Old Coot is a flake. (February 26, 2020 Article)

The Old Coot is a flake! A snow flake.

By Merlin Lessler

I gave myself a treat the other morning at Dunkin Donut’s; I ordered a jelly donut with my coffee. It’s something I’d like to do every day but would look like a blimp if I did. It takes all my willpower, but I space out my jelly donut binges.

Anyhow, this particular jelly donut was covered with a layer of powdered sugar. Some Dunkin Donut Shops use granular sugar or go light on the powder, but this place marches their jelly donuts through a blizzard of sugar. I sat at a table, took the snowball out of the bag and carefully placed it on a napkin. Sugar flakes flew into the air; I was surrounded as though in a Nor’easter snowstorm. I could barely see across the room. Ever bite sent a new snow squall into the atmosphere. The napkin, the table, my pants & shirt, the seat and the floor were speckled in a layer of snowflakes. I looked like Pig-Pen, the character in Peanuts who lives in a cloud of dust. Anyone seeing me would be tempted to ask the manager, “Why do you allow a slob like that in this place?”

It doesn’t bother me, those dirty looks from strangers. I deserve the “Pig-Pen” comparison: I look as unkempt as he does, and even worse. I look like a one year old when I get up from the table. One that grabbed a spoon out of his mother’s hand and sprayed pablum all over himself and his surroundings. Most people come out of a restaurant carrying their leftovers in a doggy bag. Not me! I don’t need the bag. I transport my leftovers on my shirt, pants and shoes. I’m saving the eco system from Styrofoam pollution.

I’m not sure exactly when I became a food & drink slob. I know there was a time when I looked presentable in public. But for years now, I’ve sported coffee, mustard, spaghetti sauce, ketchup and wine stains on my clothes. I sloshed so much coffee on myself, that for a while I wore beige to hide the stains. I gave that up and now face the world just as I am – a shirt stained old coot who is well along the return trip to babyhood – It’s where I started and it’s where I’ll end up. It’s just taken me a lifetime to make the round trip.    

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The Old Coot misses pipes. (February 19, 2020 Article)

The Old Coot misses the whiff of pipe tobacco.

By Merlin Lessler

It is an era long gone, and for good reason, yet I miss it. Hadn’t thought about it for years but the other day I spotted a picture of Sylvester Stallone in an old news photo lighting a pipe. Oh my, how politically incorrect! A pipe? Not in this day and age!  Not a common sight. It hit me how much I miss being in a world with pipe smokers, letting that sweet, mellow aroma tickle my senses. And, hearing the tap, tap, tap as an indulger empties the ashes and unburned stubs of tobacco to rest the bowl until the next time it’s called into service.

Just seeing a pipe smoker with a briar protruding from the side of his mouth, a contented man, at peace with the world, would make my day. It was a male vice for the most part, yet women did puff on them as well. Not very many and rarely in public, though I recall a picture of Katharine Hepburn puffing on a briar back in the 1950’s.

I was fifteen when I bought my first pipe. It was on a display at a neighborhood mom and pop store, attached to two tins of Raleigh Tobacco with a rubber band.  A holiday special, for only a dollar! I thought I’d give it to my father for Christmas; he’d recently given up cigarette smoking, along with five minutes of coughing every morning. I thought it would help him stay with the program. My mother said it would only get him started again so I kept the pipe for myself. And, with a couple of like-minded knuckle-headed friends, walked around town puffing away, thinking how adult we must look. A pipe was a nerdy thing to smoke, long before nerdy became a word, so we switched to cigarettes. Winston’s, the ones with the catchy advertising jingle, “Winston’s taste good like a cigarette should!”

Not the worst mistake I ever made, but right up there near the top. I took up the pipe again in my twenties, to get off the cancer sticks, as we called them, well before the Surgeon General got around to alerting the public to the dangers of cigarette smoking. The pipe did the job: I quit cigarettes, at least for a while, and eventually forever but I still remember how nice it felt to have a pipe protruding from the side of my mouth and to be enclosed in an aromatic cloud. I wasn’t alone; a lot of famous people were pipe smokers – Bing Crosby, Clark Gable, Darwin, Gerald Ford, Walter Cronkite, FDR, Einstein, Stalin, and Mark Twain to name a few.

Now, no one smokes them in public, not that I ever see. I miss it. But even more, I miss the sweet aroma of pipe tobacco. Almost as much as the scent of burning leaves on a crisp fall afternoon. When I turn eighty, which isn’t that far off, especially now that years slip past me at the speed of light, I’m going to buy a pipe and go in my back yard and put a match to it and to a small pile of leaves. If the authorities come charging in to stop me, they’ll have to pry, both the leaf rake and the briar pipe from my cold dead hands. Want to join me? Be at my house on November 15, 2022; we’ll light up the world together.  Ha Ha!

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five dollars a tooth? February 12, 2020 Article

The Old Coot sold out too cheap.

By Merlin Lessler

I’ll never forget losing my first tooth. It was at my grandfather’s house: I was five years old and had not an inkling that some day I’d be an old man like him. All through our youth, and well beyond, we never think old age will come our way. We know it intellectually, but for some reason, think we’ll escape it, and the infirmities that go with it. Some people actually do escape the infirmities. You see them paraded out on TV all the time, like the 103-year-old woman who climbed aboard a bull at a nursing home making the highlight reel on the evening news last week. It was one of those feel good endings that they tack on to make us feel warm and fuzzy after blasting us with 30 minutes of dreadful news and life threating weather forecasts.   

But, back to the tooth, that first one I pried out, grasping it with a handkerchief because the looseness was driving me nuts and the dime from the Tooth Fairy that would await me under my pillow when I woke up the next morning. Not as exciting as waiting for Santa Claus to come down the chimney loaded with presents, but still a big deal for a five-year-old. I slipped the tooth under my pillow that night and woke to a shiny dime. I was a little disappointed. I was hoping for a nickel. I thought a nickel was worth more than a dime because it was bigger.    

That baby tooth was soon replaced with a so called “permanent” tooth, but as us old coots know, permanence is not guaranteed, not if you crunch down hard on an un-popped, popcorn kernel. I broke a few corners off doing that. There are plenty of other oral surprises that lurk in the dark, waiting to visit you at the worst possible moment. You can also lose some teeth by shooting off your mouth to the wrong guy and discover that your ducking skills are no longer what they once were.  

I also didn’t consider the expense I’d incur, over a lifetime, when I yanked out that milk tooth and invited in my first permanent one. I ended up with a mouthful of liabilities, eventually receiving 32 of those white devils. I parted company with the 4 wisdom teeth before I left my thirties. Down to 28. Over time, another three rats deserted the sinking ship, two lost to my love affair with popcorn and one that just woke me up one morning and said, “I’ve got to get out of here!” They were all in the back part of my mouth and didn’t really need to be replaced. Not like those front teeth, that make you look like a goober when they’re gone. The tooth fairy skipped my pillow when that threesome came out; she slipped the cash under my dentist’s pillow instead, depositing a lot more than a shiny dime.

I have no regrets on that score. I love my dentist; she’s been a savior on many instances over the years. I got a dime to welcome in a permanent tooth when I was five, but now spend about five dollars per tooth to get them professionally cleaned. I think the disparity of getting a dime to make room for a tooth that costs five bucks in maintenance, twice a year, is a lopsided financial transaction. I should have held out for a dental plan when I lost the first one. 

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Head full of mush - Old Coot February 5, 2020 Article

The Old Coot’s head is full! (of junk)

By Merlin Lessler

Well, it finally happened; my head is full. I can’t put another thing in it. I thought it would be names that would put me over the top. But it was numbers that did it. I discovered the issue when I went to the college swimming pool after a 7-month absence. I had to renew my membership to get in. “What’s your old entry code,” I was asked? “Uh… I think it’s les.” But no, that wasn’t it. I had to start from scratch: full name, driver’s ID. Then my code popped up – les1942. I’d forgotten the “1942.” I paid up and made it over that hurdle. It was similar to what happens when you check into a motel and they ask for your license plate number. I never know mine. We have two cars and I can’t remember which plate goes with which car. THAT’S A LIE! I don’t know either plate number. As I started out to saying; my head is full.

Anyhow, I got registered at the pool, headed down the hall to the locker room door and punched 756 into the keypad; nothing happened; the door wouldn’t open. Wrong number? Back to the main desk to ask if I remembered the code correctly. “Oh, we changed it; it’s now 648.”  Off I went chanting 648, 648, 648. I didn’t want to have to go back to the desk and remove all doubt of how much of an idiot I really am. I made it into the room, got into my suit, and using a combination lock, secured my clothes, wallet and cell phone inside the locker. My combination is 7-28-5. That didn’t come out of my head; it came from the back of the lock. I never removed the sticker that came with it. I knew at some point I’d forget and wanted to avoid going to the front desk, dripping like a drowned rat, to ask if the janitor might have a set of bolt cutters to cut open my lock.

That’s the issue; all those numbers in my life, in everyone’s life. Three sets to go for a swim. Four digits to get cash from an ATM. Go to the doctor and be asked, “What year were you born?” Knowing your name isn’t enough to get you into the exam room. It’s not a problem for me. I may not know how old I am, but for some reason I never forget my birth year.  I guess it’s because I use it all the time to figure out how old I am and then gasp in shock.

When cell phones went mainstream, society got a reprieve. The phones took over the task of keeping track of the numbers we frequently call. But it only lasted a few years. Eventually, a bunch of new numbers to remember came our way. Now I can barely remember my own phone number. I can retrieve my childhood, five-digit number along with several others from that era. They are deep inside my brain and apparently insulated from memory lapses.  

We’re inundated with numbers and codes: ATM pins, Social Security ID’s, passwords, library card ID’s, license plate numbers. It’s a long list and a challenge to keep track of them. I hope I’m not involved in an emergency; even 911 is getting difficult to extract from that swamp between my ears. Think it’s not a problem for you? Have you dated a check or a document this year and found you’d written 2019 instead of 2020? No? Then your head’s not full yet. But it will be.

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The old coot is opposite! (January 29, 2020 article)

The Old Coot does a brain exercise.

By Merlin Lessler

I tried an “Opposite Day” last week, to give my brain a workout, and boy it needed it. It’s a way to get unused neurons to fire and expand the brain’s capability. You just do common everyday things, opposite of what you would normally do. Things you don’t even think about when you’re doing them. It started early in the day, right after I got out of bed and slipped into a pair of pants. What leg goes in first? I did the opposite. I normally insert the belt starting on the left side. I did the opposite. It feels awkward when you feed it through the loops the “wrong” way. And then, you’re faced with a buckle that buckles backward. It’s doable, but you can tell it’s using a different part of your brain. A fuzzy feeling visits you as you do it.  

I put my watch on my left wrist. Realized that was normal; took it off and struggled to get it buckled on my right arm. I did a double take every time I checked the time; it was hard to get used to the watch being on the other wrist. It haunted me all through the day. The toothbrush was another challenge. I’m a righty, for the most part. Putting the toothbrush in my left and squeezing on the paste felt a little awkward, but not too bad. Most of the paste made it to the bristles, some on the handle. Then came Brusha, brusha, brusha, as sung in the old Ipana toothpaste ad. The toothbrush didn’t go through my cheek, but it came close. Those old, unused neurons in my brain were slow to catch on. I can’t complain too much; they’ve sat dormant for decades. I brushed my hair as though I was a lefty. It really felt weird, but not as weird as it looked when I was done. 

You do all this stuff without thinking. On opposite day you have to stop and think before you do anything. Even a simple task like walking up the stairs is a left-right thing. I always start with my right foot; I didn’t know that. Switching to a left foot start wasn’t an issue but did stimulate a few well aged neurons.  Cutting with scissors left-handed was a different story. Not only was it awkward, I discovered the scissors themselves were a problem; the edge is slanted for a right-handed cut. Something, I’m sure left-handed people are well aware of.  

Eating was a disaster. Soup was impossible; I had dribbles down my chin and all over my shirt; I couldn’t cut a porkchop worth a darn with the knife in my left hand and my fork delivery skills were on par with those of a two-year-old.  If I stuck with this experiment, I’d have to spend the rest of my life eating sandwiches. The process did stimulate a ton of underused neurons though. I ended the experiment after trying to get on my bicycle from the right side, stepping on the pedal with my right foot and swinging my left leg over the seat. I didn’t quite make it. I ended up on the ground looking like a turtle on its back, struggling to roll over and get back up. I just lay there laughing my head off. It was the opposite of how I felt.  

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January 22, 2020 Article - Coot complains about "tipping" formula.

The Old Coot buys low, tips high.

By Merlin Lessler

So, you go to a restaurant with a friend. A “separate check” kind of friend. Your meal is $30 – you tip the waiter $6, twenty percent. Your friend’s meal is $20. His tip is $4. He got the exact same friendly service but paid $2 less for it. I don’t get why the tip amount is based on the price of the meal.

And, now that I’m into it, why did the percentage go from 10% to 15% and now has settled in at 20%. Meal prices have risen, so tips went up without raising the percentage. It’s a double hit on the customer - a higher percentage tip based on a higher priced meal. I tried to discuss this with my wife, to get her concurrence; she told me to get the moths out of my wallet and pay the tip like everyone else. And, while I’m at it, to stop being a cheapskate.

Sure, I am a cheapskate, most old coots are, but that’s not the issue here. It’s the “service” cost being related to the meal price. They are two separate transactions, or should be. I tried to negotiate a resolution the other day in a restaurant.  Before I gave my order to the waiter, I asked, “How much do you charge for taking my order to the kitchen, delivering my food and drink, giving me a bill and taking my payment?” He looked at me like I was an alien from outer space and told me there was no charge for his service. If I wanted to leave a tip, he wouldn’t refuse it. Then he rolled his eyes. I tried again, “Let’s settle up for your waiter service now; then I’ll order. Here’s five bucks.” It didn’t work; he wouldn’t accept it.

So, now I’m on a crusade to enlist support from other restaurant goers to protest tying the tip cost to the meal cost. They should be independent of each other. One based on food cost, the other on how obnoxious and demanding you are. When you order from the pricey part of the menu you pay a bigger tip, which my wife points out is something I never do. I order the cheapskate options, or from the children’s menu if they allow it, and tip accordingly, but I do base my tip on a 20% multiplier; I’m cheap but appreciative of good service. I still think it’s wrong to base it on the meal price. I think a lot of things in today’s culture are wrong, like getting charged to cross the Hudson River on the Tappan Zee Bridge (now renamed to honor Prince Andrew Cuomo’s father, which is wrong too). But, I shrug and pay. In fact, I just mailed in my payment for crossing the river last Thanksgiving. They took a picture of my license plate and sent me a bill. I thought I got through without paying. I can’t win, but I’m still trying. It’s what old coots do.

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The Old Coot exposes old advice. (January 15, 2020 Article)

The Old Coot visits a foreign land.

By Merlin Lessler

I discovered a foreign country with strange customs the other day.  It was introduced to me via a housewife’s guide that offered tips to new wives on how to treat their husbands. I’ll begin with the first two tips; it will get you started on an exploration of this foreign land. #1 Have dinner ready when he comes home from work. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready and on time. This lets him know you have been thinking about him and are concerned about his needs. #2 – Take fifteen minutes to rest, so you’ll be refreshed looking; be a little gay. His workday has been long and boring, and he needs a lift; one of your duties is to provide it!

I bet I have your attention now. Where is this foreign land? It’s mainstream America, circa 1955. That’s when this advice was written and included in many of the cookbooks that new wives received at a bridal shower, along with the tools of the trade: steam irons, rolling pins, aprons, brooms, dust pans, mixers, ironing boards and the like. But that just scratches the surface. How about this tip – Prepare the children (for his arrival). Wash their hands and faces, neaten up their clothes. They are his little treasures and he would like to see them play the part. Minimize all noise of the washer, dryer and vacuum, and keep the children quiet. (I guess not a treasure when they act up a little.)

Oh yes, this is a strange land, with strange customs. It’s no wonder the women’s movement struck such a chord in the early sixties. But still, it’s hard to fathom how it got off the ground, when you consider Tip #10. – When he arrives home, shut your yap! (I paraphrased that last part) Even if you have a dozen important things to tell him. Let him talk first – Remember, his topics of conversation are more important that yours.  

But, that is nothing compared to Tip #11 – Never complain if he comes home late or goes out to dinner or places of entertainment without you. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure and his very real need to be at home and relax (when he gets there). (Strain? If he spent one day with the kids and the challenge of running a house his head would explode).

How about # 14? – Don’t complain if he’s late home for dinner or even stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through that day. (I thought this one might have been a joke. But it wasn’t. It was dead serious.) Which is easy to understand when you consider the follow-up tip – Don’t ask him questions about his actions or question his judgement of integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness.  You have no right to question him. A good wife knows her place!

 Women - if you are steaming at this point and want to wring my neck, remember, I didn’t create or endorse this advice. I’m just the messenger, making a connection between America today and America of 70 years ago. And you men - who are engaged to be married, no, I won’t provide the full list of housewife tips to you so you can slip them into your wedding vows. It wouldn’t do you any good. You’d never get an, “I do,” all you’d get is an, “I won’t!” And maybe a slap up side the head.  

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