The Old Coot hates surveys (January 8, 2020 Article)

The Old Coot takes a survey.

By Merlin Lessler

You go to the doctor – you get a survey in the mail asking, “How did we do?” You buy something online – before you get what you ordered – you find a survey in your in-box.  Survey! Survey! Survey! Corporate America is obsessed with surveys. If you give a bad review and take the time to describe the problem you encountered, you think you will get a call in an attempt to make things right. But, you don’t! The survey data, including the detailed feedback you provided just goes into a data base that the CEO uses to crow to the board of directors about the wonderful job he or she is doing to run a customer friendly company. 

Eventually, we’ll get a survey asking how we liked the survey. It’s so overdone, and just a PR move to make us think they care. Just like the recording you get when calling ANY corporation today and get shoved to the back of a long line that says, “All our representatives are busy at the  moment; we’ll be with you shortly;  your call is important to us.” Followed, with, “This call may be monitored.” I guess that is supposed to stop us from swearing at the clerk when we finally get connected.

When I’m in a queue waiting to talk to a human, I picture a large group of call-takers siting around in a break room, listening to me over a loud speaker, as I wait, cracking up when I get frustrated and start yelling, “Answer the darn phone,” along with other, (unprintable) rants, interspaced with, “Please, please get some music that isn’t so annoying that it makes me want to hang up.” (That probably is their intent. And, it works).

This survey mania is out of control; it’s so bad that eventually muggers will hand you a survey as they run away with your wallet. The ATM machine will force you to tell it how it did, before it will return your card. It’s high time we stopped replying to corporate surveys. It’s the only way to stop the madness. If you agree, please let me know how well I did in convincing you too join, the “no survey” movement. Rate me on a scale of 1 to 5, with 5 being very well, and 1 being not at all.   

Send survey responses to mlessler7@gmail.com    

Best Christmas present, a bike for the Old Coot (December 31, 2019)

An old coot remembers his first bike; the best Christmas present ever.

By Merlin Lessler

It happened two Christmases in a row! The best presents a boy (in the fifties) could hope for were under my tree. But, I had to wait an “eternity” to play with them. The first time it happened, I was seven; it was a set of electric trains; I didn’t get my hands on them until late in the day, after my father finally had his fill, “showing me how.” The next year it was a bicycle; I didn’t get to ride that until the following spring. 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 for three long months.    

Finally, the first robin arrived in our town and the bikes came out. We lived on a hill; it was too steep to learn to ride a bike on, so my father helped us push them to the top, to a flat street with hardly any traffic. I can 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 the curb and put out my foot. 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. 

I developed a deep relationship with that two-wheeler. It allowed me to leave behind my three-wheeler and the ridicule that went with it. 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 the parades in downtown Binghamton. 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 motorcycles. It didn’t take much to entertain a kid back in the fifties.    

My mother loved the bike too. She sent me off to the market a few blocks away, just about every day. My favorite errand was a bread run. I always snuck a slice out of the middle of the loaf; it was the price my mother unknowingly paid for delivery service. I lost my concentration on one of those bread runs, distracted by the freshness of the bread I guess, and crashed into the side of a delivery truck. I was only slightly injured. More startled than anything.  A neighbor passing by ran to my house and yelled in the door to my mother, “Come quick; Merlin has been hit by a truck!” Mom got a terrible scare, but I paid for it. Once she discovered I was OK she started yelling, and kept it up all the way home! Those gray hairs I allegedly gave her were painful for me too. The bike got fixed and served me well for years. Then, the year I turned 12, I found a lightweight, English bike, with hand brakes and three gears under the Christmas 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.

Old Coot not afraid of the weather! December 25, 2019 Article)

The Old Coot weathers the storm.

By Merlin Lessler

Weather was the lead story on the evening news the other night, “A DANGEROUS snowstorm is moving across the Midwest!” Not just a snowstorm, mind you, a DANGEROUS snowstorm, causing a twenty-car pileup on the interstate, snow drifts, icy conditions. On and on went the reporter. A newspaper headline went one better, saying that a mixed bag of glop imperils the eastern states. IMPERILS? Wow, that’s bad! We used to just call these events, winter weather or a snowstorm. Now, the media hypes it up, hoping to make its listeners and readers afraid of the weather and tuning in, to keep up to date. I rant about this every year, lastly, on July 4, 2018. I promised myself to not let them get to me, and then I relapse. So here I go again. Just in time, before the end of 2019.

I yell at the TV, A storm isn’t dangerous; it’s people who drive like maniacs, who don’t allow for the conditions. They’re the danger, not the storm. It’s winter; what do you expect? It snows; it gets cold, things freeze, sidewalks are slippery, wires come down, power goes out. SO WHAT! Are we, the species at the top of the food chain, incapable of dealing with weather? (The news media thinks so.)  

They trot out the “wind chill factor,” to scare us even more. A reporter (or meteorologist) will say, “The temperatures will be in the low twenties, but the WIND-CHILL FACTOR will make it feel like it’s only 10 degrees out there.” Wind chill has zero effect on most of the broadcast audience. It only affects bare skin, making the temperature seem lower when the wind gusts push cold air across it. Most of us wear winter clothes when it’s cold outside. If we walked around in shorts, flip flops and T-shirts, then the wind chill factor would have an impact, but not if we’re bundled up.

And, it’s not enough for them to just frighten us about impending weather. They forecast what going to happen next week, with a five-day tale of dread.  It’s wrong 50% of the time, at least when I write it down and then see what happens five days later. Not a scientific analysis, but good enough for me.  

It’s a wonder we dare leave our houses, with all the hype about the dangerous conditions outside. I’m hoping that someday we might get back to calling it winter weather, summer weather, and the media won’t feel a need to lecture us, as though we are little kids, unable to cope with it on our own. And, they can stop telling us to wear a coat, take an umbrella, drink plenty of water, stay in the shade. Maybe then I’ll stop yelling at my TV. The news media and the meteorologists they put out front are the real danger, making mountains out of mole hills and crying wolf so often that when a real wolf comes to town, we ignore the warning. There! I’m good for another year!

Comments, complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

December 18, 2019 Article - Liars take more time than promised

The Old Coot doesn’t have a minute.

By Merlin Lessler

“I’ll just keep you a minute.” – “Got a sec?” – “Stop me if I already told you this.” The doctor will be right with you.”

All lies! But, if you asked the speakers of those statements if they ever lied, they’d all say, “NO!” Most people don’t think of themselves as liars. But they are! I am. We all are!

One of the biggest lies I’ve ever heard, excluding promises from politicians, is the one an airline pilot puts out there over the public address system, “We’re waiting for a space to dock; it will be about ten minutes, or so.” The “ten minutes” is a lie! So is the “or so”. I’ve learned over the years that an airline pilot’s ten minutes is at least 30, often longer, destroying the credibility of the “or so” as well. How about the one you’re told when the nurse puts you in the “little room” and turns as she closes the door and says, “The doctor will be right with you.” Or, the waiter who says, “Ill be right back with your check.” Or the call center recording that states, “Thanks for holding; we’ll be right with you. Your call is important to us.” The dentist drilling on your tooth who says, “Hang on; I’m almost done.” The medical procedure you’re undergoing, “This will sting a little.”

All lies, and from people swearing they never lie. They call it a white lie or bending the truth. Bend covers a lot of ground. So do fibs, stretching the truth and other phrases employed to convince ourselves, and others, that we’re not liars.

But, lying is not the thing that gets me cranky, it’s two specific lies; “I’ll just keep you a minute,” and, “Stop me if I’ve told you this before.” In both of those cases (even when you respond to the “stop me,” by telling them they already did tell you)  you are in for it, a long, boring recollection that is so detailed you get lost in the telling. It’s even worse when a married couple relates an incident. Not only do you get more detail than you can absorb, they operate like a tag team in a wrestling match, taking turns keeping the dialog going, bombarding you with facts and having side arguments between themselves about what those facts are. I go into a trance and wish they would type up the narrative so they could hand it to me with all their disagreements resolved. Then, I could skim through it at my leisure. I’ve got one last point to make in this rant, “Stay with me; it will just take a minute!”  (To be continued?)

Who are you? (Old Coot December 11, 2019 Article)

The Old Coot doesn’t know your name.

By Merlin Lessler

I have a syndrome, OK, OK, I have several syndromes, but the one that intrigues me at the moment, is my delayed memory syndrome. It’s not just an old coot thing. I’ve had it for decades. And I’m not alone; it’s fairly common with people of all ages.

I’ll run into someone and they’ll say, “Hey Merlin, how’s it going?” That’s the problem; they remembered my name (and face); I just remembered their face, sort of. I expect the name will come to me, so I fake the conversation with lame weather talk, while focusing on coming up with their name or where I knew them from.   

I barely hear what they are saying; I’m racking my brain to come up with their moniker; I use the alphabet method of memory stimulation. A as in Alan, Albert? – B as in Bob, Bill. Usually, it doesn’t work, even when I go through the A to Z routine multiple times. I don’t know what their name is; I haven’t heard a thing they said and then comes the final blow, they ask, “What do you think?” (What do I think? About what?) I end up faking it, and say, “I’m not sure.” Sometimes my wife is with me and knows that I’m deep into a delayed memory episode, she’ll try to rescue me and introduce herself to the nameless one, in hopes they’ll say who they are. But it usually doesn’t work. The person will say, “It’s nice to meet you,” and never mention their name. I guess they expect me to do that.

The encounter finally comes to an end; the “stranger” thinks I’m an idiot who can’t carry on a conversation. I walk away in a daze, still focused on coming up with their name. It sometimes does, now that the pressure is off. But, more and more often, it takes a few days or never surfaces at all. I go into research mode and call friends from the old days and ask, “What’s that guy’s name that used to stop in the office every once in a while, black hair, tall, one ear bigger than the other.” They never know. At least that’s what they say. I think they just love to mess with me.  

The cure for these uncomfortable encounters is so simple. All I’d have to do is admit that the person’s name has slipped my memory and ask them who they are. Do I ever do that? Of course not! It seems I’d prefer to have people think I’m an idiot who can’t carry on a simple conversation.

December 4, 2019 Article - The big lie- you're gunna love it!

The Old Coot ain’t gunna love it!

By merlin Lessler

“You’re gunna love it!” (you better!) Because people don’t like it when you don’t like what they like. It comes up quite often with food. “Taste this; you’ll love it!” But, you don’t. In fact, it tastes awful to you. Now you’re in for it. If you say, “I really don’t like it,” you get a “What’s wrong with you” look. And then you are told, “You don’t know what’s good.” This happens to me all the time. I grew up on a bland diet; I don’t like foods with a heavy dose of garlic, anything in the olive taste realm or hot spicy food. I get hissed at all the time. “You’re a finnicky eater!” Because, PEOPLE DON’T LIKE IT WHEN YOU DON’T LIKE WHAT THEY LIKE!

It’s not just food. Movies too. “Oh, we loved the bla-bla-bla movie.” When I saw it, I thought it was stupid. A thin transparent plot, artificial, unrealistic characters and a predictable outcome. I know better than to vocalize my opinions. I just say it was OK. I don’t want to get that look of, “What’s the matter with you?”

Books, places, people, TV shows. The landscape is full of things that people expect you to love because they do. It’s dangerous out there. It’s made me into a liar, or at least caused me to use half-truths when I disagree with other people’s opinion. I have two choices: tell the truth and get put on the “stupid, doesn’t get it” list, or give a diplomatic response that shelters my true feelings. I do a little of both.

My first encounter with a really bad, you’re gunna love it, but hated it situation, took place in Keeseville, NY in 1970, a small village in northern New York, a mere 70 miles south of Montreal. I lived in that area for two years. One morning I went fishing with the Keeseville Mayor. After we finished, we went to his house for lunch. His wife went into the kitchen, promising a gourmet treat, a lunchtime specialty or hers. “Lunch is ready,” she chimed from the kitchen. “You’re gunna love it!” There on my plate were three egg salad sandwiches loaded with sliced olives. I hate egg salad; I hate olives, but I was “Young” Lessler back then. That’s what everyone called me. I wasn’t an old coot who would have handled the situation differently, probably with an egg allergy lie. So, I chocked down the three sandwiches and forever after lived in dread of those words, “You’re gunna love it!”

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November 27, 2019 Article. Good old school days.

The Old Coot is Old School.

By Merlin Lessler

We had it easy when I went to “grade” school, now called “elementary” school. “Grade” school was a big change in the education system; one-room schools were expanded into multi-room facilities where kids could be separated by grade level. We worked hard on our lessons back then. All day long: multiplication tables, state capitals, cursive writing exercises penning rows and rows of evenly spaced spirals and loops to train our hands and brains to perform properly. We’d mastered printing in kindergarten, along with shoe tying, colors, how to print our name and address, but more importantly – how to get along with classmates, to share, to be patient and wait our turn and to manage our tempers.

Yes, we worked hard in school, but the key words in that sentence are, “in school.” The only homework we had was a weekly list of 10 spelling words. We did all the rest of our work in class. When the bell rang at three o’clock, we were free for the day. We walked to school, back home for lunch, back again and then home at the end of the day. I learned as much on those walks as I did in school. It’s where we got some street smarts, or to be more accurate, sidewalk smarts – we had to be careful not to step on a crack: it would break our mother’s backs.

Yes, for sure, we had it easy, not just because of the no-homework philosophy in grades one through six, but because the teachers had control of the classroom. Discipline was administered immediately. Throw a spitball? Go spend 30 minutes in the cloak room. Pull a girl’s pigtail? Go spend time in the hall facing the wall. Get caught chewing gum? Spend half an hour standing next to the teacher’s desk facing the class with a wad of gum stuck to the end of your nose. And yes, for really disruptive behavior, a paddling by the principal or an eraser to the ear, tossed by a teacher with an accuracy comparable to a that of a professional baseball pitcher. The focus wasn’t on self-esteem; the focus was on getting us to function in society and get an education. When we did that, our self-esteem increased.

Kids today have it hard! Teachers have to struggle to control the class with hands tied behind their backs, and to face phone calls and lawsuits from parents who think their little darlings never do anything wrong. Kids have it harder than we did, but not as hard as the teachers.

Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com