Old Coot is anti PB&J, a Tioga County Courier Article of 03/23/2022

 The Old Coot is down on PB&J!

By Merlin Lessler

 I watched a celebrity chef on daytime TV demonstrate how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Except she called it PB&J. It’s yet another acronym forced on us by the invisible “Bureau of Acronyms,” a movement hell bent to replace words with initials; I can’t figure out most of them. Government bureaucrats spawn many of them: TSA,CDC, FDA. Ours, is a government of alphabet soup, but the corporate and sports world are responsible for many of them as well. It’s like water spilling over a broken dam – GM, IBM, NASCCAR, NFL, PGA and the like.

I began my distaste for acronyms when the company I worked for switched from its actual name (New York State Electric and Gas Corporation) to NYSEG, pronounced “nice-egg.” I didn’t like saying I worked for nice egg; it was always met with, “What’s that?” I’d reply with a simple, “It’s the electric company.” Even my company identity was reduced to initials; I was simply MWL on internal memos. In person, I was often referred to a “Young Lessler,” if you can believe that.  

So, when the celebrity chef started her demo of making a “PB&J,” my hackles went up. They stayed up as she started the process with fresh strawberries and a blender. They went off the chart when pickles were placed on top of the peanut butter.

 Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are sacred to me – still one of my go-to food items, unchanged in make-up and name from the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches my friend, Sherwood, and I packed in our army surplus knapsacks and headed into the woods on a hike. The first thing we did, when out of sight of our mothers, was to plop down and dig into our knapsacks and devour those sandwiches, washing them down with milk from a metal canteen (also WWll surplus) that leached into the milk, giving it an unforgettable metallic taste.

 Some things, and names, should never be changed! Peanut butter & jelly is at the top of the list. A wonderful concoction, introduced to the world by Julia Davis Chandler in 1901, not called PB&J then, not until sometime in the 1960’s, but still called by the proper name by most of us old coots.

 Old coots have only one request of society, “Leave us and our “stuff” alone!” Starting with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Next on the list are Oreo cookies, introduced to the world in 1912. And, although there are variations on grocery store shelves, the original version is still there. Snickers candy bars -born in 1930, have sustained the same taste, but not the same, five cent price I paid when I was a kid. Mars Candy Company learned from the great Coca Cola debacle of 1985, when “New Coke” was introduced. It took only 79 days of customer revolt to get the CEO to back down and return to the original recipe. I can only hope the corporate world will start paying attention. “Don’t mess with success!” (Or my stuff!)     

The Old Coot "speaks" up. A Tioga County (NY) Courier article of 03/16/22

 The Old Coot hates robotic speakers?

By Merlin Lessler

 I’m sick and tired of public officials and corporate executives reading from a script when speaking to the public. I used “sick and tired,” a phrase I am sick and tired of hearing. Sick? Really? And Tired? – Come on, nobody is SICK and TIRED in a literal sense. I vote to retire the phrase. Anyhow, I’m sick and tired of people in power who are unable to stand up and say what’s on their mind without reading from a script or a tele-prompter.

 It's especially irritating when they are commenting on a tragedy. They say how sorry they are for the family and add, “Our thoughts and prayers are with them.” OK, a nice sentiment, I suppose, but not when the speaker looks down at a script or off to the side at a teleprompter. It makes you think they don’t really mean what they are spouting, most likely written by someone else. 

 OK – I admit it, it’s not easy to speak in public. Some surveys rate it right up there with the fear of flying and death.  If a speaker doesn’t want to forget an important point, then have a small list of major points to keep them on track, but speak from the heart. Be real, not an actor playing a role. Sometimes, in addition to reading from a script, a speaker will have a line of people behind him or her - to pass off the tough questions to during a Q & A session that follows the “play.”  Or, even worse – the dreaded Power Point presentation.

 The other part of my “sick and tired” rant, is the length of these speeches. Five minutes is a good place to start wrapping it up – at that point, 50% of the audience is off wool gathering. At ten minutes, the rest go to more pleasant places in their mind, wondering what to have for dinner, what the weather will be tomorrow, how long will this gas bag go on, and finally, “How can I get out of here?”

 There once was a tactic taught in public speaking classes called, “KISS.” Kep it Simple Stupid! It’s smart to have a spouse or a good friend in the back of the room when you are speaking, to blow you a kiss, sending you the “Keep It Simple Stupid” message. Unfortunately, those stuffed shirts, who never look up from their script or away from the teleprompter, won’t get the message. When it comes to speaking or writing, Less is more! Time for me to KISS off.         

Old Coot's blood pressure goes up. A Tioga County Courier Article of 03/09/2022

 The Old Coot is off the chart.

By Merlin Lessler

 You go to a doctor’s appointment -the first thing they do, is check your blood pressure. Mine is always above the 150/90 threshold. It’s normally well below that, but not at the doctor’s office.

Of course, it’s high – here’s why: a few days before my appointment, I start reminding myself that on Friday, at 10 o’clock, I have to be at the doctor’s office. “Will I remember on Friday that I have an appointment. Will I even know it is Friday? Old coots often don’t know what day it is. “What day is it?” is a common question asked by retirees. When told it’s Wednesday, we say, “It is? It feels like Tuesday.” So, the stress of just trying to remember the appointment, starts the blood pressure on an upward journey.

Then comes the logistics: “When should I leave the house? Will a traffic jam hold me up? Is there enough gas in the car?” Stress! Stress! Stress! I don’t want to get there too early and have to wait with a bunch of old coots who don’t even know what day it is. I don’t want to be late and forced to the end of the line. Thankfully, I manage to get there on time, but it was a journey loaded with stress; the specter of lateness sat next to me in the passenger seat, taunting me with images of traffic jams, construction delays and flat tires.

 I sit down and pat myself on the back when I get there on time, thinking, “Now I can relax.” But, no! I start wondering when my name will be called, if I have time to run to the restroom, and if I do, will they come for me when I’m in there and think I left. The anxiety builds every time they call a name. Finally, they get to me; my blood pressure is through the roof.   

 “How are you,” the aide asks?  “Stressed to the gills,” I say to myself, but instead, answer with a lie, “Just great!” They ask me my birthdate; I get that one right. “How tall are you?” I fumble with an answer, “I don’t know. I used to be six foot-one, but I’ve lost some height. Put me down for five eleven.” They weigh me, another test I’ll probably fail, but thankfully the scale registers in kilograms and I can’t do the math. At this point, I don’t care.

 Now I’m in for it, escorted into the “Little Room” and hooked up to a blood pressure sleeve. As it starts squeezing my arm, I explain to the nurse that it’s always high when I come here. She hardly pays attention. Then, my failure shows up on the screen, 153 over 73, not my normal, 126 over 67. “No problem,” the nurse says, “I’ll test it again after your exam.” That gets it going even higher and it keeps going as I sit there waiting and waiting and waiting, wondering if I’ve been forgotten. When the doctor comes in, the first thing he scolds me about, is my high blood pressure.

 I’m not allowed to leave when he’s finished; I have to wait for my blood pressure to be re-tested. So, I wait and wait and wait, scolding myself for not just getting up and going home. Finally, the nurse comes back and re-tests me. I fail, but not as bad as before. “Sit here for five minutes and then you can leave,” she tells me. I wait four minutes and flee, regaining a small measure of self-respect.  I’ve come to the conclusion that going to the doctor, is bad for my health.  

 Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com   

Male mating rituals need to change. Tioga County, NY Courier Article of 03-02-2022

 The Old Coot asks of change.

By Merlin Lessler

 This was written and published in 2004. Nothing has changed. Probably won’t. But, the issue has to be aired every so often.

 It's time for a new set of male mating rituals. The old ones don't work; they never did; they just make my gender look stupid. Take the scene I witnessed the other day as I walked into town. A young woman was walking in the same direction, but a block ahead of me. A male in a pick-up truck honked as he passed. She didn't wave; she just looked down at her feet. A few minutes later another guy came by and rolled down his window and yelled, "Hey baby; need a lift?" Her head went down again, and her pace quickened. Then a little white Honda drove up with four "young adult" males in it. The radio was blaring; the base notes were so loud that the whole car vibrated. I thought it was going to explode.

 I noticed the windows go down as the car came alongside the girl; it slowed to a crawl. All four guys leaned out and began yelling. "Hey baby!" "Do I know you?" "What's your name?" "What's your sign?" They screamed and banged their fists on the side of the car, whooped and yelled, but to no avail. She kept her head down and increased her pace. They kept at it for half a block before launching a final volley of whoops. Then they peeled out and tore down the street. A few minutes later they came back in the opposite direction. Two guys were on the roof and one was on the front hood. They unleashed another round of male mating calls and sped away. The guy on the hood almost slipped off as the driver performed a fancy skid.

 Men have been whistling, honking, pinching and otherwise assailing women in a failed attempt to get noticed for eons. Cavemen invented the technique and it worked for them, but only because they used a club. Construction workers have made it into an art form, but their success rate is no better than the guys in the white Honda. I'm not sure what they expect. Do they really think a woman who is being hassled by a group of whooping, yelling, drooling primates is going to turn around and say, "Boy, I like the way you whoop and yell; pick me up at six big boy; we’ll go to dinner!"

 If you are out there whistling, yelling, whooping, pinching, blowing your horn and otherwise making a spectacle of yourself to get a woman's attention, give it up. The guy taking her to dinner is the one who talks to her and more important, listens. He loves it when you cruise by in your car with your friends and go into a courting frenzy; it makes him look good. Don't take my word for it. Ask any woman. Just go right up to her, look her in the eye, smile and don’t say, "How you doooin, babe?" Like Joey Trivani on the TV show, Friends. Just say, “Let me get the door for you.”