The Old Coot has the side effects, not the benefit. Published in NY State (04/02/2025)

 The Old Coot has the side effects.

By Merlin Lessler

 If you watch regular TV, or even streaming TV, you can’t escape a barrage of ads for prescription drugs. I used to think of drug dealers as guys in back alleys, wearing top coats, selling heroin. Now, it’s pharmaceutical companies on TV pushing legal drugs; some are worse for you than the illegal ones. A lot of the supplements can have adverse effects too, or be of little value, but they aren’t required by the FDA to warn of the side effects.

 My main problem with these ads, as an old coot, is with prescription drugs. I watch the ad promo, but I also listen to the list of possible side effects. It’s hard because they are accompanied by wonderful, but distracting imagery. I may not even take the medicine, but I still experience many of the side effects. I get all the bad and none of the good. If old age had been advertised when I was young, with the possible side effects, I would have been better prepared.

 It should have been a subject in high school, along with the side effects of credit card use and other real life skills. Kids can parrot the state capitals, but can they explain how compound interest can compromise their life style? Or, that they will have to pay a plumber $100 to clean the screen in a faucet that they could do in two minutes themselves.

 I started writing this article to complain that I have some of the side effects of medicines I don’t even take; I ended up complaining about the lack of practical life skills in our school classrooms. I never know where this pen will take me when I sit down to write an article. It’s something Miss Foley, my high school English teacher never taught me, but apparently taught Rod Serling, creator of the Twilight Zone, who was her student too, eighteen years before I sat in the back of her classroom. If she had, or if I had paid attention, you wouldn’t have to suffer when my article wanders all over the place. Or maybe, it’s just an old coot thing. And no, I’m not comparing myself to Rod Serling, just the opposite.    

The Old Coot is from Mars, not Venus. Published in NY on March26, 2025

 The Old Coot escapes a male chauvinist bullet. By Merlin Lessler

 A few weeks ago, I commented on the differences between men and women ordering a dozen donuts. A Mars versus Venus thing. Men step to the counter and run through their selections at machine gun speed; Women, not so much. My long distance friend in Texas, David Kerby, said he would love to see the critical responses I would get from women. The only reaction I received was this one from Tracy Landrum. 

 Merlin-   I love this article! Your description of women couldn’t be more accurate, and I am one of them. I used to wait table for a living. I cringed when I saw a group of ladies come in. I knew they would select a table they believed would be the most comfortable; regardless if it was the only dirty one in the place. Women like the air conditioning adjusted, the blinds rearranged, and everything they don’t intend to use for their experience OFF the table.  After viewing a menu for some time, it’s time to place the order, and now they want to ask what’s good?  Women don’t want to set the server free to tend to another task while they hem and haw over what they should order…because then you won’t be available the moment they have decided what they want! (that could lead to missing out on group conversation).

 Ladies have got to get better prepared before stepping up to the line.  If you don’t know what you want, take YOUR time, not someone else’s.  Not everyone is amused by the hemming and hawing and fumbling for your money while they wait in line behind you. Honestly, women must realize they are holding up the valuable time of those who have already done their groundwork and are prepared!  Your observation here is dead on! Have you seen the Amazon prescription commercial where the man is 6th in line to pick up mom’s prescription (because she couldn’t just have it delivered by Amazon as he requested) and the man has to wait in line behind the woman who is purchasing a garden item at the pharmacy with no price tag on it? Haha, it captures some of the same behavior you describe here in your article.

 Women also love to touch items, smell them, compare them, stare at them, think about them. It’s a wonder any of us picked a mate! I love that I have a husband who will do the errand running and HE will be the one to get the order together, step right up, and “chop chop”, out with the order!  He has spent time learning what I like to eat at each restaurant, and isn’t shy to print up a menu at home for me to help speed things along before we go out.  I think it’s sweet and helpful. I don’t know if all women would agree with that, but it might be a helpful hint to the men who would like to speed things up. 

 Thanks for a good laugh, I always enjoy your articles.  Take Care, Tracey. Sent from my iPhone

The Old Coot loves his bracelet. Published March 19, 2025 in Owego NY

 The Old Coot loves his bracelet.

By Merlin Lessler

I was with my young friend Scotty the other day. He’s a kid, just became eligible for Social Security this past year. He noticed the black bracelet on my wrist. “What’s that all about?” he asked. I told him what it was. A “Your-wife- doesn’t- have- to- report- you- missing-after- you- crash- on- your bicycle and conk- out – when - an - ambulance- takes- you- to- the- hospital- and - you- don’t- come -home- bracelet.” Mine, provides my name, address, and my wife’s cell phone number.

I used to carry around a business card wrapped in clear plastic tape with her number on it when I swam laps at the college pool. It kept floating out of my pocket and the life guard would hand it to me when I got out of the water, with a huge grin on his face. Now, I have a medical alert bracelet with a nylon strap that doesn’t come off in the pool, when I’m on a walk or on a bike ride. You never know when you’re going to need, it if you’re an old coot.

My friend Paul from Michigan passed out on the beach in Florida two years ago. He didn’t have any ID on him. Who does, when they take a little walk on the beach in a bathing suit? Fortunately for him, he was only out for a few minutes and asked the ambulance to stop at his hotel so he could tell his wife where he would be spending the afternoon. Knowing how cool, calm and collected he is, he probably just said, “I’ll be at the hospital and might not be home for dinner.” They kept him for several days, spacing out a series of tests so they could maximize his medical bill.

My bracelet is so light and unintrusive that I hardly notice it. It cost me about $15 on-line at Amazon. Including the engraving. It’s so much better than having your family going from ER room to ER room in all the nearby hospitals, or worse yet, from morgue to morgue to identify one of the “John Dos” in the cooler. Well worth the price. Even for a cheapskate old coot like me.  

The Old Coot explains the waiting period. Published March 12, 2025 in Owego NY

 The Old Coot waits it out.

By Merlin Lessler

 Did I do this before? I can’t remember. Oh well. I witnessed an encounter between a mother and her teenage son in the grocery store the other day. It was a chance meeting; she came from home; he came from school. Her greeting brought me back to my own teenage days, “Why are you wearing that shirt? I just ironed it!” His face turned red, and his buddy didn’t help the situation when he said, “Oh Dude! Bad Boy!” And, chuckled out the side of his mouth. My mother said the exact same thing to me, every time I tried to sneak out of the house wearing a freshly ironed shirt.

Ironed clothes had to go through a waiting period (limbo) before they could be worn. I never knew how long the resting period was. It depended on my mother’s memory. If she could remember ironing it, it had to go back on a hanger and into the closet. (If I got caught, that is.)

 The same principle applied to new clothes. “You take off that shirt this minute young man. I just bought it!” All new things did time in limbo. When we got a new stove, the old one went into the basement. That’s where the heavy cooking took place. Better to lug stuff up and down stairs than to “wear out” the new stove. It also applied to baked goods. “Get your hand out of that cookie jar; I just baked those brownies!”

Ok, Ok; I get it. When I got old enough, my mother taught me to iron and turned the chore over to me. It’s a lot of work to iron things, but even when I did the ironing myself, she still made a stink if I slipped into something freshly ironed. I made a mistake a few years back and told my wife about how I had to let freshly ironed clothes rest when I was a kid. Today’s dress code is pretty casual; we don’t do a lot of ironing; we fold things. If she sees me put on something that was freshly folded (folded by her because I’m folding challenged) she yells over to me, “Why are you wearing that shirt; I just folded it,” and then cracks up laughing at how I cringe. I can’t help it; it’s a guilt feeling that’s ingrained in my subconscious. No matter how old you get, you still retain guilt from the past.

 Comments? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com or to the publisher.

The Old Coot is an eavesdropper. (Published in NY on 3/5/25)

 The Old Coot is an eavesdropper.

By Merlin Lessler.

 I was in a donut shop the other morning. It's a great place to observe human nature in action. I'm there every Sunday, to sip coffee and consume the one jelly donut I limit myself to each week. I sit there and read the book review section in the weekend edition of the Wall Street Journal. I'm often distracted by interplay between customers and employees. This particular one has well trained, friendly servers, in sharp contrast to the attitudes of some of the customers, who come in, in a sleepy, grouchy mood. By the time they leave, they are usually in good spirits.  From the intake of sugar, the stimulus of caffeine and also because of the cheery atmosphere created by the staff and especially the “hands-on” manager.

 She can fix any problem. For instance, I'd placed my order in my car, on my phone, for indoor pick-up. That way, it's sitting there waiting for me when I walk in. I grabbed the bag with my donuts inside, the container of coffee and sat down at my favorite table. I sipped; I read; I eavesdropped. I sipped; I read; I eavesdropped, with my eyes focused on a book review. I reached into the bag, pulled out my donut and took a bite. It wasn't the jelly donut I'd craved. It was a glazed donut. A good donut, but not jelly. I went to the counter and explained my misfortune. The manager didn't blink an eye. She reached into the donut rack and handed me a jelly. She said she was sorry. I said I was sorry that I'd taken a bite without looking. She laughed, and told me to enjoy them both.

 Here's where I step into it! Commenting on the difference between men and women. On scant, unscientific evidence I learned from observing people ordering a dozen donuts. I didn’t set out to do this, but I overheard a man order a dozen donuts in a rapid fire manner. “I’ll have two glazed, two jelly, four chocolate frosted, two Boston cream, and two old fashion.” Bing, bang, boom, done! A few minutes later, an adult woman stepped to the counter, also to order a dozen donuts. “Let me have a jelly one.” Then, after a pause. “No, forget the jelly. Let me see. How about Boston cream? I love them; what’s your favorite?” Then, another pause. “I’ll have a glazed. How many do I have left?” Then she ordered a jelly. Well, you see how it went, and that’s before she fumbled around in her purse for her wallet.

 It's not the first time I’ve witnessed this scene. It’s an example of the “Men are from Mars; Women are from Venus phenomenon. My data sample is not statistically valid, but it’s what I observe, again and again. Enough times to produce an opinion and brace myself to be called a male chauvinist pig. That’s what happens when you’re an old coot.

 Comments? Be nice! Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot won't take the pill. Published in local New York papers on February 26, 2025

 The Old Coot took the Camel Cigarette, 30 day test.

By Merlin Lessler

 Take this pill! Sue the dirty bums! This is what our society has come down to. If you judge it by the ads on TV. No matter what’s wrong with you, there is a pill to fix it. No matter what happens to you, there is someone to blame, and someone to sue. This is a gripe I’m compelled to air every few years (11 in this case).

 Let’s start with the pills. “Don’t pay any attention to this list of side effects; the FDA made us reveal them.” That’s what the pharmaceutical companies would say at the beginning of their spiel if they were truly honest and forthright. Instead, they create an image so appealing as to obscure any negative input. One “pill” ad shows an attractive, middle-aged woman, now freed of her arthritic pain, leisurely swimming in warm tropical waters. She’s accompanied by a collection of happy friends and beautiful golden retriever that gently paddles in and out of the group. The waves gently lap the shore while the announcer’s melodious voice, quietly suggests that taking the medicine may increase your chances of a heart attack or a stroke and lead to death, or stomach and other intestinal problems, such as bleeding ulcers, which may appear without warning and also lead to death.”

  What the FDA should do, is make them show images of people experiencing the side effects instead of swimming around in paradise. Maybe then, we’d pay attention to just how risky these miracle cures are. But we don’t pay attention to the side effects. They hardly register. And, that’s OK, because the law firms that feed on our missteps, the ones who dominate our TV screens, are there to make sure we get retribution. They’re on our side! 

 And to think I thought the Camel Cigarette ads I grew up with in the 1950’s were unscrupulous, the ones in which they invited smokers to take a “30 day Camel” test. “Smoke camels for 30 days and discover for yourself what throat specialists discovered; not one single case of throat irritation in a coast-to-coast test of hundreds of people.” I accepted their invitation; I bought a pack of Camels. And, even though I was only ten years old, I was smart enough to quit after one day. Besides, if I got caught my mother would have killed me. There’s no pill for that!

 Complaints? Comments? Leave at mlessler7@gmail.com

The Old Coot saved Old Blue! - Published 02/19/25 Tioga Co. Courier, Owego Pennysaver and elsewhere

 The Old Coot saved “Old Blue.”

By Merlin Lessler

 My favorite shirt is 38 years old. A blue, oxford cloth, button down collar specimen. It’s an old timer, like me. In fact, we’re the same age if you reverse the numbers. The main issue with it is a frayed collar; it’s officially not allowed out in public. I’ve tried, but didn’t get away with it. Even when I used some blue painter’s tape to cover the fray. The problem is, my wife has an eagle eye. So, Old Blue is under house arrest and in “work shirt” status. If I’m not careful, that will be my status as well. The shirt and I have history. It went to work with me, on vacation, to parties and once to an opera, which neither of us got much out of.

,It was a Tommy Hilfiger creation; I purchased it in his outlet store run by his sister in Elmira, New York. As far as I know, it was the only outlet that sold his high end clothes at bargain basement prices. Probably, because Elmira was his home town and he wanted to share his fashions with the local people. He put Elmira on the map as did Mark Twain, who wrote Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn and other books in a cabin on his wife’s sister’s farm where he summered for many years. The cabin now resides on the campus at Elmira College; he resides nearby, with his wife, in Woodlawn Cemetery.

 All of us old coots have some favorite old clothes, hidden in the back of our closets. The ones we’ve saved from donations to thrift stores or town dumps. I miss those clothes that were sacrificed in that manner, but having Old Blue still with me makes up for it. Thanks Tommy, for 38 great years.   

 Comments? Complaints? Send to the paper or to  mlessler7@gmail.com