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.