October 25, 2017 Article

The Old Coot missed what you said. HUH?

By Merlin Lessler

My wife Marcia and I were on a cruise in the Irish Sea, headed to Dublin a few weeks back, killing time until the announcement to go ashore was made. Sitting with us in the buffet area was a couple from Hawaii. Actually, only the wife was at the table, her husband was wandering around with a plate of food, looking for her. He finally shuffled over and sat down with a sigh. “I couldn’t find you,” he exclaimed. She glared at him, rolled her eyes and replied, “I told you I’d be at the table under the picture of the Titanic,” and then turned to us and said, “He never listens!” We knew she was right, my wife more aware of it than I, but even I’ve been around long enough to know it’s true. My wife responded to the woman from Hawaii, but I don’t know what she said. I wasn’t listening.

It’s not our fault. We try to listen. We’re positive we hear everything our wives tell us, but we don’t. I think it’s a right brain, left brain thing. When somebody talks, we are all ears, for about ten seconds. Then our brain switches to a sports mode. It drags up an image from our high school days, scoring the winning basket as the clock winds down to zero. Technically, it doesn’t drag up an image; it invents one. We never had a moment like that. The sports mode of the male brain can’t distinguish between fact and fiction.       

It’s not just our wives we don’t listen to; it’s everybody. It’s why we get in so much trouble. We’re in a conversation; the other person talks and talks and then stops and looks at us and says, “So, do you think it’s a good idea?” We have no idea what they are talking about, but we never admit it. “Sure,” we respond. “That’s a great idea.” Then we discover that we just loaned our car to our neighbor’s teenage son for the prom. “How could you do that?” our wife asks. “It sounded like a good idea at the time,” we lamely respond. “You had to be there.”

I’m so glad women are getting into leadership positions in business and politics. It was a tough road without them. If a woman had been in charge of Ford Motor Company in the 1950’s, when the sales team made the pitch to introduce the Edsel, she would have listened to them and then listened to the engineers that said it was too soon; the bugs hadn’t been worked out. As it was, Henry Ford the 2nd, who, may I point out, is a man, was daydreaming about the Detroit Tigers when the discussion took place. When asked if they should move ahead and introduce the car in the 1958 model year, he said, “Sounds like a good idea.” (It turned out to be the biggest lemon in automotive history.) No, we don’t listen. And everybody pays a price. It’s why the world is in such a mess these days.

Comments? Complaints? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

October 18, 2017 Article

The Old Coot can’t taste the difference.

By Merlin Lessler

It started with wine. Wine tastings to be specific, that complicated analysis of wine qualities: nose, legs, body, tartness, zest, oak tones, fruit hints and the like.  Descriptions that go on, ad nauseam. Rarely getting to the only thing that matters, “Does it taste good?”

Then, it moved to coffee. Starbucks lured us into a gourmet world of caffeinated beverages and made a long and steady pull on our pocketbooks, forcing Dunkin Donuts and other coffee vendors to follow suit. There aren’t many places left to order a cup of Joe and not get a puzzled look from the server.

Now, beer is in the game. What was used to be a simple selection process: beer or ale? Pick your brand. Some brands offered bock beer in the fall, but that was it, an uncomplicated selection process. Then came light beer, starting an avalanche of options. Dark beers, lemony beers, non-alcoholic beers, hoppy beers and now, hundreds more, as craft beers have gone mainstream. And, like wine, there are tastings, and a host of descriptive terms to describe the variations. It’s becoming harder and harder to buy a cheap glass of beer, a tragedy of crisis proportions for me and my fellow old coots, the world’s greatest cheapskates. It’s just beer to us, what once was the low priced adult beverage, but not anymore; the cost of that amber liquid with a frothy white head has increased, along with difficulty to know what to order as you gaze down a line of taps as long as a bowling alley. 

Wine snobbery, beer snobbery, what’s next? Not water. That commonplace, everyday beverage went snobbish decades ago when imported, bottled French water moved the price tag higher than a gallon of gasoline. It’s just a matter of time before the next commodity is repackaged and marketed to appeal to the snob in us. At a higher price of course. But, what will it be? Peanut butter? Kool-Aid? It’s too late for a lot of food items. The organic movement has been making inroads into the grocery industry for several years now. The simple egg has been reborn as a high priced “healthy” variation, Eggland’s Best. Tomatoes and other vegetables have a dual price option, the demonized regular variety, and the politically correct, organic choice, which are the same crops we grew in our back yards, practically for free. Now, we pay dearly for them. I’m going to get some of my old cronies together over a glass of cheap beer and see if we can figure out a way to afford to continue to eat and drink in the new gourmet world we live in.    

Comments? Complaints? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

  

October 11, 2017 Article

The Old Coot can say, “You’re welcome.”

Bb Merlin Lessler

We’ve forgotten how (and when) to say, “You’re welcome.” No, this isn’t another rant about the “younger folk” replacing, “You’re welcome,” with, “No problem.” I beat that horse to death a few years back and have come to terms with it, despite cringing a little when I’m on the receiving end: I wonder if I would have gotten the service I’m thanking them for if it was the least bit of a problem. Enough said; on to today’s “You’re welcome” issue.

I hear, or actually don’t hear it, from a lot of people. It’s especially prevalent when a reporter on TV or radio has managed to get someone to come on the air and discuss some current issue. At the end of the session, the reporter thanks the person for answering their questions (though, if it’s a politician they rarely get any real answers, just a wind bag exhibition that goes on and on so long the reporter forgot what the question was.)  At any rate, most interviewees get a well-deserved, “Thank you,” and most of the time reply with, “Thank you.” Not, “You’re welcome.” I get it, when it comes from a politician; he or she should be saying, “Thank you,” since the reporter let them get away with murder. But, most everyone else responds to a thank you from the reporter at the end of an interview by also saying “Thank you.” I’d fall out of my chair if I ever heard them simply say, “You’re welcome.”

Now where do I go with this? It’s a small complaint and I’ve made my point; watch TV or listen to a radio interview and you’ll see what I mean, but there is no sense in continuing to crab about such a minor issue. I’ll switch to another issue, the opposite of the “You’re welcome” equation, the people who can’t, “Thank you.” Not because they aren’t appreciative, but rather, because they are overwhelmed with appreciation. You know the type. We all know the type, and probably have done our fair share of it ourselves: responding to someone’s generosity or gift giving, with – Oh, you shouldn’t have! – I can’t accept this; it’s way too much – Oh my gosh! This is insane! - I’m so sorry; I didn’t get you anything. It’s hard, apparently, to just say, “Thank you!” If you’ve read all the way to this point and haven’t torn the paper to shreds, all I can say is, “Thank you.” 

October 4, 2017 Article

The Old Coot is under attack!

By Merlin Lessler

I’m ready to go to the police. To file a harassment complaint. I’ve had it! This constant assault on my mental stability, my anxiety level, my well-being. BY MY CELL PHONE! I’m going through the day having a wonderful time doing old coot stuff, like checking around to see who has the best early bird special and my phone attacks me, “Your battery is getting dangerously low, only 35% remaining; plug it in immediately!” Or, some such paranoid outburst. “Plug me in or I’m going to shift to an energy saving state and you’ll be sorry,” it continues. The process reminds me of the Jimmy Carter era, when he bugged us to turn down the thermostats to save energy, wearing a cardigan to show that he was doing it.  

 My phone is more insistent than Carter was. Besides, I view a 35% battery level as quite sufficient; I’m getting around with a lower percentage of energy than that and I’m doing just fine, now that I’ve added an 11am nap to my recharging schedule. I’m up at five or six in the morning, take my first nap at nine, another at four, and now my new nap, an hour before lunchtime. These naps only last for five minutes or so, but they allow me to function with a glass half full, so to speak.

My phone doesn’t agree. It has a “glass half empty” personality. I try to ignore its panicky pleading, but at every new low, it yells at me. It is harassment, pure and simple! It used to be worse. Every App on my phone was after me: You have a new e-mail – I-Heart Radio has added new features - Facebook has notices for you. – The Weather Channel has an alert. I figured out how to turn off all those notices. But, I can’t figure out how to turn off the battery level hysteria program.

It wouldn’t be this bad if the programmers that create software would ask old coots to provide input. Maybe, a focus group or two. We’d tell them to change the battery warnings, from harassing to nurturing. Have the screen say, “Wow! – You have 35% battery left; that’s a lot! Enjoy!” Or, “Wow- Your battery is running down. Soon you will be out of touch; won’t that be nice!” We’re out here, but nobody asks.

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

September 27,2017 Article

Old coots are multi-task masters.

By Merlin Lessler

My crowd, my old coot crowd to be specific, is critical of the Z Generation (people born between 1996 and 2010). We don’t call them Gen-Zers; we simply refer to them as today’s kids. It’s a generational thing, for the old to criticize the young. Probably because we are jealous of their youth. They aren’t jealous of anything about us. Anyhow, this attitude of, “The worlds going to pot,” (because of the kids who will soon be running things) has been around for a long time. Even Cicero, the famous Roman Politician and scholar, was dismayed at the attitudes and actions of the youths of his day. He argued that they needed vigorous ethical and moral instruction if civilization were to continue. That was 2,000 years ago; I’m sure the attitude goes back even further than that. Cavemen, most certainly, were critical of the behavior of teenagers in their day. “Look at that fool kid going out on a date and forgetting to bring his club!”

Today’s criticism is focused on Gen Z’s excessive multitasking. Doing too many things at once and not doing justice to any of them. “Look at that kid! He’s doing his homework; his Geography book is open and he’s glancing at it, but he’s also listening to loud Rap music, texting back and forth to his girlfriend, checking his Twitter and Snapchat feeds, munching on a burger and conversing with a study mate across the room. That’s not how we did it in my day!” (Old coots often remember things the way they wish they were, not the way they actually were). Anyhow, it’s a foolish criticism coming from someone of my generation. We’re the masters of multi-tasking!

When I, or one of my kind, head out the door, to a coffeeshop in the morning for example, it requires the juggling of several critical tasks. #1 – We have to remember why we went out the door and where we are headed. Otherwise, we’ll stand there, stuck in place like the needle in a worn groove on a record (try to explain that one to a Gen-Zer). Task #2 - As we step onto the sidewalk we have to check and keep checking our balance and (Task 3) pick up our left foot a little higher than normal, so it doesn’t cause us to stumble. It’s been a little floppy lately. (Task #4) We have to focus on walking in a straight line. If we don’t, we’ll wander from one edge of the sidewalk to the other in a pattern that might provoke a cop to arrest us for public intoxication.

We multitask to such a degree, it’s no wonder we appear daffy to others. It helps explain why, when you pass us on the sidewalk, we never call you by name. Instead, you get,” Hi lady” or “Hi neighbor” or “Hello Governor, “ or some such cover up for a memory lapse. You rarely get called by name. Maybe, on a day when the floppy foot isn’t acting up, but we’d probably just replace that memory task with another one - that dentist appointment we have at two, or a reminder to call Bill about the change in the golf schedule next week. Everyone needs to stop criticizing teenagers for multi-tasking. They will need the skill when it’s their turn in line for the early bird special.

Comments, complaints? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com

September 20, 2017 Article

The Old Coot is Going Deaf.

By Merlin Lessler

An oldie but a goodie. It’s been in the closet for 7 years; time to let it out again.

My hearing is going to pot! And, it’s not an old age thing either. I figured out what’s causing it. Hand dryers! The kind you find in public restrooms. Usually with a sign extolling the advantages of electric dryers over paper towels. “They save paper (natural resources) and prevent the spread of germs.” Bull! It’s cheaper. Plain and simple! I hate these things. Their whine is so high-pitched it damages your hearing. I can’t hear the croak of bullfrogs or the honking of geese because that section of my hearing range has been wiped out. These torture machines are especially hard on old coots. We’re exposed to the noise a lot more than normal humans because our bladders have the same capacity as a ten-dollar bottle of eye drops, half an ounce. It’s a defect in the genetic code. When we sign up for Social Security, the old-coot gene kicks in. It shrinks our bladders, makes our joints creaky, our eyes itchy. The latter is why I know the cost of a smidgen of eye drop solution; I buy a lot of it. People complain about the price of gas but it’s nothing compared to the price of eye drops. Do the math: a one-half ounce bottle is $10. It takes 256 bottles to make a gallon, bringing the cost to over $2,500. And we worry about gas companies ripping us off!  

Old coots spend half their time in public rest rooms, drying their hands. We’re acutely aware of how lousy these torture machines are. We wash our hands and get in line for the dryer. It’s a long wait. The guy at the head of the line pushes the button and starts the process. It takes a full minute to dry his hands in the luke warm air that screams from the nozzle. Most men don’t have the patience to wait their turn. They take one look at the old guys in line, shrug in disgust, wipe their hands on their shirts and walk out. Old coots can’t. If we don’t dry our hands they get so chapped we have to buy Corn Huskers lotion by the gallon. Medicare doesn’t cover eye drops; it doesn’t cover Corn Husker’s. We’d go bankrupt if we skipped the hand dryer. 

Every once in a while, I forget what I’m doing in a public rest room and splash water on my face. That’s usually when I discover the dryer only blows in one direction. Straight down! I can’t swivel the nozzle to get the air to blow toward my face. I get down on my knees, tilt my head toward the ceiling, lift my hands to direct the flow of air to my face and close my eyes so they don’t dry out. People entering the rest room take one look at this praying spectacle and run for their lives. Eventually, I get dried off and leave the place. A few more sections of my hearing get damaged. Now, it’s not just the croaks and honks of frogs and geese that are lost to me. I also can no longer hear the sound of someone saying, “Hey! It’s so good to see you! You look so young and healthy!” At least I think that’s what happened, because I never hear it anymore. 

Comments, complaints? Send to – mlessler@gmail.com         

September 13, 2017 Article

The Cat Got the Old Coot!

By Merlin Lessler

I’m putting this out here now, well in advance of the actual event, so you will know what really happened when you read in my obituary that I had a dizzy spell, fell down the stairs and broke my neck. It won’t be the truth. It’s the cat that killed me, not a dizzy spell.

It won’t have been a malicious act. It’s just a cat doing what cats do. They like to follow old coots around and toy with them, the same way they taunt and tease a mouse. If you get up from your chair to walk out of a room, a cat will wake from a sound sleep, rush ahead, dive to the floor and roll over on its back. Directly in line with your next footstep! That’s OK when the room is well lit and you’re paying attention to where you’re going. You can spot the cat and step over it, avoiding a hip-breaking tumble to the floor. But, if the room is poorly lit or if you are reading the paper as you walk, like old coots often do, you’re in for a long hospital stay. If the cat gets you on the stairs, you’re done for. I’m forced to walk around the house without picking up my feet; it’s the only way to avoid injury or death. It’s why old coots shuffle along, barely lifting their feet. Cats make us walk like that, not old age.  

Our cat, Rosie, named after the great (and now, late) blues singer, Roosevelt Dean, has a nasty habit of climbing up on the bulletin board in my office and pulling out a pushpin. He bats it around for a while and then leaves it in a strategic spot for someone in bare feet to step on. When it happens to me, I perform an acrobatic leap that more often than not, leaves me limping. Sometimes he burrows under a throw rug to hide and leaves a big hump in the middle. The last time he “got” me, I did a back flip, one that would have most certainly earned a perfect “10” in an Olympic competition.

Our cat has lion DNA. He lurks behind things and leaps up as I pass by, getting my heart beating so fast I have to sit down. He refuses to drink water from a bowl, insisting on fresh water from the tap. This works fine when I remember to turn off the faucet. I’ve flooded the laundry room more than once when I was distracted and forgot the water was on. There is an angry debate raging across the country on how to lower the cost of health care. It’s too complicated for me to know what should be done, but one thing that would significantly reduce the strain on the system is to cat proof the houses of old coots. It would save millions in the repair and rehabilitation of broken hips, wrists, elbows, shoulders and skulls. Of course, it might help if we paid attention to where we were walking instead of trying to remember why we are going there.

This column was originally published in 2009. A good friend of ours, and Roosevelt, recently adopted him, reserving visitation privileges for us. It was a hard decision, but since we are away from home for sizable portions of the year, it was the only one we could make. Rossie never did end up breaking my neck, just my heart.