Old Coot knows what is. (November 20, 2019 published article)

The Old Coot knows what is.

By Merlin Lessler

We have a wooden plaque in our kitchen that says, “IT IS WHAT IT IS!” My wife uttered her favorite statement so often I bought her the plaque for Christmas last year. It sounds like something a cheapskate like me would give as a present, but it did pass the Wife-Gift-Giving -Rules. It didn’t have a handle (pots, pans and the like), it didn’t plug into an electrical outlet (Vacuum cleaner, crock pot, etc.) and it couldn’t be worn (ugly sweater, wrong size coat, etc.). It did violate one of her rules; it didn’t sparkle or come in a jewelry box, but what can she expect when she’s married to an old coot? I’m cheap but not stupid; I paired it with a massage gift certificate, some dinning out coupons and the like. I got away with it, but I heard her mumble under her breath, “It is what it is!”

Whatever! It is what it is, is a phrase that went viral a few years ago. It always fascinates me, the phenomena of a new adage spreading across the country, becoming the go-to saying, going to the front of the line of a long row of predecessors. It did just that, knocked out: That’s Life – Whatcha gunna do? – That’s the way it is! And many similar statements that we use, or did use, to help move beyond an unpleasant event, outcome or quirk of fate. Some of the adages we say to ourselves – others, we state to the “victim,” to console them, or, sometimes to rub it in, or, to just get them to shut up and stop bellyaching.

My mother, seventy some years ago, had her pet saying; she used it on my sister and I all the time, “You made your bed, now lie in it!” In other words, “You caused your own problem, now shut up and go do your homework or something!” Back in the dark ages, the 50’s and 60’s, the one you heard a lot among the “cool” crowd, was, “That’s the way the cookie crumbles.” You also heard some unsympathetic alternatives like, “It could have been worse.” The rest of the thought, that was often implied but rarely spoken was, “Yea, it could have been worse; it could have been me.”

How about, “Life sucks and then you die,” as a comforting comment. Not much comfort there. So, what’s my point? Simply, that we humans employ a litany of things to say or think when life tosses us a curve ball. Moving on is what we do. “Making lemonade out of lemons,” I guess.

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Coot at an art show. November 13, 2019 article

The Old Coot is an Art lover?

By Merlin Lessler

I went to an outdoor art show the other day. It was on Beach Street in Daytona Beach. The street was closed to vehicle traffic and well over a hundred artists and craftspeople showed off their wares in tented enclosures. Now, just for the record, Beach Street isn’t along the beach like you might think; you have to cross the Halifax River and walk several long blocks to get to the actual beach. I bet a marketing executive conjured up the name. Anyway, I strolled up and down the street admiring art along with hundreds of my own kind, “ELDERS.” Oh sure, many regular people joined the mix, but my crowd dominated the landscape.

We walk funny for one thing: a trick knee wobble, a new hip limp, a herky-jerky zigzag stride, a funny foot stumble gait. Most of the crowd was made up of couples, husbands and wives. The men strolled past the booths at warp speed, the women at a turtle pace. “She” was shopping and in a buying mode; “He” was getting it over with, in a cheapskate mode; I heard a lot of, “We don’t need that!” statements. Some, coming out of my own mouth.

The outfits people wore were as entertaining as the displays, a virtual walk back in time to the fashions of the 60’s, 70’s, 80’s and 90’s. I was in my high-school preppy costume, topped with a straw hat. A sight to behold I’m sure. Many of the “outfits” were accessorized with knee braces, arm slings, wrist wraps, walking sticks, canes and the like. I noticed a lot of guys standing off to the side, staring into space. You could read their faces. “Where is my wife?” It’s the look of a five-year old kid who has lost his mother in a department store. I know the feeling. I became “lost” twice myself, and had no cell phone to tell my wife where I was. It was sitting on the counter at home, where I carefully placed it so I wouldn’t forget to bring it. Duh!

Several people were pushing baby strollers, some with babies on board, most with dogs. I’m not sure I could do that, push a dog around in a stroller. It would hurt my image. I’d be more comfortable doing it the old-fashioned way, with the dog on a leash, but who knows, I’m doing a lot of things I swore I’d never do. I did buy something, two pictures. One with a 1940’s woody station wagon parked in front of a Gulf Gas Station and another with a VW pulling out of a Texaco one. I always end up trying to buy my past, when I go to an art show. But, it was fun! I can’t wait until next year. But, I’m going to make sure I bring my cell phone. I don’t want to get lost again.

Comments? – Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Time for a bib? November 6, 2019 article

The Old Coot now wears a bib.

By Merlin Lessler

I give up! From now on I’m going to wear a bib. It’s yet another step in my reverse evolvement, from functioning adult to infant. I first noticed the return trip when I finally noticed that I used the handrail when traversing a set of stairs. Then, came the purchase of a girl’s bike, making it easier to get on and off. A refrigerator door decorated with dozens of sticky-notes confirmed my decline. But that spaghetti dinner, with half of the sauce ending up on my off-white, sweater moved me to this new low. A BIB!

For years I’ve sported a spot or two on my clothes: coffee drips, chip dip drops, mustard, ketchup. That sort of thing. I could usually remedy the situation by grabbing an old toothbrush and going to town on the stain. But, my spaghetti sauce stained sweater did me in. A toothbrush and detergent routine wouldn’t resolve the issue. I had to send it to a professional dry cleaner.

It’s my favorite sweater too. I bought it at the Champion Outlet Store on upper Front Street in Binghamton, in 1984. The store is long gone, but the sweater has held up all these years. I only wear it every few months, but I take comfort knowing it is there in the bottom of the sweater drawer, waiting for an outing. Most of us have some, feel-good clothing items. That sweater is my favorite, though I have a few back up choices too. They are all younger than that off-white Champion, crew neck. Not a lot younger, but not quite that old.

So, to avoid whispered comments like, “Look at that old guy with all those stains on his clothes,” I’m using a bib. I tried out a napkin, tucked into my shirt collar, but it didn’t give enough coverage. I dribbled past it. When I tried the adult placement, and laid it on my lap, I dribbled high. A full bib is the only answer. But, adult bibs are hard to find. I think I need something like the bibs they hand out at lobster pounds, with a picture of a lobster decorating the center. It not only will make me look more respectable than an old coot wearing a multi-stained shirt, but will also improve my image, showing me to be a high roller, shelling out for expensive lobster dinners. I just hope they don’t notice that I’m eating a tuna fish sandwich.

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Paying with plastic! October 30, 2019 Article

The Old Coot charges on.

By Merlin Lessler

Paying with plastic used to be convenient! You didn’t have to carry cash; you didn’t have to fumble through your wallet for bills or your pockets for change; you simply handed your card to the clerk and they did the work. That’s how it started anyway. Now, “For your convenience,” you have to swipe the card yourself. It sounded good, at first; I bought into it. I should have known better. Whenever a corporation claims they are changing things for YOUR CONVENIENCE; it’s usually not the case. It’s for THEIR convenience. Card readers were installed across the land and the process was turned over to us, the customer. No longer could you hand your Visa card to a clerk and let them do the work.

It wasn’t too bad, initially; you simply swiped your card and signed the receipt. But, then came the CHIP, “For our security.” Some of the units had an insert slot for chip cards, others didn’t. It caused a lot of confusion. Now, most all the card readers have the slot. I know, because most of the time I stick it in the wrong way. The clerk gives me a dirty look, rips the card out and sticks it in the proper way. Mumbling, “Stupid old foggy,” under her breathe.

More steps have been added to the process. A questionnaire, so to speak. “Is the amount OK,” is the one I love the best. You are expected to tap “Yes” or “No.” Unless you’re an old coot, then you use the prompt to try for a better deal. The prompt shows $18.56, so I ask if they’ll take $15. That really gets the clerk mumbling to herself. She then gives me one of those “Sir” responses, as in, “Sir! You need to tap yes, to complete the transaction.” I don’t let it go that easy; I smile and say, “Then why was I asked if the amount was OK?” She tells me it’s a courtesy, so customers will know what will be charged to their account. I always give the dumb same response, “Oh, I didn’t know.”

It’s even worse at a pharmacy. You have to respond to a slew of questions when paying for a prescription. The clerk used to handle this, now you do the work, using the “smart” card reader. It’s yet another step in the process that’s getting us trained to do business with a robot. Some charities have jumped on the bandwagon and inserted their fund raising efforts into the checkout process. The clerk is required to ask, “Would you like to add a dollar to your purchase and donate that amount to the “Save the Sand Fleas Foundation”? If you don’t, you get a dirty look, and if you listen carefully you might hear the clerk say, “Cheapskate,” under her breath. If you do add a dollar, you don’t get credit for your generosity. Neither does the clerk. A fat cat corporate CEO takes credit for his company’s fund raising effort, not mentioning that a card reader did all the work. It’s gotten so bad, this constant tapping at a check out counter, that I’ve had to make an appointment with a rheumatologist for the arthritis that’s invading my index finger. I’ll probably have to cough up a co-pay via yet another card reader. FOR MY CONVENIENCE!

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coots grabs the wheel - October 23' 2019

The Old Coot is glued to his car seat.

By Merlin Lessler

Ask an old guy what he thinks of self-driving cars. Almost always, you’ll get a negative reply. Full of emotion. “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard of. It won’t work. Who wants a computer chip controlling their car? No one will buy them!” On and on he’ll rant.

Then ask his wife. A wife who has been sitting in the passenger seat while he has controlled the steering wheel and brake pedal, for years. Just for kicks, you might take a look at the floorboard under her feet in the passenger compartment. You are likely to see a big bulge in the metal where she has slammed down her foot every time she thought he wasn’t reacting fast enough to brake lights coming on ahead of them on the highway or because of his last minute reaction to traffic light. The bigger the bulge, the more she is ready for a self-driving car.  

She will tell you she can’t wait for them, no matter what issues they have, “It’s got to be better than sitting next to an old coot who insists his driving skills are of the highest caliber.” It’s not all his fault, this business of a passenger slamming on an invisible brake. Most of us have a similar reaction when we’re riding with someone who drives differently than we do: they follow closer to the car in front of them, they pull back into the driving lane after passing too soon. Those sorts of things. 

But an old guys wife is different. She’s suffered with the issue for years, has never gotten used to his driving eccentricities, which have become more erratic over time. The real issue with self-driving cars, to us old guys, is the loss of freedom they will impose on us. We’re also afraid that hackers will get into the brain of a self-driving car, hackers our wives could hire to keep us from pulling into the lodge parking lot, the cupcake shop or the diner where we stop for our third cup of coffee of the day. We’d be happy to have the car drive us where we want to go, ON OCCASION! But, our fear of losing control dominates our anti-self-driving car paranoia.

Our fathers felt the same way, when “automatic” transmissions swooped in during the 1950’s, followed by a parade of driving enhancements: power steering, power brakes, beeping seat belt alarms, ABS brake systems. It’s been a stream of mechanical devices inching toward the ultimate goal of taking the steering wheel out of our control. We all feel the same way about that, us old guys, you’ll have to pry it out of our cold dead hands!

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

October 9, 2019 Article. The old coot has a new number!

The Old Coot is now “42.”

By Merlin Lessler

Some old guy asked me how old I was the other day. “Forty-two,” I replied. He stared at me; a look of skepticism crossed his face. Finally, he said, “Who are you kidding? You’re not forty-two, eighty-two is more like it. What he didn’t know, is I now answer that question by stating my birth year and let the questioner do the math. Most of us old guys don’t know how old we are anyhow; we’re usually off by a year or two, in either direction. It’s hard for people to do the math when supplied a birth year, now that we’ve entered a new century. A math “genius” will say, “Let’s see - born in 42 – that’s 58 years to get to 2,000 – now I have to add 19 – does anyone have a pencil? No? Well, I guess that makes you 67? No, 77, or is it 87?”

It’s hard because you have to subtract from 2,000 and then add the current year in your head! I find the younger crowd has a harder time doing this than people from my generation. We had to add and subtract in our heads in front of the class. It’s a skill that’s never left us. Just like the multiplication tables that we memorized and were quizzed on constantly. Nine times seven? Sixty-three pops right out, no thought required, no smart phone either.  

I like this “birth year” answer to queries about my age. We use it when asked about our cars, why not with ourselves? Nobody asks how old your car is; they ask what year it is. If you want to know how old it is, you have to do the math, or more likely, just remark that the car looks pretty good for its age. I like it because now all my younger friends have a higher (age) number than me. My coffee buddies in Owego, for example:  Ray (renamed Roy by the group) has the lowest number after me; it’s 44. Then comes Paul, 58. Rick A. and Rick E. are 60 something. So are Tim and Daren. Andy, Mike and Eric have the biggest numbers; Eric leads the pack with an 83. He looks pretty good for 83.  

All my coffee pals in Florida have a higher age number than I do too, but the rest of my Florida friends have a lower number. Young Harold’s number is 33; Joan’s is only 38, Ray & John from Chicago are in the 30’s too; George is 41, but John, from Preston, Canada, has the best deal of all, age wise. He was born on February 29^th (a leap year). He’s only celebrated 22 birthdays. I was there for his 21^st when he had his first legal, adult beverage. The whole Florida crowd was on hand to welcome him aboard, an 84-year-old at his 21^st birthday party. He turns 23 this coming February

Ever since I switched to a birth year response to age questions I’ve had a little more bounce in my step. It’s nice to have a lower age number than all my kids, most of my friends, and no longer to be the “oldest” guy in the room. I should change my pen name to “Young” Coot. It makes perfect sense to me.

Comments, complaints. Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Ladder People - October 2, 2019 Article

The First Old Coot article – Invasion of the ladder people.

By Merlin Lessler

I took a sabbatical last month – no old coot articles for 4 weeks, ending a string of 827 articles in a row. Now, I’m starting over, resubmitting that first article that was published November 27, 2002. I hope it’s the restart of something good.

If you walk down the pleasant streets of Owego, you’ll notice a proliferation of ladders leaning against historic clapboard homes. At first blush, you might think the homeowners of our quaint village are an ambitious lot, tackling one restoration project or another on their 150-year-old houses. You’d be wrong!

I stroll through town every morning, on a meandering route to Dunkin Donuts or the Awakenings Coffee House and back home again, sipping coffee and listening to Imus on my Walkman. I do an inventory of the projects underway in the village, mostly looking for techniques to keep my 197-year-old house in good repair with minimal effort. I’ve learned that the ladders are props, a last-ditch effort by the male occupants of the dwelling against which they lean to avoid a job that’s been held off for two years or more. And, husbands are not the only ones guilty of this rouse. Many home repair contractors employ the same tactic.

Husbands resort to this “ladder-lean” strategy at the end of a protracted domestic conversation that goes something like this.

(September, year 1) - “Honey, the east side of the house is starting to peel. Do you think you should paint it before it gets worse?” (reply) “Yea, I guess. But I don’t want to do it till spring. Why have the new paint face six months of bad weather?”

(April, year 1) – “Honey, are you going to start painting the house?” (reply) “Yea, but it’s too damp and cold. I’ll get to it when it warms up a little.”

(May, year one) – “The weather looks good now honey; are you going to start painting?” (reply)  “Yea, but not till after Memorial Day.”

(June, year one) – “Honey, Memorial Day has passed. Why don’t you get cooking?” (reply) “I want to wait till the kids get out of school. The school busses spew out a ton of diesel soot starting and stopping in the neighborhood; it will ruin the finish.”

July – too hot.

August – too muggy.

September – after Labor Day.

October – too cold at night; the paint won’t dry properly.

(May- year two) – “Honey, the house is a disgrace! The paint is coming off in bushel basketsful. I’m embarrassed to go out and get the mail!” (reply) “I’m on it babe. I just need a few weeks to figure out what supplies I’ll need to get it done. You don’t want me to do a slip-shod job do you?”

(June – year two) – “Honey, the kids can’t play in the yard anymore and there are so many paint chips on the lawn that the dog refuses to leave the house. Are you going to paint the house, or do I have to call a professional?” (reply) “I’m starting it this weekend. Jeesh, give me a break, would you!”

On Saturday a ladder gets placed against the east side of the building. The project has officially begun, but other than setting up the ladder, no actual work has taken place. A new line of dialog begins; the ladder buys another year of inaction, two if the husband is a clever old coot.

A similar exchange takes place between homeowners and home-improvement contractors, but the game is initiated with a sign, not a ladder. The second the contractor gets the job he puts his sign in front of the house, announcing, “Another quality remodeling job by Cracker-Jack & Sons Inc.” The sign is the only activity for two months, in spite of twenty heated phone calls from the homeowner. Then, the ladder ploy is used; followed a month later by scaffolding and miscellaneous equipment. At the peak of the conflict, the contractor arranges for lumber to be delivered, usually in a manner that blocks the driveway. This trick is designed to prevent the homeowner from hiring a new contractor. It takes two letters from an attorney before a single board is cut. The job then goes forward in spurts: three days of intense activity, two weeks of no activity, sixteen angry phone calls, and a repeat of the pattern until completion.

There are many variations of this construction-delaying tactic: blue tarps on roofs, an “X” taped on a broken window, three rows of new siding installed; it’s running rampant in many towns across America. Psychologists call it “male performance deficiency syndrome.” I call it, “The Invasion of the Ladder People.” Take a walk through your town. You’ll see what I mean. 

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com