our youth, before we shrunk to our present height and we could sit up straight and erect behind the wheel.

But now, we’re shorter and slink down in the seat. You can barely see our heads when you follow from behind. This change in our physical structure is why we swing wide. We can hardly make out the hood ornament, all those yards in front of us. It’s like we’re driving from the recliner we watch TV (and nap) in at home. We lean way back and have a distorted view of the scene coming at us through the windshield. We glide into a right turn by going left. It kind of clears a path as the people coming toward us in the other lane jerk their cars out of the way. Then, we finish our wide turn and go down the road oblivious to the chaos we’ve created back at the intersection. Except now, thanks to Lois Bingley, I am aware of my swing wide technique. All I can say, is, “Thank you,” to all the drivers out there who pull out of my way, letting me get to the early bird special on time.

July 1, 2015 Article

The Old Coot is running around in circles (counterclockwise).

By Merlin Lessler

I walked the half-mile loop at Hickories Park the other day. In a counterclockwise direction. The arrow on the pathway instructs you to go the other way (clockwise). It’s a safety thing. They want you to face traffic as you go around since cars share the loop with pedestrians, skaters and bicyclists. Most of us ignore the arrow and walk with traffic at our back. It just feels wrong to walk around a circle in a clockwise direction. I wonder why?

All track meets have the runners going counterclockwise, same with roller and ice rinks, horse tracks (except in Europe) and auto races. Any activity that goes around in a circle goes counterclockwise. Is this a right-handed thing? Do left-handed people feel uncomfortable going counterclockwise?

Or, is it a Northern Hemisphere thing, like water going out of the bathtub swirling in a counterclockwise direction as it goes out the drain. When you cross the equator into South America, the swirl goes the other way. It’s the same thing with hurricanes. The wind swirls around the eye counterclockwise in the Northern Hemisphere and clockwise in the Southern Hemisphere. It’s called the Coriolis Effect. The planet makes it happen that way. I guess it affects us too.

It won’t matter in a few decades; today’s kids won’t know what clockwise or counterclockwise means. All the clocks they are growing up with are digital. Tighten a bolt by turning it clockwise and loosen it by turning it counterclockwise? That instruction won’t mean a thing. Righty-tighty and lefty loosey will replace it. The transformation has already begun. 

The signs for circular tracks, rinks and the like won’t ever instruct users to go in a clockwise or counterclockwise direction; they will have to say, “Walk with your left (or right) foot closest to the center of the circle. Or, they’ll paint arrows on the pavement like that at Hickories Park. It doesn’t really matter. Everybody, except maybe lefties, only feel comfortable walking in a counterclockwise direction so that’s the way they will go. We’re a counterclockwise species. If you’re rolling your eyes by now, check the mirror to see in which direction they roll. I bet they are rolling in a counterclockwise direction. Or, to say it in modern terms, “Lefty loosey!”

June 24, 2015 Article

The Old Coot is afraid of doors.

By Merlin Lessler

I have a door problem. A double door problem, to be specific. The entrances where you go through a door into a vestibule, and then through a second door. The physical doors aren’t the problem; it’s the question of manners. You approach the first door and a guy in front of you holds it open. A good thing! But, it kicks off an awkward social situation. Should you say, “Thank you,” and follow him to the second door where the scenario is repeated and say, “Thank you,” again? Or, should you make light of it at the second door and say, “Ditto,” or should you let your first thank you carry through the second door? 

If you save your thank you until you’re through the second door it causes a problem when someone coming out holds it open and you thank him or her. The guy in front of you takes it personal. (“You thanked the guy coming out, but not me. Grrr!”)  The safe route is to thank everybody in sight, even the guy who shoves past and crowds ahead of you in line. To him, I say, “Thank you,” out loud, but to myself I say, “Jerk!” 

It’s gotten to the point where I’m obsessed with the whole scenario. Not quite so bad that I loiter outside until it’s clear sailing through both doors, but almost. And, I often hang around inside, especially in coffee shops, to see what other people do. About fifty percent say, Thank you,” at the first door, and again at the second door. Thirty percent say it on the first door and make a slight physical gesture on the second, a nod, a wink or a thumbs up. The rest, I’m sorry to report, don’t say a thing. Let’s be frank here; they are just plain rude. As are the people who don’t give you a “thank-you” wave after you let them in front of you in their car. When they are rude at double doors, I say, “You’re welcome.” Sometimes it gets me, “Oh, I’m sorry. Thank you.” When they are rude in a car, I never do anything. There are just too many road-rage people out there; you can get shot.

I’m not sure what the solution is for the double door, manners problem. Super markets and big box stores have solved it for their customers by installing mechanical door openers. Good manners aren’t required. Other businesses have stuck with a single door, in spite of the cold draft that sweeps in when it’s opened on a bitter cold day. The rest have installed a double set of doors, creating a “manners” challenge for society. Maybe we need the first lady to start a campaign, like Nancy Reagan’s “Just Say No,” program. This time we need a, “Just Say Thank You,” program. 

June 17, 2015 Article

The Old Coot cashes in!

By Merlin Lessler

Finally, old coots like me get to cash in on gift registries! We missed out, “back in the day,” when we had our weddings. Guests gave us what they wanted to give. Everyone lugged a fancy wrapped package to the reception and added it to a pyramid like pile on the gift table. The groom was stuck with getting them home, often pulling out from the curb at the end of the reception in a car loaded with boxes of loot. The car itself was gift wrapped, in “Just Married” signs, ribbons, bows and a string of rattling tin cans dragging from the back bumper.  

The packages were opened in private, so nobody would know that someone else gave you the same gift they did. You often ended up 6 toasters, 2 steam irons, 5 electric percolators and a mishmash of everyday and special occasion household items in duplicate, triplicate, quadruplicate. But, it wasn’t really a problem. All the unwanted and unneeded items went into the hall closet. A treasure chest of sorts, to be drawn upon for future weddings, showers and house warmings. It was a great system, except for when you mistakenly gave an item back to the original giver (and their name was on a card you missed inside the box, hidden under the tissue paper).

Then some accountant came along and invented the gift registry; to bring into balance the gifts received side of the ledger with the gifts desired side. (It had to be an accountant, don’t you think?) People could then pick out their own gifts. Invitees were required to go to the store or the web site indicated on the invitation and select something, setting up a frantic race of old coots to get there first and nail down the cheapest item. The groom is no longer responsible for getting the presents from the reception to the couples home; the retailer takes care of that, sometimes including a stack of hand written (fake of course) thank you notes for the couple to put in the mail when they get back from their honeymoon.

Some of us old coots still have unused coffee pots, toasters and the like, kicking around in the back of our hall closets. Items we never got the chance to re-gift, and never will. But at least we can get in on the gift registry scam. It’s now available to people of my vintage, designed for the important milestones of our autumn years: hip, knee and shoulder replacements, heart stents, gall bladder extractions and the like. I received one such invitation from my friend Ken, in South Carolina. He’s having ankle surgery and the invitation to “wish him well” asked that we not send flowers or candy, but to select something from his gift registry account at WWW.I finallygetwhatIwant.com. I checked the box next to a two-pack of ace bandages. (It was the cheapest thing on the list.) All his items medical related. I’m going the other way with my registry; it won’t contain any therapeutic items like Ken’s did. I’ll load mine with happy things that old coots appreciate: Snicker’s bars, Oreo cookies, Hostess cupcakes, ice cream and dry red wine. I almost can’t wait for a new ailment to strike so I can send out, “I’m sick,” cards with gift registry details. 

June 10, 2015 Article

The Old Coot gives a warning.

By Merlin Lessler

Summer is just around the corner. Some of you may be planning a vacation with another couple. Be careful! A couple's vacation can prove troublesome. Both couples say, “We’re great friends! We get along so well. It would be so nice to go on vacation together.” That’s the premise, so off you go.

Day one is a travel day. Oh sure, there’s a little tension on the trip, causing a spat or two, but those are between partners. Her saying, “Come on honey; we need to get through security before it backs up.” Him saying, “There’s plenty of time.” Her replying, “Do me one favor; let’s just get through security; then you can do whatever you want.” The other couple is watching the exchange, so he backs down. In they go. Just a little spat. No big deal. Not yet!

You make it to your destination, go to dinner; no problems so far; everyone is too tired to disagree. But, a glimmer of what’s to come, surfaces. “What do you want to do for breakfast?” Such an innocent question. Except, couple # 1 wants to grab a cup of coffee and a muffin and get to the beach early to get a good spot. Couple #2 wants to sleep in and have a lavish breakfast in the dinning room and mosey out to the beach in time for lunch. The “I’m on vacation” attitude starts to surface. Some minor grumbling off to the side, between partners, not between couples. “I didn’t spend all this money to do stuff I don’t want to do.” (Often accompanied with childlike pouting and foot stomping.)

The whole thing could be resolved right then, before the real disaster of a couple’s vacation unfolds. All it would take is for one of the wives to say, “Lets do this - you do what you want to do during the day, we’ll do what we want and then we’ll meet up for dinner.” That way they would have had the best of all worlds; the comfort of traveling with friends and the ability to enjoy time in their own way. But, this never happens. Everything has to be done as a foursome. An endless series of spats behind closed doors, arguing about how best to deal with the other couple’s shortcomings. “She’s so bossy!” -  “He’s so stubborn and selfish.” -  “Who does he think he is?” – “Did you catch how rude she was to the server? I bet the staff got even when her entrée went back to the kitchen.”

Finally, the last day on the beach. Four people, all mad. The only thing holding the marriages together is a mutual distaste for the other couple. They lounge in beach chairs, each angled in a different direction; no one would know they were together. It’s a symbolic temper tantrum that silently says, “I’ll face whatever way I want. ” A single thought floods everyone’s head, “NEVER AGAIN!”

One of the wives looks up from her travel magazine and says, “There’s a great cruise to Alaska in May, half price! What do you think?” Stony silence is the response. I know; I’ve been next to these couples, eavesdropping, on the beach, on cruise ships, in campgrounds. Even hiking up the trails in the White Mountains. If you go this couple’s route, be careful, you may destroy a great friendship. 

June 3, 2015 Article

The Old Coot gets a comeuppance.

By Bill Schweizer, introduction by Merlin Lessler 

A few weeks ago I explained why I ride a bicycle without a helmet, to complement a previous article where I explained why I ride facing traffic. I bike at the same speed that many joggers run at, 8 miles per hour.  They don’t wear helmets; why should I?

 I added this “Ps.” at the end of the article: To my 92 and ½ year-old, Iron Man friend, Bill Schweizer – Yes, I wrote about Spandex yet again, but notice I did not chastise those who wear it. (It was implied but not stated.) If you feel compelled to submit a poem to the editor in protest, you’ll have to confine your rhyme to my bare head.

Here is Bill’s response: (You need to understand that the word love, in line five, is pure sarcasm. Bill is well aware of my dislike of Spandex).

 

There is this guy I much admire,
 who has a problem with his attire

 Dressing down is his big thing,
 of its features he does sing

 His love of spandex is well known,
 trying a pair might change his tone

 Most of the time his rants are harmless,
 but when it comes to helmets, call it scandalous

 Riding without, and wrong way to boot,
 is sure to result in a short lived coot

 So far, he's been a lucky fellow
 he has escaped a head of Jell-O

 If the wind in his hair must blow,
 Put the top down on his car and go

  Show some wisdom on his ride,
  protecting head should be the guide

  So my friend, my fondest hope,
  wear a helmet, don't be a dope

  (Written by a guy with three broken helmets but with the ability to walk out of the emergency room in every case.) Bill

May 27, 2015 Article

The Old Coot doesn’t see a weed, just beautiful yellow.

By Merlin Lessler

There are a lot of spring blooms out there. Tulips, daffodils, lilacs and my favorite, dandelions. Most people frown on them. I know what that’s like, being an old coot, I get a lot of frowns too. We’re both considered weeds (which, The American Heritage College Dictionary defines as undesirable, unattractive or troublesome). But really, if you get down on your hands and knees, and look at a dandelion, putting aside you prejudice for a minute, you can’t help but marvel at its beauty. Such an intricate and lush petal structure. And that color, as brilliant a yellow as you can get. Besides, how can you hate something from which you can create wine or spice up a garden salad? And, that never needs tending, watering or fertilizer to make it bloom?

What I like best about dandelions, is when they blanket an entire landscape with their beaming faces and a gentle breeze causing them to sway in unison; it’s on par with a starlit sky on a clear evening. So, where does it come from, this distaste we have for the lowly dandelion? The dislike is so strong it compels us to rush to Agway for something to annihilate the yellow blossoms with, or to get down on all fours and painstakingly dig them up, spending hours crisscrossing the yard until every last one has been eradicated. But, they come back! They have strong genetic survival characteristics. One, is their ability to lure young children to pick them when the petals have transformed into white, gossamer seedheads, called blowballs. The kids can’t resist waving them around or blowing them apart, insuring a new generation of blooms will rise again. 

And, that brings me to why I think a lot of people, a lot of adults, hate them. It’s those white seedheads, the petal remnants. They look old, dead, colorless and useless. Kind of like us old coots. So they get sprayed and dug up.  I experience the same distaste from people whenever I wander into a public gathering with a pair of glasses on the top of my head, a second pair in front of my eyes, my pants on backwards, coffee and mustard stains down the front of my shirt, a set of car keys in my hand and interrupt the mood by yelling across the room to my friend Daren, “Hang on a second; I can’t find my car keys!” That’s when I truly know, I’m a dandelion. 

May 20, 2015 Article

The Old Coot is out of time.

By Merlin Lessler

I watched a lot of TV new coverage this month: the earthquake in Nepal, the riots in Baltimore, the train wreck in Philadelphia. Too much, as a matter of fact. It’s something we do when there’s a protracted crisis and the media sinks its teeth into it. They stir up a lot of emotions: horror, fear, anger, sadness, hope, despair and pride. It runs the gamut; it’s almost too much to comprehend. The human machine can only handle so many emotional swings in so short a period of time. Most people who follow the coverage of these events reduce their emotional build up by discussing the situation with friends and family. It’s the healthy thing to do. Old coots join in on the discussion to a limited degree; after all, we are nearly human. But, our attention wanders from the event at hand, to the media process. We critique the performance of the reporters and announcers. We can’t help it; it’s a trait in our DNA that kicks in when we get our first Social Security check.

I notice that a lot of reporters use the “We’re out of time” technique. It’s something they do when they interview someone who doesn’t give them the answers they expect. They ask a local goober who has wormed his way to the front of the crowd a question. I guess, “Ask” is an incorrect use of the verb. In actuality, they make a long speech designed to get a response that matches their preconceived opinion, put a question mark at the end of it and shove a mike in front of Joe Goober’s face. The second his response wanders from where the reporter wanted it to go, you hear, “We’re out of time.” They all do it; the “Big Three” networks, who back off after a few days, and the cable networks, who stay with the story for weeks.   

I’m critical of the technique, but more jealous than critical. Jealous that I didn’t stumble on it earlier in life and use it to get out of sticky situations. I sure would have come in handy when I was called on in class in third grade. The school was overcrowded so they moved 5 of us ahead from 2nd grade to 3^rd grade to even up the class sizes. I found myself standing next to my desk, trying to spell the ten words assigned for the week. The teacher wanted to see what kind of speller I was. The first word was “city.” I was elated. This was a word I could surely spell; at least I’d get one right. “City,” I said, and then continued, "S-I-T with an E on the end,” This was met with a roar from the class. At that very second I should have said, “Well, that’s all the time we have,” and sat down. Instead, I was forced to stand there and provide comic relief to the class as I misspelled my way through the rest of the list.

I would have loved to use the technique when the principal confined me to her office for a week, having been guilty of daring Billy Wilson to light a match in the school library. It wasn’t my fault he took the dare and then stupidly tossed the lit match into the wastebasket catching the school paper inside on fire and forcing the evacuation of the school. I can think of a thousand places where I could have minimized my misery if I’d been smart enough to use the “We’re out of time” technique. But, I am thankful that I’m aware of its value now. As an old coot, I need it more than ever: when I get yelled at for unloading a full cart at the “7 items or less” counter at the supermarket, when the cop says he clocked me at 76 MPH, when the bill comes at the restaurant and dozens of other awkward situations I find myself in, I meekly say, “I’m sorry; we’re out of time.” 

May 13, 2015 Article

The Old Coot gives a heads up.

By Merlin Lessler

Spring is here. Finally! I’m not allowed to celebrate its arrival because I spent the winter in Florida and I didn’t suffer through the unending bitter stretch of cold weather here. But anyhow, spring has sprung. You can tell; the birds are chirping, the buds are on the trees and bicycles are gliding along the side of the road.

Both varieties. The serious peddlers, hunched over carbon fiber frames on multi-thousand dollar velocipedes, bodies wrapped in Spandex, feet shod in bike shoes that interlock with the pedals, sleek (alien looking) aerodynamic helmets and electronic devices that measure hydration levels, pulse rates and calorie burn (to let the riders know they’ve had a good outing). Then there’s my crowd. Well, it’s not much of a crowd. Our numbers are small and shrinking; we’ll soon be on the endangered species list. We shun the Spandex; if we wore it we’d look ridiculous, like the proverbial two pounds of baloney in a one-pound sack. No, we’re in a comfortable pair of cargo shorts and tee-shirt. Sneakers or flip-flops on our feet. And, NO HELMET!

We ride to the beat of a different drum. We do it to get from one place to another. The grocery store or café, for example. And, we also do it to feel the wind blow through our hair and enjoy the scenery along the way. To see things we miss when we pass by in a car.

I get a lot of flack for not wearing a helmet, from friends, from strangers, and especially from Fred Strauss, if he sees me ride bareheaded to a Rotary luncheon at the Treadway. He pulls me aside after the meeting and gives me a helmet lecture. I appreciate his concern; it’s nice that he cares. When he’s done I hop on my bike and ride home without a helmet, or any intention of ever wearing one. I’ve done the math! I ride at a speed of 8 miles an hour, 10 with a tail wind. When I was a jogger, years ago, before old-coot-hood assaulted my muscles and joints, I ran at the same speed that I now achieve on a bike. Marathon runners go faster than that. I watch them run the New York City Marathon every year. 50,000 people going faster on two legs than I go on two wheels. And guess what? Not a single one wears a helmet.

So, if you see me, or any other old coot, peddling along the side of the road at a snail's pace and bareheaded, toot your horn. We’ll know you approve. If you don’t approve, give Fred Strauss a call. Maybe he can help you cope with the “advice offered and not taken” syndrome.

Ps. To my 92 and ½ year-old, Iron Man friend, Bill Schweizer – Yes, I wrote about Spandex yet again, but notice I did not chastise those who wear it. (It was implied but not stated.) If you feel compelled to submit a poem to the editor in protest, you’ll have to confine your rhymes to my bare head.  

May 6, 2015 Article

The Old Coot is a duffer.

By Merlin Lessler

I watched the tail end of a PGA golf tournament the other day. It’s a nice thing to do on a rainy Sunday afternoon. My interest is somewhat mild. Oh sure, it’s a thrill to watch these guys put it two inches from the cup from 180 yards down the fairway after hooking the ball around a clump of trees, bouncing it between two sand traps and getting it to nuzzle the pin. “These guys are great!” (So claim the TV promos). But, the attraction, for me, comes when they slice a drive into the woods, chip out of a bunker on one side of the green into a bunker on the other side, or miss a two-foot putt. That’s when they play the game of golf as I know it.

Both golf and TV coverage have changed over the years. The naming rights have been sold to corporate sponsors (The Honda Classic, The SONY Open, etc.). But, the other thing that intrigues me, is that they no longer list how much each player won. They used to show it along side their final score.

Does the amount of money paid to the players make the PGA uncomfortable? It’s still published in the newspaper, but you have to wait until the next day to see it. Sometimes the 1^st place money is mentioned in passing during the live broadcast; I’m sure the commentator gets scolded for his big mouth. Jordan Spieth pocketed $1,800,000 for winning the Masters Tournament. Phil Mickelson and Justin Rose tied for second place; they got $880,000. The worst golfer got $23,000. Not bad for coming in last. So, what’s my point? I’m not sure. Am I jealous? Probably. But mostly, I just marvel at the sensitivity of the PGA. I guess all professional sports organizations are getting uncomfortable with the money paid to athletes. The President of the United States is paid pauper wages by comparison.

Money aside, it’s still fun to watch golf on TV, especially on a biter cold February afternoon. You don’t even have to be a golfer to appreciate the skill of these guys and gals. I whack around the little white ball every once in a while with a group of old coots that do it for fun. We’ve given up all hope of mastering the game; though we all shoot par. George and I usually reach it by the 12^th hole; Don and Tom, a few holes later. It all depends on how often George yells while someone’s in the middle of their back swing. The score we focus on, and try to improve, has nothing to do with par. We keep track of how many balls we lose, how many clubs we damage (or leave behind), how bad we hurt ourselves and are the injuries severe enough to send us to the ER or a re-hab center. Yes, we play a different game than most golfers, especially the pros. But, we have a lot more fun.