Old Coots grabs the wheel - October 23' 2019

The Old Coot is glued to his car seat.

By Merlin Lessler

Ask an old guy what he thinks of self-driving cars. Almost always, you’ll get a negative reply. Full of emotion. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of. It won’t work. Who wants a computer chip controlling their car? No one will buy them!” On and on he’ll rant.

Then ask his wife. A wife who has been sitting in the passenger seat while he has controlled the steering wheel and brake pedal, for years. Just for kicks, you might take a look at the floorboard under her feet in the passenger compartment. You are likely to see a big bulge in the metal where she has slammed down her foot every time she thought he wasn’t reacting fast enough to brake lights coming on ahead of them on the highway or because of his last minute reaction to traffic light. The bigger the bulge, the more she is ready for a self-driving car.  

She will tell you she can’t wait for them, no matter what issues they have, “It’s got to be better than sitting next to an old coot who insists his driving skills are of the highest caliber.” It’s not all his fault, this business of a passenger slamming on an invisible brake. Most of us have a similar reaction when we’re riding with someone who drives differently than we do: they follow closer to the car in front of them, they pull back into the driving lane after passing too soon. Those sorts of things. 

But an old guys wife is different. She’s suffered with the issue for years, has never gotten used to his driving eccentricities, which have become more erratic over time. The real issue with self-driving cars, to us old guys, is the loss of freedom they will impose on us. We’re also afraid that hackers will get into the brain of a self-driving car, hackers our wives could hire to keep us from pulling into the lodge parking lot, the cupcake shop or the diner where we stop for our third cup of coffee of the day. We’d be happy to have the car drive us where we want to go, ON OCCASION! But, our fear of losing control dominates our anti-self-driving car paranoia.

Our fathers felt the same way, when “automatic” transmissions swooped in during the 1950’s, followed by a parade of driving enhancements: power steering, power brakes, beeping seat belt alarms, ABS brake systems. It’s been a stream of mechanical devices inching toward the ultimate goal of taking the steering wheel out of our control. We all feel the same way about that, us old guys, you’ll have to pry it out of our cold dead hands!

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October 9, 2019 Article. The old coot has a new number!

The Old Coot is now “42.”

By Merlin Lessler

Some old guy asked me how old I was the other day. “Forty-two,” I replied. He stared at me; a look of skepticism crossed his face. Finally, he said, “Who are you kidding? You’re not forty-two, eighty-two is more like it. What he didn’t know, is I now answer that question by stating my birth year and let the questioner do the math. Most of us old guys don’t know how old we are anyhow; we’re usually off by a year or two, in either direction. It’s hard for people to do the math when supplied a birth year, now that we’ve entered a new century. A math “genius” will say, “Let’s see - born in 42 – that’s 58 years to get to 2,000 – now I have to add 19 – does anyone have a pencil? No? Well, I guess that makes you 67? No, 77, or is it 87?”

It’s hard because you have to subtract from 2,000 and then add the current year in your head! I find the younger crowd has a harder time doing this than people from my generation. We had to add and subtract in our heads in front of the class. It’s a skill that’s never left us. Just like the multiplication tables that we memorized and were quizzed on constantly. Nine times seven? Sixty-three pops right out, no thought required, no smart phone either.  

I like this “birth year” answer to queries about my age. We use it when asked about our cars, why not with ourselves? Nobody asks how old your car is; they ask what year it is. If you want to know how old it is, you have to do the math, or more likely, just remark that the car looks pretty good for its age. I like it because now all my younger friends have a higher (age) number than me. My coffee buddies in Owego, for example:  Ray (renamed Roy by the group) has the lowest number after me; it’s 44. Then comes Paul, 58. Rick A. and Rick E. are 60 something. So are Tim and Daren. Andy, Mike and Eric have the biggest numbers; Eric leads the pack with an 83. He looks pretty good for 83.  

All my coffee pals in Florida have a higher age number than I do too, but the rest of my Florida friends have a lower number. Young Harold’s number is 33; Joan’s is only 38, Ray & John from Chicago are in the 30’s too; George is 41, but John, from Preston, Canada, has the best deal of all, age wise. He was born on February 29^th (a leap year). He’s only celebrated 22 birthdays. I was there for his 21^st when he had his first legal, adult beverage. The whole Florida crowd was on hand to welcome him aboard, an 84-year-old at his 21^st birthday party. He turns 23 this coming February

Ever since I switched to a birth year response to age questions I’ve had a little more bounce in my step. It’s nice to have a lower age number than all my kids, most of my friends, and no longer to be the “oldest” guy in the room. I should change my pen name to “Young” Coot. It makes perfect sense to me.

Comments, complaints. Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Ladder People - October 2, 2019 Article

The First Old Coot article – Invasion of the ladder people.

By Merlin Lessler

I took a sabbatical last month – no old coot articles for 4 weeks, ending a string of 827 articles in a row. Now, I’m starting over, resubmitting that first article that was published November 27, 2002. I hope it’s the restart of something good.

If you walk down the pleasant streets of Owego, you’ll notice a proliferation of ladders leaning against historic clapboard homes. At first blush, you might think the homeowners of our quaint village are an ambitious lot, tackling one restoration project or another on their 150-year-old houses. You’d be wrong!

I stroll through town every morning, on a meandering route to Dunkin Donuts or the Awakenings Coffee House and back home again, sipping coffee and listening to Imus on my Walkman. I do an inventory of the projects underway in the village, mostly looking for techniques to keep my 197-year-old house in good repair with minimal effort. I’ve learned that the ladders are props, a last-ditch effort by the male occupants of the dwelling against which they lean to avoid a job that’s been held off for two years or more. And, husbands are not the only ones guilty of this rouse. Many home repair contractors employ the same tactic.

Husbands resort to this “ladder-lean” strategy at the end of a protracted domestic conversation that goes something like this.

(September, year 1) - “Honey, the east side of the house is starting to peel. Do you think you should paint it before it gets worse?” (reply) “Yea, I guess. But I don’t want to do it till spring. Why have the new paint face six months of bad weather?”

(April, year 1) – “Honey, are you going to start painting the house?” (reply) “Yea, but it’s too damp and cold. I’ll get to it when it warms up a little.”

(May, year one) – “The weather looks good now honey; are you going to start painting?” (reply)  “Yea, but not till after Memorial Day.”

(June, year one) – “Honey, Memorial Day has passed. Why don’t you get cooking?” (reply) “I want to wait till the kids get out of school. The school busses spew out a ton of diesel soot starting and stopping in the neighborhood; it will ruin the finish.”

July – too hot.

August – too muggy.

September – after Labor Day.

October – too cold at night; the paint won’t dry properly.

(May- year two) – “Honey, the house is a disgrace! The paint is coming off in bushel basketsful. I’m embarrassed to go out and get the mail!” (reply) “I’m on it babe. I just need a few weeks to figure out what supplies I’ll need to get it done. You don’t want me to do a slip-shod job do you?”

(June – year two) – “Honey, the kids can’t play in the yard anymore and there are so many paint chips on the lawn that the dog refuses to leave the house. Are you going to paint the house, or do I have to call a professional?” (reply) “I’m starting it this weekend. Jeesh, give me a break, would you!”

On Saturday a ladder gets placed against the east side of the building. The project has officially begun, but other than setting up the ladder, no actual work has taken place. A new line of dialog begins; the ladder buys another year of inaction, two if the husband is a clever old coot.

A similar exchange takes place between homeowners and home-improvement contractors, but the game is initiated with a sign, not a ladder. The second the contractor gets the job he puts his sign in front of the house, announcing, “Another quality remodeling job by Cracker-Jack & Sons Inc.” The sign is the only activity for two months, in spite of twenty heated phone calls from the homeowner. Then, the ladder ploy is used; followed a month later by scaffolding and miscellaneous equipment. At the peak of the conflict, the contractor arranges for lumber to be delivered, usually in a manner that blocks the driveway. This trick is designed to prevent the homeowner from hiring a new contractor. It takes two letters from an attorney before a single board is cut. The job then goes forward in spurts: three days of intense activity, two weeks of no activity, sixteen angry phone calls, and a repeat of the pattern until completion.

There are many variations of this construction-delaying tactic: blue tarps on roofs, an “X” taped on a broken window, three rows of new siding installed; it’s running rampant in many towns across America. Psychologists call it “male performance deficiency syndrome.” I call it, “The Invasion of the Ladder People.” Take a walk through your town. You’ll see what I mean. 

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