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. 

April 29, 2015 Article

The Old Coot is tied up in knots.

By Merlin Lessler

Someone must have designed them that way; it can’t be a natural phenomenon. I take out my ear buds, jam them in my pocket, pop into the Goatboy Coffeebar to get a small coffee to go, and in the minute and one half it takes, the cord to the ear buds tangles into knots that any good boy scout would envy. Two in the main body, a sheepshank in the line to the left earpiece, a granny knot in the right.

Every wire I deal with does the same thing: the charger cord to my cell phone, the USB cord I use to transfer information to and from the computer, even the big fat extension cord I use outside to run the leaf blower. I take extra care rolling it up, place it gently on a hook in the garage, turn my back, and it has two knots in it. If I tied a knot in it I’d have to make a loop and pull the end through it; the cord does this on its own without moving. Throw it on the rack; wait ten seconds, take it off and presto, it’s tied in a knot.

Unfortunately, this self-knotting characteristic only applies to things I don’t want to knot. Things I do, like shoelaces, won’t stay tied no matter how hard I try. I bend over, no small feat for an old coot, tie my shoe laces in tight knots and before I walk half a block, one of them comes undone. I go down on one knee, since my back is already sore from the initial effort, and retie it into a double knot, pull it tight and continue on my way. Soon enough, I’m kneeling down again; the second one has come undone.

If you observed me waking to town, you’d wonder, “Why does that old coot keep stopping and kneeling. Is he giving thanks for something? Does he have a kidney stone and the pain is sending him to his knees in agony?” I can never take a walk without someone pulling their car over to ask if I’m OK. I pull out my ear buds to reply, and then, when I’m on my way again, discover the wires are in a tangle. And of course, one of my shoelaces has come undone as well.

Even the garden hose is in on the joke. We have a stretchy one that extends fifty feet and recoils when you’re done using it. It did at first, anyway. Now, it has adopted a knotting and kinking process. I get out fifty feet, around the side of the car to wash out the wheel wells. Nothing! Not a single drop of water comes out. The hose has a kink in it, way back near the faucet. I hook the nozzle to the bumper so I won’t have to stretch it out again and take the walk of shame back to the kink and remove it. By the time I get back to the car, the hose has a knot in the middle and a new kink half way out. My ear buds have a knot too and of course, my shoe is untied. My friends tell me it’s not real, that I’m paranoid. The next one who says that is getting a recoiling hose for his birthday. See how he likes it.

April 22, 2015 Article

The Old Coots audits a press conference.

By Merlin Lessler

There he is, and it usually is a he, at a press conference podium explaining a giant and/or disgraceful mess up. Often, it’s a politician riding the shame train, but it could just as well be the CEO of a major corporation, the president of a prestigious university or an all-star athlete on a major sports team. A team of experts stands at his side to provide the “facts,” along with an attorney to tell him when to shut up. The well staged, and well rehearsed, pseudo-drama starts with the “big” guy reading a prepared statement. “I first want to apologize to the families that have been harmed by my/our actions. If I could take it back, I would. Safety and security is one of my/our utmost concerns.” (The statement is always read from notes; these guys are incapable of speaking from the heart. 

That’s the first thing about press conferences that gives me such a chuckle. They ignored the situation, gave it the old stonewall strategy, but public outcry didn’t go away and they were forced to hire a PR firm to manage the damage, starting with a press conference, to demonstrate their client’s openness and sincerity. Ha!

The press room is rarely equipped with a microphone in the audience area, (I suppose on purpose) so as we watch on TV, the “culprit” leans on the podium, stares off into space while a news reporter we can’t hear, asks a question three times as long as the opening statement. The reporter has two agendas: to make a name for him/herself and to get to the facts. The former being more important than the latter. The culprit answers by first saying, “That’s a very good question!” Which is code for, “I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole; watch me dance.

The conference continues in this disjointed fashion; the stupes by his side take the mic from time to time; the lawyer interrupts to prevent a response by saying the matter is under litigation and can’t be discussed, or it violates some “made up” privacy regulation. The press conference ends with the perpetrator stating he’s determined to get to the bottom of this, has launched an intensive investigation and will cooperate fully with the process.

That’s bad enough, but it’s not quite over. You think you’re going to see the 2^nd half of your favorite TV show that was interrupted by the press conference, but you’re not. Now, the network takes you back to their news center where a team of media experts has been assembled to dissect the event, which, by the way, provided zero information. Still, they will spend the rest of the hour examining every word uttered at the press conference.   No “Big Bang Theory” for you tonight. Just, Big Bull!

April 15, 2015 Article

The Old Coot checks out, checking out.

By Merlin Lessler

So there you are, in line at a grocery store, patiently waiting as your items get scanned into the cash register, Boing! Boing! Boing! one after the other; the UPC code is recognized and accepted by the mechanism that cashes you out. Every once in a while, an item won’t Boing. The clerk wipes off the bar code and tries again. That usually does it. If not, she quickly enters a long string of number from the package and goes to the next one. It takes just over a minute to check out 50 items. Still, we impatiently rock back and forth from one foot to the other, anxious to get our bags and get out the door.

How different this scene was a few decades back; each item had a price tag stuck to it, not a bar code. The cashier had to turn the item this way and that to find it, enter it into the cash register, while under the pressure of an eagle-eyed shopper checking her every move. Often saying, “Hey! You overcharged me on that can of corn; it was 36 cents; you rang up 63 cents. The adjustment was made on the next item; the math was done in the clerk’s head and explained to the eagle eyed shopper, “The ham is $3.96; I took off 27 cents to fix the overcharge for the corn.” Checking out 50 items took five minutes or more back then.  And, get this; the clerk had to figure out how much change to give the customer, all by herself. The cash register didn’t do it; she did it in her head. It was like this everyplace, not just grocery stores. School kids today would be hard pressed to figure out how much change to give someone who paid for a $16. 25 purchase with a 50-dollar bill. They can write a sentence about the mathematical manipulation and show four ways to arrive at an answer, but I doubt they could multiply, add and subtract in their heads like cashiers did before “smart” cash registers came along.

Going farther back in time, the check out process was even more tedious. The grocer would write the price of each item on a brown paper bag with a #2 pencil. He’d sum the column and come up with a total. Change was made in a drawer under the counter with slots for tens, fives and ones, and pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters and half-dollars. Most neighborhood grocery stores couldn’t afford a cash register. Payment was made in cash. No checks or credit cards back then, though many mom and pop operations ran a tab.

Next time you are in line behind five people with a cart full of groceries, multiply 5 minutes times each person to find out how long you’d be there in the good old days. (You can do that in your head can’t you?) If my old coot buddies did this, it might stop them from grousing about the high tech society we live. Sometimes a trip down memory lane makes you appreciate the present.   

April 8, 2015 Article

The Old Coot can’t mutter.

By Merlin Lessler

Back in “the day” people in polite society muttered under their breath. It started when they were kids and their mother said, “Put away that Monopoly game and go clean your room!” That’s where the “mutter” came in, “Yea, well you’re a Stupid Head!” It was muttered “under the breath,” so mom knew you said something, but not what. It made you feel better after getting bossed around, but not in trouble for the cardinal sin of “sassing back.” Your parent might ask, “What did you say?” You’d lie, and say, “Nothing.” The “mutter” under your breath thing was an important component in maintaining a civil relationship. It provided relief for frustration without causing full-blown confrontation. Fortunately, it’s a technique that’s been adapted to our modern technological society. Kids don’t mutter under their breath, but they are masters at “text” muttering. They reply, for example, to mom’s text to, “Get your fanny home right now, young lady,” with, “Yes mom, on my way. Love you; yash (you’re a stupid head). Parents don’t know they’ve just been sassed. If they Google for a meaning, they won’t find it. It’s a secret cipher that the best code breakers have yet to crack.

It’s nice to see that the mutter tradition continues. It’s healthy for kids to express their frustration at being bossed around by adults, and yet, keep things civil. I’m sure our mothers knew exactly what we’d muttered when we were growing up, but they were wise enough to let it drop. Overt sassing, if detected, could not be ignored, and often resulted in a slap “upside” the head.

Old coots don’t mutter. The world would be a better place if we did, but we don’t. It’s because our hearing prowess fades as we age and when we try to mutter it comes out at full volume. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of,” we’ll try to mutter to the waitress who just informed us we’re too late for the early bird special, but it comes out loud. We ruined her day, but it wasn’t our intent. After this happens a few times we come to realize that we’re not muttering and we kind of like how it feels. So we stick with it.

We don’t text well, at least not proficiently enough to end a message with a YASH.  Our deteriorating hand-eye coordination makes us hit the wrong keys and anything could come out in our message; we don’t check our work before sending it and probably would insult the recipient. Which we want to do, but secretly. We’d end up with a black eye. And, that’s just another peril of being an old coot.