June 28, 2017 Article

The Old Coot makes a call. Ouch!

By Merlin Lessler

I called to reschedule a doctor’s appointment the other day. Not my idea; I made the original appointment seven months ago, but “they” needed to change it. Anyhow, that’s what the message on my answering machine said. I swear they watch my house before calling. When I leave, they call and leave a message, forcing me to call them and go through the tortuous call center process.

So, I poured myself a cup of coffee, grabbed a good book, found a comfortable chair, put the phone on speaker and settled in for the “process.” The first step with health providers is designed to get rid of you. “If you are calling with a health emergency, hang up and dial 911.” Mine wasn’t an emergency, not yet, but I was guessing it might be by the time I finished. Then came the usual, -Push 1, push 2, etc., to get me in the right line. There are a lot of lines: the refill prescription line, the billing inquiry line, the lab results line and at the end of a long list, the one I wanted, the speak to a human line.

Then came lie #1, “We’ll be with you shortly,” followed by lie #2, “Your call is important to us.” And a confession, “This call may be monitored.” I picture a room full of operators, lounging around on overstuffed couches, sipping Margaritas, listening to callers yell into their phones while waiting. I’m sure they get an earful, and end up rolling on the floor in hysterical laughter. I start my yelling right after I get the, “Your call is important,” message; I yell, “Liar, liar, pants on fire.” It makes me feel better.

After that, the worst elevator music you can imagine starts to play, interrupted every few minutes by a self-promoting message, “Our wound care center is the place to go to heal that old sore that won’t go away”. The “ads” you are barraged with are endless; it makes you look forward to the music. Talk about taking advantage of a captive audience. About every five minutes a different interruption comes on from the computer program managing the queue, reminding you that all the operators are busy, your call is important and they’ll be with you shortly.

Suddenly, the routine stops; you hear a ring tone. “Oh boy! I’m being routed to a person!” It’s such a disappointment when you’re not. You’re back at the starting point and a new round of awful music and annoying self-promotion ads start all over again. That’s when I give the operators sitting around sipping Margaritas their best laughs of the day.

Ultimately, I get through to a person who can reschedule my appointment. I tell them my name and why I’m calling. They respond with, “When is your birthday?” I want to say, “Why? Are you going to send me a present for enduring this process?” But, instead, like the sheep I’ve become during my long wait, I say, “Baa, Baa,” and give them the information. And to think, people wonder what us old retired guys do to occupy our time.

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

June 21, 2017 Article

The Old Coot misses the grocery box.

By Merlin Lessler

“Paper or plastic?” That’s what you hear in the grocery store. Plastic was OK when it first appeared. It was strong. You could tie a bunch together and tow a car or load one up with cans of soup and vegetables and walk to your car, confident that the bottom wouldn’t fall out. Now, you have to tip toe to your vehicle, supporting a moderately heavy bag from underneath and hope it doesn’t erupt in the parking lot. Even when the clerk double bags your stuff, you’re not sure it will hold up.

A lot of shoppers opt for paper, but paper bags usually don’t have handles. If they do, they are glued on in such a way that gives little assurance. And, handles are important. I watch my wife, Marcia, get out of the car and head for our back door with six bags clasped in her left hand four in her right. “Can I help?” I ask, swinging open the door. “YES! Get out of the way please!” There is no safe way to slide a bag or two out of her grasp, which by now is clenched so tight the circulation in her fingers is nonexistent.   

Before there was plastic, paper ruled the mercantile scene. Back then, the option was – “Bag or box?” I’m sure everyone from Gen Z thinks I’m nuts when I refer to a box-boy, that tall, lanky teenager from yesteryear with a couple of zits on his face that helped the cashier get groceries loaded into bags, and just as often, into a box, from the pile next to the checkout station. A typical box, expertly loaded by an experienced box boy, and yes, the vast majority were boys back then, could hold the equivalent of three or four paper bags. A lot easier to handle than trying to juggle an armload of bags stuffed with groceries. You didn’t have to worry about the trip from the store to the car; the box boy handled that leg of the journey. A ten-cent tip sufficed and he had plenty of time to get back inside and pack up the next shopper because there weren’t any scanners in that era; the clerk had to locate a price tag on each item and punch the amount into the register, a much longer process than today. I miss those box days. I miss those box ways.  

Comments? Complaints? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

June 14, 2017 Article

The Old Coot reads the signs.

By Merlin Lessler

First, comes the “official” greeting, “Welcome to Historic Owego – Founded 1787,” a nice wooden sign by the side of the road, nestled in a bed of shrubs, annuals and perennials maintained by the Rotary Club. Then, for the next quarter of a mile, the real “welcome” signs appear, the ones that tell you what’s going on in this, “Coolest Small Town in America:” a spaghetti dinner on Saturday night at the Elks Club, the Strawberry Festival coming up in a few short weeks, sign-ups for soccer, Little League and the like, a play at the Ti-Ahwaga Playhouse this weekend, a series of slow – turtle crossing notices. It’s a continuously changing landscape of signage that keeps both the residents and travelers aware of pending events in town.

I’m sure that sign control zealots do not approve. There is no uniformity in size, lettering or placement. It’s a hodgepodge! That’s what makes it so wonderful. The ultimate freedom of speech exhibition, unencumbered by bureaucratic interference. It’s also the life blood of the organizations that use this stretch of road to advertise (17C, coming in from the east). Without this communication mechanism, their success would be limited. It’s more effective communication that what you get on Facebook, Twitter and other forms of social media. Heck, it’s right there in your face, every time you drive into town.

To me, it’s a trip through a Norman Rockwell painting. minus the whimsical Burma Shave signs that added such enjoyment to a drive, those half dozen, low to the ground placards in a row with a clever pitch to buy Burma Shave: “When you lay – Those few cents down – You’ve bought – The smoothest - Shave in town – Burma Shave” (a sample from 1953).  

These, and other roadside decorations (signs), kept us informed of what each town had to offer. But, along came the four-lane highway system and Lady Bird Johnson’s campaign to rid roadways of “ugly” signs (and auto salvage yards) enacted into law when her husband Lyndon Johnson signed the bill in 1965. Down came the billboards and other signage, out went the information of what lies ahead, replaced by uniform, boring, “beauty approved” landscaping, grasses and trees. Gone, was the “Alphabet Game” that kept antsy kids in the back seat occupied, looking for a sign with A, B, C, etc., trying to be the first to work their way from A to Z,

Now, we’re stuck with sameness, uniform signage, leading up to exit ramps, informing us what gas stations, hotels and restaurants are available. Mostly of the national chain variety. Very few of the local places, that any townie could tell you, has the best apple pie or hot roast beef sandwiches. So, while you still can, drive around small-town America, and soak in the artwork and local flavor that gives demonstrable substance to our First Amendment rights.

Comments? Complaints? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

June 7, 2017 Article

The Old Coot Can’t Size Things Up.

By Merlin Lessler

Old Coot advice to young husbands – “Don’t ever buy clothes for your wife!” Men don’t know anything about women’s clothes. When your wife holds up a dress in a store and says, “What do you think?” You mumble, “Looks OK to me.” Old coots know better. We sidestep the question. We’ve learned the hard way and say, “I really can’t tell unless you put on the shoes and the jewelry you’ll wear with it and then model it in normal light, not the fluorescents they have here in the store.” That gets us off the hook. The thing is, we don’t pay attention to clothes. People walk past and what they are wearing doesn’t register. We notice they are short or tall, skinny or fat, old or young, but not how they are dressed. The “fashion” section of our brain is clogged with useless sports trivia.  

Women, on the other hand, know exactly what someone is wearing. The police have figured this out. When they interview witnesses to a crime they separate the men from the women. The men are a reliable source for quirky walking styles, height, scars, tattoos and weight. Women can provide information on the perp’s clothes. “She had on a blue pinstripe dress with an off-white collar. The eight buttons up the front were bone. It was a combination silk rayon material, probably size 8. Her earrings didn’t match the dress; they were gold; they should have been silver or green. Her shoes were Jimmy Choo’s, tan with an embellished ankle strap and open toes. They cost $385.

Wise men, old men, have learned not to buy clothes for their wives. Even if we did know what they liked, we would never pick the correct size. We know men’s sizes. They are all about bigness; small and medium start the scale, but men don’t buy them. Those sizes are for teens. We pick a size by how macho it sounds. The manufacturers have figured this out. What used to be large is now called XXL. Translated, this means - big, strong, tough guy. Pants are simple; they go by waist and length. Men can relate to that. It’s something we can see on a tape measure. Except, it’s a big lie. For example, a size 36 waist used to be 36 inches around. Now it’s somewhere between 37 and 41 inches. Our butts and guts have expanded and so have the cut of manufactured clothing. Manufacturers are wise to that too. We get to brag, “I wore a 36 waist in high school and I still do. (Oh yea, how can that be; you weighed 170 then and are pushing past 230 now?)  

Women’s sizes are trickier. Things are made to sound small: petite, extra petite, small, small-medium, medium, medium plus and plus. Nothing too controversial! Dress sizes are even better at disguising things. They start at size double zero. Size ten is acceptable. It has a good ring to it – makes you think you are a “ten” when you wear a ten. Doesn’t sound big at all. Nothing like a men’s size thirty-six. Size twenty is quoted a lot in the “Diet” ads. “I was a size twenty before taking Doctor Slimfast’s pills. Now, I’m down to a size fourteen and still losing. Like men’s clothes, the sizes have been altered to accommodate our expanding waistlines. What was a size fourteen in 1950, is now called a size eight.

Shoes are yet another issue. I swear women’s shoes don’t come in sizes. All shoes are size seven. In the back room, the boxes indicate otherwise, but no shoe salesman is dumb enough to tell a woman that her foot fits perfectly into a size eleven. He measures, goes to the back and brings out a pair to try on. If she decides to buy them, he glues a size #7 sticker on the box and sends her to the cashier. Shoes bought in these high-end stores cost forty dollars extra. No one complains. 

Men are just the opposite. They brag about big feet. “My son wears size fourteen,” they say. “He’s only eleven years old. Chip off the old block.” I guess it’s because we are always sticking our feet in our mouths. Bigger feet are harder to get in. Although, my size eleven fits in just fine. I manage to insert it most every day.

I probably did it again, at least once, in this article.

Comments? Complaints? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

May 31, 2017 Article

The Old Coot counts down (and up)

By Merlin Lessler

I staggered out my front door a few weeks ago, headed into town to get some wake up caffeine at the Owego Kitchen and swap lies with a group of likeminded friends, all of which (except for Ray/Roy) are a long way from being old coots, but it is in their future, even if they won’t admit it. It’s a three-block walk, well within the grasp of an old coot like me. A took a few steps and noticed a “Walk Owego” sign. Someone must have put it there while I slept because I never noticed it before, but then again, it took me three months to notice the new drapes in the living room. It’s an old coot affliction, this inability to notice things.

Anyhow, the sign said it was 765 steps to Lake Street. I thought of it as three blocks; 765 steps sounded a lot farther, but I needed caffeine so I continued on, thinking I’d count my steps to see if the sign was accurate. I got to 73 when I noticed another sign. This one said it was 692 steps to town. I tried to do the math, subtract 73 from 765 to see if I was counting correctly. That’s when my headache started. I gave up, decided to check the 692 steps, not the original 765.

I thought I got to 90, but my mind had been wandering and I wasn’t sure 90 was right; maybe it was 80 or 100. Should I go back and start again? I never answered the question; I spotted another sign just ahead. It claimed to be 540 steps from town. I didn’t try to do the math; I deserted the number of steps I’d been counting and embraced the new, lower number and decided to count down instead of up: 540, 539, 538… My headache got worse. This was like, but not as hard as, reciting the alphabet backwards.

After a few minutes, I wasn’t sure if I had 363 or 336 steps to go. I picked the lower number and plodded on. I was saved by a new sign, “311 Steps to Lake Street.” I started a new count, this one going up, 1,2,3…When I made it to the corner of Lake and Front I had counted 337, not 311 as promised. I chuckled at their error for a few seconds and then realized it was me that was off. I discovered last winter that I didn’t walk in a straight line. I’d looked back at my footprints in the snow and saw a path that was similar to that of a skier coming down a slope, a long continuous S-pattern.

So, the sign was probably accurate. But, I’d like to get my golfing buddy, George Moulton, to walk it off and see what he comes up with. He moves across a green like Tim Conway imitating an old man. I swear it takes him half an hour to put the pin back in and walk to the cart. I bet he’d get over 1,000 from the “311 steps” to town sign.

The signs are a clever idea, a friendly way to invite shoppers to walk to the shops from where they have to park while Lake Street is under construction. Yet, I’m forced to live up to my old coot reputation, to crab about everything and opine on how to fix it. In this case, not to accommodate my friend George’s baby steps or my meandering, side to side walking style. I’m sure regular people, and especially Fitbit people, who keep track of the number of steps they take on a daily basis, are happy with the signs as they are, but some of us need something to soften the blow, like adding the number of blocks to some of the signs and “You’re almost there to others. Of course, that might just encourage more old coots to swarm into the shopping area and that would be a disaster.

Comments? Complaints? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com