April 27, 2016 Article

The Old Coot never heard, “Good job!”

By Merlin Lessler

I attended an outdoor religious service near Orlando, Florida the other day. It was a denomination I wasn’t familiar with, but I was an invited guest, so I went. The service was participatory. The younger attendees split into two groups; one group, lets call them the Reds, and the other group, the Whites, performed a ritual in the center of a grassy area. Elders in the congregation stood off to the side on opposite sides of the ritual area, chanting, "Good Job, Good Job,” at varying intervals.

Two high priests wandered among the Reds and Whites, directing the service. They also chanted, “Good Job, Good Job.” The ceremony was halted at frequent intervals while a participant went to a knee and fumbled with a shoelace; this quite often had to be repeated two minutes later, eventually requiring the deft fingers of a high priest. At the conclusion of this part of the service, the Reds and Whites lined up single file in separate groups and then the lines passed by each other, slapping raised right hands and chanting, “Nice Game, Nice Game.” Next, the elders moved to the center, formed two parallel lines and joined raised hands across the space in between, forming an archway. 

The high priests signaled to the Reds and Whites to run through the human arch while the elders voiced a continuous chant of, “Nice Game and Good Job.” The Reds and Whites made three passes and then scrambled to the sideline to consume a politically correct snack: juice, fruit and granola bars. That was my first exposure to the Church of American Youth Soccer. Grandchildren Elle and Emma, of the Reds, said they had a great time. (In spite of an excess of parental involvement. I’m told the 8 to 3 rout ended in a tie.)

I heard, “Good job,” approximately 2,800 times that morning; 400 from the coaches and 2400 from the parents. I’d call that excessive, but I’m a poor judge. Old coots like me, grew up in a world where parents, for the most part, stayed in their adult world and us kids stayed in the kid world. The field where I played little league had a small bleacher section, but the only occupant that ever sat there was a teammate’s sibling he got stuck watching for the afternoon. Never a parent, because the games were played on weekdays, in the afternoon when school was out for the summer, not in the evening or on weekends in a season starting in early spring and ending when the school year comes to a close, like today. Little league was for kids. All sports were like that. We didn’t have travel leagues, night games or professionals to hone our skills. We taught each other, the older kids taught the younger, the good athletes taught the inept, and not a single thought was given to the concept of self-esteem. That came from winning and losing, and being motivated by the loosing to practice and do better. After all, it is SELF esteem, not PARENT esteem.   

But still, I’m a little envious of today’s kids. I would have loved it if my “old man” had been there the day I pitched against Bonnie Silk, the best team in town, and held them to one run. Or, the first and only time, I won the 100-yard butterfly when I was on my high school swim team. There weren’t many of those moments, but it would have been nice. Yet, there is no way I can picture him standing in the middle of a field forming a victory archway with other parents.  Which era is better for kids? Organized and supervised sports? Or, sand lot, pick up games with no adults involved? The jury is still out. You decide.

Cast your vote at - mlessler7@gmail.com

April 20, 2016 Article

The Old Coot sits in exile.

By Merlin Lessler

I’m sitting here in exile. Call me old guy #1. Next to me is a guy wearing a baseball cap and white knee socks (old guy #2). Across from us is a guy with a cell phone attached to his belt (old guy #3). We’re outside a shop called Bahama Mama’s in Flagler Beach, Florida, a small town half way between Daytona Beach and Saint Augustine. We’re here on the porch, three strangers, waiting for our wives who are inside scouring the racks and shelves. The sign next to the door promises: exotic gift baskets, tropical metal art, island décor for inside and out and key lime products. No men allowed! Well, it doesn’t actually say. “No men allowed,” but it might as well.

I don’t know what any of those things in the shop are; yet, I know I’m not interested. I’m also not interested in sitting on a porch with two other old guys who also don’t want to be on the other side of Bahama Mama’s door, but it’s what we do! You see us all over the place – sitting on benches in malls – sitting in cars in shopping center parking lots or waiting outside a house in a residential neighborhood with the engine idling while our wives are inside concluding a “Good-Bye” process. We’ve said our good bye, a simple, “Thanks for having me, hope to see you soon,” turned to our wives, thinking they might do the same. Instead, they say, “Hang on a sec,” and turn to the woman hosting the affair. A second turns into a minute, then five minutes. We stand by their side like idiots, finally interrupting the Good-Bye process, to say, “I’m going out to warm up the car.”

We’re a patient bunch, us old men, having been around long enough to understand the waiting process. We gave up throwing tantrums long ago, the ones where we acted like five-year-olds, tugging at our mothers’ skirts and whining, “Can we go now?” Yes, we gave that up, figured out how to kill time and let the world spin without us.

We’re fairly compliant, us old guys waiting around. But, sometimes our subconscious takes over and retaliates, causing us to do something stupid, like “accidentally” taping over our wedding video with a Super Bowl game. It balances things out, in this battle of the sexes that’s been raging since the first caveman invented the club and took himself a wife. She then initiated the first Good-Bye process. As they left a neighbor’s cave, she turned to the female host and asked, “Where did you get that hide; it’s adorable?”

We’re more civilized about it now, but the battle continues. Psychologists, social scientists and anthropologists have studied the phenomena for centuries. Concluding nothing and simply throwing up their hands in frustration and mumbling things like, “Men are from Mars; Women are from Venus.” In my world it’s simpler; Women shop and Men sit. End of story.

Comments? Gripes? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com (Be nice)

April 13, 2016 Article

The Old Coot doesn’t care.

By Merlin Lessler

Out loud – “Wow! You’re 50? You sure don’t look it!”

Unspoken – “Who cares!”

Out loud – “Wow! You gave up cream in your coffee and lost 20 pounds in a month? You look so slim.”

Unspoken – “Who cares!”

Out loud – You broke a tooth on a popcorn kernel and your dentist fixed it for $50?”

Unspoken – “Who cares!” (So, sue me; I had to throw in one example for my old coot crowd.)

We humans, at least those of us of old coot vintage, old enough to finally admit the ugly truth, aren’t particularly pleased to hear you tell of your good fortune. No matter how much we seem to fuss and fawn over you at the time. It’s part of the “social lies” that civilized people are guilty of, until they become an old coot like me. That’s when freedom really rings.

No, what we really want to hear is how bad it was, that trip to the dentist with the broken tooth that ended up in a root canal and a crown to the tune of $3500. And, then it broke again three weeks later.

And, when you tell us you’re 50, we can snicker to ourselves, because you really look 20 years older. And, that’s not all that makes us happy. We’re also happy because you hadn’t asked us to guess how old you were. Even an old coot can feel embarrassment. 

And, instead of remarking how trim you look 1 month after giving up cream in your coffee, we’d rather be eavesdropping on some other old coot, asking you when you are due.

These are the conversations we love, the people we love! People like us. Even Oprah joined our fold when she lost all that weight on her TV show and then gained it right back, plus some. In spite of having a nutritionist, a private chef and a personal trainer at her disposal. Oh sure, the audience cheered when she did the big reveal on stage, to show how much she’d lost. Phony cheers! The real ones went up when the pictures of a full sized Oprah graced the covers of the tabloids in the aisles by the check out counters in grocery stores. Now she’s back at it again, with a 33% stake in Weight Watchers. We can’t wait to see the outcome. Not the one where she announces her weight loss success, the one a year later, when she gains it all back. Like we would.

 What can I say? I’m human. Flawed. It takes being an old coot to finally admit it.    

April 6, 2016 Article

The Old Coot and old cars do mix.

By Merlin Lessler

I don’t get it! Why, Chrysler, GM and Ford don’t produce replicas of their 1950’s cars. Imagine the stampede to the showroom if a 1957 Chevy Impala convertible was introduced. Those sleek, classic lines, those bold colors, that chrome. Mounted on a new chassis with rack and pinion steering, disc brakes, high efficiency engine and all the safety features of today’s automobiles. And yes, blue tooth and the other electronic nonsense we can’t live without.

I know I’d beat a path to the Ford dealer’s showroom to purchase a facsimile of my first car. A 1953 Ford convertible. Mine cost $60 and had more Bondo than metal, but I’d re-mortgage my house to get the modern version of it. Those corporate automobile giants just don’t get it. They hire high priced designers to craft an appealing body style while sitting on the copyrights and patents of the most fabulous and desired cars ever produced. Heck, I’d even pony up for my 1973, yellow Pinto station wagon with fake wood paneling on the sides. Ugly? Dorky? Oh yes, but fabulous by today’s car standards where it’s hard to tell the difference between an expensive Mercedes sedan and a budget practical, Toyota Camry. Bland and boring is in, style and class is out. 

And, I don’t get it when it comes to other manufacturers either. The appliance makers for instance. They need to dig into their dusty old files and bring back some of those items.  A washing machine that let’s you open the top in mid cycle to toss in those two items you just found under the bed. One that’s not “locked” for your protection. How about a dryer that doesn’t have an “Enonomy” setting, purported to save energy. But, how can it? It takes a fixed amount of heat to dry an article of clothing. Heat + Time = Dry. Lower the heat and you have to increase the time. Ala, same amount of energy used.

It would be nice to buy an electric space heater that you could lean over a little bit so you could direct the heat. But, oh no! Tilt today’s model and it shuts off. Many mechanical products have “new age” features, designed to satisfy the nanny state bureaucrats, not to provide convenience or user satisfaction.

I guess I’m drifting again – back to “the day.” It’s an affliction a lot of old coots suffer from. How can we not? Ladders covered with safety stickers, plugs that won’t go into an outlet unless they are turned the right way, lawn mowers that can’t be pulled backwards without chewing up a rubber safety guard, and then leave clumps of grass behind as it mows. Everything you touch is encumbered with unwanted and awkward to use features. It’s so bad that even people in their 30’s are wishing for the good old days. It’s an untreatable disease; it’s called “premature old cootism” and it’s spreading rapidly.  

March 30, 2016 Article

The Old Coot’s got nothing!

By Merlin Lessler

I hit the wall. Writer’s block! Nothing I want to write about, complain about. A sad state for an old coot. I need something to stir me up; otherwise, I’ll lose my status in the old coot world. I thought I might opine about the ads on TV for the Oral-B power toothbrush. It shows the device gliding along top a row of teeth, with the bristles reaching down both sides to the gum line, flecking away tartar particles with a voice over claiming this will prevent gum disease. My immediate reaction was to yell, “Bull!”

I have the exact same toothbrush displayed in the ad; you have to tilt it to get it to reach the gum line, and thus it only does one side of a tooth at a time. Then I did the math. The bristles are a quarter of an inch long; the distance between the gum line and the top of my shortest tooth is an eighth of an inch greater than that. A majority of human’s teeth are the same. Thus the caricature of the portrayal of an Oral-B in action is bogus and thus deserving of my, “Bull!” (Even though I like the toothbrush and it works great, just not as portrayed)

But so what? Who cares about a stupid toothbrush ad on TV? Then I considered complaining about my lack of small talk skills. And, my need for an App for my smart phone to help with the shortcoming. Like when I’m stuck in a seat next to a stranger on a plane, in a long line at the DMV, at a wedding reception, cocktail party or gallery opening. To help me after I’ve exhausted my small talk skills of, “How you doin?” and “How about this weather?”

The App would come to my rescue. I’d type in a stranger’s age, sex, dress style and social status (redneck, yuppie, slob, outdated, old coot, etc.) and up would pop a set of questions. Questions are the best mechanism to a successful conversation. People love to talk about themselves. They don’t want to hear about YOUR children and grandchildren, dog, cat, professional and social successes. And, they definitely don’t want to endure listening to a litany of ailments from an old coot like me. Let them talk about themselves and they’ll think you are a gifted conversationalist!

But, neither of these topics held my interest long enough to create a discourse. It troubles me greatly. There’s not enough stupid stuff going on around me to energize my old coot crankiness. I guess I’ll give it up and close with the thought, “All’s well with the world.” DARN! DARN! DARN!

March 23, 2016 Article

The Old Coot comes clean.

By Merlin Lessler

I love McDonalds! There, I said it. The most politically incorrect food statement imaginable. I’ve been hiding it. Afraid to admit that their French fries are “to die for,” their Big Macs are transcendental and their prices are “old coot” friendly. Now mind you, I only consume two Big Macs a year, but they are there for me when the urge gets too strong to fight. When I just can’t stop myself.  That’s not the case for their breakfast menu. I go for an old coot special nearly every week: a sausage McMuffin, hash brown and large coffee for under five bucks. And, how about that drive-in window on a bitter cold, winter morning or rain drenched summer afternoon? So convenient! And most of the time, so fast.

I feel better now – I got it out in the open – I confessed. But, there’s more. I love bread. Rye bread, Kaiser rolls, baguettes, Italian bread, and yes, evil white bread. No, it’s not the same bread my mother sent me off on my bike every couple of days to pick up at our neighborhood grocery store. That bread was fresh and would turn hard in a day or two, more or less. No preservatives! I could never resist opening the package to pull a slice out of the middle and munch it down as I peddled back home, with the rest of the loaf hanging off my handlebars in a canvas drawstring sack. That must be where my weakness for processed wheat comes from. That, and the box of Wheaties on our breakfast table with Mickey Mantle staring at me as I ate. 

Oh sure, bread was different back then. Wheat and wheat processing has changed over the years but, people have changed too. Especially kids. We moved around more than kids do today; we ran, skipped, jumped, climbed trees, played every game possible with a round ball. We fought cowboy and Indian wars with cap pistols in the woods. Our metabolisms were ramped up enough to devour those calories and keep the fat cells at bay. We didn’t know that having fun was good for us. And, when we sat down to the dinner table, we were hungry. Starved! Oh that world before TV.

Now I’m old. I still move around, but not like I used to. And, I’ve been marginalized because I’m politically “food” incorrect. I’m just about finished with this revelation, this admission. I’m going to put down my notebook and pen and go up to the counter to get my free, senior coffee refill and then come back and write a closing sentence. (One minute later) “I love McDonalds!” 

March 16. 2016 Article

The Old Coot cares. More than CBS.

By Merlin Lessler

CBS Cares! - Subaru is love! Nike says, Just do it! – GE used to say, We bring good things to life, but have since launched, Imagination at work, spending $100 million in promotion. Most companies use a slogan to present a positive public image. And, without giving it a lot of thought, we buy it. Especially if we hear it a lot. It seeps into our brain and finds a home. That’s where old coots like me earn our keep. We’re skeptics. We say, “Bull,” to manufactured corporate images.

Oh sure, CBS does care; they care about their ratings; they care about their ad revenue and most of all, they care about their bottom line. This doesn’t come through to us when we see them send an image across our TV screens of a lost puppy running to the open arms of a six year old girl with tears streaming down her rosy cheeks as the announcer says, CBS Cares. It didn’t work for Circuit City with their slogan, Just what you needed! Apparently we didn’t, and they went bankrupt. So did Lehman Brothers, who bragged they were, Where vision gets built! The vision turned into an illusion and investor’s money disappeared. 

I’ll confess; I’m overly sensitive to manufactured corporate images. I participated in creating a few over the years. I understand the process. It starts with the CEO.  It’s a money thing: ad revenues are off, viewership is down, ratings are slipping. The PR and Marketing VP’s are called on the carpet and the CEO says, “We need a better image! One that appeals to the “common man” and the hardships of this economy. Make it so!” Out in the hall the PR guy says to the marketing VP, “Oh sure. The cheapskate won’t pay for better programming, so it’s our job to save his career with a new slogan that improves our image.”

They get to work. A year of consultants, ad executives, psychologists, brain storming sessions, focus groups, viewer surveys, grilling by executive management and finally, CBS Cares is born. But, it was a long hard route to get there. The first draft was, CBS is interested and concerned with people and animals that are undergoing difficulties (can’t leave animals out, not today, not with PETA pushing for equality).

That one got laughed out of the room, and then came, CBS is focused on people and animals having a bad day. More chuckles in the board room, and then came version #3 – CBS supports and feels for people and animals in distress. And, then version #4 – CBS cares about people and animals.

“Better,” says the CEO. “Now get it finished.” More consultants are hired; focus group meetings and surveys are conducted once again. It gets no place. Finally, a group of old coots are brought in. “If an old coot gets it, we’re golden,” the PR guy whispers to the Marketing VP. The old coots tell them it’s too complicated, to make it simple. They do; the slogan is boiled down to a single thought, CBS Cares. Puppies and little girls are hired; the new slogan is launched; the public starts to believe that CBS really does care. But, not the old coots; we sit back and snicker. We know the con game never ends!    

March 9, 2016 Article

The Old Coot stifles a scream. Not!

By Merlin Lessler

A kid near me on the beach was making a racquet the other day. Yelps and screeches flooded the waterfront. Not a two year old. A ten year old! Some kids are like that. I call them screamers. You often run into them at the beach. Every splash yields a high-pitched scream. It’s worse when the tide’s coming in and a new wave rolls up every few seconds. Most kids play and laugh with each wave. Not a screamer. Every wave sends a screech across the shore. This kid’s mother and father were oblivious. Never a, “Stop that screaming!” or “If you scream one more time you’re going to sit on the towel for ten minutes!” Nothing! No consequences. Thus, a screamer was born and nurtured.

I happened to be fishing next to this one in the surf. He was screeching, so I said, “It sounds like you’re having a good time.” And, then shut my mouth. I wanted to say, “ Do you have to scream so loud; it bothers people. Your screech is like nails dragging across a blackboard.” Had I said that, he would have looked at me like I was crazy and yelled, “What’s a blackboard mister?” That’s because I’m in a foreign country - Modern America. It’s six decades removed from the land I grew up in. Each decade moves me 1,000 miles from shore. Right about now I estimate I’m someplace in the middle of the Pacific Ocean on a remote island. Populated with old coots like myself.  

I went back to my fishing, shoved a pair of noise canceling ear buds into place and listened to an electronic version of ocean waves. When you’re in a foreign land, you have to adapt.

The screamer will never know what it’s like to stand at a blackboard in front of the class, writing, “I will not scream in class,” 50 times. He’ll never experience a spank to the bottom to teach him not to bolt into traffic. He’ll never be taught to unloosen a nut by turning it counterclockwise. There are no timepieces with hands that circle a clock face in his land.

The land where I grew up was a land of consequences. I’m not mad; I’m jealous. I spent too many hours staying in school long after the dismissal bell rang. And, too many days in the cloakroom while my classmates were enjoying recess on the playground. I wasn’t alone; my friends were absent from playtime as well. Woody was sitting at attention at his desk, Buzzy was in the corner facing the wall and Cady was doing solitary in the hall. All serving a sentence for violating one rule or another. There were multiple mechanisms for behavior modification. Solitary confinement was quite effective, as was missing out on recess. They both worked miracles.

What’s my point? I’m not sure. I just get irked when a screamer is allowed to run free while I had to do the time. But heck, that’s what it’s like to be a visitor in a foreign land.