September 26, 2018 Article

The Old Coot has a new name.

By Merlin Lessler

Just call me Vern. For years I’ve called people by the wrong name. Introduced to a Lynn, I immediately start calling her Lisa. Greg becomes Craig. Tom becomes Tim (so does Robert, for some odd reason). Paul and Phil (twins, by the way) become switched to Phil and Paul. I’ve butchered introductions for years – even when trying all the tricks: repeating the person’s name right away and using it in a sentence, like, “Where are you from, Greg?” Another few seconds pass and he becomes Craig. Or worse, I lose his name completely and desperately whisper to my wife as we walk away, “What was that guy’s name?”

I’m not alone. I’m Norm to some people. My mother had the same issue, sometimes calling me Norm, her brother’s name. So did my next-door neighbor. I’m Merrill, Merl and worse of all, Marilyn. It started early.  My 4^th grade teacher set me up on the girl’s side of the room on her seating chart (Yes, they kept us apart in those days. Smartly, I might add). She’d made up the chart before school started in September, and then was mad at me because she had to redo the seating assignments; she got even by calling me Marylin throughout the entire school year, something that carried over to the playground, much to my chagrin.

I’m also called Coot (which I like), Jim Steele (my “go-to” name when I want to be incognito, like in Starbucks or other places that ask your name, so they can call it out when your order is ready. I often use it when I violate some bureaucratic rule and am asked my name. I once used it to sign an electrician inspection, indicating that the work was performed by an electrician (Jim Steele from Elmira. What the heck; I did the wiring and inspected it as I went along.) I’m called by a several other descriptive monikers – old fogie, idiot and the like.

Now I’ve picked up a new one, “Vern!” I was christened this by Ed from Lisle Road, who routinely mentions to Jen, “I saw Vern walking up Davis Hill today.” I like it! I’m adding it to my favorites, Coot, Jim Steele and now, Vern. What’s in a name? I sure don’t know. Just call me Vern.

Comments or complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

September 19, 2018 Article

The Old Coot Knows His Cookies (a rerun from 2008)

By Merlin lessler

The food industry is out of touch. They don’t understand the eating habits of their customers. Take Oreos for instance. The back of the package has a carefully researched list of nutrition facts: Total Fat 8g, Sodium 110 mg, Sugars 11g, etc. You can be sure it took a bunch of pretty smart scientists to compile the data. I can’t begin to comprehend the number of tests and calculations it took to come up with the information. Yet, when it comes to the easy part, the standard portion size, this astute collection of food scientists and chemists at Nabisco can’t get it right. They don’t even come close. It’s obvious they’ve never sat down at the kitchen table with a glass of milk and a package of Oreos. They claim, with a straight face, that the standard portion size is three cookies. No human has ever been able to limit their intake to three Oreos. Forcing a prisoner of war to stop at three Oreos is considered torture under the rules of the Geneva Convention. It makes water boarding seem like a day at the beach.

Nabisco isn’t the only company that gets it wrong. All the makers of cookies, ice cream, candy and the foods we love, don’t have a clue about the eating habits of their loyal customers. The only ones who come close are the companies that sell canned vegetables. They put an average portion at one-half cup. That works for corn, peas and beets but is way too high for things like lima beans, asparagus and spinach. I limit my intake of that “unholy trinity” to a teaspoonful or less. I’ve done so since I was four years old and had to empty my plate before leaving the table no matter what my taste buds said. Of course, my mother had other ideas. If I complained about the vegetable she was dishing out she gave me a double helping. As a result, I developed into a sneak. I could make a pile of lima beans vanish from my plate and reappear in my socks. It was easy to pull off because my mother never sat down at the dinner table with us. She was in constant motion: stirring, basting and shuttling back and forth between the stove and the table. It was only on Thanksgiving that she sat down with the rest of the family. Even then, she never looked comfortable. You could tell she wanted to be in her combination, maitre d’ – chef role, making sure her charges were well served. A lot of mothers were like that, still are.

I did the research that Nabisco and the other food processors should have done. I came up with the proper portion size for their products. I started with Oreo Cookies. I determined that the correct portion size is a row of cookies. At three cookies (the portion stated on the back of the bag) I hadn’t even warmed up. At seven, I was getting close but couldn’t stop myself until I finished the row. I was tempted to have one more cookie, but I knew if I did, another full row would be in jeopardy.

The next product I worked on was ice cream. The package put the correct portion size at four ounces (one-half cup). It’s not! I filled a bowl with butter pecan. I don’t know how many ounces it was, but it looked about right, heaped up an inch higher than the bowl. When it was gone, I wasn’t quite satisfied. I replenished the bowl with three more scoops. That didn’t do it either. I was drawn back to the fridge for a smidgen (another full scoop plus a dab more). That did it. I don’t know how many ounces it added up to. I’d recommend they don’t use ounces on the package, that they state it in terms we can understand – one bowlful + one-half bowl + a smidgen. It’s not that hard to figure out; the manufacturers need to use real people to do the research, not computer models. I’m available.

September 12, 2018 Article

The Old Coot Misses the Bumper! (A rerun from 2008)

by Merlin Lessler (10 years younger)

The car bumper is history. That shiny, chromed, steel bar that once graced the front and rear of our Detroit dinosaurs has disappeared; it has been replaced with a plastic, bumper-like object that shatters when it “bumps” into something. Some pickup trucks and a few SUVs still sport a metallic bumper, but not cars. It’s another change I didn’t notice taking place. Now it’s too late.

It’s too bad. It’s not just the shine that’s gone; so is the pride we took in slathering chrome polish on our bumpers, to finish off a ritualistic Saturday afternoon car wash. We lost functionality too. Where are you going to tie the baby shoes and tin cans when the bride and groom drive away from the church? And, where are businesses going to wrap the thin pieces of wire that held a cardboard bumper ad saying, “We had a blast at Hershey Amusement Park,” or “I visited Howe Caverns?” There’s no place to wrap the wire. Where will you stand to pick apples from a farmer’s tree when he isn’t looking and where can you attach a piece of rope to pull a friend out of a ditch? It’s more than the shine that’s gone. It’s a way of life that slipped away. And nobody said a word.

When I tell my grandchildren about my favorite childhood Halloween prank, tying a stuffed dummy to somebody’s car bumper when they stopped for a red light in downtown Binghamton, they won’t know what I’m talking about. “What’s a bumper,” they’ll ask? They won’t be able to understand how we got even with the “meanest” woman on the south side of Binghamton on a blustery fall day in 1956, the stealth we employed to fasten a length of clothesline to her bumper while she was in her backyard hanging out clothes to dry, the care we took to cover the rope with leaves so we could connect it to her garbage can without it being visible and the patience we exhibited as we waited for more than an hour in the shrubbery before she finally came out of her house and drove off. She turned left on Pennsylvania Ave, hell bent to get to a sale at Fowlers Department Store, oblivious to the racket she was making, oblivious to the now empty garbage can bouncing, rattling and leaping in the air behind her. My sides still hurt from that laughing fit so many years ago.

Yes, we got even with the “meanest” woman on the block. Mean, because she made her son finish his chores before leaving the house to hang out with us. The same son who blew a “laugh” gasket, hiding in the shrubs with the rest of us, the son who had actually tied the rope to her bumper, the son who, when it was over, and our laughing fit had subsided, turned to me and said, “Now let’s do it to your mother’s car!” It can’t be done anymore. There is no bumper to attach to. We’ve lost a lot more than a shiny piece of chrome. We’ve lost a way of life. Let’s have a moment of silence for another passing, “The car bumper is dead!”

September 5, 2018 Article

The Old Coot introduces rerun season.

By Merlin Lessler

I’m taking a cue from network TV, taking a break and rerunning some Old Coot articles. But, it won’t be like the networks overuse of reruns. They run five or six new episodes of a show, starting in late September or early October, and then start the reruns. New episodes appear a month or so later, following weeks of advertising and hoopla! The average major media production of network shows is 16 original episodes a year.

Back in my day, when rerunning shows was invented, it was a “summer” phenomenon. The new season began in September, like it does now, but it ran until June. Thirty plus episodes a year, and then summer reruns.

Oh, how we groaned, we hated to be stuck with shows we’d already seen. But, stuck we were, with only three channels to choose from (the three major networks). No cable channels. No cable! Just a metal antenna on the roof or a set of rabbit ears on top of the TV set, often with hunks of tinfoil dribbling off the “ears” to bring in better reception or eliminate the “snow” that infringed on the picture. TV sets were the size of small refrigerators, sometimes with built-in record players and AM radio receivers.

So, anyhow, I’m giving in and submitting for publication a few reruns of my own. I have over 700 articles to pick from, dating back to 2003. If your memory is anything like mine, you probably would never know the difference, if I hadn’t fessed up to the scam. Heck, when I read through one, to see if it’s still pertinent, I don’t recall ever writing it, so I think I can get away with a few reruns. Starting next week, the Old Coot Rerun Season will kick off.  The first one is my eulogy to the now deceased, shiny, chrome car bumper. The second, slams food producers for getting the “portion size” listed on the package wrong.

To get you prepared, those of you that have read this far, I’m including a partial rerun from an article that ran in 2009. The “Um People,” one of my favorite human nature observations.

The Old Coot discovers the “UM” people.

 I was studying the “Um” people the other day. You know the type. They wait in line, staring at the racks of donuts in Dunkin Donuts, or the extensive menu at a fast food joint, but when their turn comes, they are dumfounded. The clerk says, “How may I help you?” They reply with, “Um.” And after a long pause, continue with “I think I want a dozen donuts,” and another, “Um.” They tap their index finger on their chin and repeat it again, “Um.” “Um.” “Um.” Finally, they get started. “Give me two jelly.” That’s followed with another, “Um.” All through the selection process the dialog is interspaced with ums. That’s why I call them the Um people. They’re never prepared for the task at hand. When the exasperated clerk finally gets their order together and says, “That will be seven dollars and sixty-eight cents,” they shift back to their “UM” mode, with, “Um, where did I put my wallet?” Everything that comes their way is a shock. We all do this from time to time, but the “Um” people never get out of the groove.

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