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.

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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?