Drop it! Lose it! (Old coot article published March 25, 2010

The Old Coot has a screw loose.

By Merlin Lessler

I dropped a small screw in the kitchen the other day. Not a miniature one, like the one that fell out of my glasses. I never did find that one; I ended up fixing them with a bent paperclip. It gave me a dorky look, but not as bad as when they snapped apart at the nose piece and I wrapped the break with adhesive tape. Now that was dorky of the highest order. One, unfortunately, I’m well acquainted with. But, back to the screw that I dropped the other day; it was an inch long and should have been easy to spot. It wasn’t! I scanned the area where I expected it to be and then had to widen the search perimeter. To no avail. I was irked, determined to not let it escape. I finally found it; well I didn’t actually “find” it – I stepped on it as I was walking out of the room. Barefoot. Ouch! It was in the doorway, ten feet beyond where I’d been looking.

Whenever I drop something, it seems to go much farther that I expect. Even a piece of popcorn, a light fluffy object that should be easy to retrieve, travels a surprising distance and then disappears. The same thing happens with a peanut, a paper clip or other small item. They elude me when I try to see where they’ve landed. It’s nature’s cruel joke on old coots.  The older I get, the harder it is to get down on my hands & knees to search for things. And, the farther I have to crawl to find it, the harder it is to get back up. When I do locate the item and get back to my feet, I’ve forgotten what I was going to do with it. I stand there like a dummy, holding it in my hand, looking around the room hoping to jar my memory. It’s an “Attention Span” disorder. Quite normal for old coots like me.   

That’s why I’ll never undergo surgery with a physician my age. The O.R. nurse will hand him an instrument, he’ll listen to the music for a minute (it’s his favorite Beetle’s song) and then look down at the scalpel in his hand and ask himself, “Now, what was I going to do with this?” He’ll surely mess me up and I do not want to be one of those people paraded out in attorney ads on TV, who brag about how much they collected using Butthead, Getum & Milkum Attorneys at Law. TV stations would go broke without ad revenue from these ambulance chasers. You and I end up paying for the settlements (and the ads) in higher insurance rates. I’d sue them, but when I got on the witness stand my mind would probably go blank. (Now why am I here?)   

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Lost daylight! - March 18, 2020 Old Coot Article

The Old Coot is time challenged.

By Merlin Lessler

It’s been a couple of weeks since we “sprang ahead,” moving our clocks forward an hour. Daylight saving time! I would have written about it earlier, but it’s taken me this long to get used to it. It doesn’t save daylight, not for a lot of people, especially not for us old guys. We lose daylight! It’s probably true for old women too, but I won’t claim to speak for them. When I try, I end up getting scolded and told how ignorant I am., a male chauvinistic know it all. So, I confine my opinion to that of my tribe – Grouchy Old Men.

There I was, on the first day into this madness, waking up at my normal time, 6 AM, but it wasn’t 6 AM on the clock; it was 7 AM, still night outside my window. If I wanted to get to my coffee meeting with the boys at seven thirty, I’d have to hop on my bicycle and peddle off in the dark because the daylight saving crowd stole my early morning daylight and gave it to the people who sleep late, and go to bed late. I now arrive an hour late because I don’t want to risk getting run down by people in cars, anxious to get to work. Running over a few bike riders isn’t an issue for them. We’re in THEIR space. So, how am I supposed to help my coffee klatch solve the world problems if I get there an hour late?

When I complain about my lost daylight hour, I don’t get any sympathy. “You get the hour back at the end of the day,” they explain. Muttering, “You stupid old coot,” under their breath. But, they’re wrong. I don’t get that hour back. Most old coots don’t. We have dinner at four, a habit we got into from going to early bird specials. Then, we watch the news on TV, tune in Jeopardy and are sound asleep in our recliners before the final Jeopardy question is asked. It’s still daylight. That’s what I’m told anyhow. I never experience it myself. I don’t regain consciousness until ten or eleven, just in time to go to bed. No extra daylight time for me.

And, why do we move the clock ahead at 2 AM on a Sunday morning? If we’re going to lose an hour, we ought to be able to select when we’ll give it up. How about 11 AM on a Monday for people with Jobs. Move the clock ahead. Presto! Time for lunch. Or at the dentist’s office, as a hand with a drill in it approaches your head and voice says, “Open wide. That would be a good time to lose an hour. No drilling. No pain. We should be allowed to decide, not the politicians. They enacted into law the time for the change - 2 AM on a Sunday. I know; I sound more crabby than usual. It’s not my fault. It’s that stupid time change I’m still dealing with it. Every time I look at the clock, I see what it says and then say to myself that it’s really an hour earlier on my internal clock, a clock that doesn’t adapt to change all that well. It takes weeks and weeks, sometimes all the way until fall, when we move the clock back. I can’t wait. 

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

March 11th Article - A free show at Starbucks

The Old Coot watches the show?

By Merlin Lessler

When I’m out of town, at one our favorite destinations, I hang out in a Starbucks with a gang of coffee klatch pals; Mike, Mike #2, Don, Steve, Alan, Ed, Dan, Rita, Scotty, Lou, John, the third Mike and the other Merlin. The coffee shop is one of the new models: high ceilings, a long work counter, exposed steel beams, heat ducts and track lights. An industrial motif! It was built to replace a perfectly fine set-up, except it didn’t have a drive-up window. It’s a noisy place – 6 to 8 servers are behind the counter – steam is hissing – metal containers bang and clank – globs of goop, coconut milk and other flavorings slop around, the metal ceiling bounces the racket back through the seating area.

There’s a cashier station at one end of the counter and a pick-up space at the other. As orders are prepared, the customer’s name and selection is shouted out – “Brenda! Mocha Late with two shots!”  Call ahead orders are placed in the same pick up space, but with less yelling. I’ve got the Starbuck App with the remote ordering capability, but I never used it till the other day when the line at the register was out the door. I sat down with the klatch and put in my order. In a few minutes I heard, “Merlin – Tall Black,” shouted above the din. In effect, I’d cut ahead of the line and felt a tinge of guilt, having grown up in a “wait your turn and don’t crowd ahead” generation. But, it was an emergency; I was in caffeine withdrawal.

And what a din in this place, with its high ceilings and the beverage manufacturing process going on behind the counter. It’s so noisy you can’t have a conversation unless you lean in. We sit in a circle and look like a group of ducks on a pond taking turns bobbing forward to hear what’s being said. I think the company should adopt the slogan, “Starbucks – bringing people closer together.

Sometimes I give up trying to have a conversation and just sit there, watching the drama behind the counter – all the servers are equipped with headsets and microphones, to take orders from the drive-in and call-ahead crowds, and to communicate with each other. They are the cast in a play, running back and forth, shouting out customer names and beverage orders while slopping liquids, steaming milk, turning on mixers, and rattling pots that send a crescendo of blended noise over the audience. It sounds like an off-key orchestra playing background music for a one-act, musical play with actors racing around the stage in a frenzy.

This musical would be funny if you didn’t see it for what it was,  a modern day sweat shop, where workers toil at full speed, time on end, in an atmosphere that qualifies for an OSHA citation; noisy, confusing, random steam eruptions shooting in all directions and relentless mixing & serving. I’m sure the Starbucks CEO, Kevin Johnson, appreciates their dedication, but he might consider giving them a thank-you bonus every so often, for his $13.4 million dollar salary and projected $50 million bonus if these workers achieve the corporate goals. I could then stop contributing to the tip jar. Then, it would be a perfect place for an old coot cheapskate.  

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Sweetie-Pie Old Coot- March 4, 2020 Article

The Old Coot is Peachy-pie, sometimes.

By Merlin Lessler

I've taken on a new moniker, several actually – Sweetie-pie – Honey – Dearie – Sweetheart – Peachy-pie – Cutie and the like. Every place I go, I'm a: Sweetie-pie” person. It’s an old man thing. For a long time, I was just an old guy, a “Sir,” a “Mister,” a “Senior.” I accepted that persona over the years; I embraced my “old guy” designation and converted my internal identity. I referred to myself as the Old Coot, probably a little before I really needed to. I was an old coot prodigy. Now, without being aware of it, I've transitioned to a new level and have been inducted into the “sweetie-pie” Club. [I Walk funny, I stumble a bit, I wobble, I operate with reduced muscle mass, I squint, I creak.]

I’m a full-fledged old man and a full-fledged member of the “sweetie-pie” club, a wrinkled, bent, object of sympathy (some call it pity). I’m addressed as Sweetie-pie, and similar endearing terms. It’s nice, on the surface, to be treated in this kindly fashion. It's just that it snuck up on me when I wasn't paying attention. I've thought of myself as an old coot for so long I didn't notice this new phase until the curtains on life’s stage pulled aside to reveal this new version of me to the audience.  

It’s nothing new, this being surprised by life’s passages. I was shocked in my early twenties when I started being addressed as Sir and Mister and Mister Lessler by people just a few years younger than me. My wife thought it was a riot, until she got called ma’am for the first time. Now, I’m surprised all over again, as the Misters have exited stage left and Sweetie-pie has taken center stage.

These life milestones come as a shock to most of us, but I’m not going to complain about this Sweetie-pie stage of my life. The next designation is, “The late Mister Lessler.” I won’t be aware of it, but somehow, I’ll still resent it. It’s what old coot do; we slip off the stage, but our complaints live on forever.

Comments, complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com