My friend's sofa squeaks. Old Coot article # 1139. December 2, 2025

 The Old Coot’s friend is a squeaker.

By Merlin Lessler

My friend Mat, I won’t mention that his last name is Laba, recently bought a new sofa. Sofa’s cost a lot of money and you want it to be perfect. It wasn’t. It squeaked, every time he sat or moved on it He had the store pick it up and take it back to the store and take the squeaks out.

When they brought it back, it still squeaked. So, he told them to bring a brand new sofa. They did. Guess what? It squeaked. The company escalated his complaint and sent an expert to his house to figure out what was going on. She sat on it; it squeaked. She looked down and noticed the coasters under each leg it was resting on, to protect his new floor. She asked him to remove them. Then sat on it, no more squeaks. Much to Mat’s chagrin, it was the coasters that squeaked.

This isn’t a unique experience for Mat. It’s happened before. Several years ago, I wrote about a similar experience Mat had. I inadvertently mentioned that his last name was Laba then too. Anyhow, he asked his wife Linda, to have some copies made for him. When she brought them home he noticed that they hadn’t copied the back side of the originals. He was irked, to say the least. He stormed out of the house and demanded that they remake the copies and told them, “I’m not going to pay for it!” The poor clerk was frightened, let out a few squeaks (see how I tied that in to the sofa story) apologized profusely and immediately remade the copies, both sides this time.

When Mat got home and told Linda that he’d rectified the problem at the office supply store, Linda looked him dead in the eye, (I made that up; I  don’t know how she looked at him), and said, “I didn’t have the copies made at the office supply store;; I had them made at the screen printers shop. When you do business with Mat, be prepared to squeak.     

New bottle caps for an old coot. Published November 26, 2025 in New York papers

 The Old Coot is getting a reprieve.

By Merlin Lessler

Finally! A reprieve is on the horizon! It will put an end to my bottle opening incapability. Plastic bottle caps shrank over the last decade or so, requiring me to use pliers sometimes to get a swig from a water bottle, which have the worst caps of all. The mandate was created by bureaucratic overreach. To save the planet.

A new version of the caps that proliferate our society on milk, juice, water and other liquid containers will be starting to hit store shelves in the near future, according to Elizabeth Weise and Dinah Voles Pulver of USA Today. It can’t be soon enough for me. The new design will make the tormenting caps we now live with a little less vexing, by making them taller. A taller cap with a different internal twist pattern will make it easier to open. When you twist one, even if you are in your eighties like me, it will pop off in a snap. 

I’ve complained, wrote articles and commiserated constantly about my decreasing ability to open just about everything, but especially items with a tiny cap. I thought it was me, with my old man grip and diminished strength.

It was me, a little bit, but mostly it was THEM! Those miserable people who produce rules without any idea how it affects consumers. And, the bottlers as well, who could care less about us.. Many modern packaging designs have invaded my world, obviously designed with no consumer input. That issue, that wrong-headed product development, isn’t of concern to the bureaucrats or CEO’s running the companies that manufacture them. Their focus is on the quarterly stock price and how it will affect their bonus.     

I can’t wait for the new caps. Maybe then, I’ll be more user friendly too.

 

The Old Coot is in a blizzard. Published 11/17/2025

 The Old Coot is in a blizzard.

By Merlin Lessler

I recently ordered a bookcase online. I couldn’t find what I wanted in local stores, as often happens, so I was forced to go to the Internet. The bookcase came in a large, heavy box. The shelves and other components were nestled in Styrofoam. Long sheets, short sheets, half inch wide sheets, skinny sheets, floppy sheets, peanuts. I got the components unpacked and into a disorganized pile. Then, I dealt with the Styrofoam nightmare. I cut it up to fit in the recycle bin or the garbage can. I’m never sure which it should go in. Recycle rules are too complicated for me, so I decide by flipping a coin. Garbage always wins.  

Anyhow, I started breaking it down. I used scissors, a small saw and my hands, tied it up with twine, now ready for disposal, from my house to the dump, to live there forever. But that wasn’t the end of the nuisance. All these little bits and pieces of Styrofoam surrounded me in a blizzard. It stuck to me and everything around me. I tried sucking up the mess with a shop vac, but it’s never that simple. Some of those particles hung around for weeks.

My next step was to put the bookcase together with only a very limited instruction manual. Still, that issue was a cinch compared to dealing with the packing material. The only tool required was an Allen wrench which came in the box with a bunch of fasteners, unfamiliar to me. I was used to using nails, screws and glue, not these things. But, I got it together and wondered how the packaging world became so cruel, forcing us to live with Styrofoam nightmares.  

There weren’t many packages coming and going in most of my world. I still remember the box of chocolate chip cookies my mother sent me when I was at Camp Arrow. I was a 12 year-old, away from home for the first time. I wasn’t homesick, but it was the first and still is the best package I ever received. It was rare to mail or to receive a package back then. Everything we bought was local. If we couldn’t find it, we didn’t get it.

 When we sent a  package, we used wadded up newspaper to pack things in. That’s hard to do today; most of us don’t buy an actual newspaper and don’t have a stack of them on stand-by. That wonderful packing (and window washing) material is gone. I remember getting some packages in the 60s with items nestled in popcorn that was sprayed with a blue dye and came with a warning to not eat it. Some things came packed in straw, but most items were nestled in some form of paper product.

The world changed and the people in charge weren’t paying attention. So we now live with a Styrofoam nightmare. I’ve adjusted to the snow storms. But I don’t like it. Do you?

The Old Coot doesn't get the whole story. Published on 11/12/2025 in NY

 The Old Coot never gets the whole story.

By Merlin Lessler

 Here I go again! Another foolish attempt to explain the difference between men and women, naively thinking it will help in the battle of the sexes, bringing Mars and Venus into compatible orbits. This time it’s the “men never get the whole story” phenomenon.

 A husband will come home and say to his wife, “I ran into Bill today; his son got married in the Bahamas last month.” He (the husband) thinks he did a good job, got the scoop and remembered to report it. He couldn’t be more wrong!

 The grilling begins! “Which son? Who did he marry? Did Bill and his wife attend or did the couple elope? Where are they going to live? Where did they meet? How long had they dated?” Each question is answered exactly the same, “I don’t know.” Men never get the whole story!

 They actually do get more facts than they report. But, not facts relevant to the “relationship” story. For example, the husband with the scoop on Bill’s son getting married did learn that the son drives a 2019 Mini Cooper with 8,000 miles on the odometer, that Bill shot a 97 on the golf course in spite of getting a 10 on the 16^th hole. But facts about the marriage? Absolutely none! He didn’t think to ask.

 It’s not his fault; it’s the way a man’s brain works. Next time, if he’s like most men, he won’t mention Bill’s son getting married. Mars will keep his orbit away from Venus.

 I don’t know why men are like this. It might be a memory problem; we forget we’ll face a cross-examination when we come home with a “report” like this. We eventually learn to cope, when we become old coots. But, we don’t fix our problem; we simply resort to fiction. We make up the answers. Our fingers are crossed when we step to the witness stand and swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, nothing but the truth. 

 An old coot will respond to a “who-did-he-marry” question with made-up facts,  “A girl from California; they met in college.” – “Did Bill and Mary go to the wedding?” - “No the couple eloped.” On and on an old coot will go, perjuring himself to the nth degree, to avoid having his “men don’t get the whole story” syndrome exposed. Eventually, it will come out, but he’ll cover his tracks with, “I guess I heard it wrong,” revealing yet another male dysfunction, the “men don’t listen” syndrome, an aliment I explained a few years ago in my unending quest to quiet the battlefront in the war of the sexes.

 Complaints? Comments? Drop them at mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot drives with a navigator. Published 11/05/2025 in NYpapers

 The Old Coot Avoids Back-Seat Drivers!

By Merlin Lessler

 Back-seat driving is a term you don’t hear much anymore. It’s a throwback to the past, to the days when old-time comedian, Milton Berle and his ilk, joked about their wives being back-seat drivers. The men were at the controls, but she determined when to step on the brake, where to turn and how fast to go. She was so fearful of his driving that she sat in the back seat where it was safer.

 It’s quite a sight to imagine, an irritated old geezer with sweat pouring down his face and his wife huddled in the back seat screeching orders at him. We’ve all experienced a back seat driver at one time or another, though these days they don’t usually supervise from over your shoulder; they do it from the seat next to you, buckled in and protected by an air bag. Unfortunately, the more the back-seat driver supervises, the worse we drive. We lose our ability to steer, brake and shift in a safe and smooth fashion. “Turn left at the corner,” we’re told. “I know; you don’t have to tell me,” we whine. “Well, you missed it the last time!” (Of course I missed it; she didn’t tell me to turn.) We don’t need a back-seat driver. It’s the other way around. Having a back seat driver turns us into bad drivers; we miss turns, go too fast and put the brakes on at the last minute. We unconsciously relinquish control, when our driving is supervised.

 I do just fine when I’m by myself. I take the correct route, I never get a speeding ticket, and I haven’t had an accident in decades. Yet, when my “driving coach” gets in the car with me, my superb driving skills slip out the door as she slams it shut. I adjust my style to allow for the screeches and yells that will emanate from her side of the car. I shift into a new gear, “L,” short for Lazy. I no longer pay attention to the speedometer, the route or street signs. I’m not on the lookout for cyclists, pedestrians or jaywalking deer. Shifting into Lazy isn’t a conscious thing; it sort of happens on its own.

 I’ve learned (sort of) to be compatible with my driving supervisor. I guess things will change over time; I won’t even be at the wheel. I’ll be perched in the back seat of a driverless car, doing some screeching of my own.

Old Coot graduated stupid. Published in NY papers 10/29/2025

 The Old Coot graduated stupid.

By Merlin Lessler

I’m kind of irked that I graduated from high school, STUPID! I knew nothing about anatomy, a critical subject to help one get through life. Wouldn’t you think that knowledge of how this mechanism works that travel around in all our lives would be important?

Anyhow, I learned anatomy the hard way. Waiting for the doctor, in the “little room,” and reading the information and looking at pictures on charts hanging on the wall. It was a long, slow process that I’ve been at for more than sixty years. Oh boy! So that’s where my kidneys are. Man, a liver is big. Look at all the bones in the ear. Who would think there were so many bones in such a small space?

I learned some stuff from doctors. It usually started out OK, but when they switched to Latin I was lost, even though I took several years of it in high school. I wasn’t familiar with any of the words I heard in the little room. When I got home, I looked them up in a dictionary, to see if I could figure what the Doctor was talking about. It was a lot harder in the pre-Google years. Not so bad now, but too late for me since I already know enough to qualify for an anatomy certificate. 

I don’t know what’s taught in school these days. All we had on how the body functioned was a single semester in Health Class that focused on hygiene, nutrition and dental health. And, a single afternoon when an embarrassed elderly Health teacher tried to cover the subject of sex education. I don’t know who was more uncomfortable, the teacher or us. There were no questions; we couldn’t wait to get out of the room.

These days when I find myself lacking some medical information, I use Google to help me out, but more importantly, I have a collection of old coot friends that are a wealth of knowledge and advice on just about any affliction that comes your way in old age. They’ve had it all and now are heart specialists, joint replacement experts, digestive system affliction pros and many more afflictions encountered by old men. And, you don’t have to wait in the “little room” for an explanation, that you’re probably not going to understand anyway.

Old Coot is learns a new language. Published October, 22, 2025 in NY Papers

 The Old Coot Takes A Language Lesson

By Merlin Lessler

 

I had a conversation in Owego-speak the other day. It’s a language I’ll never be fluent in. It’s spoken by native Owegoites. They give you the genetic history of anybody whose name comes into the conversation. “Oh, there’s Tom Smith,” the Owegoite declares. “Who’s he?” you naively ask. “You know,” they respond, in perfect Owego-speak, “His sister’s, husband’s, first wife is the one who set fire to the house next to the Great American.”

 

Now you’re confused. “Where’s the Great American?” you ask, in a puzzled voice. “It’s where the CVS is now,” they explain. You start to get a little irritated. “Why didn’t you say, next to CVS?” But you’ve been down this road before. You chide yourself for not keeping your mouth shut. You know you’ve just kicked off a whole new round of Owego-speak. They pick up your fumble and take off down the field, “Because it wasn’t the CVS when she lived there, DUH!” They go on and on, entwining more local names into the discourse, ending with, “And, it doesn’t matter anyhow because she now lives on Front Street.” You do it again; you ask another open ended question, “Where on Front Street?” - They reply in Owego-speak, “Across the street from the Bassett house. I lived in the Bassett house when I first moved to Owego. Then I moved to the Ross – Farrington – Loring - Rutherford house, depending on who you are talking to. You never live in your own house in Owego-speak.