February 21, 2018 Article

The Old Coot tosses the remote.

By Merlin Lessler

I started a new exercise program the other day. I call it Remoteless Aerobics. Watching TV without using a remote. It’s a term so new, my spellchecker said there is no such word as “remoteless.” Anyhow, word or not, going remoteless was harder than I thought. First of all, I couldn’t find the controls on the TV set. I had to get a flashlight and scour the perimeter of the box. There, on the right-hand side, were buttons so small and indistinct I could hardly see them. I went to the kitchen and got my reading glasses, so I could see which button to push. I pushed a button with a circle and a slash next to it. The TV came on, just a lucky guess on my part. Then I pushed the channel button, adjusted the volume and walked 5 paces across the room and sat down to watch, “The Price is Right,” a show where I never know the right price.

The furnace came on, drowning out the sound. I got up and scurried across the room to turn up the volume. A few minutes later, I was on the move again; the furnace turned off and now the sound was blasting. It took two trips. I had to go back and get my glasses because I couldn’t see which button to push. Mind you, these buttons are the size of a period at the end of a sentence. Hardly visible at all. Up down, up down, so it went. I checked my Fitbit at the end of the show; I was well on my way to 10,000 steps, a goal selected by the device, not me. It gave me credit for two stair climbs too. I guess stepping up off the couch so often was the equivalent of climbing the stairs twice. Cool!

If I keep this up and remove some other “make life easier” devices from my routine, I’ll be in good shape in no time. I wonder if you can still buy a car where you use arm power to roll down the window. It might offset using the power window to be handed a Big Mac and fries at a McDonalds take out window, avoiding the apparently, too strenuous effort of getting out of the car and walking to the counter. Life has changed since I joined the human race. So has the average human waistline. We don’t move! Not much anyhow. We don’t push a lawn mower, it pulls us long. We don’t pull a rake, we blow the leaves away with a leaf blower. We don’t pull up a garage door, we push a button. Shovel snow with a shovel? Are you nuts! Not anymore.

Pretty soon we won’t be wrestling with a steering wheel or pressing the brake. A computer and a bunch of servo mechanisms will handle that for us. All we’ll do is sit there. Something we’re good at. We don’t open a dictionary or an encyclopedia, we go to our phone and tap the screen and keyboard. Some people find even that effort too arduous; they just yell into their phone or ask Alexa to get them the answer. Evolution will kick in eventually. Two thousand years from now we’ll just be heads floating in jars. I wonder if we’ll have enough facial muscles to smile?

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February 14, 2018 Article

The Old Coot knows fake news.

By Merlin Lessler

Fake News! You hear that term a lot these days. It gets battered around as though it were a new phenomenon, but to old coots like me, fake news has been around for a long time, it just hasn’t always been called fake news. They just called it news. How about that “fake news” George Washington quote, “I cannot tell a lie; I did cut it with my hatchet.” Simply a myth invented by author Mason Locke Weems, an early biographer of Washington. And that old gem of fake news, Columbus discovering America. Somewhat of a surprise to the Chinese and Viking explorers who sailed to our shores hundreds of years earlier, and especially to the Native Americans who were living here for tens of thousands of years before he set sail in 1492.

We were brought up on, and weaned on, fake news. I guess it explains why we are so gullible; it was so easy to believe it when a news anchor, in a suit, sitting at a news desk, ended his broadcast with, “And that’s the way it is.” How about that fat, whiskered guy with a sack of presents? Or that bunny, laying Easter eggs. The tooth fairy? OK, OK, you can rationalize some of that as a kindness to little children. I buy that, but it sure helped set us up to accept news stories with little or no skepticism. Like, the forecasting ability of a ground hog, or that we shouldn’t throw rice at the bride and groom because birds eat it, swell up and blow apart. Boy, the “Church-step Sweepers Union got away with that gem of fake news. Now, we dutifully stand by and blow soap bubbles at the happy couple.

My generation was so gullible, as well as our parents and teachers, that they thought we’d survive a nuclear attack by sitting under our desks and facing away from the window. We practiced this more than we did fire drills. Fire drills were better; we got to go outside and line up on the school playground. Freedom! Of a sort, from prison duty at our desk. My childhood was loaded with this stuff. Don’t cross your eyes, they’ll get stuck. Crack your knuckles and they’ll get bigger. Sit too close to the TV and you’ll go blind. It’s why old coots are wary of all news stories. We don’t buy anything hook line and sinker.  Especially, if it comes from social media. We may not be hip; we’re Twitter and Snapchat challenged, but you seldom hear us say, “I can’t believe that story wasn’t true.” (And that’s not fake news. Trust me; that’s the way it is.)

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February 7, 2018 Article

The Old Coot is hug prepared.

By Merlin Lessler

I did an article about handshake bullies a few years ago. You know the type; you stick out your hand and find your fingers clasped in a vice. The bully looks at you with one of those “gotcha” grins and squeezes. You hear your knuckles crack, feel the joints buckle and you fight with everything you’ve got to hold back the tears and stop yourself from screaming. But, handshakes are on the way out. Most people hug instead. Even old coots, who came to the game late. We felt awkward at first. We didn’t know how to go about it, where to put our heads. A handshake was easy, firm grip and look the person in the eye (and, watch out for the handshake bully). But a hug? There is no steady eye contact, just a quick glance. Otherwise, you’ll bang heads. And, it takes a while to learn to go left, to avoid a concussion.

Unfortunately, the handshake bully hasn’t gone away, he’s evolved. Now he’s a “hug” bully. Just before the hug, he grins, then comes the big squeeze. Of boa constrictor proportions. Your vertebrae crack louder than when a chiropractor performs a manipulation. Soon, you are out of breath. The bully squeezes so hard you can’t inhale. Finally, he lets go. And, you get the grin again. (And, you remember to put his face in your “don’t hug this guy” file.)

It’s bad enough for us old coots. It’s worse for women. They have to deal with “inappropriate” huggers. They have a different “don’t hug” file. I’ll leave it at that. I’ve developed a few defensive moves; I like my ribs where they are, outside my lungs. My vertebrae too. They may curve a little, giving me that old man posture, but they all line up pretty good. When a hug bully approaches me with open arms, I step back and say, “Don’t hurt me.” That usually works, His hug is dialed back. If it doesn’t, a sloppy wet kiss on the cheek will get him to let go. That is when he gets the grin from me, for a change. It’s like a tap in a wrestling match; one second you’re in a stranglehold, the next, you’re free. The third option, which I haven’t had to use, is the fake leg cramp trick. You shout, “Ooh, ooh, ooh, I’ve got a cramp in my leg, pull it up in a fake spasm and let your knee win your freedom. I may be too old to be a Boy Scout, but not too old to be prepared.

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January 31, 2018 Article

The Old Coot has a big nose

By Merlin Lessler

I looked at a picture of myself the other day. Really looked for a change, not my typical glance where I see what I want to see, not what really is. “Where did that nose come from,” I asked myself. It didn’t look right, not how I thought it should look. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. I do the same thing when I look in the mirror. I look more with my memory than with my eye; the image reflected back to me is decades younger than the guy looking in. Apparently, I do the same thing with pictures. The big lie (and the big nose) were exposed. I was a little shocked.

Then, I noticed the ears. They weren’t mine! I never had saucers sticking out of the side of my head like that. This must be some cruel trick. But, it wasn’t. Something was going on here that I must have skipped when I read my copy of the Old Coot Manual (a journey through old age). Big nose? Big ears? Is this for real? I went to Mister Google. It’s for real alright. Your bones stop growing after puberty; muscle and fat cells stop dividing. But, cartilage, that plastic like substance that forms the structure of your nose and ears, that continues to grow until the day you die. Not only does it grow, but the earlobes elongate from gravity as does the flat outer sides of your nose. A new you enters the mirror. And in pictures as well.

Just great! If this keeps up, I’ll eventually have to braid my earlobes and tie them behind my neck and buy glasses with wider and wider nose pieces. So, here I am, big nose, big ears, arm muscles that are powered by rubber bands. Waiting in dread (and in tears) in a seat in the middle of the row at a movie theater for a leg cramp to subside so I don’t have to swim over my seatmates to the aisle to kick it out. Yet, it’s the best time of my life! A period of low expectations. Nobody expects much of you when you’re an old coot. “Look at the old guy; he just climbed up on the roof and cleaned the gutters. Amazing!” Equivalent to climbing to the top of Mount Everest. We take advantage of it, us old guys. None of that, “Failure is not an option,” macho stuff for us. Failure is our best friend. It evokes pity, which is way underrated. It’s as good as, if not better than, praise. No need to look with apprehension to getting old. It truly is the golden age of your life. Enjoy it when it comes. Big nose and all.

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