February 25, 2015 Article

The Old Coot isn’t real?

By Merlin Lessler

“Is it real or is it Memorex?” That was the question asked in TV ads, back when cassette tapes were the latest rage in sound reproduction, sending 8-track tapes, vinyl records and reel-to-reel tape players out to pasture. The correct answer was Memorex, not the real voice of a singer. Just in case you’ve forgotten, or have no idea what I’m talking about and your grandfather isn’t around to ask what the heck is a Memorex cassette tape.

A similar question could be asked of an old coot, shuffling around with an elastic support device on his knee, elbow, wrist or ankle. “Is it real, or is it fake?” Most of the time it’s real, but often enough it’s fake, a rouse employed to get some pity or to excuse poor performance in an athletic event.

The pity angle works pretty well. Pity is underrated, but old coots know it can pay dividends. Slap on an elastic joint support so it’s clearly visible, throw in a limp and there’s a good chance doors will be opened for you, you’ll be asked to skip to the front of the line or get out of taking out the garbage, though you have to be careful not to overdo the pity angle at home. Wives pick up on the fraud pretty quick. But, when you’re out in public, surrounded by people who don’t know you, the fakery works surprisingly well.

Most of us old pros use elastic support devices to excuse poor athletic performance. Ranging from miniature golf to real golf, from billiards to bowling, from casual bike rides to multi-mile bikeathon fundraisers. It doesn’t get us a head start or entice an opponent to ease up, but it does provide an out, keeping our egos intact. It excuses the tee shots that slice into the woods, the strikeouts at a reunion softball game, the bowling ball that keeps finding the gutter. An elbow strap excuses an unproductive fishing expedition where the only thing you come back with is a wild story about the one that got away.

None of this stuff works when we are with our own kind. Old coots don’t pity old coots for any reason! If an old crony is wheeled into a coffee shop on a gurney, with an IV sticking in his arm and a heart monitor strapped to his chest, at best, he’ll get us to reluctantly inch our chair over so the gurney can be pushed out of the aisle. Any attempt to use a knee, elbow, neck or other sort of mechanical support, an oxygen tank, a fresh scar from open heart surgery, will only net a chorus of, “I’ve had that,” or “I know a guy who had that.” We’ve been up and down the “my-whole-darn-body-is-falling-apart” road, and have no pity. We’re not real people, not anymore; we’re Memorex!

February 18, 2015 Article

The Old Coot shoots off his big mouth again.

By Merlin Lessler

This is one of those, Men are from Mars; Women are from Venus things. Whenever I venture into this arena I come out with scars, the verbal, in your face kind and the angry e-mail kind. Yet, here I go again. This time, it’s pillows. Decorative pillows to be precise. A design team works for months coming up with an attractive and ergonomically correct living room sofa. Three cushions to sit on, three cushions to lean back on. The ideal size, fit and color. A work of art. It makes it to the furniture store and the interior decorator takes one look, and says, “This needs some spicing up!” Then, proceeds to load on an array of throw pillows that accent, yet compliment the sofa fabric. It comes to your house the same way; the pillows cost as much as the sofa.

Old coots like me (and young guys too) take one look and say, “Where are you going to put the pillows so we can sit on it?” That’s where the Venus-Mars thing comes into play. We are told the pillows are going to stay right where they are. Duh! (The duh is implied, but the eye roll that accompanies it isn’t.) Every time we sit down we must move aside the decorator pillows. That’s when we discover the sofa is not long enough to stretch out on and take a nap. I swear our wives give the salesperson our height measurement before we’re led to one of the sofa display areas. All sofas in the section we are directed to are six inches shorter than we are. No naps on these sofas! And, when we get up, the pillows we tossed aside have to be put back. (Though hard as we try, we never do it correctly.)

It’s not just sofas that are loaded up with “unnecessary” pillows. Beds are too. It’s bad enough that you are required to sleep with something called a duvet, your bed is also home to an array of non-functional pillows. They have to be removed before you rest your head on a functional pillow. It’s kind of like the situation you encounter in the bathroom with the array of decorative soaps you’re not allowed to touch. They’re for guests! (Who never use them anyway.)

Decorative pillows breed after they’ve been in a house for a while. Their offspring plop down on chairs, the ones in the living room and then those in the kitchen and dining room; they get tied down and can’t easily be removed. Chairs, by the way, that were designed for comfort without the need of a pillow. I dread the day when the pillows invade our man caves and the other shrinking niches in our homes where we still retain some control. The pillows will win in the end. Venus always beats Mars!  

February 11, 2015 Article

The Old Coot rides the rails.

By Merlin Lessler

I took a train to Florida the other day. Me and 400 other snow birds. A few young couples with kids were mixed in, much to their dismay, but most of us were old guys and our long suffering wives. The train left from Lorton, Virginia at 4 pm, first loading the automobiles and then the cattle (us). It was an easier job to load the four door sedans and SUV’s than the horde of cranky, old humanoids. We waddled to our seats, lugging bags of reading materials, electronic devices, blankets and pillows and settled down for a “long winter’s nap,” expecting to wake from our comas at 9 AM in Sandford, Florida (just east of Orlando).

Picture this! Hundreds of old coots like me, who can’t walk a straight line on solid ground, maneuvering about on a rolling, jerking train, trying to navigate through narrow aisles and lurching doors, which made loud swishing sounds as they flew open and closed so fast that they startled and distracted us. At first, we didn’t know we were supposed to push a button to open the door. We stood in front of it, assuming it would open automatically, like the ones in grocery stores. It created a traffic jam, until some know-it-all in the back shouted, “Push the button DUMMY!” (not me)

Then, the line moved through the exit door on one car, three feet, to the closed entrance door of the next car, confronting the “dummy” at the front of the line with another challenge. Apparently the memory of pushing a button to open a sliding door doesn’t remain in an old coot’s short term memory after taking three steps, so the know-it-all in the back (not me) had to provide instruction, yet again.

There I was, locked on a fifty car auto-train with hundreds of my people, unsteady on our feet, moving around in a daze, hurtling south on wiggly train tracks, laid down a century earlier. The hard of hearing old coots yelled to their wives, who shouted in reply, to avoid hearing, “WHAT?” after every sentence. Others, yelled into their cell phones, having learned at a young age that you need to shout, and constantly ask the caller if they can hear you, when you are on a long distance call. All this, with a conga line continuously marching back and forth from the dining car at one end of the train to the bar car at the other. Adding to the turmoil, were trips down narrow, winding staircases to the bathrooms. What were they thinking, the train people, loading a horde of old coots onto a train for a 16 hour ride, supplying adult beverages on a bouncing, rocking vehicle and then locating bathrooms down a flight of stairs?

They were thinking though, but only about rules and where to put signs to enforce them. Every possible peril is acknowledged with a sticker, plaque or engraved sign. The doors between cars are overloaded with messages: two exit signs, a “watch your step” warning, a message only a bureaucrat could conceive and feel the need to paste to a door just below the “press” sign; it made no sense to me. It said, “Fully equipped FRA Part 223 - Glazing,” lastly, another “press” sign at the bottom of the door, so you can kick it with your foot when your arms are loaded with drinks and “freebies” from the dining car: sugar packets, apples, bananas, coffee, napkins, discount brochures and the rest of the worthless junk that old coots feel compelled to abscond with. So much signage on so small a surface. It’s no wonder the dummy (not me) at the front of the line didn’t notice the “press” sign.

We all made it to Sandford intact, but a few of us sported bruises, nicks or scrapes on our faces, elbows and knees, the result of bumping and stumbling in the aisles as we impatiently rushed from one venue to another, determined to get our money’s worth and to be first in line at everything (which is what old coots do), saying to the world, “I’m old; I don’t have much time left; let me through!” I don’t know what my wife was thinking when she made the reservation. No one knows more about old coots than me, having studied and written about my species for going on two decades, yet I went right ahead and put myself in harms way. Next year I’m taking a jet plane!

February 4, 2015 Article

Old Coot wants horns on shopping carts!

By Merlin Lessler

I wrote about this before, nine years ago to be exact, but was reminded of it the other day when I got trapped behind two “wide walkers” in the grocery store. They moseyed along in front of me. The people themselves weren't wide, but their walking style was. When they stepped with their right foot, it went way to the right and then when it was time for the left foot, it went way to the left. It was like walking behind a pair of waddling ducks. And, that's another thing, what is it with people who insist on walking side by side? They clog up the aisles. I wish carts had horns on them. I could get by the gridlock and on to the half price table in the old coot section. As it is, I have to trudge along at a pace set by wide walkers.

If it isn't a wide walker, then it's a "weaver" that hinders my progress. You know the type; they poke along in a coma like state. When you try to pass on the left, they weave in front of you. If you go to the right, they beat you to the open lane. It's just another reason to equip the carts with horns. I'm thinking of carrying a bag of M&M's with me. It should work just fine in our "obese" society. I could scatter a handful to the side of the aisle. When the weaver stops to gather them up, I could pass by with ease.

Something has to happen. It's getting pretty bad, at least in the stores where I shop. Maybe we should require shopping cart licenses. Shoppers would have to pass a written exam and a road test. It might make people keep to the right as they go down the aisle, instead of driving on the wrong side of the "road," as though they lived in England. If the stores were required to have the carts "inspected" by an authorized mechanic every year it would solve another of my shopping problems, a cart with a messed up wheel, the kind that won't go in a straight line. They constantly go at an erratic angle so you have to jerk them back into the driving lane every few steps. I hate it; it makes people think I'm a "weaver" - they yell and throw things at me as I wind my way through the store. If there were horns on the carts they could just toot and I'd let them by.

Cell phone use while pushing a cart causes yet another problem in grocery stores. You follow a “pusher-yacker” down the aisle and all of a sudden she comes to a dead stop, yells into her phone, "You're kidding! They didn't really do that did they?” I end up ramming the front rail on my cart into the back of her ankles. I apologize profusely, explaining that old coots have slow reflexes and can’t come to a sudden stop. If the carts had horns, I could signal to the other old coots in the store that I’d just scored one for the home team. Then, all our horns could be blown in a victory celebration, like the high school kids when they drive through town after winning the big game. Boy, I wish shopping carts had horns!