The Old Coot touts in line dating. Published 02/18/2026 in New York

 The Old Coot is an “in-line” dater.

By Merlin Lessler

We didn’t have online dating when I was growing up; we had “in-line” dating, as in waiting in line to get the courage to walk over to a girl and ask her to dance or by getting” in-line” to cut in on a girl already dancing. When impatience with our courage ran out, we tapped on her partner’s shoulder, and even if they were going steady with her, etiquette required him to step aside and let you take over. The prettier the girl, the longer the line of guys wanting to cut in and have a chance to charm her, and by some Cupid miracle, ignite a girlfriend/boyfriend relationship. We were so naïve.

I think the “cut- in” custom still exists, it’s just not used as often as it once was.  Online dating has taken over the landscape, with participants using a mix of fact, fiction and exaggeration in their personal profiles. Blatant lies and doctored photos as well. None of the latter two items ever result in a second date.

If my crowd (old coots)  considered online dating, and used honesty in our self-descriptions, our profiles would read something like this: old coot seeking a date - likes going places and doing things as long as he gets home before dark – only says, “ I used to,” or “I should have” three times an hour – has many friends and acquaintances and only a few of which aren’t aware of that relationship -does good deeds, but talks about it more than acts – is a great chef, as long as the microwave is working – looks at prices on the menu and picks the cheapest offering -  believes Elvis is still alive – is a night owl, sometimes stays up as late as 10 PM – sleeps like a baby (up every three hours) - lives on the wild side, rides a two wheel bicycle without a helmet. Call this land line or mail a letter to this home address, if interested.

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Th e Old Coot loves the Cruise Ship Polka. (Published in Owego, NY 02-11-20260

 The Old Coot loves the Cruise Polka.

By Merlin Lessler

 I was on a cruise ship the other day in a food court called “The Marketplace.” I call it the “Feeding Trough.” I was at a six-top table with a husband and wife at one end and me at the other, minding my own business. Hah! That’s a lie: I was people watching and eavesdropping like crazy. The wife was alone for a few minutes while her hubby ran off to get another load of pastries. He left his phone on the table. It suddenly emitted a loud rattling noise that sounded like a bottle of pills being shaken. I looked over to his spouse and asked, “Is it time for your husband to take his medicine?” She replied in the affirmative, “Yes, but as usual, he’s not here to take them.”

 It was early, many of the tables were empty. The rush-hour was just beginning; it’s what I’d been waiting for, the mad scramble for an open seat at a table or a turn at one of the numerous food stations scattered throughout the large eating area. I was well situated to watch the mad scramble. It’s kind of like the scrub in a rugby match. Elbows were flailing; people rushed from one food stand to another. Food was spilled; angry looks were exchanged.

 It seemed as though these people hadn’t eaten in weeks. Their plates were piled high with scrambled eggs, bacon toast, pastries, cut up fruit, pancakes, waffles and a myriad of other items. The wait staff wandered through the sea of tables with pots of coffee and glasses of juice. It helped to energize the troops; they repeatedly returned to battle and make queries such as, “Where did you get that giant sweet roll? I must have one!”  

 It’s most entertaining when the sea is rough and the ship is rocking. That adds spilled plates and sloshed beverages to the mix, I wasn’t disappointed. The imaginary maestro tapped his wand; the plate clatter orchestra fired up and the cruise ship “feeding polka” began. I sat tight. I didn’t want to join in on the performance, not with my balance issues that are magnified on a swaying ship. I stayed put with my meager plate of food and watched the show. I got my money’s worth. How could I not? I was in  Old Coot Heaven.

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The Old Coot swaps a pencil for a pen. (Published 01/04/2026)

 The Old Coot is an upside down writer.

By Merlin Lessler

 I’ve switched from a pen to a pencil. I decided it when I was reading a Nero Wolfe detective book by Rex Stout titled, “And Be a Villain.” I own all seventy- two of Stout’s, Nero Wolfe tales. I find his “who-done-it” stories relaxing and I’m almost always surprised when Wolfe reveals who the guilty person is, usually in his office, surrounded by all the characters in the story and two policemen. This was the third time over the last 50 years that I’d read this book. Since I own it, I violate it: I dog-ear the page corners instead of using a book mark, write notes here and there, and in this reading, where there were 13 suspects, I wrote each of their names and a brief bio on the inside back cover. Whenever a new character showed up, I flipped to the back and added them to the list. I must have had a better memory the last two times I read the book since nothing was written on the page.

I read it in a recliner; I had the book over my head and when I made an entry with my pen it stopped working after I jotted down a few letters. I had to sit up and lean down to get it to work again. Up and down, up and down I went, like a duck bobbing on a pond. That’s when I decided to switch to a pencil.

I found one in our junk drawer, a “Dixon-Ticonderoga, #2 - HB, pencil. It writes upside down. I once had an “Astronaut” pen that could do that, but it was pricey and I didn’t feel like shelling out $30 for a replacement. But, a simple pencil can match the upside down ability, plus you can transport it behind your ear, chew on it while you think, erase your mistakes and best of all, for an old coot like me, it’s cheap! I bought an 18 pack for less than five dollars. I’ll never ever use them all up; I’ve spread them around in the house, in the car, in the garage and in a pouch on my bicycle.

The Dixon-Ticonderoga pencil was patented in 1839. The company was in business for well over a century, guided by the principle of “Best of its kind.” Dixon (Joseph) was the founder of the company; Ticonderoga was the area in New York where the graphite was mined. The brand name is still around, but the pencils are now made in China. They’ve been slimmed down and the graphite isn’t as good, but they do write upside down. I just wish the company that makes them hadn’t changed the guiding principle to “As Chintzy As We Can Make it.”

The Old Coot is a cut up. Published January 28th in Owego NY

 The Old Coot is a cut-up.

By Merlin Lessler

 My wife and I had lunch with a friend the other day. I ordered a short stack of pancakes and sausage. I love restaurants that serve breakfast all day. It’s right up my “cheapskate” alley. Pancakes were the cheapest thing on the menu.

 I cut them into bite size pieces, ditto for the sausage links. Our friend Lynn didn’t say anything, but I could tell by the look on her face she was wondering, “What kind of idiot cuts up all their food at one time? It’s what mothers and fathers do for a toddler.”  I do it to avoid the fork and knife switching, back and forth after each use of the knife. I can’t cut with my left hand and can’t use it to get food to my mouth. It’s only used to hold down whatever I’m cutting.

 In Europe, and with adults with more sophistication than me, the fork stays in the left hand, the knife in the right (for right handed people). They maneuver food from the plate to their pie hole with their left hand, using the knife to help load it onto the fork, often with the tines facing down, transporting the food on what I call the wrong side of the fork. (I’ve tried it many times, to no avail). Also, what do you do with peas? How can anyone balance them on a fork held in the “wrong” hand?

 This is where being an old coot has its benefits. People don’t expect much of us. (And, we play that card as often as possible). We arm ourselves for battle, the fork in our left hand, the knife in the right, and go to war with a piece of meat or whatever is too big to eat in one bite. We cut it all up, send the knife into exile, move the fork to our right hand and eat in peace, just like we did when we were little kids and mom cut up our meal for us. We’ll eventually end up with someone cutting up our food again, so we might as well get a head start on eating the sensible way before it becomes a necessity.  

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The Old Coot Counts to ten in the pool. Published 1/21/26 in Owego NY

 The Old Coot counts to ten.

By Merlin Lessler

My friend Wesley came laughing into our coffee klatch the other morning. He had been in a store where his purchases came to $10.06. He gave the teenage clerk a twenty dollar bill, a nickel and a penny. A puzzled look crossed her face. She froze, as though in a catatonic state. After a few seconds, she snapped out of it, fumbled in the cash register drawer and handed him a five dollar bill, four ones, three quarters, a dime, a nickel and four pennies, and left the six cents Wesley had originally handed her on the counter.

I guess this shouldn’t be a surprise. Kids grow up today with a series of electronic devices doing a lot of thinking for them. My generation is “Device Stupid.” We struggle to use them. We call their generation, “Common Sense Stupid.” It’s important for us to mix with each other. We can both learn to be less stupid.

When I swim laps in the YMCA pool, I count lengths by reciting, “One two, buckle my shoe, three four shut the door,” on and on with the counting rhyme. When I finish with, “Nine ten, the big fat hen,” I switch from the crawl stroke to the back stroke. I do this over and over for about thirty-minutes.

I wondered if kids today still learn to count using the “One two - buckle my shoe” method. I asked around and apparently they do, even though the rhyme is out of date. Its origin goes back to the 1780’s, when shoes were fastened with a buckle. The industrial revolution in the mid 1800’s replaced the buckle method with metal eyelets and shoe laces. I grew up with laces, but it was much harder to learn to tie, than it was to learn to count. My son grew up with Velcro. Kind of like the old buckle. Now, you don’t have to tie at all. Slip-on shoes and Velcro have entirely changed the shoe landscape.

Terms like, dial a phone, turn a screw counterclockwise to tighten, tick-tock goes a clock and a slew of others commonly used by my crowd are as out of date as buckle shoes, but we still use them, and chuckle when a youngster has no idea what we’re talking about. We probably need to do more teaching and less chuckling, but gosh the chuckling is so much fun.   

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The Old Coot rides it out. - Published 01/13/2023 in Owego, NY

 The Old Coot takes a ride.

By Merlin Lessler

You don’t have time to meditate? Or lay on a couch in a therapist’s office? Then do it the old coot way, take a ride in your car (after the sun comes up) on a Saturday, Sunday or a holiday morning. Go alone; turn the radio off and go exploring to nearby areas, but places you’ve never been.  Learn about your surroundings; put a new map in your head; get rural if you can; go slower than you normally would and look around. Really see what this other world is really all about. 

I find it fun to contrast how wealth is displayed in so called upper class areas versus middle income, poor and rural areas. In wealthy areas it’s all about the house: big, fancy, extensive landscaping,. Often jammed together on small lots. Rural is different. People live in moderate sized houses with huge yards. It is amazing how many hours of mowing it must take to keep up with it. But mowing isn’t really a chore, it’s another form of meditation; you are all alone, doing something monotonous, so your mind wanders and digs out stuff and helps you solve your problems. Just like this “Sunday” drive I’m suggesting you do every once in a while.

The thing I like most about rural areas, aside from the huge mown lawns, is the people who show their wealth by filling up their acreage with old, decaying cars and tractors, discarded household appliances, farm equipment, rusty swing sets. You name it; if it doesn’t work or look good anymore, you will find it there. Some people think this is ugly, but you can see it as beautiful; it is like modern art that appears to be blobs of paint, but draws you in to find the beauty if you lose yourself when viewing it.

You never come home from one of these rides without being entertained and changed a little bit. But, most of all, a little more relaxed, calmed and mentally healthier. Happy Riding!

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The Old Coot hears a bird call. Published in NY and elsewhere 01/06/2026

 The Old Coot is a birder?

By Merlin Lessler

There was a bird on a rooftop across the street from me in Florida yelling, “Blow-Ah, Blow-Ah.” It was a call I’d never heard before. It looked like a crow, but I know what a crow sounds like and that wasn’t it. I should know, after all, Cornell Ornithology Laboratory has a free bird identifying App that is named Merlin, just like me. I have the App on my phone; I use it quite often, like when I’m sitting on the porch. I use the “bird sound” function to call birds in the vicinity to come to me. I pick one of several mating calls and soon enough, a bird flies over, but quickly figures out that I’m not a proper mate and flies off to tell their friends to stay away; it’s just an Old Coot calling, not the Coot Bird. (Coots are dark, chicken like waterbirds)

It is a fun thing to do, but it can get out of hand, as it did one evening at our friends, Paul and Carol’s house in the early evening while we were sitting in their lanai at the back of their home. Carol said a lonely screech owl flew over and sat on the fence next to where we were sitting. It was quite regular; it came every night.  Just one owl, all by itself. She thought it was the only one around. I pulled out my “Merlin App” and scrolled down to the screech owl section and tapped on one of several available calls.

 It didn’t take long. First one owl came by, then another and then another. One flew into the screen around the lanai, then did it again. Being the jerk that I am, I’d overdone it. A single screech from Carol, not the owl, got me to shut the thing off. I felt the same fright as she did; it was like being in the Alfred Hitchock movie, “The Birds,” where the whole town was trapped in their houses by angry swarms of birds that attacked and tried to kill anyone who ventured out the door.

Anyhow, back to the bird that was chirping, “Blow-ah.” It flew off before I could get the Merlin bird ID” App going to identify what it was. I tried artificial intelligence on Google; It wasn’t sure, but thought it might be a “Fish-Crow,” and then suggested I install the Merlin Bird ID App. It didn’t say it, but I could sense it thought it was appropriate for me, since I’m a bird brain.

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The Old Coot's best Christmas present, 1949 - Published in NY papers

 An old coot remembers his best Christmas present ever.

 By Merlin Lessler

 It happened when I was seven, the best Christmas present a kid (in the fifties) could hope for, was under the tree. A bicycle! My sister, Madeline, and I both got bikes that year, second-hand, but freshened up with a new coat of paint. We didn’t care; they sparkled, as did our eyes when we saw them under the tree. But, into the basement they went, to wait for Spring to arrive.      

 Finally, the first robin arrived and the bikes came out. We lived on a hill; it was steep and a terrible place to learn how to ride. My father helped me push it up to a flat street at the top of our hill that hardly had any traffic on it. I still remember the exhilaration of staying upright while he pushed me. I remember even more vividly, the terror I felt when I looked over my shoulder and discovered he wasn’t there. I panicked and crashed to the ground. He eventually convinced me that I’d kept the bike upright all by myself and didn’t need his help, except to get started. I hopped back on, and like Hop-a-long Cassidy, my cowboy hero, rode off into the sunset. One problem; I didn't know how to dismount. When I came to a stop, I simply fell over.  

 My sister solved the problem. She raced ahead, jumped off her bike and caught me as I came to a stop. Later on, I just stopped near a curb and put out my foot so I could climb off. It wasn’t my fault; the bike was too big, like everything in those days. We had to “grow into” stuff: shoes, clothes, skates, sleds and yes, bikes. I went around in oversized jeans (we called them dungarees) with a six inch cuff, shoes with wadded up newspaper stuffed in the toes and to top it off, I had to use a curb to get on and off my bike. Now that I’m in my 80’s, I still use a curb when one is available.   

 I developed a deep relationship with that two-wheeler. I don't think a cowboy ever loved his horse more than I loved that bike. It was freedom; it was status; and it taught me how to fix things. I learned to take it apart and convert it into a racing bike, by removing the fenders, reversing the handlebars and raising the seat. Sometimes, I decorated it with red, white and blue crepe paper and rode at the tail end of Memorial Day and Fourth of July parades. A lot of kids did. We also “clothes pinned” a piece of cardboard to the fender support so it would flap against the spokes and made it sound like we were riding a motorcycle. It didn’t take much to entertain a kid back in the fifties.    

 When I turned 12, I found a lightweight, English bike, with hand brakes and three gears under the tree. It was brand-new and the exact right size. I was ecstatic, but I’ll always think of that used, repainted first bicycle as the best Christmas present ever. I hope your Christmas was as merry as mine was back then.

Old Coot piles on. Published 12/17/2025 in Owego, ny papers

 The Old Coot found an ally.

By Merlin Lessler

A recent article by Dan Smith in the Volusia Hometown News caught my attention. In it, he realized he sounded like that grumpy old man in his neighborhood he hated as a kid, as he listed the things that irritate him: dances in the end zone when pro football players score a touchdown, fake butter on popcorn, men wearing too much jewelry, names he can’t pronounce or remember. His list went on and on, several dozen in total. I’m that grumpy old man too. Look up grumpy in a dictionary and you’ll see a picture of me.

It was a good start, but he left out a lot of things that bug me: stuff you are interested in buying, but it’s sealed in plastic and you can’t see what you are getting, stickers – on everything: apples, oranges, but the hardest to get off, are stuck in the worse possible place, like on the lens of a pair of glasses. The liar at the check in station who says the doctor will be right with you. You sit, and have no idea when you’ll be called. Meat and deli counters solved that issue 100 years ago, giving you a number. But, not modern day medical centers, in spite of having computers that could easily be used to reduce patient’s anxiety. My blood pressure is always high after sitting in a waiting room.  

Stretch jeans bug me. It just allows them to replace some of the cotton with a synthetic substance, probably derived from oil, like plastic bags. Stores that offer 50% off on a second item, but you don’t want a second item. So, as the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld might say, “No sale for you!” How about socks that are so tight they cut off your circulation and socks that are “one size fits all,” which means they don’t fit anyone properly. 

It's just wrong to advertise prescription drugs on TV. Just like it’s wrong for ambulance chasing lawyers to dominate the advertising landscape. Adds in general. Too many and everyplace: every App, every website, every streaming service. New Year's Eve celebrations, and worse, New Year's resolutions - nobody keeps them. Names for moons, every 28 days, a new, made up name. Naming winter storms, like the overzealous weather, people do with hurricanes. Weather reports dominate the news and make us focus on the disaster headed our way with DANGEROUS lightning. No longer called a simple thunder storm. They want us scared and tuned in.

My list is long, but I’ll cover it over the next year. That’s my new year’s resolution. For now, I’ll end with shoe laces that don’t stay tied, airplane seats for those of us in “the back of the bus,” glass bottles replaced with plastic, no free air at gas stations and crappy ones you pay for that hardly are up to the task. A rule against taunting in pro football. What’s wrong with the good old, “Na- na, na- na- na,” that my generation grew up using to celebrate, and rub it in, after scoring a touchdown. It’s a war out on the football field, and the insults exchanged that we can’t hear would make even a salty old sailor cringe.   

The Old Coot Splits in two. Published in Owego, NY 12-09-2025

 The Old Coot made a split decision.

By Merlin Lessler

I’ve been, or it seems like it, a Siamese twin for the last dozen years or so  – one-twin that grew into adulthood and old age, constantly saying, “I used to …..” or “I once could do…” and the like. The other one, trying to look ahead, not back. I’m in a struggle to separate the two. It’s a tricky process because we are joined at the head. It’s pulling away from those old brain cells from the past and moving to a new beginning. I should have done this ten years ago, but I’m a late bloomer.

 I’m just starting to get used to the separation. I limit my looking back, to the day I turned 80.  Not much going on since then to reminisce about with longing. A clean slate. I walk; I swim; I bike, do push-ups; wash the car and putter around in the yard. No real changes in my 80’s. Oh sure, I have a few ailments and physical limitations to put up with, but not bad, when I don’t compare myself to the memories now in the hands of my separated twin.

Life is happier when you get rid of a “I used to” focus. Sure, a few brain cells from my twin cling to me, but for the most part, they are fuzzy, weak and fading. It took all these years to learn to live in the “here and now.” My coffee-buddies in both New York and Florida are younger than me, except for 100 year-old Lester. Some, by a few years, others younger than three of my oldest daughters. This kind of daily interaction helps a lot.  

My memory lane trips still come out on their own, but only when I take pen (or keyboard) in hand. It’s not a conscious thing. It just happens. When I look at the output, I’m always surprised. It might come from my twin, but seems more likely to be produced by the subconscious in a process similar to the one that produces dreams. So, you still have to put up with the Old Coot. Sorry.     

 

My friend's sofa squeaks. Old Coot article # 1139. December 2, 2025

 The Old Coot’s friend is a squeaker.

By Merlin Lessler

My friend Mat, I won’t mention that his last name is Laba, recently bought a new sofa. Sofa’s cost a lot of money and you want it to be perfect. It wasn’t. It squeaked, every time he sat or moved on it He had the store pick it up and take it back to the store and take the squeaks out.

When they brought it back, it still squeaked. So, he told them to bring a brand new sofa. They did. Guess what? It squeaked. The company escalated his complaint and sent an expert to his house to figure out what was going on. She sat on it; it squeaked. She looked down and noticed the coasters under each leg it was resting on, to protect his new floor. She asked him to remove them. Then sat on it, no more squeaks. Much to Mat’s chagrin, it was the coasters that squeaked.

This isn’t a unique experience for Mat. It’s happened before. Several years ago, I wrote about a similar experience Mat had. I inadvertently mentioned that his last name was Laba then too. Anyhow, he asked his wife Linda, to have some copies made for him. When she brought them home he noticed that they hadn’t copied the back side of the originals. He was irked, to say the least. He stormed out of the house and demanded that they remake the copies and told them, “I’m not going to pay for it!” The poor clerk was frightened, let out a few squeaks (see how I tied that in to the sofa story) apologized profusely and immediately remade the copies, both sides this time.

When Mat got home and told Linda that he’d rectified the problem at the office supply store, Linda looked him dead in the eye, (I made that up; I  don’t know how she looked at him), and said, “I didn’t have the copies made at the office supply store;; I had them made at the screen printers shop. When you do business with Mat, be prepared to squeak.     

New bottle caps for an old coot. Published November 26, 2025 in New York papers

 The Old Coot is getting a reprieve.

By Merlin Lessler

Finally! A reprieve is on the horizon! It will put an end to my bottle opening incapability. Plastic bottle caps shrank over the last decade or so, requiring me to use pliers sometimes to get a swig from a water bottle, which have the worst caps of all. The mandate was created by bureaucratic overreach. To save the planet.

A new version of the caps that proliferate our society on milk, juice, water and other liquid containers will be starting to hit store shelves in the near future, according to Elizabeth Weise and Dinah Voles Pulver of USA Today. It can’t be soon enough for me. The new design will make the tormenting caps we now live with a little less vexing, by making them taller. A taller cap with a different internal twist pattern will make it easier to open. When you twist one, even if you are in your eighties like me, it will pop off in a snap. 

I’ve complained, wrote articles and commiserated constantly about my decreasing ability to open just about everything, but especially items with a tiny cap. I thought it was me, with my old man grip and diminished strength.

It was me, a little bit, but mostly it was THEM! Those miserable people who produce rules without any idea how it affects consumers. And, the bottlers as well, who could care less about us.. Many modern packaging designs have invaded my world, obviously designed with no consumer input. That issue, that wrong-headed product development, isn’t of concern to the bureaucrats or CEO’s running the companies that manufacture them. Their focus is on the quarterly stock price and how it will affect their bonus.     

I can’t wait for the new caps. Maybe then, I’ll be more user friendly too.

 

The Old Coot is in a blizzard. Published 11/17/2025

 The Old Coot is in a blizzard.

By Merlin Lessler

I recently ordered a bookcase online. I couldn’t find what I wanted in local stores, as often happens, so I was forced to go to the Internet. The bookcase came in a large, heavy box. The shelves and other components were nestled in Styrofoam. Long sheets, short sheets, half inch wide sheets, skinny sheets, floppy sheets, peanuts. I got the components unpacked and into a disorganized pile. Then, I dealt with the Styrofoam nightmare. I cut it up to fit in the recycle bin or the garbage can. I’m never sure which it should go in. Recycle rules are too complicated for me, so I decide by flipping a coin. Garbage always wins.  

Anyhow, I started breaking it down. I used scissors, a small saw and my hands, tied it up with twine, now ready for disposal, from my house to the dump, to live there forever. But that wasn’t the end of the nuisance. All these little bits and pieces of Styrofoam surrounded me in a blizzard. It stuck to me and everything around me. I tried sucking up the mess with a shop vac, but it’s never that simple. Some of those particles hung around for weeks.

My next step was to put the bookcase together with only a very limited instruction manual. Still, that issue was a cinch compared to dealing with the packing material. The only tool required was an Allen wrench which came in the box with a bunch of fasteners, unfamiliar to me. I was used to using nails, screws and glue, not these things. But, I got it together and wondered how the packaging world became so cruel, forcing us to live with Styrofoam nightmares.  

There weren’t many packages coming and going in most of my world. I still remember the box of chocolate chip cookies my mother sent me when I was at Camp Arrow. I was a 12 year-old, away from home for the first time. I wasn’t homesick, but it was the first and still is the best package I ever received. It was rare to mail or to receive a package back then. Everything we bought was local. If we couldn’t find it, we didn’t get it.

 When we sent a  package, we used wadded up newspaper to pack things in. That’s hard to do today; most of us don’t buy an actual newspaper and don’t have a stack of them on stand-by. That wonderful packing (and window washing) material is gone. I remember getting some packages in the 60s with items nestled in popcorn that was sprayed with a blue dye and came with a warning to not eat it. Some things came packed in straw, but most items were nestled in some form of paper product.

The world changed and the people in charge weren’t paying attention. So we now live with a Styrofoam nightmare. I’ve adjusted to the snow storms. But I don’t like it. Do you?

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.

Old Coot is learns a new language. Published October, 22, 2025 in NY Papers

 The Old Coot Takes A Language Lesson

By Merlin Lessler

 

I had a conversation in Owego-speak the other day. It’s a language I’ll never be fluent in. It’s spoken by native Owegoites. They give you the genetic history of anybody whose name comes into the conversation. “Oh, there’s Tom Smith,” the Owegoite declares. “Who’s he?” you naively ask. “You know,” they respond, in perfect Owego-speak, “His sister’s, husband’s, first wife is the one who set fire to the house next to the Great American.”

 

Now you’re confused. “Where’s the Great American?” you ask, in a puzzled voice. “It’s where the CVS is now,” they explain. You start to get a little irritated. “Why didn’t you say, next to CVS?” But you’ve been down this road before. You chide yourself for not keeping your mouth shut. You know you’ve just kicked off a whole new round of Owego-speak. They pick up your fumble and take off down the field, “Because it wasn’t the CVS when she lived there, DUH!” They go on and on, entwining more local names into the discourse, ending with, “And, it doesn’t matter anyhow because she now lives on Front Street.” You do it again; you ask another open ended question, “Where on Front Street?” - They reply in Owego-speak, “Across the street from the Bassett house. I lived in the Bassett house when I first moved to Owego. Then I moved to the Ross – Farrington – Loring - Rutherford house, depending on who you are talking to. You never live in your own house in Owego-speak.

 

The Old Coot is out of date, yet again. Published 09/24/2025

 The Old Coot bends and stretches.

By Merlin Lessler

Here we go again, being offered yet another way to eliminate a simple chore. FINDING A KID’S SNEAKER! When a kid said, “Where’s my sneakers,” their mom or dad responded, “Go look for them yourself!” (Unspoken, but on the parent’s mind, “That’s your problem. I’ve got my own, trying to figure out how to help you make a miniature volcano for show and tell.)  That may be a slight exaggeration, and I’m sure a large swath of the population disagrees with my perspective. But, why else would a major footwear company like Sketchers think that a lot of parents want to be relieved of the challenge of finding misplaced sneakers?  They already proved that people don’t want to be bothered with a simple chore like tying the laces in their sneakers. The enormous sales success of their “Slip- ins” verified that assumption.

But this new product, a sneaker for kids with a hidden compartment, where a parent can insert an air tag chip to solve the problem when a kid says, “Mom, Where’s my sneakers.” At least, that’s how they are promoting the product. A quick glance at an app on a cell phone locates the sneakers. What the heck, another task is now eliminated from the modern-day world. I guess the lost sneaker issue takes too much effort: looking, thinking, bending and moving stuff around.

We’ve eliminated many common day chores. We don’t wash our cars, push a lawnmower, rake leaves. We can’t even dry our hands with a towel in many public restrooms; we are forced to use a screaming, high-pitched, ultrasonic blow dryer, a definite threat to hearing. I don’t know about women’s restrooms, but in men’s, most guys give the blower a few seconds, get impatient and bothered by the noise and finish the job by wiping their hands on their jeans. The list of physical stuff we no longer do is endless. Some people replace the exercise that was lost by going to the gym. Or more often, with nothing at all.

I’m not going to put a chip in my sneakers. I’ve opted for all the bending, stretching, looking, thinking and moving things around that I can get. Us old timers need to stick with the credo, “Use it or lose it.” I know I can’t afford to lose any more of it .   

The Old Coot comes up empty. Published September 17, 2025 in NY papers

The Old Coot has nothing.

By Merlin Lessler

I was on the road in my 1983, Sears, Free Spirit, 10 speed bicycle last Sunday afternoon. It was a perfect Autumn Day with the temperature in the 70s paired with a beautiful collection of clouds sweeping across the sky. I was hoping to stumble onto a germ of an idea for this week’s column. And, getting nowhere! I peddled past a swath of houses along the river, with manicured lawns, well-kept gardens and inviting front porches that faced the Susquehanna River.  No people in sight, no walkers, no bikers, no porch sitters. I crossed Main Street into the village park. No Pickleball players, no kids shooting hoops, swinging, coming down the slides, sweeping across the monkey bars or buzzing around in the skateboard park. No People and no ideas for an article.

I kept on peddling, crossing the railroad tracks into what the residents there call, “The Flats.” It’s primarily a residential area with a few commercial entities in one quadrant; it’s separated from the rest of the village by an active set of railroad tracks. I didn’t see any kids as I peddled, no games of tag, hide & seek, no Cowboys & Indians for sure, a childhood obsession in my day, long gone now. I next rode into the school K - 12 campus. The elementary school playground was empty. All that beautiful play equipment sat idle.

I peddled on and on through the complex, but not a soul in sight, not on the tennis courts or on the track around the football field. So, I stopped to “speed” walk, as I call it, on the artificial turf, going from one end zone to the other, dodging imaginary tacklers as I ran kick-offs the length of the field, scoring a touchdown every time. You can do this when there’s no one around. And there wasn’t!

There also wasn’t anyone on the Little League or the high school baseball fields, nor on the soccer practice grounds. No one was playing a pick-up game of baseball. Kids don’t play pick-up games today, for the most part. Everything is organized these days, maybe with a little too much parental involvement. Not like my day, when no one but the players and the coaches showed up for Little League games. How could they; we played in the afternoon when dad was at work and mom was tending to things at home.

But mostly, we played pick-up (sand -lot) games: baseball, football and basketball. Even if there were only two of us, we could devise a World Series game with Mickey Mantle at the plate.

I still had no idea for an article. It felt like I was in a Stephen King novel where I was the only person left in an empty town. I guess I’ll give it another try next weekend. All I can offer is this, my lack of anything interesting to comment on. Nothing going on in town; nothing going on in my head. 

The old coot eliminates a sock problem. Published in NY on Sept. 10, 2025

 The Old Coot skips the socks.

By Merlin Lessler

I'm in the YMCA in Florida, sitting on a bench in the locker room, getting dressed after swimming laps in a 24- lane, outdoor pool. Why am I in Florida? In August? I had to do some mid-summer yard work, to keep bushes from overtaking the house so I came down for a couple of weeks.  It’s exciting to sit and watch the thermometer move toward 100, and then keep going. At least for a guy from the north country. While I was in the YMCA locker room, a guy on the other side of the room was groaning and grunting as he struggled to put on his socks. An old guy, like me. He finally got them on and then swore, “Darn it! I put on my dirty socks, not the clean ones I brought with me,” and started the whole process over again. I hadn't gotten to my socks yet; it can be quite a challenge for an old guy to get a sock started over his toes. But I did just fine; I skipped the socks and put on my sneakers. Socks are overrated.

Then, a younger guy came in; he got dressed standing up, socks, shoes, pants and shirt. I looked over to him, and like the guy in the Progressive Insurance TV commercial who is told to stop talking to strangers and acting like his parents.” I said, “I'm so jealous. I haven't been able to do that for 20 years.” He laughed and said he was 52, and already could tell that his time of getting dressed while standing up was coming to an end.

He’s smarter than I was at that age. I remember getting dressed like that at the Binghamton YMCA when I was in my 50’s. Three old guys sat on a bench nearby working hard to get dressed. One of them broke the ice. “Sonny, enjoy it while you can. Your time to sit on a bench to get dressed is coming.” I never forgot that encounter. Even now, I can clearly picture the three of them sitting on that bench, but the image in my mind, now has me sitting alongside them.

The dressing problems I had back then were to avoid mixing plaids with stripes, not getting into my clothes. Now, beside the sock issue, it’s avoiding going around with a T-shirt, or pants with an elastic waistband on backwards.

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