February 5, 2014 Article

The Old Coot’s car is bossy!

By Merlin Lessler

It was one of those real cold days, minus five degrees I think. The computer that bosses me around in my car put a message on the little screen under the speedometer where it usually tells me how far I can go before I run out of gas. Apparently, I’m too stupid to check the gage so it does it for me. But not today. Today it told me to check the tire pressure. Oh sure, the coldest day of the year and it wants me to get out of the car, unscrew the little frozen caps on the valve stems, slip four quarters in the unreliable, often not working, air pump at the combination grocery store, restaurant, lottery ticket dispensing center, gas station and check the tire pressure. I did. It was the passenger side rear tire that was low. The last one I checked.

My fingers were as cold as they could get by then, so I said, “What the heck,” and pulled over to the pump and filled the tank. When I got back in the car and steered out of the gas station with numb fingers, the “check tire pressure” message was gone. The “miles you have before you run out of gas” message was back. It promised me 220 blissful miles. But, the tank was full; it should have said 330 miles to go. I guess the sub-zero temperature messed it up.

I drove fifty miles; the car now said I had 240 miles in the tank. “Wow!” I said aloud, talking to myself again. (I’m a good listener.) “It’s producing gas as I drive, not consuming it.” The GPS said I had 270 miles before I reached my destination. I guessed I’d have to get gas at some point, and wondered which computer to believe. Another 20 miles and the gas left made it to 260; the destination distance dropped to 250. Things were looking up. I now had enough gas to make it. But I stopped anyhow and added ten gallons. Just in case the car was messing with me.

 
I don’t like this, the car bossing me around. “Check the tire pressure!” – “Change the oil!” – “Get gas!” Last summer it wouldn’t let me turn on the air conditioning. The temperature sensor that lets me know how cold it is outside had a bad day. It was stuck on fifty degrees, even though it was a muggy, 85-degree day. The car won’t let the air conditioner come on when the outside temperature is that low. So I broiled inside until I could get Joe and Marty to put in a new sensor. Last year it was in a bad mood, because I didn’t change the oil when it wanted me to. It only allowed heat to blow on the passenger side of the car. It’s not just bossy; it’s moody too. But I’ll have to live with it. I can only long for the cars of yesteryear, back when we were the boss, not the car.

 

January 29, 2014 Article

The Old Coot says, “Listen up!”
By Merlin Lessler

“Selfie” is the word of the year! According to the editors at The Oxford Dictionary who make the selection. It’s a word that’s been around for a decade or more, but they claim its use has increased by 17,000% this year. I don’t know how they know that, it sounds like a made up number to me. Or, maybe they got their information from the eavesdroppers over at the NSA. It doesn’t matter, they picked it as word of the year; it’s in the dictionary and it has gone “viral,” to use a word that went viral itself a few years back. In case you live in a pop culture cave, like a lot of my old coot crowd, a selfie is a picture you take of yourself, holding a smart phone at arms length in front of you. Though, you can do it with a dumb phone like mine, or a regular camera, if you twist your wrist to the breaking point and click the shutter. You won’t get a smiling face; you’ll get one with a grimace. From the sprained wrist holding the camera. A little cockeyed and off center too.

I’ve tried to figure this one out. This instant dislike I have for the word, selfie. At first I just chalked it up to the fact that I’m an old coot and reject pop culture fads. Then I thought it was because I don’t like shortcuts in the language. What’s wrong with saying, “I took a picture of my self?” But, I know I’m a dinosaur. I still use capital letters when I send a text message, words instead of “LOL” and other hip short cuts. It’s more than that. Maybe it’s because selfie sounds so much like selfish. Which is sort of what a selfie is, a “look at me” thing.

I talked to my therapist about this old coot bias of mine (Matt, down at the front table in the GoatBoy CoffeeBar).  He’s 25 years younger than me and can usually help me find a way to accept change. The trouble is, he’s brutally frank. He told me to get over it (like he often does). “You’re the master of selfie yourself,” he scolded. “What is your Old Coot column but a “writing” selfie? Instead of, “Look at me,” you’re guilty of something just as bad; you’re a “listen to me” guy. That’s the last time I’m going to him for advice.

I sulked all they way home. Mulling over my therapy session. Then, I sent a note off to the Oxford Dictionary people, to submit a word for consideration in 2014. Hark, as in “Quiet. I’ve got something to say!” I called to make sure they got it. Their operator connected me to the editor in charge of the word of the year selections. He came on the line and said, “Sup?” My “Hark” suggestion doesn’t stand a chance next to “Sup,” unless more people start using it. Can you help me out?  

January 22, 2014 Article

The Old Coot ain’t sitting pretty.
By Merlin Lessler

“Wanted! Pretty people! For TV news and weather reporting. Regular people need not apply.” At least that’s what I think is going on in media recruiting. Otherwise, how do you explain the parade of reporters sitting on the other side of your TV screen? Even Walter Cronkite wouldn’t make the hiring cut, not with today’s template. If you’re a “regular” person with broadcasting aspirations, think radio!

I don’t know how we got here. Studious people in my day weren’t the beauty kings and queens; they were like the rest of us, flawed. With a big nose, poor eyesight, a funny shaped ear, hair that refused to lie flat. Oh sure, there were smart people that looked good, but they didn’t join the history club, lug a French horn to school or stand with a phone in their hand for ten minutes before calling to ask someone for a date, and then hang up the second the “person to whom they wished to speak” said, “Hello.”

I also notice, with very few exceptions (the 60 Minutes staff, for one), that the old coot population is also excluded from the TV reporting desk. I guess it explains why Lew Sauerbrey is behind the mike at WEBO instead of in front of a camera at WBNG. It also explains why I’m allowed to sit with him and Dave every once in a while, with the “on air” sign glowing brightly.

Even the weather channel, staffed with meteorologists for goodness sake, looks more like a Miss America contest than a serious scientific endeavor. I don’t know about you, but I would like to see a mix of people allowed on the media stage. People who look like they handed in their homework on time, were picked on, even bullied, in their formative years, developing strength of character as a result. People with more substance, less ego. 

But, I guess it’s not to be. The rest of us are only allowed a cameo appearance on the TV screen. We’re the ones you see when the pretty people come to town and turn the camera in our direction to ask about the big snowstorm. And, hear us say, “I lived here my whole life and never saw anything like this!” Snowstorm, flood, whatever, we always respond with the “lived here my whole life” comment. Just once I’d like one of us to come up with a different answer. To make us look like we might be capable of handling a job in front of a camera. Instead, we provide job security for the pretty people. Our on air appearances are used to prove to network producers that regular people belong on the couch side of the TV screen. I’ve lived here my whole life (on my side of the TV screen) and never saw so many pretty people do the news and weather!

January 15, 2014 Article

The Old Coot prepares for a tuna free future.

By Merlin Lessler

I made myself a tuna fish sandwich the other day. The “Deluxe” version (That means I toasted the bread.) I have to be careful when I do this. Every once in a while I open a can of Fancy Feast cat food by mistake. I know cat food is in my future. All old coots get there eventually. But for now, I’m safe. Tuna for humans is about the same price as tuna for cats. I’m not too worried anyhow. Our friends down the block had a Halloween party a few years back. Nuts and chips and other munchies were scattered about the house. I stood by the window snacking on a bowl of treats that were put there for the cat. Dee Dee screamed, “You’re eating cat food!” I took a few more handfuls before she yanked the bowl off the windowsill and put it away. It was pretty good. Not much different than the snack mix on the coffee table.

But, back to the tuna I had for lunch the other day. It was cheap, $1.19 for a 5-ounce can. I read the label as I ate; a lot of people do that, not just old coots. Not much there though: an Omega 3 symbol, an American Heart Association certificate, a bee wearing a chef’s hat and some nutritional information. I prefer to read cereal boxes. They sit right in front of you at eye level. The boxes I read today aren’t as good as when I was a kid and a Wheaties box sat on the table. That box kept me occupied all the way through a whole bowl of the soggy mush. I didn’t like Wheaties any better than the lumpy oatmeal we often had, but what can you do when Mickey Mantle is staring you in the eye and the box claims to be the breakfast of champions. Today, I keep company with a box of Raisin Bran. It’s a lot better than Wheaties and the box has a “word-find” puzzle on it. Much better reading than the self-serving, nutritional bragging that covers most cereal boxes today. 

OK, OK, back to the tuna; I’m really wandering today. Trouble is brewing for tuna lovers. Cat food may enter our diet plans sooner than expected, at least for us old guys. The price is destined to go sky high. Last year a blue fin tuna sold for $1,760,000 in a Tokyo fish auction - $3,600 a pound compared to the $3.23 a pound I paid for the tuna that graced my lunch table the other day. That tuna, was only slightly more expensive than cat food. It’s just a matter of time before the sushi bidders in Japan drive up the worldwide price of all types of tuna. I should start mixing a little cat food in with mine when I have it for lunch, so it won’t be such a “taste” shock when I’m priced out of the market and forced to subsist on cat food alone. I just hope when that day comes, I don’t shed as much as our cat, Roosevelt.  

January 8, 2014 Article

The Old Coot is under investigation.

     “The stadium lights went out during the big game,” an on scene newscaster will report, and then turn to a stadium official for a statement. “The stadium lights went out during the big game. I can’t say more than that. It’s under investigation.” It’s the same story everywhere; school officials, municipal officials, corporate spokespeople, FAA bureaucrats. None of them will ever tell you what’s going on, what happened, or didn’t happen. They always say, “It’s under investigation!”

      Even when they know, which is most of the time, they hide behind the “investigation” shield. To save themselves from blurting out the truth. And, the investigation isn’t about searching for the facts. Primarily, it’s about how the facts can be massaged to keep their image intact. It works! By the time they get around to “revealing” the (now dressed up) facts, we’ve lost interest or have completely forgotten the incident. 

      It’s a strategy I’m adopting. My public image is constantly going to pot, because I don’t protect it like corporations and public officials do. Like the day I kicked over the ladder and got stranded on the roof – or -the slip I took off the top of a garbage can trying to cram 40 gallons of trash into a 30 gallon can (ending up a little shorter and minus a disc in my back) – or - the backward summersault I performed getting out of a bag chair on the hill in Hickories Park – or - the dunking I took when I rammed my canoe into the riverbank and flipped it over, forcing me to walk through town looking like a drowned rat (nobody noticed the difference).

      When those things happened, I foolishly told the truth. Not anymore! My wife asked me what happened to her flower patch (I grazed it with the lawnmower). I played my hand. “I can’t say; it’s under investigation.” The building inspector and a member of the Historic Preservation Commission wanted to know what I was doing to the side porch. “I can’t say; it’s under investigation.” A couple of readers I’d insulted with a thoughtless Old Coot opinion had the editor quiz me about it. Out came my “under investigation” response. I can’t wait for my image to start improving.  Maybe I can venture out in public again.

January 5, 2014 Article

The Old Coot experiences the big squeeze

By Merlin Lessler

      I went to a luncheon the other day. There were 14 of us. We called ahead for a reservation. When I walked in, the table was set up: 14 placemats, silverware sets, napkins and water glasses graced the surface. Fourteen chairs lined the table. There wasn’t an inch between them. I took a seat. I had to pull the chair out, get in front of it and then go through a few contortions in order to pull the chair from behind me while lowering my body to meet it as it came forward.  I felt as awkward as a newborn colt gaining its feet for the first time. Thankfully, I was the first one there and nobody saw the graceless maneuver. Old coots are always the first ones there. We’re the only people left who think being on time is good manners.

 The rest of the gang straggled in and went through similar contortions to get themselves seated. I chuckled each time. Some were a lot less graceful than me. Eventually, all 14 of us were seated. We looked like a collage of artificial people. Our arms were at our sides, our backs erect and our faces forward. We didn’t have enough room to be anything but erect and proper. The lunch was brutal. I don’t know how the food was; I was intensely focused on the chore of using a knife and a fork while keeping my elbows from crashing into my neighbors. I looked like a praying mantis with its’ front paws pulled together in prayer.

      It took me five minutes to spear a French fry, dip it in ketchup and maneuver it to my mouth. Some of my fellow diners weren’t quite so polite. They dug in as though there were three feet between them and the person next to them. Unfortunately, one of them sat next to me. My arms and side still sport the black and blue marks.

      Even the conversation was affected by the lack of space. When you sit at a table with your elbows pulled together so they are almost touching as you maneuver food on a plate in front of you, your whole being feels pinched. It limits your thought process and forces you to speak in a high-pitched squeaky voice. I said something to the guy across the table from me and wondered. “Who said that?” I didn’t recognize my own voice. The lunch ended early. We all wondered why we thought it was such a good idea for old friends to get together. I’d managed to eat three French fries and take two bites out of my hamburger. It was all I could accomplish in a straight jacket.

     The next time I phone for a reservation, I’m going to request a table for 18 and remove four chairs when I arrive. I’ll tell the maitre d’ the other four couldn’t make it; they haven’t healed from the beating they took the last time we were here. 

December 25, 2013 Article

Old Coot not too old for toy trains

By Merlin Lessler

      I’m an old coot now but I still believe in Santa Claus. In spite of how he tricked me when I was eight years old. I snuck down the stairs on that snowy Christmas morning. The room was dimly lit. Just the flicker from a set of bubble lights on the tree. I perched on a step near the bottom, studying the scene through the newel posts. A dollhouse loomed behind a stack of presents. I knew it was for my sister. But where was my “big” present? I didn’t see anything. Then, I spotted a gleam of light, a reflection from a metal track. Could it be? Was it the train set I wanted so badly? My heart skipped a beat! I hopped over the railing and raced to the tree. There it was! An electric train! A black engine, four metal cars and a red caboose. There really was a Santa Claus! What I didn’t know, was that it would be nearly four decades before Santa delivered MY train. This one was for my father.

      Oh sure, I was allowed to place it on the track, switch on the transformer and crank up the dial to send it speeding down the rail. I was even allowed to take the extra track out of the box and change the oval layout to a figure eight and to set up a “Plasticville” village for the freighter to run through. But, it wasn’t my train, not really. It was my father’s. He was the one who carved out a space under the basement stairs in order to slip in a four by eight sheet of plywood to accommodate a complicated layout. He put lights in the houses, added electric switches, and created an alpine village on a mountain, the same mountain that the train disappeared into after leaving Plasticville. The rest of the fathers in my neighborhood did the same thing. Only Billy Wilson escaped the great train robbery. His trains made it to the attic before his father got his hands on them. Several sets, and a sea of accessories were scattered over the floor. It’s where we went to be railroad men. Nobody was there to stop the fun, to prevent a speeding freighter from crashing into the back of a passenger car or to make us take the cow off the track before it was sent flying into the school house. Billy’s attic was our toy train sanctuary.  

      I finally got my very own train set when I was well into my forties. My wife was sick of my drooling, every time we passed by the set of “big” trains in the window at Miniature Kingdom in Owego. The store is gone now, but once was the place to go for all things miniature: dollhouses, furniture, figurines and LGB trains. My wife bought a set and put it under the tree. I was eight years old again as I tore the wrapper from the box. I was still there, lying on the living room floor, sleeping like an eight year old when the clock struck midnight. The clickety clack of the wheels on the track had lulled me into slumber. It was a sad, drab day in January when the tree came down and the trains went back in the box, forced into hibernation until the next Christmas. Things come slow to old coots, but it eventually dawned on me; I didn’t have to be deprived of my train for eleven months. I could build a high shelf around the room and put the track and train on it. So I did!  Now, I “play” with my trains throughout the year. It’s the best cure in the world for insomnia. Two laps around the loop and I start dozing. When I dream, I’m eight years old and coming down the stairs on that long ago Christmas morning.