July 1, 2020 Old Coot Article- Plastic fasteners tear my new shirts!

The Old Coot tears through his clothes.

By Merlin Lessler

I bought a new shirt the other day. It was a rare find, a blue, oxford cloth, button down collar vintage masterpiece. It’s my favorite shirt. When I wear one, I feel invincible, ready to take on the day (an old coot day, anyhow). Most people have a feel-good item of this sort in their wardrobe. I have six of these shirts, three on active duty and three in reserve. When I find one, I buy it. They get in the mix one or two times a week.

Am I stuck in a fashion rut? You bet – this obsession has been going on since I was in 7^th grade and the official dress code was an oxford cloth, button down collar shirt (usually blue, but also blue or gray stripped), cotton khaki pants and white bucks. I’m still at it: I don’t have the white bucks, mine are tan.

Anyhow, I took the shirt out of the bag, started to unfold it and hit a snag. The sleeves were bolted to the body of the shirt with two plastic fasteners – the kind that make a tear when you yank the fastened sections apart. Which I did, knowing better, but too lazy to get up and get the scissors. I was rewarded with a small tear in the back of the shirt. Then, I got the scissors. One tear was enough.

I hate those things, those little “Capital I” shaped nuisances that have replaced straight pins that once held clothing articles in a flattering pose. Just about everything you buy these days is loaded with “I” fasteners or other plastic devices. It’s a challenge to free your purchase from bondage. You need scissors or a knife, and sometimes a pair of wire cutters.

The “I” shaped fasteners used in clothing annoy me the most. They were invented by two engineers working for the Dennison Manufacturing Company: Jerry Merser and Arnold Bone. The “I” shaped fastener is just one of many diabolical devices now included in the “Swiftach” system of fasteners which went into use starting in the mid 1960’s. It was first used to attach price tags. Clerks did it by hand up to that point, a labor-intensive process. It only takes a second to insert an “I” fastener using an insertion pistol. (No pistol permit needed for this menace to society.)  

It’s used for more than attaching price tags these days; clothing is rife with them, to better display a garment (holding it hostage, in my view). They’re like fish hooks; they go in easy but are impossible to get out without tearing a hole. Scissors are mandatory

Look around – you’ll see it isn’t just old coots who sport small rips and tears in their clothing. A lot of people do, especially men, who won’t take the time to get scissors and avoid the damage. Old coots like me don’t mind a rip or two; it distracts from the coffee, mustard and spaghetti stains that decorate our clothes.

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

Old Coot likes to be second best. June 24, 2020 Tioga County Courier Article

The Old Coot likes being second best.

By Merlin Lessler

 

I watched a movie the other day. In one scene, a business conference was being held in a luxury hotel. The walls were sprinkled with motivational posters: “Excellence is Everything” - “Winning is the Only Thing” - “#2 is not an option.” I found it amusing, in a way only an old coot would because those slogans don’t apply to me anymore. They don’t fit the condition I find myself in.

 

“Excellence” is not an option, not for an old coot. Mediocrity is the name of my game. The posters at a seminar I might attend, are a lot different than those at a hyped-up business conference: - “Working up to average is an honorable goal!” -  - “Being #1 is overrated (so are #2 & #3).” “Getting your pants on without tripping signals a good day ahead.” It’s a tough transition, going from the first string to the sidelines, but those who embrace the change find gold at the end of the rainbow.

 

The old coot world is a comfortable place. Nobody expects much of you. They know you have limitations. When asked to help move something, we give them the “bad back” story. When they want to borrow money, we give them the “fixed income” excuse. When they want us to go to the opera, we give them the “can’t stay awake after eight” routine. Eventually, they think we can’t do anything; the requests stop coming in. Old coots are free. We can go about our business unencumbered. If we do step in to lend a hand, we get the royal treatment. We help a niece move to a new apartment by standing around supervising and occasionally shuttling a box from the truck to the house, having tested it to be sure it's filled with pillows. “Don’t hurt your back Uncle Coot,” our appreciative niece cautions, having accepted the “bad back” groundwork that was laid down years earlier. “That’s OK honey, I just want to help,” we reply. We get an “A” for a “D - minus” performance. That’s how the old coot deal works.

 

Sure, there are drawbacks. Nobody said being an old fossil was easy. We’re not sure if the niece’s name is Laura or Lynn. We know it starts with an “L,” and getting the first letter right is good enough when your goal is “mediocrity.” Nobody expects more, least of all us. Our little stumbles slide by unnoticed. People know our memories aren’t what they used to be. They’ve heard our conversations, the ones sprinkled with old cootisms: what’s-his-name, thing-a-ma-jig, what-do-you-call-it. They know we “walk the mail” - bring back home the letters we were supposed to mail after giving them a journey through town in our back pocket. They know our refrigerators are plastered with post-it-notes: get milk - mow the lawn - go to the Rotary meeting. Our life history is written out on yellow sticky paper. I save my old notes in a metal, fireproof box. It’s a time capsule for the archeologists to uncover a thousand years from now. They’ll conclude that the people of this era had small brains, limited memories and were forced to write everything down. They’ll be right!

 

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

 

 

 

The housefly - June 17, 2020 Article in Tioga County Courier

The housefly and the Old Coot.

By Merlin Lessler

A fly landed on my hand the other afternoon. I was on our back porch trying to get interested in a water color painting I was working on. I had sketched out the general scene but hadn’t stuck a brush in water to start the wash that would underly the background. I’m not good at this- I painted a bit, years ago, and then stopped. I’ve tried to recapture the skill, limited as it was, a few times over the years but haven’t stuck with it. I guess that old adage is true, “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

So, I was sitting there just staring at the sketch waiting for a nudge from the universe to get moving. “Alexa” had been kind enough to find and play some easy listening music; a gentle breeze was rustling the leaves in the lilac bushes along the fence and wind chimes were tinkling off in the distance. I guess I was in a vegetative state, killing time, procrastinating and about to doze off.

Then, a fly landed on my hand, my finger tip to be specific. I was in such a mellow state I didn’t brush it away. I could hardly feel it – either it was very gentle, very light on my finger, or I just don’t have the sensitivity I used to. The fly scampered around, running up between my fingers as though on a scouting mission. I just sat there, letting him continue his exploration of my hand. He hung in there for 22 minutes. I guess he thought I was a good guy, that I wouldn’t swat him like most humans. And, I had no urge to do so. Kind of like those African natives you used to see in old news reels, standing around in the heat with swarms of flies buzzing around their heads, going in and out of their mouths, not seeming to be bothered or even to notice. Watching the fly scamper around on my hand intrigued me.! He probed here and there with his proboscis but inflicted no pain, not much of any sensation at all.

For a while there, I wondered if he thought I was a corpse and he was looking for a place to plant some eggs in my skin, that a coroner could use to determine the time of death by the stage of maggot development, like they do on TV crime shows. I’d been so still he must have thought that. But, I don’t know if flies think in that fashion, they probably just act on instinct. Anyhow, it gave me some entertainment and perked my curiosity, “What was he up to?” Then, all of a sudden, he sat up on his hind legs like a dog begging for a treat, rubbed his front “paws” together and flew away. It just goes to show; it doesn’t take much to entertain an old coot. I still haven’t finished the painting.

Complaints? Suggestions? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com

Old Coot loves rocking chairs. June 10, 2020 article

The Old Coot is off his rocker.

By Merlin Lessler

I took a test ride the other day. In a rocking chair! I don’t know why. It just dawned on me that I hadn’t been on one in years and wanted to experience it again. Just like I did with a swing set at the park last year. I thought it would be relaxing and help work out some of the kinks in my aging, muscular-skeletal structure. It’s what JFK did quite often when he was president, to relieve his chronic back pain from injuries he suffered during World War ll.

It’s a really clever device, the rocking chair; it eases back pain; it helps your knee and hip joints and reduces stress. Feeling nervous, edgy, stressed out? Take a ride in a rocker. It’s much better than plopping down on a sofa or a plush recliner. The rocking motion stretches muscles, tendons and all that other junk that makes up your anatomy.  Your whole body benefits when you limber up in a rocking chair. It has the same rejuvenation benefit that the Tin Man in the Wizard of Oz received when Dorothy oiled his joints.  

The rocking chair hasn’t been around all that long. Most historians credit it to American ingenuity, invented by an unknown woodworker in the 1700’s who took the idea of curved rockers on cradles and applied the concept to a simple wooden chair. People tried it; they liked it. The rest is history.

It’s not just old guys like me who can benefit from a rocking chair. Young people too. Especially, moms (and dads) with new babies or young toddlers. You get double duty from a rocker; the baby settles down and you do too. It even works with antsy, twitchy kids; don’t make them stand in a corner; let them rock it off in a rocker. It works better than Ritalin in some ways.  

Some people, mostly men, can be seen rocking in a chair without rockers, tilting back and forth on a four-legged kitchen chair, sitting backwards with their arms resting on the chair back. Every so often they rock beyond the point of no return and crash to the floor with arms flailing as though making an angel silhouette in fresh snow. You can see this “man in flight” performance every once in a while, on America’s Funniest Videos. Save yourself from an appearance on national TV and get a rocking chair. I’m going to.

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com  

Old Coot wants TV back. June 6, 2020 Article

The Old Coot says enough is enough!

By Merlin Lessler

This is a bit petty, but petty is my specialty, so you shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve had it with Governor Cuomo, bullying his way onto my TV screen, just as the Price is Right gets to the grand finale. Day after day I watch contestants win, or almost win, trips, sofas, refrigerators, dining room sets and other goods as the show moves to a playoff between two contestants. That honor is decided by spinning a giant wheel. They then try to guess the price of a collection of “grand” prizes. The one who comes closest to the price, wins. A boat, a car, an exotic trip, a giant screen TV, luxurious merchandise or whatever was in the mix that day. Most viewers try to guess the price too. Just like they do when watching Jeopardy, except you have a chance of getting the correct answer on Price is Right.    

Just as the drama reaches its peak, Governor Cuomo takes center stage, with details ad-nauseam regarding the pandemic and justifying his every action. It’s an FDR fireside chat on steroids. Except, FDR only conducted 30 fireside chats over a twelve-year period. Cuomo outdid him in one month and pushed Drew Carey aside in the process. Roosevelt understood the principal, that less is more; Cuomo never got the memo.

 I don’t care what your politics are, you have to admit, when it comes to Cuomo’s parent to child lectures (we’re the child) are way overdone. And, sits on his throne with neatly trimmed hair, while the rest of us go around with a mop on top of our head. And like Trump, he doesn’t wear a facemask, doesn’t set a good example. It’s become the longest campaign speech in history. If it was on Netflix, we’d be in season forty-two.  

Don’t get me wrong, It’s Ok with me that you love or hate him, respect his politics or not. That’s what makes this country great, citizens with different views can still respect each other, though that virtue has been severely strained over the past 25 or so years and even more of late. The thing is, we’re overdosed with pandemic information. There is no evening news; it’s been swallowed by the media’s fixation on finding and airing every scrap of corona virus data. You need a college level course in Statistics to get a hint at what they are talking about. ENOUGH! Have your opinion, pro or con on the Cuomo orations. Just let me watch my Price is Right!

Comments? Complaints? Send to mlessler7@gmail.com (I’ll forward them to the governor)

May 27, 2017 Article - The Old Coot is an outcast?

The Old Coot sounds the alarm.

By Merlin Lessler

It might be a little early to air this concern, but an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. A lesson the world learned the hard way, dealing with the corona virus. Now that we’re deep into the process, some alarm bells have begun to go off in my head. This is a little out there, but much of what I opine about is with a tongue in cheek, as is this. It started with good intentions; everyone was asked to avoid exposing the virus to the elderly population. “Anyone over sixty-five is more susceptible to contracting the virus and more likely to have a hard time if they do.” All well and good! So what am I complaining about? It’s what comes next, after the pandemic is history and society has learned how easy it is to herd my crowd into isolation. “For our own good”! 

The media has been at it for a long time, insinuating that we are unable to withstand any difficult situation: hot weather, cold weather, flu season, phone scams, you name it. They portray us as too weak and too stupid to deal with everyday life. Now, this new threat comes along and the “old people” card has been played with vigor. When it’s over, new warnings will be aired- “It’s foggy this morning; people over 65 should stay in place.” – “It’s going to be hot this afternoon; old coots are ordered not to leave their homes.” No matter what goes on, it will be used as an excuse to keep old coots away from mainstream society. That’s my worry.

Society will see this as an opportunity to remove old coots from their midst, to stop our criticism of how things are done today versus how they were back in the “good old days.” We won’t be allowed to stagger around at art shows, sip wine at tastings, clog up the lines at coffee and donut shops or spoil the view at public beaches. Restaurant owners would love an excuse to end those early bird specials and to stop elderly couples from taking up space, splitting meals and cutting into profits. And, you can forget about that six-foot separation rule. It will be increased to eleven feet for seniors, in keeping with that old cliché, “I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole.” We’re the IT!

Am I paranoid? Probably. Am I right? Could be. Will my crowd be herded onto the proverbial ice floes like elderly Eskimos once were, doomed to succumb to the cold? Well, no! We’re protected from that fate; we’re not allowed to go out in the cold.

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

The Old Coot can't see you. May 20, 2020 Article

The Old Coot asks, “Who was that masked man”?

By Merlin Lessler

My facial recognition abilities have been put to the test. And failed! It’s those masks we wear in public places. The other day in a grocery store, I was limping along the baking goods aisle, the wrong way. I finally realized my mistake and turned around, nearly crashing into a married couple who were also walking against the arrow. “I guess we’re going the wrong way on a one-way street?” I chuckled. “I didn’t see the arrow on the floor either.” As they were turning their cart around, I asked, “How are you guys doing. Is the sheltering in place driving you nuts? How are the kids handling it?”

The husband mumbled a curt reply and sped away to the end of the aisle; I went right; they went left. I heard the wife ask, “Who was that guy? Do you know him?” “I have no idea,” he responded. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised; I keep having conversations with people I think I know, but don’t. It’s those darn masks; they hide all our facial features except for our eyes. Oh yea, and those mops on top of our heads that need attention. But eyes often look familiar to me, and friendly. So, I do what comes naturally and engage in conversation.  

It’s happening all too often, causing me to have an identity crisis. Not my identity, the identity of everyone else. Eyes alone don’t give enough information. I need more face, to make out who I’m looking at. The reverse experience is going on too. A pair of eyes will say, “Hey Coot, how you making out?” I don’t know who it is. And I’m instinctively leery of someone wearing a mask. I developed the instinct when I was a kid, watching cowboy movies every Saturday at the Grand Theater on the south side of Binghamton. The bad guys wore masks when they held up a bank or robbed a stage coach. So, I’m nervous when confronted by a person wearing a mask; I deal with the unease by talking, hoping they will think I’m harmless and not shoot me.

But the tide is turning. Now, it’s the people without a mask who are making me nervous. I haven’t made a full transition; I’m stuck being afraid of both masked and unmasked people. The thing that’s bringing me around are my memories of Lone Ranger movies, one of my favorite cowboy heroes. He was a good guy, yet wore a mask. I can’t wait until we’re all unmasked and I can recognize people again. I may not remember their name until later in the day, but I’ll know I know them.

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