The Old Coot doesn't get the whole story. Published on 11/12/2025 in NY

 The Old Coot never gets the whole story.

By Merlin Lessler

 Here I go again! Another foolish attempt to explain the difference between men and women, naively thinking it will help in the battle of the sexes, bringing Mars and Venus into compatible orbits. This time it’s the “men never get the whole story” phenomenon.

 A husband will come home and say to his wife, “I ran into Bill today; his son got married in the Bahamas last month.” He (the husband) thinks he did a good job, got the scoop and remembered to report it. He couldn’t be more wrong!

 The grilling begins! “Which son? Who did he marry? Did Bill and his wife attend or did the couple elope? Where are they going to live? Where did they meet? How long had they dated?” Each question is answered exactly the same, “I don’t know.” Men never get the whole story!

 They actually do get more facts than they report. But, not facts relevant to the “relationship” story. For example, the husband with the scoop on Bill’s son getting married did learn that the son drives a 2019 Mini Cooper with 8,000 miles on the odometer, that Bill shot a 97 on the golf course in spite of getting a 10 on the 16^th hole. But facts about the marriage? Absolutely none! He didn’t think to ask.

 It’s not his fault; it’s the way a man’s brain works. Next time, if he’s like most men, he won’t mention Bill’s son getting married. Mars will keep his orbit away from Venus.

 I don’t know why men are like this. It might be a memory problem; we forget we’ll face a cross-examination when we come home with a “report” like this. We eventually learn to cope, when we become old coots. But, we don’t fix our problem; we simply resort to fiction. We make up the answers. Our fingers are crossed when we step to the witness stand and swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth. 

 An old coot will respond to a “who-did-he-marry” question with made-up facts,  “A girl from California; they met in college.” – “Did Bill and Mary go to the wedding?” - “No the couple eloped.” On and on an old coot will go, perjuring himself to the nth degree, to avoid having his “men don’t get the whole story” syndrome exposed. Eventually, it will come out, but he’ll cover his tracks with, “I guess I heard it wrong,” revealing yet another male dysfunction, the “men don’t listen” syndrome, an aliment I explained a few years ago in my unending quest to quiet the battlefront in the war of the sexes.

 Complaints? Comments? Drop them at mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot drives with a navigator. Published 11/05/2025 in NYpapers

 The Old Coot Avoids Back-Seat Drivers!

By Merlin Lessler

 Back-seat driving is a term you don’t hear much anymore. It’s a throwback to the past, to the days when old-time comedian, Milton Berle and his ilk, joked about their wives being back-seat drivers. The men were at the controls, but she determined when to step on the brake, where to turn and how fast to go. She was so fearful of his driving that she sat in the back seat where it was safer.

 It’s quite a sight to imagine, an irritated old geezer with sweat pouring down his face and his wife huddled in the back seat screeching orders at him. We’ve all experienced a back seat driver at one time or another, though these days they don’t usually supervise from over your shoulder; they do it from the seat next to you, buckled in and protected by an air bag. Unfortunately, the more the back-seat driver supervises, the worse we drive. We lose our ability to steer, brake and shift in a safe and smooth fashion. “Turn left at the corner,” we’re told. “I know; you don’t have to tell me,” we whine. “Well, you missed it the last time!” (Of course I missed it; she didn’t tell me to turn.) We don’t need a back-seat driver. It’s the other way around. Having a back seat driver turns us into bad drivers; we miss turns, go too fast and put the brakes on at the last minute. We unconsciously relinquish control, when our driving is supervised.

 I do just fine when I’m by myself. I take the correct route, I never get a speeding ticket, and I haven’t had an accident in decades. Yet, when my “driving coach” gets in the car with me, my superb driving skills slip out the door as she slams it shut. I adjust my style to allow for the screeches and yells that will emanate from her side of the car. I shift into a new gear, “L,” short for Lazy. I no longer pay attention to the speedometer, the route or street signs. I’m not on the lookout for cyclists, pedestrians or jaywalking deer. Shifting into Lazy isn’t a conscious thing; it sort of happens on its own.

 I’ve learned (sort of) to be compatible with my driving supervisor. I guess things will change over time; I won’t even be at the wheel. I’ll be perched in the back seat of a driverless car, doing some screeching of my own.

Old Coot graduated stupid. Published in NY papers 10/29/2025

 The Old Coot graduated stupid.

By Merlin Lessler

I’m kind of irked that I graduated from high school, STUPID! I knew nothing about anatomy, a critical subject to help one get through life. Wouldn’t you think that knowledge of how this mechanism works that travel around in all our lives would be important?

Anyhow, I learned anatomy the hard way. Waiting for the doctor, in the “little room,” and reading the information and looking at pictures on charts hanging on the wall. It was a long, slow process that I’ve been at for more than sixty years. Oh boy! So that’s where my kidneys are. Man, a liver is big. Look at all the bones in the ear. Who would think there were so many bones in such a small space?

I learned some stuff from doctors. It usually started out OK, but when they switched to Latin I was lost, even though I took several years of it in high school. I wasn’t familiar with any of the words I heard in the little room. When I got home, I looked them up in a dictionary, to see if I could figure what the Doctor was talking about. It was a lot harder in the pre-Google years. Not so bad now, but too late for me since I already know enough to qualify for an anatomy certificate. 

I don’t know what’s taught in school these days. All we had on how the body functioned was a single semester in Health Class that focused on hygiene, nutrition and dental health. And, a single afternoon when an embarrassed elderly Health teacher tried to cover the subject of sex education. I don’t know who was more uncomfortable, the teacher or us. There were no questions; we couldn’t wait to get out of the room.

These days when I find myself lacking some medical information, I use Google to help me out, but more importantly, I have a collection of old coot friends that are a wealth of knowledge and advice on just about any affliction that comes your way in old age. They’ve had it all and now are heart specialists, joint replacement experts, digestive system affliction pros and many more afflictions encountered by old men. And, you don’t have to wait in the “little room” for an explanation, that you’re probably not going to understand anyway.