May 23, 2018 Article

The Old Coot approves this message.

By Merlin Lessler

Tis the season. The ELECTION CAMPAIGN season! Is it just starting or is it an endless cycle? At the very least, we get six months of political ads on TV. It started early for me this year. I was in Florida when the Governor announced his candidacy for the U.S. Senate. I’d been a snowbird in his state for several months at the time, one of the thousands of old coots who flock to the Sunshine State to seek shelter from northern winters and search for the fountain of youth that Ponce DeLeon claimed lie along the coast, a little south of where we were staying.  

Anyhow.....Governor Scott threw his hat in the ring, as they call it, and started an ad campaign in earnest, saturating TV screens across the state. There he was, every hour, every day, decked out in a plaid shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a pair of khakis, telling us he was ready to take on Washington. Where, he claimed, “they” think the voters work for them, but he’ll change that. He’ll go to work for us, thus the “working clothes” costume he’d donned, replacing his usual blue suit and power red tie, the governor costume I’m used to seeing him in. At the end of each commercial he signed off with, “I’m Rick Scott and I approve this message. Duh! If we see him sitting there telling us how he’ll act when he’s in the senate, why in the world, other than in the political world, would anyone not think he approved his very own message?

But, he’s not alone; they all do it, ever since one of them got criticized for a stupid statement in an election campaign ad that came back to haunt him (it was a him) and then pleaded the fifth, “My campaign manager approved the ad, not me. I swear, I never saw it.”

Now, I’m back home and the election season has started here as well. We’ll not only have to endure an onslaught of ads as annoying as those anti-smoking ads, each will conclude with a statement from the candidate, that he or she approves the message. They should be forced to donate a hundred-dollars to the school district they live in, every time they air an ad with that statement, to help educate future voters to recognize duplicity when they see it. That’s my complaint for the week. I approve this message! I only hope my copy checker and editor do as well.  

Complaints, comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com  Vintage articles at WWW.oldcootwisdom.blogspot.com

May 16, 2018 Article

The Old Coot is a bag man.

By Merlin Lessler

We hate them; we love them. Those single-use, plastic bags our groceries get packed in. But, not for long! Soon enough, they will be illegal in New York State. The bags are an environmental nightmare (that’s the part we hate), but a useful device for a lot more than the so called “single-use” function they are designated to serve. Customers shunned them when they first showed up in grocery stores. Eighty percent of shoppers answered, “Paper!” when asked, “Paper or plastic?”  Eventually, the percentages swapped places and most people accepted the plastic. The paper or plastic question is not even asked in most stores. If you want paper, you have to ask for it. Most of us accept plastic bags without giving it a second thought.  

Actually, we prefer the plastic bags. It’s the handles! We love them! We’ve discovered they can facilitate a single trip from the store to the car and the car to the house. Our family’s present record is held by my wife, Marcia. She can handle 15 bags without batting an eye, eight bags clutched in her right hand, seven in her left. I’m only good for six. The hard part is to maneuver the load, so you can get to your keys and open the car door. Ditto, when you get to your house.  

But, it’s all coming to an end. I suppose we’ll go back to paper, at first. That’s going to be a hard transition. You can only carry two paper bags of groceries at a time. When you try for a third, you have to squeeze it between the other two and hold it in place with your chin. It makes walking across the parking lot to your car a perilous journey with your head bent down like that. When you get there, it’s impossible to open the door without putting the bags down on the parking lot. Maybe the stores will resurrect the “box” option, like the one that was common back in the good old days, with various size boxes piled in a heap at the end of the checkout counter. One box would hold three of four bags worth of groceries.  

Most likely, we’ll be required to bring our own containers, like they make you do at Aldis, because replacing plastic bags with paper would cause too many trees to be cut down, hurting the environment more than the plastic bags do. I guess Amazon has the right idea. We stay home and order what we want from them and wait for a drone to land by the back door. It’s a brave new world out there!  The new “grocery purchase” question, will be, “What do you want, drone or Uber delivery?

Comments, complaints? Send to – mlessler7@gmail.com. Old articles available at WWW.oldcootwisdom.blogspot.com.

May 9, 2018 Article

The Old Coot has a Fit (bit)!

By Merlin Lessler

My wife gave me a Fitbit for Christmas. She thought it would help me to stay healthy and also satisfy my fascination with electronic gadgetry. I was leery, “Do I really want to wear a watch, something I gave up 30 years ago, despite the things this one does in addition to telling time?” I knew I had to give it a try, but when I attempted to turn it on, nothing happened. I attached the charger, thinking that’s what was needed to get it going. I was wrong. It still wouldn’t do anything. Of course, the thing didn’t come with a manual, but there was a sentence on the box that directed me to a Web site to set up the Fitbit using a computer, or as an option, an App that could be download to a smart phone.

I chose the Web site process using my computer. I got into the set-up and hit a snag when I came to the last part. It instructed me to turn on the PC’s Bluetooth. My computer doesn’t have Bluetooth. I had to go to my phone, download the App and start over again, thinking how easy things used to be – you bought a watch, strapped it on, wound it, set the time and you were done. Everything was like that. And, everything that needed a manual, came with a manual. Not anymore.

Anyhow, I got it going. It displayed the time, my pulse rate, the number of steps I’d taken toward a preset goal of 10,000 per day. It had a “Run” section that would keep time and mileage if I went for a jog, a count of the calories I’d burned and a few other fitness measurements. I thought, “Cool!” Not knowing I’d introduced a new nag into my life, maybe as bad as the one living in my car that tells to put air in the tires and turns on the check engine light, but never says why. This new nag started out in a pleasant fashion, “Congratulations, you met your 10,000 steps goal today. That sort of thing. But, after a few days of being nice, it turned into a mean spirited personal trainer. “You only slept 6 hours last night; Tsk, Tsk.” “Your calorie burn for the day missed the mark.” – “You’ve only taken 6,342 steps; get moving.” – “Turn on your phone’s blue tooth for your monthly report and do better!” Things like that. At least that’s how it sounded to me.

Now, I’m trying to figure out how to reprogram it, to measure things more important to me. “You haven’t eaten a Snickers Bar this week, time to get munching.” – “The package of Oreos in your cupboard has only one row left; don’t get caught shorthanded.” And, when I’m in Daytona Beach watching the parade of motorcycles on Main Street during Bike Week, a reminder that the number of empty beer bottles on the table in front of me is way too little for this event.” I’d change the name too. From “Fitbit” to “Don’t-Have-a-Fit,” and a message every so often like, “Enjoy the day, smell the roses.”

Comments, Complaints – Send to mlessler7@gmail.com (Old articles at WWW.oldcootwisdom.blogspot.com

May 2, 2018 Article

The Old Coot scratches an itch.

By Merlin Lessler

It always happens when your hands are full and you can’t do anything about it. An itch! So deep in your ear, it reaches your back teeth. It’s strong; it’s driving you nuts; you must scratch. You free up a hand and try to appease the tingle with a finger, but the human anatomy is inadequate for this task. Even your little finger won’t do.  

It’s been drummed into our heads by medical professionals, “Don’t put anything smaller than an elbow in your ear! Especially, a Q-tip!” Which is what many of us think they were made for, a perfect design: firm, bendable and with a soft padded tip that wouldn’t hurt a fly. But no! It’s taboo, “Don’t stick a Q-tip in your ear.”

So? What are we to do when that deep itch hits? Most old guys I know use a car key. I hear a Ford key works best, but any “ear” key will do the trick. Except, the new car keys that automobile manufacturers are switching to. They are square, fig newton size, electronic devices with a surface area larger than your elbow, thus not forbidden to use for an ear itch, but simply of no use for the task at hand.

I won’t mention the entire list of items, like tooth picks, straws, screw drivers and unfolded paper clips that my fellow violators of the “smaller than your elbow” law use all the time. I discovered the best paper clip for this task when I was 18 years-old and working as a co-op student in the engineering department of a company in Auburn, New York. They stocked a unique (to me) paper clip that was square in shape, with the ends twisted in circles. Unfolded, they appeared perfect for slipping into your ear. I thought these odd shaped fasteners were only used in engineering environments where it was important to keep technical papers securely clipped together. I eventually discovered that they were readily available in stationary stores (owl clips), but they cost more and most business don’t buy them. Maybe more would be sold if they were put on the shelf next to Q-tips in drug stores.

Two of my daughters have master’s degrees in audiology. They will surely be on my case when they read this. But, what can you do with an itch you can’t scratch? Make an appointment with an ear, nose and throat doctor? Run to the emergency room? So, I use a key. Not a Ford key, but a Jeep key. It works just as well. DISCLAIMER – Don’t try this at home kids!     

Comments, complaints – send to mlessler7@gmail.com – old articles are at WWW.oldcootwisdom.blogspot.com

April 25, 2018 Article

The Old Coot explains his cult/s.

By Merlin Lessler

I belong to two coffee klatches, but none of us call it that. If we did, we’d be expelled. We just say, “I have coffee with the boys in the morning.” One group meets at Starbucks, in Ormond Beach, Florida. The other assembles at the Owego Kitchen and Carols Coffee & Art Bar, in Owego, NY. Both are loud, boisterous and disruptive to the profitability of the establishments, yet we are tolerated, and for that, grateful.

Each klatch is a closed society, though guests and visitors do pop in and out on occasion; full membership must be earned. It takes a while to fit in. We’ve added two new members (Eric & Mike) to the Owego klatch over the past few years. I’m the newcomer in Ormond Beach. Both groups have similar rules, codes of conversation, so to speak. Have a “story” to tell? Some neat, or dreadful experience you want to relate? Good luck with that! The floor is never yielded completely, no matter how compelling the experience you wish to talk about. 

It’s not “show & tell.” It’s “group-tell.” Daren, of the Owego klatch, often has something to share. He’s active, travels, things happen to him. He gets into a lot of predicaments. Some, by simple bad luck. Some, because he’s a stand-up guy who steps in to lend a hand or straighten out a mess. But, his best stories are those where he’s as hapless as the rest of us. Like, the time he chased a bat around his bedroom wielding a tennis racquet or tried to convince a squirrel it didn’t really want to build a nest in his attic. Each of those episodes had their hilarious moments, but nothing compared to his macho strut across a nite spot in New York City in his salad days, with a long stream of toilet paper dragging from the heel of his shoe. (Revealed in print for the 3rd time. Sorry Daren)

It doesn’t matter how intriguing or funny his story may be; he gets no more than 30 seconds to tell the tale before we interrupt and take the discussion in another direction or replace it with our own experience. He waits and grabs it back, and rushes to get more of the tale told. But, it ain’t gunna be that easy. We all talk, or nobody talks. It’s what keeps the klatch going; no one can bore the group for any length of time. The Ormond Beach klatch is the same, though people in that group resist interruptions with more vigor. It does them no good.

Tony, a former member of the Owego klatch, got so used to being interrupted that when he moved to the west coast of Florida and joined a bunch of locals for morning coffee, they thought he had an affliction. They were puzzled by his pauses after each sentence. He was expecting to be interrupted, but the group didn’t do that. They wondered, “What’s wrong with this guy; he can’t sustain a normal conversation?” He told me it took several months to stop talking in an erratic fashion. Of course, I interrupted him as he related this to me.   

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com  - past articles at www.oldcootwisdom.blogspot.com

April 18, 2018 Article

The Old Coot finds his pen.

By Merlin Lesler

I’m well acquainted with it – been dealing with it for decades. It start’s in your fifties, for most people. I call it memory distractions. Sounds harmless. Memory collapse is more like it! I first stumbled into it in my mid-forties. I was on the phone with a vendor; after settling on a delivery date, he asked for my address. My mind went blank. I knew the street name, but the house number escaped me. I said to him, “Hang on a second; someone’s at the door.” I put the phone down and tore to the front door, went out on the porch to see what numbers were nailed to the siding and reported back. A few days later, I was on the phone telling Cheryl, a family friend for years, about my memory collapse. She laughed so hard she had to put her phone down. When she came back on the line, she said, “That’s nothing! I was on the phone and was asked my name; I went blank. I had to hang up and call back a minute later. With a – “We got disconnected” – excuse.

Her experience made me feel so much better. I knew I wasn’t alone, memory spasms were ordinary. And, to make it even better, hers’ was worse. I forgot all about my address failure, but a few years later, when I was in my fifties, the memory lapses become a way of life. The issue really came to the forefront the other day, I was racing around the room looking for a pen that I swore I’d just put down on the table. I eventually went to the “pens and gum” drawer (a name it was given back when we had little kids running around the house), got another pen and sat down at the table to write. It was then that I discovered the first pen; I was holding it in my teeth.

What a shock! Worse than a typical old coot memory lapse, the one where you “lose” your glasses and discover them riding on top of your head, or the one where you find the “lost” car keys, after racing around in a panic, tightly clasped in your hand. Whenever something like this happens, you think, “Alzheimer’s. Now I’ve got it!” But, after a short while, you forget the incident, and all is well. It’s not Alzheimer’s. It’s just a rerun of your teenage years. Those days where you: “Forgot to do your homework.” – “Forgot to make your bed,” – “Forgot to put your dishes in the sink.” Talk about memory problems, compared to teens, us oldsters are memory savants. Sure, we have these episodes of memory “distraction.” That’s our problem; we get distracted; we have too many thoughts going through our head at the same time. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

Comments, Complaints – send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Past articles at WWW.oldcootwisdom.blogspot.com

April 11, 2018 Article

The Old Coot spots the goobers.

By merlin lessler

I swear there is a troupe of goobers who roam across the country from one disaster to another: a flood, hurricane, tornado or earthquake. That sort of thing. When the national media moves onto the scene, the goobers do too. Male goobers, are costumed in plaid flannel shirts, bib overalls, wide brimmed hats and dirty work boots. Women, are enclosed in well worn, stained “house” dresses from the fifties, stretched out cardigans, stockings rolled down and folded over white crews socks that rise from a pair of bunny slippers. Dentures are discretely removed when TV news reporters holding microphones, approach with a cameramen trailing alongside. The media seek out these “local” characters, to add color for their national audience. The interviews follow the same script, no matter where, or what the situation. The reporter asks for a reaction to the disaster and the goober says, “I lived here my whole life and ain’t never seen nothing like this! The actual residents see this on TV and groan, “Oh great! Doesn’t that make our community look pathetic.”

Another, but elite set of goobers also move into town. This crowd takes center stage, the “official” response to the disaster, a carefully orchestrated news conference. The most interesting performance from this elite group happens when local police agencies share the stage with the FBI, who are hell bent to hog the limelight. The news conference starts with a Governor who follows a standard script.  “We are going to pull out all stops to fix this mess (natural disaster), or to get the perpetrator (major crime situation) and will prosecute to the fullest extent of the law!” This is followed by several statements about the wonderful cooperation of all the agencies involved. We know they have no love for each other and that it kills the local guys to be lined up with the county, state and federal law officials, yet they all bite their tongues and follow the script. The regional FBI chief is introduced. He (it usually is a he) says the exact same thing the governor did. Then, a US Senator takes the podium, to repeat yet again, what’s already been said and then introduces the lesser politicians, right down to the local mayor, all the while keeping a firm grip on the microphone. That done, the governor grabs the mic and offers to take questions from the reporters.

.

You never hear the questions at these events. The governor stands mute, listening, but no sound comes out of your TV; the reporters aren’t wired for sound. It doesn’t matter; the governor never answers the question anyhow, but simply hands the mic to the FBI chief who says he can’t respond because the situation is under investigation or it would be a violation of the privacy regulations. Every question generates the same response. Eventually the reporters give up and the local police chief takes the mic to conclude the news conference. He says there will be an update at four o’clock. The news reporters scatter and invade the local diners to get “facts” from the residents and from the traveling goobers. Rumors are passed along as fact, but the media teams don’t care; they have a deadline to meet. The lack of accuracy is covered up by attributing the “facts” to anonymous sources that have asked not to be identified. A few days later the goobers and the reporters leave town; then the local people go about the business of cleaning up the mess.

Comments? Complaints? E-mail to mlessler7@gmail.com