October 15, 2014 Article

The Old Coot waits it out.

By Merlin Lessler

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, “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” 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 into 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!” Good pants and play pants were another issue, “Change your pants before you get them all grass stained. They’re your good pants.” We had good pants, play pants and best of all, Sunday Pants. It was an era when people dressed up to go to church or to someone’s house for a Sunday visit.

It went deeper than new clothes; 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 causal so 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. But, I recently discovered she’s got the same defect. She bought a new car, and keeps asking me to drive my 15 year-old Miata everywhere we go, because her car is “too new” to drive. Apparently, the condition is contagious. 

October 8, 2014 Article

I Grew Up in a World Without Book bags!

By Merlin Lessler

School’s been back in session now for over a month. I still think, “Yippee,” even though my kids are well past school age. We lived in a small town north of New York City when they were little. On the first day of school, a small clutch of parents gathered at the bus stop. It was mostly mothers, but a few of us fathers went to work late so we could join in the celebration. We came equipped for the event, with pots, pans, metal soupspoons and noisemakers. Anything that would make a racket. The kids clustered together as far from us as they could, embarrassed that their parents were acting like crazy fools. We banged the pots with our spoons as soon as the bus pulled up. Whistles and party noisemakers rounded out the symphony. One by one the kids stepped onto the bus and slunk down the aisle to their seats. It was the best “first day of school” celebration I ever experienced. It was back in prehistoric times, when it was still politically correct to delight in the fact that the “little darlings” were out of your hair for a few hours a day. Freedom was at hand!

I’m sure my mother and father would have joined the parade had there been one when I went off to school, but they didn’t need a celebration in those days, parents ruled the roost, not the kids. Yet, in spite of being at the bottom of the pecking order, we had a better deal than the kids do today. We didn’t have homework! Not until Junior High (7^th grade). When the dismissal bell rang, we were free. Not today. Kids lug schoolwork home in their backpacks every day. Even toddlers in nursery school come and go with a book bag strapped to their back. We were spared the misery. We did our schoolwork in the classroom.

Book bags didn’t even exist back then. They hadn’t been invented. There was something similar, knapsacks. Brought home from the war, the big one, WWII, by our fathers, uncles and cousins, or purchased at one of the numerous Army and Navy surplus stores that dotted the countryside. We used them for hikes in the woods, to carry food, water and matches for a campfire. We weren’t smart enough to use them for hauling books back and forth to school when we reached the grade where homework was the order of the day. We didn’t give the knapsacks a thought. Instead, we stacked up our books and carried them under our arm, resting the bottom of the pile on our hip. Girls used a different technique. They used two hands to carry their books, clutching them to their chests as though holding a newborn baby. Every other day or so, somebody would come along and shove the stack of books out of your grasp, and then laugh and say, “Drop a few subjects, did you?”

A few brave souls totted their books and papers in a brief case. It was nerdish, but the term, “nerd” hadn’t been invented yet. We just called these guys, “The weird guys with briefcases.” Us “cool” guys wouldn’t’ think of toting a briefcase through the halls. We’d rather suffer with an eighteen-inch stack of books balanced awkwardly on our hip. It messed up our alignment, and is the reason old coots like me can’t walk in a straight line. We sidle down the sidewalk like drunken sailors. And, it explains why so many of us need hip replacement surgery as we get older. That’s what happens when you grow up in a world without book-bags!

October 1, 2014 Article

The Old Coot looks for a bargain.

By Merlin Lessler

“50% OFF!” That’s the sign that lures you in. If you’re like me, and don’t pay attention to the details, you don’t discover that it’s 50% off the 2^nd item, until the clerk at the register rings you up and you’ve scolded them for over charging you. “This leather jacket is on sale,” you say, with an indignant look on your face. “The sign says 50% off!” Then you learn the truth.

50% off the second item is a good deal if you’re buying bananas, Moose Tracks ice cream or Snicker’s bars. Something you can use more than one of. But those 50% off (the second item) sales are often things you don’t really want two of.

Then there’s the, “Huge Sale! Up to 70% Off!” sales. That “up to” gets me every time. I know the item I want, having learned the hard way, will never be 70% off. It’s not an item with the highly prized green sticker; it’s the one, the only one, with the yellow, 10% sticker.

How about, “50% Off the Manufacturer’s Suggested Retail Price!” If those signs were honest, they would continue on, and admit that nobody (not them anyhow) ever charged the manufacturer’s suggested retail price. The whole thing is a long running joke between the manufacturer and the retailer, “We’ll put a ridiculous price on the article and you can be the hero and slash the price.

They do that with automobiles too. I hear the reason GM came out of bankruptcy so quick, following the recession of 2008, wasn’t because of the government bail out; it was because some guy in Utah bought a Buick and paid the sticker price!

Besides, everybody knows, cars are cheaper when the sales lot is blanketed with balloons and flags. Or, the cars are moved to an off-site location, like the mall or the fair grounds. At least that’s what the dealers would have us believe. And we do!

We love a bargain. Especially us old coots. So, we fall for the “sales” pitch, no matter how far fetched: Going out of Business! – Inventory Reduction! - Moving Sale! (Even though the place going out of business does so three times a year, the inventory reduction is immediately replenished with the exact same inventory, and the business that runs the moving sale never moves. My favorite is a sale sign that says, “Open Under New Management!” That’s what they do to get back the customers they’ve been rude to, bilked or never returned their phone calls.) 

September 24, 2014 Article

The Old Coot doesn’t get the “credits”

By Merlin Lessler

I was watching a TV show the other night; as the final scene faded into the background the credits started to roll. A blur of lines! I could pick out a word here and there: Production Advisor, Assistant Production Advisor, Assistant to the assistant Production Advisor. What’s the point? You can’t read it; it goes by so fast. And, even if you can, so what? Are viewers anxious to know who the Assistant to the Assistant Production Advisor was? I doubt it. Unless it was their son or daughter.

But, the credits roll at the end of every movie and TV production. At a blazing speed! It’s as though the names aren’t there at all. It must be part of the financial structure of the industry. “We can’t pay you much if you’re not a star, but we’ll run your name in the credits. You’ll be famous!” Kind of like the banking industry a few decades back. They gave you a new title instead of a raise. With the exception of politicians, I don’t know of any other profession that “runs the credits.” And, politicians do it shamelessly, taking credit and bragging about funding a local project at news conferences, neglecting to mention it’s with your own money.

When the waitress takes away your empty plate and hands you the check, she doesn’t say, “Your meal was prepared by Chef Brian Lovesky with assistance from the sous chef, Barbara Downey. Bobby Anderson chopped your vegetables, defrosted the steaks and put together your salad. Tommy Conlon will be washing your dishes and Jimmy Wilson will be bussing your table and moping the floor. Although it wouldn’t surprise me if they went in that direction. The waiters (and waitresses) already tell you their name and that they’ll be your server the minute you sit down.  

The medical industry also has a foot in the door, in the “credits” game. You meet with your surgeon before you get your gall bladder taken out, so you know he’s on the list of performers. And then, over time, you’re introduced to the rest of the cast. A month later you get a bill from an anesthetist who claims to have knocked you out, then another from a Doctor you never met, who says she read your x-rays. The lab that did your blood work and a few other folks send you a bill and take credit for their role in your surgery. It makes you wonder how they all fit into that little operating room. But, the nurses and the rest of the people involved in the surgery get no credit. I guess they get a title. And the poor orderly who helped you into bed and the aide who made sure you were comfortable through the night, they don’t even get a title.

Anyhow, I think the whole concept of ending something by rolling credits is lame! And, by the way, This article was written with the assistance of copy editor, Marcia; distractions were provided by Roosevelt the cat, who made me forget the point I was trying to make here; wake up service was provided by the garbage truck that comes down Ross street with screeching brakes every Monday morning at five-thirty, getting me up and working on the week’s Old Coot article.  

September 17, 2014 Article

The Old Coot violates his own oath.

By Merlin Lessler

There oughta be a law! We say that a lot, us Americans. Every time an irritating social situation slaps us in the face. There oughta be a law was a popular comic strip written by Al Fagaly and Harry Shorten back in the 1950’s. They took suggestions from the public on what, “Oughta be a law.” Unfortunately, the concept of enacting laws to fix “everything” became a reality and now we are buried in rules, regulations, and worse of all, political correctness that stifles our human nature at every turn.

Smoking has been the focus of considerable regulation and social manipulation. But, one aspect has been omitted. Cigarette butts! “There oughta be a law,” that forces the tobacco companies to make biodegradable filters. Those butts lie strewn along our roads and public areas. You can’t avoid them. When our Rotary club cleans up the stretch of roadway along Route 434 near the Owego Bridge the butts (filters) make it impossible to do a good job. Old coots like me can bend over and snag an occasional empty beverage can, the wrappings from a MacDonald’s lunch, a plastic jug and other debris, but trying to gather up the cigarette butts is near impossible. That many “bend-overs” in a short period of time has serious physical consequences. We get the big mess and sigh about the butts we’re forced to leave behind.

So, in violation of the old coot oath, where I promised to urge the repealing of laws and regulations, not the enactment of new ones, I now do the opposite and ask you to write your congressmen and women and beg them to regulate cigarette filters, to make them biodegradable. So they’ll disappear on their own.  Besides, they don’t filter anything. Look what happened to the Marlboro Man. He smoked filtered Marlboros and died of lung cancer. (Actually, there were several Marlboro Men. They all died of lung cancer.)

And, while you’re at it (writing to your representatives in congress about the ill effects of cigarette butts on society) you might suggest they rein in the Center for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), whose repulsive anti-smoking ads on TV create worse pollution than the smoke they’re trying to eliminate. The ads don’t work anyway. I know, all us ex smokers know, that people lecturing you about the ill effects of smoking is like saying it’s cold in winter. “Duh,” they already know that. It’s just very, very, very hard to quit. The ads aren’t the most obnoxious anti-smoking thing going on; the places that have a sign at their entrance that says, “This is a smoke free campus,” and then treat all the passers-by to a view of smokers huddled in the cold, just off the so called campus. It’s a feel good policy that has no redeeming value. Create a place to smoke “on campus” out of the public view and help your employees to quit instead of treating them like 2^nd class citizens. There oughta be a law!

September 10, 2014 Article.

The Old Coot says football is out of fashion.

By Merlin Lessler

It wasn’t your typical, pencil thin, pouting, runway stomping fashion model. This one’s figure was somewhat fuller. Even so, it was a high profile fashion show. The model was, “Draped in a rich pewter jersey, juxtaposed with a bright shade of “Buccaneer Red” and “Bay Orange” trim, incorporating a reflective chrome border around oversized numerals on the front, back and shoulders. Matching headwear featured a red battle flag with a skull sitting over crossed swords and a football.” That last word cleared up the mystery for me. Football, that’s what this was all about.

As I read the Associated Press article, quoting a press release from the Tampa Bay Buccaneers, I was shocked. This wasn’t a fashion trend emerging on a Paris runway or between the covers of Vogue; this was the official team description of a redesigned football uniform that will be trotted onto the field when the Buccaneers play their first game of the 2014 season.

Rich pewter juxtaposed with a bright shade of Buccaneer Red? This is what professional football has evolved to? And, sent out in a press release? So out of character as to be unbelievable, but if you think this old coot exaggerates, then simply Google - Associated Press – Bucs unveil new uniforms - and see for yourself.

I wonder what the fans will do. Will they cough up $100 to $150 to coordinate their leisure wear to match the Buccaneer Red numbers on pewter jerseys when they go to a game or plop down on the couch? Probably, they will! 

Football has come a long ways since I first watched a game on a fuzzy, black & white, six inch TV screen. Players wore drab uniforms back then. Shoulder pads and helmets. The helmets were nothing more than padded leather hats. There were no facemasks. Even the face bar hadn’t made its’ way to the playing field. Now their helmets cost more than my first car. And uniforms are created by fashion designers that juxtapose team colors on jerseys. I should have seen it coming, when Joe Namath donned a pair of Beautymist pantyhose for a Hanes TV commercial back in the 1970’s. Still, it did take 40 years to get us to “rich pewter jerseys, juxtaposed with blah, blah, blah. I can say no more. The Buccaneer’s press release speaks for itself. And us old coots sit here shaking our heads and wondering just how out of touch we really are.

September 3, 2014 Article.

The Old Coot got “blocked” in the donut shop.

By Merlin Lessler

I’m sitting here in Dunkin Donuts looking out the window with a serious case of writer’s block. Vicky is over by the bridge walking her dachshund; the lot between here and there overflows with cars; a line of hungry customers inch forward, waiting for bagels and breakfast sandwiches to be handed to them over the counter. I watch all this, along with the traffic coming up to the stoplight before passing through the intersection and over the bridge and still, the dam blocking signals from my brain to the pen in my hand doesn’t even open a crack.

Nick comes in; chords from his ear buds decorate his neck and shoulders, a bag from John’s Fine Foods with today’s New York Times sticking out dangles from his hand. He sits with me, inhales a donut and then moves on. The line grows, but my block doesn’t move an inch. Someone waiting for a bagel asks Nancy when the place is scheduled to close for renovations. ”We don’t know. It was supposed to start tomorrow, but might be another week or so. Some problem with the permit,” is her reply.

What a change that will bring! Hundreds of “regulars” will be thrown off stride. “What to do? Skip coffee? No, that’s not an option. Coffee is our drug of choice. Perk it at home? Travel to the Dunkin Donut in Apalachin?” A mess of people will have to adapt. We are a species that is capable of adapting, but that doesn’t mean we like it. We’ll grumble while it’s closed and then grumble some more when it opens back up. The familiar surroundings will be gone. My favorite table with a perfect view of the river and the traffic light will be gone. The line scheme will change to adapt to a new flow pattern. A whole bunch of innovations from “corporate know-it-alls” will replace the familiar old layout with a highly engineered one.

The employees will grumble the most, “look at that set up! It’s stupid! Why are the pots way over there?” And, they’ll be right. They had this place humming, efficient and customer friendly. It will be destroyed until they can make it work again. Or, maybe not? It might work just fine. We’ll see. Something to watch when I get my next writer’s block in a few months and sit with a blank stare on my face in new surroundings.

But that’s then, and this is now, and all I can do is sit here with a blank piece of paper and wait for the dam in my head to break. An old coot taking up space.