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.