May 25, 2016 Article

The Old Coot says, “Please shut up!”

By Merlin Lessler

Good Morning America, The Today Show, Morning Joe and the like, with a clump of people sitting around the table, having a so-called discussion, are all the same; everyone at the table talks at the same time. There is no listening. It comes through my TV speaker as a jumbled mess, something like this, “ He didn’t who said that where does it say the Democrats he went to why can’t they say nobody will vote for she was not on the campaign trail Iran didn’t Obama said, who can tell forever.” Nobody gets to make a point when it’s all mixed up like this.

It’s too bad. Because sometimes, something intelligent comes out of one of their perpetual motion mouths. And, if they listened to each other, and thought about what was said, they might increase their own wisdom (and ours). And, heaven forbid, even reconsider their position. But they don’t, so everyday they come to the table no wiser than the day before.

It’s a horrible slap in the face to the higher institutions of learning and a clear example of just how lacking a college education is these days. Most of these “non-listening” panelists attended the best colleges and universities in the nation. And, came through with stellar grades, but skipped the Rhetoric class. Rhetoric was once a mandated subject in many of these institutions, and still is, in European Universities. The art of discourse should still be mandated, so students can learn how to speak and write in a way that informs and persuades others to their point of view. The talking TV heads might have learned that it’s not effective to jump down another debater’s throat and to listen, learn and then talk. It’s obvious they prefer to “out-shout” an opponent. They claim they graduated magna cum laude, but they really graduated magna cum LOUD!   

Like a lot of my old coots buddies, I’m on the other side of the TV screen from the “all – talk – at – once” panelists” doing what they’re doing, yelling at the same time, except I’m saying, “Shut up. Take turns. Didn’t you learn anything in kindergarten?”

Another annoying thing they do on these shows, mostly the morning ones, is to eat. Some pushy guest chef comes on the set to concoct a politically correct snack or entrée. The “talkers” help: one dices, another sautés and one mixes. All, showing their ineptness with standard kitchen utensils. Then, out of the oven pops the gourmet delicacy: pond raised fish guts with free range chicken beaks rolled in a whole wheat batter and cooked in an eco-friendly solar oven. The show closes with the entire panel talking with their mouths full (something else they never learned in kindergarten). Of course, they are all talking at once. The poor camera crew gets peppered with food particles. I wonder if they get combat pay?

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

May 18, 2016 Article

The Old Coot encounters “The  Clump.”

By Merlin Lessler

Well, it happened again. My problem with “line” people. This time it was in a Dunkin Donuts in an unnamed city south of here. The place doesn’t matter; it can happen anywhere that line-challenged people go, causing old coots like me to simmer in line behind them. I’ve bellyached about these people so many times you’d think I’d get over it, and I have, to a degree. I’m ready for the people who stand there for five minutes staring at the menu and when it’s their turn go blank, the people who are surprised they need to dig out their wallet and get money to pay. The people who yak into a phone and have to be nudged every few minutes to move up.

But my most recent encounter introduced me to the “line clump” phenomena. Two couples and five kids formed the clump. Blocking off the entire counter. It started OK, the fathers jumped in front of everybody and ordered coffee. Nice and simple: regular, hot coffee, no extras, no special mixes. Just coffee. That was a ruse, to trick me into thinking the clump wouldn’t be a problem. The kids, after their mothers pulled them apart and shoved them to the counter, went next. Not toddlers, mind you. Pre-teens and teenagers. The first one, a ten year old, couldn’t decide. After a minute of gazing at the donut rack, he raised his arm and pointed. “I’ll have that!” The clerk had no idea where he was pointing, but took a guess, “This one?” “No. That one,” he yelled. “This one?” On and on it went. He had terrible aim; he should get his finger sighted in the next time he uses it to point.  Finally, the right one was determined.

Then came the drink decision. That only took thirty seconds of contemplation. “Milk!” Of course milk is in the cooler he was standing in front of for five full minutes before it was his turn. The clump parted, like the Red Sea, and he made his way to the cooler, grabbed a container of chocolate milk, getting a glare from his sister and a, “Mom said you can’t get chocolate milk,” from his brother.

One by one the little darlings made their way to the front of the clump and went through a similar process. Then, came the elder siblings, full-blown teenagers. All girls. They knew precisely what they wanted; a complicated latté prescription that would cause registered pharmacists to reel if they had to follow the formula. I couldn’t. I know it involved whipped cream, shots of this and that, ice on the side and a few other additions that must have been Latin words because I’d never encountered them before.

Finally the moms, the only real adults in the clump, came forth with their orders. And, then got into a fight over who was going to pay. “I’ve got it!” – “No, I’m getting it.” No you’re not!” An embarrassed wise elder from the teen group stepped forward and said, “Why don’t you each just pay your own tab?” The look on the cashier’s face was priceless. She’d rung it up as a single order; now she had to pull it apart. At this point I wasn’t annoyed any longer; this had turned into a “happening.” It felt like I was in the middle of a flash mob. I just chuckled to myself and watched the show. Yet another chapter in my handbook on line behavior. I’m slowly becoming the Emily Post of queue etiquette. 

Comments, complaints: send to mlessler7@gmail.com

May 11, 2016 Tioga County Courier Article

The Old Coot is a hotdog connoisseur.

By Merlin Lessler

I went into a national chain grocery store to get some hot dogs the other day. I like hot dogs; they were a food staple when I was a kid. We’d hike into the woods outside our neighborhood with WW-II Army surplus knapsacks on our backs, metal canteens hanging from our belts, high-cut boots on our feet and decked out in jeans (which we called dungarees in those days) and white T-shirts, the only color available. They were undershirts after all, and back then, white was the mandated color for underclothes.

We hiked for 15 minutes, a steep climb up South Mountain, came to a level spot on the first of three unpaved roads that crossed the face of the hill and collapsed to the ground. We were one-quarter of the way to the top; it was 9 o’clock in the morning and, “Time for lunch!” We gathered leaves, made a pile, set it on fire, found a stick, speared a hot dog and stuck it in the flames, quickly turning it from pretty pink to charred black. A slice of bread served as a hot dog bun and mustard from a jar we’d smuggled from the house combined to craft a gourmet meal.

It was with that memory in mind that I strolled up to the packaged meat cooler to grab some hot dogs to take home and blacken. That’s where my trip down nostalgia lane screeched to a sudden halt. I couldn’t figure out what to buy, what might taste like those hot dogs of my youth. There were too many choices. All-beef franks, skinless franks, chicken, pork, turkey dogs. Every combination thereof. Plus: long dogs, plumping dogs, short dogs, skinny dogs, bun size dogs. Dogs, dogs, dogs.

It’s like that in every aisle. Too many choices! Talk about complicating your life. Even staples, like milk, eggs and cereal are complicated. A quart of milk was all we had in my day. No consternation at the milk cooler. Not today: Quarts, gallons and half gallons are the first layer of choices. Then comes the fat content: whole milk, 1%, 2%, no fat, skim. Does it really make that much difference? Probably not. Egg choices are just as bad: medium eggs (which is another way of saying small eggs), large eggs, extra large and jumbo. Eggs from hen house chickens, free range chickens or cage free chickens. White eggs, brown eggs, green eggs (though not at the supermarket) and other colors too. Which is best? I wouldn’t dare answer; it’s kind of like stepping into the middle of an argument between Republicans and Democrats or Sunnis and Shiites. No middle ground. Then there are the “sort-of-eggs”: egg whites, eggbeaters, egg mates and smart cups. It makes my head spin. Want a box of regular Cheerios? Good luck. The cereal aisle is 80 feet long and 6 feet high. More variations of the two or three cereal grains than an old coot can comprehend.

We’ve become food paranoid, and yes, quite finicky. But, in spite of the challenge I did finally did make a hot dog buying decision. I used the old coot method and bought the cheapest ones. It really doesn’t matter when you burn them to a crisp.

Comments, complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

May 4, 2016 Article

The Old Coot can’t “rest” in peace.

By Merlin Lessler

I stopped at a rest area in Pennsylvania on my way home from Florida. Florida is mandatory for old coots. People there hate it when the “snow birds” arrive, but the north loves it. A large metal sign was prominently placed along the walkway to the rest rooms. It listed 21 rest area rules. There used to be two posted rules: trucks to the left, cars to the right. Now, they list all the things that are taboo in a Pennsylvania rest area. Some are so obvious, all you can say is, “DUH!”

It wasn’t always like this in America. Good manners weren’t made into rules and then criminalized. But, in today’s culture, when someone does something unmannerly, our public officials react with a new regulation. It’s the same mentality I suffered under in grade school (elementary school, to those of you born after 1970). If a kid in class (not me) wrote, “Johnny is a jerk,” on the blackboard when the teacher wasn’t looking, the teacher would make all of us sit at attention at our desks until the guilty party confessed. The whole class got punished. No recess. No arts and crafts. No gym class.

It’s the same thing in the grown up world. If some jerk does something stupid (not me), the bureaucrats and politicians rush in to impose regulations on the rest of us. Things must have gotten pretty bad at rest areas in Pennsylvania. At least if you read through the 21 rules in effect. I’ll admit it; I was the only one who gave the sign a second glance. Still, everyone was on notice; no one could claim ignorance of the law as a defense.

What did the sign say? What did some official feel we needed to be told? Hang on; here are a few. Don’t start a bon fire or drive on the lawn. Don’t let you dog roam free or unload livestock. Don’t deface the building or deliver illegal drugs. Do not cut down the plants or indecently expose yourself. Don’t solicit for or engage in prostitution. Don’t set up camp and go on vacation. Don’t change the oil in your car, fire a gun or shoot an arrow. That’s a few of the things the State of Pennsylvania thought we needed to be told. I’d list more, but my wife tooted the horn to get me moving and my note taking came to an end.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. We have so many rules these days that the country is practically paralyzed. We’re a stuck society! You hardly dare make a move. Try to fix or build a house; the list of rules you have to follow is staggering. Start a business or run a business, there isn’t a word to describe the layers of regulations that have to be accommodated. We need a reset. Maybe back to the rules that were in place when Eisenhower was president. If we don’t, we’ll eventually need to consult an attorney just to stop at a rest area.    

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler@gmail.com