Old Coot is new language challenged Tioga County Courier Article (7/28/2021)

 

The Old Coot doesn’t get it.

By Merlin Lessler

 Emojis (those small digital icons that express emotion) have taken over the English Language. When I was growing up there were only a few symbols at my disposal - O’s and X’s, placed at the end of a note or letter to express “hugs and kisses.” It’s all that was needed. We used words for everything else.

 Then, along came an advertising genius with the heart symbol. It replaced the word, “Love” as in I “heart” New York. Mostly a lie, but it stuck. Then came a few Emoticons, smiley faces and the like created from punctuation marks on a standard keyboard. For the most part, we communicated using words, not symbols.

 In 1999 the Emoji was invented, just as text messaging was just going mainstream. A marriage made in heaven. As of the end of 2020, there were 3136 Emojis. That number is expected to grow to 3353 by the end of 2021. My problem is, I can’t decipher their meaning. I’m symbol understanding challenged, for the most past anyhow. And, how can anyone need to express 3,000 or more emotions? I only come up with a handful that are of use to me:  happiness, anger, disappointment, shock, sadness, guilt, puzzlement and the like.  Puzzlement is one I use a lot, especially when getting a text loaded with Emojis.

 We will be back to Hieroglyphics (the written language of ancient Egypt) if this trend keeps up.  Apparently, that Egyptian form of writing was even more confusing than today’s Emojis. The meaning of the picture symbols remained a mystery for thousands of years. It was only dumb luck that led to breaking the Hieroglyphic code. It happened when one of Napoleon’s soldiers stumbled across the Rosetta Stone on July, 19, 1799. Our historical record will eventually be written entirely in Emojis at the rate the number of symbols is growing. I pity archeologists of the distant future, unearthing our civilizations and trying to understand the written language.

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Old Coot make a pitch for reading. Tioga County Courier Article July 21, 2021

 

The Old Coot is a reader.

By Merlin Lessler

 I just finished reading a Nero Wolfe book by author, Rex Stout. He penned 72 “Wolfe” episodes, starting in 1934. He lived 5 miles from me when I was in my thirties; I was near the eastern boundary of New York State, just off Route 84 in Brewster, NY; his estate was on the western edge of Connecticut, straddling both state borders. I’d heard of Nero Wolfe, but I never read one of Stout’s books. Since he was a neighbor, sort of, I decided I would read one to see what it was all about. When I did, I was hooked.

 I didn’t solve the mystery in that first one. Nero Wolfe did, and in dramatic fashion, squeezing his one-seventh of a ton frame into a special, oversized chair behind his desk in front of a roomful of interested parties. The perpetrator (as yet unnamed) was there along with the cast of characters involved in the case, Wolf’s dedicated assistant, Archie Goodwin and NYPD Inspector Cramer, who was chagrined that he hadn’t been able to solve the case. He was forced to listen to Wolf’s oration to find out who did it so he could make an arrest. The facts are there for all to see, but only Wolfe is genius enough to connect the dots.

 Rex Stout was a genius himself, just like Nero Wolfe. He created a school banking system that was adopted in school districts across the country in 1927. It afforded him the luxury of retiring from the finance world in 1934 to become a full-time author. I’ve read every book, several times. And even when I re-read one, I still fail to figure out who committed the crime. But that’s what readers love about Rex Stout’s writing; We want to be surprised, just like the crowd gathered in Wolfe’s office in the last 10 or 20 pages of the book.   

 I re-read four or five Nero Wolfe books every year, as a respite, mixed in with current novels and non-fiction. I find the journey into Stout’s world of the 40’s, 50’s and 60’s with a genius at the helm to be very comforting. It never fails to mellow me out and to suffer a little humility. I’m not sure why I’m going on and on about this. Maybe it’s a subconscious attempt to induce you to spend time with the eccentric, overweight Nero Wolfe and experience a soothing interlude in a hectic day. And, if you haven’t read a book since being forced to in high school, a journey through the 150 pages of the average Nero Wolf book just might bring you back to reading for fun.

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The Old Coot doesn't know? Tioga County Courier Article of July 14, 2021

 

The Old Coot knows the answer.

By Merlin Lessler

 Among the hardest three words to say, are, “I don’t know.” We hate that we don’t know something, when asked. So, we march ahead with an answer. Sometimes we condition it with, “I believe….” – I’ve been told….” – “I heard….” – “The word on the street is….” Or, we lie. Fake it! Make up an answer and hope it doesn’t come back to haunt us.

 Why is it so hard? To say those three little words? (This is where I should say, “I don’t know.” But off I go with an answer). We can’t say those three little words because of our egos. We’ve just been complimented by the asker, who thought we would know the answer. We hate to lose face and say, “I don’t know.”

 Politicians don’t have that problem. They never say they don’t know. Instead, they respond with a delaying tactic, “That’s a great question.” That compliment to interviewers throws them off guard. It’s called the “flatter and distract” technique. Then off they go on a long round of blather and never answer the question.

 This phobia isn’t a male or female thing. Both sexes are equally guilty of not being able to say, “I don’t know.” It’s even harder to say than, “I was wrong.” Which is what you are setting yourself up for when you answer a question with fiction rather than fact. Fortunately, saying you were wrong got easier when some clever person, probably a politician, invented the phrase, “My bad.”

 Somehow, this takes the sting out of admitting you are wrong. We hate to be wrong, but we hate even more, to admit it. Saying, “My bad,” solves the problem. I’d love to meet the person who came up with it. I asked Google. I was sure it wouldn’t know and would just throw up a bunch of web sites, which is another way of saying, “That’s a good question.” That’s what I got. I picked the one that said it came from the 1995 movie, “Clueless.” If that’s wrong, it’s “My bad.”

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The Old Coot knows when to lie. Tioga Co. Courier Article (July 7, 2021)

 

The Old Coot’s pants are on fire.

By Merlin Lessler

 I’m a liar. Everyone is, but it’s something that a lot of people won’t admit. Not me! I even lie to my doctor. I’m not alone. Many of my fellow old coots do too. It starts right off when the doctor walks into the little room where you’ve waited, staring at gruesome pictures on the wall, for the longest ten minutes of your life. “How are you doing, Mr. Coot. Any issues?” What kind of question is that? To ask of an old man. Of course, there are issues, all of which I’ve come to accept over my “golden” years, and know how to live with. So, I lie, “I’m doing great!”

 “Any chest pains?” – “Not really.” Just the normal ones I get every once in a while – some could be heart related – most are old age related – indigestion or muscle aches from screwing in a light bulb. I’ve lived with these chest things for years, so no sense letting that cat out of the bag. I have a few stents – put in five years ago, so I’m an expert at listening to my body. If I didn’t lie, I’d be in for a round of unnecessary tests, probes and a battery of appointments spending endless hours in waiting and examining rooms. So, for my own good, I lie.

 “You up in the night a lot?” – “Sometimes; no complaints.” Sometimes? What a lie – how about every night! That’s the norm for an old coot. No sense in getting into a new round of appointments with a urologist. I’m not bringing up the subject until the rug between my bedroom and the bathroom starts to wear thin.

 “How are you sleeping?” – “Good. No problem.” What a lie! – I love my 11am nap – the 3pm doze reading a book – the TV shows after dinner that I mostly sleep through. I sleep in bits and pieces so by bedtime I don’t go down for a solid stretch of time. Bad sleep habits (patterns) are the norm for us old guys. No sense admitting it and setting myself up for a session at a sleep clinic, listening to a bunch of old guys snoring.

 All through the doctor visit –Lie! – Lie! – Lie! But these are healthy lies that many old coots have mastered. We’re dealing with medical professionals who have studied, but never experienced, the ins and outs of old age. It’s not a science. Old age is an art. Give me an 80-year-old doctor and I will stop telling lies.

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The old coot doesn't like dog owner's image - Tioga County Courier 6/30/2021

 

The Old Coot makes a request.

By Merlin Lessler

 This is my only complaint about dog owners. Call it a PSA (public service announcement). Some of you are making our species look bad, walking around with a leash in one hand and a bag of dog poop in the other. I’m not against dogs, just the image that some of you are creating, though very much appreciating that you pick it up! Most of you, anyhow. As a matter of fact, I love dogs. Cats too. I’ve had dogs since I was three years old and my parents let me keep a stray that had been wandering around the neighborhood for weeks. They got quite a surprise three weeks later when “Lassie” delivered seven pups in our basement. We kept one and named him Topper because he left the litter, climbed to the top of the stairs and poked his nose into the kitchen.

 So then we had two dogs, mother and son. Lassie was an unrelenting car chaser. My father, a design engineer, rigged up all sorts of contraptions using wire coat hangers and twine to try to retard her ability to race after a car. To no avail. She eventually was adopted by a friend of my father who lived in the country where traffic was extremely light. This was the 1940’s after all. There were such places then.

 Topper was at my side for eleven years, except when I went to church or to school. Otherwise, he was my constant companion – in the woods camping and building forts, at the ball field playing pick-up games. Even to downtown Binghamton, waiting outside a store or the movie theater. No leash; he just plopped down by the door and waited.  I had that first love of my life until I was 14 and he passed away.  

 I’ve had a succession of dogs for most of my life; I don’t have one at the moment, but when I feel the need for some canine interaction, I go to the dog park or to my daughter’s house. There is nothing like a greeting from a dog – a happy show of affection, no strings attached. Even if you are an old coot.

 That’s a long route to get to my point, but I’ve been taking lessons from Andy Haefer on how to string out a short story. He’s leaving town, moving to Georgia, so I plan to carry on his storytelling tradition. Back to the point! I’m asking the dog owners who are walking their dogs and carrying a bag of you know what, to put the bag in an old purse with a shoulder strap or in a small messenger bag, so the aliens who watch us from their UFO’s don’t assume that dogs are the superior life form. It’s up to you to save us Earthlings.

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